‘I shouldn’t worry too much, Sol.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Well, look: the geezer next to me is Jim Bates—he’s a dockers’ shop steward from Canning Town—and the two blokes to his right are from the London District Committee of the Communist Party.’
Rosen arched his neck to peer past Harley down the row.
‘How d’you know for sure?’
‘Jim used to drink in The Star—and he’s just introduced me to the other two.’
Rosen leant over to whisper in his friend’s ear.
‘Yeah, but we don’t know who I’m sitting next to, do we?’
‘Yes we do,’ whispered back Harley. ‘That’s Monty Bomberg, Rabbi Bomberg’s eldest.’
Rosen looked in astonishment at his neighbour, who was wearing an identical flat cap to him. The young man smiled back sheepishly and they shook hands.
‘Blimey,’ said Rosen. ‘Ain’t there any sodding Blackshirts here?’
It was Harley’s turn to deliver a nudge in the ribs.
‘Keep it down, won’t yer? Of course there are. For a start there’s one at the end of every row.’ He nodded to indicate the burly uniformed steward seated next to the aisle. ‘And there’s gotta be a good few thousand in here, wouldn’t you say? Granted, they’re not all going to be card-carrying party members, but the majority of them have probably got a soft spot for Saint Clair.’
‘Well, there’s a big show outside. I’d say our lot outnumber the coppers three to one.’
‘Maybe, but not in here … How many wrongo tickets did Mori get printed?’
‘Dunno—probably a few hundred.’
‘There you go then. We’re in the minority in here, my son. It’s just that we’re all clumped together—which probably ain’t the cleverest strategy, when you think about it.’
Harley looked at Rosen’s headgear and then scanned the rows of audience in the nearby stalls.
‘I’d say you could probably get a good idea of the turn-out of our lot by counting the Argyle flat caps. What happened? Did you all take a consensus on what the Fascist in the street was wearing this season?’
‘Mori warned us not to dress too flash, like. Ronny the Runt was handing these out at the club; he had a job lot of ’em from the market.’
‘Don’t tell me—Sonny Gables? Jesus! Only Sonny could make a profit out of a riot. Take it off—you mug! You stick out like a sore thumb!’
Rosen slipped his cap into his jacket pocket and had a quiet word with Monty Bomberg who quickly followed suit.
‘D’you bring yer knuckler, George?’
Harley nodded. ‘You?’
‘Corporal Dunlop,’ said Rosen, lifting his trouser leg to reveal a short rubber truncheon stuffed into his boot.
‘I thought you was gonna stick to your dukes? You think we’ll need ’em?’
‘Hope so,’ grinned the ex-boxer.
Harley reached into an inner pocket and pulled out a miniature telescope which he snapped open. He put it to his eye and scanned the auditorium, coming to rest on the podium ahead of them.
‘’Ere, Sol—any idea who that big lump is? Up there on stage, second from the end on the right.’
Rosen took the telescope and peered at the row of Blackshirts.
‘Well, well, well! That’s “Iron” Billy Boyd … Used to ride with the fairs, fighting in the old boxing booths. You know the schtick—go three rounds and win a pound. Hard as nails, that one … He tried to break out into the professional game; but old Billy there had his own interpretation of the Queensberry rules, if you know what I mean. That’s probably where you remember his boat from—one of his professional bouts.’
‘No, that ain’t it, Sol. He was one of the cowsons that left that kid Aubrey for dead in the alleyway that night off the Dilly.’
‘What, the lavender that was creased at your gaff? You sure?’
‘Pretty much. I mean, he looks a lot different in his Blackshirt getup—the couple of times I’ve seen him he’s been wearing a billycock, so it’s the first time I’ve seen him bareheaded … but still.’
‘You’ve seen him again, then? Since the kid got done over?’
‘Yeah, I think so. With the same sidekick—a little wiry Italian with a big ol’ nark’s mark running up the side of his mooey. Ring any bells?’
Rosen thought for a moment.
‘Nah—can’t say that it does.’
