[Spider Shepherd #13] - Dark Forces

by Stephen Leather

  Billy twisted around in his seat and shook hands with Shepherd. He was in his late twenties with close-cropped blond hair and a strong jaw. ‘How’s it going?’ He had a strong Belfast accent.

  ‘Billy’s over from Ireland for a few days,’ said Evans.

  ‘Yeah?’ said Shepherd, settling back in his seat and trying to work out what was going on.

  ‘He used to work for me but missed the old country too much,’ said Evans.

  Billy laughed. ‘Yeah, that’ll be right. My ma’s getting on and she wants me close by.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘No, she’s fine. Fit as a fiddle. But my sister’s in Chicago and my brother’s out in Australia so I’m all she’s got. My da passed away a few years back.’

  ‘Where are your family, Terry?’ asked Evans.

  ‘My dad walked out when I was a kid,’ said Shepherd. ‘My mum died when I was a teenager.’

  ‘Brothers? Sisters?’

  ‘I was an accident. Dad married Mum when he got her pregnant, then walked out when he decided he didn’t want to be a father. Or a husband.’ The Terry Taylor background was second nature to Shepherd – it had to be so that it sounded completely natural whenever he talked about it.

  ‘Still, you turned out all right,’ said Evans.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. ‘I guess.’ They were heading east, staying south of the river. ‘So, what’s the story, Paul?’

  ‘Collecting some money we’re owed,’ said Evans. ‘This is just a chat but I needed back-up.’

  ‘I’m not carrying,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Bloody hell, Terry, chill,’ laughed Evans. ‘It’s a chat. If it was going to be heavy I’d have told you.’

  They drove through Camberwell and on to Peckham, where Evans parked the Range Rover across the road from a large pub. The three men climbed out. ‘You’ll get a kick out of this,’ said Evans, patting Shepherd on the back. They walked to the pub’s entrance where two huge men with shaved heads and spider-web tattoos on their necks were standing guard. A wooden blackboard had been set up at the side of the door: CLOSED FOR PRIVATE FUNCTION.

  ‘Paul, long time no see,’ said one of the men. He held out his hand and Evans shook it. Then they bumped shoulders. Evans introduced Shepherd and the man nodded but didn’t offer to shake hands.

  ‘What time’s he on?’ asked Evans.

  ‘Eleven,’ said the bouncer. ‘He’s coming in the back way, through the kitchen. You know how it works. If the lefty tree-huggers know he’s around they’ll be out like flies around shit.’

  Shepherd and Billy followed Evans inside. It was an oblong room with a bar running pretty much its full length. At the far end there was a raised stage with a large-screen TV on the wall, flanked by flags bearing the cross of St George. A banner reading ENGLAND RULES had been strung above the television. The bar was almost full and customers three deep were fighting to attract the attention of the half-dozen bar staff.

  Evans jerked a thumb at the bar. ‘Get them in, Billy,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a beer.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Shepherd.

  Evans headed to the bar. ‘So why are we here?’ Shepherd asked him. He gestured to the crowd at the bar. They were mainly young men in bomber jackets with shaved heads and tattoos. ‘Not your sort of place, I’d have thought.’

  Evans grinned and gestured at the stage. ‘I’m here to talk to the guy they’ve come to see,’ he said. ‘Simon Page. You heard of him?’

  Shepherd had. In fact, a few years earlier, he’d seen the man in action. Back then Page had been deputy chairman and chief fundraiser for an anti-immigration organisation called England First. Shepherd had been undercover and had gone along to a meeting with Jimmy Sharpe. ‘England First, right?’

  Evans nodded. ‘Used to be. He’s set up his own group now.’ He pointed at the sign. ‘England Rules. He borrowed some money from Tommy to set the thing up.’ Before Evans could say anything else there was a cheer at the far end of the room as two men in shiny black bomber jackets opened a door. They were followed by Simon Page. His chestnut hair had greyed at the temples since Shepherd had seen him. He was wearing an immaculate double-breasted suit and a red and blue striped tie. Behind him, a younger man in a blue blazer and grey trousers was carrying an aluminium briefcase.

