2020

by Kenneth Steven

  I saw White Rose activists and they made my blood run cold. They were looking for a war and any way they could find to start one. Many of the hangers-on were nothing more than thugs, young men who were bored and didn’t know what to do with themselves. I’m sure plenty of the ones I saw weren’t even members of the organisation; they were just kids looking for kicks. They might have had White Rose insignia and they might well have had a vague sense of what the group stood for, but why let the facts get in the way of a good fight? I did blame the politicians all the same; I saw them at the root of all this and it sickened me. White Rose had grown out of a dark place in our society, a failure to talk honestly and openly about multi-cultural issues.

  On the other hand, you had the Islamic community and I feel I don’t have the authority to say much about its members. I’m white and I’ve grown up in a white working-class world. I’ve seen both sides. In my street there were good, law-abiding, hard-working Pakistanis who didn’t want to fight with anyone, but I’m well aware of the darker side. It’s those at the edges on both sides I blame and almost hate. They have done the worst thing of all: they have spread fear. And that fear on both sides has spread, slowly but surely, into the moderate community.

  So that night of the by-election result I happened to be in the basement, working out this and that in relation to the business. I’m a self-professed workaholic; always have been, always will be. I love what I do and I find it hard to stop at five o’clock on a Friday evening. Anyway, I came back upstairs having locked up the basement and found it was about one in the morning. I was about to come outside when I heard shouting and stopped. There was a window at the side of the door and from where I was I could see the flames of a bonfire. My first thought was simply to get a sense of what was going on; to be frank, you don’t want to mess with bits of Sudburgh on a Saturday night. Don’t get me wrong, the place has been all too harshly maligned for years and that’s been tough, but the problems are there all the same. I’m just not convinced any of the politicians have done much to address them.

  At any rate, I was sort of standing close in to the door in the shadows. I could get a view out of the side window to my left, but it was very much an angled view. Anyway, all of a sudden I saw this group of white kids dragging out an Asian guy somewhere to my left; they were shouting and laughing. The front of the place was brightly lit, so the fact that it was one in the morning was neither here nor there. I remember coming out at a similar time from the basement a few years back and dropping papers on the pavement; I bent to pick them up and was aware that I could read everything clearly under the sharpness of the street lights. So you ask me how I knew they were whites and the guy they had was Asian: I just saw it right away. There wasn’t a shadow of doubt.

  I could see the whole group clearly; they were shouting and laughing. The Asian was scared; he was shrieking and struggling to get away. They got him down on the ground and two of them were holding open his legs and the third one started kicking him viciously, as hard as he could. He was screaming in pain and the guy just went on kicking him, boot after boot after boot. I felt sick. I felt frightened as well, to be honest; I shrank back into the shadows and could feel myself shaking. I sank right down onto the floor and I heard the kicking going on and on. Eventually the Asian guy vomited and seemed to pass out. The two that had been holding him just dropped him like a doll onto the concrete. I think that was what stunned me most of all: he somehow wasn’t a human being to them. It was as if they had been playing a video game and now it was over.

  For a second they looked in to where I was crouching, and I was terrified they might break their way in to get me. I don’t think they saw me; in fact, I’m certain they didn’t. I was just like a frightened rabbit. I crouched there in the shadows until they’d gone off laughing. I can remember wondering just what I believed in as I crept back home. I wasn’t sure there seemed much left.

  *

  “CAN I ASK you to assure us that the situation in Sudburgh is under control?”

  “Of course it is under control! Look, I am not going to sit here and deny that the by-election result was a shock and a disappointment, but we have to move on from that. The fact is there are plenty of sane, decent political thinkers both in and around Sudburgh; just because Eric Semple managed to squeeze past the post by the skin of his teeth does not mean that anarchy ensues the following day. I personally felt a profound sense of sadness at the result because it seemed a victory for extremism over reason and partnership, but I believe profoundly it was the result of a protest vote.”

  “And yet the fact of the matter is that White Rose are gaining in strength month by month. Doesn’t that in itself say something about how people in the street are turning their backs on the mainstream parties? Isn’t it a very real sign of failure on the part of leaders like you to address the questions they feel are being put to one side? One of your own backbenchers said that there was a tendency to ‘bury the difficult questions in unmarked graves.’ Surely it must worry you that the battle seems to be lost?”

