Dead Right by Peter Robinson

Monday evening. Not everyone was invited, of course, just the cell-leaders and one or two of Neville Motcombe’s current favourites, like Craig. About fifteen in all, they came from Leeds and Bradford, from Halifax, Keighley, Cleckheaton, Heckmondwike, Batley, Dewsbury, Brighouse and Elland. Skinheads, for the most part, aged between sixteen and twenty-four, racists all.
    And these fifteen were the pick of the crop, Craig knew. Each cell had between five and twelve members. They were the drones—football hooligans and otherwise violent skins—and Motcombe hardly ever came into contact with them except at rallies and at other large gatherings, when he addressed them from a distance. Mostly, he relied on his cell-leaders to make sure his orders were communicated and carried out, and, maybe more important still, to make sure the cash kept trickling in. After all, the League was an expensive operation to run.
    They met in the upstairs room of a pub in Bingley, and as he sat sipping his lager, Craig wondered if the landlord knew exactly what was going on up there. If he had, he might not have been so quick to let them use it. On the other hand, the prospect of selling a few extra pints on a slow Monday night might tempt even the best of us to leave our ethics and politics at the door. Nothing much surprised Craig any more. Not after what Motcombe had drawn him into.
    Even though the window was half open, the place was still full of smoke. Craig could hear rain falling in the street outside. A pale street-light halo glowed through the gauze of moisture. Occasionally, a car sloshed through the gathering puddles.
    Meanwhile, Nev himself, erstwhile leader of the League, clad in his usual shiny leather jacket, was on his feet whipping his members into a frenzy. He didn’t need to shout and wave his arms around like Hitler; there was enough power and conviction in his regular speaking voice. Mostly it was the eyes, though; they were the kind that trapped you and wouldn’t let you go unless they were certain of your loyalty. They’d even made Craig tremble once or twice in the early days, but he was too good at his job to let it get to him.
    “Murdered,” Motcombe repeated, disgust and disbelief in his tone. He slapped the table. “One of us. Three of them. Three to one. They say one of his eyes was hanging out of its socket by the time the Paki bastards had finished with him.”
    Stirrings and mumblings came from the crowd. One skin started rattling his glass on the table. Motcombe shushed him with an economic hand gesture, then pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and started to read.
    “George Mahmood,” he began, with the accent on mood . “Asim Nazur.” This time, the name sounded like a sneer. People began to snigger. “And Kobir Mukhtar. Sounds about right, that one, doesn’t it? Mucky-tar?”
    Sycophantic laughter came from the cell-leaders.
    “And do you know what happened?”
    Several of them, Craig included, shook their heads.
    “The police let them go. That’s what.”
    Howls of outrage.
    “Oh, yes they did. This very afternoon. Our glorious warrior Jason is probably lying on some mortuary table, cut open from th’nave to th’chops as we speak, and the three bastards who put him there, the three brown bastards who put him there, are out walking the streets.” He slammed the table again. “What do you think about that?”
    “Ain’t fair,” one of the cell-leaders chimed in.
    “Typical,” claimed another. “Get away with bloody murder they do these days.”
    “What we gonna do?” asked another.
    Craig lit a cigarette and leaned forward. This promised to be interesting. As far as he was concerned, Jason Fox was an evil little pillock who deserved all he got.
    “First off,” said Motcombe, “I want a special edition of the newsletter out pronto. Black border, the lot. And I want to see some oomph in it. Ray?”
    One of the Leeds cell-leaders looked up from his pint and nodded.
    “You see to