The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries (43 page)

I met him the shopping centre. I was sittin around one day wonderin what to, when he came up to me.

I know what you need, he said.

I looked up. An there was a god. Shaved head, eighteen holers, jeans an T-shirt so tight I could make out the curves an contours of his muscled body. An he looked so relaxed, so in control. He
had his jacket off an I could see the tats over his forearms an biceps. Some pro ones like the flag of St George, some done himself like Skins Foreva. He looked perfect.

An I knew there an then, I wanted what he had. He was right. He did know what I needed.

He got talkin to me. Asked me questions. Gave me answers. Told me who was to blame for my dad not havin a job. Who was to blame for my brother’s habit. For my fat slag bitch mother runnin
off to Gillingham. Put it all in context with the global Zionist conspiracy. Put it closer to home with pictures I could understand: the Pakis. The niggers. The asylum seekers.

I looked round Dagenham. Saw crumbling concrete, depressed whites, smug Pakis. The indiginous population overrun. Then back at Ian. An with him lookin down at me an the sun behind his head
lookin like some kind of halo, it made perfect sense.

I feel your anger, he said, understand your hate.

The way he said hate. Sounded just right.

He knew some others that felt the same. Why didn’t I come along later an meet them?

I did.

An never looked back.

Ian’s gone now. After what happened.

For a time it got nasty. I mean REALLY nasty. Body in the concrete foundations of the London Gateway nasty.

I blamed Ian. All the way. I had to.

Luckily, Derek agreed.

Derek Midgely. A great man, like I said. He’s made the St George pub on the estate his base. It’s where we have our meetins. He sits there in his suit with his gin
an tonic in front of him hair slicked back, an we gather round, waitin for him to give us some pearls of wisdom, or tell us the latest installment of his masterplan. It’s brilliant, just to
be near him. Like I said, a great, great man.

I went there along with everyone else the night after the community centre ruck. I mean meetin. There was the usuals. Derek, of course, holdin court, the footsoldiers of which I can proudly
number myself, people off the estate (what Derek calls the concerned populace), some girls, Adrian an Steve. They need a bit of explainin. Adrian is what you’d call an intellectual. He wears
glasses an a duffelcoat all year round. Always carryin a canvas bag over his shoulder. Greasy black hair. Expression like he’s somewhere else. Laughin at a joke only he can hear. Don’t
know what he does. Know he surfs the internet, gets things off that. Shows them to Derek. Derek nods, makes sure none of us have seen them. Steve is the local councillor. Our great white hope. Our
great fat whale, as he’s known out of Derek’s earshot. Used to be Labour until, as he says, saw the light. Or until they found all the fiddled expenses sheets an Nazi flags up in his
living room an Labour threw him out. Still, he’s a tru man of the people.

Derek was talkin. What you did last night, he says, was a great and glorious thing. And I’m proud of each and every one of you.

We all smiled.

However, Derek went on, I want you to keep a low profile between now and Thursday. Voting day. Let’s see some of the other members of our party do their bit. We all have a part to
play.

He told us that the concerned populace would go leafletin and canvassin in their suits an best clothes, Steve walkin round an all. He could spin a good yarn, Steve. How he’d left Labour in
disgust because they were the Pakis friend, the asylum seeker’s safe haven. How they invited them over to use our National Health Service, run drugs an prostitution rings. He would tell that
to everyone he met, try an make them vote for him. Derek said it was playin on their legitimate fears but to me it just sounded so RIGHT. Let him play on whatever he wanted.

He went on. We listened. I felt like I belonged. Like I was wanted, VALUED. Meetins always felt the same.

LIKE I’D COME HOME.

The meetin broke up. Everyone started drinkin.

Courtney, one of the girls, came up to me, asked if I was stayin on. She’s short with a soft barrel body an hard eyes. She’s fucked nearly all the footsoldiers. Sometimes more than
once, sometimes a few at a time. Calls it her patriotic duty. Hard eyes, but a good heart. I went along with them once. I had to. All the lads did. But I didn’t do much. Just sat there,
watched most of the time. Looked at them. Didn’t really go near her.

