March 10, 6.05 p.m.
Karl Leer’s autoyard was used by Section 88 as a safe house. Karl wasn’t an activist himself; it wasn’t in his nature to do that. He liked his workshop and didn’t want to risk his livelihood. Karl was more of an observer. He kept himself to himself and, more importantly, he provided Section 88 with old vehicles when they needed them – vans so old they couldn’t be traced.
Heming looked around the yard. The dogs behind in the scrublands barked incessantly. If he was being watched, they were keeping themselves well hidden. Karl had given him the all clear. He was sure there was no one around. Heming had got sick of being cooped up and, anyway, he needed to be out. He had a lot to do. He had a lot on his mind.
He looked towards the veranda where the office door stood wide open and then at the small table set up by a heap of old engine blocks. Karl Leer appeared from the office. His eyes opened in surprise.
‘Thought you was hiding?’
‘I need a beer,’ said Heming.
A train passed by not far from the workshop. The tools rattled. ‘Could’ve been worse,’ Karl shouted over the roar.
‘Just how so?’ said Martin Heming.
‘You could’ve gone out with them, been arrested yourself. The way it is, they’ll be back on the street soon enough.’
‘I can’t work with them any more,’ said Heming. ‘They make mistakes. Everyone’s a fucking incompetent. Lukanov was a fool – no good. I thought he was better. I was wrong.’
‘He wanted to do good for you.’
‘Yeah, well, he failed. He was a liability.’
‘Was?’
‘Sturbe killed him.’
‘How do you know?’
Heming looked up. ‘How do I know? I was right there. I saw him do it. He enjoyed it.’
The passenger train rumbled into the distance. Heming’s voice lowered. ‘Detective Tom Harper took out my whole team.’
‘He must be something to do that.’
‘He must be a sonofabitch.’
‘You should go sort this cop out,’ said Karl.
‘I should, you’re right.’
‘Everyone else turned up at the meeting house, you know.’
‘Last night?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I told people the meeting was off,’ said Heming.
‘Six or seven turned up. Didn’t get your message. Cops were waiting right there. They took their names and addresses.’
‘Anyone mention me?’
‘Don’t think so. But you’re not exactly low key. Got your own website. They only need to look you up.’
‘They’re probably at my apartment. I can’t go back.’
‘You should do something about it,’ said Karl.
‘That’s right,’ said Heming. ‘I ought to.’
A silence fell between them. They reflected on what they had left unsaid for a moment. Heming looked into the office. ‘Karl,’ he said. ‘Get me a beer, would you?’
Karl shuffled across to the fridge and took out a key which hung on a chain around his neck. He knelt down and unlocked the padlock. He pulled a cold beer from the icebox.
‘I should just lay low, keep out of trouble,’ Heming said. ‘It’s too difficult to keep going while all this Capske shit is brewing.’
Karl nodded and placed the beer on the table.
Heming shook his head to some internal argument. He drank from the bottle, before wiping his forehead. ‘We can’t sit on our own and grumble. It ain’t us who are cranking this up. It’s them that are infiltrating every fucking place. Judges, lawyers, bankers, politicians, businessmen. They own the system now, Karl, that’s what we’re up against. These people are everywhere. Immigrants and Jews fucking running the place.’ He rose up. ‘I hate them, man, you know? I just hate them so fucking much I can’t focus on anything else.’ Heming’s cheeks were bright red and his forehead was glistening. He looked into the middle distance as if possessed by a terrible vision.
‘Why so much, Heming?’ said Karl Leer.
‘Why so much? Are you kidding? I’ll tell you straight up: I love my country and they are destroying it. It’s an act of self-defense. Would you protect your own children? Don’t answer me, that’s all I’m doing. Protecting my children. My children’s children.’
‘You don’t have children,’ said Karl.
‘Fuck you,’ said Heming.
Martin Heming stood still for a moment as though something had just been clarified in his mind. He drank until his beer was gone, then went and opened the door of the icebox. Let the cool air drift across his face a second.
‘Some guy has done some research and you know what he found? He found that the Jews and the Arabs and the Blacks are all part-Neanderthal. They did some genetic experiment and found this out. They carry the genes of the Neanderthal. Doesn’t that blow your mind? They’re infected with the genes of a dumb animal. Neanderthals. You can see it in their faces.’
Karl let out a laugh. ‘Sure they are, Heming.’
‘What are you saying? You saying that I’m lying?’
‘You’re not lying; you’re just being selective. We’re all of us part-descended from Neanderthals. All of us have that gene. I read about it too.’
‘Not all of us, Karl. You, maybe, but not me.’
‘It’s not something you choose.’
‘It is something you choose,’ said Heming. ‘I choose not to be a dumb fucking animal, I choose to rise above. I choose to further our race and not let it be diluted by theirs. You go eat with the animals, Karl, but not me. I’m no fucking violent Neanderthal ape.’
Karl stifled his rising laughter. If Heming was trying to be comic, he wasn’t showing it.
‘You take a look around you,’ continued Heming. ‘See who’s doing what and who’s suffering. This is everyone’s problem. You think you’re immune to it? You can just walk about, go about your business? Look at your fucking shop! Do you get everyone coming here? No. Where do they go? They got a monopoly, go to their own shops. It’s one rule for us and another for them. They’re squeezing guys like you out. Good guys like you. They’re the Neanderthals, they’re trying to destroy America from within, trying to fuck up our gene pool. Infected, they are, infected with this ape-gene. I love this country, man. I love it. But it’s got a disease right here under the skin and it’s carried by all those fucking types.’
Heming took another beer and pressed the cool bottle to his cheek. His pale blue shirt was stained with sweat under both arms. He carried three days of stubble and his eyes glowed red from staring into the dark, night after night, alone with his mind-rotting theories.
Karl reached out towards a chipped wooden bench and felt for a wrench. He found it and moved across to the open hood of an old car. He leaned into the engine. Heming watched for a moment. ‘These people have tentacles. They control Wall Street – and if they control finance, they control government – right? They’ve got us wrapped around their fingers. And what else? Out there, in the world, we were once a proud nation. Now we’re drowning in shit with our reputation dying because they got us into a war with the whole rest of the fucking world. Playing second fiddle, maybe even third fiddle.’
Martin remained by the open fridge letting the cool air dance around his heated face. He drank in quick gulps. Then he turned to the car that was absorbing Karl Leer more than he was managing to do.
‘You see, Karl, you got to go to the top of the mountain to see the lay of the land. The spread, the forces at work. You’ve got your head stuck down in the valley. Heh, listen to me, don’t be getting distracted by the fucking car.’
‘I’m working, Heming, I got rent to pay. You don’t work, you’ve got it easy, you got time to get all worked up. You should do something positive.’
‘Don’t tell me what I’ve got. They’ve taken the lot. My wife, my money, my freedom. Don’t tell me what to think, Karl, they took it all and they’ll take it from you too, if you sit back and let them. This government is destroying us. Our own government is infected with their thinking. We need to do something.’
Martin wandered back to his seat with another cool one. He twisted open the bottle and put it to his lips. The cold beer passed across his tongue and down his throat. He wiped his mouth. ‘I should do something positive, you’re right. You’re right, Karl, I got to do something real positive. Not wait around for the fucking world to change. Do something. You hear that? We got to do something. You got that fucking right.’