Divide and Rule

by Solomon Carter

  “What are you going to do? Take it to the press? If you do that…”

  “What? Go on, tell me…”

  “I can’t be held responsible…”

  “But you would be. This is the party you lead, Mr Burton.”

  The man nodded slowly. “And I am going to lead them to Westminster. To victory.”

  “Your party colleagues may have caused you harm. Your son. Your family. I’ve seen what this is doing to your family, Mr Burton.”

  “You… know…absolutely nothing.”

  “I’ve seen and I know. So… What will Serge do after you win?”

  “Stop this.”

  “You don’t know that he will stop, do you?”

  “You’re determined to pursue this Serge line, aren’t you?”

  “The man is evil.”

  “Sod it. If you are so determined… have it your way. There is an old farm up in Corringham. Cordy Farm. Look into that. It’s not a farm now, that’s all I’m going to tell you.”

  “Mr Burton. This is about your son. I’m running out of time,” said Eva.

  “No, I am. Every hour of campaigning is precious now.”

  “No. Peter Serge could be getting desperate as the election draws near. And he knows my partner and I are on to him. We may be in serious danger thanks to getting embroiled in a conspiracy I think you knew plenty about. You should have been open with us at the start. Now you’ve put us all in danger.”

  “You’re getting paid, aren’t you? Now get on and fix this, so I can get on with this election…”

  Burton stood and left two-thirds of his mug of coffee exactly where it stood. He nodded at the baker woman and Eva, then walked out of the shop without further comment.

  Eva stayed where she was and drank up her second cup. She looked at the coffee froth and sighed. Then she looked up out of the window. At the end of the alley on Rochford Square she saw Will Burton stop to talk to a male figure who was almost out of sight. Eva’s breath stopped. She waited. They spoke on, and finally she caught a glimpse. The other man was tall and shaven headed, with a sharp angular nose. Joe Merton. Eva’s whole body caught a chill. She stood up and walked out of the shop and took the longer route around the square back to her car. Was Burton telling Joe Merton all about their little chat? Or was he playing it safe, hiding what he knew. Eva couldn’t trust anyone, and she couldn’t take any chances. She moved as quickly as she could. Now she would have to tell Jess exactly what she knew, and exactly what she feared. All lines led to Corringham. And danger surely lurked there too.

  Sixteen

  She’d almost ended things with him a couple of years back when James Winstanley appeared back on the scene only to turn out to be a super-cretin all over again. Then she had ended things with Dan for a while. A combination of missionary zeal for bringing down the Russian crime lord Victor Marka, some forgery and a small prison sentence can maybe do that kind of thing to a girl. But after they brought down Marka together, Dan thought they were on good terms. Funny thing was, they were good. But it turned out that there was a delayed reaction, a timer going on inside Dan’s mind from the moment he got out of that dungeon by the Thames. And the moment he set eyes on Peter Serge - yet another human specimen of pure darkest evil – the timer went off and Dan’s nerves were sunk like never before. Now Dan resigned himself to the fact he had lost Eva. He loved her, yes, but they had never been married, and he had caused her enough trouble already in life. There was no way she was going to stomach this too. So for now he played along, playing dumb as to the reason he was given the baby sitting job of keeping tabs on Will Burton in the hospital, and the Bigots brigade stakeout in The Railway Tavern, while Eva and Jess were out playing the heroes. She’d written him off – he knew it - and it hurt like hell. But, hey, at least it was justified. In her shoes he would have done the same. The thing was Eva was like the solar system in Dan’s life. She was heat and light and the very centre of it all. But she wasn’t quite everything – there was the whole of outer space beyond. The outer space of his life consisted of a lot of rage, some stupid jokes, a pretty intense libido, his craziest notions, pet theories and wild urges to do stuff. These were the things he could name. But it turns out there was some dark matter lurking out there too, stuff which wanted to destroy Dan along with a whole lot else. Peter Serge and Victor Marka before him found Dan’s dark matter, and now it was expanding out of control. Pretty soon Dan was worried there wouldn’t be enough of him left to resist. All there’d be was a pool of fear, piss and wind in the foot well of his crappy old Jag. The thought made him breathless. It almost made him tearful, but he couldn’t allow tears to happen. Eva was everything to him. But beyond Eva, beyond love – and she was going to can him now that was a dead cert – there was the choice to survive. Dan had to overcome the dark matter. He had to survive.