  “I am desperately concerned about extremism on both sides. What happened at Burroway did nothing less than break my heart. When I was interviewed that morning at the site I felt I spoke as a husband and a father first, as Prime Minister second. But the fact of the matter is that I don’t possess any kind of magic wand to wave away extremism. And I don’t believe that anyone does. Perhaps it’s akin to putting out a heathland fire. You feel you’ve done the job and then the smouldering begins over there, and there; you have to go back and beat the ground again and again until you’re certain the job’s done. And even then you have to keep on watching and watching, being on your guard. But in the end it’s about new growth, a green returning through all that’s been blackened and burned. It’s a long, long process.”

  “And what if you’re wrong, Prime Minister? What if the heath fire that would seem to be under Sudburgh, and other towns, can’t be put out so easily? Will you personally take responsibility for that failure?”

  “Let me come back and talk about that in three months’ time, or in half a year. I don’t believe in failure here—I simply can’t afford to do so. I believe that the hard work which has been done over the years in building stronger community relations in that whole area will prevail. I think we must be careful not to be complacent and to see that the hard work has to continue, but let’s talk up that hard work, not talk it down. I don’t believe that good community relations can be decided just by white papers from government, deep in the Westminster Bubble. I think it’s much more about what happens on the ground: how a teacher deals with the bullying of an Asian student, how a local church reaches out to the Pakistani community on its doorstep. It would be wrong and dangerous to put all this at the feet of politicians, and that’s not dodging the question or passing the buck. What we need to believe is that together the rebuilding can and will be done.”

  *

  SEVERAL PETROL BOMBS were thrown into offices belonging to the White Rose organisation in the centre of Sudburgh earlier this afternoon. Reports suggest that a protest by members of the Asian community was being held outside when scuffles broke out. While police were attempting to restore order, the petrol bombs were thrown through the upper windows of the building. It appears that until today the precise location of the White Rose office was being kept secret for security reasons. A fire at once broke out inside the building and fire crews struggled for over an hour to gain access, before bringing out at least three seriously injured individuals, all believed to be members of White Rose. Eric Semple has appealed for calm, saying that nothing is to be gained from mindless acts of violence in the city, but many of his political opponents accuse him of having said and done far too little to condemn the unrest that has come in the wake of the Sudburgh by-election. Police have confirmed that the fire at the White Rose office was quickly brought under control once access was gained to the building, but they have again appealed in the strongest terms to protesters to allow the
emergency services immediate access to sites of all kinds when it is necessary. They complain that too often the emergency services are being hampered from doing their work, and that today’s events were a perfect example of what was later described as the mindless behaviour of a minority. The local hospital where the three victims of the petrol bomb attack were taken has said that one man with serious burns is fighting for his life.

  *

  I’M NOT SURE what I thought. I think I believed I was political, but I had no idea what that really meant. Being political was doing a lot of shouting and breaking a few windows. But I was fired up by Eric Semple, and so were a lot of people. Young guys of my age especially, but I don’t think only us. He really said it like it was. You watched Eric Semple speaking—or shouting would be more accurate!—and you felt really excited. Looking back, I’m not actually sure there was a lot he could do. He was one tiny cog in a huge wheel, and apart from making a hell of a lot of noise (which he did), I’m not certain what else there was to do. I remember actually thinking that a few days after he was elected. He’d made so much noise in the lead-up, and then once he was elected he seemed to go quiet. In a way it was perhaps easier shouting from the side-lines, making a protest that everyone heard loud and clear. I think the hard part began once he got there, once he was elected. I don’t know, but I remember thinking something of that at the time. Perhaps we did talk politics now and again, but if we did it was most likely just racist rants. It was wishful thinking: we lived boring, miserable lives on council estates doing little but going round in circles. Eric Semple was exciting; he was something else, something worth shouting about. I’m not sure there was any real goal.

