Chapter One - The Border Reiver

THE BORDER REIVER

         NICK CHRISTOFIDES

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The wild North gave no respite to the hardy souls who called this land home. It was January, a time of year when the winds often came from Siberia, sweeping relentlessly over the coastal plain and into the Border hills, biting flesh with icy fangs. The stooped figures of men battling its fury appeared from the gloom as they trudged up the hillside.

‘Why’s he brought us all the way out here?’ said one, fighting for voice over the gale. The question was lost to the wind and none of his companions heard him as they approached a lonely stone byre. The rain fell like daggers to rap on its tin roof.

They were southwest of Wooler, close to the Scottish Border, and the Cheviot Hills loomed in the darkness. The howling weather battered the already beaten barn, but an orange glow radiated from lights within; like an inn on a long remote road offering sanctuary.

The heat from the assembled men appeared like smoke, rising from rain drenched coats inside the confines of the shelter. The haze escaped from the building and expanded into the air briefly, before the wind whipped it away.

There must have been a hundred farmers rammed into that byre, their ruddy faces glowing in the orange light. The smell of silage wafted through the space, and a muted hullabaloo spilled from chattering mouths, bravado cloaked fear.

Old Man Rowell farmed near enough four hundred acres outside Hexham. Almost eighty, the passage of time struggled to age him, he was rotund and red-faced but, like a packhorse, he was built for hard graft. His three sons, all stern and upright, flanked him. Two of them shared the old man’s build; the third was a foot taller.

Slamming his fist repeatedly into his open palm, he paced with a broad bow-legged gate back and forth across the makeshift stage they had cobbled together from hay bales and planks.

‘…We’ve farmed this land… toiled, sweated blood and shed tears!’ he boomed. The soil is grafted into our skin! This land that our fathers passed down through blood to hand, it’s our right…’

The crowd drowned out Rowell’s voice with cries for revolt.

‘…We must resist the government’s treachery,’ he continued, to rapturous cheers. ‘We must fight this robbery!’

The men in the barn stamped their feet and bashed whatever they could that would make a noise. The racket overwhelmed the howling wind and dust fell from the roof as the building shook at the mercy of the farmers’ energy. As the clamour ebbed, Rowell roared out: ‘What they’re saying is a ‘new beginning’ for some is the end of the world for us! If necessary…’ The crowd fell silent. ‘If necessary, we must fight the men they send!’

Again, fever gripped the room, which bristled with physical electricity. Rowell stepped back to allow the assembly to voice their rage. As the reaction to his words died down, he stepped forward again.

‘Those bastards will not beat me.’ He turned to look at his sons. ‘And I’ll not let it be the end for you.’

In a dark corner of the barn, a figure sat bent forward, his eyes fixed on the floor. Steam rose from his sodden clothes and his hands were clamped together, resting on his lap, swollen and sore from pulling sheep out of the snow.

His head rose slowly to absorb the atmosphere of the byre and the strident passions therein. His skin was tanned by the weather, and he had a thick shock of white hair and grey whiskers. Years of squinting into sun and gales had wreathed wrinkles around his eyes and, when he opened them, the piercing cobalt became a window to the life stirring beneath that gnarled exterior.

He looked at the throng. Although he knew every face, he had nothing to say to anyone. Many looked to him for direction, but he bowed his head again. He ground his teeth and picked at a scab on his hand, drawing a red trickle from the wound. As he smudged the blood across his skin, his eyes met the expectant crowd once more. For a long moment he appeared on the verge of delivering the words they wanted to hear. The crowd willed it, but instead the man stood, silent. He didn’t raise his eyes again but simply masked his grimace by pulling his hood over his head. Nat Bell turned without a word and threw the heavy door aside.

The violence of the weather silenced Rowell. As the freezing wind filled the void that Bell left, Rowell watched him vanish into the deluge falling like shards of glass across the open doorway. The old man forgot about his audience. When he snapped back into the present, he saw the spiritless faces staring back at him. His shoulders sagged, and his hands hugged his arms and rubbed against the chill while he waited for men to heave the door closed.

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ONE

Three hundred and thirty-seven miles south of Wooler, Ben Baines was mobbed by his party members. They hugged him and kissed him, shook his hands eagerly and slapped his back. His own face beamed back at him from a sea of placards adorned with his picture and the words 'The New Way: the New Socialist Order'.

He knew that it was too early to leave, but in conversation he felt his eyes glaze over, and he found himself lost for words; these politicians and party busybodies were not his people. He maintained a frivolous grin, waving all the way and accepting their praise, as he backed out of the room. He jogged up four flights of stairs to the calm of his office. He had won. He had brought the NSO to power. Pushed to the fore by his peers, he had defeated The Establishment, big business and the media.‍

When he reached his office Lucas Dart was waiting for him there. Dart stood up straight as his leader entered, it was not a conscious act, and Ben noted that his deputy seemed annoyed with himself with this show of deference. Ben smiled at him, knowing all too well how disarming his smile could be.

