Collusion: A Novel

This is the opening section of a story about politics, betrays, the violence that lurks under the surface of society and PTSD. Links to other chapters are below

Prologue

The last time he was in Belfast, they called him ‘the Beast.’ Never, ever, to his face.

That felt like a long time ago. He stood with his back to the Europa Hotel after exiting the bus station. Few of the Europa’s guests could imagine how often it had been bombed. More than a quarter of a century had passed since the last explosives detonated in the building. The Beast had picked through the rubble of a number of hotels much more recently.

The bouncers on the door of Robinsons Bar, directly across the pedestrian crossing, gave him a long look as he entered. Did they recognise him? They were of similar age and certainly wary of their latest customer. Most likely they were fixated on the long scar down the right side of his face.

After buying a pint of Maggies Leap pale ale, he went and sat hunched over a table in the saloon. He faded into the background of dark, wood-panelled walls in the dim, downbeat light. The drink remained untouched. It was a prop. A middle-aged Australian couple mooched about, looking at the Titanic memorabilia dotted around the room. It was quiet on a Sunday night in this part of the premises.

Things were busier in the back of the pub. The sound of muted live music came from behind a set of heavy double doors inset with opaque, bevelled glass. The room with the band was called Fibber Magee’s.

It crossed his mind that the name was appropriate. The person he was waiting for was one of the biggest liars he had encountered.

The spot he had chosen was perfectly positioned to watch the toilets and after about 20 minutes the man he had come to see left Fibbers and wobbled down the corridor to relieve himself. The Beast followed into the restroom, walking slowly.

The drinker using the urinal took the briefest glance over his shoulder. There was no sign of recognition. It had been many years since the pair had last met and the Beast used to have flowing locks and a moustache. Now his hair was cropped short and he was clean shaven. He made no attempt to use the facilities and stood close to the washbasin.

“You having a good night?” the man asked, unperturbed.

“Aye.” The Beast’s intonation was clearly English, though it was impossible to attribute a region to the single-word utterance.

“You looking for charlie?” The Northern Irishman concentrated on shaking urine off his penis as his question hung in the air. Encounters like this were normal to him.

“No, Winkie, I don’t want charlie.” The Geordie accent was obvious now and caused the man at the urinal to freeze. He knew that voice. He turned around and stared.

“What are you doing here? I heard you were dead.”

The Beast raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

“Jesus, let me wash my hands and give you a hug. How many years has it been?”

The Geordie remained mute but moved aside to allow Winkie to turn on the taps and rinse his fingers. He did not use soap.

Flicking the water away, the drug dealer attempted an awkward embrace. “Come on, I’m a boss now,” he said, steering his companion towards the door. “I’ve got charlie and girls. It’ll be some craic.”

“I need to talk to you,” the Beast said. “I need somewhere to do a bit of private business. A place that’s safe.”

Winkie was unsteady on his feet. “Plenty of time for that. Let’s have fun.”

“No.”

“I’m a boss now,” Winkie growled with a hint of menace. “I decide what we do.”

The Englishman was unconcerned. “You still have that place on Sandy Row? Someone is getting delivered to me in an hour. I need you to open it up for me. Our friends have arranged it. The people who made you a boss.”

A wave of anger passed over Winkie’s inebriated face but then he smiled. “The walk will do me good. You want to use a romper room? Be my guest. I’ll just tell the boys.”

“Don’t,” the Beast said. “Only us two need to know about it. The fewer people, the less chance of a tout.”

“Are you calling my boys touts?” Winkie was enraged but the Beast maintained a blank look and continued as if the interjection had never occurred.

“You’ll be back here in 30 minutes,” he said. “I don’t need you for what’s going to happen.”

Winkie laughed. Mood swings were part of his persona. “Oh, I’ll enjoy it. I’ll text the boys and tell them I’ve got lucky.”

