The politician fumbled for the handkerchief in his top pocket and fastidiously dabbed the perspiration from his face. He thought about removing his jacket but decided against it, realizing that they were close to their destination.
The driver threaded the car skilfully through the traffic, hitting the horn every so often to clear offending vehicles out of the way.
Braddock sat back and closed his eyes but he found it difficult to relax. The events of two nights before were still uncomfortably fresh in his mind.
He had told no one of what he had witnessed at the seance, least of all his wife. For one thing she would probably never have believed him and, if she had, Braddock realized that mention of it may well have disturbed her. For his own part, the image of that maimed and burned child had surfaced, unwanted, in his mind on a number of occasions since. Albeit fleetingly. He wondered how long it would take to fully erase the image and the memory. He was thankful that nothing about the incident had appeared in any of the papers. Even the gutter press had so far remained blissfully ignorant of what would, for them, have been front page fodder. Braddock was grateful for that because he knew that the Prime Minister would not have looked kindly on his participation in such a fiasco.
He had held the post of Minister of the Arts in the last two Conservative administrations. Prior to that he had served as a spokesman on Finance in a career in the House of Commons which spanned over twenty years. Some had seen his appointment as Arts Minister as something of a demotion but Braddock was happy with his present position as it removed some of the pressure from him which had been prevalent when he’d been with the Exchequer.
As traffic began to thin he decided to roll down the window slightly. A cooling breeze wafted in, drying the perspiration on him. He glanced to his right and saw a sign which read: BRIXTON Vi MILE.
Another five minutes and the Granada began to slow up.
As Braddock looked out he saw that there was already a sizeable crowd gathered in the paved area which fronted the new Activity Centre. The building had been converted from four derelict shops, with the help of a two million pound Government grant. The minister scanned the rows of black faces and felt a twinge of distaste.
As the driver brought the car to a halt he saw two coloured men approaching.
Both were dressed in suits, one looking all the more incongruous because, perched on his head, was a multi- coloured woollen bonnet. His dreadlocks had been carefully pushed inside. Braddock smiled his practised smile and waited for the driver to open the car door.
He stepped out, extending his hand to the first of the black men.
Braddock cringed inwardly as he felt his flesh make contact with the other man and he hastily shook hands with the Rastafarian, allowing himself to be led across the concrete piazza towards a make-shift platform which had been erected in front of the entrance to the Activity Centre.
As he made his way up the three steps the crowd broke into a chorus of applause.
Braddock scanned the faces before him, some white but mostly black. He continued to smile although it was becoming more of an effort. The first of the organisers, who had introduced himself as Julian Hayes, stepped forward towards a microphone and tapped it twice. There was a whine from the PA system and Hayes tapped it again. This time there was no interference.
it’s been more than two years since building first started on this Centre,’
Hayes began. ‘And I’m sure we’re all happy to see that it’s finally finished.’
There was some more clapping and the odd whistle.
Hayes smiled broadly.
‘As from today,’ he continued. ‘We shall all be able to use the facilities. I would like to call on Mr Gerald Braddock to officially open the Centre.’ He beckoned the politician forward. ‘Mr Braddock.’
There was more applause as the minister reached the microphone. Beside it he noticed there was a small table and on it lay a pair of shears with which he was meant to cut the gaily coloured ribbon strung across the doors of the centre.
He paused before the microphone still smiling, scanning the rows of dark faces. Braddock felt the disgust rising within him. He coughed, suddenly aware of a slight shiver which ran down his spine. The sun continued to beat down relentlessly but, despite the heat, the politician felt inexplicably cold.
‘Firstly,’ he began, i would like to thank Mr Hayes for asking me to declare this new centre open. He must take credit for so much of the organisation which went into ensuring that the project was completed.’
There was more vigorous clapping.
Braddock smiled thinly and gripped the microphone stand.
‘The cutting of the ribbon is symbolic,’ he said, ‘in as much as it marks the cutting of ties between you people and my Government. We have pumped over two million pounds into the development of this Centre. I hope that it will be put to good use.’
Hayes looked at his Rastafarian companion who merely shrugged.
in the past we have tried to help this area but, up until now, that effort has been largely wasted,’ Braddock continued. ‘Our good faith has not been repaid. I sincerely hope that it will not be the case this time.’
The politician’s voice had taken on a dictatorial tone, one not unnoticed by the crowd.
There were one or two disapproving comments from the assembled throng. A babble of unrest which grew slowly as Braddock pressed on regardless.
‘There are many deserving causes to which we could have given a grant such as the one received to convert these old shops into this fine new Centre,’ he said, ‘most of which would normally come higher on our list of priorities.
Nevertheless, partly through pressure from leaders of your community, we decided to furnish your committee with the appropriate funds.’
Julian Hayes looked angrily at Braddock’s broad back then at the crowd who were muttering amongst themselves, angered by the politician’s remarks.
‘You seem to think that you qualify as a special case,’ Braddock said, vehemently, ‘because you’re black.’ ‘Steady, man,’ the Rastafarian rumbled behind him. Hayes raised a hand for him to be silent although his own temper was becoming somewhat frayed as the minister ploughed on.
it will be interesting to see how long this Centre remains intact. How long
before some of you decide to wreck it. As it is, one of the few advantages that I can see is that it will give some of you a place to go, instead of hanging idly around on street corners.’
The crowd, by this time, were now gesturing menacingly at Braddock. Someone shouted something from the rear of the crowd but the minister either didn’t hear it or ignored it. His own face was flushed, perspiration running in rivulets over the puffy flesh, yet still he felt himself encased in that invisible grip which seemed to squeeze tighter, growing colder all the time.
‘Perhaps now,’ he hissed, ‘with your own Centre, you will stop bothering the decent white people who are unfortunate enough to have to live in this filthy “ghetto” you have created in Brixton.’ He was breathing heavily, rapidly. His eyes were bulging wide and, when he spoke it was through clenched teeth.
‘That’s it,’ snapped the Rastafarian, stepping forward. ‘Who the hell do you think you are, man?’
Braddock spun around, his eyes blazing.
‘Get away from me you stinking nigger,’ he roared, his voice amplified by the microphone.
The crowd raged back at him.
‘Mr Braddock …’ Julian Hayes began, moving in front of his colleague to face the politician. ‘We’ve heard enough.’
‘You black scum,’ rasped the minister.
In one lightning movement, he snatched the shears from the table and drove them forward.
The twin blades punctured Hayes’ stomach just below the navel and Braddock tore them upwards until they cracked noisily against the black man’s sternum.
Blood burst from the hideous rent and Hayes dropped to his knees as a tangled mess of purplish-blue intestines spilled from the gaping hole. Hayes clawed at them, feeling the blood and bile spilling on to his hands and splattering down the front of his trousers. He whimpered quietly as he attempted to retain his entrails, pushing at them with slippery hands.
In the crowd someone screamed. Two or three women fainted. Others seemed rooted to the spot, not sure