Anyway, she gave me that look. Rubbed up against me. Let me see the tops of her tits down the front of her low cut T-shirt. Made me blush. Then made me angry cos I blushed. I told her I had to
go, that I couldn’t afford a drink. My Jobseeker’s Allowance was gone an Baz hadn’t come up with any work for me.

She said that she was gettin together with a few of the lads after the pub. Was I interested?

I said no. And went home.

Well not straight home. There was somethin I had to do first. Somethin I couldn’t tell the rest of them about.

There’s a part of the estate you just DON’T GO. At least not by yourself. Not after dark. Unless you were tooled up. Unless you want somethin. An I wanted somethin.

It was dark there. Shadows on shadows. Hip hop an reggae came from open windows. The square was deserted. I walked, crunched on gravel, broken glass. I felt eyes watchin me. Unseen ones. Wished
I’d brought my blade. Still, I had my muscles. I’d worked on my body since I joined the party, got good an strong. I was never like that at school. Always the weak one. Not any
more.

I was kind of safe, I knew that. As long as I did what I was here to do I wouldn’t get attacked. Because this was where the niggers lived.

I went to the usual corner an waited. I heard him before I saw him. Comin out of the dark, along the alleyway, takin his time, baggy jeans lung low on his hips, Calvins showin at the top. Vest
hangin loose. Body ripped an buff.

Aaron. The Ebony Warrior.

Aaron. Drug dealer.

I swallowed hard.

He came up close, looked at me. The usual look, smilin, like he knows somethin I don’t. Eye to eye. I could smell his warm breath on my cheek. I felt uneasy. The way I always do with
him.

Jez, he said slowly, an held his arms out. See anythin you want?

I swallowed hard again. My throat was really dry.

You know what I want. My voice sounded ragged.

He laughed his private laugh. I know exactly, he said, an waited.

His breath was all sweet with spliff an alcohol. He kept starin at me. I dug my hand into my jacket pocket. Brought out money. Nearly the last I had, but he didn’t know that.

He shook his head, brought out a clingfilm wrap from his back pocket.

Enjoy, he said.

It’s not for me an you know it.

He smiled again. Wanna try some? Some skunk, maybe? Now? With me?

I don’t do drugs. I hardly drink. An he knows it. He was tauntin me. He knew what my answer would be.

Whatever, he said. Off you go then, back to your little Hitler world.

I said nothing. I never could when he talked to me.

Then he did somethin he’d never done before. He touched my arm.

You shouldn’t hate, he said. Life too short for that, y’get me?

I looked down at his fingers. The first black fingers I’d ever had on my body. I should have thrown them off. Told him not to touch me, called him a filthy nigger. Hit him.

But I didn’t. His fingers felt warm. And strong.

What should I do, then? I could hardly hear my own voice.

Love, he said.

I turned round, walked away.

I heard his laugh behind me.

At home, dad was asleep on the sofa. Snorin an fartin. I went into Tom’s room. Empty. I left the bundle by his bedside an went out.

I hadn’t been lyin to Courtney. It was nearly the last of me money. I didn’t like buyin stuff for Tom, but what could I do? It was either that or he went out on the street to sell
somethin, himself even, to get money for stuff. I had no choice.

I went to bed but couldn’t sleep. Things on me mind but I didn’t know what. Must be the elections. That was it. I lay starin a the ceilin, then realized me cock was hard. I took it
in me hand. This’ll get me to sleep, I thought. I thought hard about Courtney. An all those lads.

That did the trick.

The next few days were a bit blurry. Nothin much happened. It was all waitin. For the election. For Baz to find me some more work. For Tom to run out of heroin again an need
another hit.

Eventually Thursday rolled round and it was election day. I went proudly off to the pollin station at the school I used to go to. Looked at the kids’ names on the walls. Hardly one of them
fuckin English. Made me do that cross all the more harder.

I stayed up all night watchin the election. Tom was out, me dad fell asleep.

Steve got in.

I went fuckin mental.

I’d been savin some cans for a celebration an I went at them. I wished I could have been in the St George with the rest but I knew us footsoldiers couldn’t. But, God, how I WANTED
TO. That was where I should have been. Who I should have been with. That was where I BELONGED.

