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## A Band Begins To Play

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## of Hope and Glory

of HOPE

and GLORY

R.JAY

After a long absence, Chris Carter returns home to a town he barely recognises. Already targeted by local law enforcement, he is thrust into a contentious and spiralling battle to combat a growing threat to all that he holds dear; family, friends and national identity. Under the banner of the newly formed 'English Front Line', he and the young men of Holtingham vow to defend their culture and country against the amassed forces of Islamic extremism and the self-serving, politically-correct lobbyists. The escalation of murder and a Jihadist planned, ultimate terrorist-strike at the heart and soul of England, demands a swift, merciless reaction and the greatest of sacrifice, if two thousand years of proud history are not to be swept away.

Though a tale of fiction, ' . . . . of Hope and Glory ' is based on the stark facts of present day Britain and the very uncertain and fraught future she faces.

of HOPE and GLORY

Author R. Jay

Smashwords edition

Copyright: R. JAY, 2012

The author has asserted their moral right under the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified

as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction.

Any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead,

is purely coincidental.

Land of Hope and Glory,  
Mother of the Free,  
How shall we extol thee,  
who are born of thee?  
Wider still, and wider,  
shall thy bounds be set;  
God, who made thee mighty,  
make thee mightier yet!

Dear Land of Hope, thy hope is crowned.  
God make thee mightier yet!  
On Sov'ran brows, beloved, renowned,  
Once more thy crown is set.  
Thine equal laws, by Freedom gained,  
Have ruled thee well and long;  
By Freedom gained, by Truth maintained,  
Thine Empire shall be strong.

Thy fame is ancient as the days,  
As Ocean large and wide:  
A pride that dares, and heeds not praise,  
A stern and silent pride.  
Not that false joy that dreams content  
With what our sires have won;  
The blood a hero sire hath spent  
Still nerves a hero son.

Edward Elgar / A.C. Benson - 1902

s

One

The same nightmare, always the same.

A blinding light, a metallic screech, a hammer blow to the head, an upended world, blackness and death's silence, save for the trickle and drip of blood. And that awful, awful screaming.

***

It was a short taxi ride from the station to Mafeking Road, but one that would make deep inroads to the cash that they had given him. He was a big man, a jagged scar bisecting the left side of his forehead, a haunted look buried deep in those hard eyes. The driver's constant perusal in the rear view mirror, curiosity and puzzlement alive in those intrusive eyes, was both unsettling and annoying. The man was about the same age as him, he'd remember eventually. It was a small town Holtingham, that hugged its history close to its municipal skirts like off-spring, both good and bad.

He gazed out of the car windows through a falling crisp November dusk at surrounds he had been born and grew up in but no longer recognised for what it was. The small Co-op in the High Street had gone, was now a Halal butchers: the Woolworths store an empty shell nobody had use for, windows boarded up, the iconic white lettering removed leaving a Morse code of fixing holes dotted across the red signage; the small tailor shop from which Manny had diligently measured and stitched suits for the town's men-folk for ever, Teddy Boy drapes in the 50's, dinner jackets for gentlemen, economy line clobber for lowly office workers, now sold colourful saris that the new owners hung on rails out on the pavement like a discordant rainbow.

Most disturbing of all was the apparent demise of Holtingham's premier social centre that had been the Countryman Hotel. An historic former coaching-inn that gave four star shelter to passing travellers and visitors, a choice of three bars, Public, Lounge and Snug, that cemented local socialising. The Grand Ballroom for years had catered for Saturday night dances, wedding receptions and formal occasions from retirement do's, Christenings to Bar Mitzvah's whilst the local Masonic Lodge indulged in their secret gatherings in opulent basement rooms.

Now the street level windows had been blanked out with black paint and a huge, gold leafed, Saladin's star and crescent emblem hung from the red-brick face of a town institution turned mosque, glittering with a smug declaration of new lands conquered. On and around the stone steps that led to the entrance of heavy mahogany doors, a hunched group of young men in hooded tops hung about, their shadowed dark faces glaring challengingly at anybody passing by.

The taxi braked sharply at a zebra-crossing jerking him rudely back to his immediate surrounds as a stoned Son of Marley lurched off of the pavement into their path, balefully staring back at them as he staggered across the road tossing a half drunk can of Special Brew that bounced off of the windscreen splattering it with foaming gobs of beer.

He braced himself on the back seat for an inevitable confrontation that never came. The driver's eyes returned fleetingly to the rear view mirror then turned away shamefaced.

"Not worth the aggro' mate. If you win the round without getting yourself shivved, you're bound to be the guilty party in the eyes of the trendy law we got now." Irately he crunched the car back into gear nodding toward the young Asian men on the steps of the mosque. "On top of everything else we got Mohammed's boys over there giving grief to passers by, women in short skirts, anybody with alcohol in their possession. An insult to Islam they say. Christ, where the hell are we meant to be?

"In the words of that old Max Bygraves song, 'Fings Ain't Wot They Used To Be'." Moodily he accelerated away, keeping his own counsel for the remainder of the journey. That took them to a narrow, terraced, Victorian cottage in a quiet side street, indistinguishable from its neighbours apart from the deterioration of its paintwork, a front gate hanging askew on its hinges.

The driver pulled into the kerb keeping his eyes off of the mirror.

"You're Chris Carter aren't you? Thought I recognised you, heard that you were coming back."

Chris Carter didn't answer, steered clear of sore territory. Dragging his old handgrip across the seat to him he climbed out of the car and stood at the driver's window pulling money from his pockets.

The driver eyed his meagre reserves, held up a hand, palm outwards. "Nah, keep your money, I don't want it."

With that he drove away with what may have been a languid wave goodbye from his opened window, or just as easily a rude gesture.

The gate creaked with aged protest as Carter pushed through it into the small front garden and walked up the short path to a front door peeling several layers of paint. Before he could even knock it was pulled open by an old man who stood there staring back at him with a stern, sombre expression. Despite his advanced age his back was ramrod straight, unbowed broad shoulders filled the doorway. A magnificent walrus moustache curved across his cheeks to merge with broad sideburns and a full head of thick white hair. A very proud and rather fierce looking eighty-nine year old, that looked every inch of a Victorian general.

"Hello grandpa."

"Come on in boy." On his gruff command the elderly man turned about and marched back along a narrow, dark hallway to a rear scullery, leaving Chris Carter to follow him, shutting the door behind them both. Chris paused at the doorway to the small room, momentarily taken aback to see his parents, both long dead, smiling up at him.

"Sorry, couldn't stretch to some fancy welcome home party young man. But then I doubt that there'd be many come after what you did." His grandfather blurted out awkwardly. "Thought we'd have our own celebration, just the four of us." Like a magician he whipped a bottle of dark Jamaica rum from behind his back. "Glasses in that cupboard there, step to it. Got some food in the fridge too. Good grub, not that swill you've been feeding on."

He turned his head a little too quickly as he fumbled with the handle of an ancient cream Frigidaire. Correspondingly the backs of Chris Carter's eyes prickled hotly a moment as he dragged them away from the photograph propped up against a sauce bottle on the scrubbed pine table. Felt no guilt.

"I'll get four glasses shall I grandpa? Can't let mum and dad get left out."

"I'm sure we can always help them along with their drinks son. Be one happy family again, for a while."

Chris had never seen his grandfather cry and he knew that was not about to happen now, but the old man's hand shook as he dispensed four large shots of Captain Morgan. Picking up two of the glasses he stood to parade ground attention as he addressed the photograph, his strong square face grim with purpose.

"Phillip, Ivy, your boy is home at last. Been gone these last fifteen years, lost years. We all forgive him, the past is past." With swift movements he downed both drinks in virtually one gulp then indicated that Chris do the same.

It had been a long time since alcohol had passed his lips but he solemnly complied, eyes streaming as the neat spirit burned its way down inside him.

"Mum, dad, hello again." Was all he could say without shaming himself in front of the old man who was both his mentor and God. "Grandpa, I've got to thank you for all your support and giving me a home to come back...."

"Forget it son. You're family, of my blood. Families are the building blocks of society, bricks in the wall; then your neighbours, then your countrymen. Break them up then the whole edifice comes tumbling down" He slammed the glasses a little too hard down onto the table to mask his deep emotion, one cracked. He swept it to one side, pushed the other forward. "You do the honours son, fill that up, and yours. Have one of these sandwiches, soak it up. No half empty bottles allowed here."

***

The empty bottle shamelessly stood on the drainer, a memento of a good night had. Well, as good a time Chris Carter could have hoped for, fresh out of Her Majesty's Prison Norwich as he was. There was a dull ache behind his eyes and a raging thirst clawed at his throat, prompting him to fill one of last night's glasses at the sink tap, downed it greedily. An excess of rum did that to you he remembered.

From a small transistor radio on top of the bread bin, the BBC 9 am. news spread celebrity gossip and politicians' lies. Grandpa Henry Carter had left the house already, unaffected by any hang-over, marching on the Legion Hall.

"Got a parade to organise."

There was a front door key left with a scribbled note on the work top _. 'Don't mope about hiding in the house. Get out there and face the enemy! Back for lunch.'_

Crikey! It was like being back in the slammer, ordered about, your day programmed for you. The light grin on his face faded as quick as it had appeared. As deeply grateful as he was for the shelter and comfort this house offered, its smallness and shadows were suddenly contracting around him; walls pressing inward; the ceiling lowering down to suffocate and crush. It was as if he were back in that soulless little cell. Well, he could open the door to this prison any time he liked, go and walk under a blue, well, dirty grey sky, and breathe semi-clean air. Free of the all pervading prison smell of boiled cabbage, urine and shit. So long as you stayed away from the telephone boxes.

***

In no time at all Chris Carter had run a shallow, luke warm bath, and scrubbed off a convict's patination; it didn't do to hang around in prison ablutions. He changed into fresh clothing from his threadbare wardrobe and slammed the front door shut behind him, dislodging a variegated palette of paint flakes, and strode off purposefully towards the town centre.

With his very own key in one pocket and a borrowed wallet containing the remnants of prison pay in the other, he felt like a man of substance, a man of the world. A world without walls and watchful screws, a free space without restrictions; well none that were too visible.

Now the ripe old age of thirty-four years, Carter could look back over a lost life and ruminate at how at eighteen years old , barely out of boyhood, cruel fate had catapulted him headlong into a harsh level of adulthood, one in which you matured fast or perished even quicker.

An early morning threat of sharp frost had backed away with just a slap on the cheeks that tingled and white vapour coloured his steady exhalation as he wandered the streets of his childhood. For two hours he meandered aimlessly, his feet finding their own direction through half forgotten memories, on streets he had played in, kicked footballs about, gone to seek his mates in.

There was the old park at the edge of a small estate where his parents had bought their first and only home, a short stroll from grandpa's little terraced cottage. The swings, see-saw and roundabout a rusting no-go area now, spiked metal gates secured with a chain and padlock with a notice, a stern warning from the Town Clerk, that the play area failed to conform with EU health and safety regulations.

The creaking metal contraptions that they had swung and bounced up and down on; dangled upside down from; climbed up and jumped off; had doubled as pirate ships and space rockets or racing cars; had skinned their shins and elbows, harvested blooms of dark purple bruises on; had now been deemed unsuitable for child development, nasty dangerous things, by a grey faced Brussels bureaucrat _. 'Go home to your overheated bedrooms, your Xbox's and computer games, rest your young imaginations and limbs: By Order'._

The wondrous corner sweet shop where they had surreptitiously pocketed illicit pick and mix toffees had been revamped into a 'des-res'. A babbling little brook that had run in a deep culvert where they had fished for tadpoles had been piped and buried underground to accommodate a cycle path frequented by grimly enthusiastic riders dressed in obligatory, look-a-like, lycra Spiderman outfits, destined to save the world from auto pollution.

Depressingly Chris Carter acknowledged the irksome fact that whilst he had been 'away' the present had stolen his past and denied his future. But he was back to stay, with an ill defined ambition to take back his disjointed life. How, he hadn't a clue.

A bell pealed, echoing through his melancholy, a bell that rang a bell. Chris looked up and around him, a little surprised at how he had wandered into School Close, a location for him of little nostalgia but nonetheless a major element of his young life. High metal gates and chipped railings stretched protectively across the end of the short cul-de-sac against which he stopped, peering through at the rag-tag of 60's jerry building and add on desperate looking demountable classrooms that were more of a hazard to youngsters' health than the playground ever had been.

That piercing clarion call rent the crisp air a second time. He knew what it was, the lunch-time bell. Not everything had changed then. He moved along standing behind a small knot of waiting mothers, a whimsical, soft smile parted his lips as he watched the familiar schoolhouse doors burst wide open before an onrush of ten and eleven year olds, racing for the gateway and their mothers with combative zeal.

In startling contrast to his own childhood here, at least a third of the pupils were of obvious ethnic origin, black, brown, olive skinned. In his day the only 'coloured' kid in the school had been his mate Sydique Sahni, or 'Sid' as he'd been affectionately dubbed

"What you want here?" The clipped voice, an aggressive demand, from a plump Polish woman in a cherry red quilted coat, was hurled in his direction, drawing curious, suspicious glances from the other parents there.

Chris started with surprise, switching his attention away from the swirl of kids spilling out of the gates into their mothers' embraces already dark faced with suspicion and a touch of fear.

"Um, nothing really. Just came along to look at my old school." He offered lamely, backing away a couple of faltering steps. Christ, they thought he was some paedo' fucker! Time was his grandfather, or any father, could stand outside the gates to collect their kith and kin without attracting any attention. Now liberalism had brought the predatory hyena closer to the home boundaries and everyone was a potential threat.

Instinctively he avoided further explanation, he was a probable pariah in the general consensus of protective mothers, there was no point in any confrontation. Rather sheepishly Chris turned around and walked back along the road rather quicker than he had entered it, feeling strangely guilty for causing such concern. Before he had reached the end and turned toward the High Street, the mother who had elected herself neighbourhood guardian had fished a mobile from her pocket and was agitatedly demanding the emergency services

The High Street, up close, appeared to be even more of an alien place than it had through a taxi window the night before. The empty Woolworths proved to have been utilised as, for want of a better term, a foreign bazaar, the new phenomena of pop-up' shop. The old serve yourself counters now displayed exotic goods. Nuts, spices and strange fruits the man from Del Monte had neither said yey or nay to. Cardboard barrels of seed stuff and powdered ingredients had small scoops on top for customers to load brown paper bags with. The bright yellow of saffron and equally colourful reds and greens of essential flavourings glowed in the darkened interior, behind the hoarding of a failed mainstay of this old English town.

Hovering somewhere at the back of his nasal passages a faint aroma of curry and other less familiar scents seeped through. Rather dubious dried meats in strips or chunks were laid out for the flies to feast on. Faintly perturbed at the changes that had overtaken his hometown Holtingham, and resisting the self comparison with Rip Van Winkle, Chris Carter exited the place and turned in the direction of another old haunt of his, the George and Dragon pub, fervently praying that that had escaped the revolution of multi-culturism.

As he walked along a white car sloped into the kerb at the periphery of his vision and he became partially aware of slamming doors.

"Can we have a word sir?"

He turned to face two uniformed police constables advancing on him purposefully. This sight of authority descending on him caused Chris Carter to falter in alarm. Fifteen years in HMP Norwich had that effect.

"What's the problem?" He asked warily, a wild notion that his release on licence had been a mistake and that they were coming to return him to his six by eight cell not so stupid.

The pair stepped in close, one to either side of him as if afraid that he were about to flee up the High Street. The eldest, a sergeant in his fifties, did the speaking. The young one, still green and clueless, concentrated on looking mean.

"We've had reports from some mothers outside the school gates that a man matching your description was seen loitering there. Was that you sir?"

Chris registered the curious stares of passers-bye at the little tableau presented, felt his cheeks colouring with embarrassment.

"Yeah, I was there a short while ago. So what?"

"Why would you be there?" Noticeably the 'sir' had been dropped.

"Just walking about town, haven't been here for a while. Is there a law against that then?"

"Depends. So you thought you'd go and watch the kids did you?"

"No, I went to have a look at the school itself, used to go there when I was a nipper."

"When the little 'uns are due out, aye?"

"Co-incidence is all. Sorry if I worried the ladies."

"Been in trouble before?"

"I'm not in trouble now."

"You say you are a local, but I haven't seen you around before. A big lad like you I'm bound to have noticed."

"Been away for some years, only got back last night."

"' _Been away'_? Name?" The sergeant demanded, suspicion gaining momentum now.

"Carter, Chris Carter." Chris stared directly back into the older man's face, held his breath, saw the spark of recollection in his widened eyes and the grim set of his thin lipped mouth. Knew what was coming.

When the policeman snapped back a reply, there was real venom there. "So they've gone and let you out have they? Jesus, there's no justice in this world anymore."

The younger PC looked both intrigued and taken aback at his colleagues reaction. "Kiddie fiddler is he sarge'? Done a bit of time and now back to his old tricks?"

The sergeant shook his head angrily, eyes smouldering now, fixed upon Chris Carter. "No, no, Steve son. What we have here is a local celebrity. That right Carter?"

Chris shrugged his shoulders, automatically bracing himself for a punch to the kidneys; a rueful memory of past interrogations. The PC Steve, peered at him curiously, leaning slightly forward like he was studying an exhibit at a wax-works.

"Well who is he then, spit it out Neil?"

"Mr. Chris Carter here, of this parish, is a convicted cop-killer. That's who he is!" The sergeant spat out.

******

TWO

The George and Dragon hardly lived up to its heroic reference. Or Chris Carter's youthful memories when this now dusty, forlorn drinking house had throbbed with disco music, where the opposite sex hunted the opposite sex, round after round of foreign lagers were passed around and the occasional fisticuffs would produced a bloodied nose.

Now in the grey light of a normal work day, austerity and sad thoughts, the place appeared to have deteriorated into a haunt of the tired old, the lonely, and social rejects, hunched on favoured bar stools or squirreling into dark corners, nursing their everlasting pints whilst the world stumbled on blindly outside.

The street door swung shut behind him, unnaturally loud in that soulless void, as he crossed the matted, multi-coloured carpet he could have sworn he recognised from those far off heady days of his youth. From behind him a voice called out, harsh and reproachful in a mocking way, clearly aimed at him.

"You don't write, you don't phone..."

He turned around, a frown on his face and focussed on a bulky figure slouched in a bay window seat, a half drunk pint on the chipped, varnished table before him.

"Barry? Blimey!" He took a step forward, a silly grin on his face. "It's good to see you mate. I did wonder if you were still around."

"That so? Refused to let me visit you though."

"I was worried for you Barry." He winked. "Once they had you inside those walls I doubted if they'd ever let you out again."

"Huh. And you couldn't even bother to let anybody know you were being released?"

"Couldn't quite believe it myself until they slammed those bloody great doors behind me. Besides, what did you want me to do, put an ad' in the classifieds?"

Suddenly aware that the whole bar were agog at their not so private conversation, Chris held up a restraining hand and turned back to the bar, bought two pints and joined the other man on the window seat, sliding the fresh drink in front of him as a peace offering.

Barry Wells was a tad over six foot tall, rapidly gone to seed, a flabby, flushed face a testament to excessive drink and problems. Though a year younger than Chris Carter, he looked older, care-worn, and he had never served a life sentence in a stinking prison. Something of that irony glimmered through as he studied his friend through bagged eyes.

"Your grandpa kept me up to speed. He's a diamond that old boy. Didn't think to bring him out with you for a celebration drink then?"

"Done that last night, got the head-ache to remind me thank you very much. I've come out for fresh air and a hair of the dog. Grandpa's off down to the Legion Hall, preparing for his biggest day of the year."

"Yeah, why not? It's only Remembrance Sunday Parade that keeps the old boy going year after year I reckon. You want to see him, his chest all puffed out, medals shined up, marching through the High Street leading the parade from the church to the war memorial."

Chris blinked hard, took a long pull on his beer, gave himself time to get a grip. So much he had missed. "I'll be here to cheer him on this Sunday, and for many others. He ain't going anywhere for a while.

"Mind you, it nearly didn't happen. Got waylaid by a couple of boys in blue on the way here. Had me down as some stinking paedo-perv after I went to see the old school. Mothers there nigh on lynched me. They shouldn't have to be so nervous for their kids. What's going on these days?

"Anyhow, the plod forgot all about that when I told them who I was, got quite shirty I was still living and breathing."

"Understandable after what you did to one of theirs." Barry Wells pointed out reasonably.

"Suppose so. They've marked my card well and truly. I'm going to have to tread real daintily around this town Barry. First chance they get I'll be in the first meat-wagon back to Norwich."

"They can't just off you back there Chris for no good reason. You did your time. Due processes of law and all that."

"Oh yeah? Tell that to Derek Bentley's family. Besides, it's not quite so clear cut as that, but I won't bore you with the technicalities right now."

"Right." Barry drained his glass, picked up the full one just bought for him, sipped it delicately. "Did they give you a hard time in the nick? You hear all these stories."

"The cons didn't. Had myself a celebrity status when I first went in and a legend to the younger intake after I'd been there a while. Bit naff I know but had its advantages. It was the Screws I had to watch.

"What about you Barry, you never joined up like we all agreed to?"

Barry Wells averted his eyes, found something interesting on the nicotine stained ceiling to gaze at. "Went for the initial selection but couldn't crack the academic tests first go, never mind the Potential Royal Marine Course. How clever do you have to be to shoot some bastard?

"Anyhow, before I got a second crack at it I'd collected a couple of minor convictions. Actual Bodily Harm, Criminal Damage, small stuff really. Not laying out blame or excuses here, but I sort of jumped the rails a bit after what happened to you and your folks. Seemed the world had all turned upside down, know what I mean?"

"I certainly do Barry." Chris agreed ruefully. He studied his friend's ravaged features, the hang-dog demeanour. "Drink?"

"Mostly. I also collected a fine for possession on top. The only time I got tempted with drugs, hadn't even used it. Don't know why I bought it, hate all that stuff. Give me a pint and a whisky chaser any time. The worst effects are a hang-over and another resolution never to do it again."

Carter rubbed at his eyes. "I know what you mean all right. So how do you earn your daily crust?"

"Got trained as a plumber when the big firms still took on trainees. Not CORGI registered or anything clever like that. Just general stuff, fit bathrooms, fix leaky taps, put in new radiators. Bread and butter stuff."

"Going well is it?"

