CHAPTER 5. TWO FIFTH COLUMNISTS IN A TRANSIT VAN.
Meanwhile, Patryk and Lukasz checked Naismith's map. The location of all the polling stations had been marked in red. Most were sited in local schools or church halls but one was placed in the communal centre of an apartment block.
A few minutes after ten pm Patryk pulled up outside Church Lane primary school. Easy to find as it was actually on Church Lane. He leaped out of the cab and hurried through the open fire exit which was being used as the polling station's main entrance.
The room's walls were covered with childish finger paintings and the alphabet, in both upper and lower cases, ran along two walls together with the numbers from one to twenty. In one corner was the cosy area with a set of low chairs covered with stuffed toys that looked like they'd come off second best after a car park punch-up with Mason and the rest of Peachornby's BNP thugs. Instead of which the cuddlies had taken years of beatings off reception age school kids. The room smelled of plasticine, floor polish and fruit.
Patryk crossed to the desk where a grey haired woman and a bored looking young man waited for him.
"Busy day?" Patryk asked.
"No. Turnout was low – no-one's interested in local democracy any more," sniffed the woman.
"Why bother? People know they're all a bunch of incompetent lying crooks out for what they can get so what's the point?" said the young man. His bookmark was more than half way through the latest Andy McNab thriller.
Patryk thought the bored young man's summary had hit the nail dead centre on the head.
"Martin," the woman snapped.
"I've got a lot to do tonight so I'll sign for the ballot box now," Patryk said before an argument could break out.
The box was a large black plastic crate. The slot for the ballot papers to be dropped in had been sealed as had the lid to the body of the crate. The seals were secured to plastic cable ties. The woman handed over a piece of paper and Patryk signed for receipt of the ballot box.
"I'll take this receipt to the council offices tomorrow," the woman told Patryk.
"That's great – put it in the returning officer's in-tray," Patryk said.
The woman sniffed again. "I've been the presiding officer of a polling station for over thirty years now. I know what I'm doing, young man."
Martin already had his coat on with his book in his pocket. He held open the door to let Patryk back into the school's car park. As Patryk did so he saw the lights go out in the classroom behind him.
"The lights are going out all over Sleaford. We shall not see them lit again in our lifetime," Patryk murmured in English. Where had that come from?
"What was that, mate?" Martin asked.
"Nothing. Doesn't matter." Patryk hoped that what he was doing wouldn't matter too much in the great scheme of things. After all, this was only one small English market town, not a whole country.
Patryk placed the ballot box into the back of the Sleaford Council Transit. Lukasz was crouching in the back and he pulled the box towards him. A million candle power halogen lamp dangled from a hook on the van's plywood ceiling. It cast an intensely bright but shifting light.
Lukasz held a razor-sharp craft knife and a battery powered soldering iron. A spare set of council seals lay on the floor next to his feet in case of emergencies but both Patryk and Lukasz hoped it wouldn't come to that. The Heinz Beans box lay open and Patryk caught sight of the pre-filled voting forms inside.
"We haven't much time – I can't delay more than a few minutes without people getting suspicious," Patryk reminded his friend.
"I know – I've been practising, remember? Now drive."
Patryk slammed the van doors closed, jumped into the cab, engaged first, and drove down Eastgate, south over the railway lines and then Grantham Road to the next polling station serving the Quarrington ward. Meanwhile, in the Transit's back, Lukasz carefully slit all the plastic seals securing the lid to the box and lifted it off. The box was mostly fresh air but there were still a few hundred folded up votes inside.
Lukasz scooped up a double handful of fake votes from the Heinz Beans box and dropped them into the ballot box. A few fluttered down, outside the crate. He looked at the mound inside and added a few more for good measure. Then Lukasz jammed the lid tight onto the black crate and catching up the ends of the plastic cable tie securing the first seal he touched the tip of the soldering iron to its ends. Instantly they fused together. Moving around the box, he did the same with all the other seals.
Running the ball of his thumb over the seals, the edge of the plastic ties felt rough where they had been cut and then fused. Taking up a piece of fine grain sandpaper, Lukasz gently sanded the edges until his handiwork was less obvious. Satisfied, he lifted the ballot box and gave it a good shake to scatter the voting slips inside about.
Just as he finished, Lukasz felt the Transit slow to a stop and the handbrake ratcheting up. He flexed his muscles and allowed himself a swig of water. It was going to be a busy hour or so in the back of the van.
