SIXTEEN

 

Anglian Chronical: Sunday 18th November.

 

'Holtingham is a quiet English town bordering the Fenlands, that has been torn apart by a display of intolerance and hate reminiscent of Mosley's Blackshirts in the 1930's.

These events may be separated by over seventy years, but yesterday proved that the lessons of history are not always taken on board by some sections of society. Namely the sub-educated, lower socio-income strata of young white men ever eager to offload the burden of their own underachievement. Invariably, the targets for their resentment are minority groups amongst us who fled to this country seeking sanctity from persecution, torture and death, only to find parallel threats levelled at them from our home-bred despots.

Who are these renegades from decency, so filled with loathing for their fellow man? We have seen the rise and fall of the national Front and the stagnation of the BNP. Now in Holtingham we are seeing a new manifestation of the same old right wing extremists.

The English front Line (EFL), is just the latest manifestation of Neo-Fascist politics of supremacy and intolerance, hiding behind the gooey façade of patriotism and national pride.

They marched yesterday against the express advice of the Chief Constable, to accuse the town's Asian population for the recent rise in petty vandalism; the real perpetrators we can only guess at.

The self appointed Standartenfuehrer of this stalwart band, defenders of an England that exists only in their stunted, Bier-Keller fuelled imaginations, is one Christopher Carter, thirty-four years of age. He has only just returned to Holtingham after a long absence. He was recently released on licence from Her Majesty's Prison Norwich after serving fifteen years for the brutal murder of a young police officer in 1997.

Just to add to the general loveliness of the Carter family, his grandfather Henry Carter, is currently awaiting a decision from the Director of Public Prosecutions office whether to proceed on a charge of Hate Crime after a virulent, verbal outburst directed against the immigrant population of Holtingham

I understand that he is currently receiving hospital treatment after his participation in yesterday's violent disorder, during which EFL members viciously attacked, without provocation, a small number of counter-demonstrators opposing them and their views. Namely members of the pacifist Union of Anti-Fascists (UA-F), a decade old movement founded and led by Mr. Bernard Mann, a veteran campaigner for equality and world peace. Indeed the UA-F receive a degree of government funding in recognition of a proud record in opposing far right organisations and their attempts to be engaged in the democratic process's of this country.

To quote Mr. Mann, "The EFL are yet another insidious conspiracy to incite racial tension and the demonization of Islam. As a humane and progressive multi-cultural society, we in Britain must all link our arms to deny passage for these people towards their ambitions. We cannot, will not, tolerate another Holocaust."

A sentiment that I wholly endorse and call on our police chiefs to ensure a fitting punishment for those who tore apart this quiet English town yesterday, and for the Mother of Parliaments, to have the moral courage to ban this conspiracy of evil - the English Front Line!

 

Lucy Lever: community and current affairs correspondent.

***

Chris shook his head in utter disbelief, pain flaring behind his eyes, but nowhere as acute as that in his heart. "Are they allowed to print these lies?" He moaned in despair.

Barry Wells put his pint glass back down onto the small table between them. "Depends on who has the biggest lawyers."

"I thought there was an inquiry going on into press ethics and standards, to protect people like us."

"Celebrity are you? You can forget all that baloney, ain't going to happen. Not for the likes of us."

"But we're just protecting what's ours. Since when has self-defence been political extremism?"

"Since during the time you went into prison and came out again fifteen years later. Half of this country is living in a fantasy world of their own making, and the other half are too frightened to point out a few home-truths for fear of being labelled racist, homophobic and all the other homo's, and getting dragged into a kangaroo court. Grandpa being a case of illustration."

In sheer frustration Chris screwed the newspaper into a tight ball and threw it at the wall behind them.

"Oi!" the barman admonished. "What do you think this is, a basket-ball court?"

"How is your grandpa now?" Barry asked, changing the subject quickly.

Chris stared into his drink, deflated. "Saw him this morning, not much change there. Showing some signs of awareness, eyelids fluttering, that sort of thing. But his age, who knows?"

"Going again today? I'd like to come too if that is all right."

"'Course mate." Chris made no attempt to hide his pleasure and gratitude. "Tell you what, let's risk a bite of lunch here then go and see if Sid's back on our way out of town. I tried again yesterday but no luck.

"Getting a bit worried actually, I'm sure he'd have said something if he was going away for a time."

"That bugger is probably yomping all the way back to Afghanistan. He ain't finished with those bastards yet. Too much history now poor sod."

***

As to be expected, the warden of Squires Court was not to be found around the development or in her own bungalow. Sunday afternoon Barry had suggested, she'd probably be with all the other women of a certain age down at the Bingo Hall. Cut-price gaming for the masses. Kept them off of the streets, injected a sliver of hope into bereft lives. For a surreal moment, Chris pondered if Sid had gone with them.

For want of anything better to do, they strolled across to Sid's front door, the 'let yourself in' notice limp and yellowed in the damp November air. With no response to their knock, Barry, exasperated, reached for the handle.

"Fuck this, if it's open lets have a peek. He could be trapped in the bath with his only big toe stuck up a tap."

Surprised that the door was actually unlocked with the owner gone for some days, they edged guiltily along the narrow hallway like naughty schoolboys on a dare. The sound of angry voices in the lounge was quite distinct from there. Barry, slightly in front hesitated, until Chris prodded him forward.

"The note specifically invited us in." He whispered. "So go on."