‘Billy Boyd, eh? So he’s an old prize fighter, is he? Well, looks like he’s taken up a new hobby now. He’s gotta be part of Saint Clair’s bodyguard, or something, to be up there on stage like that, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yeah, well—whatever he is, I’d steer clear of him when it starts to get a bit naughty, George. Even I’d have to think twice about mixing it up with the likes of Iron Billy Boyd.’
Just then “La Giovinezza” came to an end with a clash of cymbals. There was a moment of expectant silence as the large spotlights turned to home in on the central aisle, highlighting a phalanx of Blackshirts lining the red carpet with an avenue of straight-armed Fascist salutes.
Out of the hushed murmuring a timpani roll began to grow, reaching its crescendo with a brash fanfare of horns. All eyes now turned to the bright circle of light at the head of the aisle.
A loud cheer broke out at the first sight of Sir Pelham Devereux Saint Clair, resplendent in his crisp black uniform and polished riding boots. As the Fascist leader began to stride purposefully towards the podium—nodding curtly left and right to accept the plaudits of the faithful—the auditorium erupted with the deafening chant of: Saint Clair! Saint Clair! Saint Clair! The spotlights tracked the baronet as he now mounted the steps and shook hands with a number of the uniformed men and women standing to attention on the stage.
Sir Pelham took his position at the large microphone behind the lectern bearing the insignia of the BBF—a black fist clutching a lightning bolt. The aristocrat’s handsome, aquiline face was framed by the stark spotlight as the house lights dimmed. A casual sweep of slender fingers checked the wave of Brilliantined hair … and there he waited for the murmuring to cease; serene, confident, patriarchal—an officer and a gentleman.
‘Fellow Britons …’
The crisply enunciated words bellowed through the loudspeakers, echoing around the hall.
‘Brother Blackshirts …’
This produced a wave of applause which Sir Pelham silenced with a raised hand.
‘Comrades in our struggle … For yes, today we face a grave struggle, one which threatens to rend the very fabric of our great nation. And I warn you—the fight won’t be easy. Oh no! For we strive for something of great importance—and such things are not easily won.
To achieve our aim we must, each one of us, possess the character of the revolutionary. Because, I tell you now—the old ways have failed us.’
Saint Clair paused for a moment, a slight proud upturn of the chin soliciting an enthusiastic round of applause which he suffered for just long enough before raising his hand again.
‘Yes, I tell you! The old ways have failed us, my friends. Our wheezing, flabby parliamentary system has all but exhausted its options. I ask you to look to the men of straw in Westminster; to our government—that bastardized mongrel, paralysed by its petty internal feuding; and to the opposition, wracked by internecine squabbling—Labour against National Labour, Liberal against Liberal National. Such is our famous British democracy—such is the example we set the world.’
The measured, aristocratic voice—a voice of entitlement and conviction—reverberated through the hall, growing now in rhythm and passion.
‘Over the years our incompetent leaders have weakened this nation’s natural defences, leaving her sick and ailing. Three and a half million of her sons unemployed; thousands of men—men once able, honest and hardworking—forced to tramp the highways on hunger marches. And to the shame of us all, our old soldiers, proud to have served their country in the war, men who fought shoulder to shoulder with
a quarter of a million other poor souls—the cream of a generation—who never made it back … these proud warriors now reduced to begging in rags on the grubby streets of our cities. Oh yes! Those donkeys of Westminster should hang their heads in shame—for who else is responsible for such moral and physical degeneration?’
There was strong applause now, with some of the more enthusiastic party members taking to their feet.
‘Did you know that in the last decade we have lost over a quarter of a million agricultural labourers? Since the war suburban development has been allowed to spread across this once green and pleasant land like a virulent rash. And as our urban population continues to deteriorate, a sub-class is engendered—a bloodless and enfeebled generation, raised on inferior imported tinned goods and the morals of the foreigner.’
The colour was raised now in Saint Clair’s cheeks as he thumped the lectern passionately.
