“Gotcha now, ya fucken ginge.”

It was the skinny one who punched him first. An uppercut to the belly that stole his breath. The fist into his jaw sent him sprawling across the pavement. Curling into the smallest target as possible, Mark covered his head with his arms and stayed down among the fag ends and urine splashes. Laughter turned to grunts as the kicks grew fiercer. There were only three of them, but they were the world.

* * *

The lift in Mark’s estate block was broken again. A rusting banister let him haul himself up the three flights to home. He struggled to get his key in the lock, felt tears well when he got inside. He slumped back against the closed door.

“That you, love?”

He wiped his eyes, exhaled hard. “Yeah, Mum.”

Through the lounge doorway, he could see the back of her blonde head above the worn sofa, smoke rising from a cigarette, an empty wine glass on the coffee table. The television screen was showing a shampoo bottle: Because you’re worth it.

She didn’t turn around. “You get to the dole office?”

“Yeah.”

“They gonna sort your payment?”

“Yeah.”

“Bout time.” He saw her reach for the remote control. “There’s fish fingers in the freezer if you’re hungry.”

“Mum?”

She started flicking through the channels. “Mmm?”

“Nothing.”

* * *

He rifled through her pills in the bathroom cabinet. Took three aspirins, an anti-inflammatory, added a tranquilliser to be sure. He cupped his hand under the tap to wash them down. The toothpaste-speckled mirror reflected a deep cut on one freckled cheek, grazes on his pale chin. It hurt to lift his T-shirt over his head. Unzipping his jeans gingerly, he let them fall to the tiles, sat on the toilet seat to extract his feet. The shower muffled his sobs.

Steam followed him into the hallway. His bedroom had a Manchester United shirt on one wall, a Lana Del Rey poster on the other. The window looked onto the next apartment block, creating a mirror of pitted concrete and netted curtains. He drew the blinds and took his Swiss Army knife from the desk drawer. Red-topped metal. He would never leave home without it again.

Before they fired him for turning eighteen and edging a few quid closer to a living wage, Mark had been a night cashier at the local garage. He’d hated school, couldn’t wait to get away from the taunts in the yard and the jeers in the classroom, but he loved his job. The uniform, the routine, the responsibility. He dreamed of being manager one day. When the paycheques stopped and the rejections began, his laptop felt like the only open door.

He entered his favourite chatroom: Redheads Rule. She was online, still raging about that blackhead Pete who cheated on her with one turdtop then dumped her for another. Mark couldn’t understand how anyone could treat Siobhan like that. He followed her on ClipClap, saw the reels showcasing her wavy auburn tresses and pale bikini-clad body. He also saw the ex-boyfriend, with his dark scraggly hair pulled into a smug ponytail as he horsed about in a beer garden. Mark recognised the pub: The White Knight in Shacklewell. He’d applied for work there, but they hadn’t wanted his kind.

A newcomer to the site, Nelson, was banging on about Hitler banning redheads from breeding with each other. Mark interrupted: Just got jumped by gang of gingerists. Siobhan’s outrage was his salve as he gave a blow by kick account of the fight he would have liked to have. When he claimed he left his attackers bleeding on the street, she sent a dozen heart emojis.

The screen’s glow caressed him until she signed off an hour later. He was woozy, sore and nauseated, but he crawled into bed with a fat lip curled into a smile.

* * *

The banging on his bedroom door ripped him from Siobhan’s arms. He shut his eyes, tried to recapture the dream. His mother’s voice drilled into him: “It’s gone midday. Job ain’t comin’ lookin’ for you.”

“Okay . . .”

“Now.”

“I said okay!”

“Don’t take that tone with me!” She banged again. “I’m sick of payin’ all the bills round ‘ere so get that lazy arse up an’ out.”

He listened to her clumping retreat. The pain started in his shoulder, seeped across his back and limbs. He groaned as he pushed back the covers.

When he hobbled into the kitchen, she was sitting at the table with one hand holding a cigarette, the other flipping the pages of The Daily Moon. Mark switched on the kettle, filled a bowl with cornflakes, sat down beside her. He was pouring the milk when she looked up.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“Got mugged.”

“Again?”

He shrugged.

Her voice softened. “If you’d just sort your hair out, they’d leave you alone.”

“It’s who I am.”

“We’ve been over this. You ain’t your looks.”

“That’s not what Dad thought.”