"Not going at all anymore. The Polish lads came over in their droves, undercut me and all the other local tradesmen. They've got no commitments to pay for. Sleep ten to a room in filthy doss-houses, work cash in hand only, on the black. Let's face it, most of 'em come from shit-holes, happy to live in shit, and earn shit.

"Well I can't compete, what with a mortgage and a wife and kids to support."

"Hey, you didn't mention that!"

"Sore point. They've gone now. When I crashed the house went back to greasy bankers and the wife went back to her mother's, took the kids with her. Keeps asking for a divorce but I'm dodging that one. I'm sure it'll come all right one day."

"Sorry to hear that mate. So what do you do now?"

Barry looked embarrassed. "On the old rock-'n-roll right now ain't I?"

"Wha....... Oh, the dole." Chris squeezed his elbow. "Something will come along, you'll see."

"Something did Chris. I got a start stacking shelves in that Indian minimarket and off-licence, end of the High Street, sweeping floors and things. Me, a tradesman. Then that got fire-bombed last month, totalled. Somebody don't like Sikhs or alcohol, whatever."

"Shit!"

"What's strange is that he's not the only one. A Jewish Delicatessen got done the same way in the summer after the proprietor got a right kicking out the back by masked men."

"All sounds a bit naughty. Got some storm-troopers on the march you think?"

"Don't think so. I'd have heard something on the football terraces if there were. Nothing to indicate that they were even white boys, but tell that to the media. There are all kinds of rumours and accusations flying around. The whole town is getting a bit tetchy. But nobody dare say what they think.

"Things have changed in this country since you went inside Chris. The elephant ain't just in the room, it's stamping all over us and still we daren't mention it.

"There was a TV news report awhile back. CCTV footage showing a late night mugging by five shit-bags. Four of the little tykes were white and the fifth had his face blurred out deliberately. Only they forgot to black out his black hands! What's that all about, mind control?"

"What about 'Sid Sandwich'? I suppose he gave up on our schoolboy pledge. The Three Musketeers, to join the army and save the world from the bad guys."

Barry twitched with a sudden realisation in his seat, slopping beer from his near full glass. "You haven't heard then?" His brow creased with consternation.

"Heard what? He's won X Factor or something?"

"Nooo. Sid did join up, straight after you went inside. Royal Marine Commandos, breezed right through the selection course the flash git." Barry looked positively jealous. "Came back here to see us all after his thirty-two week training and passing out parade. Walked in here all shiny black boots and green beret. Private Sydique Sahni, our 'Sid Sandwich' was Cock O' the Walk. Bought everybody a drink he did, the local hero. Even made out that night with that Betty Hunt.

"Remember her, that one that worked at the Town Hall? Big tits, blond hair, had a squint in one eye? Would never look at any of us before."

"She might have. You'd never tell with that dodgy peeper of hers. So, Sid still in uniform or has he retired to the shires to write his memoirs? Diary of A Lone Musketeer?"

Barry's expression turned grim, morose even, took refuge for a moment in his drink. Couldn't put it off any longer.

"No, not retired exactly. Sid got himself blown up in Afghanistan a year ago. One of those bloody IED's. Came home missing a leg, half an arm, partially blinded. They flew him back for treatment at the new military hospital in Birmingham.

"They managed to keep him alive against all the odds. Then he was transferred to one of those rehabilitation centres where you get fitted with false legs, and taught to walk again."

Chris had turned an ashen grey, put his pint down suddenly as if it had turned to vinegar. "Can we visit there?"

"No need, Sid is determined to live an independent life, though he is still under both hospitals and goes back for further treatment on occasion."

"So where is he then?"

"Here, in Holtingham. The council have adapted one of those OAP warden assisted bungalows, Squires Court, back of the sports fields. You know, put in ramps for his wheel chair, wall bars, wide doors. Though he is getting about more on his new leg now."

"Wheelchair? Bastards! He's almost one of their own."

Barry shook his head emphatically. "Sid Sandwich cum Sydique Sahni ain't exactly a _practising_ Muslim. Never was."

***

There had not been much else that they could talk about after that shock revelation, trivia would have been disrespectful to their friend. Or was that just an excuse for little else to talk about. For Chris, his old friends had existed half a lifetime away, they had all been barely adults, faint memories calling through the choking smog of more recent bad experience.

Barry sensed the fruitless direction of their reminiscences, made his excuses to go, save it for another day perhaps. "Got to go mate. Sorry I can't reciprocate with another drink Chris. My money will be through in a couple of days. I stand a pint or two then if that's okay."

Chris made tacit agreement for getting together at the end of the week with bleak enthusiasm. Their friend's predicament it seemed to him a telling omen for his homecoming.

Should he have considered, no risked, coming back here at all? He hadn't really needed to. His dead parents' estate had been put in trust for him, as and when he became a free man again. With their savings, general assets and the sale of the family home, he was wealthy enough to set himself up anew anywhere in the country, abroad even. He could construct a new life and future without the local stigma and resentment his home town would present, once the solicitors had processed the paperwork and passed on the money to him.

But grandpa was here, he would never leave this town. Chris Carter would never leave his grandpa, his only family, all he needed.

He suddenly felt drained, listless, not solely the effects of too much rum the night before, slumped in this rat hole of a pub. But he had to motivate himself for another item on his to do soonest agenda that day. The most important and heartfelt task that he had to force himself to face.

***

The warm old stone and flint of St. Athelstan, the weathered courses of red brick in the wall that wrapped around the church and graveyard, exuded a welcome and compassion he had not felt in a long time. A place of sanctity from all the gritty and abrasive twists and turns to his relatively young life.

But still he had to force himself through the grey oak gate and direct his feet along the narrow gravel path that skirted the building, branching off at intervals to access the rows of headstones of parishioners past. Some worn and lichen covered, some polished modern granite, some simple wood crosses erected at 'pauper' burials at the periphery of the grassed resting place.

His grandfather had given him directions to the spot, yet still he stopped with a jolt of shock when his searching eyes settled on the black marble and gold inscriptions of his parents' joint grave.

"Jesus.....!" Tears threatened to embarrass him as he read the inscriptions, a sombre and civilised account of their sudden passing.

'Here lie the remains in eternal death of loving husband and wife Phillip and Ivy Carter taken too soon in tragic circumstances on 15th March 1997'

He had not been allowed out of remand prison to attend their funeral, grandpa had brought him a photograph of the grave that he had displayed on his cell wall all these years.

"He is _always_ with you Chris."

Chris Carter spun on his heel, startled by the voice from nowhere, saw a young vicar standing on the path behind, watching him. He had a prematurely greying shock of curly hair that sat on his round head like a furry halo. His plump hands were clasped tightly against his black cassock as if in prayer.

"Er, excuse me?" Chris replied eventually, sure now that the churchman had been speaking to him. There was no-one else about.

" _Jesus._ You just called to him." The vicar smiled wanly. "We all need to on occasion."

"Yeah? Well he's a few years late in showing up to help me, thought I'd come and fetch him." Chris was strangely in a mood to be provocative, standing before his parents' last resting place. "You know my name?"

"I do indeed. Your Grandfather told me this morning that you'd most likely show up here sooner than later to..... see your parents."

"My grandpa was here was he? For a family get together, this one's a bit disjointed wouldn't you agree vicar, ah...?"

"Just call me Lionel won't you. Henry and I had some details to discuss regarding the Remembrance Day service on Sunday. This will be my first in this parish and your grandfather felt he needed to ah, _walk me through it_."

"That sounds about right, Lionel."

"He didn't tell you he'd be coming?"

"Grandpa is a force of nature. He doesn't pre-warn you of his intentions, or where, when, how or even if."

The clergyman took a step closer, lowered his voice and looked him directly in the eyes. "As I said, I am relatively new here Chris, but I have been informed of what happened to yourselves," His eyes flicked down to the headstone before Chris. "... and what you did. Second or third hand testimonies do not make a good witness.

"So if you feel that you need to talk, unburden yourself of the past, assuage your guilt, please do not hesitate to come to me. Anytime at all."

Chris Carter nodded lightly, his face impassive as he replied in moderate, level tones. "Well thanks for your concern Lionel, but I don't feel any need to unburden myself of anything. I certainly do not feel guilt for what I did. Had I been willing to lie about that, I might well have been freed earlier."

The man of God did his very best not to look dismayed. " Oh, I naturally assumed..."

Chris shook his head. "In my defence I did not technically 'kill' that young policeman, though I was responsible for his death. I hit him and he subsequently died from a massive brain haemorrhage as a result from an undiagnosed condition of a fragile skull. It could have happened at any time from a dozen and more causes. I just got unlucky, so did he come to think of it."

"Does that justify your actions Chris?"

"If I could recall actually hitting him with malice aforethought which I don't and never have," Chris tapped at the vivid white scar that swept up from above his left eyebrow and burrowed into his hair line. "I suppose that I could be adjudged guilty of something. But as you have bothered yourself with my welfare Lionel, I will tell you what happened that night."

Unconsciously, Chris gently stroked the smooth black marble of his parents' gravestone as if to draw some comfort from them. "I had turned eighteen the month before and had already applied to join the Royal Marines. Since I was a kid that had been my sole ambition, to follow in the footsteps of dad. I had already passed the initial academic tests and interview process and had been summoned down to Lympstone in Devon to attend a PRMC, sorry, a Potential Royal Marine Course. That is a more fitness based assessment prior to being accepted for the thirty-two week training course.

"Again I was notified that I had been successful. Mum and dad had driven down there to bring me home until further notice. We were in a celebratory mood. Standards of the Royal Marines are the highest in the world if not the highest, and I had also fulfilled a family tradition. Fourth generation soldier.

"It was late evening by the time we reached the outskirts of town after a good five hours drive. We were virtually in sight of our road when out of nowhere we were hit side-on by a police patrol car doing in excess of a hundred miles an hour on route to a minor incident outside a chip shop in the High Street. There had been no need for that level of response but some young coppers do get a bit carried away with the drama of the moment.

"Our car was rolled several times with the force of impact and I was thrown clear into the roadway. I must have fainted or passed out momentarily but when I came round my mother was obviously dead, I won't bother you with the gruesome details, and my father, still strapped in behind the wheel was dying too. Only what I do remember was this policeman, blood pouring from his own head wound, laying in to him with his metal truncheon thingy, screaming wildly at him, accusing him of obstructing the police in the course of their duty. Or some such nonsense.

"I know that I struggled up and ran at him to protect my dad in a blinding rage. But that much is all that I really remember. They found me passed out on top of the policeman who was as dead by then as both my parents. My defence lawyers argued that it was the blow to the head sustained during the crash that killed the copper. But the powers that be decided to divert the blame for what happened by convicting me for murder. I still do not know if I even hit that policeman, let alone killed him."

The vicar remained silent a moment longer, troubled face pointed down at the tips of his shoes protruding out from the hem of his robes. "A terrible tragedy. But such accidents do occur too regularly. I've conducted many a funeral for such unfortunate souls who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Chris Carter felt the heat rising in him, the scar on his head throbbing as it tended to do prior to his rage attacks. "Vicar, my father was a former Captain in the Royal Marines who served in Northern Ireland and the Falklands campaign without so much as suffering a scratch. My mother was of a white Rhodesian farming family who had fought off night attacks from Mugabe's killer thugs, before bowing to the inevitable and coming to Britain.

"They both survived all of that only to be slaughtered yards from their home by a hot-head in uniform who got his rocks off on two tones and flashing blue light. It should not have happened. I should not have spent fifteen years in jail with no conclusive evidence."

"The police do have a difficult job."

"So why make it all the more difficult by unprofessional, foolhardy conduct? Statistically Lionel, police drivers are responsible for more road deaths per year than any other formal grouping of people in this country. Not Firemen, not Paramedics who all habitually need to reach emergency situations double quick."

He pointed again at the jagged scar across his forehead. "I carry this as a permanent reminder of mum and dad being 'in the wrong place at the wrong time'. Amen." Without anything more said, Chris Carter brushed past the subdued vicar and strode away from that place of scribed sadness.

******

THREE

The honourable Yasir Davi was proud to be one of the few British born Muslim MPs' sitting in the Mother of Parliaments. A Junior Minister no less, for Overseas Aid and Development for third world education systems and establishments. He saw it fitting to squeeze the British tax payer for every last hard earned penny to pursue private needs at the other side of the world.

He was equally as industrious on the home front, serving on various quangos' and pressure groups promoting 'Faith and Community Cohesion' amongst his support base in the town's burgeoning Asian population; a self generating built in majority vote come polling day.

His profile was raised to further heady heights when he was elected to the steering group of the Council of Muslim Britain, (C.O.M.B.), an increasingly influential body, that had the governments' sympathetic ear, with an open agenda to aggressively raise the awareness of Islam and vigorously promote Muslim interests. One insidious strategy was the distribution of books and literature extolling the virtues of the Ummah to mainstream primary schools and a generation of bemused children.

Despite receiving generous grants from the public purse C.O.M.B. was a virulent critic of British foreign policy, and domestic issues with the remotest bearing on the Brotherhood. Their demands for disproportionate considerations rang through the innermost corridors of power with the echoing threat of a growing Muslim vote.

Davi himself, though of Pakistani descent, had been born in the town of Holtingham that he now represented and previously had practised there for years as a barrister of the people. He had developed a fearsome reputation for pursuing claims, against the police in particular, for discrimination, corruption, ineptitude and racism.

The reality and truth of those cases he had championed carried little weight, but inevitably the might of popular assumption and trendy diktat sped him ever further onward like a surfer on unstoppable Atlantic rollers.

His courtroom diatribes painted illusionist masterpieces of ethnic minorities under the yoke of oppression; targeted by the police and victimised by white society. Inevitably the representative organs of State bodies ruled that it was less embarrassing and cheaper in the long run to settle quickly out of court than to be stamped on by the jack-boots of emotive fiction. Davi had played taut nerves like a maestro, become enriched to the tune of sorely depleted public budgets.

But for all his anti-establishment posturing during his formative years as a public figure, at the age of forty-two he had no intention to garrotte the Golden Goose that had usurped the British Lion, pluck it naked, suck its eggs dry. Lucratively harvest it yes, but to render it barren and destroy it no.

Therefore he found the presence of Kamal Khan for the first time in his constituency surgery rather unsettling. Whilst his regular gripers and moaners sat waiting the other side of his door, Khan sat the other side of his desk in the small airless office over a side street dry-cleaners, clearly in no rush to say much or go anywhere too soon.

Khan himself was a stern figure, fearsome at times, his face with the wrinkled and browned complexion of a pickled walnut. Three fingers were missing from his left hand, two from his right. The left side of his face was blast pitted and scarred; his left eye a white glass orb. His clothes were the flowing robes that had evolved from the need for protection from the searing heat and tempestuous dust storms of the middle and far east. Rather incongruous here in the cold and wet mud of eastern England.

To a foolish romantic's eye he looked the very image of a Pashun tribesman. Unlike the smooth, urbane and educated Yasir Davi, he was born in the harsh mountain ranges of Pakistan. He had arrived in the UK during 1971, fleeing the military juntas' crackdown after a failed bomb attack on government offices that had left him so disfigured.

He had never shown any acknowledgement of, let alone gratitude for the political asylum granted him for the last forty plus years, or the hundreds of thousands of pounds he had milked from the system in benefits as he moved about England in search of some measure of destiny. In recent years he had arrived in Holtingham with a clique of violent inclined supporters, and in a short space of time had ousted the incumbent religious clerics in the mosque and had himself installed as the new Imam.

His increasingly aggressive rants on Islamist extreme doctrine drove many regular worshippers to other mosques in the area while the Holtingham premises became a hotbed of radical preaching. An increasing number of young men cast adrift from their homes and families from across the country were taken in for 'educating' at the madrasa school within, which rumour claimed, teaching is rife with inaccuracies, sweeping condemnations of Jews and Christians, and triumphal declarations of Islam's supremacy.

Openly he advocated violent reprisals against the west for its invasion of Iraq and Afghanistan to the new class of Faithfulls who travelled from out of the region, crowding into the mosque to be mesmerised by his fiery oratory.

He made no secret of his hatred for his benevolent host country or his desire to see terrorist acts perpetrated there. Nor of his singular vision that Britain become an Islamic Emirate under Shariah Law, with Allah's blessing. Not for nothing was Kamal Khan referred to in hushed whispers or enraged cries as the Holtingham Ayatollah.

Most remarkable was his apparent immunity to prosecution. Successive Home Secretaries, when petitioned with the facts, preferred not to grasp politically sensitive nettles, but to treat him as a buffoon and loudmouth. ' _Better out in the open than plotting away in some ghetto back street.'_

A view definitely not shared by Yasir Davi right now, as the man in question hooked his one good eye into his face with an expression that could only be described as a snarl as he finally made his demand in a deep, commanding tone.

"This charade is a demonstration of Imperialist arrogance, a blatant enforcement of Christian supremacy in this country. It is an insult to Islam!"

Davi spread manicured fingers in the air between them, shrugging his shoulders in placating manner. "I am sorry Kamal, what you are asking is out of the question. This ceremony is a very special occasion for these people."

"These people? YOU are one of 'these people'!" Khan flared, his spittle dotting the desk top as his depleted fist rose and banged the wood in his fury. "You have abandoned your own creed, and loyalty to Mohammed."

Davi reared back in his seat defensively, a reaction that quickly blustered back as indignation. "You have no right to speak to me like that Kamal. I am a good Muslim who has worked hard all my life to protect and represent our people and faith here in Britain.

"In short, our ambitions and intentions are the same, only our methods differ. There is no need for such confrontation. It is inevitable that one day in the not too distant future, Britain will become an Islamic nation. Our numbers and birth-rate alone guarantee this. Together in time we will revive Khilafah. So be patient Kamal, as they say in this country _, 'softly, softly, catchee monkey.'_

"So," his smile was flushed, was pleased with his argument as he relaxed back into his chair. "Unless there are other matters that you wish to discuss with your Member of Parliament Kamal Khan, can I ask that you leave my office as I have other constituents waiting to see me?"

Kamal Khan did not move. Worse, he appeared to settle further into his seat, as immoveable as a mountain of the Karakoram range. A strange glint flickered in that dark, hooded eye, appearing to take on a life of its own as his thick lips drew back wetly from yellowed, sharp teeth. The impression of a wild cat preparing to pounce on its prey was not lost on Yasir Davi who's boldness evaporated like a fleeting will-o'-the-wisp as he shrank further back into his chair that creaked in protest.

Khan hissed at him, a feral threat , barely audible. "You remain a man of importance in this devil's island only for as long as I allow that to be so. I have knowledge that will destroy you."

Davi stared right back, transfixed like a rabbit in the headlights, cold fear clutching his entrails as he knew then what was to come.

"Your visits to Pakistan, to the Yemen, on behalf of your Imperialist masters with your fools gold, seeking to bestow western ideals and culture upon our schools, even the girls, with tainted money. You, a turn-coat, a Greek bearer of gifts."

Davi's voice faltered, his trembling hands scrambling on the desk for a pencil to worry, desperately trying in vain to ward off the inevitable. "I go to support the next generation of the Muslim Ummah. The young ones who surely will inherit the world, an Islamic world."

He flinched as Khan suddenly reared to his feet, leaned across the desk and unbelievably seized his chin between a thumb and a remaining finger, a hard grip, toned by deformity.

"Is that so Mr. MP man, saviour of all the little children of Islam?"

"Yes!" Davi's voice emerged in high pitch, his eyes watering with the pain of Khan's iron grip, and the indignity that bestowed.

"Does buggering young Muslim boys count as support in your western values. Does Mohammed look down and bless you?"

"No! No this is not true... "

"We have photographs, statements. Our judges are ready to implement Sharia, condemn and punish you in the name of Mohammed and Allah."

"I... " Davi's voice trailed away, lost in fear and desperation, tears trickled down his olive cheeks.

"You may be 'my' MP, but I am your Imam, in our culture I have the greater authority here. Believe all that I say and then nod to indicate you will comply with all that I demand of you, or I shall destroy both sides of your cultural cross-over life. DO IT!"

Stricken, distressed, the tears flowing free now, Yaris Davi nodded once with those sharp, talon-like fingers still painfully gripping his face, not loosening one iota.

"Good, good. Now, here is what you are to do."

******
FOUR

The Legion Club had become the centre of his shrinking world these last years of his long active life. For Henry Carter, this homely place with its bar and function room, the Legion branch flag splayed across an upper wall, and a black and white photo-portrait of a young Queen Elizabeth smiling benignly down on the members, this was his last posting.

His younger life had been spent shunting around the globe in rattling old trucks and trains, cramped, rusty troop ships, to distant locations of alien smells, dust and flies, unfriendly incumbents who wished to kill you. Retirement led him unerringly here, back home, amongst old friends and comrades and shared memories.

Fading photographs in cheap frames hung on every available wall space. Young men, many long dead, peered through dusty glass, all in uniform: army, navy, air-force; grinning laconically back at the camera from atop tanks, cockpits of fighter planes and bombers, the back of trucks on the wide decks of aircraft carriers. Their cheerfulness and casual good humour belying the reality that violent death stalked their interrupted lives.

Henry sat alone at the long committee table they convened around once a month. His fellow members had long shuffled off to the company of wives, evening meals waiting on them. Arranged along the varnished top the Legions' marching flags, their own banner, a Union flag and an old, faded, rather threadbare banner of the Holtingham Pals' Battalion, the saddest reminder of that small town's history. Half of the younger generation cajoled by a stern General Kitchener into forming their own fighting unit and taking on the Boche in Flanders. Of sixty-eight men only twelve returned, including Henry's father, broken in spirit and mind.

Energetically he rubbed saddle-soap into the cracked leather of the belts and their attached flag-pole holsters, that Legion members would wear as they proudly led the marching parade along the centre of the High Street next Sunday, November 11th, bearing aloft these same flags to the towns' War Memorial in homage to Britain's fallen sons of the last one hundred years.

'At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

We will remember them.'

Henry would not leave and go home for his own dinner until the heavy hide gleamed, a task he took upon himself every year; for how many more he could not say.

The entrance door to the Legion Hall clashed to behind him and footsteps clacked across the polished wood floor. He laid down his mutton cloth and turned in his chair, slightly surprised to see a young girl in a stylish, belted, Burberry winter coat, knee length boots and carrying a large, leather handbag, screaming of quality, looped over her left shoulder.

Ever the gentleman he rose on protesting knees to greet her as she stopped before him, a slightly askew smile on her face as she stared up at him with an unsettling directness.

"And who are you please?" She demanded rather unexpectedly, taking the very same words right out of his own mouth.

