Authors: Bernard O'Mahoney
Hateland (46 page)
Everyone sat together in the darkness. A senior Sinn Fein man arrived. He spoke politely, but firmly, to Adolf. He explained that a new political party, however admirable in its aims, was not welcome in the urban working-class territory that Sinn Fein regarded as its own. He said the grass-roots support for Adolf's anti-immigration campaign looked like taking votes off the republicans - and that was unacceptable. He added that people who caused harm to the republican movement would be dealt with firmly. He asked Adolf if he'd got the message.
Adolf had got the message loud and clear. He decided that Ireland, for all its charm, wasn't worth dying for. He ceased his canvassing activities immediately and NSRUS withdrew from the election campaign. Later, he said to me, 'Sinn Fein? They're just the fucking Irish National Front, aren't they?'
The next time I heard from Adolf, I discovered he'd moved to Philadelphia in the United States after linking up with a White Power female activist through the Internet. I prayed she wasn't Breeze or any of the other Manson groupies who'd written to me. Around a year later, he returned to London. 'The Yanks,' he declared, 'are fucking cranks.' These days, Adolf lives in west London and sells 'erotic art' (statues mainly) at exhibitions both here and abroad. A south London villain introduced him to this lucrative sideline.
Where are the others? 'Benny the Jew' is married, has children, lives in Kent and works in the building industry; Del Boy runs an old people's home; Larry 'The Slash' is single and lives in London (no one knows what he does: the last I heard he was either working for, or was an exhibit in, a museum); Ray's brother Tony lives with his partner in south London. He's got children and works in the building industry. Unlike the other surviving members of our gang, Adolf hasn't calmed down or mellowed in the intervening years. He probably never will. The rage still dwells within.
Recently, I got an e-mail from someone claiming to be an organiser of the BNP in 'the Black Country' (as parts of the West Midlands are called). He'd read a blurb on my website mentioning
Hateland
as one of my future books. I think I'd touched on my encounters with the BNP and its former leader, John Tyndall.
Sir, what a pathetic and deluded man you are. Is it not about time you actually took a look around you, and updated your information? The BNP has a totally different leadership now, including me in the Black Country, who is from the 'old left' . . . You are presumably part of the ANL [Anti-Nazi League
}/Searchlight
brigade, who are now being seen for what they are - pre-Zionist hard-left has-beens, and users and abusers of our white youth . . . You and your kind are in for a terrible shock soon, as millions of white, proud and browbeaten people from all walks of life will totally destroy the pretend 'democracy' that Blair and Co have used and hijacked.
He said he'd recruited 230 new BNP members in his area alone in the previous two years. His meetings, on premises supplied free of charge by local businessmen, attracted up to 90 people, including an 85-year-old woman who'd given 40 years' service to the Labour Party. Prime Minister 'Phoney Tony' Blair himself had acknowledged her sterling work. He'd sent her his signature on a yellow 'Post-it note', which she'd since burnt in protest at his policies.
My ranting correspondent added that even his own mother - supposedly a lifelong Labour supporter - had now gone over to the BNP:
Having been in a post office when a couple of Negroes held up the terrified young girl at gun-point, even my mom can't ignore the perils of 'downtown Kingston-cum Britain' that you two-faced Liberals have created, while of course living in your elitist ivory towers. Why are you not taking your families to Harlsden for instance? I hear it is really 'diverse' there. Obviously I jest, because like every other black run town, it is a filthy cess pit of aids riven rapists, gun gangs, and typical low brow third world morons.
He said the BNP under its 'young, vibrant and intellectually superior political leader Mr Nick Griffin' was smashing all the 'limp-wristed Liberal arguments' put forward by people like me. He drew my attention to the fact that the 'late, great Enoch Powell' had just been put forward as a candidate in a poll for the 'top 100 Greatest Britons'. He said everything had turned out exactly as Powell had predicted it would.
