The Knives

by Richard T. Kelly

  *

  After checking into the doctors’ surgery he loitered awhile in the vestibule on his phone, returning a call from his constituency office with regard to a local Labour councillor – one Akhtar Chopra, holder of the portfolio for ‘community cohesion’ – who had been ringing insistently with demands that the FBB’s planned march through Thornfield be banned.

  ‘I’m seeing the cops directly when I’m up tomorrow, he can see me directly after that,’ Blaylock told Bob Cropper, idly kicking the wall with the toe of his shoe. Through the glass door he heard his name over the tannoy, and hoped that it sounded thoroughly anonymous to the coughers and sniffers huddled in the waiting area.

  Dr Quayle was dependably unsmiling, wearing her usual hunted look as he took the hard-backed chair opposite her.

  ‘It’s a personal matter, a wellbeing issue … For a while now I’ve been conscious of an issue in terms of controlling my temper. It’s been observed, pointed out to me, by people close to me. And it may have had an effect, on my relations … it, I don’t know, could be colouring my judgements on things.’

  ‘You’re saying you’re prone to temper tantrums?’

  Hating the sound of that, while wanting to make progress, Blaylock nodded. Dr Quayle was visibly relieved.

  ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a common enough part of life.’

  ‘I wonder if I would benefit, if there’s someone I could see, talk to, about ways to manage anger?’

  ‘That would be cognitive behaviour therapy.’ Quayle nodded, clearly yet more convinced she could kick this can down the road. ‘I can offer you a referral, there are a number of providers.’

  He nodded and she turned to her computer and clicked her way into a database – then seemed to think again and, rather fearful, swivelled back to him. ‘We’re talking regular weekly two-hour sessions, that’s something you could commit to?’

  ‘I’d take it seriously, yes, of course.’

  She returned to her screen and, biting her lip, hit a key to print.

  *

  ‘The suspect’s name is Kristian Vollan,’ Gavin Ball updated. ‘Norwegian, late twenties, works in a foam rubber factory on an industrial estate outside Birmingham. An employee clocked him from the CCTV we put out, it wasn’t the cleanest image but the fellow had had his suspicions, funnily.’

  Blaylock whistled down the line in appreciation. The Dudley investigation was moving with truly gratifying speed.

  ‘He was alone?’

  ‘We’re making enquiries with the Norwegian authorities. But, we have his computer, it’s all there, his interests. The pieces. So probably alone, yes, but he’s plugged into Norwegian far-right groups plus a bit more of a wider web clan opposed to “the genocide of whites” and the “Islamic conquest of Europe”.’

  ‘Dear god.’

  ‘He seems to be a fan of the Free Briton Brigade? Attended some convention they were at. His Facebook page is full of praise for them.’

  ‘That ought to widely known, I’d say. Come the time.’

  Feeling strangely buoyed he repaired again to a quiet soundproofed pod, took paper from pocket and, before he could stop himself, tapped out the Hampstead number for Dr Amanda Scott-Stokes, Chartered Clinical Psychologist, BSc, MClinPsych, DPsych.

  The voice that answered was owlishly posh, slightly lisping, but business-like. ‘Yes, yes. Not next Monday but the Monday after? Good, good.’

  Marking off his accomplishment, feeling himself worthy of merit, he tried Abigail again.

  ‘Hello, David …’

  ‘You got my message?’

  ‘I did. Yes …’

  ‘But, you didn’t call.’

  ‘I didn’t know what to say to you … I still don’t, really. But I think there’s something we need to talk about. And I’m sorry to have to say it …’

  He sat down, as if he had been told to, feeling like a much younger and less assured man.

  ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘I think … things have happened and … I’ve thought about it and I don’t feel things are right between us. For either of us. If it wasn’t for the jobs we’re in it might be different. But because of that I think maybe we need to … just say it’s a thing that isn’t really in the stars …’

  Some moments later, the line dead, Blaylock was still muttering to himself, replaying the tape in his head, formulating a position, as he held the door handle and readied a face with which to face the world. He knew, no question, that he was processing an abrupt reversal of fortune, a rejection he had just not seen coming.