But I waited. My time would come.

I stayed in all the next day. Lost track of time.

Put the telly on. Local news. They reported what had happened. Interviewed some Paki. Called himself a community leader. Said he couldn’t be held responsible if members of his community
armed themselves and roamed the streets in gangs looking for BNP members. His people had a right to protect themselves.

They switched to the studio. An there was Derek. Arguin with some cunt from Cambridge. Least that’s what he looked like. Funny, I thought people were supposed to look bigger on TV. Derek
just looked smaller. Greasy hair. Fat face. Big nose. Almost like a Jew, I thought. Then felt guilty for thinkin it.

It’s what the people want, he said, the people have spoken. They’re sick an tired of a government that is ignorin the views of the common man and woman. An the common man an woman
have spoken. We are not extremists. We are representin what the average, decent person in this country thinks but doesn’t dare say because of political correctness. Because of what they fear
will happen to them.

I felt better hearin him say that. Then they turned to the Cambridge cunt. He was a psychologist or psychiatrist or sociologist or somethin. I thought here it comes. He’s gonna start
arguin back an then Derek’s gonna go for him. But he didn’t. This sociologist just looked calm. Smiled, almost.

It’s sad, he said. It’s sad so few people realize. As a society it seems we base our responses on either love or hate, thinking they’re opposites. But they’re not.
They’re the same. The opposite of love is not hate. It’s indifference.

They looked at him.

People only hate what they fear within themselves. What they fear themselves becoming. What they secretly love. A fascist – he gestured to Derek – will hate democracy. Plurality.
Anything else – he shrugged – is indifference.

I would have laughed out loud if there had been anyone else there with me.

But there wasn’t. So I said nothing.

A weekend of lyin low. Difficult, but had to be done. Don’t give them a target, Derek had said. Don’t give them an excuse.

By Monday I was rarin to get out the flat. I was even lookin forward to goin to work.

First I went down the shoppin centre. Wearin me best skinhead gear. Don’t know what I expected, the whole world to have changed or somethin, but it was the same as it had been. I walked
round proudly, an I could feel people lookin at me. I smiled. They knew. Who I was. What I stood for. They were the people who’d voted.

There was love in their eyes. I was sure of it.

At least, that’s what it felt like.

Still in a good mood, I went to see Baz. Ready to start work.

An he dropped a bombshell.

Sorry mate, I can’t use you no more.

Why not?

He just looked at me like the answer was obvious. When I looked like I didn’t understand, he had to explain it to me.

Cos of what’s happened. Cos of what you believe in. No don’t get me wrong, he said, you know me. I agree, there’s too many Pakis an asylum seekers over here. But a lot of those
Pakis are my customers. An, well, look at you. I can hardly bring you along to some Paki’s house an let you work for him, could I?

So sorry, mate, that’s that.

I was gutted. I walked out of there knowin I had no money. Knowin that, once again, the Pakis had taken it from me.

I looked around the shoppin centre. I didn’t see love any more. I saw headlines on the papers:

Then underneath:

I couldn’t believe it. They should be welcomin us with open arms. This was supposed to be the start of the revolution. Instead it was the usual shit. I just knew the Pakis were behind it.
An the Jews. They own all the newspapers.

I had nowhere to go. I went to the St George but this was early mornin an there was no one in. None of my people.

So I just walked round all day. Thinkin. Not gettin anythin straight. Gettin everythin more twisted.

I thought of goin to the St George. They’d be there. Celebratin. Then there was goin to be a late night march round the streets. Let the residents, the concerned populace, know they were
safe in their houses. Let everyone know who ruled the streets.

But I didn’t feel like it.

So I went home.

An wished I hadn’t.

Tom was there. He looked like shit. Curled up on his bed. He’d been sick. Shit himself.

Whassamatter? I said. D’you wanna doctor?

He managed to shake his head. No.

What then?

Gear. Cold turkey. Cramps.

An he was sick again.

I stood back, not wantin it to go on me.

Please, he gasped, you’ve got to get us some gear . . . please . . .

I’ve got no money, I said.

Please . . .