Desmond Barry - London Noir

Gives better. The machine’s too good for them.

The machine wins. Cogs an clangs an fists an hammers. The machine always wins.

Or would, if the pigs hadn’t arrived.

Up they come, sticks out. Right, lads, you’ve had your fun. Time for us to have a bit. Waitin till both sides had tired, pickin easy targets.

The machine falls apart; I become meself again. I think an feel for meself. I think it’s time to run.

I run.

We all do; laughin an limpin, knowin we’d won.

Knowin our hate was stronger than theirs. Knowin they were thinkin the same thing.

Run. Back where we came from, back to our lives. Ourselves.

Rememberin that moment when we became somethin more.

Cherishin it.

I smiled.

LOVED IT.

D’you wanna name? Call me Jez. I’ve been called worse.

You want me life story? You sound like a copper. Or a fuckin social worker. Fuckin borin, but here it is. I live in the Chatsworth Estate in Dagenham. The borders of East London/Essex. You’ll have heard of it. It’s a dump. Or rather, a dumpin ground. For problem families at first, but now for Somalis an Kosovans that have just got off the lorry. It never used to be like that. It used to be a good place where you could be proud to live. But then, so did Dagenham. So did this country.

There’s me dad sittin on the settee watchin Tricia in his vest, rollin a fag. I suppose you could say he was typical of this estate (an of Dagenham, an the country). He used to have a job, a good one. At the Ford plant. Knew the place, knew the system, knew how to work it. But his job went when they changed the plant. His job an thousands of others. Now it’s a center of excellence for diesel engines. An he can’t get a job there. He says the Pakis took it from him. They got HNDs an degrees. He had an apprenticeship for a job that don’t exist no more. No one wants that now. No one wants him now. He’s tried. Hard. Honest. So he sits in his vest, rollin fags, watchin Tricia.

There’s Tom, me brother, too. He’s probably still in bed. He’s got the monkey on his back. All sorts, really, but mostly heroin. He used to be a good lad, did well at school an that, but when our fat slag bitch of a mother walked out, all that had to stop. We had to get jobs. Or try. I got a job doin tarmacin an roofin. He got a heroin habit. Sad. Fuckin sad. Makes you really angry.

Tarmacin an roofin. Off the books, cash in hand. With Barry the Roofer. Baz. Only when I’m needed, though, or seasonal, when the weather’s good, but it’s somethin. Just don’t tell the dole. I’d lose me jobseeker’s allowance.

It’s not seasonal at the moment. But it’s June. So it will be soon.

So that’s me. It’s who I am. But it’s not WHAT I AM.

I’m a Knight of St. George. An proud of it. A true believer. A soldier for truth.

This used to be a land fit for heroes, when Englishmen were kings an their houses, castles. A land where me dad had a job, me brother was doin well at school, an me fat slag bitch of a mother hadn’t run off to Gillingham in Kent with a Paki postman. Well, he’s Greek, actually, but you know what I mean. They’re all Pakis, really.

An that’s the problem. Derek (I’ll come to him in a minute) said the Chatsworth Estate is like this country in miniature. It used to be a good place where families could live in harmony and everyone knew everyone else. But now it’s a run-down shithole full of undesirables an people who’ve given up tryin to get out. No pride anymore. No self-respect. Our heritage sold to Pakis who’ve just pissed on us. Love your country like it used to be, says Derek, but hate it like it is now.

And I do. Both. With all my heart.

Because it’s comin back, he says. One day, sooner rather than later, we’ll reclaim it. Make this land a proud place to be again. A land fit for heroes once more. And you, my lovely boys, will be the ones to do it. The foot soldiers of the revolution. Remember it word for word. Makes me proud all over again when I think of it.

An I think of it a lot. Whenever some Paki’s got in me face, whenever some stuck-up cunt’s had a go at the way I’ve done his drive or roof, whenever I look in me dad’s eyes an see that all his hope belongs to yesterday, I think of those words. I think of my place in the great scheme, at the forefront of the revolution. An I smile. I don’t get angry. Because I know what they don’t.

That’s me. That’s WHAT I AM.

But I can’t tell you about me without tellin you about Derek Midgely. Great, great man. The man who showed me the way an the truth. The man who’s been more of a father to me than me real dad. He’s been described as the demigog of Dagenham. I don’t know what a demigog is, but if it means someone who KNOWS THE TRUTH an TELLS IT LIKE IT IS, then that’s him.

But I’m gettin ahead. First I have to tell you about Ian.

Ian. He recruited me. Showed me the way.

I met him at the shopping center. I was sittin around one day wonderin what to do, when he came up to me.

I know what you need, he said.

I looked up. An there was a god. Shaved head, eighteen-holers, jeans, an T-shirt — so tight I could make out the curves an contours of his muscled body. An he looked so relaxed, so in control. He had his jacket off an I could see the tats over his forearms an biceps. Some pro ones like the flag of St. George, some done himself like Skins Foreva. He looked perfect.

An I knew there an then I wanted what he had. He was right. He did know what I needed.

He got talkin to me. Asked me questions. Gave me answers. Told me who was to blame for my dad not havin a job. Who was to blame for my brother’s habit. For my fat slag bitch mother runnin off to Gillingham. Put it all in context with the global Zionist conspiracy. Put it closer to home with pictures I could understand: the Pakis, the niggers, the asylum-seekers.

I looked round Dagenham. Saw crumblin concrete, depressed whites, smug Pakis. The indigenous population overrun. Then back at Ian. An with him lookin down at me an the sun behind his head lookin like some kind of halo, it made perfect sense.

I feel your anger, he said, understand your hate.

The way he said hate. Sounded just right.

He knew some others that felt the same. Why didn’t I come along later an meet them?

I did.

An never looked back.

Ian’s gone now. After what happened.

For a time it got nasty. I mean REALLY nasty. Body in the concrete foundations of the London Gateway nasty.

I blamed Ian. All the way. I had to.

Luckily, Derek agreed.

Derek Midgely. A great man, like I said. He’s made the St. George Pub on the estate his base. It’s where we have our meetins. He sits there in his suit with his gin an tonic in front of him, hair slicked back, an we gather round, waitin for him to give us some pearls of wisdom, or tell us the latest installment of his masterplan. It’s brilliant, just to be near him. Like I said, a great, great man.

I went there along with everyone else the night after the community center ruck. I mean meetin. There was the usu-als. Derek, of course, holdin court, the foot soldiers of which I can proudly number myself, people off the estate (what Derek calls the concerned populace), some girls, Adrian an Steve. They need a bit of explainin. Adrian is what you’d call an intellectual. He wears glasses an a duffelcoat all year round. Always carryin a canvas bag over his shoulder. Greasy black hair. Expression like he’s somewhere else. Laughin at a joke only he can hear. Don’t know what he does. Know he surfs the Internet, gets things off that. Shows them to Derek. Derek nods, makes sure none of us have seen them. Steve is the local councillor. Our great white hope. Our great fat whale, as he’s known out of Derek’s earshot. Used to be Labour until, as he says, he saw the light. Or until they found all the fiddled expense sheets an Nazi flags up in his livin room an Labour threw him out. Still, he’s a true man of the people.