Page 34 of Hang on St. Christopher

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Solidarity.”

“Solidarity with what?”

“White pride. Pride in the Anglo-Saxon race.”

“What the fuck is that flag supposed to be?”

“It’s the genuine article. Not a reproduction, mind. Genuine. So fuck you.”

“What the fuck is it?”

“SS Heimwehr Danzig. Greatest military organization the world has ever seen.”

“The only thing the SS were good at was machine-gunning unarmed women and children and shoving their bodies into pits.”

“Propaganda.”

“All right, fuckhead, go and get a ladder and cut that fucking flag down in the next five minutes or I’m going to punch you so hard it will rip a hole in the fabric of fucking space-time.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“And then once space-time has been ripped a-fucking-sunder, I’m going to find your da on the day you were conceived and kick him in the fucking nuts.”

“Aye, big talk for a?—”

“And then I’m going to travel back to this fucking timeline and arrest you for possession of stolen fucking goods.”

“You can’t fucking do any that, so you can’t.”

“Have you got receipts for all those video recorders in your hall there? Must be three thousand quid’s worth of stuff there. That’s grand larceny, mate. That’s not pay-the-fine-at-the magistrate’s-court. That’s three years in the nick if I was to arrest you.”

He looked worried now.

“But I don’t have to arrest you, do I? I could use my policeman’s discretion and let this all go. What do you think, my little troglodyte friend?”

“In return for what?”

“Cut that fucking flag down. In the next five fucking minutes.”

“It’s freedom of expression.”

“Four minutes and fifty seconds.”

“Look, mate, I know people. I know people in the UVF high command.”

“Four minutes and forty seconds.”

“All right, all right! Hold your horses! I’ll get my ladder!”

He ran out the back to get his ladder, and I took the opportunity to have a wee look-see. I walked past the stolen video cameras and had a look around his living room. A bookcase full of World War II books, a Nazi naval ensign on the wall—this guy was the real deal.

He walked past me carrying a metal stepladder, and I followed him outside to the telegraph pole.

The rain had dispersed most of the crowd, but Pete Scanlon was still there with his skinhead buddies.