CHAPTER 3. I HOLD IN MY HAND A PIECE OF PAPER.
Patryk didn't hear from Peachornby for the next couple of days. During that time, several election leaflets from different parties were pushed through the letter box together with the usual takeaway menus. They all went, unread, into the recycling bin.
Sprawled out on the couch, Patryk aimed the remote like a gun and scrolled through the TV channels looking for something, anything worth watching. He wished he could afford to subscribe to a Polish language satellite service.
"Leave it alone, can't you?" complained Kassia in Polish. His girlfriend was ironing a stack of shirts and had been enjoying the dancing show on BBC1 before Patryk came home from work. Patryk looked up at her and smiled. Kassia was a good looking girl, not over tall but stacked in all the right places. She was blonde – and not out of a bottle, neither – with clear blue-grey eyes. He was one lucky man.
"Tell you what; stick the kettle on, love, will you and we'll have a cup of tea?" Patryk said.
Before Kassia could say anything to this, both looked at his phone on the low table between them as it shrilled and vibrated. Patryk picked the Nokia up but didn't recognise the number.
"Hello?" he said guardedly in English. Kassia shot him a look at his use of that language as he usually spoke Polish to all their friends.
"Is that Patrick?" Patryk smiled. He recognised that Fenland accent. Peachornby had risen to the bait of an election victory.
"Yes. Are you interested in what we talked about the other day?"
There was a pause. "I have a lot of enemies. How do I know this isn't a set-up?" asked Peachornby. That was a good question, Patryk thought. The only one that really mattered.
"I understand. Do you want to meet? Somewhere safe..." he started.
"I know my home's safe as I have it swept for bugs. You can't be too careful these days as I know MI6 would be very interested in what I know. Very interested. Let's meet at nine tonight. But don't waste my time or else..."
"You'll be glad we met," confirmed Patryk before Peachornby gave his address and closed the call. Fool. From watching James Bond films, even a Pole like Patryk knew that MI6 dealt with foreign threats while it was MI5 who looked after internal security. Even so, he doubted that MI5 took any more than the most casual interest in Peachornby.
"Who was that? What are you up to?" asked Kassia placing the iron on its stand. Her English was as good as Patryk's.
"Oh no-one much. A friend of a friend who needs a favour."
"You're not up to your old tricks again? I thought you'd put all that behind you."
Patryk put on an innocent look as he picked up his leather jacket from the end of the couch and checked its pockets for his wallet and keys. "Me? No, just helping out an old mate."
Kassia watched as Patryk closed their apartment's door behind him. Men! As soon as her fella was out of the room she switched back to BBC 1 to watch the dancers with their sparkly costumes.
***
Patryk called Lukasz before sticking the key in the Ford Transit's ignition. "Game on – the fool's bitten. Have you got the samples...?" He spoke in Polish.
"Sure. Just as you asked."
Patryk drove through the centre of Sleaford to Eastgate; picked up his friend and then headed north along the B1188 to the village of Dunston. The countryside was as flat and featureless as anything he'd seen in northern Poland and the fields separated by narrow creeks stretched out to the far horizon. The wind had got up and the empty van rocked slightly in the stronger gusts. Before long, Patryk turned off the B1188 and onto a narrow single lane country road. No other cars followed and for a while they felt like they were the only two left alive in the world.
Dunston came up a few miles later and it wasn't too difficult to pick out Peachornby's property. A flagpole with the cross of St George billowing in the wind together with a row of 'Vote BNP' campaign placards facing the road gave the game away. It was the only place with either accessory.
Lukasz eyed the house. It was a large, fairly modern brick built bungalow with wide bay windows on either side of the front door and a dormer set in the roof. Light shone through the curtains of one of the bays. A Jaguar X-Type in glacier blue crouched under a car-port to the side. Its personalised plate started with the letters BNP. Parked half on the drive, half on the lawn was a red Rover 75; several years old now but it looked well maintained.
Patryk turned up the gravelled driveway and parked directly outside the front porch. Confident. As if he owned the place. He pressed the doorbell and the sounds of 'Rule Britannia' played throughout the house. Almost instantly, the front door was opened by one of the more presentable skinheads. The man's hair was longer – maybe a number four cut – and he had no facial tattoos or piercings and wore a clean long-sleeved white shirt over black jeans. Lukasz wondered what the shirt concealed. The man stepped to one side to allow Patryk and Lukasz to enter.
