‘Mrs. Coleridge is the administrator, I believe’ Lisa smiled sweetly, ‘I’d be so grateful if you could inform her of my request. Perhaps she would contact me.’ She handed over her business card and turned to leave.
‘My daughter has a real bee in her bonnet about this.’ I said looking at Lisa and putting on an indulgent smile ‘I’d be so grateful, if you would put in a good word for her, after all, the records in question are nigh on thirty years old. What harm could it do?’
Sister Thomas smiled ‘I will see what we can do, as you said, it was thirty years ago, well before my time, I’m sure it would do no harm.’
‘Thank you do I appreciate your help. Goodbye.’
I caught up with Lisa outside. ‘Turning on the old charm were we? And you accused me of trying it on with Mark at the library.’ I laughed, the first time I had since Jane had left.
It was still only early afternoon, so we continued on to Eastbourne and enjoyed the afternoon sun by the sea. We sat on the pebbly beach eating ice cream and discussing what we could do next. We were dependent on what Mrs. Coleridge decided, until then we were at dead end. We walked down the promenade with the holiday makers and took a ride on the small train that ran from one end of the prom to the other. That evening we went to a good Italian restaurant sited between the beach and the centre of town, where we went Dutch on a meal. The service was excellent, as was the veal escalope. After that we set off back to London. As we drove through the darkness, we reviewed our progress. We were getting somewhere, but we seemed to be stalled.
‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ She asked.
‘It’s Sunday, so not much, I haven’t thought much about it.’
‘Well, I was thinking, it doesn’t seem fair, you kicking your heels in London, all because of me. I’ve noticed that you get down, when you’ve nothing to occupy you and I would feel responsible. Anyway, I’ve not got much to do, with James out of town.’
We agreed to meet the following morning at Spitalfields Market. I dropped her at her flat and returned to my Docklands hotel.
Chapter 6
As I made my way towards Spitalfields, I found myself looking forward to spending the day with Lisa; not in a romantic way, which would be sad considering our age difference. My wife’s mid-life crisis was bad enough, without me having romantic intentions towards a girl half my age. No, I was enjoying the friendship and companionship. Just being with Lisa was a breath of fresh air; my problems somehow seemed to dominate my life less. I began to realise how important she was becoming to me.
We met outside the market and had coffee in the new plaza-like square built to replace part of the old Victorian market. The Victorian covered market was coming towards the end of its restoration and we meandered between the stalls, that stood beneath the iron framed roof with its glazed roof. We left by the exit by the Ten Bells, the pub allegedly frequented by Jack the Ripper and his victims in the 1880s. I pointed it out to Lisa. There was a steady flow of people heading for Petticoat Lane. We joined the stream of people heading for London’s most famous street market.
Lisa frowned, ‘That street sign says Middlesex Street, so why Petticoat Lane?’
I recounted the urban legend of how the Victorians were so prudish, that they changed the name rather than have a street named after an item of women’s underwear. This made her laugh. We spent an hour wandering happily through the street market. Living in a sleepy East Anglian town, I was fascinated by the cosmopolitan atmosphere. There were stalls selling all manner of things, it was said that you could get anything you wanted at Petticoat Lane market. This was particularly true in terms of clothing; it seemed that you could get everything from ‘street wear’ to designer goods or last year’s fashions. Lisa loved it, weaving between the stalls like an excited child. It made me realise just how young she really was. At twenty five, you think you are all grown up, whereas you were actually just setting out. I smiled indulgently as Lisa bought a brightly coloured pashmina from a stall run by a friendly vendor of Bangladeshi origin. As if to emphasise the diversity of the market, at the next stall she purchased a bag of pot pourri from a typical cockney stallholder.
‘Maybe Mr Sinclair needs to come down here and see how well the people of this area get on together. Then perhaps he would stop all that divisive, poisonous crap he spews out.’ Lisa commented.
‘Quite appropriate really, we’re close to where the battle of Cable Street took place in 1936.’
‘What was that?’
