Dark Clouds

by Phil Rowan

  ‘You’re right of course ... which is why, given our large number of Islamic students, we have today designated an annex building specifically for the purpose of multi-faith worship meetings and anything else, within reason, that students wish to use it for.’

  ‘So why is everyone demonstrating outside on the street? Do they know about this new offer you’ve just made ... what’s the point of their protest if they’ve been given what they want?’

  The Principal shrugs wearily and shakes his head. We’ve all been given a copy of his press release, which confirms what he’s just said. Our task now is to go and ask the demonstrators why they’re still here. The answer, in part, is manifesting itself on the opposite side of the Euston Road, immediately outside the Kings Cross and St Pancras rail stations.

  The Nationalists have arrived. They’ve taken off their woolly hats and there’s a large crowd of shaven-headed men and women taunting the growing number of their left, liberal, green and Trotskyist opponents.

  ‘Excuse me, sir? A friendly young woman asks as I leave the Euro Star terminal. ‘I appreciate that I’m being a little forward, but I’m in desperate need of cash for my prescription medicine ... and I haven’t eaten since yesterday.’

  She’s got a lovely mixed race face, which is framed with a riot of dyed red curls. I’m very taken with her, but I’m on a mission.

  ‘I can suck you off for a tenner around the back of the British Library,’ she says, ‘and if you’d like some crack or anything else, I know a man under the railway arches who can see us right.’

  ‘I’m sorry ... but I must go.’

  ‘Or I can fondle your cock and then jerk you off for a fiver,’ she suggests. ‘Over there, behind the telephone kiosk.’

  She’s not giving up, so I find four pound coins, which I drop into her outstretched hand before rushing off. Fortunately, she doesn’t press for anything else, and I’m sweating with embarrassment as I jump down along the steps of St Pancras station to a crowded pavement.

  Demonstrators are still pouring out of the King’s Cross station, although transport staff are warning that the rail and tube services are about to close.

  ‘Will you please leave the area,’ a brave voice suggests through a police megaphone. ‘This gathering is not authorised ... so you must disperse and leave immediately.’

  The valiant plea is ignored and there are a couple of helicopters circling overhead. One is an Army Puma with military camouflage paint. Its presence angers many in the crowd, who shout ‘fascists!’ and ‘Iraq out!’ almost simultaneously.

  During a brief lull, when the helicopters move out to increase the diameter of their circling surveillance, Nationalists start to chant, ‘Allah out! Allah out!’ followed by strident versions of ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ and ‘There’ll always be an England.’ It’s clearly intended as a provocation and the Nationalist songs are answered with screams of anti-fascist abuse, along with a shower of bricks and full cans of CocaCola. At first, the police do a good job in keeping the opposing factions apart. There is even a token charge down the Euston Road with standard issue batons. It’s all pretty even handed, although the left/liberal, green and Trotskyist contingent are incensed that anyone should try to break up their pro-Islamic and anti-establishment protests in this way.

  Media savvy police and Army officers have taken an initiative, however. They’ve placed large speakers on the flat roof entrance at King’s Cross station, and they’re testing a microphone for an announcement.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ an authoritative Major in combat gear announces. ‘It is important that you are aware of a development in this situation ... within the last hour, the governors at the King’s Cross Academy have agreed that from tomorrow an annex at the College will be reserved for student worship, which will of course include Muslim prayers. So you’ve made your point ... what you have asked for has been granted. What we request is that you now disperse ... move off the public highway, please, and leave the area peacefully.’

  It’s a restrained and dignified message. There are some incredulous gasps in the brief silence that follows. ‘We’ve won, guys ... the fuckers have given in! Holy Jesus ... King’s Cross today – tomorrow, the world!’

  Cheering erupts along with taunting. Socialists, greens, liberal lefties and Trotskyists are whooping it up, and in between they’re shouting abuse and vilifying their rightist opponents. ‘Fascists out! Fascists out!’ they shout, and, ‘get the bastards!’