They exited together. The bouncers made deferential farewells to Winkie. Little was said as the pair strode down Great Victoria Street and turned towards Sandy Row. The Beast stopped and looked with disdain at the mural of William of Orange on the corner of Linfield Road. At last he spoke: “It used to say, ‘Heartland of South Belfast Ulster Freedom Fighters.’ Why the change? Are yous ashamed?”

Winkie snarled. “Don’t fuck with me on Sandy Row,” he said. “I was tagging Taigs before you knew what a Fenian was. You’re on my territory. Like I said, I’m a boss now.”

They walked towards the Royal pub. Sleet began to angle into their faces. At a block of three derelict-looking shopfronts, Winkie stopped and opened the door. “They were rompering people in the back here in the 70s,” he said with pride. “Tradition. Shall we go to the Royal and wait?”

“No,” the Beast said. “How much charlie have you got? I have to make a call and then I’ll have some.”

The dealer grinned. “Plenty,” he said. “So, who’s getting rompered tonight and who are your mates? Anyone I know?”

He produced a handful of wraps of cocaine and looked up with a sly grin. “Let’s get high. Been a while since I’ve done this. Is it a Taig?”

While he was talking, the Beast held a mobile phone to his ear. The faint ringing sound emitted from the receiver. There was a clicking noise as someone picked up but no verbal response. “Here,” the Geordie said and terminated the call.

Winkie was devouring the cocaine. “How long will your mates be?” he asked.

“There are no mates coming,” the Beast said deliberately, digging into his small shoulder bag. “Just the two of us.” Winkie looked up in horror at the barrel of a Browning 9mm pistol. “You’re getting rompered.”

“Just a beating?” the victim asked pathetically.

“Aye. We’re all on the same side, aren’t we? You’ve been misbehaving, I’m told. Kneel.”

The Beast smashed the butt of the gun into his captive’s temple. He knelt on the prostrate, semi-conscious man’s neck and expertly tied Winkie’s hands and feet with plastic flex cuffs.

“Davy Payne invented romper rooms, they say,” the Geordie mused as the prisoner came to his senses. “He is one of your heroes. I remember you talking about him when you were young. A Para and a true Loyalist. He enjoyed using knives.” The Englishman took a large, finely-honed blade from his bag and began to cut Winkie’s trousers and underpants off. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m not going to castrate you. I’m a little more sophisticated than Davy.”

He produced an aerosol and a cigarette lighter from the bag. “This is a little trick we used in Ukraine,” he said. “It’s freezing in winter.” He flicked the lighter and sent a spray of vapour in its direction. It produced a brief plume of flame. “We warmed quite a few Russians up this way,” he said. “We called it a Donbass flamethrower. Useless in combat but handy in the aftermath. Are you cold, Winkie? Little Winkie looks very small. A bit of heat might help.”

The Beast directed a fiery blast towards his captive’s bare genitals. It was a short burst that he repeated three times. Screams echoed through the building.

“I’m going to keep you alive for a long time, Winkie,” he said, waving a sachet of cocaine. “This will ensure I don’t get tired. I lied about it being just a beating. I will put a bullet in you. Eventually. Maybe in 12 hours or so. Maybe longer. But right now, I’m going to have some fun with you.”

It was a long, long night on Sandy Row. The Beast was making his mark again.

Chapter 1: Bad Lads

January 2019

“Traitor! You’re a disgrace to your country! Why are you conspiring with foreign powers? Answer me! It’s treason.”

Orlanda York strode across the zebra crossing on Millbank with a fixed expression on her face. It showed neither anger nor fear. It was resolute. A dozen men in fluorescent waistcoats surrounded her, shouting questions and abuse. Some walked in front of York, slowing down to make the Conservative MP break her stride but never coming close enough to make contact. Others filmed the scene while quizzing her in an aggressive manner.

“Answer the questions. Why won’t you carry out the will of the people? Do you think the people are too stupid to decide for themselves? Are you scared we’re challenging your elite existence?”