‘You may ask—who benefits from such a moribund state of affairs? Well, I shall tell you … You see, this once proud country is no longer governed by British politicians with a stake in the future—oh no! Those judgements that affect our everyday lives are today being made by shadowy individuals who enjoy unrestricted access to the corridors of power. Men who show no loyalty to the country that shelters them. Men who spurn the very things we Britons hold so dear. Who are they? Well, my brothers, they are the cosmopolitan financiers … the radical plutocrats … the nabobs of international Jewry!’
From the stalls there now came a low, discordant booing. Two spotlights immediately broke from the concentrated pool highlighting the Fascist leader and swung into the crowd to illuminate a trio of men standing with their hands cupped to their mouths.
Up on stage Sir Pelham pointed to the hecklers.
‘See our mighty enemy in all its glory, my brothers! Oh, they may try to quash the truth; they may attempt to ban us from legitimate debate … why, they may even employ their corrupt officials to deny us from lawful demonstration by claiming interest in public safety! But, I tell you—they will never silence us!’
Again he banged his fist upon the lectern and on this signal a dozen Blackshirt stewards ploughed into the row and pulled out the dissenters, their jackets rucked up over their heads as they were manhandled up the aisle.
‘And they will soon learn that we share no qualms with the liberals and egalitarians over disciplining the troublemakers.’
A cheer spread through part of the crowd as a steward thrust one of the protestors to the ground with the sole of his boot.
‘In this morbid state our nation cries out for virile, energetic governance. This effete and frankly foreign ideal of democracy—why, it simply doesn’t work! For it is a fair-weather system, my friends—fine when the sun is shining and everyone is happily making hay; but, alas, today the civilized world faces the darkest of storm clouds and so we need a system that will pilot us through such a time of crisis.’
Loud cheers now as the spotlights trailed the three men being dragged to an exit by a swarm of Blackshirts.
‘So, I say—look away from those men of straw in Westminster! For there is a new style of politics, far better suited to this modern world. Look, for example, to our Italian neighbours—see how their king Victor Emmanuel is working in such close harmony with Signor Mussolini. They now form a vanguard to halt the creeping red tide of Communism raging across Europe, sweeping away centuries of Empirical history in its wake. The Italian Fascist state—this should be our model, my brothers, this should be our goal. For it is one that would so easily fit within the British psyche: monarchy and Fascism representing the interests of the nation as a whole—rather than the selfish interests of our outdated and feeble political parties.’
Saint Clair now paused for breath, welcoming the loud cheers and applause that overwhelmed the hall. He smiled, nodding slowly, sweeping the rows with a dark, calculating eye. Then he held his hand up again.
‘But be warned! Such a stance takes fortitude, courage … Unfortunately I believe that, once again, the time may have come to recognize the inevitability of violence and sacrifice. For what is the alternative? When alien forces are already out there, threatening our precious way of life? Our enemies think nothing of maiming innocent British civilians as they go about their daily business on the streets of our capital; of murdering commuters, pregnant women … unborn children, with their heinous terrorist campaigns. And what do our authorities do about this? How can their conventional politics protect us from these pernicious threats? How indeed, when the organizations that purport to have our best interests at heart have themselves been infiltrated by the very cabals that conspire against us? Oh yes, I tell you, even now in the palaces of Westminster and the corridors of Whitehall there lingers the stink of the Bolshevik … and of the Israelite!’
Amid the overwhelming ovation that now broke out in the auditorium Solly Rosen stooped to shout into Harley’s ear.
‘I dunno about you, George, but I’ve had just about enough of this old bollocks. Look sharp! It’s about to get interesting.’
On the podium Saint Clair once more held up his hand to continue, and as the applause died down Rosen reached into his pocket and pulled out something wrapped in a white handkerchief, something that he handled with great care. Harley braced himself, ready to pounce to prevent his old friend from murdering the Fascist leader in cold blood … but was relived when the opened handkerchief revealed nothing more deadly than three rotten eggs.
‘Hold me legs, George!’