  It takes a little longer for the perceived surrender message to get through to the Nationalists. Their opponents have been granted a major concession by the authorities. Henceforth, Muslim students can pray in peace, along with Catholics, Protestants, Hindus and Buddhists at the King’s Cross Academy. It’s not acceptable. The Nationalists are chanting obscenities about Muslims in Britain. They are also pulling baseball bats from their trousers and jackets, and as their leaders give the signal, they charge ruthlessly into a great swathe of nice people – most of whom are green-voting liberals and socialists with a smaller group of radical Trots.

  The police and their Community Support Officers aren’t sure what to do. They fall back defensively as the Nationalists wield their baseball bats. Bones are broken, faces are punched and testicles are kicked. Quite a few female green, left and liberal supporters are also attacked by the more thuggish elements of the Nationalist hoard. Their shirts are ripped apart and a number of modestly priced Marks and Spencer brassieres are hoisted triumphantly as token war spoils on the flagstaffs of Nationalist Union Jacks.

  My first instinct is to try and squeeze my way out of the throng and escape. I feel I’m witnessing the sort of primitive barbarism that must once have driven Attila the Hun as he smashed forward with his primitive titans to destroy the glory and civilisation of Rome. Eventually, a detachment of long-baton wielding cops in riot gear, backed up by a seasoned team of battle hardened military policemen, manages to separate the left and right wing factions, who retrench and regroup on opposite sides of the Euston Road at Kings Cross.

  It looks like a good, old fashioned British compromise is evolving. I am however aware of Asian guys I hadn’t noticed before. They’re fanning out into the left liberal crowd and most of them are grinning with encouragement whenever they make eye contact with a battle bruised liberal green or a socialist.

  I don’t care any longer about this silly but wearying conflict. I’ve had enough and I’m pushing through with ‘excuse me, sorry’ and ‘cheers’ when I see a familiar sleek bald, brown head and huge shoulders. Pele Kalim is wearing a pair of loose fitting shades and speaking occasionally into a radio handset. He’s wearing a light linen jacket with a huge bulge in each pocket and I’m suddenly concerned for everyone, including myself.

  I’m moving into position to try and get a shot of him with my throw-away flash camera when the crowd behind me surges forward. My camera flies onto the Euston Road, where it goes straight under the steel-shoed hoof of a Metropolitan Police Stallion.

  It’s my third misfortune with a British security service camera, and I’m annoyed. A girl looks warily at me as I mumble a string of expletives. She thinks I’m mad, but Pele’s still in range. I need a shot of him for Carla and Earl, and there’s a keen young guy with a professional looking camera just a few feet away.

  I’m not proud of what I’m thinking, but I like England. This is a matter of state security and Pele Kalim is presently taking a chunky, oval shaped metal object from his pocket as I slide up behind the photographer. He’s unprepared for what’s happening as I kick his ankles together and grab his camera when he falls.

  I’m dodging over to the Nationalist side of the road. Then I shout: ‘Pele, hey ... come on, you ugly fuck!’

  His head swings and his shades fall off. It’s perfect. I’ve got him on a stolen camera. He’s shocked. Who am I? How do I know his name, and what’s with the camera?

  ‘Come on ye fuckin Paki cunt!’ a Nationalist supporter yells. ‘We’ll fuckin ‘ave you,
mate!’

  He thinks I’m with his lot and that I’m deliberately taunting the shiny-headed Asian who’s lost his shades. It’s disorienting for Pele, but he’s regaining his focus. He’s just pulled a wire out from one end of the chunky lump of metal. He’s looking first at me and then at the Nationalist who’s just insulted him.

  ‘Come on ye fuckin’ coon!’ the Nationalist shouts, lobbing over an unopened can of CocaCola. This is the deciding factor. It’s last in first out. Pele Kalim shouts ‘Allah Akbar!’ ‘God is good ... you vile infidel!’ He then throws a Soviet Army hand grenade at the Nationalist who’s just abused him racially. I’m ducking out of the crowd when it explodes. I can see body parts scattered across the Euston Road.

  An Army machine gunner on the flat entrance roof at Kings Cross station is firing over the heads of a panicking crowd. Everyone’s running and I’ve got Nationalist blood splatterings on my jacket and shirt.

