"Hey, you! Let's see yer papers."
Lukasz wound down the van's window and looked at the beetroot red face of the Smasher. The man's mate, who in keeping with the agricultural theme, had a round, lumpy head like a turnip, hung back. A line of cars and vans were pulled up along the pavement of Grantham Road, their drivers showing all the symptoms of frustration or anger. Some were leaning against their vehicles with their arms crossed, others were pacing up and down speaking into mobile phones. One driver, more resigned than the rest was reading the Daily Express.
Looking up the road, wondering what was the cause of the delay, Lukasz noticed a temporary red and white barrier slung across the road blocking the exit from Sleaford. Yet another Smasher leaned on the counterweight and raised the barrier. The first van pulled away from the kerb but before the second could get started, the barrier dropped into place. The stranded drivers looked at the barrier wistfully and then went back to what they were doing before.
"Papers, I said," the Smasher demanded. He was sweating and a rank, beery odour pulsed off his body. The skinhead's pupils were unfocussed and he looked hot and pissed off. Lukasz saw a blue-black spider web tattoo on the man's neck – a traditional prison design.
"What's going on?" Lukasz asked.
"What's it look like, pal? It's a roadblock, innit?"
Lukasz couldn't argue with that. That's what it was all right. A roadblock.
"What's happened. And who's ordered this?" Lukasz asked. He made no move to show these men his papers. He'd heard all the stories from his parents about the inconveniences of life in communist Poland and he didn't see why he should knuckle under to these men. After all, it wasn't as if these guys were the police. They were just Peachornby's half-baked thugs.
"We ask the questions," said Beetroot, having picked up that line from some war flick where the Gestapo get to question the resistance fighter. Beetroot identified more with the Gestapo interrogator.
Lukasz watched a drop of sweat trickle down Beetroot's boozy face. He thought it best not to antagonise these men. Like everyone in Sleaford he'd heard ugly stories about the Smashers. Slowly, hating his lack of resolve, he took out his wallet and handed over his driving licence. Beetroot passed it back to Turnip.
Now he'd got Lukasz's co-operation, Beetroot relaxed a little. "The Mayor's really pissed off about those posters. He wants those commie anarchists found and dealt with. Somebody's printed them..." he broke off when he spotted that Lukasz's van belonged to a printers.
Just at that moment, Turnip stepped forward. "Lukasz Kwiatkowski, he stumbled over the pronunciation. What's that – a Polack name, innit?"
"I've lived here four years now," Lukasz said.
"Still ain't lost yer accent 'ave you? Sound like some bloody immi fresh off the boat. Me, my family's lived 'ere ten thousand years. One hundred per cent English, me," Turnip said proudly. "My granddad fought in World War Two. Beat your lot, didn't we?"
Lukasz couldn't be bothered explaining that Poland also fought and suffered on the side of the allies.
"He's a printer, innit. Let's check out his van."
"No," said Lukasz. "No way. Have you got a search warrant?" Knowing full well they hadn't.
"Search warrant?" said Turnip, mimicking Lukasz's accent.
"Don't need one. You're gonna invite us to look. Mate," Beetroot said. The threat was there.
Lukasz shook his head. "Give me back my papers. I'll go a different way."
"Do you no good. All the main roads are being checked."
Lukasz wondered where the police were. Who had allowed these thugs free rein here? He leaned out of the window, trying to snatch his licence back. Turnip jerked it out of reach.
"Not so fast, Polack."
Lukasz opened the door and stepped down. The sun's glare made him squint. Turnip took a few steps back, holding the licence up in the air. Lukasz followed, snatching at it.
Lukasz wheeled around as he heard Beetroot plucking the keys out of the ignition. "Hey," he shouted out. Beetroot's bovver boots hustled round the side and the bonehead unlocked the back of the van, throwing the doors open. Some of the other drivers by the side of the road watched incuriously. They just wanted to get on with their own journeys and were fed up with the delay.
Panic gripped Lukasz. He told himself that he had nothing to fear. It wasn't as if these Smashers could do anything about it. All the same, he didn't want these thugs finding what he had in the back of his van. He followed Beetroot up into the van's rear compartment. It was hot and stuffy inside. Then Turnip stood on the footstep, blocking Lukasz's exit. There was a shrink-wrapped pallet at the far end of the van together with plenty of taped boxes of envelopes and stationery. And at the far end, one box among many contained the incriminating stuff.
"You want to get out," Lukasz said, pulling on Beetroot's shoulder.
It was too late. Beetroot picked up the box, pulled off the lid, tossed it to one side and looked at the contents. His lips moved as he read, "Peachornby Cheated! Demand A Fresh Election." The picture was one of those taken that night at the Bass Maltings. A clear one of the Mayor counting money and looking shifty with a red and white 'STOP' road sign superimposed over his face.
"Election?" said Turnip with a leer. "That sounds like erection..."
"That don't matter. Wait till we take you back to the Town Hall, you commie."
"Find out who your mates are," Turnip said, remembering why they had stopped the traffic in the first place. For emphasis, he pounded his fist into the palm of his left hand. The sound echoed in the confines of the van.
"No way. You can't make me go with you."
Beetroot's face broke into a smile. He made a sound like a game show's buzzer when a contestant gets the wrong answer. "Eeeh-Aww. By-law seven requires all members of the public to obey every order given by a Sleaford Smasher in pursu..."
"Pursuance?" Lukasz hazarded.
"That's it. Pursuance of his lawful duties." It sounded as if Beetroot had committed to memory that particular by-law. Resuming his usual tone, the Smasher said, "so you're coming with me."