  There was a white guy on the estate who started dating an Asian girl. He got a lot of warnings but I don’t think he cared. I think he was bright, heading for university. Anyway, he was given a last warning, told he had to break it off. Our area was controlled by a group of White Rose members, and they were a bunch you didn’t mess with. They helped people they liked who were in trouble, but they also kept an eye on the ones they didn’t. It was mostly a case of control by fear. I suspect this guy didn’t think they’d actually do anything; I mean, what he was doing was hardly illegal. But they went to his house one night and dragged him out. They told him he’d had all the warnings he needed and hadn’t listened. Now it was the fox and hounds: that was the name of the “game” they played. I hadn’t heard of that before then either. They said he had five minutes to run and then they were coming after him. They chased him for well over an hour until he jumped over a bridge and got caught on some railings. They just left him. I believe without a doubt that story’s true; they were capable of that kind of thing. In a way they were as bad and worse to whites as they were to Asians or blacks. They forced a lot of kids to join White Rose, especially boys in secondary school. It was about making money, pure and simple.

  I didn’t actually know any Asians. After what happened to that guy on our estate I wouldn’t have wanted to take the risk. In a way you felt there were two levels to White Rose: there were the ones at the top with the public face. Then there were the rest, the kind I saw all around me all the time. It’s as if one lot operated through the day and the other lot only once it got dark. I’m sure the ones in charge knew what was going on but they never said anything; they just made sure nothing could ever be proved. In some ways I think they were even more dangerous. The ones down below were pretty much thugs; they were just useful. The ones up above were like actors; they said all the right things and knew how to cover their tracks. But underneath was something else.

  *

  I SUPPOSE IT would have been about eight o’clock by then: I had rather lost any sense of time. We filed downstairs into this weird mausoleum of a place, and what I remember more than anything is the airlessness. It had been stuffy enough in the interview room, in the modern part of the building; down below at the back of it everything just felt strange and stifling. Perhaps that was all part of the intention. The prisoner really began to show signs of distress on the way down the stairs; he obviously didn’t know what on earth was happening and started to panic. For the last hours while we interviewed him I would almost say he had grown confident; he certainly lost any anxiety he’d arrived with. And my colleague and I had effectively been nice to him; he knew that too. So this just seemed to throw him into a complete tail-spin. My superior led the way and my colleague, the officer with whom I’d conducted the interview, came behind him. So the prisoner was between the two of us and we were half holding on to him as we went down the last of the steps. He was looking all around him; I can remember seeing his eyes in the half-darkness of the place. It was musty, it was hot, it was claustrophobic. I don’t remember there being any windows; I certainly couldn’t see any. You felt below ground there, whether that was true or not. I had that sense of there not being quite enough air to breathe. My boss, my superior officer, call him what you will, drew me to one side as soon as we were down there. He spoke very quietly but looked at me the whole time with fierce eyes and jabbed one finger in the air as he spoke. He said this could be a simple matter of life and death, that he knew exactly what he was doing and believed it was absolutely justified. He said there was no reason for what was going to take place to be mentioned beyond these walls, that he expected my full cooperation as on any other occasion. Then he turned away.

  There was a very simple, stark table in the chamber; I don’t think there was anything at all in the way of chairs. We were told that we should undress the prisoner and that he should lie on his back on the table. I can remember him looking at me as we obeyed and started taking off his clothes; I think he was quite beyond words with shock, and I could feel his arms trembling as together we pulled off his shirt. I didn’t know whether my superior actually intended us to remove his underwear; I just turned round towards him preparing to voice my question and he simply gave a single nod. We then made the prisoner lie down on his back; I’m not sure if he would have done that of his own accord by that stage. I can’t honestly remember whether he was making any noise at that point, but he was certainly shaking. I can recall my own heart racing; I felt extremely uncomfortable with the whole situation but had no idea what else to do. I’ve castigated myself many times for not having spoken or acted in some way to question what was going on. I am well aware that my silence and the silence of my colleague makes us complicit in what took place. I’m not at all sure what we would have done or could have done. All right, I’m sorry, I realise I’m not here to try to justify my actions but simply to record them.