  And his chief feeling was humiliation, sticking to him unpleasantly as if tipped out over his head. His warm feelings for Abby – narrow as they had been – had turned in a trice to loathing. For, whatever his efforts at self-persuasion, she had remained a trifle in his eyes, without a jot of Jennie’s substance. He should have been the one to decide when the game was done. Instead he had been left feeling done up.

  Then a darker thought fell on him, as he recalled Mark Tallis’s dim view of her all the way along. Had Abby really been playing him? Could he have been so mistaken? The thought was too terrible, so he pushed it away and pushed out through the door.

  *

  Feeling so hollowed, Blaylock was in no mood to plaster on a fake smile and take a bow at a meaningless awards ceremony. And yet he knew the ‘Politician of the Year’ could not possibly send apologies: there would be no hiding place from the low-level bitchery he would set on himself. And so he made the effort to brush up, get robust, appear unfazed. He told himself it was no crime to take, for one night only, some validation in the praise of Westminster’s insular press corps.

  Within minutes of stepping inside the venue’s plushness – its walnut panels, damask drapes and dripping chandelier – he wanted to be gone. Near enough his first sight was Abigail in the midst of a press table, unimpressive male specimens at either side of her. After the briefest of eye contacts he made sure to look elsewhere.

  He was seated by Caroline Tennant, the Criterion’s ‘Minister of the Year’, with whom small talk was, as ever, futile; though she did ask him with an authentic perplexity if he could explain the distinction between their respective awards.

  ‘It means you’re considered competent and I’m considered “colourful”,’ Blaylock replied, topping up their glasses.

  Once proceedings were under way, though, there was nothing that could dissolve his dislike of every aspect of the awful spectacle, from the piped music that heralded each speaker to the heavy-handed light-heartedness of every speech: fake esteem, fake conviviality, it seemed to Blaylock, when the sum of petty hatreds and envies in the room, suitably refined, would be enough fuel to fire a rocket into space.

  ‘You’re not enjoying it, David,’ Caroline murmured after he had absently missed a prompt to applaud.

  ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘Something to do with the way you claw at your face, I suppose.’

  He did sit to attention, however, for Madolyn Redpath, winner of ‘Campaigner of the Year’, in a black dress less schoolgirlish than her usual preference. He hadn’t seen her for a while and felt, with some sort of a pang, that he had rather missed her. In these surroundings she did cut a notably unspoilt figure.

  Then came his own turn, and after generous applause he hefted his plaque and stood at the dais blinking into the lights.

  ‘I feel a bit unworthy, like perhaps I’ve been given this just for thumping somebody. And that’s not politics, as we know. Though it can be great fun. If you don’t believe me, just think for a minute, what it would be like to thump the person you’re sitting next to.’

  The room, previously so generous, now seemed put off.

  ‘Forgive me. My jokes are often misunderstood. Even by me. But I won’t cry, won’t go live in self-pity city. That would go against the image I’ve so carefully cultivated … and for which I expect you’ve bestowed on me this honour – so, thank you and goodnight.’

&nb
sp; *

  Proceedings done, the room began to empty, Caroline saying her cool goodbyes to him before hastening out to her carriage. Clocking Andy at the door, Blaylock poured a last bumper from the full-ish burgundy on the table, and looked up to see Madolyn standing over him, glass in hand, plaque under her arm, further encumbered by a large clutch bag.

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Back at you.’ He held out his hand and she shook, smiled and sat down beside him. He was yet more admiring of her dress, a structured number with buttons down the front that fastened across the collarbone. She fixed him with her direct and gleaming gaze.

  ‘I’ve owed you a call for a while, actually. To say well done on what you did on women’s refuges. The stand you took.’

  ‘I was lobbied very hard. As you know, I’m not impervious to a case well made. But, thank you.’

  ‘You know,’ she ventured, ‘if I gave the impression I thought you were the worst there ever was – I mean, I expect you think I’m awfully sanctimonious – but, so you know, I do believe you’re a decent man.’

