CHAPTER 6. WE MARCH ON ROME.
Naismith flung his half smoked cigarette into the yard and turned about. Patryk followed the returning officer through the vestibule and into the main council hall. The floor was taken up by a number of trestle tables behind which people sat waiting to count the votes. Naismith had told Patryk earlier that the tellers mostly worked for the council or local banks.
As the returning officer, as the man in charge, Naismith made a show of inspecting the seals on the ballot boxes. He carefully cut them – at exactly the same places Lukasz had previously – and then distributed the boxes to groups of tellers. Immediately, the men and women heaped up the voting slips before them and started counting; sorting the papers into piles, one for each candidate.
As the tellers counted, the candidates walked around the room making sure that their votes were being counted properly.
"Good turnout," Charles Langton-Gore, the Tory estate agent said to the Lib-Dem doctor, who nodded. The Conservative was pleased. A good turnout usually meant a winning result for the Conservative party. Langton-Gore started mentally rehearsing his acceptance speech. The usual stuff about growth and prosperity and how he was going to govern for the benefit of the whole of Sleaford.
Danielle Rice, the Labour party's candidate was also rehearsing her victory speech. She'd run a good campaign amongst the Eastern European immigrants, most of whom tended to vote for Labour. A new dawn for Sleaford, inclusive and welcoming. With extra resources and classes in Polish for the school children. A sure-fire winner.
The Green party candidate rushed in fifteen minutes late. The woman looked like she'd been dragged through a hedge backwards several times with her bird's nest hair, mismatched charity shop clothes and dirty finger nails.
"Sorry, I'm late," she gasped. "I was making marmalade and it wouldn't set."
"That's all right," Naismith reassured her. "It's not compulsory to attend."
The tellers looked up from their counting, welcoming the distraction as a break from the monotony. The woman caught her breath, had a mug of herbal tea and then walked round chatting to the tellers. She didn't bother preparing a speech. She knew that she had no chance of winning but thought it important that Green issues were raised and maybe, just maybe, the environment would be considered by the winner.
None of the other candidates spoke to or acknowledged Peachornby or his agent, Mason, in any way. The men were pariahs to the mainstream candidates. Even the tellers avoided the BNP men's gaze and spoke only to answer direct questions keeping their replies as short as possible. Eventually even men as thick skinned as Peachornby and Mason gave up their attempts to be accepted and stood talking together in one corner.
However, there was soon a low murmur from the tellers and that communicated itself to the candidates. There were more votes for the BNP than the tellers expected. Far more votes. A woman acting as an invigilator riffled through the counted votes. There was a frown on her face as she double checked. She called Naismith over to a table where the votes for the BNP threatened to topple over. Naismith made a comment about 'the democratic process'.
Somebody must have slipped out to make a discreet phone call because soon after a journalist and photographer showed up from the Standard. Naismith walked over and had a word with them – explaining what snaps he'd allow the smudger to take.
The tellers mostly looked up at the distraction but then dutifully carried on, bent over their work. The journalist, a man called Butler, looked annoyed when a camera crew from BBC Lincolnshire also turned up. Butler saw his possible scoop vanishing down the plughole as the BBC crew would break the news about the electoral upset first. As word spread, the room was now resembling a three ring circus. Naismith marched over to the crew and asked them to set up quietly in the corner but not to start filming until he gave the nod. The BBC guys looked at each other but agreed.
Charles Langton-Gore, the Tory, for all his faults, wasn't a stupid man. As he walked around the tables, he saw more and more votes piling up for Peachornby and the BNP. This was not what he'd expected. Last time, the Conservatives had beaten the BNP by about five to one. There was no way that was going to happen tonight. The BNP votes over topped both his and the Labour party's.
He felt a tug on his elbow and saw Danielle Rice, the Labour lady beside him. She wore a smart grey trouser-suit and her red party rosette made a vivid splash of colour against the charcoal. "What's going on?" she said quietly. "Last time we won and, to be honest, I thought it was a toss-up this time whether you or I won today. But Peachornby and the BNP?" The disgust showed in her voice. "They came nowhere four years ago."