  The whole pub was cheering now and a group of skinheads in olive combat jackets and cherry red Dr Martens boots began chanting Page’s name. Page stepped onto the stage and raised his arms, smiling broadly. The man in the blazer had sat down at the side of the stage and taken a laptop computer from the case. He opened it and plugged a wire into the USB slot.

  Another man, older and wearing a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, stepped onto the stage holding a microphone. He put up a hand for quiet. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming out this evening to listen to our guest. He needs no introduction. He’s a true patriot, a man who believes in his country and who is prepared to fight for it. Listen to what he has to say, and dig into your pockets to give whatever you can to support him.’ He held out his hand to Page. The two men shook. ‘So, ladies and gentlemen, I present Simon Page.’

  The crowd cheered and applauded as the man handed the microphone to Page and stepped off the stage. Page stood with his feet shoulder width apart, his chin up, as he basked in the adulation. He stood still and waited for the crowd to fall quiet. Only then did he put the microphone to his mouth. ‘I’m proud to be English,’ he said. ‘I’m proud of this country and I’m proud of the people of this country. Are you? Are you proud to be English?’

  The crowd roared and cheered. Page smiled and waited for the noise to subside.

  ‘There’s a lot to be proud of,’ he said. ‘The English have fought and died for this country. My own grandfather died fighting Germany, and so did his brother. They gave their lives for the freedoms we have today. But the England they fought and died for doesn’t exist any more.’

  He nodded at the man in the blazer, who tapped on the laptop keyboard. A picture flashed up of a London street scene, some time in the 1940s or 1950s. It was in black-and-white. People were standing at a bus stop. It was drizzling and most were carrying umbrellas. The men wore long coats and hats, the women skirts, with hats or headscarves. A double-decker bus had pulled up and a man was standing to the side to let a woman get on first. ‘This is the London they died for,’ said Page.

  He waved at the man in the blazer and the image changed. It was a view of present-day London. A street market. Everyone in the picture was Asian or black. All of the women were wearing burkas. ‘This is London today, my friends. And if my grandfather and his brother saw this, they’d be spinning in their graves!’

  A group of skinheads at the front began shouting at the screen. ‘Fucking Pakis! Paki bastards!’

  Page walked over the stage towards them and wagged a finger at them. ‘No lads!’ he shouted. ‘No insults! Name-calling gets us nowhere!’

  The skinheads fell silent. Page continued to talk directly to them.

  ‘The days of free speech in this country are long gone,’ he said. ‘The powers that be are taking away the freedoms that my grandfather and his brother died protecting. You can’t abuse them because of their colour or their nationality. You use words like that in a public place and the police can and will arrest you. So, no name-calling! And remember that actions speak louder than words!’

  The skinheads began shouting, ‘ENG-ER-LUND,’ at the tops of their voices and Page strutted around the stage, pumping his fist into the air.

  When the cheering subsided, he pointed at the picture on the screen. ‘How did we get to this place?’ he asked his audience. ‘How did we go from a London where everyone was English to a London where there are no white faces? How did that happen?’

  ‘Immigration!’ shouted someone behind Shepherd.

  Page nodded. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Immigration. So let’s talk about immigration, shall we?’

  A picture fl
ashed up on the screen behind Page and he turned to look at it. It showed a group of Asians behind a wire fence. ‘You know what this is?’ he asked, turning to face his audience. ‘That’s the border between Syria and Turkey. What do you see?’ He turned back to the screen and began pointing at faces. ‘Women,’ he said. ‘Old women, mothers, young girls. Families. Men holding toddlers, women clutching babies.’ He looked back at the audience. ‘That is what refugees look like, my friends. Families fleeing for their lives. And what do refugees do when they reach safety?’

  The picture changed. It was a refugee camp. It wasn’t the one that Shepherd had visited because the tents were smaller and arranged haphazardly. There were families gathered in groups and children everywhere, many of them smiling at the camera. ‘They thank their God that they’re safe and they set about making a life for themselves. That’s what thousands of Syrian refugees are doing in Turkey. It’s the country next door, plenty of mosques for them, plenty of people who are just like them. Good schools, reasonable hospitals, and it’s safe. So safe that my sister-in-law went there on holiday last year with her family. She had a great time.’