Two policemen watched nervously from College Green. Office workers and members of the public skirted the small, rolling disturbance but York carried on, speaking in an unfailingly polite Oxbridge accent whenever one of the furious little mob came too close and blocked her path. “Excuse me,” she said. “I do need to get to work. Thank you.”

“You call that work? Stabbing the people in the back? You should be ashamed.”

Retain your dignity, York said to herself. Show no fear. Yet she was concerned. Ever since Jo Cox was murdered by a man who held similar beliefs to her tormentors, York had felt unsafe.

Right-wing extremists liked to target women. She was used to being abused online. Social media had given voice to too many cranks. That was bad enough. Now she was being jostled on the street, outside the Houses of Parliament, although the men were careful to make any physical contact appear accidental.

“Answer our questions, Nazi,” one said. “Or are you too high and mighty? You were born with a silver spoon, weren’t you?”

She smiled serenely at the man and into his iphone camera, aware that when the footage was posted on Facebook and Twitter it would be interpreted as a look of patrician disdain. As she reached the entrance to the House, one of the group hissed at her. “Too good for us, are you? You should be ashamed, traitor. You should be stripped bare and strung up.”

York shivered. This is what politics had become: Bullying on the street outside the Mother of Parliaments.

*

Michael Ashton watched the kerfuffle from across the road. About 100 people were protesting in the area around him, some waving Union flags or the Cross of St George, others with European Union emblems, all trying to catch the attention of the camera crews and outshout each other. Ashton concentrated on the men who had surrounded York. They were his story.

The freelance journalist was 40 years old and down on his luck. He had worked for national newspapers for more than 15 years but had chosen the wrong time to go solo. In the age of memes and live streaming, he was interested in long-form investigative pieces. Most editors were not. They wanted clicks for their website.

Three policemen were gently moving the MP’s abusers back down Abingdon Street towards Victoria Tower Gardens. Darkness was beginning to fall on this winter’s afternoon. The silver strips on the men’s jackets flashed as the ringleader taunted the officers. “Whose side are you on, then? Are you traitors, too? A uniform won’t save you. You’ll get it. If you want blood, we’ll give it to you.”

Ashton knew who the man was. His name was Frank Joseph, the public face of the Football Lads Action Group. FLAG had been formed by Joseph and his friends supposedly in response to Islamist-related terror attacks. The organisation consisted of ageing terrace thugs and aspiring young ruffians nostalgic for the 1980s when Margaret Thatcher was in power. Four decades ago Britain was – at least in their eyes – strong. That was an era when young men fought on the streets outside stadiums every Saturday. ‘Lads’ was their euphemism for hooligans. In their vision of that retro world, it was a time when women and minorities knew their place, there was no political correctness and the nation was in control of its own destiny.

Almost all FLAG members were outright racists. The anti-terrorist stance was effectively a smokescreen to confound critics – after all, who could be in favour of politically-motivated acts of violence? They were one of many groups on the right that were thriving in the toxic political environment that developed around the referendum vote to leave the European Union three years earlier. FLAG’s rallies drew, at their height, perhaps 2,000 people. They had, however, brought together supporters of Millwall and West Ham, Birmingham and Aston Villa, Luton Town and Watford; blood enemies on the terraces who stood together to direct their anger at Muslims. And the chance to crack brown heads.

Ashton was interested in their views but also in their network of contacts. FLAG used crowdfunding to generate income but had a suspiciously large pool of cash. They were rumoured to have links with Breitbart. They shared platforms with Tommy Robinson and Geert Wilders, the right’s glamour boys.

A related group had caught the journalist’s attention. There was significant crossover between FLAG and ExSAT – Ex-Squaddies Against Terror. Joseph, a former Royal Marine, was active in both organisations. It felt very sinister.

The cynic in Ashton kicked in. He shrugged. Experience had taught him that groups like these came and went in a small, self-important blaze of publicity. The leaders briefly became media figures before fading back into anonymity. The English Defence League and Casuals United had generated headlines a decade earlier but were already forgotten. FLAG’s small-minded presence would soon shrink back to the point where it only had traction in its own tiny, bigoted world.

