by Leo McNeir
The most curious report was that a concerted attack had been made on the security CCTV cameras all over the town centre. Every one had had its lens sprayed over with paint so that the police traffic and security centre was blinded in all the areas where riots were taking place.
And predictably Garth Brandon railed at the police and others who were alleged to be perpetrating acts of violence against ‘supporters of a democratic political party exercising their right to bring legitimate peaceful manifestations of free speech onto the streets of their own country’.
The group gathered in the dining room consulted their wristwatches so frequently that Serena finally got up and placed a clock in the centre of the table.
“It could be worse,” Marnie muttered, while an announcer was explaining yet again why the afternoon’s normal programmes had been shelved.
“Thank God so many of the youngsters are out of town,” said Luther. “Or thank Serena, I should say.”
Marnie sat up in her seat. “Oh, my God!”
“What’s up?”
“When they come back … Brandon’s lot knows all about the summer scheme. We’ll be a sitting target for New Force. All those people, all those races. We’ve got to stop them going back to the school.”
“Jeez!” Serena sat, mouth open, staring into disaster.
“How many of the stewards on the coaches have mobile phones?” said Ralph.
“At least one on every bus. That’s our policy.”
“Do you have the numbers?”
“Not here, but Jackie Brice will have them. So will Greg Roberts at Garfield.” Serena got up to go to the phone in the hall. “You’d better make sure your mobiles are working. We’ve got a load of calls to make.”
*
Donovan stopped a short way from the school and walked to the corner to peer round. Some sort of meeting seemed to be taking place in the large tent, otherwise all was quiet. He climbed back into the Discovery and drove into a parking slot more or less where he had found it. After a quick inspection of the contents of his bag, he jumped out, dragged the mountain bike from the rear and raised the seats to their usual position. With the car keys back in their metal box under the wheel arch, he rode swiftly away, his bag slung over one shoulder.
It was not difficult to locate the epicentre of the rally. The drumming served as a beacon for anyone seeking the heart of the action. Donovan turned away from the racecourse, found a quiet side street not far from where Buzz had been attacked, and padlocked his mountain bike to a rubbish skip out of sight. He looked at the jaunty yellow and black paintwork of the Muddy Fox and wondered if he would ever see it again. He patted the saddle and walked rapidly away without looking back.
*
Marnie checked her list of numbers, ticked off the last one she had called and pecked out the next one on the mobile.
“Pamela? Is that Pamela Greatorex?”
“It’s Pam, yes.” The woman sounded in good form. Why not? She had probably had a great day out with the children. “I’ve only been Pamela to my parents when I was naughty. Who is this?”
“It’s Marnie Walker from the organising committee.”
“Oh, yes. Well, everything’s fine with our lot. We did have one incident in –”
“Pam, sorry to cut you off, but we have a situation here.”
“A situation?” The first trace of anxiety. “What do you mean?”
“There are riots in Northampton, big trouble. You mustn’t bring the coach back to Garfield. Where are you now?”
“Still on the motorway, not sure where exactly. Maybe half an hour from home?”
“Right. Here’s what you do. Rendezvous at the big sports centre on the western ring road. You know where I mean?”
“Sure.”
“We’ll see you there and re-route the coaches to collection points around the town. Tell the kids their parents will pick them up. Understood?”
“Will do.”
Sitting on the hall stairs, Ralph was explaining the arrangements to Greg Roberts, whose scouts would be intercepting and diverting any coaches that could not be contacted and made their way to the school. He knew Greg would have the scouts posted in lookout positions before he could make his next call.
Serena was in the kitchen talking to the manager of the radio station. The purpose of the whole exercise was to keep everyone clear of the town centre. They were gambling on Brandon not wanting to disperse his thugs to locations dotted around the outer suburbs. It was agreed that announcements would be made on air telling parents where their nearest collection point would be. They were asked to spread the word about the new arrangements and to share transport wherever possible.
Luther was in touch with the duty officer at the central police station who was only too glad to know what measures were being taken. There was no spare manpower, but the police would respond as best they could to any call for back-up.
Serena called the group together in the dining room to check progress. Despite the hectic phoning, they were in better spirits from having tasks to achieve. Three coaches had so far not been reached. They would keep trying and if they failed, the scouts would be the safety net, intercepting the buses before they approached the school.
The door opened, and Serena’s mother peeped in.
“Can I make you all a cup of tea?”
She was greeted by subdued but manic laughter.
“Ma, we’re gasping.”
*
The young man walked without hesitation into the huge crowd gathered round the platform. It was made of scaffolding tubes and had been erected so that the BFP van was its backdrop. He moved confidently through the mass of bodies that smelled of sweat and beer and placed himself to one side of the rostrum about ten metres from where the speaker was gesticulating.
Some of the thugs had turned to see who was elbowing his way between them and were surprised at what they saw. This was no skinhead like the hundreds who were thronging the park that sweltering afternoon. He did not even appear mildly warm. And the look he gave the members of New Force was icy cold as he brushed past them.
