The Fullfillment Centre 6/6

I can’t remember exactly what the circumstances were that lead to the three of us being in the house at the same time, Jay, Amar and  I. Perhaps Amar was having a lesson then went upstairs to talk to Jay.  I remember that someone knocked at the door and  for some reason I assumed  it was the neighbours one house up, an elderly couple I sometimes nodded to and who viewed me I thought with a certain suspicion. I was always conscious that we were making too much noise, though there was the continuous muffled blare of their TV through the wall on that side of the house and I imagined that one day they were going to come and complain about how loud I listened to music in the kitchen, though in reality they probably couldn’t hear a thing. Probably I had something playing especially loud at that point and I was preparing myself to apologize and turn it down as I opened the door.

It was a man in his late twenties, military looking haircut that was fashionable at the time wearing a t-shirt that said PROUD DAD. He had a Harrington jacket on, possibly the whole set, boots and rolled up jeans and braces but that seems unlikely, probably just my faltering memory filling in the blanks with stock figures. There were a couple of badges on his lapel that my attention immediately zeroed in on. England Expects and a central image of a bulldog’s face chewing up a red rose which I took to be symbolic of the Labour party and another which had a picture of a minaret in silhouette inside a red circle with a line through it and the slogan P.O.D; Protecting Our Daughters written around the outside. I had seen him from a distance before at the other stall in the centre, tagging along with Denham’s crew during the canvassing. Here we were now, face to face.

He stood looking at me for a moment, realising that whatever his opening gambits were in these conversations wouldn’t work with me: I was what he was arguing against. One of his friends, a wiry youth in a cheap suit who had just finished talking to someone a few doors down swivelled on his heels and started coming back across the road to number 17 a bunch of leaflets and photocopied pages rolled up and clenched in his fist like a baton. 

You won’t get a sympathetic hearing here I said. Bad phrasing, too formal, condescending, poor word choice. 

I don’t need your fucking sympathy mate, he said, and something triggered in him as I closed the door. His foot came up to kick it back into my face and I leaned into it to make sure it went flush to the frame so that most of the force went back into his ankle.

Fucking cunt, he said and kicked it again, but I had already got it closed. Then he kicked it harder as I slid the bottom bolt across. The door was flimsy and certainly already damaged on the outside.

Fucking traitor.  

Another blow.  The door shuddering in its frame. I had partly retreated down the corridor, Ammar had come half way down the stairs now ,eyes wide, looking alarmed. 

It’s nothing I said, go back upstairs,

Fucking paedo. The door vibrating, the lock creaking, a screw that was holding the hinges on suddenly popping out and landing a few inches from my feet.

Should I phone the police? Should I film him through the living room window, shame him on social media? Might that just make him worse? Old fear uncoiled and slowly flooded me. This is a small town too, these are people I won’t be able to avoid. Is it worth it? Sticking your head up above the parapet? But then the world you want won’t come without a price. 

 
What price are you prepared to pay to further it? His eyes came down to the letterbox and looked through it, saw us there suspended, paralysed, atremble, the vibrations from the door running through us. The sudden luminosity in those eyes. Transcendent hate.  

In know where you live mate, he started saying. You too you fucking child rapist. I presume this was directed at Amar. Then his associate was pulling him away and admonishing him as we heard them move on up the road.

I turned back and looked at Amar and behind him Jay standing at the top of the  stairs now, both of them shaky, pale, no doubt I was myself. Who knew what violence they had already seen, experienced or what awaited them?

Just a local idiot I said. It’s nothing. Forget about it. It’s fine.

That was our first encounter. I forget the exact date. Sometime late September of 2017.That golden Autumn when things still seemed like they might go our way.