The chanting had grown louder as the meeting had proceeded, probably in proportion to the amount of booze being consumed.
‘God, they’re noisy,’ Sheena Pearson said. ‘I mean, there’s only about a dozen of them.’
‘We could get the police to disperse them,’ Graeme Carter said. ‘They’re causing an obstruction.’
Sheena shook her head. ‘I’m really trying to avoid the “leftie MP clamps down on free speech” angle. You know exactly how they’ll play that.’
‘The same way they always play it, whatever we do,’ Graeme pointed out. ‘The oppressed middle-aged white guy. The real victims of discrimination.’
Nazia Rashid nodded. ‘The thing is, they really believe it. And I suppose in a place like this, they do have at least a fraction of a point. A lot of them have no jobs, no money, no prospects.’
‘Except that it’s not only the middle-aged white guys in that position,’ Graeme said. ‘They just have a greater sense of entitlement.’
Sheena shrugged. ‘I’ve some sympathy. Not with the racist thugs. But with some of those who swallow their nonsense. They’ve had decades of being ignored by successive governments – mine as much as the other lot. It’s just a pity they can’t see it’s an issue of class and status rather than race. But then we’ve also had successive governments who’ve been very adept at divide and rule. There’s a real danger we’ll reap the whirlwind.’ Much of this was the standard spiel she trotted out on the rare occasions she was invited on to Question Time or Any Questions? It wasn’t that she didn’t believe it – she believed every word – but she’d internalised the ideas and phrasing to the point where she hardly knew what she was saying.
Apart from the protests, the meeting had been pretty routine, one of her regular get-togethers with the leaders of the various local community groups. Since her election, Sheena had devoted much of her constituency time to trying to highlight and address various forms of exploitation in these disadvantaged communities – dodgy landlords, loan sharks, intimidation. It had proved to be a slow process – it was often difficult to persuade people even to talk about what they had experienced – but she was gradually building a substantial portfolio of data and case studies. It was people like Nazia Rashid who had helped her identify victims and gather much of the information.
She liked Nazia, a smart and energetic woman who was more interested in practical initiatives than in political gestures. Sheena was as ideological as the next woman, but it became tiresome when meetings focused largely on sloganising rather than actually making anything happen. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘I’m sorry about the disruption. You’ll be able to get out the back way. I don’t think they’ve been bright enough to discover the rear entrance yet. The police are on hand, though we’ve asked them not to intervene unless they need to.’
Nazia shrugged. ‘They don’t worry me. All mouth, most of them.’
Graeme Carter had risen from the table and was peering through the blind at the street below. ‘There’s still only about a dozen of them. Reckon they must have interrupted a sesh at the Hare and Hounds to come here.’
‘Real dedication,’ Sheena commented.
‘They took care to bring a few cans with them,’ Graeme commented. ‘There are a couple of police officers across the street keeping an eye on them. Reckon if they get too rowdy, the police will break it up anyway.’
‘As long as it’s their decision rather than mine,’ Sheena said. ‘Though I’ll get the blame anyway.’
The reason for the protest, as far as Sheena had been able to ascertain from the badly-spelled posters, was that she’d made a public statement criticising Mo Henley, a far-right non-entity recently sentenced to three months in prison as a result of recurrent public order and other offences. Henley – a thuggish figure, risibly known to his followers as Bulldog – rarely appeared in public without an entourage of equally thuggish companions. Predictably, he was now being hailed as a martyr and a prisoner of the state by various right-wing groups.
Sheena knew little about Henley and cared less. But he was a local man by birth and upbringing, and, as MP for the constituency, she was repeatedly asked for an opinion. She’d been only too happy to say exactly what she thought in interviews on local radio and the local television news programme.
‘Do you get a lot of this?’ Nazia Rashid asked, gesturing towards the window and the street beyond.
‘Not much. We’ve had the odd, very civilised protest, usually about environmental issues. But I was pretty much on their side. They were really just looking for a few photo opportunities. Don’t think we’ve ever had a bunch like this before. Not in my time, anyway.’ The constituency had always been strongly Labour, and Pearson had succeeded the retiring previous MP – an old-school hard-left product of the surrounding coalfields – at the 2010 General Election. She’d retained the seat since then, though with a slightly reduced majority.
‘It’s sad that we’ve come to this,’ Nazia said.
‘That tendency’s always been there,’ Sheena said. ‘National Front. BNP. Britain First. It just pops up in different guises. There’s always been a small but resilient bunch of them around here.’
‘In this neck of the woods,’ Graeme said from his position by the window, ‘the only time they encounter a BAME person is when they get an Indian takeaway. I wonder how they’d feel if they were living in a genuinely multicultural community.’ He stopped, as if it had suddenly occurred to him that, in Nazia’s presence, his words might be tactless. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…’
Nazia laughed. ‘No, you’re right. I represent a small community, proportionally. Though of course many of those serving in the takeaways you mention have faced serious racial abuse.’
‘Ignore Graeme,’ Sheena advised. ‘He means well, but he’s a white male middle-class southerner. He can’t help it.’
‘This is exactly the kind of prejudice I have to put up with,’ Graeme said to Nazia. ‘I hope you’re taking note.’ He looked back out of the window. ‘Hang on, something’s happening out there.’
The two women rose and joined him at the window. The apparent leader of the group below, a man who looked to be in his mid-forties with a shaven head and an impressive array of tattoos visible outside his union jack T-shirt, was involved in an altercation with one of the police officers. From up here they couldn’t hear what was being said, but the man was repeatedly jabbing his forefinger towards the officer’s chest. The man had a can of cheap lager in his hand and was behaving with the exaggerated precision of someone who’d drunk a little too much.