"This way," the man said with a scowl as he led the two Poles through the house to what had once been a bedroom but had been converted into an office. His accent was similar to his leader's – flat as a fluke. He knocked on a white-painted door and waited to be admitted. Peachornby stood behind an old-fashioned desk and held out his hand. Both Patryk and Lukasz shook. Peachornby's grip was clammy but surprisingly strong. Meanwhile the skinhead minder stood by the door, his thickset body blocking their exit. His tattooed hands were crossed in front of him.
"Welcome to my castle..."
Castle? thought Lukasz. It's just a bungalow.
"Please sit down," commanded Peachornby, pointing to two hardwood dining chairs set before the desk. "Something to drink?"
"Sure. A beer would be good," Patryk said, looking at a bronze bust of Hitler that was being used as a paperweight.
"Fetch our guests their drinks, Mason," Peachornby commanded. Patryk wasn't sure if Mason was the man's first or last name. He didn't suppose it mattered too much.
The skinhead by the door crossed to a wooden globe in the corner, removed the northern hemisphere and took out two bottles of Carlsberg. Mason cracked off the tops and handed the bottles over.
"Carlsberg. A fine English lager," said Mason as he did so before returning to his place by the door. Peachornby himself took a Glenfiddich. His nose seemed to glow more brightly as he sipped.
Lukasz knew that Carlsberg was originally a Danish brand but thought it best to keep quiet and leave the talking to Patryk. And Glenfiddich was a single malt scotch so there was nothing English to drink.
The two men glanced around as they drank down the necks of the bottles. The office walls were decorated with a number of flags. Behind the desk, taking pride of place was a large, colourful Union flag. Opposite, in direct line of sight of anyone sitting behind the desk that cared to look up was the red, white and black of the Nazi swastika. The other walls were covered with the stars and bars of the battle flag of the Confederacy, the red hand of Ulster, the drop of blood within a white cross denoting the Ku Klux Klan and an upside down apartheid era South African flag.
Discreetly, Lukasz kicked Patryk's ankle and gestured to the upside down flag. Patryk nodded. He got the message. There were also a couple of other flags neither man recognised but they appeared to be variants of the swastika.
"Have you filled in the membership forms?" asked Peachornby, lifting one out from under the Hitler bust.
Patryk shook his head. "Not yet."
"You should. If you care about your country. All true British patriots would if they knew what was really going on. Did you know all governments are controlled by the European Union and their aim is to put an end to all nation states – not just us but France, Germany, Spain; everyone – by unc... uncontrolled immigration and diluting out the true Nordic races by shipping in sub-human hordes from Africa and Asia? Wiping out our true genetic heritage. Did you know that over ten per cent of the population of Sweden are now muslin?"
The light of fanaticism shone out of Peachornby's eyes. Lukasz looked up and noticed the man's hairpiece was lower than it had been before making him look stupid as well as dangerous.
Patryk raised his hand. "I totally agree, Mr. Peachornby. Send them all back – it's the only answer. And the race traitors who breed with these... coloureds." He kicked Lukasz gently on the ankle. Lukasz held his silence.
"And the Poles," said Mason leaning by the door frame. "Those Slavs might be white but they're just as bad. They're all over here, taking our jobs, driving down wages..."
"Yeah, them too. Send them back on the first boat," agreed Patryk.
"And then I'd pull the plug half way across the North Sea. Drown the lot of 'em," laughed the skinhead.
"Good idea, mate," said Lukasz, getting into the spirit of the conversation. He forced himself to unclench his fist and look relaxed.
Peachornby leaned over the desk. "So what makes you think I need help winning this election?"
"You called me," said Patryk simply.
That made Peachornby think. The man was brighter than his followers but not by much. A sixty watt bulb compared with a forty watt.
"We're going to win," said Peachornby confidently. "Our time has come. It's like it's the 1930s again. The collapse of the banking system, long dole queues, the way the existing political parties are failing the people leaving space for a man of vision to step into the breach..."
Patryk leaned forwards also getting right in the fat führer’s face before the man could launch into a full blown rant about the Third Reich or whatever. Sensing a threat, the skinhead, Mason, stepped forward but Peachornby waved him back.
"No you're not. You have no chance and you must know that."
