Poster Boy, page 3
But perhaps Dad was right. Maybe, despite the rising tide of racial hatred, the ERP’s victories in the local elections had just been a protest vote. Maybe by the time the general election came around the sensible, and traditional, British people would have put their crosses next to one of the three main parties, just like they always did. And maybe they would have. If it hadn’t been for Dover.
4
Aarif Ishak and little Lily had got the ball rolling for Cole and his newly formed English Reclamation Party. The riots had given it momentum. But it was the events at Dover that gave it an almighty shove toward its final destination.
In the run up to Armistice Day, during my second year at high school, the whole country had poppy fever. Appearing on television without one after 31st October was practically a hanging offence. All the major parties had clued into the fact patriotism was the drug being peddled by the ERP, and with Cole’s bosom buddy Heath now in full control of several major newspapers and networks, the public were lapping it up. The Labour government at the time were no exception. They’d spent millions on ostentatious displays of poppies, lavish televised services and of course the Red Arrow display.
Our school had taken the opportunity to saturate the curriculum with the topic, across all years and in all subjects, including art. We’d spent several lessons creating a huge wreath made out of crepe paper and pipe cleaners to be presented to the mayor at a special service. I was thirteen, and less than impressed at having to travel into town on a Saturday in my school uniform. But, as one of the ‘enrichment class’ pupils, my attendance was mandatory.
Everyone remembers where they were when they heard the news, or saw the footage, for the first time. Most people were at home, having just watched the two minutes’ silence. I was sat on a cold, hard pew listening to the priest ramble on while I waited to be called up to give the crappy PVA glue-stained wreath to the mayor.
We weren’t supposed to have our Shades switched on. But Felix, who was sat in the row behind me, had his held between his legs, partially covered with a hymn book. I expect he was watching some awful vlogger or something. The breaking news must have interrupted his stream.
“Holy shit!” His sudden outburst echoed in the stone-walled church. All eyes turned on him. Little old ladies gasped, our head teacher flushed red, the priest stopped talking. All of us school kids giggled.
Mrs Davies marched over to him, hissing her demand that he hand over his Shades.
“But Miss,” Felix protested, holding them up so she could see the screens. “Miss, look.”
She snatched them, but didn’t fold them. Something on the screen caught her attention and her face lost several shades of pink.
“Oh my God,” she added to the blasphemy.
By this point the head teacher, Mr Haskin, was watching over her shoulder. He cleared his throat, took the Shades from Mrs Davies and went to speak to the priest.
The adults all began to whisper. I watched the priest’s face as Mr Haskin showed him whatever the hell was on those Shades. He held his hand to his chest, before crossing himself. Eventually, he addressed the congregation.
“It appears there has been a terrible accident at Dover,” he said. “I think we should all pray for the Red Arrow pilot who has, tragically, crashed.”
The man on the other side of aisle had been fiddling with his own Shades. I heard him whisper to the woman beside him, “Didn’t look like no accident to me.”
The service wrapped up hastily. We never did give our creation to the mayor. But then, all the newspapers would have plenty to keep them occupied. A picture of some snotty kids with a handmade wreath wouldn’t be required.
As soon as we got out the door, we hurriedly switched on our Shades. It was there, on the steps of the church, beside the poppy drenched memorial plaque, that I saw the footage for the very first time.
The Spitfires flew over the iconic white cliffs in their famous arrowhead arrangement, leaving short trails of black smoke behind them. As they came about, one of the planes on the right-hand side broke formation, diving diagonally at full speed. When it hit the cliff face the impact caused a huge cloud of dust and debris. I could just hear the screams of the onlookers when, less than a second later, a fireball engulfed what was left of the plane.
We all know what came next. The cliffs seemed to groan and shake. The falling chalk looked like an avalanche as it plummeted into the sea. The dust and debris mixed with the white horses of the English Channel creating an unnatural fog across the waves. As more and more of the cliff face descended the cloud rose up, until it resembled a volcano raining down white ash.