"I know," Langton-Gore said. "Did we really misjudge the anti-immigrant feeling that much? I caught a bit of flak on the doorsteps about all the Poles but nothing that led me to believe it was such a big issue or that everyone was going to come out and vote for that sack of sh.. man," he finished.
"You're right, Charles. Yes, I picked up on a bit of aggro from some of the estates but I can't believe that the people of Sleaford would turn out in such numbers to vote for some Nazi like Peachornby." Both of them fell silent as the hulking form of Mason walked past with a sneering grin on his face.
"The future is ours," Mason said to them. Both Langton-Gore and Danielle turned away and walked over to the other side of the room.
"If you get a chance, come round my office tomorrow. I've got a nice blend of Alta Rica coffee and we'll talk further," Langton-Gore said.
Danielle nodded agreement. "Sure. Something's not right here."
"You can say that again."
As the number of uncounted votes dwindled, it became obvious that there was a big electoral upset on the way. The BBC team approached Naismith and asked for permission to set up early. Not wanting to upset the press, he nodded assent. In one corner, the camera crew put up a couple of lamps and silver reflective screens while the sound recorder and reporter tested the noise levels within the hall. Satisfied, the reporter adjusted his tie, brushed down his jacket with his hands and waited for the count to be completed.
One by one the tellers at the tables signalled that they were finished. Naismith walked around and collected their tallies and took all the slips up to the front. With the aid of a calculator, he added them all up. As soon as he had done so, he called up the candidates and showed them the result. Both Charles and Danielle looked unhappy. They scanned the tallies but there was no doubting the result.
Finally, Naismith invited the candidates up onto the small stage and followed them. He waited for the BBC reporter's nod that everything was in order. Naismith cleared his throat and tapped his microphone. The amplified knock sounded loud in the hall and the low murmur from the watchers died down.
"I hereby give notice that the total number of votes cast for each candidate in the Sleaford Urban Council Mayoral elections is as follows." He coughed again and Patryk missed the first part. Not that it mattered. It was only the last name that counted. "…, Green Party: 209..."
The Green's ex-hippy looked disappointed that her share of the votes had declined. Her rosette looked as wilted as a week old lettuce.
"Dr. Timothy Gilbertson, Liberal Democrat: 738."
Patryk reckoned that not too many of the good doctor's patients had turned out to support him. Perhaps they should have. If he was working on his Mayoral duties, he'd have less time to conduct the certain intimate 'medical examinations' he was notorious for, Patryk thought.
"Danielle Rice, Labour: 2,098."
Danielle's face went as red as her rosette. There were gasps from her supporters. As with the Lib-Dems, there had been a drop in the votes cast for her. Some of the Tories jeered. But they were soon also to be disappointed. As soon as the noise dropped, Naismith carried on.
"Charles Langton-Gore: Conservative...," There were braying cheers from some tweed-clad, horsey looking young men and women at the back. Forgetting there was still one more name, they thought their man had won.
"...2,110." More cheers greeted this result. Naismith held up his hand. The noise level dropped.
"Kenneth Peachornby, British National Party: 3,270. I hereby declare the said Kenneth Peachornby the duly elected Mayor of Sleaford Urban Council." Naismith stretched out his arm and offered the microphone to Peachornby.
For one moment there was a stunned silence throughout the hall. Then a cacophony of boos and jeers rang out. Their party animosities temporarily forgotten Tory, Labour and Lib-Dem joined together in anger and outrage.
Mason and the other skinheads in the hall pushed their way to the front and formed a human cordon between the hall and their man on the stage. The BNP thugs glared at the other parties' supporters.
Peachornby took the microphone from Naismith and started speaking but even his electronically powered voice couldn't rise above the shouting from the hall. Someone started it and then the whole hall started shouting ironically, "Sieg heil, sieg heil," and throwing mock Nazi salutes. But rather than looking upset, Peachornby enjoyed it. His already toad-like body seemed to swell up even more.
Patryk reckoned that the man was imagining himself on the steps of the Reichstag with all his army parading in front of him before ordering the Panzers east into Poland. A flash of hatred for what Peachornby and the skinheads stood for rushed through him. His fists clenched and it was with great difficulty he restrained himself from joining in with the angry shouts. He hoped that Naismith knew what he was doing.
