The Leader by Guy Walters

Author:Guy Walters [Walters, Guy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781446436134
Publisher: Transworld
Published: 2003-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Clifford smiled and lit a most gratifying cigarette. Armstrong was a genius, he thought, a bloody genius. He took a blank sheet of paper from his letter rack and proceeded to draft a signal, the top of which was headlined ‘Most Urgent’.

* * *

Armstrong resolved to keep the Blackshirt uniform. Along with his beard, it gave him a semblance of protection, and he felt more confident wearing it than in one of Ted’s suits. Ted suggested that they might be able to doctor the identity papers he had removed from the Blackshirt in Carlisle, but as Armstrong had been born in a different century to the papers’ holder, it would make alteration difficult. On balance, Armstrong decided that it was better to have no papers than clumsily doctored ones – his Blackshirt uniform would just have to do.

The two men were driving east along the Embankment, Ted at the wheel, a cigarette gripped between his right middle and index fingers. With his face on the front of The Blackshirt and Action, Armstrong felt extremely uneasy being out, but it would be pointless for him to languish indoors. That was not why he had escaped, and that was not what Craven had died for. He had to continue taking risks, and he would carry on until his luck had expired.

London had changed. The most obvious difference was the ubiquitous presence of fascist banners and flags. They were like acne, Armstrong thought, for they had erupted over the face of every building of note. Even the great Battersea Power Station had a massive banner suspended between its two riverside chimneys. On it were painted two lightning flashes, between which ran the predictable slogan, ‘Hail Mosley – The Power of the Land’. Along the pavements walked an endless stream of Blackshirts and people wearing the fascist armband. Armstrong watched as passers-by saluted each other. The gesture had replaced the lifting of a hat or the slight nod of acknowledgement.

As they drove around Parliament Square, Armstrong looked hard at the Palace of Westminster, his place of work for nearly twenty years. He remembered his maiden speech, how nerves had caused him to speak far too quickly, so that the few Members who were in the House had no idea of what he was saying. He had in fact been arguing for an increase in the size of compensation payments to war widows, although it was to be another three years before his voice fell on ears that weren’t conveniently deaf.

Armstrong also recalled the new Member for Harrow making his maiden speech in February 1919. The then Mr Mosley was only twenty-three, the youngest MP in the House, and he started his speech by quoting Chatham’s line concerning ‘the atrocious crime of being a young man’. Armstrong remembered wincing when Mosley had the gall to attack the Secretary of State for War, Winston Churchill, accusing him of lacking imagination. He had been impressed by Mosley’s confidence, but repelled by his obvious vanity and naked ambition.

As they continued down the Embankment, Armstrong turned back to look at Big Ben.

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