Henry blinked back his bemused reaction to that. "Me? Henry Carter is the name, I serve on the committee here, More to the point my dear, who are _you,_ and how can I help you?"

Her gaze wandered around the hall whilst imperiously offering her hand clad in soft, kid hide. "Lucy Lever, Anglian Chronical." She conceded in an abstract, bored manner.

"So you are a reporter Miss Lever?"

"Ms., Ms. Lever, thank you. Community and general interest desk. I've been _sent_ to get some background material on your Remembrance Day Parade on Sunday."

Did he detect a slight curling of her pink upper lip? "Background material aye? Well there have been two world wars and a whole lot of smaller ones you may well have heard about. Unfortunately service people get killed, we commemorate them and their sacrifice. In fact the whole country and Commonwealth does. Quite big in the media too." Sarcasm had a habit of thrusting through his polite nature when goaded. "Tell me Ms. Lever, what happened to Norman Batty? He's covered this ceremony every year for years. Never had to ask for _background material._ Do you work under him?"

Lucy Lever deigned to turn her full attention back onto this old fool, a combative edge cutting into her cultured tone. "He got retired, couldn't cut the mustard anymore. Papers need new blood, young blood. I've replaced him."

"Oh dear. I must say you do look young, you could hardly have left school."

"I am twenty-three and have a first-class honours Degree in Media Studies and Sociology if you must know." She snapped, peering ever closer at him.

"First class? Well, congratulations! Norman I believe was a grammar school boy, started at the Chronical when he was just sixteen as a tea boy nigh on fifty years ago must be. Worked his way up to lead journalist by the age of thirty. I always thought that he'd die in the job, not get shunted aside like unwanted furniture."

"Okay yeah. Well daddy knows the proprietors personally, a business thing you wouldn't understand. He explained how I could represent a new face of the Chronical while Norman was a rather sad old dinosaur with outdated attitudes and viewpoints. It is a different world out there now, new priorities."

"Oh, like what?"

"Sensibilities, multiculturism. We all have to adhere to current reality in this country now."

"Well the only culture I've ever known in England is English. Has that changed then?"

"That is a rather jingoistic, racist comment may I say?" She sneered stiffly, attempting to stare him down with a condemning glare and failing badly.

Henry Carter was just getting into his stride. "You may say what you wish, this is a free country after all. But I tell you that I served for over thirty years in the armed forces of this country ever prepared to wage war on foreign cultures that threaten our way of life. That is not racism, that is self defence."

"Well I'd call that Imperialism." She bridled, stepping back from him quickly as if frightened of contamination. This interview was not going well. "This country of _'yours_ ' Mr. Carter, promoted slavery and world-wide oppression. You were a working tool of evil!"

"On the contrary young lady. Go back and consult your history books. Not those selected and foisted upon you by left wing, loony university lecturers. I think that you'll find Portugal was the first European country to actively embrace slavery, a practise thousands of years old in Africa and the Middle East. Granted we did engage in the terrible trade for a couple of hundred years, but eventually it was the British Empire that spread the 'new reality' around the world in the nineteenth century and outlawed slavery long before Abraham Lincoln jumped onto the bandwagon, which was vigorously enforced by the Royal Navy.

"Education is a wonderful thing Ms. Lever."

She bristled with haughty anger, a suffusion of pink staining her delicate complexion from her face and neck all the way down under the collar of her smart blouse.

"My family are well read thank you Mr. Carter; educated men of letters, steeped in the craft of the pen. I am a product of that gene pool."

"Well I can only be humbly impressed young Ms. Lever. Now, 'Lever', should that name be familiar to an old pleb like myself?" He feigned a thoughtful pause. "Ah yes, Algernon Lever. Wasn't he that local boy made bad went to Cambridge?" He snapped still strong fingers expressively, enjoying himself now. "Yes, that poet chap turned conscientious objector during the last war. Wilfred Owen and Rupert Brooke would have been spinning in their untimely graves. Got himself banged up in Wormwood Scrubs in 1940 for refusing the draft until the Peace Pledge Union got him released through family connections.

"Lilly Levered Lever' he was known as, hereabouts."

Lucy Lever's high heeled boots all but levitated off of the floor. "My Great Uncle Algernon was a man of principle Mr. 'common soldier'. He had the courage to stand up for what he believed in and not become a butcher's apprentice for the state."

"Oh aye? Let's not confuse principles with self preservation? 'Conchies' simply didn't have the courage to stand up on a battle-field."

Real anger began to laser from the old man's eyes as he pointed a trembling finger at the worn old flag on the table. "My own father and his pals didn't get such luxury as principles. Half a generation of this town's young men were wiped out on the Somme. That is courage.

"Nothing poetic about that. Fine lads mown down so people like your Algernon could stand by his 'principles' without fear of a firing squad and self serving young bloods like yourself can shoot them down all over again with your 'sensibilities'." He paused, reigning in his ire, she was after all a silly young woman.

"Now I'm very busy Ms. Lever as you can see, preparing this lot for Sunday's parade. I need to clear it away so us old dinosaurs who can no longer cut the mustard in this different world can open up the bar later and drink ourselves into oblivion."

Her face sparking fury like a high voltage cable break down, Lucy Lever spun precariously on her high heels and stalked from the hall muttering, "Nuremberg Rally more like!" As she surreptitiously switched off a digital Dictaphone nestling covertly in her opened handbag.

Benny Mann would be most amused with all of that saintly garbage!

******
FIVE

Squires Court had been built primarily for occupation by the aging denizens of the town who still retained a degree of capability and a will for some independence. It was a small development of twenty-one units sited on the outskirts of flat earth Holtingham, convenient to fall off of the edge of existence without too much disruption. The town cemetery was just a short drive up the lane.

A grumpy warden had directed Chris Carter to the end unit of a block of seven opposite her own. He noted the newly constructed ramp and handrails fitted at the front entrance as he approached. Preparing to knock he noticed that the door itself was ajar and a note pinned to the frame invited visitors to ' _Let yourself - probably won't hear you'_.

Feeling like an intruder nevertheless, he stepped into the hallway and followed the sound of an overloud television set booming from a room at the far end. Handrails had been fitted along there as well. The lounge was in semi-darkness, the heavy curtains pulled to, a wide screen TV blurting out the news. A three seater settee angled to his right and a vaguely discernible figure was draped across it.

"Hello 'Sandwich'!" He shouted loud enough to overcome the television.

"Greetings 'white-boy', heard you were on the loose, been a long time. Did you bring me anything?"

"Nope. You're not in hospital now are you?"

"Technically I am. Well I'm still an outpatient, but lately I'm more out than patient." He suddenly pointed accusingly at the screen on which the Prime Minister Dennis Campbell was pledging his one hundred percent support for 'our lads on the front line'. "That lying cunt given us about as much support as a worn out jock-strap!"

Chris stepped over to the window pulling the curtains wide open, flooding the room with grey light. Turning back to face his old friend Sydique Sahni a bolt of shock ran through him.

"Christ!" Was the most delicate thing that he could say.

'Sid Sandwich' smiled thinly back at him, teeth a brilliant white in that dark face, crinkling the burn scars on the left side of his face. The lower part of his left arm was missing and the whole of his left leg. He held his right arm aloft, waving his hand about.

"I've still got this one. Always carry a spare that's what I say."

Chris recovered his composure, buoyed up by the other's brave show of flippancy. "That the one you wipe your arse with is it? Friendship only goes so far you know?"

'Sid' struggled upright, stretched out his good hand to shake Carter's. Then Chris reached down and squeezed his shoulder gently. Ex-cons and Royal Marines don't do man-hugs. "I was gutted to hear what's happened to you mate, a real bummer."

"And I couldn't believe what happened to _you_ back then Chris, I really couldn't. Still don't. And you refused to let your chums visit you. Especially me and Barry; we were the Three Musketeers weren't we? You miserable bastard."

"Needed a bit of time to think, adjust, you know?"

"Fifteen bleeding years! I know you're a bit congested between the ears, but come on."

Chris shrugged. "I'm here now ain't I? So why don't you just sit back comfortably peg-leg while I go and fetch some glasses." He produced a half bottle of whisky from under his jacket. "I take it you can drink?"

"Have you forgotten, I'm a non-conformist rag-head. Pour away and don't be shy with it."

"Medication I meant you knob! Can you mix it with alcohol?"

"Let's not worry about that? My eyesight is a bit wobbly too, can't read the small print on the label, so let's just find out shall we? I'll either end up hopping up and down on the table or underneath it."

Chris returned from the small galley kitchen with two dainty tea-cups he hoped had been left by a previous tenant to find Sydique Sahni suddenly morose.

"What happened to us C.C.?" He seemed to have slumped back down even further into the cushions, glaring venomously at the TV on which the Prime Minister was still being overly earnest in pledging his 'covenant' with those on active service. "Can you grab the remote there and turn this prick off before I put my non existent foot through the screen?"

"Hey your long lost buddy shows up with fire-water and all you can do is throw a moody like a hormonal schoolgirl."

Sydique made a visible effort to smile which came out more like a grimace. "Sorry mate. It isn't just the physical injury you know. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is a recognised problem. The doctors warned me not to sit here all day and mope. Depression lurks not far away if you follow that road. So what do I do? Sit here and mope all day that's what! Get depressed as hell all right watching all that crap!" vehemently he jabbed a walking stick that had miraculously materialised in his hand at the TV.

Chris hastily complied with the remote control and turned the prick off.

"It's understandable Sid, you getting down and all that considering, you know..."

"No, there's no excuse for it really Chris. I've had the best treatment you could ever hope for and all the encouragement needed to put me back on my feet. After getting injured I was three days in critical care at the field hospital in Afghanistan before I was stable enough to be flown home to the new Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham. The place is amazing, built specifically for injured military personnel. The wards are even organised in military fashion so you're not too disoriented being whipped away from the rest of your mates and routines. You're amongst other squaddies who have suffered the same or even worse injuries

"After four months I was getting about, a bit in the wheelchair and my strap-on leg. Then I got moved to the military rehabilitation centre at Headley Court in Surrey for a further four months. Another amazing place. They specialise in up to date prosthetics, actually made to your own specification. Like having a new suit made. Unfortunately my limb was shorn off close to the hip which is more difficult to master than one below the knee. Luckily my arm still has its elbow which makes a world of difference. So C.C. I can wipe my own arse with either hand thank you very much."

"Okay that's a relief then. So now what, the army got a desk job lined up for you?"

Sid's stare of incredulity was all the answer needed. "There is great emphasis on getting you fit for duty, or certainly an active life. But I found suddenly that I needed my own space for a while, away from disciplined existence, requested that I move into civilian accommodation for a while, get my head on straight. The nut doctors said that was the last thing I should be doing, but I did anyway. Promised I go back to the QEH in Birmingham for regular assessments but I've been a bit lax in that department lately, starting to feel a bit guilty what with all the bloody marvellous treatment they've given me. But not for long, think I'll go and chuck myself at the army's mercies, they're pretty good at finding amputee personnel something to do and keep them off the streets. Meanwhile I've been going a bit stir-crazy sitting here with that bloody thing switched on all day"

Chris drained his whisky, starting to feel a little depressed himself. Homecomings weren't all they were cracked up to be he was finding. "Perhaps you should get out a bit more then Sid, mix with us ordinary mortals in civvy street."

"Don't get on too well with Joe Public anymore. I can't fit in with their narrow lives. I've seen too much, done things they couldn't even begin to comprehend."

"Oh excuse me for being one of the boring old masses."

"No not you Chris. In a way we have travelled a similar road. Yeah, I miss the military life again, institutionalised I suppose."

Chris's eyes lit up with a sudden thought. "Well get yourself down to the Legion Hall. The members ain't all old codgers from World War Two and Korea. Blokes your age get there too, had similar experiences; Ireland, Falklands, Iraq, Afghanistan. One thing Britain will never be short of is old soldiers."

"By the time that prat at number ten is finished we will be."

"Look, I'll have a word with grandpa, get you signed in as a member, then you can all bore the pants off each other with tales of derring-do and cheap booze."

"Talking of cheap booze where's that bottle you cheap-skate. Here, fill this bugger up." Sydique tossed the empty glass into Chris's lap, mild surprise on his face. "Your grandpa still er, with us then? He must be ninety if he's a day."

Chris stood up to go replenish their drinks. "Eighty nine actually, still secretly dreaming of invading Buenos Aires. He's right busy as usual, organising the Remembrance Sunday service and march past the War Memorial." Another thought occurred. "Here, you've just got to take part in that mate. Wounded hero and all. You can totter along the High Street on your new leg like the Tin Man on Yellow Brick road."

A new enthusiasm glowed in Sydique's dark eyes. "Okay Chris, I'll give it all a go. How cheap is this booze there?"

***

Chief Officer Oliver Beaumont of Her Majesty's Police, was a man going places, almost certainly a post in the Home Office in due course, according to his personnel file.. 'Going broke' was his private assessment whenever he glanced at the artfully angled photograph on his desk in the solid silver frame.

Wife Sarah was upwardly mobile, at a rate that would put NASA's efforts to shame, with her big eyes fixed firmly on the county set. She had not got the big country house in Buckinghamshire yet, but had an extensive and expensive wardrobe and a glimmering Lexus on the shared drive which was progress of a sorts.

His twin daughters, standing competitively close to either side of her grinned out at him with matching aspirations. Their tuition fees at that private academy for young ladies combined with their mother's great expectations fuelled a permanent run on the pounds at the bank of dad.

At forty-two he was young for a Chief Officer, especially as he had been a late entrant into the police service; having delayed his undoubted brilliant career to first obtain _absolutely_ essential degrees in sociology and economics, before presenting himself with grand largess to the world of crime fighting; a leader in waiting.

By nature a politician at heart, he had prissily side-stepped much of the irksome facets of policing on his March on Rome. Walking the beat in the rain and being vomited on by celebrating week-end drunkards, was not a shining path to the hallowed gates of the Citadel of ambition.

There were any number of deskbound footholds up to the promotion heights, well away from those nasty cold streets, that could be weaselled into with close access to the right ears to whisper into personal sweet nothings and the occasional drop of poison. And with each hike in his pay scale dearest Sarah upped her social budget.

His targets had been set firmly and unequivocally; Chief Constable before the age of forty-five. Done that, along with the chauffer driven Daimler to ferry the special ones to never ending social functions and ceremonies. So a dress allowance and quality hairdresser had been a must.

But Oliver's wife's driving ambitions drove recklessly through his comfort zone clocking up a high mileage of stress and anxiety. He was beginning to wonder if coming off duty reeking of vomit was just preferable to going home to endless dinner-parties with people he had never met and asked stupid questions about his job. What did he know about bank robbers and murderers? He saw his role in the force as primarily an administrator, co-ordinator and accountant.

Fact, Oliver Beaumont, for all his smart made to measure uniform hung with chrome like a twinkling Christmas tree, was quite a disappointment in the visual and personality stakes. Prone to erratic stuttering under duress, which seemed to be a permanent condition these days, his voice was thin and nasally. He was a bit on the short side and blessed with a thin frame , narrow features and worst of all, ginger hair and a small moustache.

Yasir Davi on the other hand, had broad, dark, handsome Asian features and an athletic build that would have incited interest from Bollywood had he passed by on that road. His strong, blunt fingers drum-rolled on Beaumont's shiny desk top to enforce an argument he had been pressing non-stop for a full twenty minutes. Had the Chief Officer not been so permanently strung out himself he might have detected a degree of underlying nervous agitation in the Honourable Member for Parliament himself. Instead he vaguely pondered on why Davi, no youngster himself, had never married.

"Chief Constable, I have to impress upon you the utmost folly of allowing this display of Imperial arrogance to proceed on Sunday morning."

"But Yasir," Beaumont whined, fearful of uttering anything remotely politically incorrect. "The ceremony is to honour our fallen servicemen. You know that as well as I do, being ah, British yourself."

The drum-roll intensified, building up to the signal to charge. "There was a time it may have been quite acceptable to honour foreign adventures, a celebration on Omdurman as much as Flanders. But this is 2012, the 'fallen' you mourn are killing my Muslim Brothers in Iraq and Afghanistan. My constituents view them as criminals, murderers."

To his credit Oliver Beaumont looked affronted at that last statement. "Could I point out that your constituents are comprised of all of the good people of Holtingham regardless of whether they voted for you, not just the current thirty percent Asian community you appear to be exclusively championing, who undoubtedly did. Whom I would expect to readily view themselves as British before any other loyalties and therefore ready to support our forces, dead or alive."

Yasir Davi's eyes appeared to bulge to twice their size as he partially rose out of his seat, now stabbing the desk top with stiffened fingers to thrust home his point.

"You misunderstand the situation sir, my people the Islamic Brotherhood belong first to Allah. No passports are issued in His name. Insult their sensibilities and there are those who will rise in anger if you allow this march!"

"Now hang on, this isn't an Orange Day Parade, nobody is celebrating any battle won. It is merely a dignified and heartfelt service of remembrance that I do not have the authority, or inclination, to ban. I doubt that even the Home Secretary could do as you ask.

"Only those events that threaten public order or state security would be refused permission to proceed."

Davi stood fully erect now, pointing sternly at the senior policeman, those bloody fingers again. His black eyes flared with bottled emotion flecked with private desperation.

"I feel it fair to warn you that I have been nominated by the local Imam no less to stand for the new role of Police and Crime Commissioner for this region Chief Constable Beaumont. Elections take place on the fifteenth, just four days after remembrance Sunday.

"I am sure that you are cognisant with the authority to be awarded to this civilian position of PCC. That is the monitoring of police performance in the effectiveness and accountability of their job, community relations and the efficient control of budgets.

"If elected, and I am quite confident that I have a residual voter loyalty, I therefore will have the power to hold the Chief Constable to account, set his forces' budget and if necessary, _dismiss him from his post_."

As the blunt reality of yet another populist bunch of crap from a government desperate for voter appeal confronted him, Chief Constable Beaumont sank deeper into his padded chair, never wanting to come out, well aware of the degree to which he was being warned, threatened, blackmailed even.

Yaris Davi leaned forward now, resting his bulk on hands spread flat on the desk's surface, his face intimidating, close to the face of the law for that region of East Anglia.

"Do not underestimate the reaction of my brethrens to this show of white supremacy. Not just here in Holtingham, but in other towns and cities the length of England. These are dangerous days sir, we are legion.

"In dancing to the tune of the American fiddle, you English have mortgaged your sovereignty; so now Islam will foreclose on your culture.

"Heed this warning on behalf of Mohammed; _Give way_ _to the forces of Allah or suffer the consequences_!"

******
SIX

Clumsily they pushed through the double swing doors of the Legion Club, arm in arm like a married couple; Sid still wobbly on his one crutch, a prosthetic hand encased in a black nylon glove gripping on to a supporting forearm.

There were more members packed in there than usual for a Friday lunchtime, but the imminent occasion of the 11th of the 11th called for close consultation and the consumption of more beer. Everybody there turned to stare at the odd couple that had appeared in their midst; Chris Carter and the Asian lad clinging to his arm with just the trace of pain twisting his darker features.

Spontaneously a slow hand-clapping began amongst the assembled veterans that gradually built in tempo to an all out applause. Unrehearsed calls of encouragement and welcome rang from all directions as both stopped halfway from the doors to the long bar, uncertain, embarrassed.

The members so enthusiastically greeting them were not the steely-eyed toughs in uniform of their youth. Now they were middle-aged and aged family men, fathers and grandfathers, blessed with paunches, grey or greying hair, glasses, hearing-aids, and dentures. Nature doesn't discriminate for heroes.

The dress code was variegated: cardigans and slacks, department store suits, neat blazers, open necked shirts, cravats or regimental ties; short, tall, thin or fat, they were as one. A Band of Brothers. Old soldiers, sailors airmen. Most had seen battle, cried unashamedly with grief or relief, all bound together in a unique life-long camaraderie that chose not to forget the sacrifice of dead mates.

The tall figure of Henry Carter detached from a cluster of hearty members congregating at the end of the bar, strode over with a brisk nod of acknowledgement at his grandson and thrust out his big hand to Sid who in turn held out his remaining right hand to shake with a bemused expression on his face.

"Sergeant Sahni," Henry boomed warmly, "the committee welcome you to Holtingham Legion Club. Further we are delighted to have you as our newest member." He winked jovially at Chris. "That said Sydique, you'd better sign-in your guest here."

***

The Arab Spring had moved on through summer and autumn, bringing now a wintry harvest of cold death and an unsettled front of tribal and religious depression.

Abu Sharif had fled North Africa and the freedom fighters now turned oppressors, who in their triumph were reluctant to hand in their Kalashnikovs, preferring to turn them into symbols of power and state. He had handed over all of his meagre material wealth, cash, gold jewellery, a battered lap-top, to rough unscrupulous men who had promised to get him into England with vague promises of a passport and work visa.

After two weeks of precarious boat journeys, demeaning road travel jammed into the back of swaying trailers concealed behind cartons of vegetables and machinery, he had arrived in grey, cold England in the company of a dozen other bedraggled, demoralised refugees.

The men who had taken their money did not produce the passports or visas, but forced them to break their backs and risk pneumonia pulling root crops from the bleak, muddy fields of a region he learnt was East Anglia, for less pay necessary to survive on. His own people had enslaved them and grew rich along with the sour faced, fat farmer.

Abu's dream had been to go to university, train to become a surgeon, and one day go home to help rebuild his shattered country. Most of his fellow 'travellers' on that journey to hell had been lured to this England by enticing accounts of free cash, homes, health care. Hand-outs not available without papers, passports, visas.

After a week of hard, heartless toil, Abu had determined not to continue in this grim existence of victim, of exploitation. He was an educated man who could surely do better in this country he had heard so much about all his young life.

At night, he had crept from his damp, hard bed that was cramped between many others inside a rusting, metal lorry container balanced on top of building blocks inside a small copse adjacent to the broad, flat farmland they worked with frozen fingers. Under a bright winter moon and a creeping rim of dawn glow on the far horizon, he trudged along barren country lanes, through featureless countryside, across which wickedly bitter winds scythed off of the North sea, bringing banks of black rain clouds that opened up above him, soaking his inadequate, thin cotton clothes, making his teeth chatter and thin body to shake with a piercing coldness he had never experienced before.

Scant traffic passed by him, veering wide with suspicious caution of this ragged figure in strange clothing, best seen in the rear view mirror and forgotten as of no business of theirs.