For now, though, it was a story.

He cut through the Westminster side streets and squares and headed towards home, a walk of about 20 minutes. As he strode down Lord North Street, past its exclusive row of Georgian terraced houses, he thought of Orlanda York and a brief wave of sympathy for the MP’s persecutors flashed across his mind. This was her milieu: homes valued beyond the imagination of most of the population, occupied by residents insulated from the realities of normal life. Austerity would never affect places like this. Ashton quite enjoyed the notion of brutish football supporters shaking the complacency of those who could not envision the hand-to-mouth existence that was being endured across Britain by those on the margins. York would never experience the elemental fear that comes with an empty wallet or purse.

The idea was unworthy, though, and he put it aside. He loathed intimidation and no MP deserved that sort of treatment. There was also a glee in the way these men menaced women that had disturbing, misogynistic undertones. It made him shudder.

A notification on his phone buzzed to remind him that he had an appointment. His memory did not need jogging. The rendezvous was connected with the events he had just observed. The meeting was with an academic who had spent a year following FLAG from protest to protest. This man could facilitate an introduction to Joseph and his clique.

Ashton crossed Vincent Square, skirting the bastion of privilege that is Westminster School’s playing fields, and crossed Vauxhall Bridge Road. There was an abrupt change of ambiance. Double-stacked, modernist, red-brick flats dominated the west side of the street. The remnants of Pimlico’s working class lived here in Lillington and Longmoore Gardens. Estates like this – and the dingier Churchill Gardens complex on the other side of the district where Ashton rented a flat – were like reservations for the impoverished. House prices and rents were making central London a ghetto for the rich.

The meeting was in an estate pub. From the outside it looked like an early 1970s monstrosity, a distillation of unwelcoming aesthetics. When Ashton moved to the area in his early 20s, it was a rough house called the Pimlico Tram, referred to locally as ‘The Tramp.’ He popped in once and recognised the undercurrent of danger immediately. Drunks and drug dealers stared with unconcealed threat. In those days he was fitter and considerably more belligerent and he responded to the passive-aggressive attentions of a regular with enough bullishness to make the man back off. Needless to say, he left after a single pint, vowing never to return. That instinct was validated within a year when a customer was shot dead in the doorway.

Things were different now. A decade previously, the place reopened under the ownership of a couple of local boys. They had vision and saw that the craft beer revolution was about to explode. Cask, the new venture, prided itself on providing top-class ales and lagers from across the world in a welcoming environment. There was no Stella, Guinness or any mass-produced swill that the former clientele would recognise. The prices, too, scared the deadbeats away. The pub took advantage of the growing gentrification and was a roaring success.

“Ash,” the barman said as soon as he walked in. “You’ll like this.” He poured a sample of pale ale and Ashton sipped it as he scanned the single room that comprised the pub. With a nod of appreciation he signalled for two pints and took them to a small table. It lay between the entrance and the toilet door so it was slightly more private than most of the seating.

A short, nervous-looking man came in and swept the place with his eyes. “Graham,” Ashton said, and the newcomer nodded eagerly and stepped towards the table. They shook hands.

“I’ve got you this,” Ashton said, indicating the pale ale. “If you don’t like it, I’ll have it. I’ll get you something else. But it’s good. Northern Monk’s latest effort.”

The academic had a sip and sat down, satisfied. “Good,” he said and gestured towards the bar. “That’s a lot of pumps. I wasn’t expecting this sort of place from outside. It looks like somewhere FLAG would drink. Until you come in and see what’s on tap.”

Ashton laughed. “You do get the wrong sort in here,” he said. “The Parliamentary Beer Group meet here occasionally. Plenty of SPADS, too. The proximity to Westminster means sometimes you have to mix with riff raff.”

Graham nodded and came straight to the point. “You want me to put you in touch with FLAG?”

“Yup.”

“Are you sure? They’re dangerous people.” He looked around as if expecting to find Joseph and his cronies lurking behind one of the room’s two pillars. “They have no qualms about violence. They’ve threatened me.”