I didn't like the turd's tone. I don't take kindly to being called a pathetic, limp-wristed user and abuser of white youth. I sent back an immediate reply:
You WILL regret calling me pathetic, you sad sex case. Call me. Let's meet. Let's see who is pathetic. Check out who you are gobbing off to with your pal Lecomber/Wells in London. He will advise you that you have fucked up. See you soon, dickhead.
My uninvited correspondent also responded immediately:
I have advised my Lawyer to allow the Police to take a look at your intimidating reply. It is obvious you were offended by my email, but it would have made a good piece of political banter and on/off communication between two opposite thinkers, but you are not the type to be light-hearted with ... I apologise for offending you, Sir.
At that point, our correspondence ceased.
I planned to marry Emma Turner on 16 July 2004 in Peterborough Cathedral. It was to be another of my many new beginnings, my umpteenth new start. I decided to have my stag night in Dublin the weekend before. Around 20 of us flew there to celebrate the passing of my bachelor status.
One of our group got very drunk and began pinching women's bottoms. I've never liked that sort of noncey behaviour. I asked him to refrain from doing it in my company. He refused to comply with my polite request and called me an arsehole into the bargain. Later that night, the bottom-pincher was found lying in the street, unconscious and with severe head injuries. Doctors at the hospital diagnosed a fractured skull and two blood clots on the brain. They placed him under intensive care when he failed to regain consciousness.
The Irish police arrested 16 of the men in my stag group and told them the injured man might die. He underwent surgery and spent the next six days fighting for his life. His family flew out from England to be at his bedside. Everyone feared that, even if
he pulled through, he might still be brain-damaged. Perhaps he'd start talking like Larry Grayson and take to the stage with a poodle act.
The day before my wedding, I was informed that the man had regained consciousness and would be discharged from hospital shortly, though not in time to attend the wedding, which in any case he might well have opted to avoid. He didn't appear to have suffered any brain damage, which came as a relief to his family, friends and show business.
The wedding went ahead as planned. I had difficulty choosing just one 'best man'. So I chose four - one to represent each of the four main phases of my life. My schoolfriend Hughie would represent my youth in the Black Country, Adolf my life in London after the army, Gavin from Raquels my life in Essex after my escape from South Africa and Rashed (someone I've become good friends with since moving to Peterborough) my new life after Essex. Prior to the service in Peterborough's Church of England cathedral, we played Sinead O'Connor's version of the uncensored, raw republican 'Danny Boy' in remembrance of my father, Emma's parents, Ray and 'Army Game'. I'm not sure the Archbishop of Canterbury - to whom we had to apply for our marriage licence - would have approved of the song's call to God to help set Ireland free.
As Sinead's haunting vocals filled the cathedral, I scanned the faces of the 250-odd (very odd) guests. Prejudice and hatred had dominated my life and the lives of many of my friends. Yet now, at the age of 44, to my left stood Gavin, an Asian, and to my right stood Rashed, also an Asian. Nearby were two of Emma's beautiful bridesmaids - her mixed-race nieces.
In the congregation stood Glen, my future brother-in-law, who's black, and my good friend Bobby from Peterborough, who's also black. Then, also from Peterborough, were my friends Jimmy (from the former Yugoslavia), John (from Italy), Taff, Whizz and Shane (all travellers) and Assad (Asian).
A few of my invitees couldn't attend. I was especially disappointed that my mate Fazbul from Codsall had to decline. He's the owner of the Rajput Tandoori restaurant, whose maharajah statue I'd helped vandalise more than a quarter of a century ago. Fazbul had also been the owner back then. He'd never known the identity of the yobs who'd kidnapped, hacked at and finally torched his Indian prince. Over the years, on my regular trips back to the village to visit my mother and friends, I've frequently ended up at his restaurant after a night out. We've often chatted and had a laugh.
A few years ago, Fazbul witnessed an altercation outside his restaurant between me and members of the local constabulary. Blows had been exchanged. Fazbul, who's a real gentleman, very civilised and fair-minded, hadn't liked what he'd seen. He told me he was prepared to act as a witness for me in my pending court case arising from the incident.
