Smoke and Mirrors

“So you think that people of colour should be banned from Britain?” The question was poised rather deliberately by Robert Denby, radio presenter for the BBC to Melvyn Travers, influential right-wing newspaper journalist and infamous supporter of Oswald Mosley.

The two men sat opposite each other at a small green table, in a room panelled in soundproofing material, with but one window which showed the sound booth with a young black man sitting at the mixing desk. The table was bare save for two old fashioned BBC standard microphones, an almost full crystal ashtray, and two cups of tea.

Travers took a drag on his cigarette, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and replied “Absolutely, they don’t belong here in our country”. Denby sat back in his chair, his face a study in impassive blankness, but his mind boiled with suppressed rage and shock at hearing those words come out of Travers’ mouth. Then Denby asked “Tell me, Mister Travers, why would you think that?”

Travers swelled with self-righteous indignation and spat out "Because they are a stain on good society, they are no more than filthy criminals, the blacks, the Indians, the Pakis are all coming to these hallowed shores and are responsible for the huge wave of crime we have seen".

"Think about it, before the disastrous war, the rates of theft and rape were at eighteen and twenty percent respectively, since this infestation began those rates have risen to over sixty percent”. " I will not stand idle while my wife and daughter are threatened by these, these savages!!"

Denby stared in horrified fascination as Travers positively foamed at the mouth in apoplectic fury, spitting his racist vitriol into the microphone like a cobra spits poison. As he stared, Denby couldn't help but think ‘he really does have angry short person syndrome’. Melvyn Travers was indeed a very short man, standing at five feet and four inches with a narrow pockmarked face, greasy black hair, and deep-set brown eyes full of hate and fear. The most striking thing about him was his dress, which reflected his sensibilities to a T.

He dressed in a jet-black military-style suit jacket with a crisp red tie and black trousers tucked into shiny black, knee-high boots. Denby on the other hand, was a man in his mid-fifties with a weathered face, washed-out blue eyes, and thinning brown hair that was receding. Unlike Travers however, Denby did have distinctive features on his face including a hooked nose and thin lips. Denby dressed in a pair of brown tweed trousers, a knitted white jumper with green, black and red cheque pattern, a white shirt and black tie.

As Travers ceased ranting, he picked up his cup of tea and took a long sip which gave Denby enough time to gather his wits to ask his next question. "Those people of colour whom you claim to be savages and criminals, some would argue that they are here to help and have already helped us, given the fact that several of the regiments that served in Africa and the far east were black, Indian or Pakistani. And now they are coming here in search of a better life and are helping rebuild Britain". "What do you say to that Mister Travers?"

Travers' eyes burned with a horrible mixture of hate and fear as he stared directly into Denby's eyes and then he spoke in barely more than a whisper, each word a blow to humanity and decency. "They are not here to help us, they are here to wipe out good, decent folk and take over this once great nation", They are nothing more than vermin and I will not rest until they are eradicated as such, I think this interview is over". With that, Travers drained his tea and strode for the door, "But we still have half an"... Slam!

Travers shut the door to the studio leaving Denby looking affronted. Without a backward glance, Travers strode out of the studio down a long grand corridor, floored in Marble, panelled in oak, and lit by soft lights interspersed along the wall. Halfway down the corridor, Travers stopped next to a green-painted door marked "Gentlemen". As he pushed it open, his right arm started to shake violently. Travers tried to grab his right arm with his left but it too, began to spasm and shake violently. Without warning, Travers' legs gave way and he hit the bathroom floor with a wet splat. As his limbs spasmed out of control, his neck began to jerk up and down, causing his head to start lolling from side to side. His mouth began to foam and an awful gurgling noise came from his throat, within seconds, Travers' spasms began to subside and the gurgling noise began to fade, with one last rattling breath, Melvyn Travers slumped forward onto the bathroom floor, dead.