With no little gratitude Abu had come upon the outskirts of a small town that a black and white metal road sign informed was Holtingham. A name that sounded cosy, welcoming, essentially English. Even more heartening, as he trod warily along its wet pavements, were surreal indications of a large Muslim presence implanted in a setting so foreign to him. Nevertheless a cultural oasis in a desert of the unfamiliar.

His hopes rose of finding work and sustenance amongst his own kind, lifting his crushed spirits. But quickly he discovered that prospect to be elusive. His polite enquiries soon descended to pleas at the doorways of various ethnic business premises, only to be met with cold indifference and hissed dismissal.

Yet at a mini-market and purveyor of alcoholic beverages recently ravaged by fire, a sight very familiar to Abu in his war torn country, an elderly Indian in a blue turban paused from his sorrowful salvaging of piles of destroyed stock, to locate some canned soft drink and edible food, more or less undamaged by the flames and water used to extinguish them.

Abu ravenously devoured this, profusely thanking the weary Sikh in halting English, the worlds' greatest unifier, and was directed to the town's mosque with a strangely rueful tone, a few minutes walk along the main road.

The old man had waved away Abu's gratitude. "After a short time in that place you may either curse me for sending you there, or be back in the night to burn down my new shop." He stated sorrowfully.

Though rather nonplussed at the old Indian's parting shot, a warm glow had spread inside of Abu's narrow chest at the blessed sight of the crescent and star symbol of Islam glinting wetly up on the face of a big building on what had been referred to as the High Street. That beloved and so familiar sight a promise of succour, a bed and companionship. A home from home.

But now, a full week later as he knelt for evening Salat, the fifth prayer offering of the day, Isha'a, midway between of when the red light had gone from the western sky and the rise of the white light in the east, calling for Fajr Salat, the kind Sikh's words began to make some sense.

Though he had been fed and given dry clothes, the traditional Pakistani attire Shalwar Kameez which resembled western pyjamas and the equally inadequate Khussa sandals for the climate in England, and a place to lay his head in a series of dormitories on the upper floors, Abu increasingly suffered an uneasiness over his new found sanctuary.

The bearded, wise old Mullahs of his home village who spoke the words of the prophet Mohammed, preached the philosophy of peace and respect for all mankind, would not recognise the message being rammed forth in this place that was beginning to frighten him.

There was just the one Imam here, who had moved in on the mosque some years previously, usurping and ejecting the previous clerics who had taught their flock here.

Kamal khan was a ferocious figure of absolute authority which was enforced by a 'Praetorian Guard' of grizzled and scarred veterans of the Afghanistan and Iraq conflicts. For the band of young interns he now lived on the premises with, most lost souls like himself, both illegal immigrants and disaffected British born, a strict regime of endless prayer was interlaced with vehement sermons at their madrassa schooling.

Khan would stand above them on a wooden dais draped in black silk robes, his delivery a spontaneous diatribe filled with hate and menace, the young men kneeling before him as if he were a deity they paid homage to.

Spittle would fleck his full black beard as he ranted on of heroic mujahideen fighters who were dying now to defend Islamic homelands from the Crusader devils. That it was every Muslim's duty to declare Jihad on the westerner kafur, to kill them in the name of Allah, even if that meant to die oneself and pass on to paradise.

England, he would repeatedly snarl, was a cesspit that his followers would one day purify into an Islamic state and kill the Saxon. At each incitement to murder, Khan would rake the three remaining fingers of his right hand, hooked like an eagles talon, through the void between them, and his awed congregation would respond, shouting in loud unison, 'INSHA'ALLAH!'

Such tirades against Christians, Jews and westerners generally, were delivered daily along with the continuous playing through speakers around the building, of Jihadist Nasheed, stirring songs in wailing tribal voices of battle and death. On occasion they were made to sit through amateurishly produced videos of mujahideen battles with gory, triumphal close-ups of dead US soldiers being pulled from a crashed helicopter and dragged through dusty streets and donkey shit, so far from home. Always came the obligatory cries of Insha'Allah, Abu himself too intimidated not to join in, the cold eyes of Khan's thugs constantly scanning the room for dissenters.

Most of his companions appeared content to be brainwashed, to seriously consider Kamal Khan's call to be trained in the art of killing, just so long as they were provided for and not required to work.

'I will turn you all into soldiers of Islam'

His message was clear. Kill non Muslims. "There can be only one religion. One God. Total Jihad in England was around the corner; every day a 7/7 day. We plot, we train, we will strike at the heart of the English Crusaders who have allowed us into their fortress. Allah will rule over them, Mohammed will teach them, Sharia law will control them."

Abu Sharif trembled inwardly as he joined in the chorus.

"Insha'Allah! Allahu Akbar!"

Living now in a permanent state of confusion and regret, he almost wished that he had stayed in those cold, wet fields rather than be party to this defilement of all he had believed in. An upsurge of radical venom he could not reconcile himself to, would not partake in. In coming to England he thought that he had escaped the consuming fire of this new Islamic world. But people like Kamal Khan and his henchmen had brought the fire with them, to this country that had given them shelter and asked for nothing in return.

Exposed to the hatred of these violent fanatics, he could only wonder, despair, why the British government tolerated the presence of such evil men, these common criminals. Could it be that Khan was right in that respect. 'Western society is decadent, weak and immoral. Us Muslims will bleed it dry like a Halal ritualistic slaughter, then feast on its carcass.'

He groaned inwardly. "I cannot be part of this." He whispered as he slumped forward, touching his forehead to the varnished floor, eyes screwed shut in prayer to any God prepared to listen. "Please, this cannot happen."

******
SEVEN

A Saturday morning lie-in was a luxury he hadn't known for a decade and a half. But the lure of frying bacon permeating up into his room triumphed over sloth and Chris Carter slid resignedly from his warm bed and into jeans, shivering as he rummaged through the old oak wardrobe for a fresh shirt and woolen jumper.

Grandpa was of the generation that had grown up without central heating, survived, so didn't see the need for it so late in life. Layering, that is what kept you warm, three layers at least. Vest, shirt, jumper, and a jacket if need be, even in the house. Small open coal fires that the house still boasted of in most rooms would keep you alive in extreme weather.

Forget showers, the bathroom installed in the 1960's into what had been a small box-room was as mod-con as it was going to get here. The bath itself was stained now by dripping taps the size of cannon, but it was large, plenty of elbow room, and most important of all, cast-iron. Chris remembered when he was a child on stop-over's at Grandpa's place playing for hours in there, amongst floes of soap suds, with plastic boats and submarines in the rapidly cooling water.

His breakfast was cooked and waiting, warming on a covered plate inside the old oven, a pot of tea under a woolen cosy sitting at the centre of the kitchen table. Staid music that only remote BBC channels played anymore greeted him as he pushed through the door.

Grandpa was sat quietly at the table, empty plate with congealing bacon fat before him, tea only half drunk, staring out of the window above the sink into the small, shadowy back yard, unaware of Chris's presence.

Chris tapped his shoulder lightly. "Grandpa, you okay there? You're very quiet."

"Just had a phone call from the police." The old man answered in a dull tone.

Chris's heart gave a little jump. He knew that he would be forever on their radar, vulnerable to unwarranted attention, harassment even. But for Christ's sake, he'd only been out of prison a few days!

He paused in front of the cooker, oven gloves donned. "Oh yeah, what's their problem then? Have I been spotted jay-walking or spitting on the pavement? It's a fair cop guv'nor, I'm coming out with my hands up!" He quipped, more bitterness than humour.

Grandpa flicked an amused, shrewd glance up at him. "Stand to soldier. Your name didn't come up. The big white chief himself wanted to speak to me personally."

"Oh that explains it then," Chris slid his food from the ticking oven, plonked it down on the table, discarding the gloves. "a young tearaway like you needs a firm talking to, keep you on the straight and narrow."

Henry Carter resumed his perusal of the backyard. "He wants me to cancel the parade on Sunday."

Chris's fork froze halfway to his mouth. "Come again?"

"Our Chief Constable considers it would be in the public interest if the Remembrance Day ceremonies were cancelled."

"In the public interest! What bloody interest is that then?" Chris Carter slammed down his utensils, the black anger taking hold.

"In his words the parade could be viewed by some sections of our community as a provocation. Glorifying our Imperial past and celebrating the foisting of Christianity on the third world. So could we please just make do with a quiet church service then go and do whatever we wish in the privacy of the Legion Hall, out of sight like consenting adults. Though we could stop by the War Memorial and leave a bunch of flowers perhaps. Poppies are too 'jingoistic' apparently."

"What did you tell the prat Grandpa?"

"To go and stick his truncheon right up his arse." Henry stated in a matter of fact manner, studying a Robin hopping along the window cill outside. There was just a touch of relish in his words. "By the way, there's a letter up there for you." He cocked a thumb over his shoulder at a shelf behind.

With a broad grin on his face Chris rose and retrieved a long crisp envelope, slitting it open with the butter knife as he sat back down, withdrawing a single folded sheet. Suddenly sombre he recognised the letter heading of Cardew, Pope & Bond, a firm of solicitors well known to him. He quickly read the contents that he'd been waiting on, eyes dancing back and forth between the letter and his grandfather.

"Mum and dad's money has been released from the trust. It was wired through to my account yesterday."

Henry grunted non-committedly, drained his tea cup and reached for the pot for a re-fill.

"It's a lot of money Grandpa. You can have half, that's the least I can...."

"Don't be bloody stupid!" Henry spooned three heaped sugars into his cup, stirring it fiercely. "That money is your future, your parents legacy to you. It'll give you a better start in life than you've had so far. Don't go flushing it down the latrines boy. Go buy yourself a house, secure a roof over your head, a better one than this mind you. Somewhere you can always call your own where you can shut the door on the world, keep out intruders into your life. An Englishman's home is his castle."

Chris's eyelids twitched worriedly. "You want me to move out?"

"No! Stay here as long as you wish to, please. I don't want you to leave." The old man's voice wobbled just a little. "But I'll be leaving myself soon enough, pushing up the daisies as they say. This house will be yours too, but you won't want to stay here for ever. Bloody place is falling apart. Get yourself one of those modern houses over on that estate.

"Or better still, move somewhere nobody knows you, where the police will leave you alone. Where the local community would not see Remembrance Sunday as a provocation."

***

She took a big hit on the fat spliff, held it, released it, watched him stretch out on her bed through blue, pungent smoke. Lucy Lever was in love. She didn't see a scrawny, aging lay-about with shoulder length, straggly, greying black hair with a matching beard and moustache set.

Though not quite her knight in shining armour, he was still a figure of great awe for her. A man she adored more than her own father, though he was of a similar age to daddy. Her infatuation had began a few years previously whilst she was still at university. Benny Mann had been invited by her slightly batty, left-wing lecturer to address the students as an associated speaker.

He had spoken copiously to a largely bored, bemused young audience, with fiery passion, of oppressed social history, class struggles, and the power of the Brotherhood of Man, whatever that was. Nobody it appeared had told him that communism had collapsed in 1989 along with the Berlin Wall, under the weight of lies, naïve clap-trap and tired old dogma that had lost its steam years before. Still he claimed to be a die-hard party member, a life-long bachelor; ' _I am married to Lenin._ '.

Despite the rhetoric, Benny had never been able to maintain the affected mystique of a cavalier, free thinking rebel long enough for any sensible young lady to want to marry him anyway. Flirting briefly with Mann and his anachronistic politics, they would invariably float away to emerge from the chrysalis of drab, impressionable student as materialistic, nihilistic city girls; the very breed he had vowed to suppress.

Lucy Lever was a slow developer in that phase of evolution. Though having moved on into the wide world she remained his current squeeze, blocking the passage of a long line of younger airheads awaiting their short walk with the man of destiny.

A student activist himself in the late 60's and early 70's, Benny Mann had eventually exhausted the patience and gullibility of university admission boards and had been 'dropped out' and left to wander his own shady path through life championing the cause of The Worker, but had shown nil inclination to join their respectable ranks.

Indeed, apart from unemployment and numerous other state benefit claims, he had never shown any visible means of support, other than a modest stipend as committee chairman of the Party of Socialist Proletariat (PSP), which he founded and led in 1973. Also he edited the party newspaper, Republican England Daily (RED) which nowadays only printed once a week and was given away free outside London tube stations and student bars as few were inclined to pay for it.

PSP's gutsy sounding ideology was revolutionary socialism, Marxist, and Leninist; all were chucked into the mix. Their stated long term aim was to overthrow the established order. Yeah, right. Replacing it with what was never really clear. They busied themselves as agents provocateur, infiltrating unions and pressure groups, inciting strikes and violent demonstrations in other peoples' names. Their avowed enemies were the usual forces of the devil; police, armed forces, monarchy, bosses and the middle-classes.

A reality was that Benny's father had been a renowned society barrister and the majority of his fellow PSP anarchists had been spawned and nurtured in comfortable, well to do families. Much the same as Lucy Lever herself.

However the heady days of the 70's and 80's with the Winter of Discontent and widespread civil disobedience petered out after the calamitous miners' strike, orchestrated by the weaselly Arthur Scargill who assisted the voluntary euthanasia and burial of thousands of honest livelihoods and ripped apart the social fabric of whole communities.

Time and public perceptions moved on. Many young working-class no longer considered themselves as such. Reds under the beds were no longer desirable houseguests of an upwardly mobile proletariat. The PSP membership had withered to a sorry handful of used-to-be's, preaching their tired old sermons from bar stools in near empty pubs.

Though some of the more slippery ones went into politics proper and eventually became government ministers.

Benny Mann though, a perennial survivor, had moved on and had found fresh green playing fields on which the ethnic contest was a growing sport; the vociferous teams of 'Discrimination' and 'Oppression', sponsored and managed by the political correctness association, chanted and scored their way to the top of the league.

It was an effortless transfer for tired old players like Mann, boosted on by bright eyed young cheerleaders like the Lucy Levers' of a brand new millennium, shaking their puffed up pom-pom's of self righteousness and corralled indignation.

His new front-row was the Union of Anti-Fascists (UA-F) that he had conceived and launched on a drug-fest weekend in 2003, had somehow acquired a quasi-respectability and much trumpeted support from cross-party MPs, the Prime Minister himself, and the remnants of the union movement and Labour Party. To his immense gratification, the UA-F had managed to attract government funding with the support of ministers jostling for PC credentials and not least Yasir Davi. Who had his own agenda.

The transparent reality that UA-F was a front for the rabid old PSP that still loitered in dark shadows like Banquo's ghost was consciously overlooked. That its methodology to combat ' _far right groups'_ was to stage violent demonstrations, to disrupt private and public meetings of their perceived enemies and more telling, to physically attack democratic activity during polling campaigns in the name of democracy, was primly ignored by authority who secretly abhorred competition, particularly where popular, public perception and approval was attracted.

So the happy conjunction of trendy politics and the race issue had brought Benny Mann from his lair in Angel Islington to East Anglia where a local Imam was rumoured to be planning to incite a great revolution in the status-quo. Musical serendipity to Benny's ears. Lucy Lever's location at the centre of a potential battle-front was just a happy co-incidence and getting better by the minute.

He flicked through the sheaf of A4 printed pages that she had proudly handed to him like a first former. Whilst he read, she dried herself from showering after his lack-lustre love-making, vaguely wondering just when he had last bathed himself.

"Your editor will print this?" There was amused scepticism in his voice.

"My editor will print whatever daddy tells him to." She boasted, pulling on her panties before stretching across the tousled bed covers to stroke his skinny white leg.

"Bit near the knuckle though for the Anglian Chronical isn't it?"

"I haven't even finished with it yet. Wait until Monday's issue hits the streets. That'll make them sit up at their breakfast tables."

"Blimey, I wouldn't dare to put this in RED never mind that little provincial rag you work for"

"Not for long Benny. The bright lights of Wapping are calling me, and I don't care whose heads I use as stepping stones to get down to there."

******
EIGHT

For the first time that week, the sun had thrust aside turbulent grey clouds to spread its warmth and bright presence on the assembled Legion members lined up in orderly fashion outside of St. Athelstan's church. God had shown his support and approval.

Proud old men stood erect, glittering campaign medals arrayed on puffed out chests. Behind them on the roadway in neat ranks were the teenaged Holtingham Squadron of the Air Training Corps Band, nervously gripping their brass instruments that had been polished and buffed to a brilliant glow.

Chris Carter waited at the front, wearing his father's own medals whom he had asked be represented. His hands clenched tightly onto the handles of Sid's wheelchair as if preparing for a fun-day race. His friend had protested at the arrangement, but it had been firmly pointed out that he 'just didn't have the legs for it'. Old soldiers' humour won the argument. Chris only too aware that this exercise in rehabilitation was as much for him as for Sid.

To their right at the centre of the front row, Henry Carter had hoisted the Holtingham Legion Branch blue and yellow flag that fluttered above his white head and red beret. His white gloved hands gripped firmly on the pole that slotted into the leather socket on the broad leather belt at his waist. Another member carried the banner of St. George and another the Union Jack, their chins thrust forward as if carrying the colours into battle.

At last the fussing vicar bustled into his place at the very front, billowing white vestments busy in the sharp breeze as he held aloft a gilded wooden cross adorned with a wreath of bright red poppies.

"All set." He murmured over his shoulder.

"Parade!" Henry's drill square bellow clear and firm. "Forward!"

A drum roll and a rhythmic beat at the rear drove the procession forward at a dignified and steady pace along the centre of road. Hundreds of townsfolk had assembled on pavements lining the route through town to the War Memorial. Their numbers were swelled perhaps by the happy co-incidence that the 11th hour on the 11th day on the 11th month Armistice Day anniversary this year actually fell on Remembrance Sunday. A commemoration that the futile slaughter had been brought to a blessed halt.

The young lads of the ATC had practised and drilled for months, determined to fulfil the honour awarded to them and play their hearts out. They left the church to the strains of 'Onward Christian Soldiers', then as the column left-wheeled out of Church Road snaking round into the High Street that had been closed to traffic that morning on the reluctant orders of the Chief Constable Beaumont, the music switched effortlessly to 'It's a Long Way to Tipperary'. That iconic marching song so long associated with flickering black and white news reels of tired bedraggled Tommies' marching to their doom, and taken up in music halls throughout Britain.

Loud cheering arose from either side of the road and the windows above as families and groups of people waved small flags, poppies prominently displayed on chests and hats, some singing with gusto the same lyrics that comforted their forefathers in the trenches.

Local enthusiasts had dusted off a re-built Spitfire that had actually gone into battle from the rash of war time airfields in East Anglia, and now buzzed them, low overhead, the thundering Merlin engine blotting out the rejoicing at street level momentarily before climbing up and away in a smooth arc before spinning its wing tips around in a Victory Roll.

Chris's spirits were high, elevating him to a level of well-being he had not felt in many years. As they moved on along the main thoroughfare like a visiting circus, even Sydique Sahni in his Royal Marines uniform and green beret was smiling, waving to the crowds and well-wishers. He was a different man to that morbid figure hunched on an old sofa in a dusty room with the curtains drawn at number seven, Squires Court. Chris slid a sidelong glance at his grandfather, resolutely striding forward, flag flying, apologising to nobody for honouring the war dead.

Suddenly the open road ahead appeared to closes suddenly as a tangle of bodies spilled out onto the tarmac directly from the opened doors of the mosque. A mix of dark and white robes intertwined with the yellow fluorescent jackets of policemen, swirling around each other as the officers struggled to form a line and prevent the troublemakers charge at the parade which had stuttered to a halt fifty yards away.

A score or so Asian youths in Arabic tribal dress resorted to hurling shrill cries of abuse and threats as taped Arabic music boomed from speakers on the mosque roof, smothering the gallant efforts of the brass band in the roadway below to keep playing. Banners printed with bold, black lettering, were held aloft jerking around in the melee, and in some cases used to beat at the police line.

'BRITISH SOLDIERS GO TO HELL'

'BEHEAD THOSE WHO INSULT ISLAM'

'KILL THE INFIDELS'

'SHARIA LAW WILL CONDEMN YOU'

The solemn occasion of the day had been wrecked by this premeditated outrage by hate filled Muslim extremists, waving their fists at the bemused veterans.

An initial reaction of shocked disbelief amongst the townspeople quickly evolved to revulsion and anger at such a betrayal. In turn they began to shout back, tensions stoking up rapidly as some members of the public began to surge forward towards the protestors, with just a thin yellow line dividing them all. Women shoppers, pensioners, workmen and young men tried to get at them.

"Go home then, we don't want you here!"

"This is England not Pakistan!"

"Traitors!"

The indignation was hot, instant, as long suppressed frustrations burst forth from habitually placid, law abiding people.

A group of the young agitators had wriggled through the police lines and were running forward howling alien battle cries. Some of the good citizens stepped from the pavement attempting to block their path which was heading towards the marchers. One middle-aged man fell to the ground, nose spouting blood as a housewife vainly swung her handbag and screamed in the faces of his attackers. A pensioner jabbed a walking stick at them, a lone Spartan, ' _they shall not pass'._ He too was knocked flat, got a group kicking for his bravery.

With the drama enacting just yards from them, Sid's eyesight was clear enough to understand what all the commotion was about. He made as if to rise from his wheelchair cursing with unbelieving rage as more of the crowd went to the old man's aid.

Chris pushed him roughly back down into his chair. "Don't you bloody move!" He snarled, his blood frothing, teeth curling back from his teeth. That black tiger rage, born on that terrible night of his parents' death, already in full charge. He darted forward, running hard for the increasingly uneven fight, only partially aware of the bulky figure of Barry Wells closing in from his left.

"With you Chris!" He shouted breathlessly, anger driving him forward.

The teenagers assaulting the pensioner on the ground had swatted away his helpers as more of their number evaded police attempts to contain them and joined in the melee. One of them wielded the old man's walking stick like a trophy of war, grinning callously, white teeth gleaming in a dark face.

Chris took him on first, leading with his head, butting the little shite down onto the tarmac. Barry caught another showing interest in Chris's turned back, with a swooping right hander that knocked his prayer cap clean off of his head as he staggered back on wobbly legs; didn't go down until Barry followed up with a hefty kick to the groin.

The madness of battle blazing in his eyes Chris swung around to face another two of the troublemakers, one brandishing the banner that demanded beheading infidels, swinging it like a double headed axe in the diminishing space between them.

