Another picture flashed up. A group of Asian men sitting on a wall studying smartphones. ‘They’re not running,’ said Page. ‘They’re travelling. And I’ll ask the question again. Why aren’t these healthy, fit males fighting for their country? When the Germans invaded France, did millions of French cross the Channel to England? No, they didn’t. And in the darkest days of the Second World War, did the British get into rubber dinghies and flee to Ireland? No, they did not. They stood and they fought. They fought for their country. My grandfather gave his life for this country. He died in France, with a gun in his hand. He didn’t run. I’m sure he could have done. I’m sure he could have got onto a boat and sailed to America if he wanted. But he didn’t. He fought for his country.’ Page jabbed his finger at the picture on the screen. ‘Why aren’t these men fighting for their country? Do we want these cowards in our country, living in our council houses and taking our benefits, clogging up our schools and our hospitals?’
There were angry shouts of ‘No!’ from around the room.
Page raised a fist into the air. ‘No, we don’t!’ he shouted. ‘Enough is enough! It’s time for the English to fight back!’
The audience cheered. Shepherd looked at Evans, who was standing with his arms folded, his face impassive. Evans must have felt his gaze because he turned to grin at Shepherd. ‘He knows how to work a crowd, doesn’t he?’
Shepherd didn’t say anything. He still wasn’t sure why they were there. Evans had never struck him as a racist.
The cheering subsided and Page was speaking again. ‘Now, the papers will say that our organisation is racist, that I’m racist,’ he said, almost as if he had read Shepherd’s mind. ‘They say that anyone who stands up for their country is racist. But this isn’t about being racist. I’m not racist and our organisation isn’t racist.’ He shaded his eyes and peered at the crowd. ‘Where’s Tony?’ he shouted. ‘Where are you, mate?’
‘Over here!’ shouted a voice by the bar. Everyone turned to look at a big black man, who was waving both hands over his head. He was in his fifties, his hair greying, but his body showed he spent a lot of time in the gym.
‘Tony, tell them how long we’ve been mates,’ shouted Page.
Tony grinned, showing a wall of gleaming teeth. ‘Forty years, give or take,’ he replied.
‘That’s right,’ said Page. ‘Tony and I were at school together. Best mates for four decades.’ He pointed at him. ‘I love that guy. I’d fucking die for him. So the next time anyone calls me a racist, or calls our organisation racist, you can tell them what-for.’
The crowd erupted with applause. People were slapping Tony on the back and shaking his hand.
‘Because this isn’t about race,’ said Page. ‘This is about culture. About being British. Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy for foreigners to come and live here, if they’re needed. Doctors, nurses, teachers, if they have skills we need then let’s welcome them. But if they come, if they want to live in our country, they have to adopt our ways. If you want to live in Britain, you have to want to make Britain great. That should be a given. Here’s what I say, guys. If you want to live in England, you should be happy going into an English pub and drinking a pint of English beer. And you should be able to sit down and eat a full English breakfast.’
‘Too fucking right!’ shouted a skinhead at the front.
‘The problem is, we’re letting people in who don’t want to belong. They don’t want to be English. They don’t want to drink our beer or eat a full English.’ He shaded his eyes and looked at the bar. ‘What about you, Tony? What do you think about the full English?’
‘I fucking love it!’ shouted Tony, to cheers and applause.
Page turned to the screen, which was filled with a picture of a group of elderly Asians sitting in a line outside a café, smoking hookahs. Above them there was a red canopy with white Arabic writing on it. Page pointed at the picture. ‘Do you know where that is? Kabul? Baghdad? Islamabad? No. It’s Edgware Road, not two miles from here.’
Another picture flashed up. A market street packed with Asians. ‘That’s Southall,’ said Page. ‘Let’s play Where’s Wally, shall we? But instead of looking for Wally, let’s play Where’s the White Face?’ He folded his arms and stared at the picture for several seconds. ‘Well, I can’t find him, can you?’
There were cries of ‘No!’ from around the room.
‘This isn’t multi-cultural,’ said Page. ‘This is an invasion. An invasion that our politicians are happy to see.’
Another photograph flashed up. It had been taken in a school. The teacher was Asian and all the pupils were Asian or black. ‘Do you know where that photograph was taken? Africa? South America? Jamaica? No. Tower Hamlets. That’s a London school. How many white faces do you see in that picture?’
There were cries of ‘None!’
