CHAPTER 15. PEACHORNBY'S IRON GUARD.
Happening as it did shortly after the controversial election results, the Town Hall fire made national news for a day or two and the journalists from the Standard and Target found themselves much in demand from other news hounds eager for the inside track. Butler especially basked in the attention and the pushy woman from the Target tried to angle herself a job with any of the nationals that would listen.
Camera crews from the BBC and ITV Yorkshire flocked into town, blocking the already congested streets of Sleaford and giving Superintendent Donelan an extra problem. He likened it to being bowled an over of exceptionally difficult googlies. In the end, he cordoned off an area of the Tesco Extra car park on Northgate and told the press pack to park there. It wasn't far from Kesteven Street, after all, and shoppers and looky-loos watched roadies lug equipment to and fro. Some of the more enterprising locals even bagged a free meal from the catering van.
Meanwhile, Peachornby ordered a podium to be erected just in front of the gutted and burned out Town Hall. Well, it was only gutted in a few places but on the advice of Gould who had driven down specifically from the BNP's head office, Peachornby and Mason insisted that they were the parts in camera shot.
The car park was full to bursting, the only clear space being between Peachornby's podium and the camera crews and banks of microphones. Superintendent Donelan had ordered his men to push the anarchists and noisy protesters to the far edge of the council's car park where their shouts and placards wouldn't disrupt the Mayor's speech. "Push them beyond the boundary rope. That's the ticket," he told his boys in blue.
Promptly, Peachornby mounted the steps of his podium. As usual, he was dressed all in black and closer scrutiny proved he'd forgotten to shave under his nose for a few days and stubble shadowed that area. He surveyed the cameras and blinked in the flash photography. One of the journos from the Guardian whispered to her friend from the Mirror that, "at least Peachornby didn't keep them waiting, a bit like Mussolini made the trains run on time". The girl from the Mirror decided to recommend that her sub-editor use that as a tag line.
Peachornby stood behind a lectern placed in front of the fire-bombed Town Hall and struck his heroic Napoleonic pose. He'd have liked his replica Luger on show but that had to stay under lock and key at home. Gould stood nearby, ready to lend a hand, but made sure he was out of sight. He was a man who much preferred to operate in the shadows.
Cameras flashed – no doubt there would be a warning against flash photography on the local news. Crews from both the BBC and ITV Yorkshire filmed his announcement. Sleaford had not received so much coverage for – well, nobody knew how long. Not since the Second World War in all probability when the RAF and USAAF planes took off on their bombing raids over Germany.
Mason and several other skinheads cleared a space. "Mayor Peachornby will make his announcement now," Mason bellowed. Immediately, the journalists and news crews fell silent. Peachornby puffed up his chest and spoke. He was aware of the hand of history on his shoulder.
Who knows, he reminded himself, Mayor of Sleaford this year, Lord Mayor of Lincolnshire next year and who knows... maybe Prime Minister the year after? Britain was ready for a change. He would lead the downtrodden Anglo-Saxon race out of this multi-cultural hell by ethnically cleansing Britain. He would be the new broom... Perhaps he should have a word with those Serbian guys he was in contact with on the outer edges of the internet. Bring them over. They knew how to deal with muslins and other sub-humans.
Peachornby looked down at his speech. Much had been written by Gould but Peachornby wasn't going to stick to the exact script. Not now that he was a man of destiny. The Mayor raised his hand for silence. Not a stiff-armed salute – Gould had specifically warned Peachornby against that – but almost a peace sign.
"Friends and fellow Sleafordians. Today we stand amidst the ashes of our glorious Town Hall..." which wasn't strictly true as most of the Hall was untouched by the fires and the office staff were already back inside.
Peachornby began quietly and uncontroversially. He praised his Deputy Mayor's actions in rescuing Donna and reassured everyone that Naismith was in good hands in the burns unit of Nottingham University Hospital. Unfortunately, the Deputy would not be able to return to work for some time.
A journo fired a question. "Are there any suspects for this fire?"
Immediately the rhetoric changed. Peachornby launched into a prolonged harangue against the asylum seekers jettisoned by the rest of the world to wash up on the shores of his beautiful town of Sleaford. Even though the town was inland. His fists pumped the air and despite the coolness, sweat rolled down his face, dampening his collar and darkening his underarms.
Peachornby told the open-mouthed reporters that a 'muslin' male, probably linked to Al-Qa’ida – they half expected him to use the 'P' word, but a glance from Gould got Peachornby back on track – had been spotted loitering around the Town Hall. Worse, the man had been arrested while carrying a jerry can. He let his audience draw their own conclusions.
Then Peachornby made an announcement which drew gasps from the assembled news reporters and those few members of the public who had shown up on the fringes of the crowd.
"In view of this terrible fire, this assault on the integrity of our community, I have taken the decision to create a corps of men...," there was a whisper from Gould, " and women who will dead (is that right?), er... dedicate themselves to keeping the decent citizens of Sleaford safe from these forces of Judeo-...," a big cough from Gould, "... er, juddering, chaotic, anarchy who think nothing of torching our fine buildings and attacking decent people in their beds."