"Come on then you fuckers!" Chris lunged forward, fist drawn back, blocking the swing of the wood handle with his other arm. Not so keen all of a sudden, the two darted back towards the relative safety of the fragmented police cordon, abandoning their placard, with an escalating free for all erupting all around as more of the younger men of the town joined in the fray, Holtingham at war, Chris pursued the pair, managing to hook fingers into the collarless neckline of one of their robes. Jerking him savagely backwards, he pummelled the screaming youth's head, unleashing that anger kept well in check for too many years.

He never saw, never mind felt, the scything truncheon that smacked into the back of his skull, was barely aware of unidentified shock and spinning whorls of red light before his eyes as he crumpled down onto the roadway. Groggily he stared up into the face of the young PC Steve who had pulled him on the High Street just days before, and was now clumsily fumbling a Taser gun from its small holster on his belt.

"Oi! No need for that mate!"

Barry cannoned straight into him, knocking the policeman off balance as the mob of agitators swarmed around them, fleeing the fists and boots of the white Kafurs, back into the safety of the mosque opposite. With the pressure off, other officers turned and snatched Barry away, dragging him in a headlock and arm between his shoulder-blades towards the open rear doors of a riot wagon that had bullied its way past the lines of parade members standing in dumbfounded inertia.

Moments later Chris was half thrown into the back of the van alongside his friend, bleeding copiously from a scalp wound, and the wire mesh inner door was slammed shut on them.

"You okay Chris?" Barry produced a wad of tissues from his jacket pocket, pressing them on the back of his head to stem the flow of blood.

"Yeah, ta'." Chris anxiously scanned the dispersing crowd just yards away. "The old boy with the stick, is he...?"

"He's okay mate. I got him back on his feet when you went charging off after those 'Warriors of Islam'. Coupla' housewives took over, fussing after him. Think he was enjoying it, and he got his stick back. Looked set to lead a raiding party into that bloody Mosque."

Chris switched his attention to the big wooden doors of that building that had been slammed shut on a knot of young local men, some of whom he half recognised from years before, as they hurled insults and threats after the agitators now safely ensconced inside.

"Appreciate your help there Barry. That little bastard was going to zap me when I was already out of it. Can't wait to use their new toys some of those plod."

"I could see it all coming before it happened. You were spotted son, targeted. Just couldn't get there in time before he laid that riot stick across your napper."

"That figures, he's one of the pair rousted me the other day when I met you in the pub, reckoned I was hanging around the school gates with a purpose. Cheeky fucks!"

"You're a wanted man alright."

A uniformed Inspector appeared at the back of the van, glaring malevolently in at Chris. "Right you two you're nicked."

"Oh, what for?" Chris asked mildly.

"Public disorder, assaulting a police officer. I'll think up a few more charges back at the station." He snapped.

Barry pointed in the direction of the mosque doors. "What about the Swirling Dervishes in there? I don't see any of them under arrest."

"Of course not, they have a right to protest without being attacked by your sort." With a final vitriolic glare at Chris. The Inspector slammed the outer doors shut, slapping on them hard to signal for the driver to take them away, watched angrily by a tall stern figure behind.

Henry Carter had lost an argument. Chris would appear in court in the morning, little more he could do right now for his grandson. Passing custodianship of the Legion banner to another, he grasped the handles of Sid's wheelchair.

"Right then boy, lets do what we came here for this morning, tomorrow's another day, another battle."

The road ahead now was miraculously clear, and on his signal the band shakily launched into 'The British Grenadier' as they continued on to the War Memorial to thunderous applause from the enervated crowds. A lost argument he could take, but the day was won.

***

From a first floor window of the Mosque, two pairs of eyes had watched the mini drama below unfold and conclude. The voice at Kamal Khan's shoulder was a serpent's hiss.

"So, those were your Jihadists, 'The Invaders', _they_ are going to take over the world?" There was no mistaking a slight mocking tone.

Khan's voice rumbled through his thick beard, cold, dismissive. "We are but one grain of sand in the storm to come. Many mosques across England now teach the true message of Islam. When I give the word, we will strike, and many more will then follow our lead. Then all of England will belong to Allah."

"So why wait? Take the initiative now. History proves that he who strikes first is usually the victor. It is also a fact that to bring down the fortress walls it is best to attack from the inside.

"We have much the same objectives Kamal, your movement and mine. Destroy the establishment and culture if this country. Kill the constitution the rest will collapse in line. I care not which religion prevails, I have no God other than power.

"I have the sympathetic ear of many politicians, the intellectual brigade and much of the media. Political correctness is my weapon of choice. You must provide the foot soldiers for our war." Benny Mann patted the stiffened shoulder of the Imam, aware of how he was despised but needed. "We must work together as allies, rejoice together come the revolution!"

******
NINE

Chris Carter had had a bit of a rough night. Word had gone around among the late shift that they'd a cop-killer in the cells. There is an art in beating someone without leaving tell-tale marks and bruising. A second and third party to hold them still helps. His ribs ached like hell and there were lumps and bumps on his head a phrenologist would not have expected to find at all. His scalp had resumed bleeding with all the attention and his rumpled shirt collar was stained red at the back.

Now he knew better than to retaliate. He could always hold his own in a ruck. But prison was fertile ground for institutional violence, some of the screws had quite fancied their enhanced chances when he'd arrived there. He'd learnt quickly that there were odds and there were downright certainties. Some fights you could never win.

He'd refused breakfast that morning, porridge that had been spat in by half the oncoming morning crew was never going to be that appetising, hungry as he was. The custody sergeant had appeared at his cell door eight o'clock on the dot.

"Look sharp Carter, you're out of here." He barked, sour distaste on his face.

"What about my mate Barry Wells?" Chris rose warily to his feet, picking up his jacket.

"Oh him? We let him go last night with a warning. But you, you're special. We'll have to save you for another time, your brief has shown up. Come on, move it."

Chris followed him back to the front desk, a tad suspicious as to whether this was on the up or a pathetic psychological ploy to torture him further. Simon Cardew his solicitor stood waiting patiently in the front lobby, demurely studying a plethora of wall posters advising the public how to not get mugged, raped or burgled. So who needs the police then?

He turned at their arrival. "Ah Christopher. Sorry I wasn't available yesterday. You know what Sundays are like? I was sailing off of Yarmouth, beautiful day for it wasn't it?"

Chris stared at him blankly. Was he taking the piss? "That's okay Mr. Cardew. I've been well and truly looked after in here." He answered enigmatically, tossing a meaningful glance toward the sergeant.

The solicitor studied his hunched posture shrewdly. "Do you need to see a doctor?"

Chris shook his head, wincing with the effort, then smiled thinly. "I've had worse nights. Plenty of homicidal nutters in prison too."

The custody sergeant snorted. "You are being released Carter into the care of your legal representative here. This does not mean that charges for violent affray and assaulting a police officer will not be made against you at a later date."

"Sergeant." The solicitor's tone now was admonishing in a head-masterly fashion. The relaxed demeanour of a pleasant weekend pushed aside. "My client refutes any suggestion that he assaulted a police officer. If anything the reality is the reverse of that and I have a number of witnesses to that effect. I would point out that half of the population of Holtingham were present there yesterday and I have statements supporting his claim that Mr. Carter was merely attempting to apprehend a third party who had just attacked an elderly gentleman. In fact, perform a citizen's arrest, as the police officers at the scene showed little inclination to do so themselves.

"Further, if you wish, I can take Mr. Carter directly to A&E from here to assess the injury he received from a police baton and er, any subsequent evidence of maltreatment visited upon him here overnight."

The sergeant's face billowed suppressed anger and resentment. "I will convey what you say to my superiors sir." He slammed a large manila envelope down onto the counter. "Your possessions _Mister_ Carter. Check them please then sign to say everything is all there. You are free to go.

"But with this caution. If you give cause to be arrested for any future misdeeds of this nature, this incident will be included in any legal action taken against you. Is that clear?"

"Yeah, I bet it will." Chris followed Simon Cardew out of there, blinking in the sharp Monday morning light .

***

The Weekend Review

By Lucy Lever

Yesterday, 11th. November, Remembrance Sunday, proved to be a reality check for the 'Little Englander' clique still clinging to their dated existence On that day, the new order of British society made a moral stand against the divisive crassness of this diminishing breed

With trumpets blaring and drums beating, the Holtingham Legion branch goose-stepped their march of triumphalism straight through the sensibilities and fears of a minority group of our society. With breathtaking arrogance, the organisers had paraded with them a misguided renegade to deliberately antagonise the Muslim community.

Not only has Sergeant Sydique Sahni deserted the beliefs of his own blood, but as a member of the British armed forces, has partaken in the illegal war in Afghanistan which has caused death and injury to thousands of his fellow Muslims in their homeland.

The fact of his having suffered his own injuries as a result of these misadventures does not absolve him for his participation in these wicked deeds. Allowing his loss of faith in his own God to cause further insult is unforgiveable! Indeed this provocative act may well have been the catalyst for an impulsive reaction from devout worshippers at the town's Mosque. A group of young men left their prayer mats to attempt to dissuade the march from continuing past their place of worship, an echo perhaps of the Blackshirts strutting through predominantly Jewish areas in the East End in the 1930's.

Regretfully large numbers of the town's under-class culture, egged on by bystanders, emerged onto the streets to attack this peaceful delegation in a most shocking and primitive manner. Amongst their number it transpires, was one Christopher Carter, grandson of the Legion Committee member Henry Carter, who was released from prison just a few days previously after serving a life sentence for murdering a young, unarmed policeman in 1997.

Thankfully he and a friend, both unemployed, were detained by police before his thuggish actions could inflict real injury to the Muslim congregation

We can only hope and expect, that the powers that be exert strong moral courage in cracking down heavily on this blatant racial violence and impose the maximum penalties available.

Wake up Britain, the times are a changing!

L.L.

***

Tears stung and creased the corners of Henry Carter's eyes, hands holding that morning's edition of the Anglian Chronical shaking with disbelief and despair. How could any responsible and professional journalist ever write such malicious, ill-informed drivel; and what is more, be allowed to do so?

His generation had grown up in a world in which your own heart and mind was the only moral guide required. Freedom of honest expression was sacrosanct, wars had been fought to maintain that precious principle.

But to abuse that right with this politically correct, insidious poison was unforgiveable. Increasingly common to the extent that it was almost the norm yes, but still an insult to truth and common decency.

Agitatedly he rose from his armchair, went to the telephone housed in an alcove out in the hallway. The newspaper's publisher's number was listed on the inside page. Dialling with twitchy, clumsy fingers, he got through to a real live receptionist rather than a recorded multi-choice hurdle. He was in further luck, Lucy Lever was at her desk, got transferred. He let rip with a pent up ire and great gusto.

***

Chris Carter refused to go home just yet, despite the allure of a shot of rum and a few hours sleep in a soft, clean bed that beckoned.

His solicitor Simon Cardew had assured him that his grandfather was perfectly okay after the disturbance of yesterday. Indeed the old soldier was in a combative mood when he had finally roused the legal man from his rest early that morning, admonishing him for his 'absence from duty', and to get down to the town's nick 'damned sharpish and get my grandson out of there before they beat him to death!'"

Cardew had politely cut his tirade short with an explanation of the need to attend the station also before they had a chance to parade Chris before the local magistrates and get their pious blessings to bang him up pending dubious charges, or worse, rescind his life-time parole.

Chris Carter requested that he be dropped off at Squires Court on the other side of town. Mumbling something about not being a taxi service Cardew nevertheless did as he was asked. Chris was in no doubt that the 'little favour' would sneak onto any forthcoming bill for services rendered.

The handwritten notice had been removed from the door of number seven, but it still opened with a light push. From the dingy hallway Chris could hear the drone of the TV, so hopefully Sid was up and about.

He found him on the same sofa and exactly identical position as the first time he had visited, yet if anything the atmosphere was even more oppressive. The curtains had been pulled together tighter than ever as if the occupant was observing a war-time blackout. In all, not a good indication of success for his current rehabilitation.

"They've gone and made my mates fucking redundant!" Sid didn't even bother looking up at him as he shouted, staring malevolently at the news programme, twisting and screwing up a rolled newspaper in his depleted grip.

"Yes thank you, and a good morning to you too Sid. No, no, I'm used to sleeping in a cell. Fucking love it don't I?" Chris's sarcasm had more than a shade of irritation to it.

Sydique looked up at him now, a vacant look on his face as if he didn't know him. "Some of the lads I served with in 40 Commando been given the chop while still on active service out in Afghanistan getting shot at! According to this bastard government it is to 'rationalise numbers of the armed forces as the draw-down exercise begins next year. In other words, we don't need you any more so fuck off. So much for the military covenant. Wankers!"

"Want a cup of tea?" Chris offered mildly.

"Any more of that whisky left?"

Chris's eyebrows lifted a little. "Should be, left it in your cereal cupboard. I'll go get it, though I should point out that the sun ain't over the yard arm just yet. It's barely over the deck rail as it happens, but way-ho."

"That's why the curtains stay closed. Can't see the bloody sun, drink when I sodding feel like it." Sid snapped, a bitter edge to his voice.

Chris returned shortly with the cups and whisky. Sid took his with a nod, slightly mollified, sipped it quietly until a thought occurred.

"Sorry, yesterday was a bit of a bummer wasn't it. Perhaps I'm not ready to re-integrate with the world out there just now."

"Well, it weren't that bad." Chris observed ruefully. "You didn't have to walk and I got a smack over the bonce, banged up all night, and slapped about a bit by the stalwart boys in blue.

"I've come straight round here to see if _you_ are all right. So come on 'Sandwich', cheer up."

"You haven't had time to read this then?" Sid thrust the ravaged newspaper at him, carried on drinking, bigger gulps now.

Chris read the front page report, startled at the photographs of Sid out front of the parade like an emperor in his chair, himself, face contorted with rage, fists clenched, running after the fleeing protesters. There were no pic's of the pensioner laying in the roadway getting kicked, or of the banners extolling the murder of non-believers.

"This Lucy Lever can certainly spin a yarn. Should get an award for best fiction."

Sid tore his eyes away from a news report on which a well fed government minister was explaining how an excess of servicemen were bleeding the national coffers dry.

"Should be horsewhipped." He snarled, not making it too clear as to whether he was referring to the politician or the reporter.

"Oh show some gratitude, you've got star billing. Anyway, what's all this 'renegade Muslim' bollocks. I didn't think you had any religion; a freewheeling pagan like me."

"Didn't feel the need to carry it around with me like those prats. Anyhow, lost interest in all that along the way. 'Sins of the fathers' I suppose."

"What father? I thought you were an orphan. You were in foster homes when we were at school."

"Not always an orphan no. How do you think I got born then numb-nuts, Immaculate Conception? My mother died while I was a toddler. My father, well he dumped me on relatives here in town who didn't really want me under their roof. I was a source of great shame to the family the moment I was born."

Chris sensed the other's spiralling melancholy, knew the joking was over. Matters previously untold or asked for were about to surface.

"Well you've started me old son, may as well run the whole story by me."

Sid closed his eyes in a moment of repose, opened them, drained his drink. "Pass that bottle over here then. I'll need it I think. Ta'."

As if performing a holy tea ritual, he carefully filled the chipped cup on the coffee table to its very rim then bent forward to suck up the top half inch. His eyes avoided Chris, diverting back to the TV screen, only now oblivious to what was there.

"My mother was brought from Pakistan to this country, Luton actually, as a child in the sixties. She was a bit strong willed by nature, and exposure to the infidel culture developed that into an outright rebellious streak. This was totally against the natural inclinations of the large Muslim community in the midlands that resisted any real integration. Many of them haven't learnt the language during thirty years and more living here.

"Women are not expected to speak up for themselves or demand anything in life other than total subservience to their men. She got herself knocked up when she was only sixteen."

"Whoops, that was unfortunate."

"Unfortunate? In a Muslim household you can't even begin to know how fucking unfortunate that is. My grandparents tried to face it out, this dishonour she had brought upon them before their neighbours.

"It was a year before they got her to say who the father was. A young hot-head radical Islamist fresh from the old country causing unrest amongst the younger first generation British Asians born here. They tracked him down to here in Holtingham, not a million miles away as the stork flies, so they packed my mother and me off to him to deal with. Out of sight and narrow minds."

"But you didn't live happily ever after?"

"You got that right. 'Father' was on a mission for Mohammed. He had no interest in playing happy families, we were a burden on his agenda. As a toddler I regularly got dragged down to the bloody mosque back in Luton, there wasn't one here then, made to get down on my knees facing Mecca and plead for forgiveness from Allah."

"Forgiveness?"

"Of course. I was an illegitimate, a bastard child in the eyes of Mohammed. My mother, well she was nothing more than a common whore in my father's eyes."

"Hang on, he was the..."

"Sucks doesn't it White Boy? Welcome to the whacky world of Islamic morals my friend."

"What happened to your mother Sid, get ill did she?"

"The sickness wasn't in her. Father couldn't abide the shame we brought upon him any longer. He was going up in the world, didn't need that kind of baggage as a budding holy man, so decided to get shot of us.

"With her parents' agreement, if not relief, he had her sent back to her own village in the Punjab and stuck me in a foster home here."

"Why weren't you sent away with her?"

A crushing weight appeared to land on Sydique Sahni's shoulders, pressing him down into a squashed coiled position, head lowered, eyes lower.

"She had faced a secret Sharia court back in Luton, found guilty under the Law of God. Her 'crime' came under the Tazir category, a convenient one fits all size." He held aloft his cup, studying the cracks before taking a deep swallow of the whisky. "Lost count of the number of Sharia laws I have broken.

"She was not sent back to Pakistan to live there. Her sentence was to die there. The whole village gathered in the street when she arrived, alone and frightened. Stoned her to death. Honour was satisfied, God was in his heaven."

Chris's face had turned a pasty white beyond the prison pallor, overwhelming pity there. "Your father, did he stay here?"

Sid's eyes rose now to meet his, a fierce glint to them. "Apart from a period when he went off somewhere to ferment revolution, got blown up and injured for his trouble before coming back and hijacking the Mosque to become Imam, yes. Kamal Khan is my father. You still wonder why I reject the religion of my birth?"

******
TEN

Try as he might, Chris could not persuade Sydique Sahni to depart from his small, safe little home a second time, so soon. He had ventured out into the sunlight and been burnt publicly at the media stake.

"I know that your trying to help me Chris and it is really appreciated." He assured in dulled tones. "Just give me a bit of space for a day or two aye. Give people time to forget that article in the paper. I don't want some mad bitch in a burqa laying in to me in the High street. Right now I'm like humpty-dumpty and so are you. We've both got to put ourselves back together again." He grinned suddenly, the old Sid Sandwich' peeking through. "Look Barry called by last night. I think he'd had a bit of a session down at the George and Dragon after they'd released him from the nick. Said that if I was to see you first, to tell you to get yourself down there at lunchtime today. He owes you a drink apparently. And no, I don't want to come with you, thanks."

Chris sighed, knew his friend of old to be an obstinate little sod once his mind was set. Reluctantly he stood to leave, wincing with the pain in his ribs.

"Okay, if your sure you want to be a bleeding hermit go ahead. I best go and see that that brute don't go and overdo it two days on the go." He noted with surprise that the whisky bottle was empty. Where did that go? "Do you want me to go and fetch another bottle first? You'll need something to keep you company."

Sid drained his cup, rolled his eyes with mock horror. "What? And me a good Muslim boy drink the devil's piss. Get thee behind me White Boy, never darken my cave entrance again."

Chris patted him lightly on the head. "When you're ready to rock n' roll just give me a shout okay?"

"Sure, Kimosabe."

"When the door closed softly behind Chris, Sid reached for the telephone down beside his sofa, dialled a number. It took a little while before it was answered against a tumult of background noise.

"Yeah it's me. He's on his way. Get ready for him."

***

Chris walked slowly across to the George and Dragon, work off all that whisky before starting in on the pints of dodgy bitter they sold here. The tired old pub did not look any more appealing than it had several days ago and he was sorely tempted to turn on his heel, go back home and see what grandpa was up to. That old man had more life in him than this place.

The sight of a police patrol car slowing down at the junction to the High Street decided it for him. He might just have been getting paranoid, but then a swift half would not harm now would it?

As he pushed open the bar door and stepped hastily through it claiming sanctity, he realised too late that he'd walked into an ambush. A great roar hit him full on as his arms were grabbed from either side and he was dragged further into the packed out bar. There must have been twenty to thirty of them at least, all there waiting for him. Above the bar, dangling over the optics, was a huge flag of St. George overwritten with the message, ' _WELCOME HOME CHRIS'_.

Not very original he thought, at least there were no balloons, but a nice gesture from a whole bunch of faces he barely remembered, not after fifteen traumatic years in the slammer and a night in the cells at the local nick.

The Ryan brothers yes, who could forget them? Some others who had been class-mates and a few who had been closer to the 'Three Musketeers', himself, Barry and Sid; when they had all been Jack the Lads about town. He assumed he'd known the rest of them at one time or another.

"Oi, Chris! Here you go." Barry Wells stood at the bar, grinning like the Pope in a strip club. He wafted a brimming pint in the air, slopping foam down its sides over his fingers. They'd obviously already started without him and it was barely midday.

The whole bar launched into a hearty but disjointed rendering of, 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow', until one by one they dropped out for lack of words, capping that with three cheers and banging their beer mugs on the table tops.

Chris Carter, the Boy Returned, stared about him wide-eyed, a little fazed by it all. "You got the right person?" He quipped dryly.

Laughter, whistles and cat-calls kind of confirmed that they had. He was immersed in a whirl of back slapping. hand-shakes and jumbled greetings.

"'Ere, you remember the time... ?"

"Didn't you used to.... ?"

"What's it really like in the nick... ?"

"Hope you watched your back in the showers... ?"

"Did you know that old what's his name... ?"

Not one conversation was complete before another was thrust upon him, as was more drink and oddly, a plate of sausage rolls and a tomato.

Barry winked. "We had a whip round. Lil behind the bar there done the catering like, and we bought the whole barrel. So get some down you mate."

Chris nodded dumbly. A mouth full of food whilst tackling three conversations at a go was not easy. Animated talk moved excitedly from prison to yesterday's parade and riot.

Looking about the bar now, he could pick out faces of those he got to see charging into the fray to _'sort out those fucking rag-heads'_. All strong young men, most in their thirties, some pushing forty. Tradesmen, traders, small business proprietors. Proud of who and what they were. Most still wore their poppies from yesterday. Remembrance Sunday was good for more than a day here.