Patryk leaped out of the cab and trotted over to the second polling station. Another Sleaford Council van as well as a few cars were parked outside and for a moment Patryk's heart leaped into his mouth. Had someone else come to take the ballot box? No. Impossible, he told himself. Not in a well run democracy like Britain. Only he, Patryk, had the authority to collect the ballot boxes. All the same, he was worried as he hurried towards the polling station's open door.
This was in an Anglican church hall also on Grantham Road and to Patryk's eye the building looked like almost like a little brick church in its own right. Arched windows were set in both sides and through them, he saw a couple of council workmen taking down the plywood polling booths and stacking them up. That explained the other van. His heart slowed to a more normal rate.
Patryk let himself in. A stage was built up at one end and moth-eaten purple velvet curtains screened off what was behind. The polling officer, a portly guy in a brown three-piece suit that was new twenty years ago ostentatiously checked his watch.
"This is highly irregular. On all previous elections, I have always taken the ballot box myself to the Town Hall," the man said as soon as Patryk handed over the form.
"Efficiency. The returning officer wants to try a new way. This way, all the boxes arrive at the Town Hall at once."
"Bloody Naismith," the man muttered under his breath. Patryk reckoned the man was only upset about losing his overtime and mileage allowance.
The polling station officer fussily insisted that Patryk check the seals with him and the man fiddled with them, making sure that they were all tight and secure. Patryk checked and double-checked his watch. Eventually, all the same, the man signed the receipt, checked Patryk's counter-signature and folded it up neatly before placing it into a manilla envelope. Patryk lifted up the ballot box. As before, it felt light as if local democracy wasn't the biggest concern amongst Sleaford's citizens on a cold, damp Thursday. Patryk smiled and hurried out to the van. He slung it into the back.
"You'll have to hurry, Lukasz. The next polling station is only round the corner. Okay?"
Lukasz nodded and immediately cut the plastic cable ties before wrenching off the lid and stuffing in more bundles of votes for Peachornby. He swirled the forms around like a blender before slamming on the lid and resealing the ties. But before he'd finished, the Transit had stopped and a third box was thrown in.
"Hurry it, man – we haven't got all night," Patryk called.
Lukasz didn't bother replying. He hadn't got the time. Instead, he bent to his work and picked up his soldering iron.
The next couple of pick ups went smoothly. Patryk apologised for the delay, handed over the receipts and collected the ballot boxes. The polling station officers already had their coats on and were just glad to get off home. The school caretakers locked up the instant they were out of the doors.
In the back Lukasz was working quickly and efficiently. He was glad he'd put in several hours practise in cutting and soldering cable ties. The only problem was that he didn't have time to sand the soldered joins as smooth as he liked. However, he hoped that wouldn't matter if Naismith himself was responsible for opening the ballot boxes as the returning officer.
Once again, the van drew to a halt. Lukasz shook out his aching hand as he felt Patryk jump down from the cab and then heard his friend's shoes walk across the car park. He chugged down a can of Red Bull energy drink – the caffeine and sugar rush hitting his stomach like an express train. Lukasz shook his head and carefully resealed the fifth box.
Lukasz stiffened and tensed. He heard two sets of foot steps approaching the Transit. Had he made a mistake? Surely Patryk wasn't bringing someone back with him? No, he couldn't be doing that! Maybe it was only the polling station staff walking through the parking lot on their way home? Lukasz's heart raced. Through the metal siding of the van, Lukasz recognised Patryk's voice. He was talking to someone. He was bringing someone back to the van! What was going on, Lukasz thought.
Working at speed but careful to make no noise, Lukasz stacked the five ballot boxes on top of each other and then crouched down behind them. In the metallic silence of the van's interior Lukasz heard his heart beating like a jack hammer.
***
Patryk jumped out of the cab and walked over to The Jolly Scotchman pub which was serving as the polling station for the northern Holdingham ward. A drink while you vote – not a bad offer. He checked his watch and was pleased that he was about on schedule. The wind blew a skitter of dried leaves against his legs as he crossed the playground to the school.
There were two young men waiting for him, both smartly dressed in shirts and ties but wearing jumpers against the cold. There was also some guy wearing blue overalls who looked like somebody's grandfather. The old man was leaning on a broom. The three men's heads were together as they looked at a video on an iPad tablet.
