Dark Clouds (26 page)

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A police driver in an unmarked car is waiting in the car park.

‘Are you for King’s Cross, mate?’

‘Yes – ’

‘Hop in … only I’m not sure how far we’ll get, because from what I hear it’s getting heavy down there.’

As we reach the Pentonville road, there’s a radio call that seems to be for me. ‘We just ‘eard, sir,’ the radio guy says, ‘that the King’s Cross Academy Principal, Rodwell, is givin a press conference in the Euro star terminal.’

The what? Where?

‘Yeah, well, they gone an closed the college, see, ‘cause they’re afraid of it bein overrun, an the bar in the train terminal is probably the safest place around. Anyway, Mr Connors, he said you might like to listen in an see wha the ‘ead teacher or whoever ‘as to say.’

My driver is shaking his head when the police radio operator cuts out.

‘I think we’ve finally got to the point where British people are going to start expressing themselves as far as these elements are concerned,’ he says.

‘You mean the agitators?’

‘Yes ... and particularly the liberal and lefty trouble makers. Although I think the main issue is that we’ve just about had enough of overseas troublemakers. I’m no racist, sir ... my kids go to school with black boys and we’ve got an excellent Indian doctor in Loughton. But I’m afraid I draw the line with Islamic extremists who want to disrupt our way of life ... and that’s what the Nationalist movement in this country is all about.’

If overseas means Islamic and I taped him, I’m sure I could sell what this guy is saying to left or liberal papers on either side of the pond. It’s irrelevant though, because we’re being diverted away from King’s Cross and I have to go the rest of the way on foot.

‘Take care,’ my driver says and he’s freaking me out. I’m thinking of all the nice solid Germans who voted for Hitler and his National Socialists during the 1930s. My driver could easily be a grass roots Brownshirt, or the Brit equivalent. I’m going overboard again though in relentlessly thinking the worst about everything that might happen. The mood on the streets around King’s Cross rail station is light and at times it’s got almost a carnival touch.

Socialists, greens, liberals and Trotskyists are all carrying
We support Muslims
  banners. There’s a real coming together between these nice liberal/left Guardian and Independent reading types and the Islamic students from the King’s Cross Academy.

There are ice-cream and balloon vendors everywhere. I’m not picking up on any real anger vibes. Even the yellow-jacketed police are grinning and joshing with the demonstrators. I’m greeted warmly by two keen PR girls when I present my press pass at the entrance to the Euro Star terminal. I’ve heard about the long champagne bar, and it’s impressive. It’s also a great place for an impromptu press conference, and the Principal of the King’s Cross Academy is addressing the media at one end of the continuous bar counter. He’s a mid-forties business director type with a decent suit and a confident manner.

‘I regret the circumstances of our meeting here today,’ he tells us. ‘The Academy is closed ... and I think it’s correct to say that I’ve been excluded from the building, along with my staff.’

‘Is it true you’ve banned Muslim prayers from lecture halls, sir?’ a polite Indian reporter asks.

‘I think there has been some exaggeration on this,’ the Principal answers. ‘Our board of governors ruled that academic lecture rooms should only be used for appropriate purposes, which is I think, entirely reasonable.’

‘But Muslim students need to pray at certain times of the day, sir,’ a BBC woman suggests and the Principal agrees.

‘You’re right of course ... which is why, given our large number of Islamic students, we have today designated an annex building specifically for the purpose of multi-faith worship meetings and anything else, within reason, that students wish to use it for.’

‘So why is everyone demonstrating outside on the street? Do they know about this new offer you’ve just made ... what’s the point of their protest if they’ve been given what they want?’

The Principal shrugs wearily and shakes his head. We’ve all been given a copy of his press release, which confirms what he’s just said. Our task now is to go and ask the demonstrators why they’re still here. The answer, in part, is manifesting itself on the opposite side of the Euston Road, immediately outside the Kings Cross and St Pancras rail stations.

The Nationalists have arrived. They’ve taken off their woolly hats and there’s a large crowd of shaven-headed men and women taunting the growing number of their left, liberal, green and Trotskyist opponents.

‘Excuse me, sir? A friendly young woman asks as I leave the Euro Star terminal. ‘I appreciate that I’m being a little forward, but I’m in desperate need of cash for my prescription medicine ... and I haven’t eaten since yesterday.’