Oddly, Chris suddenly felt emotional to be in the company of these rough and ready, staunchly patriotic lads, whose like, for generation after generation, represented the back-bone and strong arm of England they so shamelessly loved. The drink fused together spirit and friendship, melting away the clouds of time, joining together this solid gathering of old mates.

For a 'little surprise', a novelty strip-act made a noisy appearance, an eighteen stone fat lass standing on a makeshift stage of upturned beer crates, gyrating white folds of flesh in all directions to raunchy music; performed with a grim expression; she needed the money. Chris needed the laugh. To raucous applause, she was shown out before her time was up, with a generous bonus of paper cash tucked into her knickers elastic ( _'keep 'em on luv' please'_ ) as Chris Carter's delayed homecoming celebration took on a party atmosphere.

It was early afternoon when the doors were barged noisily open by a latecomer in paint splotched overalls, Nobby Clark, who bowled into the bar with a gleeful grin, waving aloft an A4 sized sheet of yellow paper.

"Get a load of this lads!" His voice raised with excited anticipation.

Heads turned inquisitively as the bar fell to an expectant hush. He held the sheet at arm's length to read out like a town crier, one stiffened finger stuck up in the air.

"You won't believe this. These things are popping up all over the town, lamp-posts, shop windows, bleeding everywhere. I got this off of one of the cheeky bastards sticking them up. Had to chase him halfway up the High Street then give him a bit of a slap to get it. Here." He tossed a sheaf of the posters up in the air, he pulled from under his whites, that floated down like giant, yellow snowflakes. "He gave up the rest of 'em too then.

"Right listen up. ' _We The Invaders, members of the 'Brotherhood of Muslim Britain'... "_

"Oi', that spells out B.O.M.B. don't it?" Somebody yelled out from the back.

" _... give notice that as of midnight 11th September, Jihad has been declared on the infidels of Holtingham. This state of Holy War will inspire our brothers elsewhere in England to rise up and punish the crusaders. This action is taken in response to criminal military actions by British forces in Iraq and Afghanistan, and to state terrorism as practised by the British police against our number here in the UK. Beware, you have suffered your 7/7, now prepare for your 9/11._

Therefore take note: Sharia Law has been declared in Holtingham. All transgressors will face the fury and iron fist of Allah. ALLAHU AKBAR!"

A moment's silence fell over the room, until spontaneously, ribald laughter swept over them all, including Lil' behind the bar. It lasted a long time.

***

Just once a year, Henry Carter would drag this box from the bottom of his wardrobe, place it on his dresser, and revisit his life. His medals and red beret had been laid on the polished oak top of the unit after yesterday's parade, ready to be packed away until the following November. Now in a strangely sombre mood he rummaged through the other contents, something that never failed to bring a lump to his throat. Birth and marriage certificates, old letters, most in his own hurried hand, a deck of black and white photos, curling at the edges, some cracked or torn.

His own grandfather in the new khaki coloured uniform and Pith helmet of the Boer War, introduced to blend in with the African terrain rather than the Madder Red coats that made such good targets for the Boer marksmen of the Transvaal. Little good it did him. He peered into the lens with mournful eyes as if already aware that he would never return.

His father, similar pose in the WW1 uniform complete with puttees and a grin of anticipation of setting out on the big adventure with his pals. He came back but left his spirit behind in the meat-grinder killing machine of the trenches.

Henry's own image at eighteen years of age a quarter of a century later, with a purposeful, proud smile. On his cropped head at a cocky angle, the coveted red beret of the Parachute Regiment, 'The Red Devils', as dubbed by traumatised German soldiers who'd had the misfortune to confront the demon fighters who dropped out of the skies.

Vivid memories flooded back: Of September 1944, gliding down through night clouds into the conflagration to be that was Arnhem. Of the savage fighting and merciful escape. At this distance of time, definitely one of the highs of his career.

Then the saddest of moments, the liberation of Bergen-Belsen, marching into that hell on earth, witnessing at first hand the unbelievable wickedness of Nazi crimes, to de-humanise and eradicate Jewish and minority groups. The fearful memories of which that still echoed down the decades and cynically utilised by those with ulterior agendas.

The bewildering parallel when his regiment was deployed to Palestine after the war's end, witnessing the inhuman treatment and murder of Arabs and those same British troops who had freed the skeletal Jewish survivors of the camps, by Israeli terror gangs, the Irgun and Stern.

Henry had experienced the full circle of man's suffering and evil ways and had been left with no illusions but a fortified sense of right and wrong, honour and justice; had done his duty combating real evil as a soldier and proud Englishman.

Life on occasion had rewarded him. The wedding photograph was all he had of that day in 1950, a snatched moment of time on a forty-eight hour pass. A young couple so full of hope and happiness that was dashed away in 1974 when Doris had suddenly left him, fell dead at his own feet, heart attack, no time for goodbyes.

He'd left the army that same year, over thirty years solid, loyal service to his country. His abject misery and loneliness salved by the son she had given him. Phillip, a fine, strong young man who had opted to enlist in the Royal Marine Commandos, rose to Captain. Tragically taken from him years later in outrageously cruel circumstances.

All he had left now apart from this wad of cellulose prints was grandson Christopher, _his_ life blighted by the same cruel slash of fate that had snatched away a son and father. Henry loved him, was proud of him, was frightened for him.

At the very bottom of the box, wrapped in oil cloth, was his old service revolver, the big Webley .455. Illegal for him to still have yes, but it had been a part of him for so long, had never let him down.

He stroked the blue-black gun-metal with a blunt, strong finger as if petting a favourite pet before pulling the cloth back over it. Slowly, reluctantly he replaced every thing back into the stout, polished wood box, beret folded on top, and reverently placed his treasures back into the wardrobe with a silent prayer that the curse on his family would depart and leave him in peace to live out his days in quiet serenity.

The loud knocking on his street door made him jolt in surprise. Chris had his own key so who else could claim the right to bang at his door in such a demanding manner?

As he descended the stairs, another impatient tattoo rattled the house. Opening his front door, an admonishment on his lips, a clutch of concern gripped at his chest at the sight of two uniformed constables and a plain clothed detective in a shabby suit on his doorstep.

"Henry Carter?" The detective spoke with an effected, world weary tone, briefly flashing his warrant card, his hand moving faster than a humming bird's wing.

"That is me yes. What do you want?" Had they come for Chris again? This was harassment.

"I am Detective Constable Morgan. Can we come in please?"

"Why, are you getting cold out there?"

"It is a rather important matter - sir."

"Best get it out quick then because _I_ am getting cold with this bloody door open."

The detective's expression darkened as he spoke now in an officious drone. "We have received a complaint Mr. Carter."

"I don't doubt that you get plenty of those young man. Comes with the job doesn't it? Defenders of the peace?"

"Against you Mr. Carter."

"Is that so? Can't think why."

"You had a telephone conversation this morning with a Ms. Lucy Lever, current affairs journalist on the Anglian Chronical?"

"In a manner of speaking yes."

"It is the manner of your speech that is the object of the complaint sir."

Henry frowned, agitation creeping into his own voice now. "I had a private conversation with the young lady, expressing my own complaints, remonstrating with her the scandalous contents of an article she wrote in this morning's edition. Have you read it officer?"

"No sir, that is irrelevant. The nature of her complaint is the racist language used by you."

"Excuse me, _'racist'_?"

"Correct. We have been supplied with a tape recording so there is no doubt."

"Be more specific young man will you? I was rather angry at the time and didn't think to take notes, though I gather Ms. Lever had thought to record our conversation with purpose aforethought."

"You referred to certain members of this community that you encountered yesterday as, I quote," He consulted a notepad in his hand, " ' _a bunch of Paki thugs and camel shaggers'._ That is a very offensive statement Mr. Carter."

"Well I wasn't feeling particularly friendly towards the little shites or Ms. Lever if it comes to that. In fact, I was rather offended myself. So what's the problem?"

"The problem Mr. Carter is that you have committed a crime. I am here to notify you that my superiors are actively considering whether to charge you for your outburst." In an absurdly formal move, he leaned forward and pushed a crisp white envelope into Henry Carter's hand.

"Crime? Are you pulling my leg?" Henry scanned the faces of the other two policemen for some indication of a bluff at least but who maintained bland expressions, focussing on nowhere in particular.

"Racist Hate Crime sir. Derogative remarks on another person's disability, gender-identity, race, religion or sexual orientation is illegal."

"Have you been drinking officer?" Henry was genuinely amazed.

"No sir, that is the law."

"Perhaps you do not know this, but Thuggees were a cult of murderers on the Indian sub-continent, which included the present-day Pakistan, many years ago, who made a habit of waylaying passing travellers to rob and strangle them. Hence the English term of 'thug'. Yesterday our parade was attacked by the worthy descendants of those delightful gentlemen as we were about to pass by, in an effort to strangle our act of commemoration and to steal our right of expression."

"Mr. Carter, I do not need a history lesson." The detective was looking ruffled and embarrassed in front of his colleagues who were secretly grinning at his back now.

"Also it is a well founded suspicion that lonely Bedouin tribesmen wandering vast stretches of desert, found some comfort in... "

"Mr. Carter!" Morgan held up his hand as if back on point duty. "You have clearly abused a minority community in this town who were simply exercising their right to freedom of speech. That cannot be allowed."

"What about my freedom of speech? Or does that not apply to the indigenous population of this green and pleasant land? And since when did freedom of speech encompass the threat to behead non-believers or do we have an embarrassing majority of Christians?"

"We have to make reasonable allowances for these peoples' sensibilities. Protect the vulnerable and weak amongst us!" The policemen was beginning to look distinctly aggressive.

Henry Carter jabbed a forefinger into his narrow chest, his own frustration exploding. "So I, an eighty-nine years old man, am not vulnerable and weak? You come round to my house with your pair of dancing storm-troopers there with your mealy-mouthed apologist clap-trap for politically correct censorship, and threaten me for simply speaking my mind!

"Get off my property right now sun-shine. This is England, not Russia!"

Despite his age, Henry Carter was a big man looking very ferocious. They got off of his property right then.

******
ELEVEN

Early evening gripped Holtingham like a black velvet glove. There was a sharp nip in the air that suggested a possible overnight frost. Chris hoped that his grandfather had lit a fire in the lounge at least. Christ it was warmer in prison than in this little house.

A sudden thought occurred, now that he was enriched from his late parents estate he could have central heating installed for grandpa. Radiators in every room, limitless hot water. He could even have all the pipe-work and loft insulated, have that foam injected into the outside walls. At his age grandpa needed such comfort.

He slightly swayed as he walked up to the front door, clumsily dragging his key from a jacket pocket. The welcome home bash was a pleasant surprise that lasted into the late afternoon, until one by one, his friends, barely remembered, had filtered away with beery farewells, back to partners and families, some even to night shifts. There'd be a few toilet breaks tonight he thought to himself, chuckling.

His free hand checked on the half bottle of rum in his other pocket that he'd brought back for grandpa as he slid the key in the lock and opened the door. Unusually the hallway lights were off and none peeked out from under closed doors. Instantly he felt unease, and guilt,. He hadn't checked in with grandpa at all that day since emerging from that police cell and ending up in the George and Dragon, without so much as a call home to say he was okay.

The last he had seen of the old man through the small window in the back door of the police van as he and Barry were driven away, was of him arguing vehemently with that police Inspector on the roadway.

"Grandpa!" He called, a touch frantic as he pushed the door shut behind him. No answer.

Opening the lounge door he saw that the curtains were still wide open and grandpa's silhouette in the dark, framed by a soft halo of light from the street lamps outside. He was seated in his favourite armchair angled towards an unlit fire, the TV off, unmoving.

"Grandpa?" Chris switched on the main light and lurched towards him in alarm, fearing the worst.

"I see that they've let you go then." Henry's deep voice rumbled with leaden tone, eyes still fixated ahead on nothing in particular.

"Jesus! You had me scared for a moment. Are you feeling okay?" Chris stood at his side, squeezed the big shoulder through a threadbare, hand-knit cardigan. "You haven't lit the fire, you're cold."

His grandfather finally made a movement, his hand wafting the chill air between them. "Been thinking, didn't realise the time. Had your dinner?"

Chris's face flushed red with embarrassment and shame. "Gaw'd, you haven't eaten either have you? I've had plenty thanks. Some old mates threw a surprise drink-up down the pub, can't believe how the time went."

"I know. Your mate, that Indian lad Sydique, came on the parade yesterday, he telephoned me, let me know you wouldn't be home for a while. Nice lad, wounded hero. I hope he doesn't think too badly of me when he hears."

A frown creased Chris's face. "Hear what? He's seen the newspaper article if that's what's worrying you?"

Henry pulled a crumpled letter from down the side of his chair, held it up to his grandson. "I've had a visit from the police, delivered this letter from the Chief Constable himself. They are considering prosecuting me for 'Hate Crime'.

"'Hate Crime'? What the hell is that?"

"I telephoned that reporter girl this morning, tore her off a strip over that article she wrote. Gave her a piece of my mind, what I think of her and those protestors yesterday. Now it seems I'll have to appear in court like a common criminal. " His cold hand found Chris's still clamped onto his shoulder, raised his imploring face up to him. "I've never done anything illegal all my life lad, never. How can I be charged with a crime for speaking my mind?

"When did my country become a fascist state? Aye, tell me?"

Chris shook his own head angrily. "Look, don't upset yourself grandpa. Let me light that fire, cook you something to eat for a change. In the morning I'll phone the solicitors, they'll sort these prats out.

"Nothing is going to happen overnight is it?"

***

Chris's bedroom door was rapped on sharply three times in quick succession, a pause, then three more, this time louder. Grandpa's Reveille call. He pinched the bridge of his nose, a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes as he squinted with distorted vision at his bedside clock. Eight a.m., not exactly the crack of dawn but felt like it, given the beer consumed at the George and Dragon yesterday and a few large rums back at home last night.

"Chris, rouse yourself we're going out!" Grandpa back in military mode, short sharp barks like a dog of war.

"Uh-huh - minute." Was the best he could manage scrambling out from under the heavy blankets, no duvets in this house, blanching at the frigid air that wrapped around him.

Downstairs the kettle was also whistling a shrill summons, a pan of fried breakfast hovered over his plate. An army marches on it's stomach.

"What's the rush grandpa? Thought we were going looking at cars this morning, get me mobile again. Dealers won't be open 'til ten or so."

Henry Carter's craggy face was grim as he ladled out food. "Got a call from Doug Easton earlier, he's on the Legion committee with me. He got it from the postman."

"Oh yeah, - what?"

"Some bastard has defaced the War Memorial. All hands needed down there to clean up the mess, put it right. Okay?"

"The War Memorial! That's unheard of. What sort of animal scum would do that?"

***

It was a ten minute brisk walk. His grandfather was puffing heavily when they got there, unusual for him despite his age. A small crowd had gathered at the spot, centre of Market Square, some council officials and workmen. A police car was parked adjacent to the monument the sergeant and constable whom Chris recognised well enough, sat inside, in the warm. Doug Easton saw their approach, detached himself from whatever discussion was taking place and hurried over to meet them both, his flabby face pale with shock or outrage, probably both.

He didn't say anything but half turned and pointed a finger at the town's Memorial. The bronze figure of a WW1 Tommy, Lee Enfield rifle at half port with the eighteen inch bayonet fixed, stood heroically atop an eight foot granite plinth that bore the inscribed names of all the townsmen who had given their lives in war for the past hundred years, including that of Chris's great-grandfather Thomas. Only now, his head was missing, sawn off clumsily, the hack-saw blade marks visible across the shiny exposed metal.

To add further insult to the defacement, red paint had been slung at the headless figure and had run down like life-blood to puddle on the plinth's base kerb. Several of the yellow posters declaring Jihad and the 'establishment' of Sharia Law had been pasted onto the polished stone and a hand made placard hung from the bronze rifle barrel by a cord. It swung gently in a light morning breeze as if to demand attention to the message scrawled on it with marker pen.

'CRUSADER SOLDIERS ARE COWARDS AND MURDERERS'.

And squeezed in below that as if an afterthought.

_'ALLAH WILL STRIKE YOU ALL DOWN'_.

Henry could say nothing at first, frozen still, staring with simmering eyes at the desecration, until Doug pointed to a pile of ashes to the side of the edifice.

"The fuckers have even made a bonfire of all the poppy wreaths." He was a veteran of the Malayan Crisis, a national serviceman who went on to sign on for a full term. Didn't need this crap at his age.

Chris gingerly held on to his grandfather's arm, could feel it trembling beneath the cloth with pent up rage. With his other hand he gently patted Doug's back.

The police sergeant looked across to them with a bored expression, recognised Henry, climbed reluctantly out of the car and sauntered across, studiously ignoring Chris.

"Mr. Carter, you're chairman of the Legion Committee aren't you?"

"Yes, that is correct." Henry muttered through clenched teeth, his reddened eyes not leaving the malicious damage.

"Looks like kids getting up to a bit of mischief, some time last night. Must have been late, nobody saw a thing. Made a right mess.

"I've had a word with the council and they say they can get some blokes onto it in a few days. Not sooner I'm afraid, cut-backs and all that, more important things to sort out. Unless your lot can organise anything before that?"

Henry Carter slowly turned his head to stare blankly back at him, speechless. Chris intruded before his grandfather could articulate a suitable response, he was in enough trouble already.

"' _Looks like'_ , c-u-n-t-stable? Kids? Are you looking in the same direction we are?" He pointed up at the placard. "What does that suggest to you, take your time, phone a friend if need be?"

The policeman stepped back defensively before the force of Chris's outburst. "Anyone could have put that there Mr. Carter. Even you."

Chris, controlling an urge to punch him even more senseless, stepped sharply forward to make up the ground between them. "Why don't you go and hassle some motorists Sherlock? We'll sort this crap out then go and settle a small matter, see it doesn't happen again."

The sergeant's eyes narrowed. "Are you proposing to commit violence Mr. Carter? Again?" He asked breathlessly, battling a rising excitement.

"Me officer, whatever makes you think that? Like you say, could have been anyone with a mate called Allah couldn't it?"

He turned away in disgust and frustration, leading his grandfather across the cobbled square towards a small café. The old man was not looking too good.

"You go and get a cup of tea grandpa, in the warm. I'll round up a few lads and we'll take care of this, don't you worry."

***

They didn't need persuading, Barry Wells, the Ryan brothers and half a dozen others who could be contacted at short notice. All descended on Market Square in a squeal of tyres and a welter of curses tempered with sorrowful comment.

Nobby Clark the decorator, turned up in his van loaded with ladders, steps, scrapers, paint strippers and wire wool. Even the old Sikh from around the corner had heard the news and brought some of his fire damaged stock; brooms, scrubbing brushes, buckets and industrial cleaners. Surveying the damaged memorial with a distressed expression on his wrinkled face, he volunteered the information of how his father had fought with the Indian 5th Infantry brigade at El Alamein, was cremated in Egypt along with hundreds of his companions who died in the numerous battles against the German forces.

For three hours the impromptu work detail set to the task with the encouragement and blessings of passers-by; softening the paint then scraping and scrubbing it off as best they could. It came off the bronze figure soon enough but so did ninety years of patination, leaving 'Tommy Atkinson' with a sorrowful patchy and scruffy finish. One that would never have passed muster on parade. Even the granite was left with a residual staining from the cleaning agents and ingrained red spots that would take years of traffic grime and atmospheric pollution to hide the desecration. A sour Hobson's Choice of remedy.

Henry had drunk as much warming tea as his weakening bladder could bear whilst he watched the furious activity through the café's steamy window with morose eyes. That monument had stood there since 1922, was older than him, just. Never in all those years had anybody dared to commit such a sacrilege. He despaired with a hurting heart of the alien wickedness that he had never thought to see in his country.

After an hour he had ferried trays of teas and burgers across to the volunteers before leaving to walk sadly over to the Legion Club where he knew Doug Easton and other committee members would congregate, probably open the bar a little early, drown their writhing disgust. Why not?

By lunch-time Chris and friends had done as best as was possible, standing back to view their efforts, each privately dismayed at the sight of the headless soldier.

'Bastards!' was the mutual assessment.

As they stood at the bar in the George and Dragon a short while later, a certain look came onto Rick Ryan's long, pugnacious face.

"You know lads, didn't Nobby here say those bloody posters were put up all over town on Monday? As one the group groaned into their pints, knew what was coming. "Well we can't leave a job half done can we, leave them bloody things stuck up all over the place. Let's finish up here and get out there and tear the fucking things down."

An hour later, there was not a single offending yellow poster left in view in Holtingham. The lads had moved up both sides of the High Street in a sweeping line, ripping them off street furniture, walls, fences, entering shops to pull them from the inside of the display windows. In some of the establishments they were met with sullen indifference, in others dark eyes glowered with resentment, hate even.

Job complete, they dispersed back to their daily labours interrupted by Chris's summons. He had a small private task that he had set himself, but had avoided up to now. Surreptitiously he slipped into a florist, emerging with a small posy of flowers, hoping that none of the group were still in the vicinity as he negotiated the pattern of backstreets to one he had not seen for many years.

Strangely nervous, he positioned himself behind a parked van, self consciously furtive, for over an hour until against all the odds, with a rush of nerves he spotted her. She pulled up in a small Nissan car outside her family home he remembered so well.

Something inside of him did a somersault at the sight of her as she climbed from the vehicle. She had barely changed in all this time, a few worry lines perhaps, some extra pounds in weight which suited her. His Alison, childhood sweetheart who pledged to wait for him while he did his planned stint in the army. Then his world had imploded and he had not seen her since. He was the one to blame, had refused any contact with anybody apart from his grandfather whilst in prison. That had meant to be a temporary coming to terms with his situation, but somehow continued on along a furrow of self pity and anger he couldn't divert out of. But now he was back, reconnecting with his old world, Alison top of the list. It had taken him days to pluck up the courage, apologies and explanations called for.

He was poised to emerge from behind the van, call out her name, hold out the flowers with a tremulous grin in place, when she leant back into the car, reaching in, then straightened up with a slumbering infant in her arms. A young girl of about eight years old also clambered out from the rear seat dragging a school satchel with her, asking querulously what they were having for lunch and would 'daddy' be around to see them.

Chris froze to the spot, petrified that Alison would look round and see him now. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! What on earth had he expected to find after all this time? Swiftly he turned around, head down, tossed the flowers over a garden wall and strode quickly away, dreading that she would spot him, call after him. She didn't.

******
TWELVE

There were six of the beauties, all lined up like debutantes at a society ball, waiting for the right man with enough money to take them away. Chris had the money alright, had checked his account that afternoon after fleeing Alison's street like a kicked dog, needing a comforting salve to massage away that bruising experience.