  To amuse himself and keep a record of events Dan had taken to using the voice recording app on his smartphone to keep the details of his activities.

  4PM Will Burton finishes a round of talks to a mixture of jeers and cheers to a crowd in the high street. He gets heckled all round, but he deals with it like a pro, and he is popular enough now that some of the crowd even put down the hecklers for him. Will Burton has fans. Disgusting. I think this sick bastard is going to win the by-election.

  4.22PM Will Burton is at the hospital again, accompanied by one of the boneheads. I don’t know the name of this one. He could be Serge’s man, who knows. Burton is doing a local debate tonight, taking on the Labour and Tory candidates in a community centre. The TV is going to be there, and so is a lot of security. Burton should be safe enough.

  4.39PM Sitting outside The Railway Tavern in the Jag. Again. This car is a piece of shit. It doesn’t even look cool, but it’s still called a Jag, which is something, I guess. The skinheads come and go from the place like they own it. From the barmaid’s reaction the other day, I don’t think they really own it. They just act like they do. Unlike Curlon’s Foods which they really do own. The skinheads are wearing suits, and a lot of them are wearing blue, white and purple rosettes on their jackets. They all wear suits that look like they were bought from charity shops and supermarkets, all except a few. Peter Serge is wearing something fine. He is in the pub now. They look excited, all of them, but Serge looks more than excited. He looks frenetic now. He looks paranoid. Good, you sick little bastard. I hope you’re terrified.

  Dan recorded his comments and put the phone away. The smartphone was his only company tonight, and speaking to it made him feel like he had a companion. But he was restless, and he felt the dark matter lurking with him, around him, pressing in. He needed some action, but there wasn’t any around here. He waited a while longer. It was getting dark now, but up ahead he could just make out the bobbing of two white skinheads in dark suits emerging from the darkness. Their heads bobbed and floated because their suits were as dark as their surroundings. But they had stopped moving towards the pub. Something about them made Dan sit up in his chair and lean over the steering wheel to squint. The skinheads were a way off, but he could tell a confrontation of some kind was under way. He had a nose for a fight. Good, a distraction, exactly what the doctor ordered. Dan got out of the car and locked it. He skipped across the road, careful to avoid being sighted through the pub windows. He jogged along the street. His own clothes were also dark – black leather jacket and dark blue jeans - which would help disguise him too. He moved lithely, a quiet spring in his step. The skinheads were near now, across the road to him now, but still a little way off. Already he could hear the tone of their voices. It was a row, 100%. Now Dan had to stay out of sight. He stood by a bus stop stand and put his phone to his ear as an actor’s prop, and he watched through the plastic shelter window.

  Two men, skinheads. Two men with dark coloured faces. They could have been black, could have been Asian. This was going to be violent, Dan just knew. Surely these skinhead wasters would not be so stupid as to do this here and now. This was a busy road. They were
wearing their electioneering suits and they were still arguing with people of a different skin type. Dan squinted and tried to make out what was going on. They were Asians, maybe Muslims - they had the bushy chin-beard thing going on, Moeen Ali style.