Ashton smirked, perhaps a little patronisingly. “I’ve been around people like them. I can deal with it.”

“Everyone thinks the right wing are stupid,” Graham said. “And they are in many ways. But they’re cunning. ExSAT are dangerous. They’ve had training and they’ve got funding. Some of them were in the special forces. They’re not just streetfighters.”

A reporter’s best friend is silence so Ashton said little and listened to this frightened, educated man. Graham told him about the movement’s history, what it was like on their demonstrations, their recruitment methods and their attitude to the press.

“The Manchester Arena bombing was a catalyst,” he said. “But I think they were looking for a reason to galvanise people’s anger. They know that a lot of football lads have experience in brawling and a fair proportion are instinctively right wing.

“People mock the right but they are slick and have a professional approach. A lot of people assume they lack depth. That’s very far from the truth. They are media savvy. They run outreach programmes where they give blankets and money to homeless veterans. They sell a potent mixture of patriotism, Islamophobia and working-class identity. They have links with fascist movements abroad, particularly those active in the football world, and with Loyalism in Northern Ireland. They will tell you that they’re not racist, merely anti-terrorist, but they’re ethno-nationalists. The Day of Freedom last summer, where all the different groups gathered together in London, was astonishing to see. It was like Glastonbury for the right.”

“I want to talk to them.”

‘It’s your funeral. I’ll direct message them on Twitter. That’s how I communicate with them. I didn’t want them to have my phone number. But they found it anyway. And my address.”

Ashton tried not to snigger at the paranoia. “Another?” he said, gesturing at the almost empty glasses.

“I’ll get them,” Graham said. By the time he returned from the bar FLAG had messaged a reply. “Here’s the number to call. Ask for Phil. Be very careful. These blokes don’t take prisoners.”

“Cheers,” Ashton said, raising his glass with unforced bonhomie.

*

The next day he rang the number. A woman answered. “Never heard of any Phil,” she said tersely when Ashton gave his name. Within a minute of hanging up, the mobile buzzed. The screen displayed an ‘unknown number’ message. He picked up.

“Ashton?”

“That’s me.”

“You want to meet us. Why?”

“I’m interested in what you have to say.”

“Why? You’re a leftie, aren’t you?”

The accent was vague; from somewhere north of London but south of the Midlands. There was too much countryside in it to be Luton or Bedford but Ashton thought it came from that region.

“I am. At least compared to you…” He waited for a reaction but there was none. “But I try to give a voice to those who don’t get listened to. At the moment you’re portrayed like cartoon characters. I want to understand you in three dimensions.”

There was a long silence followed by an abrupt instruction. “Tuesday, 5.30pm, Beaconsfield station.” The line went dead.

Ashton looked at his phone and chuckled. It was typical. These guys had seen too many movies. Their mock-heroic self image meant that there had to be a clandestine aura surrounding the interview. This was a ploy to make him nervous and one that failed miserably.

Not much scared Ashton. He had grown up in the docklands of Liverpool, where there was little money and few jobs. Toughness brought status in areas like this and he knew how to face down threats and combat physical intimidation. Violence, he thought, was just another form of communication. Almost every other approach was preferable to him but he understood it was the first thought that occurred to some people. When the façade of civilisation slipped, he was confident he could deal with it.

FLAG and their ExSAT allies were transparent. They were inarticulate and brute force was the most eloquent manifestation of their hare-brained ideological rage. Ashton found their ‘Lads’ ethos laughable. They thought of themselves as knights of the streets, battling rival ‘Firms’ and adhering to some sort of hooligan code. He knew different. Most of the time football thuggery was simply large groups of young men roaming around looking for easy targets. He had grown up going the match and knew about trouble on the terraces from personal experience. That was more than two decades in the past and he found it hard to believe that anyone would revere that type of behaviour.

