More cheers. He looks down at the front rows, which are reserved for the local hierarchy. Fine men, one and all, wearing their black shirts emblazoned with the party’s lightning flash. He is dressed the same, except for the black boots he bought last week, which add an extra dimension of authority.

“Let there be no doubt in your minds that the British people are a great people, who will soon realize that ours is the only way forward. Imagine a Europe without borders, a Europe that need never fight itself again, for the Great War was in fact a civil war, brother against brother. And now imagine Africa as the Empire, serving Europe with its raw materials. Imagine the streets clean of Jews and Communists, all packed off to Russia where they belong. Wouldn’t that be paradise, gentlemen? Wouldn’t that be a place fit for heroes, a Europe fit for our sons? I tell you now that such a paradise is getting ever nearer, cleansed of scum and troglodytes, a paradise where purity and strength are our watchwords. Let us rid ourselves of the dangers of international finance and the tyranny of Marxism. There is another way, and it is a right way, and it is our way! It is a glorious path to freedom and dignity….”

But shouts are coming from the back of the hall. A scuffle is breaking out, and he can make out a couple of blackshirts doing over a young thug with a beard. Everybody turns around, ignoring his speech. The scuffle gets rowdier; as does the shouting. There is little doubt that Bolsheviks have infiltrated the meeting! Time to fight them with words too.

“See here, gentlemen, the actions of the Communist…”

A few heads turn back to face him.

“…intent on violence and terror to disrupt our show of patriotism. We came to this town in peace and we intend to leave in peace. But if we are attacked, then we will show that Fascism is above all strong….”

But shout as loud as he can, the scuffle is turning into a fight. There must be at least fifty filthy Commies among them, intent on causing trouble. Well, they’ll get it all right; they’ll get it where it hurts. He steps down from the stage—he’ll show them that a man like him leads from the front, that he is more than a speaker.

He runs to where a couple of Bolshies are kicking a helpless blackshirt on the floor. He slides his truncheon out of his pocket, and with his left hand grabs the shoulder of a Bolshie and turns him around.

“Have this, you bastard!” he shouts, and swings the truncheon into the Bolshie’s face. Without the embedded nails, the truncheon might have just broken his nose, but with them, the damage is a lot worse. He must have got the bugger in the right eye as well, because blood is pouring out of it. The man brings his hands to his face and starts screaming—good. More and more blood, dribbling through the cracks between his fingers and down his arms. He kicks the Bolshie in the groin for good measure, whereupon he collapses.