Albion E-Book

Jon Gale

• Herausgeber: Salt
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Modern Dreams
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 113

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

Can the EDL offer hope? Jack is joining up Jon Gale was winner of Writing on the Wall's 'Pulp Idol competition' in 2012. Jack Garrity is a disaffected, frustrated and damaged eighteen year old, growing up in twenty first century Britain. His search for identity leads him into the far right movement and the newly formed English Defence League. With the recent death of his mother and disintegrating relationship with his father, Jack finds a surrogate family and a purpose that he always sought after. Within this violent world Jack is forced to hide his sensitivity and his dream of becoming an architect. That is until he meets, Naomi, who reignites a spark within him. With Jack wishing to go to University and realise his ambition he must come to terms with his grieving father, the enigmatic Naomi and the bitter hold that Richie and the EDL have over him. Praise for Jon Gale and the Pulp Idol finalists 'Impressed me enormously' LUKE BROWN, Tindal Street Press 'Some of the most powerful and original prose I've read in a long time.' HELEN WALSH As Jack sees his friends buying into the EDL and their politics will he stay or go? Download the story now.

Leseprobe

ALBION

Can the EDL offer hope? Jack is joining up

Jon Gale was winner of Writing on the Wall’s ‘Pulp Idol competition’ in 2012.

Jack Garrity is a disaffected, frustrated and damaged eighteen year old, growing up in twenty first century Britain. His search for identity leads him into the far right movement and the newly formed English Defence League.

With the recent death of his mother and disintegrating relationship with his father, Jack finds a surrogate family and a purpose that he always sought after.

Within this violent world Jack is forced to hide his sensitivity and his dream of becoming an architect. That is until he meets, Naomi, who reignites a spark within him.

With Jack wishing to go to University and realise his ambition he must come to terms with his grieving father, the enigmatic Naomi and the bitter hold that Richie and the EDL have over him.

Praise for Jon Gale and the Pulp Idol finalists

‘Impressed me enormously’ —LUKE BROWN, Tindal Street Press

‘Some of the most powerful and original prose I’ve read in a long time.’ —HELEN WALSH

As Jack sees his friends buying into the EDL and their politics will he stay or go?

JON GALE was born and raised in Liverpool. He started writing seriously in his late teens and went on to study Creative Writing at John Moores University. He has had short stories published, along with a couple of short plays put on, but his biggest passion and demon is prose. After winning Writing on the Wall’s Pulp Idol competition he continued to work on the novella, Albion for two years. His plans for the next two years are to write a novel set ten years into the future, drink gin and read as much as he can.

Published by Salt Publishing Ltd

12 Norwich Road, Cromer, Norfolk NR27 0AX

All rights reserved

Copyright © Jon Gale, 2014

The right of Jon Gale to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Salt Publishing.

Salt Publishing 2014

Created by Salt Publishing Ltd

This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN 978-1-78463-002-7 electronic

For James

Chapter One

THE BIZZIES HAD made a stretch for us to march down. They used metal barriers to cram us into a column four men wide. They were riot police, hiding behind plastic shields. There were hundreds of us; some lads had their hoods pulled up, white hockey masks with red crosses painted on covering their mouths. Me and Lewis were given an England flag to share. We filed down the stretch singing I’m England till I die. Richie wasn’t singing. He was bouncing up and down, looking through gaps in the line.

‘I can’t see the UAF, probably haven’t turned up, the shithouses.’

Everyone carried England flags above their heads or draped around their shoulders. A lad in his late twenties put his arm around my neck and drew me close. I pushed him off, he just smiled. His breath smelt of dog shit and cigars. I moved away from him back to Richie. Our own stewards wore luminous orange jackets. They were interspersed with us and the police, trying to calm people down. But they had no chance.

The bizzies stood outside the Tesco Express like doormen. Lewis broke away from us and darted towards the Tesco. Richie grabbed his elbow.

‘Where are you going?’ Richie asked.