  He looked back at the screen and another picture flashed up, this one of a beach packed with holidaymakers lying under striped beach umbrellas. ‘This is Turkey,’ said Page. ‘People pay good money to go there on holiday and, from what my sister-in-law says, they have a ball.’ The picture changed. A group of holidaymakers in a bar, raising their wine glasses. Another picture. Holidaymakers around a swimming pool being served drinks by beaming waiters. ‘Turkey is generally safe, it’s prosperous, the people are friendly. And if the bureaucrats in Strasbourg get their way, Turkey will be joining the EU sooner rather than later. So, if you were a refugee, wouldn’t you stay there? Maybe as a stop-gap until things improve back home, or maybe apply for Turkish citizenship? That’s what refugees would do, right?’

  He waved at the screen and the picture changed.

  The image was of a rubber dinghy packed with Asian families wearing bright orange lifejackets. A man was holding the tiller of a small outboard motor. ‘So, why do these so-called refugees pay traffickers for places on boats like this to get from Turkey to Greece? Turkey is a safe haven. Turkey will give them a place to live, food and medical treatment. But that isn’t good enough for them. They want more. They want to be in Europe. So they put their families in leaky boats and risk the lives of their children to sail to Greece. But even Greece isn’t good enough for them.’

  The picture changed again. The new one was of hundreds of Asian men walking through farmland. It could have been Hungary, Bosnia maybe.

  ‘Now look at this picture,’ said Page. ‘What do you see? Do you see families? Do you see children? What do you see? Fit, healthy men, that’s what I see. Men who could be fighting for their country. But what are they doing?’ He turned to point his finger at the screen. ‘I’ll tell you what they’re doing. Some of them are heading for Germany because they’ve been told they’re welcome there. But most of them are on their way here. They want to come to England, because in England we’ll give them a house and money and expect nothing in return.’ There were jeers from the crowd and he turned back to them. ‘These are not refugees. Refugees would have stayed in Turkey. If they were refugees and wanted to be in Europe, they could have stayed in Greece.’ He waved at the screen. ‘Here they’re in Hungary. A perfectly safe country. Are they stopping there? No. Why? Because they’re not refugees. They’re migrants. The idea that these people are refugees, fleeing for their lives, is bollocks. Do they look scared? Are they running? Do they look like they’re starving?’

  Another picture flashed up. A group of Asian men sitting on a wall studying smartphones. ‘They’re not running,’ said Page. ‘They’re travelling. And I’ll ask the question again. Why aren’t these healthy, fit males fighting for their country? When the Germans invaded France, did millions of French cross the Channel to England? No, they didn’t. And in the darkest days of the Second World War, did the British get into rubber dinghies and flee to Ireland? No, they did not. They stood and they fought. They fought for their country. My grandfather gave his life for this country. He died in France, with a gun in his hand. He didn’t run. I’m sure he could have done. I’m sure he could have got onto a boat and sailed to America if he wanted. But he didn’t. He fought for his country.’ Page jabbed his finger at the picture on the screen. ‘Why aren’t these men fighting for their country? Do we want these cowards in our country, living in our council houses and taking our benefits, clogging up our schools and our hospitals?’

  There were angry shouts of ‘No!’ from around the room.

  Page raised a fist into the air. ‘No, we don’t!’ he shouted. ‘Enough is enough! It’s time for the English to fight back!’

  The audience cheered. Shepherd looked at Evans, who was standing with his arms folded, his face impassive. Evans must have felt his gaze because he turned to grin at Shepherd. ‘He knows how to work a crowd, doesn’t he?’

  Shepherd didn’t say anything. He still wasn’t sure why they were there. Evans had never struck him as a racist.