Tentatively they stepped into the room where James Cagney was bad-mouthing a Chicago cop. Chris turned the TV off, frowning as he looked about the shadowy room.

"Obviously left in a big hurry."

"Blimey, I know that Sid ain't too big on housekeeping, only having one leg and arm and all. But even for Sid this place is looking very under-class chic." Barry was looking concerned himself now.

"True." Chris nodded at an overturned chair, the coffee table pushed aside at an odd angle. There was a mug laying on the sofa cushions, a damp patch of coffee or tea staining the fabric. "Let's look around his bedroom?"

Neither could claim an intimate knowledge of Sid 'Sandwich's' wardrobe, but the impression was that no significant amount of clothing had been taken anywhere. A rather battered but serviceable suitcase sat quite accessible on the top of a freestanding wardrobe. Alongside it was also a bulging, Khaki-brown kit bag, presumably stuffed with his army gear.

In a drawer Barry found a biscuit tin containing his passport and driving licence for which he would possibly have no further use with his disabilities. More worrying was a worn and cracked leather wallet containing forty pounds, credit and debit cards along with other personal paraphernalia.

 

He clicked his tongue looking very thoughtful. "How long do you think he's been gone?"

"I saw him on Monday, tried again on Friday, but he'd gone a while by then. So anything from three to five days? There's no telling."

Barry returned the items to the tin, shut it in the drawer. "So he ain't just popped out to the chippy then."

"Who's going to notify the police, report him as a missing person. He's got no family, and I wouldn't get much credence if I go walking through their door as a publicly minded citizen."

"Probably shoot you on sight." Barry's eyes slid sideways at the window. "Looks like our Warden lady has returned. Why not get her motivated enough to do her fucking job and report his unexplained disappearance? She should get more attention from the boys and girls in blue if she calls it in."

"Not a bad idea." Chris agreed. "leave her with it then go and see grandpa. If she gets no joy by morning I'll dig out some details of that hospital in Birmingham he's under and that limb fitting centre, give them both a ring. There's always a possibility .. "

"Yeah, life is full of possibilities."

***

He was beginning to find Yasir Davi the newly elected Police and Crime Commissioner for northern Cambridgeshire an irksome little shite. Particularly when his Sunday afternoon at his country cottage in Hampshire was being disturbed after a wonderful lunch at an exclusive little restaurant that had no need to advertise itself; indeed would vet potential diners before condescending to reserve a table for them.

"Yes, yes, Yasir. I have seen the news report, but frankly I cannot conduct the business and responsibilities of my Ministry on the basis of sensationalist bullshit. ...... Yes, I was talking of the BBC …… No, I have never heard of them. What do they call themselves? …… The English Front Line? Assuming you are not confusing them with 'Dad's Army' …… Okay I apologise. But I would need to know much more about this group before I could even consider issuing a Banning Order. …… Mmm, I understand that the UA-F were also involved in this fracas …… Well it didn't appear that way to me. Giving as good as they got was how it looked to me …… I know they are widely respected in some quarters, but not in mine I have to say …… Yes I know he does . This government is awash with 'posh' boys looking for street-cred'. Me, I'm a grammar school boy myself. Ultimately, if it came to that, I would have to do as directed with a stiff upper lip.

"But until then Yasir I will examine the known facts of the occurrence at Holtingham yesterday and let you know …… Good, we'll speak soon, enjoy what is left of the weekend. Goodbye."

With a grimace of annoyance and distaste, Roger Palmer, Home Secretary, switched off his mobile then jabbed at the log fire in front of him with a long wrought iron poker. Stretching out luxuriously in his leather recliner, he was soon back asleep.

Tomorrow was another day. Sundays were for eating and sleeping.

***

Grandpa apparently was much improved. He had regained consciousness hours before and was already demanding to be let home. Impossible of course, but encouraging non-the-less.

Yes Chris and his friend could go in and visit him now for a short while, but they were not to get him worked up over anything. That, Chris interpreted, as a delicate instruction not to discuss the Sunday newspapers.

One eye popped open as the two young men sidled into his small room and around to each side of his bed..

"Gawd, I thought I was seeing double there for a second. How are you Barry?"

Barry grinned a little forcibly as he sat down in a visitors' chair. "I'm fine Mr. Carter. More to the point, how are you now?"

Henry Carter snorted like a tethered bull. "Bloody bored in here! They won't give me my trousers back so I can leave." He looked imploringly at Chris. "You come to fetch me lad?"

Chris shook his head emphatically, the pain was easing now. "No grandpa. The doctors want you in here for a few days yet. Don't argue with them, they know what they are talking about. You had a real bad turn, need rest and quiet. No more street riots." He smiled guardedly, could have bitten his tongue off.

The old man's face darkened suddenly. "Those yobs attacked us, who were they?"

Chris shrugged. "Just some rent-a-mob from London. Left wing professional agitators, not one of them ever had a job I suspect. Filthy capitalists one day, motorway by-passes the next. Somebody let them loose on us for whatever reason."

Henry's chin jutted forward combatively, still the old warrior. "Time was I'd have been in there with you boys, broke a few heads." He sighed nostalgically. "How is your mate Sid, coping is he?"

Chris and Barry exchanged a quick glance across the bed top.

"Uh-huh, He's gone back up to Birmingham for further treatment. It'll take a long while to get him back together in half reasonable shape." Chris lied.

"Marvellous places those new military hospitals. Our lads deserve the best care available."

"Yep, don't worry about Sid grandpa. I'll bet he is in good hands."

 

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