Peachornby sat back. Shocked as if he'd been slapped around the face. Cold reality poured over him like a bucket of water. His mouth opened as his brain tried to find the right words that a man of destiny would say. It was Patryk who spoke next, filling the silence.
"Look at the results of the last elections for mayor of Sleaford Urban Council. Labour: 2,385, Conservative: 1,882, Liberal Democrats: 769, BNP: 361. I assume the one was your wife?" Patryk had memorised these figures.
"I'm not married."
That figured, Patryk thought. "At least you beat the Greens who only picked up 217 votes."
"That was then. Five years ago. Econ... economic conditions are different now. People will see things differently now," blustered Peachornby.
"How many election leaflets did you give out the other day?" Lukasz asked. His accent didn't matter so much now there wasn't a load of boozed-up skinheads looking for trouble in the room. Earlier, Patryk had primed Lukasz to ask that question. Peachornby knew there were box loads still out in his garage.
"Well, they're for pushing through letter boxes. Direct marketing – it's more effective," said Peachornby. Privately, he was disappointed that more hadn't been handed out at the rally.
"So. Do you really want to win or spend your money just picking up some protest votes?"
Peachornby glanced at Mason still propping up the door frame.
"How do we know this isn't a set-up? You could be two journalists from the Sleaford Standard trying to drop us in it. The Standard is owned by a multi-national pub..."
Mason brightened up at that word. He could sink a few jars right now.
Peachornby carried on. "...publishing company which is owned by the Jewish-Marxist-Masonic organisations who are determined to destroy our pure Aryan way of life..."
Once again, Patryk decided to cut off the fool before he launched into the Protocols of the Elders of Zion and how the Jews secretly control the world from their underground lair beneath a mountain in Colorado or whatever else was coming up. Patryk took out his mobile phone, unclipped the battery and laid it on Peachornby's desk. He stood up and spread his arms wide. An instant later, Lukasz followed suit.
"Search us. We're not wired. Nothing you say leaves this room."
Peachornby gestured to Mason who crossed the room and expertly patted down the two Poles. Both Patryk and Lukasz reckoned Mason had been on the receiving end of many such 'pat-downs' from the cops and had learned the techniques from them.
"They're clean, boss," said Mason after a couple of minutes.
"All right. If you think I have no chance of winning – and I'm not saying you're right – how can you fix it so I will win?"
Mason stayed close by. Alert and ready for violence if his boss ordered it. He was a veteran of countless Lincoln City Football Club terrace fights and odds of five or six to one didn't scare him none. The other week he and two mates chased a dozen Sandgrounders from Southport out of town. Bunch of posh Merseyside pansies – not even real Scousers. Mason could have taken them ponces all by himself. He knew he could take these two chancers if Peachornby ordered it.
"Let me ask you a question. On election days, what happens?"
Peachornby thought for a moment. He rubbed his nose, took another slug of whisky and set the glass down by the Hitler bust.
"Well, people cast their votes and then they're counted...," Peachornby tailed off. It was obvious to Lukasz that the fool hadn't given much thought to the actual process.
"And what happens to the ballot boxes after they're collected from the polling stations until they are dropped off at the Town Hall for counting?"
Peachornby scratched his hair-piece. It slipped a little lower over his brow making him look like a slightly retarded Neanderthal now. Silence filled the room.
"I'll tell you," said Patryk. "The boxes are collected in a council van. The driver takes a designated route...," a blank look from his audience, "… a route set by the council until he's picked up all the boxes and taken them to the Town Hall where they are signed for before the boxes are opened and the votes inside counted."
"So what?"
Give me strength, thought Lukasz. Even a toddler in Kassia's kindergarten class would have put two and two together by now.
"So who's looking after the boxes while they are being transported? The driver and an observer in the back, that's who. And that's where we come in. I'm due to drive the van that night and Lukasz here is the watcher. And while we're alone in the van, what's to stop a load of extra voting papers being pushed into the ballot boxes?" It was a little more complex than that but Patryk didn't think either Peachornby or Mason's brains could cope with very much more.
"So what you're saying is you could stuff the boxes?" said Peachornby. A light dawned in his eyes.
Give that man a bun, thought Lukasz.
"That's illegal."
Give that man another bun. With pink icing on it.