In fact he could have afforded to buy all six Landrovers he had found advertised in the local classifieds. Not ordinary Landrovers if there ever was such a thing. These were the 127, 3.5 litre petrol guzzlers on a stretched chassis. Basically a Defender with the four door, five seater crew cab with a hard top, high capacity flat bed tacked on. These particular models had extra wide wheels fitted and the front 'bumper' was a wide steel clamp-on with integral winch and twenty foot of steel hawser on a drum.

He'd grabbed a cab to this smallholding five miles outside of Holtingham, four hundred yards up a muddy, pot-holed track; Landrover territory. The taxi driver was non too impressed bouncing his bread and butter auto along there, nor with the snarling Rottweiler straining at the end of a worryingly thin chain to get at them. Chris offered to double his fare if he'd wait in the yard, keep the nice doggy company, while he conducted his business.

The vendor was a wiry, harassed looking fifty year old in a crumpled blue boiler suit, with a nervous tick in one eye. "I only wanted one, had to buy the whole six of them as a single lot at auction. Ex-electricity company vehicles, pylon maintenance gangs cut across countryside sorting out problems and 'fings.

"Five grand do you. They're all pukka, so choose any one."

Chris was too pre-occupied with that morning's activity at the War Memorial and the discovery that Alison, his Alison, had found a life without him, to barter much.

"Look chuck a few gallons of juice in that one there, dig out the paperwork and I'll be back in the morning with cash in a bag and my insurance cover note. Deal?"

Some of the weight visibly lifted off of the other man's bowed shoulders as he stuck out an oily hand. "Put it there squire, you've just bought yourself a bit of a beast."

***

"Yes Yasir, yeah I know all that." Benny Mann screwed his index finger into his ear whilst pressing the mobile harder against the other, as a drunk outside his first floor flat swung around a swaying lamppost anchored to it by one hand. Happily he bawled out an off key rendition of Good Golly Miss Molly with a gusto that the effervescent Little Richard could never have matched, even in his hey-day. Angel Islington at night was no stranger to such impromptu performances.

As the MP for Holtingham stuttered to a temporary halt, Benny jumped back into the heated dialogue. "Of course I back whatever he's up to. If you want your Islamic uprising in this country Yasir, you have to jump right in there, start kicking shit about. Kamal is keeping it close to his chest, but he has plans for something really big. Holtingham will be the catalyst for the big bang.

"I've been travelling all around the Midlands and the North, many Imams and clerics, the new breed radicals that is, want some movement on this. Their own congregations, the young in particular, are demanding the immediate establishment of Khilafah. Sooner than later. The people of this country are beginning to wake up to cold facts concerning the onus Islam places upon Muslims wherever they may be in the world to impose your faith on them by force if necessary; and one day soon, they may try to do something about it.

"We cannot rely on your friends in Parliament to forever hold the line. It is war of ideologies Yasir... "

No, I know that I'm not a Muslim. But for forty years I have dreamt of overturning the status quo of this country, destroy the indigenous character as have many others. Much has been done in achieving this already with mass immigration, the introduction of punitive laws and state intrusion into private liberty. We are on the cusp of... "

"I have played my own small part in this process Yasir, creating mass disorder on the streets to snatch a bigger voice than the average citizen. I was on all the great marches of the 60's and 70's. I have been clubbed down onto the pavement under the batons of the Special Patrol Group. They have now gone and I am still here. I know what it is to bleed for one's cause Yasir. Do you?...."

"Yeah, I'm sorry, I did not mean to imply anything like that. You have been a good friend of the UA-F. Now we are at the beck and call of the Brotherhood. With our help your cause will spread across this country like wild-fire. Trust me, trust Kamal Khan. Together we will write history Yasir... "

"Okay, okay. I will call you when I can get back up there. Goodnight my friend."

With a sigh, Benny Mann cut off the phone call, gazed wistfully at the loaded syringe balanced on top of the raggedy cushion beside him that would have to wait a little longer. Though frustrated at the need to be back in London, he needed to sign on the jobless register each week to ensure receiving his benefits, his own rhetoric had built an excitement within him.

He had groomed Yasir Davi for years, spotted potential in the young fire-brand law student and helped him on his way wherever he could. In turn, as Davi's career and status bloomed, he had duly reversed that patronage, nursing the UA-F's profile as a campaigning group for ethnic integration and rights. Thus ensuring powerful friends for Benny Mann from across the political spectrum, mealy mouthed politicians scrambling over one another to prove their PC credentials. He had blithely granted the UA-F public money from the Ethic Development Fund that he controlled.

Yet despite his close association with him over many years, Yasir Davi never truly trusted Benny Mann. Nobody who really knew him could. The scraggy left-wing protagonist over the years had evolved into a master of manipulation. Leaching from others the means to pursue illogical, insidious dreams of mayhem.

Time was that power-crazed union bosses were fertile ground for radical agendas, but they had long since been brutally beaten down into a state of cowered sulking by Maggie Thatcher, their members wantonly stripped of their honourable livelihoods and security.

Now the new rock n' roll of protest was the massively inflated sensitivities of the ethnic and sexually disorientated agitators. One small pointless victory that Benny had engineered was the prosecution and financial ruin of a hotelier who had ejected a pair of homosexuals from his establishment for their flagrant exhibitionism in front of his appalled guests; a stand for decency which the law now chose to brand as homophobic prejudice.

But the mother-lode was ethnic confrontation. No situation too small, dubious, or imaginary to be prodded and inflamed. Islamic pretensions in England under the hands of rabid radicals like Kamal Khan promised the mother of all battles.

***

Grandpa was preparing to attend yet another wake at the Legion Club, another evening of beer and stoicism.

"Seems like they're going down faster than at the Somme." He had muttered to Chris as he buffed up his best black shoes with spit and polish. "I suppose it is the winter that hurries things along a bit."

The latest dearest departed was Wally, an ex-Desert Rat, another piece of history gone underground in some corner of an English field that may not forever be England.

It was only after the old soldier had left, marching off along wintry streets, shoulders back, arms swinging, that Chris realised that apart from grandpa's bacon sandwich the other night, he hadn't really cooked anything since his teen years. Couldn't get onto the kitchen detail inside, a prime little number reserved for toady trustees, not for cop-killers.

Too hungry for burnt or undercooked attempts at the culinary art, he opted to go out and pay someone else to clash the pans. Agitatedly he cruised up and down the High Street restaurant shopping, couldn't see anything he really fancied. Chinese, Indian, Thai, Greek; the whole world could happily dine in Holtingham it seemed but where did the old pie and mash café go? The workman's café in Market Square specialised in fry-up only and was closed that time of night. The George and Dragon, well, he'd sampled their efforts at catering yesterday, thought he'd give it a miss.

Deciding that the Chinese was as traditional 'British' food as he was going to find, assuming the chicken had started out in life with feathers and a beak and not wearing a collar with 'Fido' written on it, he turned around to walk back the way he'd come.

A dull time beat between his eyes as he faced into a chill breeze that was not helped by church bells instantly beginning to ring over the town, incessantly clanging in an uncoordinated racket. Were there services this time on a Tuesday night? He couldn't recall there ever being so when he was young. Church of England stalwarts were Sunday morning people; Christenings, weddings and funerals apart. Just as suddenly the racket ceased a few minutes before he reached the red and gold frontage of the Hong-Kong Palace, made more garish by a festoon of coloured lights draped across it.

As he entered the candle-lit interior that he suspected was a ruse to prevent too close inspection of the food, a sudden blaring of a police siren rattled the windows as a traffic car skewered an urgent path through late evening traffic. Electronic wailing and revolving blue light bounced off of storefronts to either side until with protesting tyres it swung wildly wide into Church Road.

For Chris the drama induced a brief illogical panic and flash-back; flashing light, a shock of impact, the horror. Swallowing hard, he stepped gingerly back out onto the pavement, watched the tail lights disappear, half wondering if this could be a surreal over-reaction to complaints over the church bells.

"Blimey, those bell ringers do need the practise though." He muttered to himself just as an ambulance erupted from the little two bay station at the far end of the High Street, its lights and noisy two tones competing with the police car's. Along with other pedestrians out and about, he watched as the 'meat-wagon' slewed into Church Road also, hard on the back bumper of the squad car. Already unsettled by bad memories, Chris felt an unease seeping through his bowels. Turning away from the eatery entrance with its fake red lacquer and harsh lighting, he crossed the road and hurried to follow the emergency vehicles which now were ominously silent.

Both police car and ambulance were stationary outside St. Athelstan Church, their crews running through the lych gate and on up the stone flag path. Christ, for whom had the bell tolled here?

He was stopped at the church door, a magnificent studded oak affair, by a beat Bobby he hadn't seen before, who loomed out of the shadow of the church porch, presumably the first uniform on the scene.

"Can't go in there sir." He held out a restraining hand, eyeing with distaste over Chris's shoulder a growing stream of towns-people hurrying towards the church from all directions.

"How do you know that I haven't come to pray? God's house is open to all I'm told."

"Well if that's the case then I suggest that you do it outside in the street for now, like them bloody Muslims up the road do sometimes. And while you are about it, put in a few words for the vicar, poor sod."

"The vicar, Lionel?"

"Yep. Just got himself done over well and truly. Punched and kicked to within an inch of his life right in front of the alter. God ain't watching over his flock tonight that's for sure."

"He managed to phone you though."

"Kind of. It was the church bells did that. He managed to crawl into the belfry and cling onto some bell ropes, cause that racket. I was nearby and got here just in time to see the bunch of fuckers responsible climbing over the graveyard wall at the back. Doubt if we'll catch them now, hands are full in there."

"Who were they?" Chris had a growing suspicion at the back of his mind.

"You tell me." The policeman sniffed, suddenly uncomfortable with his own candid conversation. "They had balaclavas and hoods on. I could make an educated guess alright, but that'd be more than my job's worth mate in this enlightened age."

Chris exchanged a meaningful stare with him, his throat dry from acidic anger welling up from his gut. At which point the big door swung inward where low lights framed a burly paramedic manoeuvring a wheelchair, occupied by the seriously battered vicar.

He was securely strapped in and had bandages wrapped around his head that failed to cover vibrant bruising around his eyes, blood still oozed from a split lip and cotton wads pushed up his nose. He recognised Chris as he was wheeled slowly through the gathering crowd, made a feeble effort to wave his hand in greeting.

"Mr. Carter, what a terrible business. I caught them outside in the process of their mischief. They chased me into the church." He called hurriedly over his shoulder as he was taken away. I'm so sorry - your parents - the others - couldn't stop them."

Then he was gone, being loaded into the back doors of the ambulance that spilled radio chatter out into the cold night. The patrol car crew followed, grim faced, paused to chatter with their colleague with the pointy hat.

"He'll live. Feel it in the morning though, for a few mornings by the look of it. If you get a chance, have a dekko at the damage outside will you Brian? We're off on another call. Seems the same crowd have knocked in some stained glass windows at the Catholic Church, and a petrol bomb has been lobbed into the lobby of that little synagogue behind the Town Hall. Busy night all round."

"Yes, for _someone._ " Brian conceded enigmatically.

Briskly they were off, tossing belated baleful glares at Chris who had obviously registered somewhere on their radar.

"Jesus!" The Bobby pulled the church door shut, locked it with an oversized key, pocketed that. "Fucking Armageddon ain't it?"

But Chris had hardly heard him, had turned away, hurried around to the side of the church - ' _I'm sorry - your parents - the damage outside'._

Street lamps threw enough light from the roadway to confirm the worst of scenarios. Most of that section of the graveyard had been vandalised with ferocious intent, including amongst all the others, the headstone that remained the only physical presence of his parents. Chunks of the polished black granite, some with portions of the gold, engraved inscription, were scattered across the surrounding mown grass. Some pieces had reached as far as the perimeter path with the ferocity of the attack.

Chris stood trembling, hollow eyed amid the carnage, his breath pumping out in big gulps, wafting into the dark night air as white plumes. He knew that this was not an attack on his family in particular. Just about every tombstone on that side of the church had been either destroyed or kicked over; a scene of callous wickedness.

His attention snapped onto swift slashes of green aerosol paint on St. Athelstan's side wall, picked out vividly by the strong beam of the police constable's torch. _'INFIDELS'._

A storm of rage boiled out of him as he gave out a roar that tore the crisp air , frightening the policeman standing behind him and other distressed relatives picking their own way through the defiled graves of their loved ones. He spun on his heel on the damp grass, barging past anyone in his way, his face contorted with violent urges. As he exited the gateway, his new mobile phone, bought that day as they had swept the High Street clean of yellow posters, warbled an annoyingly insistent tune in his pocket.

Withdrawing it, he managed to hit the right button, put it to his ear. "Who's that?" He snapped.

"Me, Barry. Where are you kiddo'?"

"I'm at the church. They've done the vicar over now an... "

"Yeah we heard."

"We?"

"Most of the old crowd. The Catholic church was attacked too. The Ryan's are looking very mean I can tell you. Look Chris get yourself over to the Rugby clubhouse, everybody has met up here. There's a really ugly mood about. Some of the lads are all tooled up, itching for a bundle with that scum."

"They've done my parents' gravestone Barry. Broken it to a thousand pieces, and all the others. I need to go and smack some bastard good and proper myself right now."

"'Course Chris, of course. But don't go charging in anywhere like the Lone Ranger. Get yourself down here like I said. Bloody ' _Invaders'_? We have to protect our own families and homes, and the town. The police don't want to do it, then we will. This shit can't go any further.

"We're moving out soon, gonna' march along the High Street, pay that Mosque a little visit. There are a few cunts hiding in there getting right out of hand. Let's drag 'em out and run them out of town, our town!

"This is war mate!"

******
THIRTEEN

Chris strode purposefully back along the High Street, brain abuzz with what was about to go down, the hot blood of violent confrontation fizzing through his arteries. Too preoccupied he stepped into the road, barely aware of the angry car horn as he crossed over to the opposite side, head down, relishing images of overdue retribution.

Shrill laughter rattled the plate glass window of the Thai' restaurant as he passed it by, distracting him from pleasant thoughts. A group of young unknowns, arrogance in their posture, full of themselves, occupied a table near the window with a panoramic view of the main road. Despite animated, loud, overlapping group conversation, they plainly had a part of their collective attention fixed on the street outside for anything that might occur. Chris slid under their communal surveillance, a lone figure of no apparent interest, He heard the name 'Lucy' bubble to the surface of the confusion of chatter, saw the cameras pushed under the table, ready to be snatched up to record and video.

What were the press doing here so soon? News of that evening's events could have barely reached their respective offices or mobiles yet. Why here anyway, eating heartburn food and drinking Yak-piss wine when they should be at the church making a nuisance of themselves or at least at the small cottage hospital outside of town badgering the staff for details of injury and pictures of the vicar's battered features.

Clearly there was little interest there for them. From the brief sighting he had of them, they were clearly waiting, had been for some time, for the Big Event. Friends around a restaurant table, rivals out on the streets, each ready and poised to move at a moment's notice.

Sudden caution dampened his bullish mood, the chill air more noticeable as he passed on by out of the pool of light that spilled out onto the pavement. By contrast, the mosque almost opposite, was shuttered and silent, dark and brooding, could have been an abandoned building. Except that he knew that at least a couple of dozen young men resided there in the upper rooms that once had housed the hotel's guests.

The wariness that crawled all over him now germinated into alarm when he turned into Market Square and spotted a half dozen police personnel carriers parked up in the darkest corner. Riot squad vehicles with drop-down wire mesh windscreen guards and barred side windows. As he got closer, walked by, the hairs on his neck prickled with nervous reaction, uncomfortably aware of many pairs of eyes watching him from the dark interiors, whether with suspicion or boredom he couldn't tell.

Fifty or more policemen drafted in, no doubt from Cambridge or Peterborough, fully decked out in protective gear; helmets and visors, flame resistant overalls, armed with long batons and Perspex shields gripped at the ready. Ready for what?

The answer hit him in the face like an interview room back-hander. It was all a set-up. The malicious and inexplicable wave of racial attacks that evening had been committed under somebody's order, to provoke the folk of Holtingham into violent response. The young men he was en-route to join at the rugby clubhouse in just such a venture.

Had they but known it , the police planning was laughable in that their intention was obviously to remain unseen until trouble flared, rather than prevent such a thing, then to leap from their vehicles and race into the High Street to confront 'White Supremists' in action, in full view of a sympathetic and collaborating media. How were they to know that the 'troublemakers' that they lay in wait for, would have to approach from behind them, spilling out from the municipal playing fields along a lane leading out of town.

Chris avoided any eye contact through the darkened windows, just a solitary citizen on his way home, but could not resist a sidelong glance at the headless bronze soldier, gleaming in the white moonlight. Suppressed anger choked in his airway which erupted from him as a dry cough. He knew he had to hurry now, Barry was not one to exaggerate the mood about to boil over any moment, the frustrations that would propel the lads down that dark road and run them smack into the forces of selective law and order.

***

He may have been the 'local hero' of the moment, But Chris Carter felt himself in danger of being trampled underfoot as he physically blocked the rugby clubhouse door to an impatient onrush of his own pals chanting ' _lets go get the little bastards!'_.

Even Barry looked aggressively perplexed as Chris held up a restraining hand against his chest, his other flapping up and down in a calming motion.

"What's occurring Chris? We wait for you , now you want to bottle it?"

The others crowding around the pair of them grunted agreement. Chris's eyes flared with burning ire for a nano-second.

"You go ahead if you must. But I wouldn't be a friend if I didn't warn you what you're getting into."

"Those Paki' cunts don't worry us none!" Ned Ryan was straight talking if nothing else."

"'Course not Ned. But what about van loads of plod hidden in Market Square, all dolled up in riot gear just waiting to pounce on whoever turns out for a brawl. They've even got the press at the ready. We've been set up lads."

"You're joking!"

"No I'm not. Think about it. How provocative can you get smashing up churches and War Memorials? Of course there will be a backlash and I'm more than keen to get out there and stamp on a few rag-heads. Which is just what somebody is trying to incite us to do. Wicked white boys at it again."

The ten agitated young men grouped around him visibly deflated in front of his eyes.

"Can't just let them get away with all this, trashing our town, taking the piss." Ned Ryan was shorter and bulkier than his brother, twice as nasty when his blood was up.

Chris shut the door firmly behind him. "I didn't say that we do nothing. But you are all family men, got responsibilities, can't afford to get done for street fighting. I certainly can't either. I'm out on licence. Give the law half a chance and I'm banged up for the rest of my natural. So let's not go charging out there performing like organ monkeys dancing to somebody else's tune."

"So what then?" Barry looked stricken at the lack of action.

"Why not form our own 'neighbourhood watch' type of group? For now. Take it in turns to patrol round Holtingham at night. The first sign of more monkey business from those 'Invaders' prats, send out the alarm and we all pile in, give them a fucking good hiding another night, no witnesses. Would have caught them red-handed wouldn't we? Besides they won't misbehave any more in front of the audience lined up out there tonight."

"Suits me, bring 'em on." Rick Ryan was looking more cheerful now.

Chris grinned, his brain working on the hoof as alternatives presented themselves. "So let's get the public on our side rather than be labelled as the bad boys. Shouldn't be that difficult, everybody in this country has had it up to the chin with what's gone on over the last few years.

"We could stage a protest rally through the town centre this Saturday. _'Police not protecting us'_ , that sort of thing." Nobby offered.

Ned Ryan who was the Holtingham RC secretary and general dogs-body, pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket. "Okay you lot, I declare this bar open. Let's talk about what Chris has said, form a resistance group, then go and break teeth."

"Resistance group yeah?" Nobby Clark cracked his knuckles looking pleased with himself. "I've got a name for that. How about the 'English Front Line'?"

"Gaw'd, he'll have us digging trenches next." Somebody at the back muttered.

They pulled a number of tables and stools into a single unit, sat around the rectangle of varnished wood like a Downing Street Cabinet meeting, only without the subterfuge, lies and cowardice. As Ned ferried pints and packets of unhealthy snacks to them, Chris banged a fifty pound note down on the bar top.

"There's a float Ned. I'll top it up if necessary"

Necessary it was. The impromptu meeting stretched on until midnight when Ned, conscious of legal responsibilities declared the bar closed.

The first decision had not been difficult. With the police swarming all over town praying for anti-social behaviour, vigilante patrols would commence the following evening, Wednesday. Other likely-lads would be recruited and groups of four would rotate in two hour shifts until the early hours every night.

Chris offered up his Landrover due to be collected in the morning for the EFL's official transport.

"We do have our own wheels." One dissenter grumbled sucking on an empty glass.

Chris grimaced, splaying his hands out on the table top in exasperation. "All this talk of war, I thought you'd be happier riding in our own tank. That motor is a monster." He insisted, won the argument.

The 'War Horse' was officially adopted and Christened as the EFL's mechanised division. It was all a bit of a laugh.

Volunteers that included all of them there and others as yet unaware, pledged to assist, where possible, repairs of the damage committed on the two churches and the synagogue. Several of their number were builders and tradesmen, the others would be enthusiastic labourers.

Their own posters were proposed offering a small reward for concerned citizens, or the Muslim community, to identify the perpetrators of these attacks and others preceding them. Chris insisted on putting up the cash, he was flush with his unfortunate inheritance and couldn't think of a more fitting way to put some of it to use. A fleeting memory of their smashed headstone stung his mood.

All agreed on staging a protest rally with townspeoples' support that coming weekend. A march along the High Street that would culminate at the Town Hall or police station. Somebody in public office had to be prodded into fulfilling their obligations. Secret hopes of a return match with last Sunday's 'blockaders' were savoured in most hearts there.

As they were ejected out into the car park by Ned Ryan impatient now for his bed, all agreed that a disastrous night had turned good. Bring 'em on!

***

"What, nothing doing? Not a peep from those young toughs putting it about on Sunday? What a fucking wash-out!" Benny Mann was soaring through white fluffy clouds, his whole being buzzing with the fizz of narcotics.

Angrily he slammed his fist down on the sofa cushion, breaking the empty syringe, the needle jerking up and drawing blood from his middle finger. Could your own kit contaminate you?

"I don't know why **you** are so upset." Lucy Lever snapped back testily. "I spent four hours in that lousy restaurant promising Fleet Street's best the biggest firework show since the end of the Olympics. Now all I have to show for it is a sore arse and galloping indigestion from a dodgy curry."

