The Knives by Richard T. Kelly Read Free Book Online

having it. We treat thugs as thugs. No exceptions, no excuses.’
    Sheikh Hanifa sighed loudly. ‘I am guilty, perhaps, of rosy spectacles? But when I first came to England, the seventies? It seemed to me that people could just get on with things in their own way,following their custom. Then came all this anger, the attacks, the “Go home!”’
    Mankad nodded, intensely. ‘The white fascists, they made a climate of intimidation. There had to be a defence of our rights. But, we were different communities. So how could we speak with one voice?’
    ‘Islam,’ Blaylock murmured.
    ‘That’s right. All the things we did anyway, believed anyway, we had to start shouting about. In the name of Islam.’
    Mark Tallis, silent and seemingly restive until now, leapt in. ‘That’s interesting. God, yes, white people say the same, that’s the time it started going wrong, when integration went backward.’
    Blaylock winced, not liking Tallis’s analysis or his choice of words.
    ‘So who is to blame?’ asked Mankad, eyes unblinking behind his thick lenses, seemingly very desirous of something other than a politician’s answer.
    ‘Evil in the hearts of men,’ said Blaylock. ‘What else?’ He extended his hand to Hanifa. ‘We fight on and fight to win, my friend.’
    *
    His courtesies having made Blaylock a few minutes late for Cabinet, he moved at pace to the private lift, but Mark Tallis stayed at his heels. Coming toward them from the Level Three kitchen were Mark’s fellow spads, Deborah Kerner and Ben Cotesworth – Deborah cupping her double-shot espresso, Ben bearing his chipped pint mug of tea.
    ‘Ride down with me,’ Blaylock said, gesturing to the opening lift. The three young people did as they were told. They were bright and ambitious, and Blaylock found them endlessly willing to surrender their time and privacy in return for his trust and preferment.
    ‘You’re all ready for some dust-ups this afternoon?’ he said.
    ‘Maybes not as ready as you, gaffer,’ offered Ben, the dogsbody of the team – a sharp, serious, recessive Geordie with an endearingly daffy laugh. Blaylock had handpicked Ben as an exemplary figure of the mission to rediscover Tory votes in northern cities. He was a large lad with a straight back and a sensible haircut and Blaylock saw in him a sort of loyalty that suggested a platoon commander in waiting.
    ‘Okay, Ben, so we do immigration figures after lunch, I’d be glad of your input there. Deb, I need you in with me for the team meet on the Identity Documents Bill.’
    ‘You want me to drop a bomb on that bunch of deadbeats?’ This in her Georgetown drawl, from over the rim of the espresso. ‘I saw some of the figures they’ve got, I told ’em it’s bullshit.’
    ‘Let’s see the lay of the land. I have to keep the troops motivated.’
    Deborah rolled her eyes. There was a cosmetic appliqué aura around her – her mask of pale foundation and red lipstick, her long black hair worn in a visor-like fringe with long side bangs, her striped and belted dress. She was so overtly feminine Blaylock had to stop himself stealing second glances at her; and yet he had come to believe she neither cared nor noticed. Deborah was impervious to charm, intently focused and seemingly – like himself? – unencumbered by a private life. Her appearance seemed merely a sort of armour she donned to do battle. Blaylock wondered if her sexuality wasn’t wholly sublimated in politics.
    They exited to the underground car park where Martin waited at the wheel of the Jag. Blaylock turned.
    ‘Listen, you all need to remember to respect the system. Geraldine is my voice, right? She’s the weapon of choice. Whatever noise I kick up, nothing much seems to work round here. But when Geraldine asks someone to do something for me, they do it. A lesson for us, eh?’
    His praetorian guards nodded, in unison, however unhappily.

3
    The implacable black door swung wide, admitting Blaylock to what he never