Peachornby took a sip of vodka disguised as water before carrying on with his harangue. "And we are determined to make sure that such an outrage never happens again. Therefore, I have set up a new force, our 'Sleaford Smashers' who will take over the duties of our parking wardens, litter sweepers as well as guarding council property."
There were loud cheers from the skinheads, most of whom had been promised jobs with the Smashers by Peachornby and Mason. They waved their flags of England, Georgia and various football clubs. With his next words, Peachornby went completely off-script. Gould looked startled. But he didn't look anywhere near as surprised as Superintendent Donelan of the Lincolnshire Police.
"Also, the Smashers will be taking over the duties of the police's Community Support Officers. They will be resp... resp..."
"Responsible," whispered Gould, inching forwards. He wondered what was going to come out of the Mayor's mouth next. Would it be something that could harm the BNP's reputation?
"...take over their duties. They will give out fixed penalty notices and keep law and order on our streets. Keep our fair city safe for decent, hard-working whi..., ahem, people."
"Have you got permission for that?" asked a reporter with the Beeb, her disbelief evident in her voice.
Peachornby clicked his fingers and Mason opened a buff file and handed the Mayor a piece of paper. The Home Office's portcullis logo was on the top.
"I hold in my hand a piece of paper from the Home Secretary..."
Mason sniggered to Gould. "Home Secretary. Sounds like a housewife working from home."
Gould nodded but didn't say anything. He desperately wanted to hear what Peachornby was going to come out with next rather than listening to this tattooed thug.
"The Home Secretary gives her full perm... perm... She says it's okay to do this," Peachornby concluded.
Patryk looked around at the crowd. Apart from the cheering skinheads, the rest of the crowd seemed stunned. Superintendent Donelan looked taken aback as if he was facing an unexpected batting slump. It was obvious to Patryk the senior copper hadn't heard a whisper about these Sleaford Smashers so he didn't look happy at this new development. However, the bulldog-faced copper only let his surprise show for an instant before he regained control of his features.
Mason stepped forwards and handed a hi-viz jacket to his leader. Peachornby shook it out. On the back forming a circle around Sleaford's coat of arms were the words 'Sleaford Smasher'. Within the circle were two jagged Ss shaped like lightning flash runes.
"Our smashing people will smash crime and disorder, smash graffiti and filth and keep our beautiful town pure and clean and fit for decent people to live in without fearing the tide of chaos and anarchy threatening to overwhelm all decent people..."
Peachornby's voice raised, his arms reached to the heavens and then lowered seeming to encompass the whole crowd. The skinheads started cheering and yelling their support. Then, as if on cue, they started roaring out his name, "Hear Peachornby! Hear Peachornby! Hear Peachornby!..." Even some ordinary members of the crowd started clapping and cheering and voicing their approval.
Patryk caught Superintendent Donelan's eye. The copper looked worried now as he shook his head. This was not a development he welcomed. Why hadn't he been told about this? Alright, the Police Community Support Officers weren't anything he had much to do with, but he thought he would have heard whispers on the grape vine, canteen scuttlebutt being what it was.
Donelan thought some more. This must have been approved higher up the food chain – maybe even at Chief Constable level itself. It must be to do with this constant round of budget cuts, he reasoned; withdraw the PCSOs and save money which could be spent elsewhere. Treat Sleaford as an experiment. Let the locals take responsibility for their own policing needs. If it worked here then extend the experiment throughout Lincolnshire and then, who knows, nationally? To Donelan's mind, this was a dangerous development.
Donelan hadn't been a fan of the PCSOs when they were set up and he would rather the money be spent on a properly trained and resourced police force, rather than a bunch of civvies given six weeks training and a uniform that looked similar enough to a copper's to deceive the general public. However, letting a clown, a dangerous clown at that, anywhere near policing was a step too far. He would have to get rid of this team before they became too powerful – before they reached Test status. The good thing was, Donelan didn't think it would take too much to force a batting collapse on the BNP mob.
Peachornby spoke some more but even his microphone couldn't carry over the skinheads' wild cheering. Patryk caught a few phrases – something about how he will move the remaining asylum seekers and unemployed immigrants out of Sleaford to the camps on the coast; a guarantee that the town centre will be made safer and something about how he will cut the council tax bill. That last raised some more applause from the watching shoppers and non-skinheads. Tax cuts were always welcome, no matter where they came from.
There was a sudden scuffle on the edge of the crowd. A handful of anarchists and Anti-Nazi League types pushed into the skinheads, fists swinging. Superintendent Donelan pointed and a few burly coppers shouldered between the two groups. Realising they were heavily outnumbered on this occasion the Anti-Nazi bunch beat a hasty retreat.