She sighed. “How many times do I have to say it? He understood the gene could skip generations, that havin’ different colourin’ didn’t mean you weren’t his. He accepted you. He just wasn’t man enough to put up with all the talk.” She peered at him before going back to her paper. “He didn’t leave cuz you’re a redhead. He left cuz he’s weak.”

Mark brought the spoon to his mouth. The cornflakes were hard to swallow.

* * *

He stayed in his room until the bruising faded. Each night he cyber-spoke with Siobhan, swapping stories, offering sympathy like chocolates. Other chatroom users slipped in and out, only Nelson kept barging in with tirades about persecution. Mark would have liked Siobhan all to himself, but he knew the interloper kept the conversation going. It was hard to be more interesting than a shared history involving being accused of witchcraft and used as a human sacrifice. Besides, he agreed with Nelson. They needed to teach these blandheads some respect.

 * * *

The White Knight was busy. He watched the door, his stomach tightening at every entry. By his fourth pint, he was ready to give up. There was relief in having failed to avenge her through no fault of his own, and he wondered if he should tell her. He was getting to his feet when the pony-tailed man strode into the bar.

Mark had studied the photographs, would recognise that horsey hairdo anywhere. He saw him wave at two other darkmops sitting in the back corner. Pete ordered a round, carried over the drinks, settled in. Mark pulled his cap down low, sidled through the crowd until he was beside them.

Pete was mimicking a phone to his ear, exaggerating a stunned expression. “. . . and she keeps on at it. I block her calls and then she’s knocking on my window at midnight. Crazy bloody lavahead.”

“Ah, their heads are a flag, like. Ginger nuts. What ya goin’ do?”

“Get a dog.”

“Reckon that was your problem in the first place.”

Pete laughed.

“Sure, we all like a bit of burning bush now and then,” said the other mate, “but you don’t let ‘em know where you live.”

Mark left the pub, found the shadow of a doorway, waited. An hour went by. Two. He was tense with nerves when Pete emerged alone and donned large headphones. He followed at a distance, his quarry’s tuneless humming like sonic spoor.

He was turning into the alley when Pete took his phone from his back pocket and spoke into the end: “Hey, baby. I’m just on my way.” His voice echoed in the narrow strip surrounded by boarded up windows and graffitied walls. He stopped beside a skip loaded with rubble. “She did what?”

Mark slunk closer.

Pete stood still. “That stupid red-haired bitch! I’ll fucking kill her.”

The brick was in Mark’s gloved hand before he had time to think. A lift of an arm. A single blow. The phone went flying, the headphones came off. He stared down at the prone body, the blood pooling in a dark halo. Fear vied with a sense of power.

“Pete?” called a tinny voice from the headphones. “Are you there, Pete?”

 “Call an ambulance,” said Mark.

“What . . . Who is this?”

He repeated the address twice before he cut the call. Crouching beside the corpse-like figure, he saw the chest move. Mark’s stomach settled as he watched it rise and fall. Rise and fall. He smiled, took the knife from his pocket, slipped the blade above the elastic band to slice through the clotted hair. He’d post the ponytail tomorrow. She’d understand.

That night he went to bed elated, gripped himself hard, and shuddered to an image of Siobhan’s naked gratitude.

* * *

Three days later and she was still missing from their forum. He was in his room playing Red Faction when he heard the buzzer. He stood by his door to listen, dizzy with the hope that she’d come to thank him.

“Evening, madam,” said a deep voice. “I’m Detective Norman and this is PC Saxon. Is Mark Rooney at home?”

“What’s it to you?”

“We just want to ask him a few questions. A man fitting his description was seen in the vicinity of an incident last Friday.”

“Yeah, well, they all look the same to you lot.”

“There’s a link between Mr. Rooney and the victim and we need to eliminate him from our enquiries.”

“Whoever you’re after, it ain’t my Mark. He’s not been out for a fortnight. Got attacked on the street again, didn’t he? But you’ll not do anythin’ about that now, will you?”

“Did he report it?”

“What’d be the point? Last time it happened you lot said he must have been asking for it cuz everyone knows redheads can’t hold their temper. Blatant hairism.”

“We apologise if that was the case. The Met has been working to stamp out prejudice—”

“Yet here you are, harassin’ an innocent boy cuz of his colourin’. I’ll be puttin’ in a complaint, you can bet on it.”

“We’re not here to cause offence, madam.”

“No? Then sod off.” 

“If he could call to the station—”

“Get a warrant.”

Mark heard her slam the door, stomp into the kitchen. His skin was clammy, his throat dry. It took a few minutes for his legs to feel sturdy enough to carry him down the corridor.