  The cheering subsided and Page was speaking again. ‘Now, the papers will say that our organisation is racist, that I’m racist,’ he said, almost as if he had read Shepherd’s mind. ‘They say that anyone who stands up for their country is racist. But this isn’t about being racist. I’m not racist and our organisation isn’t racist.’ He shaded his eyes and peered at the crowd. ‘Where’s Tony?’ he shouted. ‘Where are you, mate?’

  ‘Over here!’ shouted a voice by the bar. Everyone turned to look at a big black man, who was waving both hands over his head. He was in his fifties, his hair greying, but his body showed he spent a lot of time in the gym.

  ‘Tony, tell them how long we’ve been mates,’ shouted Page.

  Tony grinned, showing a wall of gleaming teeth. ‘Forty years, give or take,’ he replied.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Page. ‘Tony and I were at school together. Best mates for four decades.’ He pointed at him. ‘I love that guy. I’d fucking die for him. So the next time anyone calls me a racist, or calls our organisation racist, you can tell them what-for.’

  The crowd erupted with applause. People were slapping Tony on the back and shaking his hand.

  ‘Because this isn’t about race,’ said Page. ‘This is about culture. About being British. Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy for foreigners to come and live here, if they’re needed. Doctors, nurses, teachers, if they have skills we need then let’s welcome them. But if they come, if they want to live in our country, they have to adopt our ways. If you want to live in Britain, you have to want to make Britain great. That should be a given. Here’s what I say, guys. If you want to live in England, you should be happy going into an English pub and drinking a pint of English beer. And you should be able to sit down and eat a full English breakfast.’

  ‘Too fucking right!’ shouted a skinhead at the front.

  ‘The problem is, we’re letting people in who don’t want to belong. They don’t want to be English. They don’t want to drink our beer or eat a full English.’ He shaded his eyes and looked at the bar. ‘What about you, Tony? What do you think about the full English?’

  ‘I fucking love it!’ shouted Tony, to cheers and applause.

  Page turned to the screen, which was filled with a picture of a group of elderly Asians sitting in a line outside a café, smoking hookahs. Above them there was a red canopy with white Arabic writing on it. Page pointed at the picture. ‘Do you know where that is? Kabul? Baghdad? Islamabad? No. It’s Edgware Road, not two miles from here.’

  Another picture flashed up. A market street packed with Asians. ‘That’s Southall,’ said Page. ‘Let’s play Where’s Wally, shall we? But instead of looking for Wally, let’s play Where’s the White Face?’ He folded his arms and stared at the picture for several seconds. ‘Well, I can’t find him, can you?’

  There were cries of ‘No!’ from around the
room.

  ‘This isn’t multi-cultural,’ said Page. ‘This is an invasion. An invasion that our politicians are happy to see.’

  Another photograph flashed up. It had been taken in a school. The teacher was Asian and all the pupils were Asian or black. ‘Do you know where that photograph was taken? Africa? South America? Jamaica? No. Tower Hamlets. That’s a London school. How many white faces do you see in that picture?’

  There were cries of ‘None!’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Page. ‘This is London. The capital city of our great country. Can you tell me why there are no white children in that class? How can that happen? How can that be allowed to happen?’

  The picture changed. A country church, with a vicar saying goodbye to parishioners. Men in suits, women in coats and hats, smiling children. All white. ‘This is an English church. This how the English worship. As families.’

  Another picture. A mosque. Worshippers were praying in the street outside, all Asian men. ‘This is how our new arrivals worship. There are now so many that the mosques are full and they have to pray in the streets. Do the police move them on? No. They don’t. Can you imagine what would happen if we all went outside and blocked the road? They’d be here mob-handed in minutes and they’d start cracking heads. But Muslims? No, they can do what they want. Why? Because this country is soft on Muslims. We allow them to slit the throats of the animals they eat, we allow them to have as many wives as they want, and we pay for them to breed. It’s time to say enough is enough!’

  Shepherd’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the photograph. In it, he saw two Asian men in their twenties, bearded and wearing skull caps. One had his hands in his pockets and the other was holding an apple. Shepherd recognised both men. He had seen them on Yusuf’s Syrian passports.

  The crowd burst into applause. Page waved for them to be quiet. ‘So, what can you do? That’s what you want to know, right?’