The Beating Heart of a Nationalist

by Matt Triewly

In the little church hall crammed full of supporters the clapping and cheering reduced to a respectful murmur. The imposing figure of Eric de Wolfe rose to his feet and prepared to address the adoring throng...

"I can only express my heartfelt thanks to each and every one of you who made my release possible - thank you. And remember this day, savour this moment, for it is the day the National Freedom Party of Great Britain was born And yet it is also a day of great sadness, tragedy, for today three more of our brave soldiers have died, their blood soaking into the sand of a faraway land in a futile war, sacrificed so that our beloved Prime Minister can suck up to the American President whilst supping cocktails on the White House lawn and crow about the Special Relationship. Oh, they talk of freedom and democracy but where is that freedom and democracy now for the good people of The Falklands, our people, now under the jackboot of the Argentine Junta, all pledges torched, with relish, like the Union Jack. And what happens today in The Falklands, now Las Malvinas, will happen tomorrow here, in this once green and pleasant land."

He paused - silence had fallen upon the congregation - before taking a deep breath and continuing.

"It may be our destiny to fail, to be stripped of our rights, second class citizens in a third world state, confined to reservations, to shuffle along in the queue for the gas chamber. Yes, it may be our destiny to be wiped out. But it is not our destiny to go down without a fight - let the traitor and invader alike never forget the taste of his own blood."

He brushed back a strand of his thick flaxen mane of hair that had fallen across his strong Nordic features, his piercing blue eyes still mesmerising the audience who hung upon his every utterance...


"He thinks he's some sort of Mandela figure when he's nothing more than a bigot with the gift of the gab and he's going to undo all our good work to make this truly a diverse nation of equality and opportunity - though we still have a long way to go to get more women and ethnic minorities into employment and government..."

Joe McNab wondered if James (call me Jimmy) Black, and Prime Minister of Great Britain, would actually be prepared to practise what he preached and give up his own position to a woman or a member of an ethnic minority. He chuckled inwardly. Of course not and that was why he had been called in - to smear a potential rival (more often than not a member of his own party), to level false charges against more blatant threats (as had been the case against de Wolfe) or to actually liquidate a really dangerous individual (the last one being a weapons expert who had threatened to spill the beans over the veracity of a weapons dossier used to justify an illegal war).

"Joe, are you listening? This de Wolfe character is dangerous - he could be another Hitler, and cares nothing for the democratic will of the people. He has to be stopped and I mean... STOPPED."

"Yes of course, Prime Minister, I understand." Joe nodded and noticed that the Prime Minister's pallor was greyer than normal. Rumours had it that he was suffering from the early stages of heart failure.

"Good, for a moment there I thought you were in another world. Naturally I shall deny all knowledge if anything does go wrong. But then, you have never failed me before." James Black treating Joe to one of his trademark practiced grins.

"I shall attend to this de Wolfe character a.s.a.p."

"And Joe, before you go could you just drop this down with the Speaker - thanks."

As he left the office, he glanced down at the slip of paper Black had passed him - it was a claim for a new mobile phone having smashed the previous one after throwing it at the wall in temper.


A red dot briefly manifested itself on de Wolfe's forehead before blooming into a scarlet smudge. Eric de Wolfe pitched forward, as though pole-axed, into the crowd. For a second nothing happened. Then pandemonium ensued.


"Your husband was a fascist, a Nazi, a racist was he not Mrs de Wolfe - he deserved to die."

Silence descended upon the press conference - surely the reporter had gone too far.

"My husband was NOT a racist, he always claimed that it was the colour of a person's heart not their skin that counted. This corrupt and hypocritical government sanctioned his assassination, we all know that. The story that it was one of his own supporters is a lie, a DAMNED lie..."

She let her blonde head drop into her arms, sobbing - and then lifted it again, defiantly proud. "If he was such a bad man then why did he donate his organs, to anyone, of any race and religion? Tell me that, you callous bastard."


James Black sat up in his hospital bed - a private hospital bed paid for by the taxpayer - and read the Times. There were only a few column inches devoted to his admission for 'minor surgery'. Although he was still quite sore he actually did feel a lot better - the procedure had gone without a hitch - and he could stay in power for another ten years - there was nothing or no one to stop him, especially now that ghastly de Wolfe was out of the way. Still he could have done with some of de Wolfe's charisma, he thought.

He would also have liked to have thanked the family of the donor who had furnished him with a new heart. In addition, it would have made a great photo shoot. But he had to keep his condition quiet and besides even the surgeons wouldn't reveal who it was...

But for you the reader all I will say is that for the first time in over three decades it would be quite accurate to state that within the chest of the Prime Minister of Great Britain there truly was the beating heart of a nationalist...

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