CHAPTER 34. THE NUREMBERG TRIALS.
Kenneth Peachornby – The guilty verdict was a blow, even though his barrister had explained that with the overwhelming evidence against him, any other result would be a bloody miracle. The barrister, a youngish chap with a cut-glass accent and double-barrelled surname who harboured aspirations to become a Conservative MP in the near future, just like his papa and grand-papa, suggested a plea-bargain to the prosecution. In between his studies, he watched far too many American courtroom dramas. The Crown Prosecution Service laughed that notion out of court. They wanted blood and gallons of it.
At sentencing the judge was harsh. "People who fall short of the standards expected in public office must expect to be dealt with in an exemplary way."
Peachornby's face brightened. Exemplary – that sounded like excellent. Did this mean he was going to be let off? Maybe a fine or suspended sentence? After all, it wasn't like he'd killed anyone, was it? The judge frowned at Peachornby as he stood smirking in the dock and mentally tacked an extra couple of years onto the sentence.
However, the severity made the court gasp and once it had struck Peachornby's brain, he crumpled up and burst into tears. Even with parole, he would be knocking on old age's door by the time he breathed free air again. The court security guards gave Peachornby a moment to recover – and to allow the Old Bailey time to enjoy the spectacle of the ex-führer's downfall – before they hauled him to his feet and took him down the steps.
Afterwards, in his oak-panelled robing room, the judge offered an expensive amontillado sherry to a plug-ugly copper. "Did that sentence satisfy you, Superintendent?"
"Perfectly, Godfrey, perfectly. Clean bowled. That's his innings over and out."
The judge draped his horsehair wig over its stand. "You'll be coming to Grand Lodge on the twenty-fifth? I'm getting promoted to Senior Grand Deacon?"
"Of course, Godfrey. Already cleared my diary. Wouldn't miss it for the world."
The two men exchanged a complex, knuckly handshake and then, making sure the corridor was empty, Superintendent Donelan left the Old Bailey by the back door. On his way out, he watched a white prison van drive away.
***
Peachornby does not enjoy prison life. Especially when he was taken under the wing of a con called Warwick Marinville. In return for protection against the cannabis dealers who were looking for violent revenge after Peachornby's supply network was wound up, Peachornby became Warwick's 'special friend' inside, gaining the nickname of KRC which stood for Kenny Raw Chicken.
Warwick was six foot four of pure muscle and testosterone. He had been the golden hope of Birmingham's boxing scene, known as the 'Haitian Hitter', even though he'd never been to Haiti in his life. One August evening, when the heat was too much to bear, his temper got the better of him in a bar-room fight over some lubricious ho and her sister and he smashed his right fist into a concrete wall. A split second earlier his homie's head had been right in front of that wall but the man, another boxer, had faster reactions than Warwick.
After that, Warwick's right was never the same again and rather than merely working part time for the local gangstas as before, he had ended up overseeing their cocaine imports from the Caribbean. Which was a good life bringing everything a man like Warwick could desire until he had been ratted out by a rival hoping to get his own sentence slashed.
When the armed cops burst into his expensive Gas Street Basin apartment overlooking the Birmingham Canal at six in the morning they found him sleeping like a baby. The cops knew full well that Warwick never got up much before eleven so it was an easy take down. Looking under the bed for his toys, the cops found half a K of pure china white, a thousand tabs of E and an Ingram Mac-10. The perp had become too overconfident and forgotten the first rule of crime – make sure you are never in the same room as the product.
So Warwick drew a long stretch and he gets lonely inside. Peachornby hates keeping his cell-mate company. Especially after lights out and he and Warwick are banged up together. Every month, Peachornby puts in a transfer request and every month it is refused.
Mason – Mason also got sent down but nowhere near as long as his boss. While adjusting to life inside, he was befriended by members of Al-Muhajiroun and converted to Islam a few months later. A Turkish inmate recommended he change his name to Salak Ingiliz. They said it meant 'Strong Englishman' but he wonders why some people snigger when he tells them his new name. Nobody has yet told him it really means 'Stupid Englishman'.
Now he's grown out his beard, wears eastern robes and only chooses food from the Muslim menu. Sometimes he wishes he could eat a bacon sarnie or pork pie again but he squashes those impious thoughts when they come to him.
In his long, rambling, badly spelled letters home, Mason, sorry, Salak Ingiliz denounces the ways of the 'coruppt and infiddle west'. He tells his family that they will 'burn in a see of mollten bras' unless they convert. Of course, his letters are censored, but he is of concern to MI5 and Special Branch. Mason is high on their top ten list of converts to Islam who need watching.
They are fully aware that extremist organisations target vulnerable young white men of low intelligence with the aim of turning them into Martyrs. Suicide bombers in other words. With his background in the BNP Mason would make the ideal candidate to attend a crowded EDL rally or a soccer match with a couple of kilos of Semtex strapped to his waist next to a few more kilos of nails from any B&Q hardware store and then... Kaboom!
However, Special Branch and MI5 have a difference of opinion as to whether or not to simply de-program Mason once he is released or – and this is more MI5's view – then reprogram him and use him as a double agent against the sinister figures running Al-Muhajiroun.
Salak Ingiliz himself wants only to get out of prison and then attend the Hajj in Mecca itself.
The Sleaford Smashers – Unsurprisingly, the organisation was closed down the day after an administrative team from Lincolnshire County Council was seconded to Sleaford Urban Council to run the place until fresh elections could be organised. The ex-Smashers can now mostly be found signing on at various Job Centres around the East Midlands. As soon as they've cashed their giros then it's down the boozer and the bookies. When their dole money runs out, then it's back to dossing with whichever skanky ho they're with this week. Or mum's. Back to normal in other words.