  Chapter 21

  I’m running up the Pentonville Road when I hear another explosion. Is this the big one? Did Pele Kalim have the detonator for a nuclear device in his jacket pocket, along with a couple of hand grenades? He might have hidden a radiation concoction, or even a proper bomb, in a suitcase in Bloomsbury or in a bin at the back of St Pancras Station. Someone, somewhere will have to do something about Pele and those who guide his thoughts. Otherwise, we’ll all wake up one morning in a nuclear tit-for-tat wasteland. I can see it happening as I run: Iran, Iraq, Pakistan, North Korea, chunks of Africa and then the centres of our own great cities. London, Paris, New York, Rome – wherever. I’m out of breath when I reach Islington’s police station and my shoes are hurting.

  ‘Earl Connors, Jason Robson or Carla Hirsch,’ I say to a bemused Sergeant at the reception counter. I need to see one of them – and it’s urgent.

  I’m trying to breathe deeply – four in and eight out – when Robson appears.

  ‘Have you just come from King’s Cross?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes – ’

  ‘Well – you’re lucky, mate.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because a lot of people have been killed.’

  I know. I was there, and I’ve got Pele Kalim’s picture. I hand over the camera and get up. I’ve done my bit for England and my President. I need a shower and three decent sized fingers of whisky – at least to start with. But Robson’s suddenly sitting beside me, and I can see he needs to talk.

  ‘This is it, you know,’ he confides.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Blighty’s changing, mate. We’re not going back to all of this ridiculous multicultural nonsense. From now on, this is our country. If anyone wants to join us, they’ll have to adopt our values and become proper English people.’

  ‘I’m off,’ I tell him. I’m covered in blood and I need a shower. I’ll be in the hotel if anyone needs me, and I’ll keep my phone switched on, as instructed ... bye!

  I’m being selfish, callous even. Robson needs to talk. He’s got a lot of pent-up anger he needs to express through conversation, but I can’t help him. There aren’t many people on the streets and the porter at the entrance to my hotel is reluctant to let me in. ‘You’re in a bit of a state, sir,’ he says, and I am. Most of the blood on my jacket and shirt has dried, but there are still a few flecks on my face and in my hair.

  After some polite banter around the entrance doors, a manager arrives and takes control.

  ‘Do come in,’ he says, keeping his distance while beckoning me through to the lobby. ‘We’re getting reports of the most appalling goings on at King’s Cross, which I assume is where you’ve come from?’

  ‘Yes ... I ran all the way.’

  ‘Oh – my word ... you poor man. Look – why don’t you go up to your suite. I’ll get room service to send you a plate of sandwiches. And would you like a large plastic bag?’

  What for?

  ‘Well ... I imagine you’ll want to get rid of your jacket and shirt.’

  He’s right. I had thought of having them washed or cleaned, but it’s probably best if they are disposed of, and I guess we’re talking incineration here rather than their being passed on to a charity shop.

  The whisky miniatures have been replaced in my room bar. The first goes down quickly, but I linger on the second and when I’ve disposed of my blood-splattered clothes, I switch on the TV. All of the main channels are focusing on the carnage at King’s Cross. My photograph of Pele Kalim appears as a ‘and we’ve just received this’ item at the end of the BBC’s coverage. ‘We’ve been informed by Scotland Yard,’ the announcer says, ‘that this man, Pele Kalim, is wanted in connection with two hand grenade incidents involving fatalities on the Euston Road ...’

  Robson’s acted quickly. He must have downloaded my picture of the Pakistani and sent it off immediately. I can’t take any more of the gruesome reportage though. There are, apparently, twenty Nationalist deaths and many more injuries. I’m flicking through the channels. There are movies on Sky and I pause when I see a Fenian epic. The Michael Collins character is luring British intelligence agents into a trap. Did my great grandmother, Róisín, embrace this man or someone like him? The leprechauns are dancing around inside my head. It’s not all stage Irish characters with harps and shamrocks though, and I’m switching channels. Julie Andrews is suddenly dancing around the Swiss Alps in The Sound of Music. Christopher Plummer is holding fast as the Nazi apparatchiks prepare to attack. I love the bit where Christopher leads Julie and the kids up and over the mountains towards freedom, but my phone is ringing.