‘Just going to get a few tinnies.’

‘And do you think they’re going to let you in? Get back next to Jack, soft arse.’

I still wasn’t sure about taking the piss out of Lewis. It was only banter but every jibe from Richie looked like it winded him. He trudged along next to me and mumbled. ‘And I’m starving.’

‘What was that?’ Richie said.

‘Nothing.’

Richie pulled a Double Decker out of his inside pocket. ‘Here you go, Mardy Arse.’

Lewis grinned and snapped the gooey bar in two. ‘Want half?’ he asked me.

I shook my head. I couldn’t have kept it down.

River Island hadn’t put its shutters up. An auld girl in her forties was shaking her fist shouting something I couldn’t hear. Someone doused her in water from his bottle. He bolted through the crowd taking in the applause. A bizzie thought about chasing him but retreated and ushered the woman back into the shop. A few lads ran into the shop and tipped the mannequins over. The security guard, with a gut that sagged that low it looked like it could trip him up, shook his head and walked back inside.

Three Pakis had the cheek to stand next to the memorial statue. Only twenty bizzies penned them in. The crowd swerved towards them. The bizzies knew if we got through we’d tear them apart. They dragged the Pakis over the grass and towards the vans that would be full in a couple of hours. The loose poppies from the memorial had scattered on the ground in front of us.

‘You Paki-loving bastards!’ Richie shouted at the bizzies. He put his arm around me, ‘Stay close to me now. Looks like they’re up for it today.’

A placard twatted me in the back of the head. I turned around, thinking some whopper would hold his hands up and say sorry. He had his back to me, a skinny fella with a Lacoste polo three sizes too big. He threw wild swings, slaps at a black-capped lad. A small pit erupted. Richie guided me away.

‘Fucking idiots. Leave them to it,’ he said.

I don’t know what it was over, might have been a Nazi salute or placard to the back of the head. The news that the UAF were up ahead rippled through the crowd. The pit split up and we broke out into a small jog, standing on the backs of each other’s feet as the lads at the back jammed into us.

We ran into the city centre. The shops all had their shutters down. The remaining few shoppers scurried away. I saw the purple placards by the town square. The UAF were being held back by the bizzies. They must have broken through because the bizzies were running around trying to set up two lines of defence.

About three hundred UAF had turned up, more spilled out from the side streets. I hadn’t seen them up close before. They were mainly all young Pakis, which surprised me. Richie always said they were liberal student dickheads.

My heart beat hard in my chest. Mouth dry, chest itchy with heat. My arms tingled right down to the tips of my finger. The crowd surged forward. Everyone was shouting now, I could feel spittle hitting the back of my neck. I could smell stale sweat and ale. I was crushed into the shields as the crowd surged forward. The UAF were singing, Fascist scum off our streets. Richie threw his bottle of Stella towards them. It bounced off a bizzie’s shoulder and clinked to the ground.

‘Fascist? Fucking fascist? You dirty bastards.’ His skin was puce pink with rage. Everyone punched their fists in the air. The bizzies were penned in from both sides, struggling to keep either side back. Someone gripped a bizzie and tried to drag him down. Batons swung down on his forearm and shoulder, but he clung on. We were incensed, blood pumping in our throats and chests. The guttural chanting of E, E, EDL grew louder. I tensed my body; it felt as if my ribs would snap. I kicked out, boots thudding against plastic and soft flesh. My arms were tapped at my side like my body was under water.

The UAF were a few feet away now, close enough to see their eyes bulging with anger against their dark skin. Close enough to smell the mothball-like stench. A brown fist squirmed past a helmet and clawed at the side of my face. I craned my neck away, the fingers an inch away from my eye. A punch from behind glanced my temple, warm liquid ran down my cheek. No pain. No time. The bizzies jerked back. They horses charged from the left hand side and splintered us apart. We scrambled back. The crumpled cans and discarded flags littered the space at the bizzies’ feet. Lewis hauled me back, we dodged a horse’s sweating flank and weaved through the retreating crowd.