But for all this arrogant display, no-one challenged him. Some even looked apprehensive, for this newcomer had about him an air of menace that matched their own, but was of an entirely different order. A path opened for him as he moved closer to the platform, and space was made so that no-one jostled him.
Looking at him they saw a young man dressed like them in black, but immaculately turned out. Over his shoulder he carried a leather bag on a strap. He wore trousers with sharp creases, a freshly-ironed shirt and a brown leather belt with a heavy buckle in the shape of a death’s head. What singled the young man out from the rest was the ostentatious red armband with the black swastika on a white circular background, the silver-topped SS dagger in a leather scabbard at his belt and, most surprising of all, the Iron Cross in black and silver at his throat.
The speaker on the dais was warning everyone to be on their guard.
… Britain is under threat from outside and from within. Sixty million people in one small country is enough. Everyone knows that. Only I – Garth Brandon – and the BFP have the courage to say it openly. I am not advocating sending people back to their ‘homelands’, unless they want to go. But in that case they should receive help to return …
As the speaker paused for breath, the young man in black clapped loudly so that the applause was taken up around him and spread throughout the crowd.
Brandon raised his hands, waited for the applause to subside and continued, his voice beginning quietly and growing ever louder.
No-one should accuse us of intolerance. Our aim is to protect the freedoms for which Britain has always been renowned. It is the immigrants who have come to this country bringing their intolerant views, undermining British values. For many of them, women are second class citizens. How dare anyone accuse the BFP of diminishing half the population of this country! This is not a minor difference of opinion. This is a clash of cul
tures on a grand scale!
More applause rang out led by the young man in black. When the clapping died down, Brandon ended his speech, almost shouting, stabbing a finger in the air to stress every word.
The cause of our concern is that this clash of cultures is not between states but within the state. We must not allow it to destroy our sense of justice, freedom and the values that we hold dear. That is why we are here today. That is the heart and soul of our protest.
The crowd went wild. Waving to the mob with both hands, Brandon stepped down from the platform and disappeared from view behind the van. A thunder of applause broke out, fists were thrust skywards amid loud cheering, whistling and chanting, this time with no prompting from the newcomer. When the thugs glanced in his direction, they found that like Brandon he too had vanished.
*
“I don’t care. You can protest all you like, but you’re not coming with us. It’s not safe.”
Marnie was trying to be an irresistible force, but Serena had about her the look of an unmovable object. When her reply came it was in a low voice that would tolerate no argument.
“This is my show, Marnie. I’m not staying home when there’s so much at stake.”
“Marnie’s right,” said Luther. “If they see you, there’ll be trouble.”
“Ever heard of the pot calling the kettle black? I’m the same colour as you are.”
Serena grabbed the phone and pressed buttons. By the time she had ordered a taxi, resistance had crumbled.
Colin the cab driver sped the group round the ring road and deposited them at the sports stadium complex. He turned off the clock and agreed to wait until they were ready to return to Garfield Primary to collect their cars. Every coach responded to the change of plan, and Serena’s team had little more to do than send them on their way to the new collection points.
Watching the last coach pull out of the car park, Serena sighed and climbed into the cab.
“God knows what they’ll make of this added expense at county hall. Well, tough gazungas! I’m past caring.”
They set off for the town centre where the cab parked immediately behind Serena’s car so that she had only a few paces to walk. She climbed in and drove off quickly. Marnie looked over at the Discovery while Ralph was paying Colin.
“Strange. I thought I’d left it just in front of Serena’s. Oh well, that must’ve been yesterday. My brain’s getting addled by this heat.”
Anne frowned and half-limped, half-jogged off to get a paper from the corner shop. She was back in seconds, hopping across the road.
“They’ve got the lot, a whole spread, two pages of photos, definitely Donovan’s. He must’ve got away safely.”
She spread out the evening edition on the bonnet of Marnie’s car. Touching the steel bodywork with her hand, she thought for a moment it was warmer than she would have expected. Putting it down to the hot weather, she focused attention on the pictures. The editor had gone to town.
With sombre faces they stared at the images, some violent, others full of pathos. Donovan must have taken serious risks to manage some of these shots. They showed with great clarity the New Force thugs smashing the BMW. The caption underlined that here was irrefutable evidence that the damage was committed by white men, not the black ones condemned by Brandon. Hardest to bear were two pictures of the gang beating Buzz with baseball bats. The caption made no apologies for the explicit nature of the photographs. The paper believed it was important to reveal the true scale of the violence being committed in the name of ‘legitimate democratic protest’ by the supporters of the BFP. The final picture showed the body of Buzz being lifted into the ambulance on a stretcher.
Anne’s head slumped forward onto her chest, silent tears coursing down her face.
“Come on,” Marnie said gently. “Let’s go home.”
Beside her Ralph muttered, “We’ve all had quite enough shocks for one day.”