"But what are you going to stuff the boxes with?" Mason asked. Patryk revised his opinion of the young man. Maybe Mason had five, maybe ten more brain cells than he'd thought before, giving him an I.Q. well into double figures.
"Toilet tissue. What do you think?" Patryk saw Mason clench his fists with anger but the skinhead remained by the door frame. "Show Mr. Peachornby, Lukasz."
Slowly, Lukasz took a thin sheaf of papers from his jacket pocket. He spread them out on Peachornby's desk. Peachornby leaned forward and even Mason moved closer. Peachornby picked one up, held it to the light and inspected the white paper closely.
"It's a voting paper. And it's even got the pressings in the top right corner," he said.
Patryk picked up another paper. "As you can see, all the candidates names are on as well: Conservative, Labour, the lot."
"It looks genuine. Where did you get it?" Peachornby said, amazed.
"If it looks genuine, then that's because it is. Lukasz here works for the firm that does the printing for Lincolnshire County Council..."
"I made an unfortunate error with a test batch and printed off way too many," Lukasz interrupted. "And then these fell into my lunch bag rather than the shredder and well..."
"Here we are," Patryk finished.
Peachornby licked his lips and screwed up his eyes. The man only needed one little nudge to seal the deal.
Patryk leaned forwards again. "Who was it said 'real power is never given – it's taken'? If you want to become mayor, ask yourself one question: what would Hitler have done? Would he have hung back?" He leaned back. He'd played his ace – using the magical name of Hitler.
Mason stepped up to the desk. "What's in it for you?"
Patryk looked up and smiled. He addressed his remarks to Peachornby. The organ grinder, not the monkey. Although in this case the organ grinder had barely more brain cells than the monkey. "I work for the council but I also work part-time for a 'local businessman'...," he let that phrase hang in the air for a moment. There was only one thing meant by an unnamed 'local businessman' and everybody in the room understood it perfectly. That wasn't quite true but it might scare this fool off from inquiring too closely.
"From time to time, after you win, he may want a planning application to go through or a contract to be awarded to a friend. Maybe give his wife or girlfriend a nice holiday in Italy – at the rate payers expense – visiting our twin town, Fusignano. You know how it goes."
"One hand washes the other," said Lukasz.
Peachornby nodded assent. "So that means I'll – the BNP, I mean – will win this election?"
"And when people see the BNP's success in Sleaford, you'll get more votes in future," said Patryk. "People like to support a winner." Lukasz thought this very unlikely but saw the two BNP men's eyes light up at the prospect. Lukasz reckoned Peachornby was even now rehearsing his victory speech, imagining himself standing on the Town Hall's balcony as if he was standing on a podium at Nuremberg; the massed crowds on the square all 'sieg heiling' their new führer.
"Sure – but we've got to win first, boss," Mason reminded Peachornby.
"Only say the word and it's in the bag," said Patryk.
Even Peachornby only had to think for a moment. He stood up from behind his desk, sucked in his gut, gazed into the middle distance with an eagle-eyed, far-seeing look worthy of any dictator worth his salt.
Patryk thought for a moment. This bit wasn't part of the script but he reckoned his backers wouldn't find out. It was a risk worth taking – and so far it was him and Lukasz taking all the risks, not that bunch of suited and booted wheeler-dealers. So he felt entitled to a little extra dollop of cream on top. "Won't come cheap though," he said. "That's if you're serious." Lukasz glanced over but said nothing.
Peachornby lowered his gaze to Patryk's face. "I am serious. So what's the damage?"
"A grand." Earlier, he was going to ask for a monkey but if he asked for five hundred – a monkey – then he might end up taking Mason home with him instead. Looking round the well made furniture in this room; it was obvious that Peachornby could easily afford a thousand.
Mason stepped forwards with his fists clenched. Up close, Lukasz spotted blue-inked tattoos covering the man's knuckles. "Shall I throw the cheeky beggars out, boss?"
Peachornby waved his man back. "No, that's rea... reason... okay. I've got it here." Peachornby opened a desk drawer, unlocked a cash box and took out a banded stack of twenties. "Here you are. Now, make sure I get the right result. Otherwise, I know people, you know." He held out his paw. Patryk shook.
Peachornby's hand felt hot and Patryk imagined for a moment that he was shaking with the Devil.
"Hey, boss, when we win, will you sort me out with a job on the corpy? The bins is good money.”