CHAPTER 25. FRIENDS, SLEAFORDIANS, COUNTYMEN.
Sleaford Urban Council wasn't out of the news for long. The country developed a morbid fascination for the place and the antics of its leader. The more over-excitable talking heads popped up on every show giving their opinions on every development. They predicted that this was the future of Britain; the failure of the two-party political consensus giving way to a fascist dictatorship and drew parallels with developments in the Eurozone following the banking collapse.
To pad out what they had to say, the pundits looked at the anti-immigrant rhetoric of some fringe far-right European parties and then tried to draw comparisons between the 1930s and now. Some of the producers at the BBC wondered if it was worth booking a suite at a local hotel and keeping a TV crew on permanent standby. It would be better than sending a crew from their new studios up in Salford. After all, it was only licence fee payers money after all.
Now Peachornby had taken control, his plan to relocate the asylum seekers was controversial to say the least. He was invited to explain his ideas on the Today show on BBC Radio 4 but even Peachornby had enough sense to realise he would be skewered by the presenters so he made his excuses and declined the invitation. That gave Gould and BNP's high-ups a sense of relief.
All the same, and discreetly, his concepts were studied by several other councils throughout England. Not that they approved – of course not, publicly they disavowed anything to do with Peachornby and the BNP – but if his plans worked, and if they cut costs and didn't fall foul of the European Court of Human Rights then they might be worthy of consideration. Just on the Q.T., nothing in writing at this stage, you understand.
Taking advantage of this being the low season, Peachornby had leased part of a holiday camp at Cleethorpes on the north Lincolnshire coast. Out of season, it was a bleak place where the wind howled across the North Sea direct from Scandinavia and the Russian steppes. There, he decanted Sleaford's population of homeless, asylum seekers, refugees and those families he called 'undesirables' but social workers termed 'families in need of intervention'.
That was one of his policies that was popular with Sleaford's tax-payers. Although they didn't come right out and say so. However, it was much less enthusiastically received by those he'd exiled to Cleethorpes. A handful of asylum seekers withdrew their applications and asked the Home Office if they could be sent back to Afghanistan, Algeria or through all the countries of the alphabet up to Zimbabwe. Poverty and the constant threat of violence but with hotter weather seemed a better life than the freezing cold and damp of the British coast.
Of course, the Urban Council's policy was slated by the usual suspects in the left wing press. The Guardian and The Mirror were especially scathing and compared the holiday camps to wartime concentration camps but as Peachornby never read these papers anyway he didn't care.
Shortly after the furore over the Cleethorpes camp died down to a dull grumbling things flared up again in Sleaford. There was a second fire. The local Conservative Party Association went up in flames. It was a defenceless plate glass fronted shop on Market Square, the easiest of targets.
Later on the following day, when the cops trawled through the night's CCTV footage, they saw two black clad figures running through the streets. The men came down Eastgate, coincidentally from the same direction as the Town Hall, crossed Carre Street, and paused for a moment before the Conservative Association building.
Then one of the men pulled an iron bar from out of his trackie bottoms and swung it at the plate glass window. In silence, the cops watched as the window shattered, shards glittering in the street lights as they fell to the pavement. Then the second one took a bottle from out of a Tesco carrier bag, flicked his lighter and held the flame to a wick jammed into the bottle's neck. He paused a second and then lobbed his petrol bomb through the shattered opening. The two men then legged it.
Changing CCTV views, the cops saw the men run around the corner and jump into a dark Honda. The vehicle's numberplates had been removed. Switching back, the cops looked on as the blaze took hold in the Conservative office.
"There'll be hell to pay," said a female constable as she sipped on a sludgy coffee.
"No need to inquire too hard as to who did it," said the other woman. "We can start and finish at the Town Hall. Pound to a penny says it's the BNP lot. This is just up their street."
"I'm not betting against you," said the first. "But we'll rack up some overtime before it gets shelved as an unsolved crime."
***
Peachornby had been determined that no expense should be spared. Especially as he was saving the taxpayer a fortune by decanting those illegals to Kamp Kleethorpes as the press dubbed his scheme. So he was entitled to splash the ratepayer's cash a little, wasn't he?