As one, the other candidates made their way off the stage and through the crowd. The BBC reporter and Butler from the Standard drew them to one side. That wasn't difficult as they were eager to talk. Microphones were thrust in front of faces only too eager for the limelight. The themes of shock and upset were what the other candidates told the reporters. Shock, confusion, disgust but also a nod to the concept of adhering to the principals of local democracy no matter what the outcome. At this point there was no difference between the candidates whatever their other political views.
Patryk hung about the crowd surrounding the journalists. He nodded to himself, satisfied. This was exactly what Naismith had predicted would happen. In this country, people were too complacent and wouldn't suspect a fix until it was too late, by which time Naismith would have covered their tracks. No, they'd chalk it down to an electoral fluke – just one of those strange things that the democratic process throws up from time to time.
Naismith had told Patryk they'd put it down mostly as a protest against both main political parties together with disquiet against the recent influx of immigrants in the area. It would be a nine day's wonder. No not even that, as Sleaford was not in a so-called 'newsworthy' part of the country. Which in England 'newsworthy' meant only London and the Home Counties. Patryk grinned.
By this time, some of the uproar in the hall had died down and the BBC reporters and the Standard guy wanted to tape the first interview with the winner. The journalists sent one of their assistants up on stage to fetch Peachornby over. Apart from Naismith in his dual role of Deputy Mayor and Returning Officer, the stage was solely taken up by the BNP's supporters. Somebody must have had a word with them as a few were actually wearing shirts and ties and nobody had yet started singing their 'No Surrender' song or throwing Nazi salutes.
Peachornby approached the reporters. Patryk thought it was like the man was contagious or a leper as everyone else in the hall backed away from him as if fearful of his touch. All the same they watched his progress, lips curled with contempt. Peachornby was accompanied by his minder, Mason, as well as a small ferret-faced man in a grey suit named Gould who looked remarkably like Josef Goebbels, even down to his slicked-back dark hair and fanatically furtive expression.
Patryk hung about to listen but Peachornby wasn't worth hearing. He guessed that the Goebbels clone might have been sent from the BNP's headquarters in order to make sure that the new Mayor of Sleaford kept his language under control and didn't say anything too inflammatory.
With Gould stuck to his side, Peachornby stuck to his script, promising to represent all the people of Sleaford and not just those who supported him. Apart from saying he would be seeking to close the centre for asylum seekers and looking into Masonic influence within Sleaford Urban Council, he didn't say anything too surprising. Gould seemed pleased.
As Peachornby spoke to the camera and the Standard's journalist held up an old-fashioned Dictaphone the hall gradually emptied. Many of those leaving expressed their opinion on the result by saying, "shame". Others swore.
Patryk had seen enough. He made his way out with the last of the tellers and observers and looked up into the night sky. Despite the shock result, the stars still shone and the world still turned. He told himself that what he had helped make happen didn't really matter. Not if you take the long view. But he still felt dirty – that he had let himself down by doing something very wrong and that not even Naismith could foresee all the consequences.
Meanwhile, Peachornby himself had no doubts. After he had given his last interview of the evening, he climbed into the back of Mason's Rover 75 and they drove to the BNP's campaign headquarters, which was the back room of Andrei'z' wine bar. Peachornby wished it was an open-topped staff car so he could be driven through the streets, the car nosing through the adoring crowds all throwing rose petals, waving flags and cheering as they saluted their leader – their Supreme and Beloved Leader – as he drove through the city to take the keys of power. That the streets were empty didn't upset his fantasy.
Stepping out of the Rover into the cool night air, Peachornby was filled with a sudden exultation. This was it. He had arrived. He was going to make history. His heart leaped in his chest with jubilation as he punched the air with the violence of his happiness. "Yes," he called out to the imaginary crowds. "Yes!"
Mason grinned. "C'mon, boss. Let's get a few down our necks. You, too, Mr. Gould." The man from the BNP's head office frowned. He wanted to keep things sober and then run through the next steps of their strategy with Peachornby. Did Hitler get blotto after winning the 1933 election? No, he didn't. Herr Hitler was a clean-living teetotaller who got on with the task in hand. Unlike this idiot.
