Reform

This Sci-fi novel is set in the present day. I wanted to represent the current Farage Reform Party right-wing populists and their opportunistic psuedo-patriotic anti-immigrant stance. I thought that I could mutate this into an anti-alien faction as the novel progresses. Which is what I did. For that reason I invented this bunch of characters one of whom has a central role in the novel. Can you see which one from this introductory section?

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‘See, I was working on this place at St George’s Hill, all cash in hand. A bloody mansion! This guy’s worth a bomb!’ Billy was his usual lively self.

The gang were assembled in their nook at the Ashley Arms, the men with pints of bitter, the girls on white wine spritzes.

‘Anyway, he’s built this huge extension, turning it into a glorified snooker room with a full‑size slate. Massive. And he wanted me to sort out the wiring. No prob. Glad to do it. He’s paying well over the odds.’ He paused to take a big swig, wiping froth off his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Cash is king. Know what I mean.’ He looked around, catching each of their eyes to ensure engagement. ‘So anyway, his missus comes downstairs, a whole entourage of them, all kitted out in black robes, head to foot. You could just see their eyes. What did Boris call them — letter boxes. ’Cept letter boxes aren’t black.’ Billy looked round, aghast. ‘I couldn’t tell who was his missus and who was the grandmother. Know what I mean? In their own bloody home.’

‘That’s ’cos you were there,’ Debbie remarked, swirling her wine. ‘These Muslims have to cover up if there’s strange men around — and they don’t get any stranger than you, Billy.’

Everyone chuckled.

‘There were all sorts,’ Billy protested. ‘Servants everywhere — cooks, gardeners, cleaners, butlers. Wasn’t just me.’

‘So what’s he do?’ Foxy asked.

‘Finance,’ Billy frowned. ‘Came prancing back from the city in his fancy orange Lamborghini. Only drives it to the station.’

‘Bloody robbers,’ Denby growled. ‘Financers, bankers. Fucking leeches. Never done a day’s work in their lives.’

‘Like you then,’ Foxy grinned, raising his glass.

More chuckles.

‘All they do is bet on markets,’ Denby persisted. ‘A bunch of gambling conmen. They engineer it, control it, and walk away with millions.’

‘You’re sounding glum today, Denby. What’s up?’ Foxy leaned over and punched him playfully on the arm.

‘He’s only been up half the night painting friggin’ roundabouts,’ Cheryl remarked. ‘You should see the state of his trackie. Spent forty quid on red and white paint.’

Denby grasped his pint with both hands and scowled. Everyone eyed the paint stains on his hands that hadn’t scrubbed off.

‘What roundabouts?’ Billy chuckled.

‘Not content with spending our money on stupid flags,’ Cheryl exclaimed. ‘Half the flags down High Street are ours. He’s only gone and done the roundabout at the Halfway.’

They roared with laughter as Denby’s scowl deepened.

‘I’ve seen that! That was you, Denby? You’re a dark horse,’ Foxy chuckled, poking him with a finger.

‘Right mess you made of it,’ John remarked. ‘All the paint’s run together.’

‘I could hardly wait for the red to dry before I put on the white, could I?’ Denby snapped.

‘Should’ve painted it all white one day, then gone back the next for the red stripes.’

‘Somebody has to make a stand,’ Billy said seriously, halting the mockery. ‘Someone has to stand up for our English values. At least Denby’s doing something.’

The group subsided into pensive silence, sipping their drinks.

‘They’ll have a room upstairs,’ Debbie reflected, returning to the burqa‑clad women. ‘Somewhere they can relax and take it all off.’

‘Yeah,’ Billy conceded. ‘They do.’ He lowered his brow and pouted. ‘But Lord Mohamed doesn’t have to wear all that medieval shit. He comes back with his silk Armani and flashy Rolex, putting on some accent like he’s an English baron.’

‘This is England,’ Foxy stated bluntly. ‘They should behave like we do if they want to live here. None of this letter box shit.’

‘You mean like we do if we go over there?’ Charlene asked, raising her eyebrows.

‘I run a market stall,’ Foxy reminded her. ‘I see all sorts. It’s daft. We’ve got Asian guys down from the Midlands wearing robes and wellies. Looks stupid. They get soaked in the rain. Those robes were designed for tropical climates, not soggy England.’

‘Yeah,’ Denby agreed. ‘If they want to live here they should fit in.’ He peered round challengingly.

‘I agree,’ Billy said, downing his pint. ‘It’s about British values. And those ain’t British values.’

‘I’m ready for a top‑up,’ Cheryl smiled, holding up her empty glass.

‘My round,’ John said, gathering empties.

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