  “RIGHT!” Dan heard that loud enough. The word was barked out. He watched the big men move to thump the Asian guys, each surging forward, using their momentum to strike through their opponents. But the Asian men looked prepared. One of them sidestepped the blow altogether and dodged the follow up too, but the other bearded man dodged one hit only to buckle as another blow landed deep in his gut. The skinhead took his opportunity and seized the lighter man. Dan saw the man slap him hard and pick him up, slinging him over his shoulder. The quicker Asian guy moved to intervene, but the move left him exposed, and the big skinhead drove a fist through his jaw that flung his head around on his shoulders like a rag doll. The skinheads cheered. The flow of traffic slowed as it passed by the action, but the skinheads were moving quickly now, each one with a man over his shoulder. They were walking towards the nearest row of closed down shops and irregular type housing on their side of the road. A maximum of maybe fifteen cars had passed during the burst of violence as the Asian men fell. Who had seen enough to report it to the police? How many who’d seen it would want to be involved? People these days were apathetic. Tragedies went unreported all the time. But right now, Dan had a point to prove. Now more than ever, he wanted to provide some social justice. Dan crossed the road quickly, and snuck along the side of a shop which protruded further than the houses the skinheads were aiming towards. Dan moved his head around the corner. The men were carrying their loads towards an unlit line of one storey bungalows. Clever. The garden walls and tall hedges would hide the next batch of violence from the road. The windows were dark. No one was at home to see what was about to happen in their front garden. Dan moved quickly. The big men had stopped behind a tall hedge, but he could make out their dark shapes as they dropped their victims onto the floor.

  “You should have gone home while you had the chance boys. Now, for all the soldiers you scumbags have killed, for all the innocent British people whose heads you bastards have cut off…”

  “What are you on talking about man? We’re Bangladeshi! We live in bloody Westcliff, you stupid idiot.”

  “Shut up! Suicide bombing Paki bastard!”

  Then came the thuds of violence, and the groans of pain. It was indiscriminate. They didn’t care who or what they were punching, what they were doing, and who was taking the blame. They didn’t even care about what they were blaming on their victims. It was all just about hate. Blind hate and violent fury. And it was exactly the release Dan needed, and they had provided the perfect motivation required.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I think the Thick As Shit Club are looking for two new members. And by members, I mean pricks, just like you.”

  The big men turned round in surprise at first. He saw fear in their eyes for a fraction of a second, and then it was gone as they recognised him. “Look. It’s private detective in leather. Lovejoy wants another beating.”

  “You a Paki lover, Lovejoy? Do you wear a turban indoors?”

  “I’ll call you dickhead 1, and you dickhead 2. Dickhead 1- Bangladesh is not Syria, Iraq or Afghanistan. It is not Iran. It is not an enemy state. These boys said they come from Bangladesh, and they have accents like you and me. They are locals. Grow a brain to go with that dick. Dickhead 2. I don’t love Pakistanis any less than I love people from Iceland. I couldn’t care less. I have mutual respect for both. But I have no respect whatsoever for lowlifes like you. You are the worst…”

  Dan liked talking a little too much. Dickhead 2 was the brawnier of the two men and he plunged a big fat arm down towards Dan. Dan stopped talking enough to dodge and reply with a right cross which smashed through the big man’s face and made a squashed tomato of his nose. The big man screamed and slapped his hands over his face, leaving his gut exposed. Dan moved in, unloading one, two, three deep and relentless driving punches into the ribs, kidneys and gut. The big man groaned and dropped onto his knees. Dan turned to Dickhead 1, the less bulky man.

  “You know you’re going down,” said Dan.

  “Die’ you little fucking-“

  “You first.” Dickhead 1 tried to use anger alone. He went to seize Dan but use boxing moves versus wrestling, and a good boxer wins out every time. Dan moved out of range, and the man came forward. Dan used some newly free space on his left, and the big man’s momentum kept him lunging. Dan skipped to the side and as the man carried on lurching for a second or two, Dan unloaded a left-right on his face which opened up his cheek and spread glistening dark blood over his skin and onto his suit.

  “Time to fall, Dickhead.” Dan clubbed him hard, striking the place where the skin had already broken. The man cried and fell down into the gravel drive.

  “Boys, get up. Can you get up?”

  Dan helped the Asian guys stand. In the darkness he saw how slight they were, but they looked bright, strong, and maybe a little embarrassed to have been taken out so quickly.

  “Thanks, man.”

  “Yeah thanks.”

  “No, problem. These arseholes are everyone’s problem. Not just yours. What were you doing walking along here? This is the skin’s back yard.”

  “No way man. It’s early, and it’s a free country right?”

  “You heard they drink down here, right? They meet down here.”

  “Yeah. We were checking it out.”