‘Mosley’s thugs were thwarted by the local Jewish community and Catholic dockers when he tried to march through the area. Mosley wanted to show his strength and arranged for his fascists to gather in uniform in the East End to be reviewed by him and then attend mass meetings. The government refused to ban the march, despite pleas, protests and petitions from local people. On the day thousands of anti-fascists turned up in the East End. They erected barricades to stop the fascist march in Cable Street, with banners reading “They shall not pass”. When the police tried to dismantle the barricades, a pitched battle broke out. Kids were throwing marbles under the hooves of police horses; housewives were pelting them with bottles and rotten vegetables and emptying chamber pots on them from upstairs windows. In the end Mosley’s Blackshirts were forced to turn back and leave the East End. They were totally humiliated. After the battle the wearing of political uniforms in public was banned, it was the beginning of the end for Mosley. Sort of fits in with our story line doesn’t it? I wonder if Miller was there.’
‘Yeah, it fits quite well. Tell you what; let’s go up to Covent Garden after lunch.’ She said.
‘Okay, but lunch is on me. I’ll take you for the best burger you’ve ever had.’
We took the tube to Covent Garden and I led her past the busy old market and along to Garrick Street. There I took her into Hamburger Hero, long rows of tables with seats on either side and a few scattered smaller tables.
‘This was Rob’s favourite place; it wasn’t a proper trip to London, if we didn’t eat here.’ We ordered cheeseburgers, chips and coke, which soon arrived. The cheese burger was huge and delicious, containing what looked like half a salad and smothered in ketchup; the chips were chunky and filling.
‘These burgers are amazing, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat in a regular burger bar again,’ she said. Well fed, we strolled around Covent Garden, wandering through the glass covered building and browsing in the fashionable boutiques and craft shops. Outside we watched the jugglers and other street performers in the afternoon sun. Lisa was somewhat freaked out by the mime artists and the performers pretending to be statues and hid her face in my shoulder as we passed them.
As we left the market we heard a commotion away to our left. We turned to see that a group of about twenty-five men were running through the street in a solid phalanx. I protectively pulled Lisa aside. Most of the thugs looked the same, cropped hair and low IQ. They were all dressed alike in all black, tee shirts, jeans and boots. One of them seemed different. Although dressed in the same way, he had an expensive haircut and wore handmade brogue shoes. His eyes met mine as he ran past us; there was an intelligence there that was different from the rest. He was obviously in command of the group. As they passed an Asian owned shop, he pointed to it and one of his minions hurled something through the plate glass window, the proprietor looked shocked, but wisely chose to remain in his shop rather than remonstrate with the perpetrators. Premises that were obviously British owned were spared their attention, but every shop or restaurant that could be interpreted as foreign owned was assailed. It was like a scene from the thirties, when Mosley’s Blackshirts had run amok in much the same way, though on a larger scale.
‘I think they’re Storm 45,’ Lisa whispered ‘let’s get the hell out of here. They fit the description that my friend gave, before her investigation was closed down’
Most of the mob had passed us as we turned down an empty side street to get away the trouble. Suddenly Lisa stopped dead as the la
st of the thugs seized her by the arm and jerked her backwards. He was about twenty, Skinny, medium height with short brown hair, with the brain power of a mentally challenged goldfish.
‘Come on babe, a good Aryan girl like you should be with us.’ He began to drag her towards the corner his friends had just disappeared around.
I stepped forward ‘Let go of the young lady,’ I said quietly but firmly in my best teacher voice. He ignored me.
‘Fuck off dad,’ he snarled ‘before you get hurt. She’s coming with me.’
‘Let go of the young lady.’ I repeated sounding calmer than I felt. He tried to stare me down and failed as I met his gaze levelly. In my teaching career, I had occasion to deal with angry, violent teenagers several times. I had studied martial arts; thirty odd years ago at university. I had not been involved in a fight since junior school. As a student, I had had the odd altercation where I had squared up to someone, but that was about display to avoid violence. However, this character was leaving me desperately short of options other than the physical. I grabbed his wrist. ‘I…said… let…go!’ I left a gap between each word to emphasise them.