His mother was standing by the table, a flush on her cheeks as she slugged back her wine. “Well?” she said.

“Thanks, Mum.”

“You look after your own.”

“Do you want to know?”

“No.” She lit a cigarette, blew smoke in his direction. “It’s about time you fought back.”

* * *

He returned to his desk, waited in the chatroom being bored by a discussion on Nicole Kidman becoming a blonde. Siobhan didn’t appear. He checked her Facebook page again and found a new photo posted. She was at Pete’s bedside holding his hand. Her hair was dyed brown.

Mark saw red. He launched himself into the online debate demanding a campaign against traitors who betray their roots. An email from Nelson pinged into his private mailbox: Meet 3pm tomorrow. Rebel Café. Kilburn.

* * *

He was easy to spot: a long, thin frame with red mane to match, lips hidden beneath the orange beard, a black T-shirt emblazoned with Ruadh gu brath. He gestured at a chair. “Good. You’re punctual.” Two mugs of tea steamed in front of him. He pushed one forward. “My treat.”

“How did you get my email?”

“You know it’s not hard. We’ve been tracking your activity.”

Mark felt his testicles shrivel. “Are you with the police?”

“Hardly.”

“Then who—”

“All in good time, brother.”

Nelson frowned as the waitress approached, waited in silence until she had gone. Chattering voices and piped reggae brought their heads forward, kept them in a circle of two. “You know that our pale skin and red hair marks us out as Celts, the true people of these islands?”

Nelson had made this point many times online but hearing it in person made Mark sit up straighter. He pulled back his shoulders, raised his chin. “We have unique genes.”

“You belong to the Northern race, a race whose purity is under threat. You are the continuation of our people, the blood of our blood, the flesh of our flesh.”

Mark knew the refrain: “We’re special. That’s why everyone hates us.”

“That’s right. They’ve made us suffer. They’ve made us feel ashamed. You, an heir to a great and ancient civilization, have been treated as inferior by the weak degenerates of racial mixing.”

Mark’s mouth twisted. “Even my own father did it.”

“And your mother?”

“She says I’m a throwback.”

“No!” Nelson slammed a fist on the table. Tea slopped from his mug. “You’re a resurgent!”

“I’m a what?”

“A resurgent. The child of impure breeders whose diluted genes nature has joined together to create something stronger, something better.”

“They’re blondes.”

“They’re weak. A product of blood mixture and the resulting drop in racial level. And it’s these weaklings that are running these islands and trying to breed us out.” Nelson lowered his voice, forcing Mark to lean in so close he could smell egg sandwich on his breath. “A new community is being built, a new Celtic nation. What we have dreamed for years will become a reality . . . and we want you to be part of it.” His green eyes narrowed. “But first I need to know that you’re with us.”

“I’m with you.”

“You will have to make sacrifices. You must be committed to the cause.”

Mark nodded, his excitement building. It was as though his life had been leading him to this moment, that this was his destiny. “I will,” he declared. “I am.”

“I thought as much.” Nelson pulled a burner phone from his pocket, slid it across the table. “Don’t use this for anything but receiving my messages. You don’t contact me, I contact you.”

“Okay.”

“Within the community, you will be known only as ‘Churchill.’ You don’t give your real name to anyone on the inside and you don’t give your code name to anyone on the outside.”

“Okay.”

He stood up, glanced to each side before bending over to whisper: “Welcome to RUFUS. It’s time to fight back.”

* * *

The first meeting was held in a vacant townhouse in Hither Green. Six of them sat on the carpet. Mark met Henry, Elizabeth, Rob Roy, Galileo and Columbus. They were all around Mark’s age, exchanging righteous nods with fiery heads. Elizabeth sat to his left, and he tried not to stare at the slash in her black leggings where her pale thigh winked. Nelson was setting up a projector balanced on a milk crate. In front of the drawn curtains were six cardboard boxes.

“Comrades,” said Nelson. “You’re here because you know that the most precious possession you have is your own community.” A PowerPoint image lit up the bare wall: RUFUS – Red Unity Front Urban Soldiers.

“The Celtic Revival movement has been around for longer than you’ve lived. Than I’ve lived. A secret society that isn’t going to stay secret any longer. The time has come when once again we can proudly state that we are redheads. The community has awoken.”

