1. Riot

This chapter is dedicated to my Wattpad friend  SallyMason1 and her devilishly hot story for this year's ONC, Between.

"Normies go home!"

"Go back where you came from!" Chants peppered the air as the unruly crowd surged down Oxford Street.

"England for the English!" bellowed a man holding a megaphone from the front of the march. Several hundred people waving banners and shouting slogans jostled noisily along the road, bringing traffic to a standstill. Many of them carried flags, white with a red cross in the centre. Police lined the route, their hard faces showing no expression.

A young man with a camera slung around his neck, kept pace with the head of the march, occasionally darting into the road to snap a shot of the leaders, then dropping back in an attempt to capture some of the rank and file with their home-made signs. Despite the enthusiastic expression he had pinned to his face, inside he was disparaging of the whole affair.

This was the second march by the English Nationalists in as many weeks and hardly newsworthy. Still, as a free-lance reporter, he couldn't afford to be too fussy. You never knew what was going to be good copy until it happened.

He glanced at his watch. He'd give it another five minutes. The day was hot and muggy, a change which was becoming far too frequent these days. Many of the marchers were red faced and sweating, making them look even angrier. The reporter took a moment to pull a handkerchief from his pocket and wipe his own forehead.

Perhaps he could find somewhere to sit down and have a drink while he filed his story, such as it was. A café advertised its presence with a neon sign a hundred yards ahead and he hastened his steps. That would do nicely.

Crakkk! The unmistakable sound of breaking glass stopped him in his tracks. What the hell? Angry shouting drew him forward like a wasp to a picnic.

"It's a bloody coffee shop! Why don't they serve honest English tea? Not good enough for them, hey?"

Part of the mob had stopped in front of the café, taking out their anger on an easy target. As the reporter watched in shock, another rock flew through the air, smashing the glass.

In a matter of seconds, what had been a mostly peaceful—if noisy—march, had turned into a riot. Be careful what you wish for, thought the reporter wryly, as he held up the camera.


The hour was late when Jack unlocked the door to his flat. He moved quietly through the hall to the tiny kitchen; Jean was probably asleep and he didn't want to wake him.

It had been a long day. Police had moved in quickly, before the riot could escalate further, but it had been a close call. The small café had been trashed and the neighbouring shops were lucky to escape with minor damage. Several parked cars had their windscreens smashed and a rubbish bin had been set alight, but at least the violence had been confined to property, and to a relatively small area.

After the police had cleared the street, he had interviewed the two women who had been staffing the café. Still shaken by the violence and the sheer suddenness of it, they told him they'd fled as soon as the first rock hit the glass and locked themselves in a room at the back.

"It broke my heart to leave the café to those bastards," the older woman had told him, looking around tearfully at the broken chairs and smashed shelves. Glass shards crunched under their feet and the smell of spilled coffee overlay everything. The coffee maker had been pulled from the bench and looked as if someone had jumped on it. "But there wasn't anything I could do."

"You did the right thing, Madame," Jack had reassured her. "Furniture and fittings can be mended. The safety of you and Cecile was the most important thing."

He'd swallowed, appalled by the damage. Bad enough as it was, it could have been so much worse if the women had been in there.

He'd had an emotional roller coaster of a day, and now all he wanted was his bed. However, before he had turned off the tap after getting his glass of water, an anxious voice spoke behind him.

"Jacques? I saw your story. It's getting worse, isn't it?"

Jack swallowed a mouthful of water before turning to face his young half-brother. Once again, he was struck by the differences between them. Though they'd shared the same mother, they had different fathers. Jack took after his English father, with fair colouring and light brown hair, characteristics he had found which could enable him to pass as either English or Norman, when he wanted to. And his name, Jack Brown, could just as easily be normanised to Jacques Brun.

Unlike Jean, whose olive skin and dark chestnut hair and eyes, branded him as Norman through and through.

"Maybe. I thought they were just the usual lunatic fringe." Jack really didn't want to get into a lengthy political discussion at this time of night. "We'll talk about it in the morning, okay?"

"But-"

"Tomorrow, please, Jean. I'm exhausted."

"I suppose so," Jean sounded sulky. "But we can't keep letting them get away with it. We have to fight back."

"You know, the Norman Separatists aren't perfect either." Jack felt compelled to respond, despite his good intentions. "Only last week I was at a demonstration where five of them glued themselves to the road."

Jack knew full well that Jean's friend Marcel had been one of the activists. He'd had his heart in his mouth when he recognised him, hoping like mad that Jean had not been persuaded to join in.

"But that's harmless. That's non-violent action. No one was hurt, no property was destroyed." Jean rushed hotly to his friend's defence.

"Be that as it may, it was outside Buckingham Palace, half an hour before they were due to perform the Changing of the Guard! The police only just got them removed in time. You know that sort of thing only goes to inflame the Nationalists."

Jean shrugged one shoulder pettishly. "We have to do something," he repeated.

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