‘Don’t fucking touch me’ he said letting go of Lisa’s wrist. He swung his right fist at my head. The punch was slow and telegraphed, or perhaps the adrenalin rushing into my system made it seem so. I snapped my arm up to block the blow, the way I had been taught all those years ago. Then I hit him. All of the anger, frustration and emotion of the past few days went into that punch, it felt marvellous. It drove into his face, catching him on his nose and left cheek. I felt something give way, but I was not sure whether it was his face or my fist. He staggered backwards and fell over the gutter, blood pouring from his nose. I stood shocked by what I had done but rather proud.
‘You fucking bastard!’ he snarled trying to wipe away the blood gushing out of his ruined nose. Lurching to his feet he pulled a knife out of his pocket. ‘I’m gonna cut you good for that. Then we’ll ‘ave a bit of fun with the babe.’ He slashed the knife at me and I jumped back, my heart was pounding fit to burst. As he thrust a second time at my throat, a defence from my karate days flashed through my mind. It was surprising how the training came back to me. I crossed my wrists and brought them up sharply catching his wrist and forcing it up away from me. As my hands locked on his wrist, I brought my left elbow over his arm twisting my body so that his trapped arm was now being levered against his elbow joint. I pulled back on his arm with my right hand, the arm lock forcing his elbow to bend in a direction it was not designed for. I could not afford to take prisoners. I am in my fifties and none too fit, the longer this went on the more likely I would lose. I yanked the arm viciously. With a sickening snap like a rotten branch, his elbow gave way. The knife fell to the ground from his nerveless fingers and clattered on the pavement. I noticed the tattoo on the inside of his wrist, a runic S looking like a single SS lightning flash, with the numbers 4 and 5 in the two angles of the S. He looked stupidly at the right arm which would no longer obey him. I stepped away to his left side, thinking this was our chance to get escape.
‘Come on Lisa, we need to get out of here!’
He stood there, ‘You wait ‘till I get my mates. You’re fucking dead!’ With his left hand he pulled out a mobile phone, I had to stop him. I did not hesitate. I stamped sideways on the side of his knee, ligaments and cartilage tore as his knee gave way. He collapsed to the ground with a shriek, the mobile slipping from his hand and skidded into the gutter. Lisa at once used her heel to stamp it into a collection of useless components.
‘Come on, run!’ she yelled. I had no breath to spare for speech as we sprinted down the road. We switched direction at random, twisting and turning to elude any pursuit. As I said, I’m none too fit and was soon red faced and panting; there was a stitch in my side and a burning feeling in my chest. We turned a the main road, twenty yards in front of us a bus was just about to pull away.
‘Bus’ I gasped, pointing. We jumped aboard as the bus pulled off carrying us to safety away from the revenge of the thugs. Neither of us was even worried about the bus’s destination.
‘My hero!’ Lisa smiled and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Thank you, I didn’t know you could do that.’
‘Nor did I’ I wheezed, still not recovered from my exertion. My hands were shaking as the reaction set in. ‘Some hero’ I thought, ‘I’m sitting here trembling like a newly born lamb.’
My right hand hurt like hell, it was swollen around the knuckles and my ring finger was stiff and difficult to move. Lisa noticed me wince as I tried to move my finger.
‘That looks nasty, you alright?’
‘Hurts like the blazes, I don’t know whether I’ve broken a bone or whether it’s just badly bruised. I’ll be okay when I can get some ice on it and get the swelling down.’
‘What do you think that was all about?’ she asked. ‘It seemed to be orchestrated.’
‘Yes, one of them was clearly the leader and the others were taking his orders. Did you see the tattoo on his wrist? I’d bet my pension that was Storm 45. If your friend was right about their link to the BNRA, I suspect they were taking advantage of the fact that the rally in Trafalgar Square would probably drawn a good number of the police there, giving them a freer hand to wreak havoc. Though I can’t see what Sinclair has to gain, he’s gone to great lengths to appear respectable.’