After booking his train ticket online, he decided to go for a run. He was in good shape for his age and intended to keep it that way. He wasn’t tall – slightly above average height – and he had regular, pleasing features that made him very approachable. The first streaks of grey showed in his hair, which he kept short and respectable. Most of the time he projected a non-threatening, affable persona. In southern England he found his voice was effective in diffusing trouble. A growling Scouse bark made potential aggressors think twice.

He did not stand out from the crowd immediately but grew in stature with familiarity. No one could call him shy but he was guarded until a level of trust developed. Then he could be funny and hold the attention of the company.

The rain was piercing and stabbed into his face as he ran east along the river. He crossed Vauxhall Bridge and jogged along the Albert Embankment, passing the green-glassed layer cake of the SIS building. People scurrying in and out made it look like any other office complex in London rather than one of the hubs of the secret service. It was the same across the river at Thames House, MI5’s headquarters. The area crawled with intelligence-agency workers. This had fascinated Ashton from the first day he moved into the neighbourhood. You never knew who you were talking to in pubs, shops and cafes.

He crossed Westminster Bridge and decided to see what the mood was like outside Parliament. The rain had cooled Brexit tempers slightly but hardy groups on both sides of the argument maintained their positions around the sundial in Old Palace Yard. Bright television lights from the tented temporary outdoor television studios illuminated the gloom.

Half a dozen men in fluorescent vests were approaching from Great College Street. They had a purposeful, angry swagger that was designed to intimidate. They slowed down near a group of genteel-looking remainers and addressed them quietly. Ashton watched their mouths fashion single-word snarls. Their body language was confrontational. They made slight, jerky upward tilts of the head that dared the objects of their insults to respond and twitchy finger gestures to beckon their quarry towards them. When the middle-class activists tried to look away, the right-wingers guffawed and sneered. Ashton knelt down to tie his lace as the thugs passed the Lady Chapel. “Let’s get out of the rain and have a drink in the Red Lion,” Joseph said, loud enough so everyone in the immediate vicinity could hear. “These traitors will get it soon enough. They’ll be sorry. Cunts.”

Passing tourists looked on in wonder. This was not what they expected when they booked their trip to London.

*

Ashton got to Beaconsfield early and checked out the station. He disembarked at platform two and took a look around. A taxi company operated out of this side of the building but the claustrophobic entry road reached a dead end. Behind a barrier where the lane finished was a set of steps that disappeared into a tree-laden incline. It made for an unlikely meeting point.

The exterior of platform one was more promising. Another narrow street opened up to a substantial car park. There was a mini roundabout which made it easy to pick up and drop off commuters. This is where he would wait.

Where would they take him? A house or private rooms would create a sense of drama but instinct told Ashton that a remote pub would be the likeliest venue. He reckoned that they had done enough to keep him off balance. If they wanted to be taken seriously – which they clearly did – it was time to stop the theatrics. The previous day he had spent an hour on Google maps and figured that he had narrowed the potential site of the interview to two public houses.

Just after 5.30pm a Range Rover with blackened windows crept down the road and circled the roundabout. “Here we go,” he thought. “Very Essex Boys.” The vehicle stopped, a window rolled down and an affable man leaned out. “Michael?” Ashton nodded. “Jump in, mate. Let’s go for a beer.” The back door flipped open.

There were two men inside. Both shook hands in a very friendly manner. “Sam,” said the driver, “and this is Phil. You like beer, Michael? We thought it would be more relaxed over a pint. We’re meeting a couple of the lads there. Good journey?”

“Yeah,” Ashton said. “Easy enough for me. How long have you been involved with FLAG?”

“A couple of years,” the driver said. “You have to do something, don’t you?” He mused for a moment. “I was angry about Lee Rigby. It was terrible what happened to that lad. I mean, those two bastards almost chopped his head clean off. And he was just serving his country and minding his own business. Then the attack on Westminster Bridge. The Manchester bombing was the final straw… those poor little girls. You have to do something. Our civilisation is under attack.” Phil made affirmative, supportive noises.

“You can’t just stand by, can you?”

