CHAPTER 2. THE FREIKORPS COME TO TOWN.
Patryk took Lukasz to see the British National Party rally in Sleaford. The BNP were protesting about all the Poles and Lithuanians taking their jobs. Maybe the BNP had a point but looking at all the facial tattoos and beer bellies on display Patryk wondered how eager they were for work in the first place.
The angry white men had earlier tried to set up an English Defence League branch in Sleaford but there simply weren't enough Muslims to get angry about. Of course, there was Big Ediz who owned a Turkish restaurant and his sons but only a fool who was looking to spend three months in traction sucking up hospital food through a straw would take those bruisers on.
Further down the fast food chain were the two Cairo hustlers who ran Pyramid Pizzas. They were men who had fingers in many pies. Also, by repute, their enemies left fingers, thumbs and other bodily parts in Pyramid's kebabs. A bit of extra flavouring to go with the pigeon, rat and stray dog meat. Despite nothing ever being found when the environmental health squad checked their shop out those rumours never went away. So the EDL bunch gave them a swerve as well.
Then there was the man who ran the mini-mart and liquor store. He had brown skin, a beard and turban but he turned out to be a Sikh so the EDL chaps weren't sure if he counted as a 'muslin' or not. Lastly there was the guy who delivered the late night take-away pizzas in his clapped out Ford Fiesta. He looked a bit foreign. But that was about it so the EDL never got off the ground in Sleaford and those who fancied a bit of racist mayhem had to travel to Nottingham or Leicester to satisfy their cravings.
For some reason, the British National Party did a little better. At the rally were about a hundred or more, mostly young and middle-aged skinheads together with some porky women, listening to a fat guy with a boozer's nose gobbing off about all the Poles. On the stage were banners saying: 'Vote Peachornby'. Noticing the coach with the Nottingham phone number painted on the side which was parked around the corner, Patryk figured most of these skinheads had been bussed in as a show of support.
On the outskirts of the crowd some elderly people watched with quiet bemusement and a journalist called Butler, who worked for the Sleaford Standard, took notes of the rally to write up for the next issue. A few of the more presentable men distributed BNP election leaflets. However, they still had plenty left to hand out. Local cops wearing hi-viz coats formed a loose cordon around the BNP men, separating them from the small number of Anti-Nazi League hecklers who had bothered showing up. Many of the skinheads had brought flags and banners with them which waved above the rally making splashes of colour against the grey skies.
Lukasz turned to his friend and pointed at some of the flags. He spoke quietly in Polish. "Why are they waving Georgian flags? I didn't know they had many Georgians in the BNP?"
As well as the flag of England – a simple red cross on a white background – there were other, similar, flags but with smaller red crosses in each corner. The flag of the Caucasian republic of Georgia.
Patryk followed his friend's finger. He smiled. "I can only think of two reasons."
"Which are?"
"The first is that they are just thick," said Patryk.
Lukasz thought for a second. "Works for me. The other?"
"They are very, very thick."
"That sounds more likely," said Lukasz.
The BNP rally broke up soon after and the police shepherded the skinheads back onto their coach while several other cops held the Anti-Nazi League lot back. Meanwhile, the fat führer and some of his hangers-on came down from their makeshift stage and crossed the square to Andrei'z' – a wine bar that before its unfortunate and misspelled refurbishment had been a solid pub known as the Fox and Geese. The two Poles watched as the police and some men from the council's highway maintenance department stacked away the crush barriers and put the square back into some sort of order while others swept up the litter.
"Come on. Let's go and say hello," said Patryk after a while.
"Why? Why would we want to meet that racist idiot?"
"Because he's an idiot. But an idiot with too much money." Patryk rubbed his thumb over the tips of his first and index fingers. A gesture that meant money. "After all, he's standing for election and he must know he's got no hope."
"I get it. We're going to help him lighten his wallet?"
Patryk nodded. "Sort of." Patryk felt a little guilty. He wasn't telling his friend everything. In particular that he'd been hired to approach the BNP leader.
The two young Poles crossed the litter strewn square and pushed their way into Andrei'z'. The wine bar had only been re-opened six or so months ago but the refurb had been done on the cheap and the joint was already looking worn and tired. The floor tiles were chipped around the edges with the grout already coming away and the nicotine stained anaglypta had merely been whitewashed over. Patryk and Lukasz made their way to the plywood bar. The mahogany stain was fading and the counter top was covered with old water marks from long gone bottles and glasses.
Ignoring the dismal British lagers and bitters on draft, Patryk ordered two bottles of Tyskie Polish lager from the chiller. As the barmaid uncapped them, Patryk leaned forward.
"Where's Peachornby's lot?"
Her lip curled with contempt. "In the back room," the blonde replied in Polish.
"My accent that noticeable?"
"No," said the barmaid. "It's very good. But I'm from Warsaw as well, myself, and I can tell."
Patryk nodded. "Do you think Peachornby could tell I'm Polish?"
The barmaid thought for a moment. "No. I don't think so. Especially not with the amount he and his lot are putting away."
Patryk thanked the girl and left her a decent tip. The men finished their drinks and watched as tray after tray of booze was shipped into the back room. They heard raucous singing as the door opened. From time to time skinheads, always singly, made their way to the gents before returning to their back room. This time Lukasz bought a couple more Tyskies.
