Oaten told it like it was. Rick Oaten told the truth.
Kev listened. And it all made sense.
‘I’m a Knight of St George,’ Rick Oaten said. ‘We’re all Knights of St George.’
That got a round of applause, some cheering, a few chanted
heils
.
He went on. ‘The West End of Newcastle is like thiscountry in miniature. It used to be a good place where families could live in harmony and everyone knew everyone else. But now it’s a run-down shithole full of undesirables and people who’ve given up trying to get out. No pride any more. No self-respect. Our heritage sold to Pakis who’ve just pissed on us.’
Another cheer when he said that one, like they’d been waiting for him to say it.
He went on. The liberal elite government. Feminism. Teaching homosexuality in schools. Human rights for terrorists. Free NHS treatment only if you’re an asylum seeker. All conspiring against the white working class. Another cheer.
‘Anybody live in a tower block?’
Kev’s head jerked up.
‘High-rise cages where they put animals. Stick them on—’ he paused ‘—the ninth floor …’
Kev’s heart missed a beat.
‘The ninth floor, and hope they throw themselves off, save them the expense of housing them.’
A huge cheer. This time Kev joined in.
‘Love your country like it used to be,’ Rick Oaten said, ‘but hate it like it is now.
‘And I do,’ Rick Oaten said, his voice, his fist raised. ‘Both. With all my heart.’
Another cheer. Kev was with them now.
‘We are one crisis away from power. One crisis away from moving in, taking over. That crisis will happen. Sooner rather than later. And then we’ll reclaim it. Make this land a proud place to be again. A land fit for heroes once more. And you, my lovely boys, will be the ones to do it. The foot soldiers of the revolution.’
And they were on their feet, Kev among them.
There was more, much more. But that was the bit Kev remembered. Word for word.
Kev felt valued, like he belonged, like he was wanted.
Kev felt like he had come home.
He hit a pothole, winced at the pain.
Gary was long gone. After what happened he had no choice. Things like that weren’t just frowned on; they had a habit of becoming nasty. Really nasty. Gary said he had seen it before. Body-in-the-concrete-foundations-of-a-new-quayside-development kind of nasty.
Kev told himself he didn’t mind. Kept telling himself he didn’t mind. Kept his head down, concentrated on what he’d found instead.
Himself.
And a job. Frank Bell. A butcher, a party member and man short. Couldn’t take a Paki or a wog, obviously, so he asked Kev. Kev was terrified, but the job didn’t involve much reading and writing and Frank Bell taught him how to use the till, recognize the numbers and let the computer do the adding.
And best of all he got to handle knives.
Cut flesh away from bone. Slice skin from fat. Pare muscle from sinew. He loved it. Especially delivery day when the new carcasses arrived.
Then came the whispers: Rick Oaten was forming his own party. The NUP.
Things were moving: Kev felt it. He offered his services. Was accepted. A recruiter. Security. A trusted foot soldier.
‘OK,’ Rick Oaten had said. ‘You’re loyal. You’ve got a true heart. I might need you sometimes. For special jobs.’
Kev had said he could be relied on. Rick Oaten said he knew. Smiled again, like he could see something Kev couldn’t.
‘But things are going to be a bit different this time. A bit different.’
And they were. The NUP were different from what Kev was used to. There were new, posh offices. Secretaries. A spin doctor, Mr Sharples, drafted in to advise on policy. When Kev first heard Rick Oaten on TV talking about the new party he thought he had been betrayed. There was no anger, no righteous indignation. Just measured discussion, reasoned and reasonable response.
But then Kev saw what Rick Oaten was doing. Playing to the mainstream. Make yourself electable and you get elected. People
Kev listened. And it all made sense.
‘I’m a Knight of St George,’ Rick Oaten said. ‘We’re all Knights of St George.’
That got a round of applause, some cheering, a few chanted
heils
.
He went on. ‘The West End of Newcastle is like thiscountry in miniature. It used to be a good place where families could live in harmony and everyone knew everyone else. But now it’s a run-down shithole full of undesirables and people who’ve given up trying to get out. No pride any more. No self-respect. Our heritage sold to Pakis who’ve just pissed on us.’
Another cheer when he said that one, like they’d been waiting for him to say it.
He went on. The liberal elite government. Feminism. Teaching homosexuality in schools. Human rights for terrorists. Free NHS treatment only if you’re an asylum seeker. All conspiring against the white working class. Another cheer.
‘Anybody live in a tower block?’
Kev’s head jerked up.
‘High-rise cages where they put animals. Stick them on—’ he paused ‘—the ninth floor …’
Kev’s heart missed a beat.
‘The ninth floor, and hope they throw themselves off, save them the expense of housing them.’
A huge cheer. This time Kev joined in.
‘Love your country like it used to be,’ Rick Oaten said, ‘but hate it like it is now.
‘And I do,’ Rick Oaten said, his voice, his fist raised. ‘Both. With all my heart.’
Another cheer. Kev was with them now.
‘We are one crisis away from power. One crisis away from moving in, taking over. That crisis will happen. Sooner rather than later. And then we’ll reclaim it. Make this land a proud place to be again. A land fit for heroes once more. And you, my lovely boys, will be the ones to do it. The foot soldiers of the revolution.’
And they were on their feet, Kev among them.
There was more, much more. But that was the bit Kev remembered. Word for word.
Kev felt valued, like he belonged, like he was wanted.
Kev felt like he had come home.
He hit a pothole, winced at the pain.
Gary was long gone. After what happened he had no choice. Things like that weren’t just frowned on; they had a habit of becoming nasty. Really nasty. Gary said he had seen it before. Body-in-the-concrete-foundations-of-a-new-quayside-development kind of nasty.
Kev told himself he didn’t mind. Kept telling himself he didn’t mind. Kept his head down, concentrated on what he’d found instead.
Himself.
And a job. Frank Bell. A butcher, a party member and man short. Couldn’t take a Paki or a wog, obviously, so he asked Kev. Kev was terrified, but the job didn’t involve much reading and writing and Frank Bell taught him how to use the till, recognize the numbers and let the computer do the adding.
And best of all he got to handle knives.
Cut flesh away from bone. Slice skin from fat. Pare muscle from sinew. He loved it. Especially delivery day when the new carcasses arrived.
Then came the whispers: Rick Oaten was forming his own party. The NUP.
Things were moving: Kev felt it. He offered his services. Was accepted. A recruiter. Security. A trusted foot soldier.
‘OK,’ Rick Oaten had said. ‘You’re loyal. You’ve got a true heart. I might need you sometimes. For special jobs.’
Kev had said he could be relied on. Rick Oaten said he knew. Smiled again, like he could see something Kev couldn’t.
‘But things are going to be a bit different this time. A bit different.’
And they were. The NUP were different from what Kev was used to. There were new, posh offices. Secretaries. A spin doctor, Mr Sharples, drafted in to advise on policy. When Kev first heard Rick Oaten on TV talking about the new party he thought he had been betrayed. There was no anger, no righteous indignation. Just measured discussion, reasoned and reasonable response.
But then Kev saw what Rick Oaten was doing. Playing to the mainstream. Make yourself electable and you get elected. People
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