Behind him Turnip guffawed. There was no way, Lukasz thought, that he was going to the Town Hall. He'd heard rumours about what went on down in the boiler room. He knew he couldn't fight the two men – both outweighed him and both looked veterans of many Friday and Saturday night punch-ups. But with their beer-bellies, he reckoned he could outrun them.
Suddenly, with no warning, he pushed Turnip out of the back of the van. The Smasher squawked, taken aback and fell, his Doc Martens leaving the ground. Lukasz made a break for it, the square of light at the back of the van offering freedom and safety. But before he'd taken two long steps prior to jumping out, Beetroot grabbed Lukasz's collar and yanked him back into the van. By this time, Turnip had got up and was scrambling back into the goods space. Holding Lukasz in his strong grip, Beetroot's face was inches from his ear.
"You'll pay for that," he said. Lukasz didn't need to have his senses heightened by the adrenaline rush to smell the beer on the man's breath.
Or to see the glint of a gold sovereign ring on Turnip's knuckles as the skinhead drew back his fist and then pistoned it into Lukasz's nose. A bolt of red-white shot through him, lighting up his brain.
"Clumsy. Must've tripped," Lukasz heard Beetroot say from behind him as the man pinioned Lukasz's arms behind him. Blood poured down Lukasz's face and chin, staining his pale-blue work shirt red. Turnip drew back his fist and let fly a power drive into Lukasz's stomach.
"Whoomph," grunted Lukasz as the air rushed out. It was all Beetroot could do to keep the young Pole upright and not let him collapse onto the van's plywood floor. Lukasz felt sick. Turnip planted another fist into Lukasz's stomach. This was too much for his body to bear. Lukasz threw up, his half digested tuna pasta salad lunch sprayed out all over Turnip, splattering the man's hi-viz and slopping down his jeans, covering his Doc Martens and onto the floor. A sour smell filled the small enclosure.
"Ugh," shouted Turnip, mirroring Lukasz's grunt of a moment ago.
Beetroot had a sense of humour. He burst out laughing at the expression on his mate's face. He let go of Lukasz's arms and the young man fell to the floor. Turnip's sense of humour wasn't as well developed. He gave Lukasz a good leathering, vomit flying off his boots as he kicked and kicked the prone Pole.
A third man entered the van. "What's going on here?"
Dully, on the edge of his hearing, Lukasz recognised the voice. Willard. Lukasz heard Willard say, "That's enough. You can't take 'im in now. Not lookin' like that – there's journos hangin' around the Town Hall. Anyway, we've got what we need. The Mayor'll be made up with us."
"Us?" said Beetroot. "We found the posters not you."
"As Head of Security I'll make sure you get a bonus," Willard said, backing out of the van.
One last kick from Turnip and then the thug slouched out of the van. With his one good eye, looking up, Lukasz watched Beetroot pick up the box of posters and tuck it under his arm. As Beetroot passed Lukasz's body, he stepped on Lukasz's hand, crunching the bones under his heel. That brought a fresh howl of pain from Lukasz.
Once he had Lukasz's attention, the Smasher crouched down on his haunches and glared at Lukasz. "You weren't much sport." He sounded disappointed. The Smasher opened Lukasz's wallet and took out the cash. Only a score and a couple of tenners. "That's yer fine for not obeying us Smashers." Then Beetroot took out Lukasz's licence from its holder in the wallet and looked at it, his lips moving as he read. "You think about goin' to the law; don't forget we know where you live." He dropped the card and thinned out wallet into the puddle of vomit by Lukasz's head.
We know where you live. The ultimate threat.
Lukasz lay back and groaned. Gingerly, he felt his arms and legs and flexed his hand. Apart from his nose, nothing seemed broken. And they'd only taken forty quid so he guessed he'd got lucky. If being robbed and beaten of an afternoon counted as being lucky.
Eventually, Lukasz picked himself up off the floor. Even that movement made his head swim and he greyed out for a moment, leaning against the plywood siding and groaning. He spat out a wad of blood, exploring his mouth with his tongue checking for lost teeth. He was lucky. When he felt he could move without keeling over, Lukasz hobbled out of the van.
Another stroke of luck, the keys were still in the lock. He closed the rear doors and with one hand on the bodywork giving support, he made his way to the cab. Opening the door was an effort, swinging his bottom onto the seat and then swivelling his legs inside was a Herculean effort. Lukasz sat there for a while leaning his arms on the wheel, gathering his strength. He couldn't see straight but he made out more of the Smashers going through other people's cars and vans. However, now that Beetroot and Turnip had confiscated his posters the other Smashers were only going through the motions. Just being offensive and in-yer-face and showing who ruled Sleaford now.
The driver's door opened. Lukasz flinched away, expecting Beetroot or Turnip ready to give him his lumps. Instead, it was Willard. "Slide over," Willard said. "You're in no fit state to drive. I'll take you to hospital – get you checked over. Sorry I didn't stay with you – a bunch of them were trying to help themselves to a brewer's van!"
Lukasz was about to protest but his body hurt too much and he felt beyond tired. Willard drove up to the barrier. Seeing who was driving, the Smasher lifted the bar and Willard drove along the B1517. They talked on the way, Lukasz's replies monosyllabic at first but growing more animated as the van sped on its way. Willard suggested Lukasz press charges against the two Smashers but Lukasz didn't want to. The Smashers knew where he lived.
Half an hour later, Willard parked outside Grantham and District Hospital and told Lukasz he'd wait. Inside, Lukasz told the triage nurse in Accident and Emergency that he had been a hit-and-run victim as he was unloading his van. The other driver hadn't stopped. The nurse said nothing. She had seen lots of similar 'accidents' since Peachornby's Smashers had taken over the nearby town.