Especially now that plans were well under way for the Bass Maltings themselves. Young Daventry of Haider-Allbutt & Associates had adapted the designs found in Naismith's desk and put his own twist on them – enough to avoid any accusations of plagiarism and costly lawsuits. Even to Peachornby, it was obvious Daventry had burned the midnight oil preparing these plans. Not that he could make head nor tail of them himself, but some of the computer mock-ups looked impressive.
Then a thought broke through his skull. Rather than calling them the Bass Maltings, wouldn't the refurbished buildings sound better as 'Schloss Peachornby'? His legacy to Sleaford. He'd have to remember to speak to Daventry about how you get a building's name changed. Not that there would be any problems with planning consent.
However, today was his day and the restored Town Hall was ready for unveiling. Peachornby stood before the full-length mirror he had installed in the Mayor's private bathroom. He sucked in his gut, struck his favourite Napoleonic pose with his left leg out and his hand gripping his lapel. He raised his head, gazing into the middle distance, trying to minimise his double-chin.
In honour of the importance of the day, Peachornby was dressed in his full rig: a black military-style shirt, black trousers with a razor-edge crease (he'd specified that at the dry-cleaner's), brightly polished high-leg Doc Martens and his Sam Browne belt. Peachornby clicked his heels and flicked a stiff-armed Nazi salute and admired his reflection. Then he made a tiny adjustment to his toupee and stroked his toothbrush moustache. Peachornby knew the hand..., no both hands of destiny were on his shoulder. He felt the shades of Mosley, Franco, Mussolini and, yes, Hitler approving of his rise to power. And one day the name of Peachornby would rank amongst those greats.
There was a knock on the door and then it opened a few inches. Peachornby turned putting his bulk between his caller and the half-empty bottle of scotch on the desk. Now was his moment and he was determined to savour it.
"They're all ready for you, Mayor," said Mason as he opened a velvet-lined wooden box and took out the ornate golden chain of office. It gleamed heavy and yellow and, not for the first time, the younger man wondered how much he could pawn it for. Mason still looked thin and pale and washed out but nothing would keep him away from this grand reopening.
"Good crowd? Lots of people?" Peachornby asked imagining ranks upon ranks of people all gazing up at him with complete adoration.
"Well, sort of," Mason said, shuffling his feet and looking down at the carpet.
Peachornby took no notice as he placed the chain over his head and adjusted it. "Lets get on with it then, I've got a lot to do today." Sucking in his gut and making last minute adjustments to his uniform, Peachornby followed Mason down to the car park.
He stepped outside and was greeted by cheers from the Sleaford Smashers, drawn up in two lines over by the dustbins. His podium had been put up by the new flagpole, at the base of which stood a Smasher holding a furled flag. Peachornby was relieved that the flag showed red and white. At least somebody could be relied on to get things right. He'd dreaded seeing the blue of the hated European Union's snot-rag.
"Hear Peachornby! Hear Peachornby! Hear Peachornby!" yelled the assembled Smashers. He acknowledged them with a wave. Gould had told him several times not to salute as it would give a bad impression on the Ten O’clock News later. Just keep it to a wave, nothing else. After several explanations, Gould had pounded that concept through Peachornby's skull.
Peachornby himself paused, savouring this moment. Willard, standing over by the Smashers, thought the Mayor looked like Charlie Chaplin – if an overweight, out of condition Chaplin had ever been offered a residency at Las Vegas. He shook his head.
The sun was shining out of a clear blue sky. One of the skins hit the play button on his boom-box and a medley of far-right Oi! music blared out. Gould winced but at least it was a step-up from the Third Reich marching music which had been the original play list.
Peachornby stood in the sunshine as a barrage of flash lights went off. Now the journalists started calling out, "Peachornby," as they asked questions. The Mayor ignored the journalists and goose-stepped over to the podium. It had been draped with the red cross of England and a rack of microphones had been fitted to the front. Followed by Mason, Peachornby crossed to the podium and mounted his soapbox.
Looking around, Peachornby was pleased with Daventry's design. The young architect had done a good job and the Town Hall looked much better than before. Daventry himself stood at the far left of the line, as far away from the skinhead Smashers as possible. His secretary was nowhere to be seen. Shame, that.
