The Dreams of Max & Ronnie Read Online Free Page A

phalanx, again approaching the ford. Jeez, thinks Ronnie, the whole country is here. The entire British Isles has come to gather at this spot. The horses move as one in a canter with the huffing rhythm of a steam train and they are white, bright white, with a standard red cross painted across their powerful chests. White as the lily, red as the rose. Ronnie observes them and sees one of their number break away and trot high-stepping through the waters of the ford so that water splashes up onto Winston and his companions. Top-hatted Winston sighs in despair and studies the hissing end of his doused cigar then throws it away and the grinning man looks down at the wetness Pollocking his shirt front and shouts: I say! but the rider ignores him. Then one of the watchers in the ford who has been practising strokes with a cricket bat steps forward and whacks the horse an almighty belt across its nose with the bat. The horse doesn’t flinch. Made of concrete and steel. But the rider then makes to draw his sword and asks: – Why’d you give my ’orse a slap? Cruelty to animals, that is. Good mind to get the bloody law on you, I have.
    â€“ Well, why are you splashing water all over your betters? The man indicates the dripping trio. – Show some respect. Look at them. They’re sodden.
    The rider releases the handle of his sword, sneers, and turns away. Then trots away. Re-wetting everyone around him once again.
    Ronnie looks up at the Beast of Britain. – Who was that?
    â€“ A young man considered to be the best and most accomplished in the kingdom.
    â€“ Where’s he from?
    â€“ The middle of England.
    â€“ And the bloke who smacked his horse? Who was he?
    â€“ Just some cunt.
    The man with the cricket bat spins. – Oh I am, am I? I’ll have you know I fought at Mametz Wood. What have you ever done? What have you ever done to protect this ancient democracy? You’re the cunt, sir.
    At this, a man with regal bearing detaches himself from the throng and declares that he fought ‘knee-deep in the blood of my friends’ at Passchendaele so that, today, so many people could come together in so small a space. And that he finds it odd that those who have been selected for the Battle of Basra should be sunning themselves on the banks of this pretty ford.
    â€“ No spine, the man says. – No backbone. No moral fibre. Tyranny rages in the Middle East and you sit here enjoying yourselves. The country’s under threat and you loll about on the banks of a river sunning yourselves. You: isn’t that right?
    He points at the grinning man who stands and declares solemnly: – I have it on reliable intelligence that weapons of mass destruction can be deployed by this maniac within forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes, gentlemen. This maniac threatens the peace and stability of the world. My intelligence has compiled a dossier.
    The mounted man smirks. – Hear that? Less than an hour. Not a moment to lose. Quick smart!
    And he trots off.
    â€“ Who was that, Beast of Britain? Ronnie wants to know. – And how come he was allowed to speak like that to his leaders?
    â€“ I told you; cos he’s a cunt. And a cheeky one at that.
    The Beast leans to one side of his steed and with one arm scoops Ronnie up and places him behind him on the horse and for that moment Ronnie remembers what it was like to be an infant, nurtured and protected by people bigger than himself. Safe and guarded, but with a buried sense of outrage at his submission to the kinetic whims of others. He wants to suck his thumb. He jiggles loosely on the trotting horse as they set off towards a long, low mountain on the horizon like a bed for a Titan but halfway across the ford the Beast halts the horse and turns and Ronnie sees the valley he is leaving, the valley scattered with people, and notices a new troop of men all arrayed, men and horses alike, in stars white on a blue background and red-and-white