Being familiar with the often astonishing petty-mindedness of the upholders of the law, I turned down his offer, because I knew that, if he went into the witness box against the police, they'd find some way of giving him grief in the future. I went alone to court, defended myself and was acquitted of breaching the peace, but convicted of assaulting an officer.
Sitting in Fazbul's restaurant late at night, chomping my poppadams while waiting for my next pint of Tiger lager, I've often felt guilty about my part in vandalising the maharajah. I've sometimes felt the urge to confess all to Fazbul as an act of apology, but I've always bottled out at the last moment. I don't know why, really. It's not that I've feared ending up in a curry. It's more that I've feared being crushed by Fazbul's look of disappointment. In many ways, I've written this book to apologise to Fazbul and lots of other people too numerous to mention.
There's no happy ending to this book. My story isn't over. Who knows how things will end? Life has taught me that, however strong your beliefs, events can and will change them. I thank God that my experiences have changed some of my abhorrent views. All I can do is look back on my past, learn from my mistakes and try to become a better person. Only those who know me will be able to judge if I've been successful.
I'm not sure if I'm qualified to offer advice, but if you're some fucking little hard man reading this book, and you think you know better than I do, then think again, because you're wrong. Unclench your fist, fool, and respect yourself and those around you. You're better than no man - and no man is better than you. Rise above those who've caused your misery. Or else your hatred may destroy you, your children and your children's children.
AFTERWORD
This book wasn't meant to have an Afterword, because I thought I'd said everything I wanted to say. But on Thursday, 2 December 2004, just as the editor had finished his work and the manuscript sat ready for the printer's, my wife Emma died in my arms at the age of 26. Not even five months had passed since our wedding.
Around ten days earlier, Emma had fallen ill with flu-like symptoms. She was normally one of those annoyingly healthy people, so her illness left me a little surprised and, I suppose, a little worried. I asked her not to go to work, but she insisted she wasn't sick enough to stay at home. She also wanted to work overtime to earn a bit extra for Christmas.
She worked hard, and late, all that week. The symptoms didn't seem to get any worse, though they didn't disappear either. On the Saturday of her last weekend alive, we had a wild party night, a real mad one. On Sunday, we stayed in bed to recover. On Monday, we both got up and went to work. At home later that evening, Emma told me she felt really ill. We agreed she wouldn't go to work the next day.
In the morning, she didn't seem that bad. We even made love. Afterwards, we laughed about possible excuses I could give when I rang in sick for her. In the past, I hadn't always conveyed accurately the details we'd agreed. On one occasion - after she'd instructed me to say she had a bad cold - I'd rung her work with the excuse she sat stranded 100 km away. I'd said that, after visiting her sister Siobhan, she'd gone to drive home only to discover that someone had stolen her car's wheels. I neglected to tell Emma I'd altered the story slightly. Sitting at her work desk next day, with fake cough and theatrical sniffles, she'd been stumped by her boss asking sympathetically if the police had found her wheels.
I jokingly called her a skiver as I made up the bed before leaving home. I left fruit-juice, books, magazines and the television's remote-control at her fingertips. At 9 a.m., I rang in sick for her. At ten, I phoned home. She said she felt awful, so I rang the doctor's surgery which stands almost on our doorstep. Thanks to a cancellation, the doctor could see her in just over an hour. I phoned Emma back to tell her to walk the 30 paces to the doctor's. In a weak voice, she replied she couldn't make the appointment because she couldn't get out of bed. I felt so alarmed I left work immediately and headed home.
The doctor agreed to come to Emma. I sat on the edge of the bed holding her hand and talking to her until he arrived. Then I left the room and waited downstairs till he'd finished. He diagnosed 'inflamed lungs', and prescribed anti-inflammatories and antibiotics. I went straight across the road to the chemist, who told me to bin the prescription because I could buy the same medication more cheaply off the shelf.