With a quick glance at the steward standing vigil at the end of the row, and with an agility that belied his powerful physique, Rosen now sprung up onto the arms of his chair and began to hurl the eggs towards Saint Clair up on stage.
Two of the missiles landed short, but the last one made contact with the lectern, causing the Fascist leader to jump back from the microphone in surprise. There was a moment of hesitant confusion; then two of the spotlights swung away from the main act and searched frantically along the rows, looking for the culprit.
Rosen looked to each end of the row where stewards were now fighting their way through the audience to get to him. He placed his middle and forefingers in his mouth and gave a loud whistle. Immediately small groups of confederates, scattered here and there around the stalls, began to hurl their own missiles at the stage. A cavalcade of miscellaneous projectiles rained down on the podium, causing loud thumps to echo around the hall whenever they made contact with the microphone. Eggs, tomatoes, cabbages, old bits of offal—soon the stage around the lectern was littered like a food market at the close of business.
The Elite Bodyguard now swung into action, forming a protective cordon around Saint Clair as he was bustled off into the wings. Back in the stalls Harley and Rosen had jumped up onto the back of the seats and were now making their way precariously across the rows, with a gathering clump of Blackshirts shadowing them on either side.
Just as one of the spotlights picked out the bulky frame of Rosen, teetering on the edge of a chair, the unmistakable sound of a gunshot rang out in the auditorium. There was one loud scream followed by a stunned silence. But the silence didn’t last for long—soon the venue was alive with a growing clamour of panicked speculation.
An announcer’s voice began to boom and echo across the public address system; measured and dispassionate, as though he were reading the Shipping Forecast.
‘Ladies and gentlemen … You are advised to remain in your seats … There has been an attempt on the Leader’s life.’
A collective gasp swept across the audience like a gust of wind rustling through a cornfield.
‘However, Sir Pelham is unhurt … The police are already in attendance … There is nothing to fear—the situation had been contained.’
Harley tugged at Rosen’s sleeve, pulling him down into a half-empty row of seats. The big man looked puzzled.
‘But none of our lot brought shooters, George—Mori insisted.’
‘It’s not any of our lot though, is
it? That announcement—it was all too quick … I smell a rat.’
Harley now spun in his seat and looked back to the top of the central aisle where a group of men in gabardines were gathered, talking to a steward.
‘Look! At the back there—it’s that cowson Quigg! It’s a set-up, Sol. We need to be out of here, pronterino.’
Rosen began to climb over the seat, heading back away from the stage.
‘No!’ said Harley grabbing him by the ankle. ‘Keep going up towards the front—they won’t be expecting that.’
But this hesitation had allowed a pair of stewards to gain ground on them, and the bigger of the two men now grabbed Harley by the shoulder, spinning him around and landing him a vicious right hook. Momentarily stunned, the private detective fell back across the seats.
Rosen hurled himself from his vantage point on the back of the chairs, landing across both stewards. One man was immediately knocked unconscious and his colleague was soon reduced to a drooling wreck by a combination of punishing blows from the “Yiddish Thunderbolt”, who now turned to slap his old friend around the cheeks to revive him.
‘Come on, George! There’s no time for mucking about!’
Harley managed to gather his wits just as a third Blackshirt launched himself onto Rosen’s back, clinging there and attempting to strangle him with his forearm.
‘Bend down, Sol!’ shouted Harley, and as the choking Rosen complied, he stepped forward and pummelled a fist—now encased in his trusty brass knuckles—into the nose of the startled Fascist. Rosen shrugged off the screaming steward into the row behind and bent over, struggling for a moment to catch his breath.
‘You alright there, Sol?’ asked Harley, keeping a close eye on another group of stewards making their way down the aisle towards them.
‘Yeah, yeah … I had it covered,’ said Rosen, straightening up and pulling out his rubber truncheon from his boot.
‘Had it covered? You were turning purple! You looked like Fatty Arbuckle sitting on the khazi!’
‘Alright, enough of yer gabbing—let’s get on with it, shall we?’ said Rosen, clambering back up onto the seats.
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