“Whose idea was it to base it around football fans?”

“Frank. He was active with Casuals United. He’s always on the forums. All the Firms across the country were saying the same thing. They had to do something. Look what happens when footy lads get involved. Loads more would have died at London Bridge if the boys hadn’t been there. A proper Millwall lad took the fight to the bastards. A crew of chaps pelted the terrorists with glasses and bottles.”

He pondered on that briefly. “It’s like going away with England. When we all come together, we’re unbeatable.”

They pulled into the car park of the Royal Standard of England. Ashton almost laughed out loud. He had considered coming here too preposterous even for FLAG. It was a lovely old place that claimed to be the oldest freehouse in the country. It was dark, half-timbered and full of late middle-ages and Elizabethan kitsch. An open fire roared, lighting bare wood tables and mismatched church pew-style benches. It was quiet and Sam led the way to the bar. “What are you having?” he asked.

“I don’t want any of that weird real ale,” Phil mumbled. “Or foreign rubbish. I’ll have a Stella.”

Ashton resisted the urge to snicker and made another observation. They were not regulars. This was not the sort of place that stocked Stella. He plumped for a pint of Chiltern pale ale and suggested that the other two try the Cotswold lager. They sat on a big table beside the door, under the window. Two ceramic pigs decorated the sill. Five minutes later another three men came in led by Joseph, who sat down while the other pair went to the bar. He shook hands and began to talk about football.

“You think Liverpool have a chance to win the league?” Joseph asked. They’ve done enough research to know who I support, Ashton thought. The other two newcomers sat down at the far end of the table and passed a beer to Joseph. They remained unintroduced. Ashton weighed them up.

One was a bulky, steroid-bloated brute in his 50s wearing a black Stone Island jacket that he kept fastened to the neck. He sat bolt upright, as if ready to jump to any barked orders. Broken veins across his nose and cheeks suggested alcohol problems.

The other was younger and fitter. He had dark cropped hair, a deep scar running down the side of his face and unfocused eyes that screamed post-traumatic stress syndrome. These two had to be ExSAT.

The interview proceeded exactly as Ashton expected. Joseph’s answers were trite and self-serving. No, FLAG were not opposed to Islam, just terrorism. They were not racist, just keen to protect British values. Immigration was out of control and threatened every citizen of the country.

“We are losing our identity,” Joseph said. “Globalism is part of a plan to destroy our culture, the white culture. We need to reclaim control and stop this erosion of what we stand for.”

All the usual subjects came up: Asian grooming gangs, Sharia law, no-go areas for whites. Ashton challenged them repeatedly. “There aren’t any no-go areas in London,” he said.

“You don’t see it,” Sam said eagerly. “I live in Sutton and I wouldn’t want to bring a kid up there. No one speaks English. You’re from up north. London’s no longer an English city.”

“I’ve been living there 20 years,” Ashton said. “I’ve seen the place change. There has been an influx of foreigners but they’re mainly rich. You talk about white flight? Yeah, the working classes have moved out of town but do you know why? Because you bought your sodding council houses on the cheap in the Thatcher years, sold them at a profit and buggered off to the suburbs. Now you’re trying to recast it as ethnic cleansing.”

The mood began to turn dark. They had expected a more placid response and a more compliant line of questioning. “What will you do if Brexit doesn’t happen?”

Joseph answered. “The people will hold politicians to account. The metropolitan elite will not get away with it.”

“I saw you surrounding Orlanda York.” Ashton barely stopped himself from saying ‘harassing’. “The speaker of the House called in the police. Have they spoken to you?”

“Not yet, but if I get charged that bitch will be sorry.” A spray of spit punctuated Joseph’s rage.

“Is it wise to make threatening statements like that? I mean, Jo Cox was killed by someone who would be at home in your movement. York is scared. Is it a responsible thing to say?”

“She should be scared. The people will judge her.”

“How?” There was a tense silence. The five of them stared at Ashton. He looked around the table, slowly, making eye contact with each of them. Then he said, brightly: “My round. What are we having, chaps?”