  “I’ve been doing that all week, boys. It’s all checked out. Have you got a team?”

  “Who we talking to?”

  “A friend. Yep. I see. You’ve got a team. Here’s the deal. There’s up to thirty of them. They frequent the pub in batches of threes, and fours mostly, but at lunch time they all come down together, up to thirty of them, drinking, planning their future, talking up their fascist ideals. It’s like the Hitler Fan Club, Southend branch. I suggest you take around fifty of your own boys, and that should make it interesting for everyone.”

  “Nice.”

  “Paki loving wanker… We’d take 50 of them no trouble…” came the grunt from the gravel below.

  Dan moved to kick the man, but he rolled to his side. “So far we’ve dealt with all the trouble you’ve thrown at us. Haven’t we? It’s gone. Jerry Burton’s attacker, that’s long gone. The mistake at the gym. It’s been cleaned up. Finished. We’ve already won, you scab. And when we win the day after tomorrow, people like you will…”

  One of the Asians ran forward and swung a penalty striker’s kick through the skin head’s jaw. The head swung hard the other way, and stopped talking.

  “You could have killed him, man.”

  “Yeah. Shame.”

  But Dan had stopped talking. Dan was thinking again. He didn’t like what he’d heard. Neither of those skinheads were clever or important to the structure of the local UKFirst branch as Dan saw it. But they knew too much. They knew Dan was a private eye and that he was to be stopped. So at least half the skinheads were definitely blocking them from their goal. And their goal was to find Jerry Burton’s attacker. The skins were in on it somehow… But worst of all was the comment about the gym. The gym problem was Coulson, the arrogant jerk who tried to hide the data about Jerry Burton’s visit the day he disappeared. The liars, the leaks, the evidence had all been hidden. Or worse. Coulson had been dealt with, which could have meant anything. New panic crept into Dan’s veins. Eva and Jess were heading into the dragon’s cave, the training camp in Corringham.

  “Good luck, boys,” said Dan and he peeled away, breaking into a run over the gravel driveway, back towards his car as fast as possible. Eva was in serious trouble and she didn’t even know it. There was no time to lose. No time at all.

  Seventeen

  Cordy Farm rose up out of the scrappy looking arable land between Stanford Le Hope and the industrial landscape of the port and the remaining buildings of the petro-chemical plant. On
the one hand it gave off a dated kind of sci-fi dystopian air which Mad Max might have appreciated. On the other hand, in the near view it was a rough green landscape which didn’t look either agricultural or pleasant to be in. Not far away, split off by creeks of the Thames Estuary and Canvey Island was Eva’s hometown Southend. Corringham and Cordy Farm were cut off from home by miles of green and brown fields and marsh land, and distances forced by the intervening waters. It felt as distant as anywhere in the world. Eva had already briefed Jess about Will Burton’s tip off, and that she had seen Burton talking to Joe Merton, Serge’s confidant. Right now Eva couldn’t tell whether this whole situation was a trap set up by Burton, Serge and Merton – one which didn’t make any sense – or just the classic middle-of-nowhereness which gangs of all kinds seemed to keep as their safe houses. Jess was sitting beside her in the Alfa, and even with all the pressure and the cutting edge of fear which was pressing into her consciousness, Eva couldn’t help notice that Jess had shaken off some of her quirkier styling. Jess had professionalised her look. Eva recognised the suit and skirt look, and the straight, almost dowdy blouse look - because it was her own. It didn’t suit Jess and, Eva certainly wasn’t used to seeing her this way. The girl must have still thought she had something to prove, but she’d proved it already. Yet seeing Jess make the attempt to up her game was reassuring. As Dan was going down the pan, at least she could lean on Jess a little to share the burden. Today Eva was going to reclaim the initiative from Peter Serge. And if she managed that, she would be able to get the proof of Serge’s involvement in the Jerry Burton attack - and if she managed that, she should have saved Coulson too. A lot was riding on Eva’s success at Cordy Farm. Not least her own survival. As they made it along a winding and muddy track towards a huddle of unkempt farm buildings pressed against a grey sky, Eva realised the scenario felt desolate and deadly.