He turned off the strip beam lights as he stepped in – he hated them, especially the incessant hum they emitted – and the office was left draped in shadow. Dart took a long, deep breath and exhaled loudly, exaggerated and bullish, while Baines wandered over to the window.

Lucas sat down on one of the huge Chesterfields and the leather groaned beneath him, it distracted Ben from the window and he looked across at his colleague. ‘I thought they were coming to take all this bloody stuff.’ He gestured to all the finery.

‘I don’t know, Ben. That’s above my station,’ Lucas replied sarcastically, casting his eye over the sofa, he reclined and shook his head.

Ben looked with disgust at the antique furniture, the trappings of wealth and power, before his eyes settled on the portrait of Mikhail Bakunin, his only addition to the room, staring down on all who visited the epicentre of The Revolution.

‘Well I can’t have it in here. It’s embarrassing,’ he continued.

The building was not his idea, but it had been offered to the party by a wealthy donor and he didn’t pass up the opportunity. To legitimise the movement, the NSO had needed a headquarters in the nation’s capital. One thing had always been certain: he was not prepared to move into Downing Street; his movement would create its own traditions, not follow those of the enemy.

He stood at the sash window, itself at least nine feet bottom to top, and rested his forehead on the cold glass. He studied the revellers milling in the street, four storeys below, like bees in their hive.

‘And they thought leaving Europe would give rise to fascists…’ he said absently, without looking away from the window.

Dart had risen from the sofa to pour himself a drink at the antique mahogany sideboard. The clink of cut glass and the groan of aged wood drew Ben’s attention away from the window again.

He stepped over to his desk and slumped down in the leather seat. He leaned back, his legs splayed, and his arms hung at ease by the sides of the chair.

‘Cheers!’

Dart raised his glass and slurped his drink as he also approached the desk. His barrel chest and thick neck inhibited his movement, but he disguised it with self- satisfied pomp.

Irritated, Baines focused his attention elsewhere. He picked up the remote control and pressed the little plus button and the sound from the street below filled the room via the television’s speakers.

On the screen was a sea of faces: young, old; men, women; all sorts of people. He saw colourful knitwear under dreadlocked heads alongside families dressed in well-kept brightly-coloured hiking jackets, menacing characters in dark hoodies next to groups of fashionistas beside blue-collar workers. His eyes were caught by a little girl on her father’s shoulders playing with the helium balloon she was gripping tightly. Then a couple in work wear skipped across the foreground, a bottle of champagne swinging from her outstretched arms. He felt tears in his eyes momentarily as pride welled within him.

Then he looked at his colleague, who looked down at the screen, grinning. Ben’s stomach tightened as he shared this moment with his deputy. He looked back at the screen, then back at Dart. He shook his head, but couldn’t shake out the thought: that never before had he felt so detached from the people. He felt like a God or a King looking down on his subjects and he was overwhelmed with disgust.

‘Our names will go down in history,’ said Dart, dreamily.

Ben got to his feet and crossed the room. ‘Not yet.’ He walked towards the door.

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‘Where are you going now?’ Dart shouted after him, but didn’t receive an answer.

Left alone again, Dart poured himself another drink and sat down in front of the television screen. The ecstatic outpouring of joy continued as the shot panned around to a chubby-faced reporter, whose hair refused to cooperate with gravity, drifting upwards in a light breeze. Dart sat up straight now. He gulped. As he watched the crowds in the mayhem of release, he realised suddenly who he was looking at.

‘You bloody madman…’ he whispered.

There behind the reporter and on the shoulders of the people was Ben Baines, the new leader of England. His fans carried him like a footballer who had just won the world cup, while he cheered and reached out to every hand that tried to touch him. There was no acting now.

Lucas Dart tried to suppress the loathing that fermented deep inside him. He put down his drink and wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers. ‘Thinks he’s the fucking Messiah,’ he mumbled to himself.

Then he got up and marched to the window. He stood where Baines had been only minutes before. A shiver ran down his spine as he thought about doing what Baines had done. Then, through the window, he saw the crowd put him down. He turned quickly to the TV screen again as Baines appeared next to the journalist. The anger roiled within him as he scrambled back to the sofa and turned up the sound.

The young reporter’s voice was raised against the noise of the revelry. Excitement animated his face and his vocal chords were raw after hours spent covering the celebrations. There was something of a northern lilt to his accent and he performed like a seasoned correspondent.

‘I cannot quite believe this, but standing next to me is Ben Baines.’ He turned to the leader. ‘Hello sir!’ he shouted awkwardly.

‘Hello!’ screamed Baines.

Dart shook his head as the reporter looked purposefully into the camera.

‘If you wondered what was different about our new leader…’ He looked at Ben and gestured with his hands at him being alone in the midst of the jubilation.

‘What would you like to say to the people?’ The reporter was evidently struggling to find the words as he passed the microphone to Baines, who took it from him and looked around, sucking in the energy of the crowd.

