Pratt looked for a seat but they were all taken, so after a moment of hesitation he sat cross-legged on the floor.
“I see you’ve decided to grace us with your presence at last, Pratt,” said the burliest of them, who also had the most ostentatious tattoos.
Pratt hung his head.
“Sorry I’m late Bludge. I’ve had to move house at short notice.”
“And?”
“It’s made things a bit difficult for me.”
“What would folk have said if the Fuhrer had told them: ‘we can’t invade Russia today, I’ve had to move house and it’s made things a bit difficult for me’? Do you think anyone would’ve been impressed?”
“Er, no.”
“Exactly. I don’t want to hear excuses Pratt, I want you to get here on time, same as everyone else, come what may.”
“I’m sorry, Bludge, it won’t happen again.”
“It better not. I’m gagging for a mug of tea. Anyone else want one?”
Hands went up.
“Pratt, you make the tea and bring it in. You know how everybody likes it.”
Pratt got to his feet and slunk off into the kitchen
It’s not fair, he thought. Bludge always picks on me, and I’m always the one who has to make the tea. Someone else should make it for once. I’m one of the longest-standing members of this group. He ought to get one of the newcomers to make the tea for a change.
Nevertheless, he obediently made the tea and brought it into the front room and handed the mugs around the group.
“As you know,” said Bludge. “We have a rally two weeks on Saturday. It’s one of the England Forward events. The official line of those tossers who run the EF is that it’s going to be a peaceful demonstration to let people know that we’re pissed off because England isn’t for the English any more. They think that just by turning up and walking around in areas infested with black muzzie kike scum we’ll make a statement on behalf of the white English race. Well, that’s not my style, and it shouldn’t be the style of any self-respecting member of N.S. 18. We’ll be going there to break some ’eads. So, everyone, make sure that you’re tooled up, and that you break some ’eads while you’re there, and as long as those ’eads are not white and not English, you’ll be doing the country a favour. Oh yeah, you can break pigs’ ’eads too, whatever colour they are. Got that?”
The group nodded enthusiastically. Pratt did the same, but his enthusiasm was feigned. He was thinking about the possibility of being caught up in something beyond his control, and it didn’t sit well with him.
What if they’re armed? He thought. What if they outnumber us? What if I get cornered by someone bigger than me and I get flattened, or worse?
Unwelcome images of his last rally came into his head. He had visions of blood running from wounds, none of it his, thank God, and none of it spilled by him. He’d managed to cower out of sight in a doorway until the worst was over. He’d been roughed up by the police a bit, but nothing too serious. Just enough to give him some bruises he could show off to the other members of N.S. 18 which convinced them he’d done his bit.
“Pratt,” said Bludge, “what weapon are you taking?”
Pratt scratched his head.
“Er, I don’t know Bludge,” he said. “I’m not sure.”
“Fucking hell Pratt, are you fucking gormless or what? Daz, what weapon are you taking?”
“Ball-peen hammer, Bludge.”
“Faz, what are you taking?”
“Flick-knife.”
“Kaz?”
“Stanley knife.”
“Baz?”
“Machete.”
“Gaz?”
“Baseball bat.”
“Laz?”
“Brass-knuckles.”
“See that, Pratt? Everyone knows what they’re gonna be tooled up with, except you. Even Kaz. She’s not even a man, and she’s got bigger balls than you. Now fucking well man up and decide what you’re taking, and tell me what it is.”
Kaz beamed. Pratt noticed her delight at receiving praise from Bludge, and felt a hunger deep inside. He himself craved that praise.
And there was something else.
Kaz filled his fantasies. She cavorted through his dreams, naked more often than not, other than for a few items of suggestive lingerie of the sort he’d seen in the window of the Ann Summers shop in the dated Croydon shopping centre. Pratt desperately wanted Kaz to beam at him.
“Er, an ice-pick?”
“Good choice. It’s what did for Trotsky, the fucking commie bastard. How big is it?”
“Er, I’m not sure.”
“Not fucking sure? It’s your fucking ice-pick, how can you not be sure how big it is?”
“I haven’t bought it yet.”
There were sniggers from around the room.
“You dozy fucking little bastard Pratt. Make sure you ’ave bought it by the time we ’ave the meeting next week. I want you to show it me to prove you’ve got it, and I want you to demonstrate to everyone how you’re going to hide it under your clothes.” Prat, who was cross-legged on the floor in front of Bludge, felt as if he was both literally and metaphorically at the feet of his role-model and leader.
“Yeah, all right Bludge, I will, I’ll do that.”
“Fucking make sure you do.”
He leaned forward and patted Pratt on top of his head.
“That way you might get to be allowed into the Inner Circle one day.”
Pratt longed to be allowed into the Inner Circle. Few were, and he didn’t feel he could ever be one of them. He felt he was lucky to be a member of the Outer Circle. Most of the others in the group barely tolerated him. But he stuck it out because it was the closest thing to family he had. For all of the derision it gave him, the group made him feel he belonged, and it was a feeling he couldn’t get anywhere else.
“You know something?” said Budge, looking around the room. “We’re all committed to the cause, every one of us here, even Pratt, but there are too few of us. We need to recruit more people. We especially need to find a figurehead; someone people will rally around. It’s not going to be me; I’m more of a military man than a politician. I’m not suited to politics. So I want you all to keep your eye out for someone who can be a crowd-pleaser, someone who’ll understand us, and help us to take our organisation to the next level.”
When the meeting came to an end, Pratt waited until Kaz had left and he followed her out, training his eyes on her rear, which was being shown off in a pair of close-fitting jeans. She was a large woman, standing five feet ten inches tall, and she was the owner of a big rear end, having rather more heft than was good for her. It was a rear end that Pratt would have loved to explore, but he knew that he would never be allowed to do that. His height, he was sure, ruled him out of contention. That, and his weasel-like looks. Even he had to admit that his looks were weasel-like.
Kaz halted by her car to climb in, and noticed Pratt standing nearby. She flashed him a grin, her round face framed by a mop of bleached blond hair. He loved the way she grinned at people — people, that is, who were white, English, and neo-Nazi.
“See ya next week, Wally,” she said.
She was one of the few members of their group who called him “Wally” rather than “Pratt” or just “Hey you!” This made him pine for her even more. He reddened. Luckily it was dark by this time, so she was unable to see the colouring of his cheeks.
“Yes, see you next week,” he said lamely.
He wanted to say far more to her than that, but was unable to bring himself to say anything meaningful to her.
He watched her drive off and climbed sadly into his own car.
I’m on the bottom rung of the ladder, he thought. Wait a minute, who am I kidding? I’m not even on the ladder. I haven’t got a hope in hell of rising anywhere in this organisation. I’m going to be the unofficial tea-boy for the rest of my life. I’m Bludge’s bitch and that’s all I’ll ever be. I want people to respect me. I want Bludge and Kaz to respect me, and I want them to like me. Why can’t I have that? Where has it all gone wrong for me? What can I do to change things? How can I put it right? How can I get to be like Bludge?