downstairs‚ as I was drifting off to sleep‚ I heard my phone alerting me to a notification.
Derelict Building Site, South London
Kramer stopped at the entrance of the Portakabin on the old construction site‚ the fluorescent light from the room in front of him blazing into the night. He leaned his bulk against the doorframe and watched silently as two coppers spoke with his partner.
Dean Kramer and Terry ‘The Cherry’ Rose‚ as he was affectionately known‚ had run together since their days with the Millwall Bushwackers‚ a football hooligan firm who’d been particularly nasty at the height of their powers in the eighties. Dishing out some of the worst ultra-violence during and after matches. Kramer was especially fond of the Millwall Brick‚ a weapon fashioned from newspaper sheets tightly wrapped around coins and soaked in liquid to add weight. A string was attached at the bottom to enable the swing of the Brick‚ and a large nail attached to the top to enable sickening damage.
Kramer was the force‚ whereas Rose had the intelligence – enough to realise that the road they were on would only see them in jail or in a box. So he convinced Kramer to move away and join a movement which shared their beliefs. They were the English Defence League and their primary focus was opposition to what it considered the spread of Islamism in the United Kingdom. They finally had a place in a society that breathed and believed like they did.
It was only when a young off-duty British soldier was murdered in 2013‚ by two Muslims in the streets of South London – in fucking broad daylight – that their association with the EDL had come to an abrupt end. Kramer wanted revenge‚ quick and painful; he wanted to start a riot in the heart of the Muslim Community in Luton and take them down‚ every last one of them.
EDL had planned sixty demonstrations across the country. A lot of noise and not enough action. They had become too big‚ too political‚ too fucking correct. And the result of their demonstrations? Nothing more than a few scuffles against anti-fascist groups. They got their names in the newspapers‚ their numbers soared‚ but not one Muslim paid in blood.
Again‚ Kramer and Rose walked away and started their own group‚ recruiting particularly nasty players from their Bushwacker days‚ as well as like-minded members of rival firms. Rose ran the organisation‚ Kramer recruited. It wasn’t the size of the English Defence League‚ but then with size came exposure.
A young girl wearing a hijab was pushed onto a train track as a tube pulled in at Piccadilly Circus Station. The push was mistimed and her face connected with the side of the moving train‚ leaving her needing facial reconstruction.
At an outdoor five-a-side football pitch in Islington‚ two Muslim community football teams were set upon by two Pit Bull Terriers and a Rottweiler. Four men were savagely mauled.
A grandfather was attacked walking his seven-year-old grandson home from the Mosque after evening Prayers. He was struck on the head with a blunt object as the assailant sped by on a bicycle. That didn’t kill him. But the fall to the ground‚ the impact of his head against pavement‚ did.
They called themselves The Second Defence.
Kramer decided the time had come to make himself seen.
‘Everything alright?’ Kramer asked Rose‚ stepping into the Portakabin. The two coppers turned briefly to look at him.
‘Dean Kramer‚’ nodded PC Mohammed or Mahmoud or who gives a fuck. The same Paki copper they sent every time there was a hint of a skirmish involving his people.
Kramer frowned at him‚ taking in the pristine fucking uniform that he should have never been allowed to wear. Kramer didn’t mind though‚ because ever-present with him was the delectable WPC Jenkins. She could wear the uniform for him any time she wanted to.
‘I tell you what‚’ Rose said. ‘Why don’t you leave the video behind and I’ll see what I can find out.’
‘I can’t do that‚’ PC Mahmoud said. ‘Do you or don’t you know the identity of the three assailants? It’s a simple question.’
‘When did this take place?’ Rose asked.
‘Yesterday evening‚’ WPC Jenkins replied. ‘Between six and eight.’
‘CCTV?’
‘Vandalised‚’ PC Mahmoud said‚ growing frustrated. ‘Do you recognise them‚ Rose?’
‘Hard to tell‚’ Rose pointed at the laptop screen. The faces had cartoon characters superimposed on them. ‘How’d they do that? It’s pretty clever‚ eh?’ Rose smiled.
‘You think that you’re pretty clever‚ don’t you Rose?’ PC Mahmoud took a step closer. ‘An innocent girl took her own life after an unprovoked attack.’
Kramer felt his blood spike when WPC Jenkins put a placatory hand on the Paki’s arm.
He couldn’t bear it if they were fucking.
‘Rose‚ this belongs to us‚’ WPC Jenkins said‚ slipping the flash drive out of the laptop. ‘But if you want to view it again‚ see if it jogs your memory‚ you can easily find it. It’s plastered all over the internet.’
‘Where’d you say this happened?’
‘Hounslow.’
Kramer and Rose glanced at each other and quickly away again. Rose scrunched his nose.
‘I don’t know anyone in that part of town. But‚ you know‚ I’ll put the word out.’
‘The girl was only sixteen‚’ Jenkins reasoned. ‘Call us if you find anything‚ Rose.’
‘Sure‚’ Rose replied. ‘Your number still 999?’
*
Kramer guided the officers out of the Portakabin which served as an office‚ and watched them drive out of the old construction site and into the night.
‘Did you speak with those lads?’ Rose asked from behind his desk.
‘Yeah‚ at the rally yesterday‚ in Hounslow.’
Rose rubbed his chin. ‘Come round.’ Kramer walked around the desk and watched Rose over his shoulder as he fired open a search engine.
‘What happened?’
‘Some girl topped herself‚’ he said‚ as he typed into the search bar Bus - Attack - Muslim.
‘Paki?’ Kramer asked.
‘Yeah‚ Paki.’
He got a hit immediately. The video had been removed from the first three links‚ but the fourth had it available in full high definition glory. They both watched the short footage in silence.
‘Is it them?’ Rose