Patryk and Kassia – After what happened, Patryk didn't see much point in staying on in Sleaford. Although he hadn't made as much as he would have liked out of Naismith's schemes, Patryk knew the gravy train had pulled away from the platform, was gathering speed and wouldn't return for the likes of him. Two days later he took the Wizzair flight to Warsaw.
Despite their recent quarrels, Kassia welcomed him with open arms, and not solely because she saw what he had salted away. She still loved her man and realised she'd missed him. Although they didn't have quite enough cash, they still bought their little farm near Siedice. The seller was getting old, and desperate, and in this recession there wasn't a queue of buyers so they were able to knock the price right down.
In her spare time Kassia enjoys modernising the old farmhouse and bringing it into the twenty-first century but mostly they raise pigs for pork... and children. Patryk cannot believe how much money they are picking up in E.U. subsidies – like pigs with their snouts in the trough, he says – while Kassia can't believe how much more difficult her own children are to manage than those at the kindergarten. She loves them far more though.
One night, Patryk came home from a meeting in Siedice town and said he fancied running for the town council. He knows he could run Siedice better and more profitably than the bunch of corrupt old men currently in charge. Admittedly, he had stopped off for a few Tyskies on the way back. They argued long into the night and Patryk put that idea to bed for a while. Unlike himself as he slept on the couch that night. Sometimes they still quarrel about it – and Patryk knows Kassia will hit the roof when she finds out that he has thrown his hat in the ring.
Lukasz – Not long after Patryk went home; Sienna, the manager's brother's wife's cousin's daughter or something like that spotted the tall, thin handsome Pole bent over a machine clearing envelopes from its paper feed and liked what she saw. She slapped his rear and dragged him into the first aid room. By the time they'd finished, Lukasz reckoned he'd need a splint on it. So he decided to stay on in Sleaford and is now a senior production technician at the printers. He reckons if he plays his cards – and other things – right, he might be in with a chance of promotion to shift supervisor any time now.
The only problem is, Lukasz wonders, will he last out long enough to see that day?
James Naismith – When Sleaford Urban Council's insurers saw the size of the compensation demanded by Naismith's solicitors, they almost passed out. It didn't get better on the second or third reading. The fourth made them wince as well. However, the insurers knew they hadn't got a leg to stand on. Naismith had been on the premises for legitimate reasons – with a reputation to protect, young Donna claimed they actually had been working late photocopying – and what with the fire alarms being disabled things were looking bad for them. So the insurers settled out of court and were glad of it. They could always ramp up their premiums next year.
While he was recuperating from his injuries, Naismith made contact over the internet with a lady called Heather from St Louis, Missouri. They got chatting and feelings developed between them, helped by Naismith telling her that his burns came from a special forces operation in Helmand province, Afghanistan. "Not SAS. No, not them," Naismith said, hinting at membership of a secret unit even more elite than the SAS. "No, we never get medals or appear in the papers. There are things no government cares to admit to..."
Previously, he spent some time researching military operations in Afghanistan so he could impress Heather and then as soon as he was well enough, Naismith flew out and within a few weeks he married Heather. Soon after, he got his Green Card and now works as a very successful realtor in St Louis specialising in high end properties.
Superintendent Donelan – another one who came out ahead was Donelan himself. Using his contacts, he wangled himself a position as head of security at Nottinghamshire Cricket Club's Trent Bridge ground. It's only part time but for now he spends his summer watching county cricket from the pavilion.
Willard – After that debacle, Willard got his leave. One night in a top hotel overlooking Yarra Park and Melbourne Cricket Club's ground was one too many so he changed his plans and went backpacking through the Outback and Northern Territories for a couple of months staying in flea-pit hotels and student hostels. Despite Donelan's recommendation, he didn't bother seeing any of England's Ashes tour of Australia. Instead, he went well off the beaten path, grew out his hair and beard and recharged his batteries while soaking up the scorching sun and seeing the wildlife. No Taffs and no skinheads. Perfect.
Now he's back with a new name and identity. He could be anywhere. He could be standing next to you.
Nesim Ciawar – Another man who vanished under the radar was Nesim. After Peachornby's downfall and Malkie's arrest, it was obvious that Nesim had nothing to do with the Town Hall fire. So he was released from remand and told that his asylum application would be processed as soon as possible. However, Nesim had developed a morbid fear of the authorities and, using contacts he'd made inside, disappeared deep into the Kurdish community in Birmingham. Eventually Behram also made it over. The brothers are now working as dishwashers in a Turkish restaurant but Nesim's heart jumps into his mouth whenever there is a knock on the door.
Stanley Peachornby – In the end, the Crown Prosecution Service decided it wouldn't be in the public interest to try a man at the end of his life. It doesn't play well in the media. Also, Superintendent Donelan had a word with CPS lawyers and suggested it made an easier case to blame Kenneth for everything.
So Stanley put on his suit and appeared for the prosecution and, in a weak and quavering voice unlike his usual rasp, played the part of a confused and doddery old man who trusted young Kenny with everything. One of the lady jurors was seen dabbing her eyes as Stanley spoke about how his son terrorised and bullied him. After the verdict, Stanley went back to his hotel and ordered up a call-girl and a magnum of champagne celebrating the last time he'd ever see the retard in this life. From time to time he sends Kenneth a postcard – just to remind his son that Dad is still alive and kicking and breathing free air.
Stanley continues to defy the quack's prognosis. Those who work at his garden centre say Stanley's only alive because God won't have him and the Devil doesn't want the competition.
The Bass Maltings – are still standing on the outskirts of Sleaford, empty and abandoned, home to pigeons and rats, and awaiting redevelopment. A new consortium from Eslaforde Lodge are considering drawing up fresh plans.
In the end, the more things change; the more they stay the same...
THE END.