Friday, August 21, 2015


Fiction: Noises In The Dark

In a small gloomy bedroom a man lays back in his bed, turns over onto his side and closes his eyes. A dusty bedside alarm clock blinks at 03:47. It’s been a hard night but he smiles and closes his eyes.

He’s a taxi driver that moonlights in people trafficking and child prostitution. Or maybe he works in a fast food outlet that launders dirty money. Maybe he’s been selling drugs to local teenagers. Maybe he’s got his dirty fingers in all of those pies. Maybe he’s somebody higher up. Maybe he’s on the local council. Somewhere a man who gave the order not to investigate the ethnic component of certain crimes is falling asleep.

It doesn’t matter who this man is. He’s a bad man and he’s been getting away with it.

The police won’t arrest him because rule number one is don’t be racist. The local authorities don’t care as they are too eager to pander to his demographic. He knows most of the local councilors from the mosque and they’re all in on the racket anyway. It’s in the newspapers, but the public feel helpless. The media push the message of diversity, and then turn a profit from reporting on the resulting cultural fallout. Diversity is a billion dollar industry and too many people have too much invested to see this runaway train derailed.

Outside, the new moon is hidden by the clouds and the streetlights have been switched off to save money. Further up the street a bathroom light is glowing behind a small, frosted window. A toilet flushes and the light goes out. The wind gusts down the street, carrying trash along the pavement. Out of sight of the house a van door slides open. A boot steps onto the asphalt. A man walks up to the house. Three more men are moving up the path behind him.

These men didn’t vote at the last election. If you don’t vote then you can’t complain they say, but these men don’t complain. They do something else.

They’re dressed in black leather and Kevlar. They’re wearing gloves and carrying blunt, ugly objects. Things that make good people shudder and look away. Hammers, axes, guns. The front door splinters off its hinges with the first swing of the sledgehammer. Heavy boots kick through the wreckage and crunch into the house.

These men refuse to surrender their families and community to politicians who are unwilling and unable to take care of them. They don’t fall into despair and blind acceptance. They refuse to be trapped on a sinking ship and be thrown a make-believe lifeline once every four or five years at election time. They’re taking it back themselves. They’re going to shore up the breach and right the ship.

In the dark, taxi driver shifts in his sleep. He rolls over. Was that a dream? He cracks open one eye and lifts his head off the pillow. That wasn’t a dream. That was a noise. And it’s still coming. It’s the kind of noises that you’re not supposed to hear in the middle of the night. Not when you’re a good person.

But you’re not a good person, are you? And you have gotten away with it for such a long time. He never believed they would come for him. He thought they would never wake up. But someone has woken them. And now they’re here.


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