‘He’s going the right way to get himself arrested,’ Graeme said.
It was clear the gathering below was growing more unruly. Several other men were clustered behind the ringleader, chanting abuse at the police officer. The officer had been joined by a colleague, and Sheena could see they were trying to persuade the crowd to disperse.
‘I’m going to go down,’ she said.
‘Police won’t thank you if it inflames things,’ Graeme pointed out.
‘It’s me they’re protesting about. Seems a bit cowardly just to sit up here and let the police deal with it.’
‘I don’t get the impression they’re particularly interested in participating in a reasoned discussion.’
‘I’m going to give it a shot anyway.’ She turned to Nazia. ‘Sorry you’ve had to be subjected to this.’
‘Oddly enough, it’s not the first time I’ve experienced something like this.’
‘No, I suppose not. Anyway, thanks for coming. Graeme can show you out the back way. At least I can provide a distraction while you’re leaving.’ She smiled. ‘Covering fire.’
Halfway down the stairs to the ground floor, Sheena paused, wondering whether she was doing the right thing. As Graeme had pointed out, she’d get no thanks if she made matters worse. He was good at restraining her more impetuous behaviour. It was one of the reasons she employed him.
On the other hand, he tended to be overcautious. That was partly why, despite his treble first from Oxbridge or whatever it was, he was still working as a spad while she was in the shadow Cabinet. Swings and roundabouts.
In the downstairs area, receptionist Carla MacDonald was still happily tapping away at her keyboard, despite the mounting fracas outside. Sheena had asked Carla whether she wanted to move upstairs for the duration of the protest, but she’d seemed unfazed. ‘Gah, they’re just big kids,’ she’d said. ‘Try anything with me and they’ll get short shrift.’ In the end, Sheena had reluctantly agreed. The door was locked and the toughened glass was supposed to withstand anything likely to be thrown at it.
‘Getting a bit tasty out there,’ Sheena said.
‘Wee gobshites,’ Carla said, succinctly. ‘Playing tough.’
‘I’m going to go and have a word. See if I can calm things a bit.’
‘You sure about that? That big fella’s got a few pints inside him.’
‘The police are there. I can only try.’ She could hear the sound of sirens somewhere outside. It seemed as if the two officers had summoned reinforcements. ‘Wish me luck.’
She unlocked the front door and stepped out into the street. The man in the union jack T-shirt was still remonstrating with the police officer. As she moved closer, she heard the officer say, ‘I’ll ask you one more time, sir. Please leave the area. You’re causing a disturbance and if you continue I’ll have no option but to take action.’
‘Bloody typical.’ The man was swaying slightly. ‘We know our rights under common law. Rights of peaceful process. It’s in the Magna Carta.’
‘Peaceful protest, yes, sir. We’ve been tolerant so far—’
‘Tolerant? It’s not your job to be fucking tolerant. It’s your job to uphold the law. To uphold our common law rights.’ The man had finally noticed Sheena approaching. ‘There she is. There’s the bitch.’
‘Sir—’
‘She’s a fucking traitor, that’s what she is. Selling the country down the river into the hands of immigrants and—’
‘Sir, I must warn you—’
Sheena really wasn’t sure her presence was helping the situation, but there wasn’t much she could do about that now. She spoke as calmly as she was able. ‘I understand you’re protesting about my comments on Mo Henley. I’m very happy to discuss them with you if you’d like to do so.’
The man started jabbing his finger in her direction. ‘You libelled fucking Bulldog. That’s what you did. You said he was a fascist. Like bloody Hitler. We fought two bloody wars against Hitler. We shouldn’t have fucking bothered. The country’s full of bloody—’
‘I’m very happy to discuss these issues with you. I’m sure we won’t see eye to eye but we can at least debate it in a civilised way. We can do it now, if you like. Just you and me.’
The man seemed taken aback by the offer. ‘You’d just try to bamboozle me with facts. I know smartarses like you with your public school educations. Treat the likes of me like dirt.’
‘For what it’s worth,’ she said, ‘I grew up in a council house and went to a comp in Ilkeston.’
She could tell he didn’t believe her, though every word was true. He spat at her feet and took another swig of his beer. ‘You’re just a fucking traitor, that’s what you are.’
She could see, from the corner of her eye, another police car drawing up on the far side of the street. It was clear the man had seen it too, and was considering how best to beat a semi-dignified retreat. He turned back to the police officer. ‘See you’ve bought in the fucking cavalry. Can’t deal with the likes of us on your own. Too tough for you.’
‘If you and your associates would kindly just disperse and leave the area, we’ll need to take no further action.’ the officer said. ‘Otherwise, we will arrest you all.’
The man glanced back at the others standing behind him. ‘Know when we’re not wanted, don’t we, lads? Okay, we’ll go for the moment. But we know our rights. You mark my words, soon the people will rise up.’ He stared at Sheena, the veins in his reddened forehead standing out. ‘And traitors like you will be the first to be strung up.’
Two more police officers had emerged from the police car and were crossing the street to join them. The man turned and said, ‘Come on, lads. We’ll leave it for now but we’ll be back.’
They began to move away, still chanting ‘Traitor, traitor’, some of them pointing at Sheena.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly to the police officer, ‘I don’t think I helped that. But I felt I couldn’t just ignore them.’
‘You’re in a difficult position, ma’am,’ the officer said, in the same tone he might have used in response to a polite question from the Queen. ‘But we’ll try our best to—’
Sheena never discovered what it was that the officer would try his best to do. The sound of the gunfire was sudden and shocking, the harsh noise echoing around the empty high street.
It took her a moment to realise what she’d heard, and another moment to realise that there was warm blood running down her face.