She’s got a lovely mixed race face, which is framed with a riot of dyed red curls. I’m very taken with her, but I’m on a mission.

‘I can suck you off for a tenner around the back of the British Library,’ she says, ‘and if you’d like some crack or anything else, I know a man under the railway arches who can see us right.’

‘I’m sorry ... but I must go.’

‘Or I can fondle your cock and then jerk you off for a fiver,’ she suggests. ‘Over there, behind the telephone kiosk.’

She’s not giving up, so I find four pound coins, which I drop into her outstretched hand before rushing off. Fortunately, she doesn’t press for anything else, and I’m sweating with embarrassment as I jump down along the steps of St Pancras station to a crowded pavement.

Demonstrators are still pouring out of the King’s Cross station, although transport staff are warning that the rail and tube services are about to close.

‘Will you please leave the area,’ a brave voice suggests through a police megaphone. ‘This gathering is not authorised ... so you must disperse and leave immediately.’

The valiant plea is ignored and there are a couple of helicopters circling overhead. One is an Army Puma with military camouflage paint. Its presence angers many in the crowd, who shout ‘
fascists!
’ and ‘
Iraq out!
’ almost simultaneously.

During a brief lull, when the helicopters move out to increase the diameter of their circling surveillance, Nationalists start to chant, ‘
Allah out! Allah out!
’ followed by strident versions of ‘
Land of Hope and Glory
’ and ‘
There’ll always be an England
.’ It’s clearly intended as a provocation and the Nationalist songs are answered with screams of anti-fascist abuse, along with a shower of bricks and full cans of CocaCola. At first, the police do a good job in keeping the opposing factions apart. There is even a token charge down the Euston Road with standard issue batons. It’s all pretty even handed, although the left/liberal, green and Trotskyist contingent are incensed that anyone should try to break up their pro-Islamic and anti-establishment protests in this way.

Media savvy police and Army officers have taken an initiative, however. They’ve placed large speakers on the flat roof entrance at King’s Cross station, and they’re testing a microphone for an announcement.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ an authoritative Major in combat gear announces. ‘It is important that you are aware of a development in this situation ... within the last hour, the governors at the King’s Cross Academy have agreed that from tomorrow an annex at the College will be reserved for student worship, which will of course include Muslim prayers. So you’ve made your point ... what you have asked for has been granted. What we request is that you now disperse ... move off the public highway, please, and leave the area peacefully.’

It’s a restrained and dignified message. There are some incredulous gasps in the brief silence that follows. ‘
We’ve won, guys ... the fuckers have given in! Holy Jesus ... King’s Cross today – tomorrow, the world!
’

Cheering erupts along with taunting. Socialists, greens, liberal lefties and Trotskyists are whooping it up, and in between they’re shouting abuse and vilifying their rightist opponents. ‘
Fascists out! Fascists out!
’ they shout, and, ‘
get the bastards!
’

It takes a little longer for the perceived surrender message to get through to the Nationalists. Their opponents have been granted a major concession by the authorities. Henceforth, Muslim students can pray in peace, along with Catholics, Protestants, Hindus and Buddhists at the King’s Cross Academy. It’s not acceptable. The Nationalists are chanting obscenities about Muslims in Britain. They are also pulling baseball bats from their trousers and jackets, and as their leaders give the signal, they charge ruthlessly into a great swathe of nice people – most of whom are green-voting liberals and socialists with a smaller group of radical Trots.

The police and their Community Support Officers aren’t sure what to do. They fall back defensively as the Nationalists wield their baseball bats. Bones are broken, faces are punched and testicles are kicked. Quite a few female green, left and liberal supporters are also attacked by the more thuggish elements of the Nationalist hoard. Their shirts are ripped apart and a number of modestly priced Marks and Spencer brassieres are hoisted triumphantly as token war spoils on the flagstaffs of Nationalist Union Jacks.

My first instinct is to try and squeeze my way out of the throng and escape. I feel I’m witnessing the sort of primitive barbarism that must once have driven Attila the Hun as he smashed forward with his primitive titans to destroy the glory and civilisation of Rome. Eventually, a detachment of long-baton wielding cops in riot gear, backed up by a seasoned team of battle hardened military policemen, manages to separate the left and right wing factions, who retrench and regroup on opposite sides of the Euston Road at Kings Cross.