When the collapse finally stopped, the rugged and weathered cliff face, which had become a symbol of our very national identity, was no more. Instead, England was left with a smooth, brilliant white slope at its most famous border. From the air, the cliffs looked like a row of teeth destroyed by cavities.
It was obvious, even to me, this had been no accident. I don’t think there was a person in England who believed it was. Maybe when the plane first collided with the cliff, but not after the explosion. And, thanks to having spent the best part of two months studying nothing but the world wars, no one needed to tell me how big a deal this was. I knew all about Vera Lynn and her bluebirds. The symbolism was unmistakable. Someone had used our most iconic fighting plane to attack the very landmark that had symbolised freedom, and home, to our servicemen. This changed everything.
It took only a few hours for them to announce the culprit. Yousseff Nasir, an RAF serviceman, and by all accounts a blue-blooded patriot. After his death however, his links to jihadists were soon uncovered. He’d somehow smuggled explosives on board, and used his martyrdom to attack the English where it hurt the most. Right in their national pride. The outcry over Aarif’s botched trial was nothing compared to this. The government were forced to temporarily ban Muslims from entering the armed services, to prevent more riots. But it wasn’t enough. The public were baying for blood. And Cole, with his ridiculous promises to ‘send them all home’, was the only one who seemed to understand.
So it came as no surprise to me when, six months later, Dad was proven wrong. People were that stupid. The following May, in the midst of one of the worst recessions our country has ever seen, and to the backdrop of almost daily terror attacks around the world, Cole and the English Reclamation Party won the general election with a landslide victory.
Dad was shocked. Which made me realise, for the first time, he was not as intelligent as I thought he was. I knew it was coming. I read the headlines. All the headlines. Dad read only the publications, and subscribed to only the broadcasters, that upheld his own position: analysis of current events by the liberal-minded intelligentsia; deconstruction of the ERP in witty, satirical columns by people who extolled the virtues of multiculturalism and global cooperation. In the reality he chose to live in there was no way anyone could possibly agree with Cole.
But he didn’t see the news I saw. He didn’t read the headlines filled with hatred and blame, or listen to the vlogs full of furious rants. He didn’t know that British Bulldog (the prolific vlogger whose heyday was in the months leading up to the election) had more than ten times the views for his daily patriotic evangelising than any of the ‘wet liberals’ he so vehemently despised. And he didn’t hear the teens at school spouting the views they heard from their parents. In his (now one-man) office, behind his glowing screen, clutching his grande latte and flapjack, he was as blind to reality as I once had been.
The first major parental row of the new government happened just hours after the election results were announced. While Cole was shaking diplomatic hands, and flashing his tombstones at every camera, Dad was pulling the suitcases down from the loft.
“We’re leaving,” he announced, heaving the huge brown cases onto his bed.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mum abandoned making breakfast and stormed upstairs. “You always do this. You can’t throw a tantrum just because you didn’t get your own way.”
“Get my own way? Get my own way? We’re living under a twenty-first-century Hitler, and you think this is about getting my own way?”
“Oh don’t be so dramatic. He’s just a politician.”
“So was Adolf. What are you waiting for Janey? The chimneys to start smoking? I’ve spoken to Kadeem, he’s been nagging me to make the move for ages. He can find us somewhere to rent while we sort out—”
“That’s what it’s really all about isn’t it? You can’t make the business work by yourself so you’re going to uproot your whole family, disturb the kids’ education and tear me away from my friends and family, just so you can go hang off Kadeem’s shirt tails. Well, I’m not having it.”
Jimmy rolled his eyes, grabbed a slice of toast and picked up his bag. “I’m going,” he said. “Gonna meet Ged for a skate before the bus.”
“Aren’t you bothered?” I asked, still cocking my head, straining to hear the argument that had gotten quieter now one of them had shut the bedroom door. “Dad wants us to move to Australia.” I’d long since stopped video-calling Soheila daily, but we still kept in touch. I had made new friends, sure, but nothing close to the bond she and I had shared. I admit, the prospect excited me.