I brought the tablets back to Emma, who started taking them. She seemed to pep up a bit, so I returned to work for a few hours. When I got home later that Tuesday, Emma told me she felt worse. She looked pale and poorly. I wanted to take her to hospital, but she thought I was overreacting. She insisted she didn't feel bad enough to merit a trip to casualty. I'll never forget her words, 'Stop worrying, Bernie. It's only a cold.'
On Wednesday morning, I said I wanted to stay at home with her, but she ordered me to go to work, insisting she'd survive without me. I spoke to her on the phone during the day. When I got back late afternoon, she asked me, as she often did, to lie in bed with her and Brumble, her beloved teddy bear and almost inseparable companion. She loved watching TV in bed, snuggled up with me and Brumble rather than sitting in front of the screen downstairs. That Wednesday night, we hardly slept at all. She kept saying how awful she felt. I sat up in bed most of the night,
holding her hand and stroking her hair.
At live in the morning, I kissed her goodbye and told her I'd finish work early to be with her. She said, 'Don't be long, Bernie.' During the day, I rang home to check on her condition. She said she felt a bit better, and we talked about poxy curtains. At four, I finished work and went home to find her sitting on the sofa in the front room downstairs. She looked strange. She seemed scared, like she'd seen a ghost. I asked if she was all right. She said, 'I love you, Bernie.' I knew then that something was desperately wrong. She seemed to know that, too. She said again, 'I love you, Bernie,' and added, 'Help me.'
I said, 'Don't fuck about, woman. You're scaring me.'
She laughed, which came as a relief, but then she repeated the words, 'I love you, Bernie.'
I sat next to her with my arm around her, holding one of her hands. My 17-year-old son Vinney popped his head round the door to ask if everything was all right. Over the next few hours, Emma's condition deteriorated rapidly. I kept wanting to make her a cup of tea, but every time I tried leaving the room, she'd beg me to stay. I made another attempt to get to the kitchen. She said then what I later realised had been her last words, 'Please don't leave me, Bernie. Stay here with me. Don't go now. I love you, Bernie.' Her pleading tone filled me with fear. I guessed something dreadful might be about to happen - and I felt powerless to stop it. I picked her up in my arms, like you'd pick up a child, and held her, trying to reassure her. Suddenly, her eyes rolled in her head. Gripped by a desperate panic, I laid her down gently, then rang the doctor's and implored them to send someone immediately. By now, Vinney had joined us in the front room.
I put the phone down, and again held Emma in my arms. All of a sudden, she leant forward. Her upper body stiffened, as if she were having a convulsion or even a heart attack. She seemed to stop breathing. Sick with shock and fear, I rang 999 and told the operator my wife had stopped breathing, though I could still feel a pulse in her neck. I begged for help. The operator instructed me on how to give the kiss of life - and promised an ambulance would soon be there.
Vinney helped me lay Emma on the floor. He held her head as I tried desperately to breathe life into her. The 999 operator had stayed on the line. Vinney picked up the phone and began describing what was happening. Then he started passing on further instructions from the operator to me. I felt Emma's heart stop. I shouted at Vinney, 'Tell them her heart's stopped! Tell them her heart's stopped!' The operator told me via Vinney to try to restart her heart by pushing her chest down with the palm of my hand. I did as instructed, crying the whole time, pleading with her to wake up, but I knew my Emma had just died. Sobbing and shouting, I continued doing everything to get her breathing again. But she'd gone.
The paramedics arrived swiftly. They set to work urgently, but I could see no response from Emma. I slammed the door shut. I said no one could leave until they'd saved my Emmie. They fought for more than an hour to revive her. It was too late. They pronounced her dead at '2024 hrs'.
The next day, a pathologist performed an autopsy. I can't bear to think of what he had to do to my beautiful Emma's body, but his work meant he could tell me why she'd died. He said a common flu virus had attacked her heart. Normally, this virus just travels round the bloodstream till it's zapped either by antibiotics or the body's own defences. But sometimes, rarely and unpredictably, it attacks the heart. The pathologist told me he'd only ever come across one other case. The victim then had also been a woman in her 20s. He told me that, once the virus had started attacking Emma's heart, nothing could have saved her. She could have been on antibiotics in the best hospital in the world, but she'd still have died.