Sitting behind the rows of newshounds, were all the Town Hall staff themselves. They had been given time off and told to attend. They had been reminded there were annual appraisals to be completed shortly so the workers knew which side their bread was buttered. Apart from those who had taken the day off sick – and they would be dealt with in due course – they sat there; the brown-nosers among them clapping and cheering while most sat mute with their arms crossed. Those were the types that needed re-educating, Peachornby thought.
He picked out the faces of those he knew. There was Donna pouting as she reapplied lip gloss. Oh, and there was that Polack driver, what's-his-name, Patrick? Naismith's pal and probably still feeding him gossip as Naismith recuperated. Patryk was leaning back and talking to some guy with floppy hair. Wasn't that the other Pole who'd showed up that night offering to fix the election?
Further back there were some members of the public but fewer than Peachornby wanted. Where were his fans? Where were the thousands of people who had voted for him? They should be out here, too, showing support for their Mayor. When this was over, he'd have to look at passing a by-law making it compulsory for Sleaford's residents to attend these rallies. They had something like that in North Korea, didn't they? Those Norks might be a bunch of commies but they knew how to run an orderly society.
Right at the back, standing by himself, Peachornby saw the grinning death's head of his father. The man he hated most was leaning back and enjoying his smoke. Seeing that he had caught his son's eyes, his father gave him an ironic thumbs-up sign.
Gould coughed, dragging Peachornby back to the present. He gestured to the lad manning the boom-box and immediately the song shut off mid-note. In the sudden silence Peachornby spread his arms wide, an all encompassing gesture.
"Friends, Sleafordians, Countymen," he declaimed. Then he had to look down at his notes. He could never remember what came next. Gould had looked for an Autocue at head office but couldn't find it. He reckoned some toe-rag had swiped it and flogged it on ebay. Perhaps it was as well because he doubted Peachornby would manage anything like an Autocue.
"The rebuilding of our beautiful Town Hall is sym... cymbals symblic... no symbolic of the rebirth of Sleaford following the win, the inevitable win of the British National Party at the elections..."
Peachornby shuffled his papers, looking for the next part where he got to run through the achievements of the BNP since taking office. Real or imaginary, it didn't much matter. The assembled journalists looked at each other.
"Martin Singer. Jewish Chronicle," one called out taking advantage of the quiet. He was a tall, young man with a roundish face, curly hair and bushy eyebrows. He wore a Berghaus fleece over a blue Oxford shirt. Peachornby sighed. "Here we go again. Some Yid asking about our anti-immigrant policies."
"Ssh, I've got it covered," whispered Gould.
It was worse.
"I have been researching the costs of this rebuilding, Mayor," Singer said politely. He sounded well spoken, like he had come straight from BBC Radio 4's studios. "The costs seem well out of line with other urban council's similar rebuilding work. Also, perhaps you would like to comment on why you used Haider-Allbutt & Associates as well as certain payments made to these offshore accounts?"
Singer fished a printout from his jacket pocket and unfolded it. This caused a stir amongst the other hacks. This sounded more interesting than the expected attack on Peachornby's anti-Semitic or racist views.
Mason growled like the well trained attack dog he resembled. Gould laid a hand on Mason's forearm. "Easy," he whispered. Also, Gould wanted to hear what had been going on. Had Peachornby been skimming? Head office was not going to like that. That sort of thing could reflect badly on the whole of the white race.
"Err..., there were unexpected costs, and our designers had to order things in from..., from wherever they had to order them," Peachornby explained. Under the hot sun, a film of sweat stood out on his forehead and he resisted the urge to scratch an itch under his toupee. He looked around for Daventry for help but couldn't see him.
"What sort of things had to be ordered in from abroad rather than sourced here in Britain? I understood you believe in using local suppliers?" Singer asked. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and looked respectfully at the podium.
"Err..., marble? I don't know. I'm not a builder. You'd have to ask our building surveyors."
"Your signature appears on the purchase orders."
The other journalists sat up and started taking notes. Town Hall corruption? This would be way more interesting than a Town Hall reopening.
Peachornby opened his mouth to respond. Singer threw in his next question leaving Peachornby's mouth flapping in the breeze. "Fair enough. You're not a builder. However, I'm sure you can confirm that your garden centre supplied the flowers and plants for the re-laid gardens?"