Jimmy just shrugged. “Whatever,” he said, and walked out the door.
5
Not all my dreams involve Cole’s brutal, painful demise. Some are less altruistic. That I somehow persuaded Mum to change her mind, became the reason the Lincolns were living a million miles away from the ERP, that’s my favourite daydream. Oh, I’d feel bad for my former countrymen, left behind to live under liver lips and his cronies, but only slightly. They voted for him after all. In reality, I had no more control over my parents’ actions than I did over the voters, or any of the hundreds of cab drivers who hadn’t mown Cole down on his walk to the bar.
But I didn’t even try.
That’s what kills me the most. My own inaction. The row ended when Mum told him, point blank, he could go if it meant that much to him, but it would be without her, or us. It stopped him dead. When he came downstairs he looked defeated, pale and shaken, all the fire gone from his eyes. A man who’d just realised his opponent held the winning cards. No matter what he drew, or how well he bluffed, he’d never beat that flush. There was no point in even playing any more.
But maybe I’d held the ace he needed. If I’d thrown in my hand, maybe I’d have upped the ante. If I’d reasoned, pleaded, cried. Hell, if I could go back now I’d scream, shake her, set fire to the house if that’s what it took. I’d do anything. Anything. But I did nothing.
It probably wouldn’t have made any difference. But I’d give anything to have tried.
Instead of jetting off to sunnier climes, it wasn’t long before we found ourselves heading to bleaker, more polluted ones. Dad had remortgaged the house to buy out Kadeem’s share of the business when he upped sticks two years before. But when the economic crisis started to bite, he couldn’t make the repayments. He had no choice but to pawn his soul again, sell up and go back to his former employers.
More blazing rows ensued. He didn’t want to commute, Mum didn’t want to move. But this time, he held the winning hand in the battle, though it must have been cold comfort given that the war was already lost.
“You want to move us all just so you don’t have to sit on a train for an hour?” Mum raged, slamming her wine glass down on the dinner table.
“For an hour? Come on, Janey, you know what it was like. You can’t have killed that many brain cells with Zinfandel that you can’t remember. Twelve-hour days, delayed commutes, working weekends and holidays. I’m not going back to paying for a house I never get to spend any time in. That ship has sailed.”
“Well, I’m not moving, so you’ll just have to suck it up, or think of another way to make it work.”
Dad smiled in that leisurely, almost eerie way people do when they know they’ve won.
“Oh, I have,” he said, “I’ve got the perfect solution.” He teased tagliatelle onto his fork in casual, circular movements, “One that would mean I could keep the business and we could keep the house.” He stabbed a couple of peas with the tip.
“Well, go on then Mr Big Shot, what is it?” Mum asked.
Dad grinned, and raised his fully loaded forkful. “You could get a job.” He shoved his food into his mouth and clanked his fork back down on the plate (I swear it sounded like ‘Ta Da!’ as it hit the china). You didn’t need to be a telepath to hear the mental checkmate that passed between them.
Mum picked up her glass, downed it and poured another. She scowled as she finished her pasta (and how bitter it must have tasted), but she didn’t say another word.
So, at age fifteen, Jimmy and I left the only home we had ever known. Yet the only person who came to wave us off was Kelly Matthews, my brother’s on-again, off-again girlfriend. Her acne-ridden face was smeared in mascara, snot and tears as she watched our car pull away and leave our childhood home for ever.
Before we’d even turned the corner, Jimmy had blocked her.
“Christ,” he whispered to me, “bit grim. Thank God we’re leaving.”
I tutted at him and leaned over his shoulder to peek at his Shades screens. He navigated to his contacts menu, where he had her listed as pigeon tits, and blinked three times in quick succession to ensure the girl with the unsatisfactory mammary glands could never find him, by any electronic means, ever again.
“You bastard,” I whispered back, not that I really cared. I had bigger worries. New house, new school, new city. I was petrified, but Jimmy couldn’t wait to start his new life.
“It’ll be great sis, you know it will,” he said, squeezing my hand. “We’re too good for this inbred backwater. We’ll fit right in to the city, you’ll see.”