One day short of five months since our marriage, and only ten days before Christmas, I buried my wife in her wedding dress. More than 100 people followed the horse-drawn carriage containing her coffin. At the cemetery in Codsall, my four best men - Rashed, Gavin, Adolf and Hughie - together with my sons Adrian and Vinney and my brother Michael helped me carry Emma to her grave.
We made our way through the cemetery at a solemn snail's pace. Each step brought me closer to the moment when Emma's body would disappear for ever. My sense of dread filled my feet with lead. The coffin, too, grew heavier with every second. I felt a stab of pain as I saw ahead of me the mounds of freshly dug earth that would soon cover my beloved Emmie. Slowly, we reached our grim destination. One day it'll be my grave too, but, as I helped lower Emma into the ground, I wished that day had come and I could have joined her.
Less than halfway down, the coffin came to a sudden stop. It wouldn't go any further. We realised the grave was too small. The funeral director blushed with embarrassment. Adolf said, 'Lift the coffin back up, boys.' The funeral director said he'd fetch a 'grave attendant' (which I believe is the new term for 'gravedigger'). But before he could do so, Adolf stepped forward and said, 'Forget it. It's not a good idea to bring us the fool who dug this.' Then he picked up one of the long-handled shovels lying on the ground and said, 'One of you grab that one.' Emma's uncle Jerry reached for the other shovel. He and Adolf took turns in digging away the excess earth on the grave's walls. Huffing, puffing and ranting inaudibly, Adolf looked up at me at one point and said, 'Typical O'Mahoney. She won't do what she's told.' After Adolf and Jerry had exerted themselves for ten minutes, the grave could finally receive my Emma. This mishap managed somehow to make bearable what otherwise could have been an unbearable moment.
All day, I had to tell myself to stay strong, not just for myself, but for my mother, my children and Emma's sister, Siobhan. I knew too that Emma wouldn't have wanted me to go to pieces in public. All day, I stifled my tears. The priest had warned me I'd find difficult the task of reading a tribute to my wife during the service. But I had to do it, because I felt that's what she'd have wanted.
After the burial, everyone went to the Royal British Legion Club near my mother's house. One of my Irish uncles, Paul from Sligo, stood on the same stage my father had stood on 30 years earlier and raised a toast to Emma. Then he sang a shatteringly moving version of my father's favourite, 'Danny Boy', the song we'd played at our wedding in memory of Emma's parents, my father and dead friends.
Only when everyone had gone home that night did I allow myself to break down. I walked crying through Codsall's empty streets and made my way back to the cemetery. In the darkness, I found Emma's grave and lay down on the thick carpet of flowers that covered her final resting place. Alone again with my Emma, I let my tears fall until I cried myself to sleep. My uncle Paul found me there at four in the morning. He lifted me to my feet, put his arm round my shoulder and helped me walk back to my mother's.
This grief is too deep for tears. The pain is physical, like somebody has punched a hole in my chest and is twisting and squeezing my heart. I've never felt so alone in my life. Emma was more than my wife. I loved and trusted her completely. She was my best adviser, my best barrister, my best psychiatrist, my best protector and, above all, my best mate. We went everywhere, and did everything, together.
Just a few weeks ago, when I finished
Hateland
, I felt like I'd brought to an end a whole rotten chapter of my life. I looked with optimism to the future - my future with Emma. And now that future is gone. I don't know how I'm ever going to get over this loss.
I'm not sure why I'm writing these words. I don't know if I should be sharing my despair with strangers. But if you've got this far in the book, then you've been living for a few hours in my world. Perhaps I just want to say: when you go back to your world, be kind to the people you love, because you never know when you're going to lose them.
Now I'm faced with another new start, another new beginning, but this time it's one I'm not sure I can make.