Peachornby's mouth opened and closed as he tried to think of something to say. He looked like a stranded lungfish gulping for air. He had a horrible feeling what was coming next.
"Perhaps you would care to comment, Mayor, as to why the plants cost at least three times and in some cases ten times the normal price?"
Now all the journalists were leaning forwards and either scribbling in notebooks or whispering into high-powered smart phones.
Peachornby gulped again and ran his fingers around his collar, pulling it away from his shirt. How had this happened? How had this... this Jewboy got this info? Who had been talking? He'd wring their neck. It couldn't be his Dad, could it? Surely Hitler never had to put up with such disloyalty.
"For instance – these rose bushes." Singer pointed to the rose beds. "How can they possibly cost £150 each when just this morning I saw identical ones in your garden centre for £9.99 or two for £14.99?"
Peachornby licked his lips. He was on surer grounds here. "Ah. To the untrained eye they may look the same but the ones for the council are extra special ones imported especially from..." he paused, his brain working overtime until he said the first country that came to mind, "Germany. Yes, German engineered roses. You can't get better than that. But you have to pay for them."
"What's so special about them?" asked another woman he recognised as a stand-in for BBC Lincolnshire. "Are they more disease resistant or do they have a longer flowering season?"
"Yes," glad that she'd supplied a possible answer to her own question.
"Do you have invoices from Germany? Something we can verify?" another hack shouted out.
Gould leaned over and whispered in Peachornby's ear. "There will be a press pack where everything will be fully covered," Peachornby shouted over the din. He shuffled his speech, found his place and carried on, ignoring any further questions.
The newshounds were in turmoil. Cameras flashed, arms raised as they fired questions at him.
"Ignore them," Gould advised. "Just carry on."
Eventually, Peachornby reached the last page. How, under his inspirational leadership, Sleaford would go from strength to strength, a place where all Britons (Gould had blue-pencilled the words: white, indigenous and Aryan) could live and work safe under the shelter of the British National Party.
Phew. Peachornby was glad that he'd finished. Knowing that their questions weren't about to be answered today the journos had subsided. Before they could start up again, Peachornby turned to the Smasher standing by the flagpole.
"And now let us stand for our national anthem," Peachornby declaimed. There was a scraping sound as everyone pushed back their chairs and stood more or less at attention.
That was the cue for the skinhead to press the play button on his ghetto blaster.
As the Smasher hauled on the lanyard, the white over red bicolour of Poland ascended the flagpole and as the breeze caught the flag it opened and flew bravely overhead. Meanwhile the rousing tune of Dabrowski's Mazurka, Poland's national anthem, boomed over the car park:
Poland has not perished yet,
As long as we still live,
What the foe has seized by force,
Sabre in hand we'll take back.
Nobody stood taller or prouder than Patryk. That was the best fifty quid he'd ever spent. There was a moment of stunned silence and then as one everyone burst out laughing. Some pointed at Peachornby and laughed all the harder. Even the Smashers, when they realised they weren't saluting the red cross of England started guffawing.
The only ones who didn't see the funny side of things were Gould and Peachornby.
"I'll see what head office have to say about this latest cock-up," Gould muttered as he stalked off to his car.
Peachornby didn't say anything. His face turned puce – as red as the Red Flag itself. With his blood pressure, he came very close to dying of apoplexy.
Sensing the show was over, the council staff returned to their offices while the Smashers milled about at a complete loss. The journalists were kept busy writing everything down while their memories were fresh. Okay, this might not make page one but today should be worth a good few column inches near the front.
Stanley Peachornby was one of the last to leave. He made his way to the front and stood before the podium. He stubbed out his cig on Peachornby's speech leaving a black spot in the pages. When he had his son's undivided attention, Stanley spoke, his voice a harsh, uncompromising growl.
"If I'd had any idea how you'd turn out; I'd have drowned you at birth, you retard. You couldn't run a piss-up in a brewery." Stanley spun on his heel and walked away.
"Says it all really," Lukasz said to Patryk in Polish as they passed by.
Only then did Peachornby speak. "Get that rag down. Now!" he screamed at the Smashers.