  ‘Rudy?’

  ‘Sulima – where are you?’

  ‘I’m at Heathrow … and – ’

  ‘Please hang up. I’ll call you straight back – OK?’

  ‘Yes – but …’

  No explanations – sorry. Carla’s put a bug in my mobile. I’m not sure about the hotel phone, but I’m picking it up and dialling.

  ‘Sorry about that … I need to see you. Are you going to your house in Eaton Square?’

  ‘Yes – but I have to drop by at Maya’s and feed her cat … I promised when she called me this morning in Geneva.’

  ‘Great – but stay there until you hear from me … it will be within half-an-hour.’

  ‘Rudy …’

  She’s confused, but I’m focused and firm. I don’t want Carla to find Sulima Sharif. The very thought of what might happen if she did is giving me goose pimples on my arms and legs. I’ve switched off my mobile so, hopefully, no one knows where I’m going. An under manager tries to beckon me aside in the lobby. ‘I’m just popping out,’ I tell him. He could be one of Robson’s contacts, but I don’t look around when I take a quick turn into Islington’s Chapel Market. There are stalls on either side of the street selling cheap goods and halfway down I find a guy with a table full of mobile phones.

  ‘I want one that’s charged and ready to go,’ I tell him.

  ‘Got just the job for you, guv – a little gem at fifty quid plus the top up.’

  He’s passing me a slim Nokia that I’m sure belongs to someone else. But the battery sign is full and it’s got £20 in credit. I call the speaking clock to check, and I hear a strident voice say: ‘and at the third stroke, the time sponsored by …’

  ‘OK … I’ll give you forty.’

  ‘Shit, no man … sorry, guv.’

  ‘All right, fifty with the top up credit … and that’s it.’

  I’m turning to go when he says, ‘ah fuck it – go on then.’

  There’s a café down by the subway and when I get there I call Sulima on my new phone.

  ‘Rudi – what’s happening?’ she wants to know. ‘I’m looking at a TV screen and there is chaos all around the Euro Star terminal.’

  ‘I’ll explain when we meet,’ I tell her. ‘So get a cab into town, feed your friend’s cat, and I then want you to meet me in the garden at Penelope’s. It’s a cafe on the King’s Road in Chelsea – about half way down on the left as you come from Sloane Square, just before Jubilee P
lace. But give me a call when you leave your friend’s house.’

  I’ve got maybe two hours before we meet and I need to chill.

  ‘The Victoria and Albert museum, please,’ I say to a cab driver at the Angel in Islington, ‘and I’d appreciate it if you could avoid the King’s Cross area.’

  He’s quiet and just nods. I can’t see a Union Jack or a flag of St George on his dashboard. He looks like a man who keeps his thoughts to himself. It’s an agreeable change from my usual experience with London cabbies, but as an ambulance and a police van flash past us at Farringdon, he shakes his head and catches my eye in his rear view mirror.

  ‘This is not good,’ he says. ‘You have heard about the incidents at King’s Cross?’

  I’m frowning hard and nodding. It’s a serious business.

  ‘My family came here from Russia in the eighteen nineties,’ he tells me, ‘but others we knew went to Germany.’

  ‘Right – ’

  ‘And we are Jewish.’

  I’m thinking of Robson and people like him who are now supporting the English Nationalists. They’re going forward and they won’t stop.

  ‘It could all just blow over,’ I say optimistically, which gets a shrug and a smile from my driver. That’s not what he feels, and I’m thinking of the Warsaw Ghetto Jews in Schindler’s List when we get to Piccadilly.

  ‘You’ve enjoyed living here up to now?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh yes. It’s a tolerant place, but it’s all relative, and it depends on what’s happening. Two of my grandchildren are thinking about New Zealand ... and the States is still pretty tolerant.’

  There are varying points of view on the way it’s going in my country. My mother thinks the rest of the world is crazy and that we should just close the gates and enjoy what we have. I’m not sure any more, but I get a reassuring grin from my cabbie when we reach the Victoria and Albert museum.

  ‘I hope I didn’t depress you,’ he says. ‘I’m having cognitive behaviour therapy at the moment ... I’m trying to become more positive in my outlook.’