  ‘That does actually mean a lot to me.’

  Looking at her intent eyes he feared he might blush, even if the ruby-redness were largely the work of the burgundy.

  ‘I have something for you,’ she said, lifting her bag to her lap.

  True, he had thought her highly priggish from the off. Yet he couldn’t deny he was pleased she had identified virtue in him. Unease pulled at him, though, as he watched her rummage in the clutch – for one, a discomfiting awareness of how badly he sought to see himself reflected favourably in a woman’s eyes; for another, the surety that he would disappoint this woman again soon enough, since the world, through it all, remained wicked.

  The candle on the table was burning low, the last stragglers leaving, wearied waiters poised to sweep the tables. Peering past the small flame Blaylock saw Abigail glance his way as she left. For a moment he wondered hopefully if perhaps she was singeing a little.

  Madolyn had produced a grey bundle and she put it in his hands. He unfolded a cotton tee-shirt bearing the decal legend FEMINIST, and below that, smaller, GOT A PROBLEM WITH IT?

  He smiled. ‘Nice. A little snug for me. Maybe I’ll frame it?’

  ‘You wouldn’t wear it?’

  ‘Oh, I’d feel a bit … phoney.’

  ‘You wouldn’t call yourself a feminist?’

  ‘Well, I mean – do I have to?’

  ‘If you believe in basic equality for women, then yeah.’

  ‘I do. I just don’t want to have to swallow a definition you can fit into fifty characters … I mean, I’d rather just be judged on my actions and have it known I’m not a prick about this stuff than have to declare it across my chest. Sorry if that’s a let-down.’

  She was indeed giving him a sceptical look, albeit slightly smiling. ‘Yeah well. If we’re doing regrets, I’m sorry I had to mullah you over your fucking ID cards the other week. The fight goes on, right?’

  Blaylock rolled his eyes and lifted his glass. ‘Take care of yourself, Maddy.’

  He watched her sashay away, feeling a little lifted out of the day’s gloom, some sense of amour propre restored.

  4

  Though Blaylock’s weekend had a challenging look about it, Friday at least offered a sooner than usual escape from the office to the Darlington train. From the comfort of his berth in First Class he studied the morning’s papers, their widespread and gratifying coverage of the capture of Kristian Vollan in Dudley.

  Leaving Andy to mind their goods he pin-balled his way through the carriage toward the toilets. Beside the door to the vestibule was a man alone at a table of four, reading his evening paper held upright and stretched stiff over what looked to be the remnants of a full English breakfast. But as Blaylock neared, the newspaper came down to reveal the face of Duncan Scarth, a study in self-satisfaction.

  ‘Afternoon, David?’

  Blaylock’s instinct was to walk on, yet he felt the provocation.

  ‘Mr Scarth. Where are you headed?’

  ‘Home for the weekend. Like yourself, eh? A bit business, a bit pleasure.’ He folded his paper and tossed it to the table. ‘Yeah, as you’ll be aware, we expect to be in your neck of the woods in a week’s time. The response on Teesside has been very encouraging.’

  ‘I doubt that very much.’

  ‘Well, I trust you’ll respect the rights of ordinary working-class people to meet and express their opinions. You’ll not be running off scared as seems to be your wont.’

  Andy had come down the aisle, to Blaylock’s dismay.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve no fears where that’s concerned. As to your little pub crawl, Cleveland Police will decide if it’s viable.’

  ‘What, you’ll not have a say? Tsk. Typical politician. Always ducking the issue.’

  It was foolish, he knew, to squabble with such a man in such a public space. If he did so with Scarth, why not a thousand more? Glowering, he pushed on through the door, leaving Andy to give Scarth a little more of the evil eye.

  *

  From Darlington Blaylock was driven directly to the campus-like headquarters of Cleveland Police, there to discuss the FBB’s Thornfield march with the Chief Constable – a lean and unprepossessing man, anxiously furrowed of brow yet given, in Blaylock’s experience, to a notable bluffness that might have been calculated to remind folk he was from Leeds, and not just some sort of pencil-pusher.

