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Cyrus keeps moving. The two groups surge towards each other and almost break through the line of police who have linked arms. A beer can arcs over my head and I hear someone shout in pain. There is more swearing, more shoving, more shouts. Violence brewing. A protester spits in the face of a female police officer. A baton is swung. Police charge forward.
Suddenly, a man springs athletically onto the roof of a car, raising his arms, motioning people to listen. In his sixties, he’s dressed in moleskin trousers, an open-necked cotton shirt and cowboy boots. His grey hair, once blond, has tight curls like an old-fashioned perm.
‘You know who I am,’ he says, his accent posher than posh. ‘And you know how I feel about what’s happened here today. I share your frustration, your feelings of helplessness. I love this country as much as you do. And I understand why foreigners are willing to risk their lives to get here. They admire and respect our history, our legal system, our hospitals, our schools . . .’
‘Our welfare system, more like it,’ yells a woman.
‘That, too,’ says the man.
Cyrus has stopped moving. ‘Who is he?’ I whisper.
‘Lord David Buchan.’
‘Didn’t you meet him?’
‘I met his brother.’
Both groups of protesters have gone quiet and are listening.
‘Some of the migrants reaching our shores are genuine refugees, who are escaping from tyranny and war, slavery and starvation,’ says Buchan. ‘Others are economic migrants, who see that the grass is greener on this side of the Channel. But for many, the Promised Land leads to crime, poverty and exploitation. The scenes we witnessed last week of bodies being washed up on our beaches should never be repeated. The time has come to end the carnage. To reclaim our borders. To be humane, but fair.’
Cheers drown out the boos.
‘I have talked to the two men who have been charged today. They are fishermen, who have been labelled as criminals because our legal system is in the thrall of wokeness. An accident on the high seas has been called a crime, when the real criminals are the people smugglers who are exploiting desperate people and encouraging them to make a dangerous voyage to our shores.
‘I am not anti-immigration. I am not anti-refugee. I am a patriot and a pragmatist and a lover of human life. However, migrants who come here illegally should not have more rights than hard-working British citizens. This is about favouritism not fascism, pragmatism not racism. We need a new policy for a new Britain, independent of Europe. An orderly queue. Proper screening. And until such a system is in place, we should turn back the boats.’
There are more cheers and the chanting begins again, but is cut off when Buchan raises his arms. ‘You have every right to be angry and to protest, but violence is not the answer. I urge you to go home and talk to your friends and families. Sign my petition. Donate money to the cause. Write to your local member of parliament. Together, we will create a system that welcomes genuine refugees, but also keeps our borders safe.’
There are more cheers as he jumps down. I tug on Cyrus’s sleeve. ‘Which side is he on?’
‘He wants to stop the boats.’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’
‘It’s complicated.’
Away from the crowd, we cross a canal and walk back to where I’ve parked Mouse. Cyrus’s car is still with the police.
‘Radford didn’t seem bothered by the charges,’ I say.
‘He was grandstanding,’ says Cyrus.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Playing the tough guy.’
‘There are no eyewitnesses without Arben.’
‘The police have his statement and record of interview.’
‘Will that be enough?’
‘I don’t know.’
34
Cyrus