A group of twenty had made a semicircle by a side street. They stood their ground against the horses which’d lost their momentum. Me and Lewis bailed down the side street with a stream of lads. We came out round the back of the square. A single bizzie van was loading a couple of soap-dodging hippies and three Pakis into the back. We didn’t need anyone telling us what to do, we knew. We charged, running full pelt, Lewis a few spaces beside me. The bizzies braced themselves but were swarmed on by three or four lads each. I stalled then was pushed into the van, my face hitting the metal door. I staggered and fell backwards under the crush of bodies. Someone stood on my thigh to vault himself into the back of the van. I managed to stand and threw punches into the mass of bodies in the back of the van. I didn’t care if it was a Paki or the tit who’d stomped on my thigh.

Bizzies trotted down the road, trying to keep in a straight line. We legged it back the way we’d come. I caught up with Lewis and we swivelled around.

‘Fuck off, you gobshites!’ Lewis shouted. We hugged each other, not caring what it looked like. The lactic acid was burning in my thighs and calves, my whole body flushing with adrenalin. The ten of us jogged through the streets and found a crowd of about two hundred. The mood had changed now. The tension was gone and was replaced with pride. There was the odd scowl from a die-hard, a suggestion to go back, but it was waved away and they were handed a tin. Lewis had commandeered a bottle of voddy off someone. We passed it back and forth between each other. It tasted like shite but I enjoyed the burn in my stomach. I felt fucking invincible. The Union Jacks flickered above our heads. Lewis lit a cigarette, his hand shaking. I took a drag even though I didn’t smoke. We sung I’m England till I die, I’m England till I die, I’m know I am I’m sure I am I’m England till I die. Until my throat was raw.

We caught up with Richie in the car park. He ruffled my hair and patted Lewis on the back, ‘Fucking get in lads, I’m dead proud of you today, do you hear me? I’m not just saying it, you have done yourselves proud there. Now go and get on that coach, Dave’s got the tins, enjoy yourselves.’

Me and Lewis cadged a few tins off Dave. It wasn’t easy. He was a proper tight arse. Lewis gave him four ciggies in return for two tins of Aldi lager. I couldn’t stand Dave; Richie and Lewis said he was alright, but that was bullshit. First off, I don’t like minge bags with money; secondly, he’s a fucking nonce. Nothing’s been proved. Says he’s an amateur photographer. So paying fifteen-year-old girls to take their tops off for forty quid a pop is art? Thinking about the dirty cunt was winding me so I put him to the back of my mind. Nothing was going to ruin this for me.

We got a couple of seats not too far from the back. Lewis stuck the bottle of voddy between his legs and pulled a baggy out of his jeans.

‘Holding out on me?’ I said

‘Nah, I wolfed half of it in the bogs on the way down. Wasn’t going to do it out there, I would have had a fucking heart attack. That was mental, like Afghan but nothing like it in a way. Know what I mean? Anyway, do you want some or what?’

‘I wouldn’t take any off you, mate.’

‘Oh yeah, alright you scab.’

He racked out four rough lines on the back of his passport. He snorted his lines and passed me the fiver. I snorted and leant backwards waiting for the glorious drip backs and an extra buzz. I didn’t want this to end. I wished we could swing by the hospital and rob a pint of adrenalin to top our pints up with later.

The coach got started and people at the front were singing. Me and Lewis were chatting about anything and everything, small bumps of beak on the back of our hands fuelling it more and more. Richie sauntered down the coach and sat on the arm rest next to us. He dabbed my face with the cuff of his jacket. His left cheek had a large violet lump on it and his polo shirt was ripped.

‘You alright, Jack?’

I touched the crusty blood at my temple. I’d forgotten all about it.

‘We got a fucking result today, Jack. Here you are.’ He handed me a can. I pressed it to the side of my head.

‘What did you think then?’ His chest was heaving and he could barely catch his breath.