‘Exactly,’ said Page. ‘This is London. The capital city of our great country. Can you tell me why there are no white children in that class? How can that happen? How can that be allowed to happen?’
The picture changed. A country church, with a vicar saying goodbye to parishioners. Men in suits, women in coats and hats, smiling children. All white. ‘This is an English church. This how the English worship. As families.’
Another picture. A mosque. Worshippers were praying in the street outside, all Asian men. ‘This is how our new arrivals worship. There are now so many that the mosques are full and they have to pray in the streets. Do the police move them on? No. They don’t. Can you imagine what would happen if we all went outside and blocked the road? They’d be here mob-handed in minutes and they’d start cracking heads. But Muslims? No, they can do what they want. Why? Because this country is soft on Muslims. We allow them to slit the throats of the animals they eat, we allow them to have as many wives as they want, and we pay for them to breed. It’s time to say enough is enough!’
Shepherd’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the photograph. In it, he saw two Asian men in their twenties, bearded and wearing skull caps. One had his hands in his pockets and the other was holding an apple. Shepherd recognised both men. He had seen them on Yusuf’s Syrian passports.
The crowd burst into applause. Page waved for them to be quiet. ‘So, what can you do? That’s what you want to know, right?’
‘Kill them!’ shouted a skinhead.
‘Burn them out!’ shouted another.
‘Hang them!’
‘Throw them out!’
‘Send them back to the desert!’
Page held up his hands. ‘I’m not condoning violence,’ he said. ‘We’re better than that. But these people need to be shown that they’re not welcome. They need to know that we don’t want them here. If we make life unpleasant for them, they’ll stop coming.’ He paused while his audience cheered, then raised his hand for quiet. ‘There’s a lot you can do. You can fly the English flag, the cross of St George. You can take pride in the fact that you’re English. You need to vote for politicians who see things our way.’
‘UKIP, UKIP!’ chanted one of the skinheads. More joined in and eventually Page had to raise both hands in the air to quieten them.
‘And we’re not just talking about general elections. We have to start thinking locally. It’s the local councils who decide if a pub gets turned into a mosque. It’s the local councils who can close down Muslim halal abattoirs. Control the local councils and you can start to control your community.’
Shepherd moved towards the stage, trying to get a better look at the picture on the screen. He was certain they were among the men Yusuf had arranged passports for, but he wanted to know where the photograph had been taken. He tried to get past two heavy-set skinheads but they were so caught up in cheering that his way was blocked. By the time he’d pushed through the picture had changed to a selection of newspaper cuttings. The headlines were damning:
ASYLUM SEEKER RAPES TODDLER
MIGRANTS IN GANG RAPE TERROR
ASYLUM SEEKER RAPES AND KILLS TEENAGER
‘This is what they do when they get here!’ shouted Page. ‘They don’t respect us, they don’t respect our culture. So why do we tolerate them here?’
‘Throw them out!’ shouted one of his supporters.
‘Burn them out!’ shouted another.
Shepherd felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Evans. ‘You all right, Terry?’
‘Just trying to get a better look,’ said Shepherd.
A pretty girl wearing a white dress with a red cross on it pushed her way towards them holding up a bucket with DONATIONS on it. Shepherd took out his wallet and dropped in a ten-pound note.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Evans.
‘Supporting the cause,’ said Shepherd.
‘You daft bastard, we’re not here to give him money,’ said Evans. ‘Come on, we’re going out back.’ He gestured towards a door at the side of the bar and headed towards it. Shepherd looked over his shoulder. Billy was behind him.
Shepherd followed Evans into a kitchen with stainless-steel appliances, metal work surfaces and a hissing stove. Two cooks in chef’s whites were working there and didn’t look up as Evans led Shepherd past a walk-in refrigerator and pushed open a fire door that led to the alley behind the pub. There were two large rubbish skips, both piled high with filled plastic bags. A Mercedes was parked further down the alley, exhaust feathering around the boot.
Billy pushed the door shut. Evans took out his cigarettes and lit one, then offered the packet to Billy. They walked to stand behind the skip so that the driver of the Mercedes couldn’t see them.
‘What’s going on, Paul?’ asked Shepherd.
‘We’re here for a little chat with Mr Page,’ said Evans. He blew smoke up at the night sky.
‘Do you want to tell me why?’