The affair had rather ruined our day out. We set off for Hackney. Arriving at Lisa’s flat, she went to the freezer and returned with a bag of frozen peas for my hand.
‘Sorry’ she said ‘no ice this is the best I could manage.’
After a few minutes the aching cold of the peas anaesthetised my throbbing hand, leaving it pleasantly numb. We rehashed the events of the afternoon and I must admit that being cast in the role of gallant hero did massage my bruised ego. Lisa switched on the TV, the news was just starting and unsurprisingly the BNRA rally was the headline item. Conservative estimates put the crowd at fifteen thousand. The rally had been well ordered and peaceful, with BNRA stewards marshalling the participants, leaving the massed ranks of police as little more than spectators. This seemed even more at odds with the actions of Storm 45 around Covent Garden, what on earth did Sinclair have to gain?
The man himself appeared on the screen, giving the usual sound bite for the cameras.
‘This gathering today, is a gathering of concerned citizens. We see our MPs more concerned with profiting from their position than serving the people who sent them to parliament. We see alien elements taking over our cities, turning them into places that we no longer recognise as Britain. We see disorder on our streets that a demoralised and underfunded police service can do little to stop. We see our people feeling swamped and threatened by those who have no intention of fitting in with British culture. We see British people feeling disaffected and ignored, whilst the parties of the past pander to and fawn upon newcomers. This can only lead to conflict on our streets. We see British jobs being hijacked by foreign conglomerates, whose aim is to exploit our people and protect their own people. I ask you, is that you want for your children? Is that what you want for your country? No! It is time for us to send a message to those who govern us. We have had enough! The British National Reconstruction Alliance will change this; we will rebuild the Britain that our parents and grandparents knew. We will restore our national pride. We will make our people proud to be British once more.’
‘Phew’ said Lisa, ‘his rants get more Hitleresque by the day. Why can’t people see that? Are they really that gullible?’
‘I think we’ve just seen the reason for today’s incident.’ I said. ‘Sinclair can now pose as the prophet, predicting trouble on the streets and laying the blame on the multicultural society. With his respectable image, no-one will make the connection between Storm 45 and him. As you pointed out, he’s gone to great lengths to prevent any hint of that leaking out.’
‘It makes sense…’ Lisa was interrupted by the ringing of the phone. ‘Lisa jumped u
p. ‘That’s probably James from Prague.’
She picked up the phone and listened for a few minutes, the call seemed very one sided. When she hung up, she looked puzzled. ‘That was my boss. I’ve been summoned to an urgent meeting at the office tomorrow? I wonder what’s going on.’
We parted an hour later and I returned to my hotel. Lisa had promised to call me in the morning, as soon as her meeting was over.
Chapter 7
Lisa phoned at ten the next morning. She sounded upset.
‘Can we meet?’ She asked. I agreed to meet her in twenty minutes at the concourse at the Tower of London. I walked along Tower Hill Terrace, past the ancient fortress on my left. The noisy traffic was deafening as it poured in towards the centre of the city. The newly cleaned and restored curtain wall of the Tower was dazzling in the sunshine. William the Conqueror’s White Tower loomed over the fortress like a brooding presence. I arrived first and waited for her outside the bunker-like brick structure that housed a fast food outlet selling fried chicken, a small café and a few shops selling tourist trinkets. I bought two cappuccinos and settled at a table outside the café, facing the glass, steel and concrete high-rise that seemed so out of place in juxtaposition to the main mediaeval palace of the English kings. Carrying the cappuccinos was not easy, the knuckles of my right hand were still badly swollen and my ring finger was stiff and difficult to move. Lisa appeared, forcing herself through a crowd of Japanese tourists who seemed intent on photographing everything in sight, even the litter bins and pigeons. She sat down next to me.
‘It’s over.’ She said. I could see that her eyes were red from crying. I could not tell whether she had been upset or was blazing with anger. My guess was the latter.
Nothing left to lose Page 5