Patryk heard one of the men say, "dirty slag, that. What a minger," followed by a bark of laughter. He coughed, politely, and the men turned to face him. The second young man, probably the assistant, looked embarrassed.
"Here, mate, come and have a look at this. One filthy bitch," the first chap said, pointing the iPad's screen in Patryk's direction. Despite himself, Patryk walked over and watched some girl with an artificial chest do the nasty.
He watched for a moment but knew that after the election's results he could do far better than watching some hired couple get it on.
"I've still got several stations to pick up," he reminded the men.
"Oh, sure, sure," the polling officer said without tearing his eyes away from the screen where the woman was now doing something... was that even possible? No way could he ask Kassia to do that, she'd slap him... the officer took Patryk's receipt without even glancing at the signature and stuffed it in his pocket.
As Patryk walked over to the ballot box, he felt the second young man at his shoulder. He turned just as the chap picked up the ballot box.
"Let me," said the man. "I'll carry it out for you."
"No, that's all right," said Patryk.
But the young man had hold of the ballot box and short of wrestling the chap for the box, there wasn't anything he could do. His mind working overtime, Patryk followed him out of the public house and into the wind blown car park. The man still carried the crate.
"Sorry about that, mate," the man said as soon as the saloon door shut behind them. "That Paul is a right dirty pervert. He's always showing off stuff he's downloading off t'interweb." Patryk nodded, not wanting to encourage his new best friend. Hoping against hope that the chap would get fed up and leave him alone.
Ignoring Patryk's silence, the young man carried on. "He come across this Romanian site the other week – a couple of women doing yoga while this man in a toga told them what to do. I couldn't understand what they were saying 'cos it was all in Romanian or something but you got to see everything. And I mean everything. These women were really supple and this guy – he must have got cameras all over the place because there was nothing left to the imagination..."
"Really?" Patryk grunted, trying to put off the young man's chatter.
"Yeah, absolutely disgusting. I don't think those women even knew they were being filmed. They'll get a shock if they ever log in and see themselves all wide open."
"Yeah, I'm sure. Look, I'll take it from here? You get off home," Patryk suggested.
However, the young man still kept a tight grip of the ballot box. For one wild moment, Patryk considered punching the talkative young man to the ground and snatching the box from him before jumping into the van and racing off into the night.
No. No way. Get a grip, Patryk told himself. Doing that would raise more red flags than at a communist rally.
A few more steps took them to the back of the van. There was nothing for it. Hoping Lukasz had heard their voices, Patryk took out his keys. He fumbled them out, dropped them onto the tarmac and swore loudly and then made a big issue out of finding the right key and jabbing it into the lock.
His heart in his mouth, Patryk opened the van's rear doors. Only a crack and he was thankful there were no street lights nearby. The back of the Transit was as dark as the tomb.
"Thanks," said Patryk taking hold of the ballot box. "I've got it." For one moment, he thought the young man would insist on putting the box in the back himself. But the man let go and stepped back. Using the corner of the box as a lever, Patryk opened the back door a fraction more and slid the box in. Immediately, he slammed the doors and locked them. The young man could have seen nothing.
"Thought I might go down the Town Hall and watch the count. I've put twenty quid on the Tory – I think he'll win this time."
Patryk swore to himself. He should have put big money on Peachornby. None of the local bookies thought the BNP had a snowball's chance in hell of winning. He'd have made a fortune. On the other hand, a bet like that would have raised some awkward questions afterwards. No, he'd take it slow and easy. He and Lukasz would make enough riding along with Naismith. Long term planning. That's what Naismith had told him.
The young man waved as Patryk hopped into the cab and drove out of the pub's car park and then sped south down Lincoln Road. At least traffic was quiet this time of night. Patryk breathed a sigh of relief. That could have been very difficult. If the talkative chap had caught sight of Lukasz doing rather more than merely observing then the game would have been up. It would have been back to Poland and lying low for a while before slipping back into England again.
The next two pick ups went sweet as a nut. He handed over the signed receipts for the ballot boxes, picked them up himself and carried them out to the Transit while the presiding officers closed down their polling stations.
"You all right back there?" Patryk whispered.
"Sure. Only one more to get, yes?" replied Lukasz, cracking open another energy drink.
"That's right."