‘Page went cap in hand to Tommy six months ago. He wanted to set up on his own but didn’t have any financial backing. That group he was in was getting too bad a press and he was only number two so he couldn’t make the changes he wanted. He asked Tommy for a loan and Tommy gave him a couple of hundred grand.’
Shepherd raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s a hell of a loan.’
‘Page showed Tommy the England First books. Money pours in. There’s subscriptions and donations, most of it in cash. So Tommy agreed a repayment schedule and gave him the cash. But Page hasn’t been paying and he’s stopped calling Tommy back so …’
‘How heavy are we going to get, Paul? I told you I wasn’t carrying.’
Evans grinned and slapped him on the back. ‘I’m just going to have a chat, Terry. Give him a gentle reminder that debts have to be paid.’
Evans finished his cigarette and flicked away the butt. Billy’s followed a few seconds later, hitting the ground in a scatter of sparks. Evans was just taking out the packet again when the kitchen door opened. One of Page’s bodyguards appeared, a big man in a shiny black bomber jacket and jeans. His head was shaved and he had a cross of St George tattooed under his left ear. He held the door open and Page stepped out. The man in the blazer was behind Page, carrying the metal briefcase.
Evans stepped out from behind the skips. ‘Hello, Simon.’
A look of surprise flashed across Page’s face, but he smiled and held out his hand. ‘Paul, I thought I saw you in the crowd. How’s it going?’
The second bodyguard came out and closed the door. Evans shook hands with Page. The bodyguards stiffened as Shepherd and Billy came into view.
‘Friends of yours, Paul?’ asked Page.
Evans ignored the question. ‘Tommy sends his regards,’ he said.
‘Is there a problem, Mr Page?’ asked the bald bodyguard.
‘Everything’s fine, Andy.’
The second bodyguard walked over to stand beside Andy. He folded his arms and gave Evans the bouncer’s stare. The man with the case looked confused, as if he had no idea what was going on.
‘Well, you say that, Simon, but if Tommy doesn’t get what he’s owed, that’s a problem, isn’t it?’ said Evans.
‘He’ll get his money, Paul. You know I’m good for it. And so does Tommy.’
‘Tommy’s worried that you’ve missed the last three payments. And you don’t return his calls. That’s disrespectful, Simon.’
Page’s smile was forced now. ‘I’ve been busy, that’s all. I’m speaking two or three times a night.’
‘We’re all busy, Simon. But we pay our bills.’
Page put his hands up as if he was trying to soothe a spooked horse. ‘Paul, the money’s coming. It’s a cash-flow thing, that’s all. We’re bringing in money every night.’
‘Yeah, about that. You were collecting cash in there.’
‘For running costs. Expenses.’
‘Yeah? Well, paying your debts is an expense. Hand it over.’
Page opened his mouth as if he was going to argue but then he turned to the man in the blazer. ‘Ollie, give Mr Evans the cash.’
Ollie knelt down on one knee and opened the case. As he took out a brown envelope Shepherd saw the laptop computer he’d been using for the presentation. The man stood up and gave the envelope to Evans.
Evans took it, opened it with his thumb and nodded as he saw the notes inside. ‘No coins?’
Ollie looked at Page and Page nodded. Ollie dipped into the briefcase again and pulled out a carrier bag with a few dozen pound coins in it. He gave it to Evans, who handed it to Billy. ‘I reckon that’s a couple of hundred quid at most,’ said Evans. He looked up at the sky. ‘So that means you still owe … How much would you say? Two hundred grand, plus interest?’
‘I’ll pay Tommy back, don’t worry about that.’
‘You think I’m worried?’ said Evans. ‘I’m not worried, mate. You’re the one who should be worried.’
The bodyguard called Andy stepped in front of Page and stabbed a finger at Evans. ‘You need to go,’ he said. ‘Mr Page has to be somewhere.’
‘It’s all right, Andy,’ said Page, reaching for his elbow. Andy shook him off, stepped forward and pushed Evans in the chest with both hands. Evans took a step back and launched a kick between Andy’s legs. Andy moved to the side and the kick glanced off his left leg. He threw a punch at Evans but Evans blocked it and threw a punch of his own that hit the bodyguard square in the jaw. The other bodyguard launched himself at Billy, but Billy swung the bag of coins and hit him in the face. The bag broke and pound coins tinkled on the ground.
Shepherd heard a car door slam and turned towards the Mercedes. The driver had climbed out and was jogging towards them. He was a big man, well over six feet and built like a weight-lifter.