It looks like a good, old fashioned British compromise is evolving. I am however aware of Asian guys I hadn’t noticed before. They’re fanning out into the left liberal crowd and most of them are grinning with encouragement whenever they make eye contact with a battle bruised liberal green or a socialist.

I don’t care any longer about this silly but wearying conflict. I’ve had enough and I’m pushing through with ‘
excuse me, sorry’
and ‘
cheers
’ when I see a familiar sleek bald, brown head and huge shoulders. Pele Kalim is wearing a pair of loose fitting shades and speaking occasionally into a radio handset. He’s wearing a light linen jacket with a huge bulge in each pocket and I’m suddenly concerned for everyone, including myself.

I’m moving into position to try and get a shot of him with my throw-away flash camera when the crowd behind me surges forward. My camera flies onto the Euston Road, where it goes straight under the steel-shoed hoof of a Metropolitan Police Stallion.

It’s my third misfortune with a British security service camera, and I’m annoyed. A girl looks warily at me as I mumble a string of expletives. She thinks I’m mad, but Pele’s still in range. I need a shot of him for Carla and Earl, and there’s a keen young guy with a professional looking camera just a few feet away.

I’m not proud of what I’m thinking, but I like England. This is a matter of state security and Pele Kalim is presently taking a chunky, oval shaped metal object from his pocket as I slide up behind the photographer. He’s unprepared for what’s happening as I kick his ankles together and grab his camera when he falls.

I’m dodging over to the Nationalist side of the road. Then I shout: ‘Pele, hey ... come on, you ugly fuck!’

His head swings and his shades fall off. It’s perfect. I’ve got him on a stolen camera. He’s shocked. Who am I? How do I know his name, and what’s with the camera?

‘Come on ye fuckin Paki cunt!’ a Nationalist supporter yells. ‘We’ll fuckin ‘ave you, mate!’

He thinks I’m with his lot and that I’m deliberately taunting the shiny-headed Asian who’s lost his shades. It’s disorienting for Pele, but he’s regaining his focus. He’s just pulled a wire out from one end of the chunky lump of metal. He’s looking first at me and then at the Nationalist who’s just insulted him.

‘Come on ye fuckin’ coon!’ the Nationalist shouts, lobbing over an unopened can of CocaCola. This is the deciding factor. It’s last in first out. Pele Kalim shouts ‘Allah Akbar!’ ‘
God is good ... you vile infidel!
’  He then throws a Soviet Army hand grenade at the Nationalist who’s just abused him racially. I’m ducking out of the crowd when it explodes. I can see body parts scattered across the Euston Road.

An Army machine gunner on the flat entrance roof at Kings Cross station is firing over the heads of a panicking crowd. Everyone’s running and I’ve got Nationalist blood splatterings on my jacket and shirt.

Chapter 21

I’m running up the Pentonville Road when I hear another explosion. Is this the big one? Did Pele Kalim have the detonator for a nuclear device in his jacket pocket, along with a couple of hand grenades? He might have hidden a radiation concoction, or even a proper bomb, in a suitcase in Bloomsbury or in a bin at the back of St Pancras Station. Someone, somewhere will have to do something about Pele and those who guide his thoughts. Otherwise, we’ll all wake up one morning in a nuclear tit-for-tat wasteland. I can see it happening as I run: Iran, Iraq, Pakistan, North Korea, chunks of Africa and then the centres of our own great cities. London, Paris, New York, Rome – wherever. I’m out of breath when I reach Islington’s police station and my shoes are hurting.

‘Earl Connors, Jason Robson or Carla Hirsch,’ I say to a bemused Sergeant at the reception counter. I need to see one of them – and it’s urgent.

I’m trying to breathe deeply – four in and eight out – when Robson appears.

‘Have you just come from King’s Cross?’ he asks.

‘Yes – ’

‘Well – you’re lucky, mate.’

‘Why?’

‘Because a lot of people have been killed.’

I know. I was there, and I’ve got Pele Kalim’s picture. I hand over the camera and get up. I’ve done my bit for England and my President. I need a shower and three decent sized fingers of whisky – at least to start with. But Robson’s suddenly sitting beside me, and I can see he needs to talk.