  My superior officer stood facing the prisoner at the bottom of the table, so to speak. I saw that he brought something out of the bag he had carried with him. I couldn’t see what it was at that point because of the poor light. He spoke in a very measured way, as though he was absolutely calm. He said he was holding a device in his hands that he now felt compelled to use because of the gravity of the situation. The prisoner had confessed to his part in a terrorist attack on the country that had been responsible for the deaths of over a hundred and sixty innocent people and the injury of many more. The others directly involved in the attack had died in it—they had to all intents and purposes been suicide bombers—and now it was imperative to know who else might have been involved in the planning of the attack, and what other planning may already have been in place for further attacks.

  He held up the device and turned it around, but even then I couldn’t get any real sense of it because of the lack of light. He said that it would be fitted over the scrotum and gradually tightened, and that it had last been used on an IRA suspect in the 1970s in Northern Ireland. He then fitted the device and it was clear it was intended to feel very tight from the outset—the prisoner certainly reacted when it was put into place. I’m not sure what I felt: a mixture of revulsion and anxiety and pure shock. I have been trained to operate within the law and for over twenty years that is precisely what I have done. I have been all too aware of cases, particul
arly involving the Metropolitan Police, where the law has been bent for the sake of politicians or indeed for officers. I have found myself deeply ashamed of the evidence that has emerged, or even the crimes that have been supressed. I am all too aware that although officially this country is opposed to the use of torture, it has nevertheless been used. And I’m not simply meaning various types of stress positions that might or might not be described as torture; I’m not meaning these grey areas—I’m speaking of very real, unequivocal uses of torture in Northern Ireland, in Kenya, and doubtless elsewhere too. I’m no expert in the history, but it simply cannot be denied that torture has been used for the extraction of information.

  And that was what was happening in front of me, before my eyes. As I’ve said, I felt a sheer bewilderment of emotions, but I was certainly not quite able to believe the situation. In describing it all to you, as honestly as possible, I have slowed things down quite ridiculously. The truth is that moving from the interview room to the basement, to the beginning of what can only be described as torture, would have taken all of eight minutes. I cannot believe it was longer.

  *

  OH, I DON’T think anybody in the country realised just how serious things were in Whitehall. I’m not even sure I realised! Perhaps you don’t feel the true force of a crisis, if that’s the best description, until afterwards. Perhaps something of the PM’s panic got through to the tabloids; I think a hint of that was there, certainly. But the truth is that the leader of the opposition didn’t have an awful lot to throw at him. I think he realised that himself, and though there was inevitable sparring about sodding Sudburgh—that was what it tended to be known as behind closed doors—it was all quite careful. The opposition knew damn well it was a case of there but for the grace of God. They knew fine the PM was quite right when he said that a magic wand couldn’t be waved over such a situation. They might even have gone as far as to feel something like sympathy for what the whole thing had spiralled into. I suppose the London lot—those who couldn’t quite see anything north of Watford without a telescope—would have muttered to begin with that it was a case of the tail wagging the dog. Yes, I might have been guilty of that kind of attitude in the first days. The fact was that rather a lot was happening elsewhere in the world—as there always is!—and that we were in danger of spending a disproportionate amount of time worrying about a little idiot in Sudburgh. His nickname up there—sometimes used rather affectionately—was the Little Hitler. I think that was our way of cutting him down to size in Whitehall, by simply slicing that to the little idiot. Because that’s effectively what he was. He happened to be able to appeal wildly to the flog ’em and hang ’em brigade, and he made reasonably good speeches. But there was no substance there: what did he think he was going to do about it? He wasn’t about to bring in naval vessels to cart off hundreds of thousands of Pakistanis! There’s too much of a fondness for curry in his neck of the woods for that to happen anyway. You can just see these White Rose sympathisers having their five pints on a Friday night and then going home with a curry. The whole thing’s lunacy, but it was very dangerous lunacy at the time all the same. And the fire-bombing of the White Rose offices marked a very real escalation of it all. I suspect the PM thought that some kind of order had been restored after the election of Eric Semple as MP. They were really praying there wouldn’t be any acts of retaliation; all of the imams in the North were being contacted to beg them to use what influence they had. And to give them their due, I think they were doing their best. But it wasn’t enough, not nearly enough.