Elizabeth clapped, and the rest of them rushed to join her. Nelson paused to acknowledge the applause before raising a hand for silence. “All over London, cells like this are being formed. Cells of urban soldiers. We will join with our brothers and sisters across England, across Scotland, across Ireland. We want no national divisions between our community. We are one people. One people being crushed within our own homeland.”

His sniper gaze locked on an upturned face, swivelled to the next. “You are vital to this vision. You are the present and the future. But it will not be an easy road to victory. It needs careful planning, it needs unswerving direction. So, I’m asking you all now. Can you be loyal?”

“Yes!” they chorused.

“Louder! Can you be loyal?”

“Yes!” they yelled.

“Can you be committed?”

“Yes!” they screamed.

“Can you be obedient?”

“Yes!” Mark heard his own cry bounce against the walls, mingle with the passion of his fellow recruits. He shut his eyes in gratitude. He had found his tribe. 

Nelson distributed copies of a slim volume. “This is our leader’s manifesto. Take it home, memorise the vision, make that vision your life.” The cover showed a red fist in a circle, thick black lettering spelling out My Fight.

Elizabeth put up her hand: “Who is our leader?”

“You will know him as Erik. His real name doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need or want personal recognition. He is working for the community. And when you sacrifice for your community then you can walk with your head held high.”

Nelson pressed the control. A segmented map of London filled the wall. “You will work in rotating pairs until Operation Reclaim begins in two months’ time. Your mission is simple: spread awareness. If you prove yourselves, there will be more responsibility, more rewards. This is just the start. This is the beginning of the new order.”

* * *

The box was stashed beneath his bed. He’d been teamed with Galileo for the first run. They were meeting at New Cross Station at midnight. He paced around the room, jiggled his arms, rolled his neck. He pulled the box back out, looked again at the cans of spray paint, picked up the balaclava, slid it over his head and stood in front of the mirror. He pointed a finger gun at himself, imagined Elizabeth behind him, pulled the trigger with an upward jolt of his hand. His erection strained against his combat pants.

* * *

He started reading the Daily Moon, listening to talk-back radio, following the news. People were discussing them now. The more that was said, the more that was seen. He was out every night slapping high-fives with a comrade as they blazoned Honor Oak, Redbridge, Barking, Hornchurch. RUFUS could be seen on bus stop shelters, on shop windows, on church walls. On railway sidings and cinema billboards. When he was assigned with Elizabeth to cover Fullwell Cross, the leisure centre dripped red with their righteous anger.

* * *

It was the morning after the Ginger Pride parade that his mother shook him awake. She shoved the newspaper in front of his face: “You involved in this?”

Under the headline Ginja Ninjas Go Berserk a photograph showed three men in clown masks and curly orange wigs kicking in a shop window. Masked redheads surrounded them, a belly-up car on fire in the background.

He rolled over. “Nothing to do with me.”

She grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back. “You think I haven’t seen you red-handed? Smelt the fumes on your clothes? You think I’m stupid?”

“Course I don’t, Mum.”

“You wanna end up in jail?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“RUFUS. There were kids at that rally. Kids sprayed with tear gas. Those shops you broke into? Those folk you scared? That’s people you’re harming. Real people.” She folded her arms. “This is not a game.”

He sat up. “I’m not playing a game. It’s a shame about the damage. But the nation is above persons and property.”

“What?”

“A new State cannot simply fall down from the sky.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” She rolled up the paper and swiped him across the side of the head. “Grow up.”

* * *

The White City bombing killed a homeless man and injured a night janitor. RUFUS claimed responsibility, propelling Erik’s manifesto to the front page. Politicians jostled to mandate internet surveillance, curfews, checkpoints. Redheads were stopped and searched. Pubs refused them service, landlords evicted them, employers dismissed them. Hoods were ripped down, hats pulled off, abuse shouted on the streets. Random attacks on redheads increased. Two families were burned out of their homes. Chemists sold out of peroxide, hairdressers worked overtime. Recruiting for the Red Unity Front had never been easier.

Mark’s mother kicked him out after their apartment was raided. The police found nothing. He’d been careful since Henry’s arrest, but she gave him an ultimatum anyway: leave or dye. Nelson set him up in a safe house, a flat in a Brimsdown hi-rise. He was to stay indoors, incommunicado, and wait for his instructions.

Cut off from the web, there was only Erik’s manuscripts to read. Mark enjoyed the pamphlet on the Judas hair conspiracy, was intrigued by tales of russet-locked vampires, but struggled to finish the book on racial evolution. After a few days, he’d had enough. He knew a soldier’s life was tough, but even with television and masturbation the boredom was threatening to send him AWOL. When he heard the rap of the agreed knock, he was ready for any task.