  ‘I take it the key factor at your side is the citizenship ceremony scheduled that day at the Town Hall, yes?’

  ‘Right. Obviously that goes ahead, we’re not stopping that. I’m sure it’s not escaped the FBB’s notice. The guy in charge of them—’

  ‘Gary Wardell?’

  ‘No, their bankroller, Duncan Scarth? He has implied to me heavily that he wants to cause me bother in my own constituency.’

  ‘You’ve had – dialogue with him?’

  ‘He keeps following me around. Like the proverbial smell.’

  ‘Well. Look. We can police this demo, no bother. For starters there’s no football on. We’ve a provisional route mapped out that’s a good mile away from the Town Hall, they’ll not get near any hot-spots. Plenty of barriers, good visible presence of officers, we’ll get the community support out and about, and a few wagons of riot boys on standby.’

  ‘You seem very confident.’

  ‘Confident, yes. Not complacent. So am I reassuring you here? Or have you still got concerns?’

  ‘The Met have given me some grounds to think there’s more badness in this lot than meets the eye. You’ll be aware the bomber in Dudley had … affinities with them. Of some sort.’

  ‘Yes. Awful business, that. But a load of clicks on the internet doesn’t add up to a movement, does it? I’d say we have a pretty good intelligence picture ourselves. People like your man in Dudley, they’re lone wolves. They don’t mix in too well with football hooligans. And hooligans, really, are what we’re looking at here. Wouldn’t you say?’

  *

  Within the hour Blaylock was sitting in his constituency office over mugs of tea with Councillor Chopra, having attained the settled mind he had sought; but having settled, too – given Mr Chopra’s evident disgruntlement – into the role of bad guy that seemed to be his lot. Blaylock wondered anew if he didn’t somehow wish it for himself, or consider that no scenario was otherwise complete.

  ‘The view of councillors is unanimous. The community, unanimous! Business, unanimous! There will be trouble in the streets, shops will stay shut for fear. We don’t want them here.’

  ‘The march can’t be banned unless the police recommend it, and they do not. The Chief Constable is sure they have the resources to deal with the thing properly.’

  ‘Why should taxpayers foot that bill? For such people?’

  ‘It’s not my view that affordability should be paramount where you’re talking about the right to demonstrate.’

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Blaylock, your type of politics
is all about telling us what our taxes can and can’t afford.’

  Blaylock acknowledged the insult by meeting Chopra’s incensed eye. ‘This is a one-off cost that is manageable. But I’d ask you to set aside the idea it’s about politics. There’s no ignoring the free speech issue. So I’d suggest you try to imagine the logic of the ban you’re proposing being applied to speech that you’re in favour of.’

  ‘These people, they talk free speech but on social media it is “Muslims are terrorists”, “Muslims are paedophiles”. All they want is a cover for their racism. So they can strut around parading their Islamophobia.’

  ‘I totally understand your wish to have them silenced. But as distasteful as some of their views are—’

  ‘Some of their views—?’

  ‘Yes, “some”. There is a line, in all public speech, between the sort of thing any decent person should deplore, and the sort of thing one may just disagree with or not want to hear.’

  ‘You are defending them?’

  ‘Not a bit. But nor do I see why you need to feel so protective of your religion.’

  ‘Mr Blaylock – our community is fearful, right now, with great reason. It is besieged, and you seem oblivious.’

  In that Blaylock planned to spend his Saturday afternoon tramping through a dank cave with a group of young Muslim men, he felt his ties to the community were as tight as they had ever been. And yet the thought of those exertions ahead was already giving him phantomic twinges in his back and knees, and having sworn himself off the whisky for the night he wanted his bed.

  ‘I don’t downplay that. I ask us all to stand together. Not to be cowed. There is a provocation I’m well aware of. It’s our citizenship ceremony being targeted, on a day to celebrate diversity. I believe the correct approach is to show these people they have the right to speak, let them speak, and let them shame themselves.’