There was a perceptible moment when the group looked for guidance. Except they did not glance towards Joseph but the man with the scar. He nodded. “Bitter,” he said, the first word Ashton heard him utter. It sounded like a northeast accent but there was too little to go on.

No one came up to the bar to help with the drinks so he ferried them back one by one. On a whim, and to annoy the group, he bought a bottle of Duvel. Unfortunately, the pub did not have an oversized branded tulip glass in which to serve it Belgian style.

“What’s that? A foreign lager?” Sam was inquisitive but reluctant to be seen to be too friendly.

“Not a lager, an ale,” Ashton said, pouring it into a half-pint glass with exaggerated reverence. “It’s strong: 8.5 per cent. They do a triple-hop version at 9.5 per cent that’s even better. I used to do beer runs to the Continent and pick up crates of it dirt cheap before Brexit ripped the arse out of the pound.” He looked up but the dangerous moment had passed. Ashton was back in control.

“I’ll miss booze cruises,” Sam said. “Used to take a van and load up with Stella, John Smith’s and Guinness in the hypermarket at Calais. You could sell it over here and make enough money to pay for the trip and still have plenty of cans to last you months.”

“Thinking about it, I might do a run in the next week or two,” Ashton said, happy at this point to make idle conversation. “Just in case there’s a hard Brexit. I go to a brewery in Belgium. A monastery where they make their own beer. It’s strong stuff. Trappist; 10.2 per cent. It’s the only place you can get it.”

Sam laughed. He nodded towards the man with the scar. “He’s planning a run to Europe soon. The stuff he’s getting is strong. One sip and it’ll knock you senseless!”

“Alright, enough,” Joseph snapped, agitated. “What else do you want to know? Let’s get this finished. I’ve had enough of this bollocks about beer.”

Ashton agreed. “What do you want and how can you get it?”

“We want control of our borders, a limit to immigration,” Joseph said. “Those who do not embrace British values have no place on this island. How do we get there? By mobilising and organising people who have always thought they were powerless. We will show them that they have power. They can change this country not with fancy words but with deeds. We have had enough of talking, we want action.”

He was evidently pleased with this little speech and the faint flicker of a demagogue's dream gleamed in his eyes. At the other end of the table the scarred squaddie gave an abrupt sideways nod. It was not a sign of approval. It was time to leave. “Right, let’s go,” Joseph said nastily, trying to maintain the impression that he was the boss. “You can find your own way back to the station.”

Joseph stood up and leant in. “If you make us look like cunts, we’ll come and have a word. Think about that. You think about that.”

The man with the scar was standing behind with his back to the bar. “You see him?” Joseph nodded backwards. “He’s a killer. He hates lefties and he hates Scousers. You’re the complete fucking package. If he gets the chance he’ll do very bad things to you.”

FLAG’s leader pushed the chair away roughly and stomped out of the door followed by the rest of the group except for the threatening ex-soldier. He waited for a long moment, eyeballing Ashton. It was not a particularly evil look, rather the completely blank, emotionless gaze that a slaughterman in an abattoir would cast on a cow. The taut face was animalistic, without any intellectualism to underpin it. This was the stare of a man who had been stripped to his essence and rebuilt without any notion of compassion or belief that life should be fair. Then he was gone into the night.

Ashton rose and approached the bar. The server eyed him warily. “You know those fellas?” he asked the barman. “Never seen them before,” came the reply. “Can’t say I liked the looks of them. They your mates?”

“No.”

“They look like wrong’uns.”

“You’ve got that right. Can I get another Duvel, please? And do you have a number to call a cab to the station?”

The man passed a card across and looked at the bottle of Belgian ale. “You know how strong that stuff is?” he asked cautiously.

“Yep. That’s the Duvel I know. The devil I don’t know just left.”

The barman shook his head at the inanity of the joke. But it wasn’t meant to be funny.

Chapter 2: Last Orders