The Transit sped along Boston Road on the way to the last polling station. It was out on the edge of Sleaford and in the distance, out in the dark countryside, Patryk saw the vast bulk of the Bass Maltings.
He'd taken Kassia out there for a picnic during the summer. However, the Bass Maltings had spooked his girlfriend and they'd never gone back. Patryk remembered the Bass Maltings as a huge complex of eight massive brick buildings together with a tower and chimney standing tall in the middle of them. The frontage was almost three hundred metres long. He'd heard that the Bass Maltings had been built around the turn of the last century to replace all the other breweries in Sleaford. However, the place had fallen on hard times and gone bust about fifty years before.
It had remained empty ever since, becoming more derelict and forlorn with every year. The inside was filled with rusting, abandoned machinery. Now the Maltings was home to rooks, starlings and the occasional vagrant seeking shelter in one of the deeply recessed doorways.
The Bass Maltings was just a huge slab of industrial architecture, totally out of scale with the town and dominating the flat Lincolnshire countryside for miles around. Naismith had told Patryk on the Q.T. that he and his backers had big plans for them. And once they had the mayor in their back pocket, there was nothing to stop their group. There were gazillions to be made there for the right people.
Patryk turned the corner and the Bass Maltings vanished from his mirrors. He shook his head. Something of Kassia's attitude had rubbed off on him and since the picnic on that summer's afternoon he'd avoided the place ever since. Not that he was superstitious or anything but that place gave off a bad vibe. Spooky...
The last pick-up now. Navigation Ward. The election officer was waiting for him outside the polling station. The woman looked annoyed at having had to wait so long to be relieved of her duties. She peered over the top of her glasses at him as if he was some naughty school boy sent to the headmistress for a telling off.
"I hope that this system isn't going to be permanent. I shall be complaining to the returning officer about this. I don't like being kept waiting this long."
"It was Naismith who brought it in." And if you could see what Lukasz was doing to democracy in the back of the van, Patryk thought, you'd have far more to complain about than having to hang about a few extra minutes.
"Sorry, I only the driver," Patryk muttered apologetically, strengthening his accent so he was barely comprehensible. "I just do as tell me."
"Of course, I'm sorry. I wasn't getting at you but I'm not happy."
"Is all right. I understand," Patryk said. The woman stopped looking like an angry head-teacher and seemed warmer and motherly. Patryk smiled at her and handed her the receipt for the ballot box.
"Do you want a drink? I've got some hot chocolate back there if you want?"
For a moment, Patryk was tempted. He would enjoy a hot drink and the delay would give Lukasz more time in the back but, no, he didn't want to raise any suspicions at the Town Hall.
"Thanks – but I need get back. Is people waiting at Hall for making count," Patryk reminded her, remembering to keep up the accent.
"You're right. Good night and God bless," the woman said. For a moment, Patryk felt pangs of guilt at the thought of deceiving her but he pushed those thoughts to one side. Naismith would sort this town out. With his planned redevelopments, he'd promised to bring jobs and prosperity to Sleaford and the area around so maybe the means justified the end. Or so Patryk hoped. But it still felt bad allowing a bigot like Peachornby anywhere near the Town Hall, even if only as a figurehead.
"Last box," Patryk whispered as he slid it into the back of the van.
"Good," said Lukasz. "I've about had enough of this."
Patryk set off, heading back into Sleaford. A few hundred yards away from the Town Hall on Kesteven Street, he stopped the van and let Lukasz out.
"All done?" Patryk asked.
Lukasz jumped down and rubbed his hands, flexing his sore fingers and working the palms. "I think Naismith and that monkey Peachornby owe me a few beers for tonight's work." Lukasz flung the now empty Heinz cardboard box to the side of the road and kicked it viciously.
"Stop your moaning. It's champagne and caviare all the way for us now," Patryk told him.
"I'd rather have an ice cold Tyskie," said Lukasz.
"Don't think small. We're gonna hit the big time real soon. Not bad for one night's work. I'll catch you later – after the count, okay? We'll sink those Tyskies then."
Lukasz nodded and Patryk drove down the road to the Town Hall, pulling up around the back. Naismith and a few other men working for the council were waiting for him. The men unloaded the black ballot boxes and carried them into the Town Hall. As they did so, Naismith raised his eyebrows the merest fraction. "Any problems?"
"All good," whispered Patryk. But somehow he doubted that any good would come from this night's work.