I suppose he was trying to be kind, but we both knew the truth. I didn’t do well with change whereas he thrived on it. If diving into a new environment was a case of sink or swim, then I hit the water gasping, and barely stayed afloat. Jimmy didn’t just do lengths; he built his own goddamn pool.
I hated almost everything about our new life in Harringay. Our house was smaller, darker, more oppressive. Dad said he chose the area because of the greenery. But a few manmade parks couldn’t compare to the rugged beauty of the hills I used to gaze at from my bedroom window. I felt penned in. I missed the sea air sweeping across the Channel, reminding me that other worlds existed. My snot turned black as my body tried in vain to filter out the pollution before it could poison my lungs. I missed the pure darkness of nights without streetlights. I even missed the relentless squawking of sea gulls every time a storm rolled in.
Jimmy didn’t seem to care about any of it. He was enthralled. Intoxicated by our new environment. I was too scared to brave the city streets alone, but he pioneered. We hadn’t been there a week before he knew all the shortcuts, all the hang-outs. I was still rearranging my furniture, in a futile attempt to make my new bedroom feel bigger and brighter, when he decided he wanted my company.
“C’mon, Rosa, stop being such a hermit.” He grabbed a jacket from my wardrobe and thrust it at me. “Let me show you around.”
I didn’t want to face the reality of city life, but I knew I couldn’t hide forever. And Jimmy’s confidence always made me feel safe, so I figured it was best to take my first foray with him beside me. I knew it wouldn’t be an offer he’d extend again once he’d made his own friends.
It was on that first jaunt out around the area that I discovered the only thing I truly loved about our new locale: Green Lanes seemed untouched by Cole’s influence. A little pocket of the world that had rejected Reclamation. The air was full of exotic aromas, and a symphony of different tongues. Brightly coloured shops, with produce from every corner of the globe, lined the street. A dozen different cultures, all co-existing. All going about their business as if the ERP were nothing but a myth.
“This is what it’s really about, Rosa,” Jimmy said. “This is London.”
We wandered through the crowds, eating falafel from a street vendor’s cart and listening to the buskers with their steel drums and saxophones. And for a short time I thought he was right. Perhaps this city was where I would find my place. Perhaps it was somewhere where my ideals were still in fashion. Perhaps I could be someone here after all.
But then, there was school. In our own ways we were both big fish in little ponds before. At our old school, I was far and away the highest academic achiever. Jimmy was the biggest presence, the largest character, the main talking point. But when we arrived at our new, far bigger, comprehensive in North London we both had competition.
There were many far smarter pupils than me. I’d been top of the small accelerated-learning group in Sussex, but only just scraped entry into the far larger ‘gifted and talented’ group at my new school. And I couldn’t cling onto my place there for long. I wasn’t falling behind, the teachers hastened to explain to me, I was still making ‘terrific’ progress. But standards here were so much higher… It hurt like a kick to the guts.
So I found myself without a claim. One of the crowd. Nothing special. Nobody but a new girl from the sticks with no friends. Oh, I was still in the top classes, just not the elite ones. I was, by definition, pretty good but not good enough. In the same league as hundreds of other pupils. That was when I realised I was destined to be someone-who-went-to-school-with-someone, not someone myself. I never dreamed that someone would be Jimmy.
At first I thought he too had conceded defeat. Accepted he wasn’t top dog anymore. Those on the highest rung of the social ladder were easy to spot. Leo Watts and his ‘bloods’. I eyed them when we first walked in, slouching by the lockers, oblivious to everyone rushing past. Perfectly preened girls, with tiny waists and false eyelashes, hung off them like Christmas baubles. Even the teachers stepped around them rather than ask them to move. I figured Jimmy would ingratiate himself with them, do something effortlessly cool in their line of sight, or flirt with one of the unattached bimbos mooning close by. I should have known better. Jimmy didn’t want to be one of the elite; he wanted to define what elite was. He’d never have been content to be a hanger-on.