He couldn’t control his grin on seeing Elizabeth. She wore dark glasses and a scarf, carried a backpack on her shoulders and shopping bags in both hands. His rusty voice squeaked in greeting. She pushed past him. He shut the door, thrilled at enclosing the two of them.

“Let me clean up,” he said, grabbing the mug from the table. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

She looked around. “It’s in good order.” 

He nodded, flustered by the praise. “Do you want a cuppa?”

 “No rush. I’m moving in.” The thud of her kit hitting the floor vibrated in his stomach. He thought his arms might turn into wings. She settled herself on the sofa. “Galileo is too. He’ll be here soon.”

“Oh,” he said. She glanced at him, and he felt himself blush. “I’ll put the shopping away. Get the kettle on.”

When he returned with the tea, she had released her hair. He could hardly look at her. “So, what’s happening?”

“Nelson has a mission for us. A big one. We’ll find out soon.”

“Great.” He put the mugs down, sat in the armchair. She seemed to be waiting for more. “Courage and faith, eh?”

“How many beds does this joint have?”

“There’s two plus the couch.”

“Galileo can sleep in here.” She grinned. “Last in, worst served.”

“Yeah.” He wondered if she knew there were two rooms or thought they would be sharing. An image of her getting undressed forced him to pull a jacket over his lap. “How long do you reckon?”

“Dunno.” She shrugged. “We’ve got supplies to last a week. Nelson insisted we have the steaks tonight though. A welcome to action feast.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m supposed to cook ’em.”

“I can do it, if you want.” He worried he sounded too eager, tried to deepen his tone: “Can’t be putting up with no more baked beans.”

* * *

Mark had never lived with anyone his age before. Galileo brought a pack of cards, and they played gin rummy in between watching soap operas and reality shows. He forgot about cyberspace, his mother’s betrayal. The charred steaks and crunchy potatoes of the first night were mortifying, but he redeemed himself by taking extra turns with the tinned spaghetti.

They’d been marooned together for five days when Mark’s bladder woke him at dawn. He stumbled into the bathroom to find Galileo on the toilet with his tracksuit pants around his ankles. Texting.

Galileo hid the phone beneath his hands. “We need a lock on this door.”

“What are you doing?”

“Taking a dump . . . obviously.” He arched an eyebrow. “Kind of a private moment.”

Mark’s apology reflex was stilled by shock. “We’ve been ordered not to contact anyone.”

Galileo’s expression shifted from sharp to sheepish. “Okay, you got me. This is a bit embarrassing, but I was just letting my mum know I’m okay.” He pulled a pleading smile. “She’s a Celt too, like.”

“You’re putting us all in danger.” Mark was impressed by his own firm tone. RUFUS was making a man of him.

“It was only this once.”

“It only takes the once.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Galileo took the SIM from the phone, made a show of dropping it between his thighs. “I didn’t send it. It’s cool.”

“Okay.”

“You won’t tell anyone?”

Mark shook his head, turned to leave.

“I owe you, brother,” said Galileo.

The rush of kinship warmed Mark but he held his cool. “Well, hurry up then. I’m busting.”

* * *

Their leader brought takeaway pizzas and they fell on the boxes like starved dogs. When the last slice had gone, Nelson cleared his throat. “In ourselves lies our destiny. Only through our own determination, our own defiance, only then will our people be able to rise again.”

Mark raised his chin as they chanted, “Long live the Celtic Revival. Long live RUFUS.”

Nelson stared at each of them in turn. “We need a redhead on the throne. Harry’s blonde brother, his spawn, they are robbing us of our future. Sacrifices must be made.”

Mark was pretty sure that Harry didn’t want the throne, but it wasn’t his place to argue. Loyalty. Commitment. Obedience. That was what gave the community strength.

* * *

They waited by the barricade. The open-top carriage would be leaving Kensington Palace any minute. Mark had been disturbed by the children, but Elizabeth explained. “They’ll grow up,” she said. “The threat won’t disappear.” He glanced at her now, the freckles on her nose marks of grim determination. The grenade was in his jacket pocket, his fists clenched at his side. He didn’t see Galileo signal, step back. He didn’t see the men moving forward, their earpieces, their urgency. He only felt the grip on his arms, the smash of his face on the pavement, the lock of metal around his wrists.

And heard the snarl in his ear: “Gotcha now, ya fucken ginge.”