Pointing to the lefties. "... and we will defeat the Marxist-communist threat to our communities as well," Peachornby ended with as soon as the last protester had been expelled from before the Town Hall. He turned to a tall man with a soul-patch standing next to the amplifiers who flicked a switch.
Immediately the sound of the hymn 'Glorious Things Of Thee Are Spoken' blared out over the car park. Gould winced, his ferret-face screwed up as if with pain. Not because it was a religious hymn but because it shared the same tune as 'Deutschland Über Alles'. Not the image the modern BNP headquarters was looking to project. That didn't worry the skinheads. They waved their flags with more enthusiasm and a few even threw stiff armed Nazi salutes. At this point, most of the non-skinheads left to do their shopping.
As soon as the last notes of the hymn died away to fall flat on the asphalt many skinheads put on their Sleaford Smasher vests and formed up in ranks on the Town Hall steps. Although only brooms and ticketing machines were handed out today, Patryk was reminded of a paramilitary force. He wondered how and when Peachornby had organised this – certainly well before the fire, he thought. After all, those hi-vizs would have had to be ordered. He walked over to his van and climbed in.
As he did so, the passenger door opened and a man in dark blue uniform with plenty of silver braid swung up next to him. The man looked like he'd done some boxing in his youth but had lost more fights than he'd won. And as the years had gone on, he'd spent too much time in the bars talking about those old fights.
"Drive," Superintendent Donelan commanded.
Patryk glanced at the man and engaged first. Releasing the handbrake, the Transit glided forwards along Kesteven Street towards Eastgate. It started spitting with rain; typical English weather.
"Which way?"
"Town," said his passenger. The van pulled out behind a white Skoda. "Strange things happen sometimes," Donelan mused, "like when a minor country such as Ireland or Holland beat us in the one day internationals. It happens from time to time and it causes a lot of fuss on the back pages for a few days. However, these things blow over and in the long term it doesn't much matter.
"Yet, were they to play and beat us in a First Class match, that would be a very different kind of wicket. There would be questions asked in the House let alone the Telegraph. And that is what's happening here in Sleaford. A bunch of agricultural no-hopers are batting higher up the averages than they deserve. I trust I'm making myself crystal here?"
Patryk looked at the senior policeman as he inched the van a few yards forward. "Not really, no."
Donelan sighed. "I forget you're Polish so you don't play cricket do you?" He made it sound like this was the worst failing known to man. "You should. Best game created by mankind."
"I follow Legia Warsaw football club, me."
"Never heard of them. I follow Notts County. Let's see if I can explain things so you understand. What I am saying is that Peachornby is a flat-track bully and his BNP team are a bunch of also-rans who got lucky."
Edging past the medical centre towards Carre Street, Patryk stalled the van at Donelan's next words. "Except we both know that the BNP didn't just get lucky. They had help, didn't they, Patryk? They didn't play with a straight bat – well, that's only to be expected from an outfit like that – but they had a few easy lobs and an umpire on their side. You know what I mean."
Patryk didn't understand the context but he knew what Donelan was driving at. He thought it safest to say as little as possible.
"Now, I've heard rumours about your role in this sticky wicket – no, don't bother denying it – and the only thing I want to know is that you're going to clean bowl Peachornby out. Shatter his stumps."
Patryk passed the junction with Carre Street and Market Place. "How do you know it was me, Superintendent? I'm only a van driver."
"Who else had the opportunity to make Peachornby 3,270 not out? A score he would never achieve even if he followed on? Only you, my friend, only you. Now, the only question is what are you going to do to restore the correct batting order?"
Patryk sighed. But something wasn't right here. "If you know the election was fixed, why don't you just cancel it and re-run it?"
"It's not that simple. My political masters don't want to do that. It would erode the public's already limited trust in the democratic process. Like Jardine's 1932 body-line tour destroyed trust in English fair play for decades. It would have been far better for cricket – and the Empire – in the long run if we'd lost gallantly, you understand.
"So rather than a disputed rematch, it would be far better for all concerned if Peachornby was bowled out – or knowing him he got leg before wicket – I think you understand my drift here, which is very possible – and then we could start a fresh Test match."
Patryk shook his head. This was utter gibberish but he understood where Donelan was going with this. "You want me to take Peachornby out?"
"Knock his bails off, that's the ticket," Donelan confirmed. "I'll head back to the pavilion now." With that, the Superintendent opened the door and stepped down onto the pavement.
"Get that pie-chucker out within the next few overs, and I'll see you get man of the match," Donelan called cryptically as he closed the door behind him. The last Patryk saw of Donelan was his burly form entering a newsagent.
Why him? Patryk thought. Why him? What was this isolated Fenland town to him? He could go home to Warsaw and put this all behind him. But as soon as that notion came to mind, he pushed it away. No. He was Patryk and his mother prided herself on having raised no fools. Naismith had trusted him and there had to be some way he and Lukasz could siphon off some real money before heading home.
Deep in thought, he waited at the level crossing until the train passed and the gates rose.