However, Gould followed Peachornby and Mason through the main bar of Andrei'z' and into the back room. They were greeted by a wall of noise and the sound of fists thumping the table tops. Men clapped Peachornby on the shoulder and a pint was pushed into both hands. Shame it was in one of those plastic beakers, Peachornby hated that, but Andrei'z' landlord knew his business and several dozen drunk hooligans was a recipe for disaster.
Peachornby stood on the threshold of the room. Life doesn't get any better than this he thought, punching the air again. Euphoria filled him to overflowing. His cup runneth over as somebody or other once said. Now he'd show them. Now he would prove himself to all those people who'd put him down all his life, all those who had written him off as a dunce and a failure.
His teachers all those years ago at Secondary Modern, that bank manager who'd peered over his spectacles and sniffed before turning him down for a loan. The secretary who'd laughed as he knocked back Peachornby's application to join the golf club. The slags who had rejected his advances. And most of all, he'd show his sneering father. The man he hated more than anyone else in the world.
But tonight was his night. Nobody was going to spoil his pleasure in his victory. Peachornby grinned and spread his arms wide. "Tonight we march on Rome," he shouted over the noise. Only Gould understood the reference to Mussolini's rise to power in 1922. The rest of the skinheads filling the room looked blank. Rome? That was in Italy or somewhere, wasn't it? AC Roma and Lazio played there, didn't they? Then one of the skins leaped up onto a table and shouted, "three cheers for Peachornby! Hip, hip, hooray!"
The room erupted with ear-splitting cheers. Peachornby drained his lagers and immediately another was pushed into his hand. He was filled with ebullient good cheer especially after one of the skins pushed a chair out in front of Peachornby and helped him up onto the table.
"Speech, speech, speech," the assembled skinheads called looking up at their triumphant leader.
"Tell it like it is, boss," Mason shouted above the din.
Gould looked around. He hoped there were no journalists or undercover cops here otherwise Peachornby would be in deep trouble. Immediately, Peachornby veered off-message as the spin-doctors would have it. First off, he said this was just the start of things, "today Sleaford, tomorrow 10 Downing Street," and then launched into how the Judeo-Marxist-Masonic conspiracy held back the working man. This brought more cheers and yells of support. Peachornby unbuttoned his collar, puffed out his chest and struck a heroic pose, like Napoleon surveying the battlefield, before goose-stepping up and down the table top.
The rejoicing skinheads hanging on his words thrilled Peachornby and he soared to new heights of oratory. His arms windmilled and flailed as he made his points, bawling out the government, the immigrants, the European Union and always; behind them all, guiding the destruction of ye olde England he held dear: the eternal Jew. He got a huge buzz tingling through his veins as he ranted, looking down at the admiring faces of the beery, sweaty skins gazing up at him, hanging on every word.
Peachornby was happy. He felt great. On top of his game. This was just the start of things. He flicked sweat from his forehead, rubbed his toupee and accepted yet another pint. He drank deeply and laughed, a horrible sound. This was so good, the best night of his life. He knew now what it felt to be a rock-god playing in front of a packed-out arena. Holding the crowd in the palm of your hand. It felt like he'd been wired direct into the National Grid with tens of thousands of volts flowing through his veins.
"You've heard enough from me. Now, let's celebrate." He lifted his arms high in the air and then leaped down from the table. He staggered, spilling lager everywhere, normally with this crowd a challenge to fight, but not tonight; fetching up against Mason who supported his leader. To roars of approval more jugs of lager were brought in. Speech over, the crowd of skinheads broke up into separate groups, some talking football, others great terrace mayhem, still others banging on about the Poles stealing all their jobs while, at the same time, claiming all the benefits going.
Still feeling great, on top of the world; Peachornby pushed his way through the crowd over to where Gould was leaning against the wall. "That went well," Peachornby said, his face split in half with his smile.
Gould nodded but smiled thinly. "You did well, Mayor. Although maybe not yet suitable for public consumption; best to leave out the 'how Hitler should have won the war' stuff. Now, if you have a few minutes..."
Amid yet more shoulder claps and thumbs-ups, Gould led the still beaming Peachornby and Mason out of the packed room and in the quieter corridor next to the gents he told them what the BNP head office wanted them to start on. A few minutes later, Gould slipped out of Andrei'z' and into the night.
Inside, the jolly party had just started.