"We've given them long enough," Patryk said. "Should be well relaxed by now."
"Hammered, you mean."
Pushing away from the bar the two young men crossed to the back room.
"Let me do the talking, okay? My accent's better than yours," Patryk told his friend who nodded. Lukasz wanted to see what Patryk had in mind as it was unlike his friend to be so cagey. Patryk pushed open the door and entered the back room.
The fat führer, Peachornby, was sitting at the far end of a long table in a pose that he'd taken from studying too many 1930s Bier Keller photos of his hero. Men sat along the table listening to Peachornby as he held forth about immigration and the evils of the European Union. More skins stood around the room, some listening to Peachornby while others talked amongst themselves. All the flags were now furled and propped in the corner.
One of the skinheads looked up as Patryk and Lukasz entered. The man put his arm out, barring access.
"Oi, where d'you think you're goin'?" the man said by way of greeting. The man was tall, burly under a black North Face quilted jacket. He looked like the bouncer he probably was.
"We saw the rally earlier and thought we'd like to know more. That okay?" said Patryk.
"You journalists?"
"No. Do we look like journalists?"
The man thought for a moment. Patryk and Lukasz almost heard the cogs turning.
"You're not undercover cops, then?"
For one moment, Lukasz was tempted to butt in and say, "Yes we are cops and you're nicked, sunshine." What did this bouncer expect them to say?
"Listen, mate," Patryk said. "These bloody Poles come over here and my boss sacked me and my mates at the yard and the next day replaced us all with a bunch of Polack monkeys on minimum wage. I heard your man and I've come to sign up."
The bouncer stepped to one side. A grin crossed his pudgy face. "You've come to the right place. Ask Mr. Peachornby for a membership pack."
Patryk and Lukasz passed a group talking about the ruck at Lincoln City's last home game against Wrexham and the upcoming scrap against Grimsby away. The man doing the talking had a black eye and was missing several teeth. Prison tattoos scrawled their way up his arms. The men scowled at the two Poles as they passed. Theirs was a locked-down, closed in group. As the Poles waited, Andrei'z' manager brought in yet another tray of pints and bottles. The man looked harassed. He must be desperate for business to rent out his back room to this bunch, Patryk thought.
Up close, Peachornby looked no better than he had on the podium in the square. Maybe he'd read in a woman's fashion mag that black is a colour that makes you look slimmer. Or more likely he imagined he looked like the lean, ascetic figure of Sir Oswald Mosley, the leader of the British Union of Fascists back in the 1930s. Unfortunately, his physique owed more to Mussolini than Mosley.
The fat führer’s face was jowly and dominated by an inflamed boozer's nose. He wore a hairpiece that he must have thought made him look like his hero, Adolf Hitler, but to both Patryk and Lukasz it looked like a moulting black cat had chosen his head as a good spot to curl up and die.
A grin rose to Lukasz's face but he forced it down, determined to follow his friend's lead.
Peachornby looked up from his harangue. He put a politician's smile on his face which made it nowhere near his eyes.
"What do you two want?" asked Peachornby. He had the accent of a man who was born on the Fens and never made it off. A man who knew little and cared less for the outside world. Patryk felt more optimistic as he picked up an election leaflet from the stack by Peachornby's elbow. He passed the leaflet to Lukasz to read.
Below the BNP logo, made up from letters cut from the Union flag, there was a picture of the white cliffs of Dover. The printer had superimposed over the cliffs red graffiti style letters saying 'GO AWAY WE'RE FULL'. Below that was a picture of a street in London where every face was brown or concealed by a burqa. Lukasz wasn't sure what Dover and London had to do with an election in Lincolnshire but felt it best to keep quiet.
"Are you really going to win this election?" Patryk asked.
Peachornby bridled at this and, pressing his hands on the table, half rose in his seat.
"Of course. The people of Sleaford have had enough. The people of Lincolnshire have had enough. Now is the time for all true Englishmen to draw a line in the sand; to say enough is enough..."
One of the nearby skinheads leaned forward and gripped Patryk's arm.
"Oi, mate, I ain't seen you 'ere before. What's yer name?" The man's words were slightly slurred as if he had been drinking all afternoon. Beer fumes washed over Patryk's face.
Peachornby frowned at the interruption.
"My name's Patryk."
"Patrick? That's a paddy name, innit? You a Mick, mate?" the skinhead said. He was taller and bulkier than Patryk and leaned over the Pole. If it came to a fight, Patryk knew he and Lukasz would be torn apart.
Patryk shook his head. "I'm from Londonderry. Ulster. I hate the paddies, me."
Immediately, the skinhead and those nearby started singing, "No surrender, no surrender, no surrender to the IRA..." The song was then taken up by all those in the room, the refrain bouncing off the walls and ceiling. The only one not singing was the fat führer himself. Peachornby shook his head. There was no point carrying on with his speech now.
Patryk leaned forward and passed over a slip of paper with his mobile phone number. "If you're serious, really serious, about winning this election; give us a call," he said to Peachornby. "I can help."
Leaving the still singing skinheads to their songs and football chants, the two Poles edged out of the back room. Outside Andrei'z', they took several deep lungfuls of clean air before Lukasz screwed up and tossed the BNP election leaflet into the nearest bin.
"We've cast the bait. Let's see if he bites," Patryk said as the two men crossed the square.