Dart could see the solemn figure of Pierre, Baines’s sole bodyguard, standing at the leader’s right shoulder.

‘Over past decades,’ Baines boomed into the microphone, ‘we have watched economies crumble! We have seen Islamists threaten the western world and we have endured the right-wing backlash! We have been sickened by corporations and politicians profiting from our labour! We have seen the might of the USA destroy itself from within!’ His voice cracked a little as he fought against the noise of the crowd. ‘Now, we are making history – together we are stronger!’ he looked around him, wide-eyed and pumped with emotion.

Dart snorted at the screen.

‘And together,’ Baines screamed, ‘we will make this world a better place for all of us!’ He punched the air, pointed to all the people surrounding him then raised the microphone in the air, screaming in jubilant celebration, unreserved and at the top of his lungs. The journalist watched him, mouth wide open.

Dart stared at the screen as Baines passed the microphone back to the speechless journalist, the crowds around him went crazy. He was jostled and bumped; Pierre appeared to climb on Baines’s back in an attempt to protect him from the revellers, but Baines was in his element and his face radiated pure joy.

Dart felt his blood boil. He took a huge gulp of whisky and slammed the glass down on the table; he hated how impotent Baines could make him feel.

As Pierre ushered Baines away, the camera remained focused on the journalist, who finally gathered himself,

‘Can you believe that?’ he said, before getting a grip. ‘…As you can witness from the crowds around me, the mood here on the streets of the capital is jubilant. Today’s results are overwhelming. The Peaceful Revolution has been sanctioned! This year will see the sixtieth anniversary of Margaret Thatcher’s election as Prime Minister. Sixty years on we see the end of her vision… Capitalism is dead! Collectivism is our future… The Baines era of politics is upon us. At least for tonight, the NSO and Mr Baines evidently, can enjoy their victory.

‘But it is now, that Ben Baines will need to make good his promises with action. Yes, his support is unquestionable, but Baines, the dissident revolutionary, has inherited a country on its knees, bankrupt financially and at loggerheads with its neighbours.’

The journalist now stared soberly into the lens.

‘While everyone cheers in Collectivism, what of Land Reform, the policy that is integral to our leader’s dogma? The policy that is causing unrest – even violence. How long can this charismatic man persuade those generations born of Capitalism that his ideology will work? What we know for certain is that only time will tell. This is Rory Henderson for News –’

As Dart turned off the television, he felt the return of a warm glow deep inside. He refilled his glass and wandered around Ben’s office before taking a seat behind his boss’s desk.

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Ben fell into the rear entrance of their building and whooped with pleasure. He looked at Pierre, who evidently did not share the rush that he was experiencing.

‘This was dangerous…’ he said with a stern expression. ‘Come on, Pierre, if I am not the same as everyone else – if we can’t stand together – we have nothing.’

‘It was dangerous, Ben.’ Then the corners of his mouth curled. ‘But we are okay, so we do not need to worry. Veinard!’ Ben put his hands on his knees and caught his breath.

‘No French…’ He looked up at Pierre.

Pierre shrugged and tutted, as always disappointed by Ben’s lack of French. ‘How do you say… er lucky bastard!’ He put a hand on the leaders shoulder and the two men shared a laugh.

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Ben walked straight to the sideboard when he came back to his office and poured himself a Scotch.

‘D’you want another one,’ he called over his shoulder to Dart, who was ensconced at Ben’s desk with an expectant look on his face. Ben had noticed him there but purposefully ignored the slight. He wanted to look, to see his deputy’s face change from mischief to irritation, but he resisted the urge.

‘No, I’ve had enough.’ Dart’s voice was laced with resentment and, as he leaned forward, the lamp caught his meaty face, creating dark shadows across his features and highlighting his piggy eyes. ‘That was stupid. One day, your ego will get you killed.’

Ben smiled and took a sip of his drink. ‘You know… you have this office. I’ll go downstairs into the hub area. I’d prefer that.’

Dart stood up and looked at Ben as if he was about to speak, but instead he simply bowed his head, tapped the surface of the desk a couple of times and headed for the door. As he was about to leave he turned to Ben. ‘You are the leader of the NSO and you better start acting like it. Your cavalier attitude may work with the morons out there…’ He pointed to the window. ‘But leadership is about image. There are a lot of ambitious and powerful people who have invested a lot in you.’ He looked at him sternly, a fat finger raised towards him. ‘They’re your primary concern, and stunts like that make you look reckless. You are the Leader!’

Ben felt his grin broaden as he watched Dart’s face flush. ‘I know. I am. But thanks for the advice.’

Dart shook his head, staring at Ben with what looked like contempt. Then he looked at the floor and, with a grunt of annoyance, he left the room. Ben almost felt pity for the big man, but then he leaned back against the sideboard and laughed with sheer pleasure.

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Chapter Two, coming soon...