But he was wrong.
*
Donovan walked slowly through the crowd with his head down, away from the centre of everyone’s attention. The noise from the clapping, chanting and cheering was thunderous, and he rode it like a surfer on a giant wave. No-one paid him the slightest heed as he slipped through the massed ranks of Brandon’s supporters.
Glancing over his shoulder to get his bearings, he began altering course to bring himself round to the cluster of vehicles that had formed a protective backdrop to the speaker’s platform. Unobtrusively he raised a hand up his arm as if rubbing a sore muscle. He hooked a thumb over the armband and pulled it down, folding it deftly and tucking it into the shoulder-bag.
A few steps further he raised a hand to rub the back of his neck. Simultaneously he unhooked a fastening and lowered the Iron Cross on its ribbon, clutching it in the palm of his hand and dropping it too into the bag. He reached the vehicles that were parked to form a barrier, but his arrival went unchallenged and he eased himself between two of the taller vans. As he did so, he unclipped the scabbard from his belt and pushed the SS dagger in with the rest of his regalia. Last of all, the belt. Donovan simply twisted it over so that the death’s head emblem on the buckle was invisible. By the time he emerged from shelter he was just another young man dressed in black, like thousands of others.
Penetrating the encampment, Donovan became aware of hurried activity. A gang was dismantling the speaker’s platform, stacking the poles and boxes into the largest of the vans. They seemed uncoordinated as if working without direction. Watching them, it looked as though they did not even know each other. Without checking his stride, Donovan walked quickly towards the platform, wrenched a box free from its position and began lugging it to the van. Through the parked cars he could see a knot of people gathering together behind the main BFP van. Brandon and his cronies? he wondered.
On his second trip to the platform, one of the other workers spoke to him in passing. “You one o’ the Leicester lot?” It was a gruff low voice. A London accent.
“Coventry,” Donovan replied without making eye contact.
He carried a bundle of scaffolding poles and used the time it took to slide them one by one into the van to observe the comings and goings. It would be hard to penetrate Brandon’s entourage. But even as he watched them, they began moving off on foot, Brandon’s distinctive bald head visible in the middle of the group. When no-one was looking his way, Donovan quietly edged between two other vehicles and began moving closer to the enemy, easily falling into step with them as they threaded their way through the cars and away from the racecourse.
*
Marnie gunned the engine and pointed the Discovery out of town, anxiously looking back at Anne. Beside her on the back seat, Luther handed her a fresh white handkerchief, and she gratefully wiped her eyes and face. When they reached the ring road Marnie switched on the radio. Ralph fiddled with the controls, and eventually located the local channel. Even when he made the connection, they could not understand what they were hearing, a problem made worse by the high level of background noise surrounding a reporter somewhere in town.
… but it is known that there have been inter-faction rivalries for some time as disparate groups argued over tactics. It’s still not clear which of these was responsible, and so far no-one group has admitted its part in the incident.
The voice of the studio presenter was a contrast in clarity.
Have the police authorities made any statement as yet, Tricia? Is there any chance of an interview with a senior officer?
No-one is prepared to go on record for now. I can’t even get near enough to put in a request. It’s chaos down here. I’m being jostled by …
The reporter’s voice was lost in a hubbub of shouting and wailing sirens.
“What the hell’s going on?” said Ralph.
Marnie slowed down. “Oh God, It must be one of our coaches, I know it. Something dreadful’s happened.” She turned off the main road and stopped on the outskirts of a village. Switching off the engine, she rested her forehea
d on the steering wheel. “I feel sick. I couldn’t bear it if anything –”
“Hold on, Marnie. They’re back.”
Sorry about that. We seem to have lost contact with Tricia Ironside outside BFP headquarters. We’ll rejoin her as soon as we can establish a connection. For listeners just joining us, we have breaking news that an attempt has been made on the life of the leader of the Britain First Party, Garth Brandon. Reports are coming in that a lone gunman attacked him soon after he arrived back at the secret HQ of the party in the town centre not far from the racecourse.
“What on earth?” Ralph reached forward to raise the volume and inadvertently turned off the radio. “Damn it! Sorry.” He pressed the power button and connected with a different station. Muttering curses, he started fiddling with the controls.
“Someone’s tried to bump off Brandon?” Marnie was incredulous. “That’s the ‘incident’ they were talking about?”
“What does it mean, an attempt has been made?” Luther asked. “Does that mean it failed?”
A jingle followed by a traffic report blared out of the radio. Ralph struggled to lower the volume.
“A lone gunman,” Marnie repeated. “I wonder if they caught him? I hope to God he wasn’t black.”
Ralph was pressing buttons, and his efforts were rewarded with a cultured American voice explaining about Mozart’s sojourn in Chelsea and the divertimenti he composed there.
“I think that’s Classic FM, Ralph,” Marnie suggested.
Without speaking, Anne extended an arm between the front seats and pressed one button with her forefinger.