It was now three in the morning, she was sitting in a cold car with a light sheen of ice on the windscreen and the prospect of a long drive home to Peterborough. Her mood was not conciliatory.

Mann paused a moment, a vision of her arse rotating before his dilated pupils; it was a surreal place that he inhabited from that decrepit sofa in Angel Islington.

"Khan promised me a right shit-storm tonight, plebs pouring from their front doors all over that grotty little town."

"Is that so? Well I can promise you Benny that those 'plebs' are all tucked up in bed and asleep - unlike me!" She complained tartly.

Mann stretched out for a bottle of beer by his feet, knocked it over on the grubby carpet. "Have faith in me babes, you'll get the story you want ... " He slurred, as he passed out.

******
FOURTEEN

She only did the job because it offered a roof over her head, a modest but guaranteed income, and a life independent of that drunken beast of a husband currently lurching between enforced redundancy and instant dismissal, in an endless curriculum of failed employment.

"No I don't know where he's been these past couple of days. Not my job to keep track of all their gadding about, just to check that they are still alive and breathing while they _are_ here." She sniffed dismissively. "Not that he should be here anyhow. This is a warden controlled facility for the elderly. Not a seamen's' mission or whatever the equivalent is for soldiers."

Chris kept his rising distaste in check. "Sydique Sahni is a serving soldier on medical leave."

"Lot of bleeding good he'll be with only one leg and arm then!" She snarled, turning around and stalking off without so much as a farewell, to hurry through the rest of her rounds, rousing the residents of Squires Court to prove that they were still of this world.

Chris climbed back into his Landrover to drive back home, a slight unease worming through him at not having seen or heard from his friend for a while. Optimism suggested that he may have returned to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham or Headley Court for the resumption of his rehabilitation, physiotherapy and a programme for re-engaging with mind and body. He hoped so but thought it strange Sid had not let him know.

Perhaps his concerns were just guilt at his own lapse of responsibility towards a young man, his mate, so independent of mind but so dependant physically on the wider world. If it could be bothered at all. Sid had been hovering at the back of his 'to do' list. But, he thought defensively, the last couple of days had been both tiring and absorbing.

The EFL had patrolled their home town well into the early hours, eager and expectant at first. Then the dreary cold routine quickly degenerated to a begrudging chore for those with wives, families and jobs to go back to; eyes heavy with sleep deprivation and chilled to the bone, cruising through dark November nights in the draughty, utility interior of the War Horse.

No further incidents had occurred or seemed likely to. Even during daylight hours the Mosque patrons were conspicuous by their sudden absence, apart from the residual contingent of old men and small boys dragged along to perform noisy prayer rituals knelt shoeless on decrepit pieces of matting.

No darkly glowering eyes peered down from that broadside of upper windows, no swaggering bands of youths in long granny robes meandering aimlessly through the High Street shoppers, as if waiting for mischief or opportunity.

The lads of the newly formed English Front Line and a platoon of volunteers had set to on the repairs to damaged houses of prayer, experiencing some measure of purpose and momentum from good works. Yet increasingly, as unelected leader, Chris felt like a parody of Captain Mainwaring, marshalling an untrained Home Guard, without uniforms, who looked increasingly unlikely to see battle. ' _Zulus - thousands of them!'_ 'Not around here he thought', strangely disappointed.

With his mind elsewhere he automatically braked at a light controlled pedestrian crossing three vehicles back, only partially aware of the family group crossing up front. Suddenly he snapped into sharp awareness as they reached the opposite kerb, oblivious to his startled face behind the windscreen just yards away.

With a thumping heart Chris watched Barry Wells and Alison bickering as they walked together, with discreet anger, she pushing a pram that had seen better days and he firmly gripping the small white hand of the little girl Chris had last seen asking after her daddy. He felt stunned, the dots joining up in a flood of bright insight to create a pixel led picture he never saw coming until now. _'... a wife and two kids to support... '_

Fingers gripping the steering wheel with white knuckled intensity, he stared after them heading off in the opposite direction still locked in a furious, side of mouth altercation, in a stew of indignation, hurt and jealousy. The irate blast of a car horn behind him suggested impolitely that he get a move on as the lights had turned green. Putting the truck into gear he drove slowly forward, attention fixed on the little group now stationary outside the Daisy Tea Rooms.

At the last moment he registered the red flare of brake lights before him, hit the pedal, the tyres biting hard on damp tarmac, squealing into a short skid. The destructive might of his front bumper quivered just inches short of the stationary car in front.

"Jesus!" He wiped a burst of perspiration from his brow as the aggrieved driver flipped him the finger, gunned his engine to life and took off as if fleeing the War Horse. Chris sat a second or two recovering his nerves, which provoked the tetchy driver behind to a repeat rendition of his car horn. Not wishing to draw further attention to himself Chris moved off with a crunching of gears.

As the Landrover rumbled on up the High Street, left hand indicator twittering in readiness for the turn into Mafeking Road, Barry Wells' worried eyes followed its progress, as his daughter tugged at his hand demanding an iced cake and orange juice.

***

Chris slouched into the little terraced cottage in a subdued mood. Apart from the shock revelation of a few minutes ago, grandpa was worrying him. He had not fully recovered his strength of purpose and character since being warned that he may face court proceedings for a 'crime' that did not exist in his own rule book. These last few days he had been introvert, shoulders sagging, head drooping as if in shame; had lost the heart of a lion. His skin had drawn taut across his square face, grey and lifeless. A picture of despondency, disappointment, despair.

Chris paused in the kitchen doorway, grandpa was sat at the small dining table. Spread before him, laid out with military neatness on a white tea cloth, were his numerous campaign medals that gave testament to his services to his country, still shiny and fresh from the Remembrance Day parade.

He frowned, perplexed. "You off somewhere grandpa?"

The old man sighed wearily, breath rising through his chest with a rasping sound. "Nope, I'm done with all that 'on parade' lark. Going to send these medals back. The country that gave them to me no longer exists."

Stinging emotion flooded Chris's eyes. "Don't be daft grandpa. If that is the case then all the more reason that you keep them, remind yourself of just what you once fought for."

***

Lunch was a sombre affair. Chris, sensing his grandfather's delicate frame of mind prepared it himself, could manage tinned tuna sandwiches with a sliced tomato on the side. Grandpa hadn't shown any desire or intention to move from his chair, immobile and immovable like a bull elephant down on its front knees.

Chris had carefully wrapped up the medals in the tea towel, put them safely away on top of the mantelpiece before he placed the food and a strong mug of tea in front of Henry. He sat opposite to eat his own food.

" Don't worry grandpa," He murmured soothingly as he chewed, "there are those in this town not prepared to let what's ours be taken away from us. If the police won't protect us, we'll do the job for them."

A hint of a wan, amused smile floated briefly across Henry's aqueous eyes, the corners of his lips twitched. "Your EFL you mean?"

Chris grimaced, slightly embarrassed. "We are doing our best. Who can say there would not have been more attacks on the town if we weren't cruising around half of the night getting bored out of our brains? Perhaps we have already proved our worth.

"Tomorrow we are staging a protest march on the Town Hall. The council have agreed on a Saturday sitting to hear us out and receive a petition. We've got over two thousand signatures in two days. Somebody has to do something in this country."

The old man nodded. "I'm not taking the piss lad, but I fear that you are only setting yourselves up as an identifiable target for others to aim at."

"Others? Apart from those ragamuffin radicals strutting about in their grannies' nighties all day, who else do you think will want to attack us?"

Henry gave him the bent eye. "Shall we make a list boy, how much time do you have? Vested interests, phony political correctness. The time was these people shrieking their condemnation of ordinary folk sticking up for themselves would have been labelled as Quislings, traitors, fifth columnists; banged up in the Tower and hanged. Now they pop up everywhere churning out their pompous shit doing this country and its people down. And nobody dare do anything about it for fear of being labelled with something that always ends with ' _ist_ '."

They ate in silence for a while, nothing much more to say without souring the day further, letting the obvious observations rest in peace. Inflamed passion would have been a futile gesture. The England they knew was under sustained attack from within by an alien force, enabled and assisted by powers that be who should know better, intimidated from pursuing moral duty by self interests and couldn't give a flying shit.

The doorbell cut through the thick silence, its merry ding-dong chimes a welcome mood-breaker. Chris stood abruptly, brushed crumbs off of his front, relieved at the intrusion.

"I'll get it grandpa. You stay and finish your lunch, I'm about done here."

Barry Wells stood on the doorstep, mixed expressions of sheepishness and defiance on his round features.

Chris stared impassively back at him. "Oh look, daddy's home."

"Just shut it Chris and let me in. It's bloody cold out here."

They went into the compact lounge, shuffling self consciously around the old, stuffed furniture, sat apart facing one another.

"I was going to tell you Chris, I really was. Just couldn't find the right moment yet is all."

"I've been back nearly two weeks. What were you waiting for, a sign from heaven, a burning bush, something like that?"

Barry looked away for a moment, found something interesting in the fire-grate to study. "When you went inside, you pushed us all away. Refused to let your own friends come and see you. Alison, she was devastated at what had happened, grief stricken that you had rejected her."

"So it appears."

"No, hold on a mo'. What you did to her was cruel, wallowing in your self pity and turning your guilty feelings back onto her, on all of us. I was your friend, Alison's friend. I felt it my responsibility to look out for your girl, comfort her."

"You obviously did that all right!" Chris spat out the retort with more force than he had intended.

"Look it wasn't something that happened overnight."

"That's a comfort then, give it a week or two did you?"

"Don't talk like a prat. We kept in touch for a long while, shared news we had of you. You weren't expected to show back up at any time too soon. Not after your appeal was turned down a second time.

"Anyhow, it was five years before anything happened like that between us. We got close you know, feelings developed? Then without any great fuss we went and got married. Not the best thing to do as it happens. I soon realised it was always going to be you she still wanted. There were three of us in that marital bed, me, Alison, and you in the middle.

"The whole eight years of our marriage had been in steady decline until she finally admitted that I was just a stop-gap."

"Bloody long 'stop-gap' wasn't it? Managed to produce a couple of kids while you were marking time."

Barry's stare swivelled sharply back to him. "My kids ain't part of any bad feelings over this okay?"

Chris's head dipped apologetically. "Sure , sorry. They look a good pair of nippers. I'm really pleased for you, even though... "

"Yeah, I know. There doesn't seem to be any way back, but we are sensible about it for the kids' sake, almost amicable, well, sometimes. We have 'family days', like today, when we all go out together, do a bit of shopping, have a bite to eat. I still see them on other occasions; school sports, meet the teacher, christening for the baby. That was a nice day." His face darkened. "The vicar did the business in St. Athelstan church. Now we are trying to patch the place up while he recovers from that beating. Bastards!" He floundered to a stop, distress marching across his big-boned features.

"I've lost my job, my wife and family Chris. I don't want to lose my friend too."

Chris's hard stare broke, a rueful grin rolled across his face. "No danger of that Barry. I couldn't really expect Alison to still be there for me after fifteen years. No, we're cool."

The door suddenly opened and grandpa stood there holding two mugs of steaming tea, looking perkier than he had for days. "Then you'd better drink on it you pair of love-birds."

***

Abu Sharif lay on his back staring at the tent's canopy above, raindrops working their way through small tears and bad stitching. He was cold and miserable. It was like being back working those fields picking vegetables. At least there the roof over their heads at night had been solid.

He had no clue as to where they were. Himself and a dozen others had been packed into an old van in the early hours of Wednesday morning as Holtingham slept. They were the 'Chosen Ones' he'd learnt.

Already they had dishonoured themselves with the wanton destruction and damage wrought to the town's revered places. To violate holy grounds and edifices, beat a religious man like that was sacrilege. He had taken part with great reluctance, held his hand as much as possible. But still he was as guilty as the others, to his deep shame.

Jihad had been declared, a furious Kamal Khan, arms raised, his three fingered hand hooked like an eagles claw, had declared it so. Revenge for the humiliation that had been visited upon them that Sunday morning, chased back into the mosque like naughty children, a catalyst rather than the cause. A great strike against the Crusaders was long planned, one that would mortally wound this nation of Infidels.

Now the 'Chosen Ones' from the ranks of 'The Invaders' were to train as killers, the thrusting spears who would soon strike the killing blow. But he was tired, worn weary by long days scuttling up and down wet, barren hills, crouching in ice-cold, gurgling streams, brandishing pathetic, child-like replicas of guns they had yet to fire. They had chased each other about the countryside, across fields, through woods, practising at being soldiers killing a line of straw effigies in a field.

Tomorrow they were to receive instruction from Kamal Khan himself, in bomb making; how to pack nails, ball-bearings and scrap pieces of metal around slabs of explosives; hide them in culverts, waste bins, rucksacks; insert such explosive devices into canvas vests with special pockets sewn in and conceal them beneath loose fitting traditional robes; how to connect a detonation button, run the wires across your chest, down the inside of your sleeve to within easy reach of your sweating, trembling hand; be taught the mantra, ' _it is my duty to die for Allah, to go to him with the blood of many Infidels at my feet, on my robes, splashed on my face'_.

Abu Sharif did not want to kill anyone, did not want to die and claim his virgins in Paradise. He was a tortured and worried man indeed.

******
FIFTEEN

"The sun shines on the righteous my son!"

Chris Carter grinned back nodding his agreement with the old lady standing kerb-side below him with her half filled shopping trolley, waving sweetly at the column of marchers meandering slowly through the town centre.

Indeed the day was proving to be a sunny success after all the recent rain and tribulations Holtingham had endured. Along with the twenty or so English Front Line stalwarts walking proudly beside and behind the War Horse that crept forward with a slow rumble of big engine, were a hundred or more of the less inhibited townsfolk. Old, young with children in tow, had joined the procession heading for the Town Hall in Market Square. Some carried banners and small home made notices demanding police action to curb the escalating attacks on their town.

Yet the mood was light-hearted, noisily cheerful in the unseasonal warmth, imbibing the whole affair with a quaint carnival atmosphere. Chris sat happily at the wheel of the Landrover that bore a huge flag of St. George above the cab, Union Jack bunting stretched across its length and width flapping and snapping in a sudden breeze. Taped music flowed from loudspeakers affixed at the four corners of the roof, an endless loop of Land Of Hope and Glory, Rule Britannia and Jerusalem interspersed with easy on the ear melodies. Middle England at its best.

To add to the atmosphere, a horseman rode alongside dressed in full Crusader armour, the light tin-plate replica glowing in the sunlight. Exuberantly he waved a stage sword over his helmet plumes, orchestrating the crowd as they sang along with the patriotic songs as if they were all at the Last Night of the Proms.

The sweet bonus on the day's success for Chris, was the sight in his large rear-view mirror of grandpa amongst the marchers, as erect as a parade ground flag-pole, arms swinging with military precision, surrounded by friends and neighbours.

Then with a flutter of alarm he braked sharply as a uniformed Inspector of police stepped out suddenly from the crowded pavement, hand imperiously held high halting the parade, and walked around to the lowered driver's window that Chris nonchalantly leant out of.

"Good morning sir, can you tell me who gave you permission to march on the public highway in this fashion?"

Chris looked down at him with an expression of innocent confusion. "I'm sorry, does anyone need permission to walk through the town they live and were born in?"

"I am afraid that you do. Your actions are holding up the traffic and creating a public nuisance. You need the Chief Constable's permission to do that. I shall have to ask you to disperse immediately."

Chris leaned further out of the cab peering back at the snaking line of people, now showing signs of dissent and agitation at the hold-up. Somebody in the watching crowd bounced an empty MacDonald's cardboard cup off of the back of the policeman's head to underline the growing mood .

"Well I should warn you Inspector that if you deny us free passage as free-born Englishmen and women, my friends will sit down in the roadway until allowed to proceed. Unless you have van-loads of riot squads tucked away in Market Square to come and restrain and remove a sizeable portion of this town's population then go ahead. Maybe order a baton charge, make loose with some pepper spray, Taser a few of these old 'uns and inject a bit of fizz into them. You could have your very own Peterloo Massacre if you are really that ambitious, or reckless as the case may prove.

"Otherwise I suggest that you let us be on our way, and in just a few minutes we will be tucked away outside the Town Hall as arranged with the democratically elected Mayor and his colleagues.

"It is up to you sunshine."

He smiled brightly at the Inspector, head cocked slightly askew, who glared ferociously back at him, a red tide of fury seeping up his neck from under a tight white collar.

"If you wish to proceed then do so at your own risk... _Mister Carter_." He hissed in frustration, stepping back onto the pavement with a curt nod and a twitch of his hand for them to continue.

Whether by plan or impromptu reaction Chris could not say, but as he right wheeled them into Market Street and the Square, two police traffic cars pulled across the junction behind them effectively closing the road. As they wound around the square in a crocodile line two factors registered with him: one, the Mayor and dignitaries were not in evidence on the Town Hall steps as arranged; two, a couple of inter-city coaches had been parked up and blocking the lane leading out of town towards the playing fields. Effectively their procession had been 'Ketttled' into Market Square.

With the column now wrapped around and divided by the War Memorial the exit doors of both coaches opened simultaneously, folding back with an aggressive loud hiss. Dozens of young men and some girls leapt down onto the roadway with eager purpose, probably students, many dressed in retro, activist 70's garb; denim, long hair and some beards. Beads, nose rings, head-bands and Che Guevara T-shirts popular adornments, if not done to death decades past.

A number of them dragged banners and placards from the coaches' luggage lockers, distributing them among the swelling mob, already erupting with a barrage of cat-calls and dire threats if the shaken fists were anything to go by. A forest of boards sprouted above their tousled heads:

' _UA-F AGAINST FASCISM'_

'EFL -NAZI SCUM'

'DOWN WITH RACISTS AND BIGOTS' .

Chris halted the Landrover again, groaning with disbelief as the opposition protest surged forward with an obviously aggressive intent. Déjà vu swept over most of the home crowd who had watched the Remembrance Day altercation. This just couldn't be happening again. Chris had no intention of deliberately leading these townspeople into another violent confrontation. Quickly looking around, he was shocked to discover that the police presence had vanished leaving just their vehicles obstructing a swift escape route and no law enforcement body to check the momentum of these out of town troublemakers, almost certainly from London. Who were the UA-F anyway?

The Ryan brothers and the other members had reacted immediately, powering forward, forming the English Front Line to oppose the enemy head-on. Some took the time to frantically wave back their more peaceful companions and neighbours who had turned out that pleasant Saturday morning, to lodge and record their protest and displeasure in a peaceful and democratic manner. Yet now a battle had commenced.

Chris pressed hard on the horn, hoping to halt the advance and to alert the police to a conflict that his group would surely get the blame for. The stark truth had already dawned that the EFL and supporters had walked into a trap of sorts with official blessing.

But the blood was up now. The lads were in no mood to endure more aggravation from marauding outsiders. Like a medieval battle the front lines mashed against one another at the foot of the War Memorial. Punches flew, boots lashed out, placards used as offensive weapons. Accepting the reality, Chris was out of the War Horse launching himself across the cobbles to the heart of the conflict. No option now than to muck in and see off these grimy looking bastards.

The excitable presence of news photographers and TV cameras that had sprung from parked vans, confirmed any suspicion that another set-up had been planned, this time with spectacular success.

One of the opposition, a tall skinny youth with bright ginger hair and milky white arms protruding from a leather jerkin which bore a large badge bearing the letters, 'EFL', sought out and posed in front of eager cameramen. Raising his right bony fist in a Nazi salute he screamed out, "Kill the blacks, no wogs, we hate fucking Muslims!"

His spectacular performance however false and contrived would no doubt sparkle as a quick-fit news-clip for muck spreading media outlets, where slick delivery and practised indignation ruled the argument.

Chris veered off in his direction, vague thoughts of remonstrating before the cameras that this shit was not one of theirs, but just as quickly as he had appeared the lad disappeared back into the crowd, whooping with hilarity at the stunt he'd just pulled.

A petrol bomb shattered on the cobbles, flames racing through and around shoes and boots, licking up legs. A girl in a long granny frock, Caribbean style tresses and face pierced with gold hoops screamed, desperately, beating at the smouldering hem of her garment. Ned Ryan had a snarling, long haired UA-F 'warrior' trapped in an iron headlock, pummelling his face and neck with enraged anger.

Chris waylaid another, apparently intent on charging the gentlefolk huddling at the rear of the War Horse with open mouthed horror at the mayhem. Grabbing the lapels of his dirty denim jacket, also sporting a phony EFL badge, he head butted him until his legs wobbled and he sank down onto all fours like a whipped dog, blood and snot hanging in curtains from his re-modelled nose.

A raised arm threw a house-brick at the windscreen of the Landrover which merely bounced off, but still Chris plunged into the wrestling mob to nail the bastard until the chopping edge of a placard struck him in the exact same place as the police baton had just six days before. He swerved to one side, his vision clouding with black whorls, groggy but still on his feet, determined not to slide to the ground himself. His flailing hands found the cold stone rim of a Victorian horse trough to the side of the square, thankful for the nostalgic by-law that forbade its removal.

The clamour of frantic fighting ebbed and flowed all around him as he vaguely registered the clatter of shod horse-hooves, wondering, had mounted police come to break up the near riot? A bemused realisation came to him as he looked around to see that the mounted 'Crusader' had charged to his rescue, had snatched away the placard that was raised to hit him again, and was verily turning the punishment onto the attacker himself.

A hand gripped Chris's shoulder, squeezing hard enough to gain his attention through a fog of pain, but thankfully no blood this time. He turned his head to stare dully back at the face of Barry Wells, fear and distress writ large upon it.

"Chris, can you hear me mate? Speak to me."

He nodded slowly, the slight movement ripping a sharp pain through his head.

Barry pushed his face closer. "Grandpa needs you. It's serious, looks like he's had a heart attack!"

***

He had more tubes and cabling channelling in and out of him than the London Underground. Chris Carter sat still and quiet at grandpa's bedside, hands grasping at each other in his lap as he prayed fervently to a God he had forsaken for many years.

Henry Carter, tucked tightly under crisp white sheets and plugged into a bank of monitors, showed even less signs of life. There was barely any indication of his breathing, the big chest under the flimsy hospital gown as solid and stationary as the Heli-pad outside that they had brought him in by. Frantic Paramedics and hyper Crash-Teams had brought him back from the abyss. Now, only the quietly bleeping and humming electronic gear in that little side room, gave any promise of life.

Chris, refusing any treatment to his head wound, had been roundly scolded by an Angel in starched uniform. "What were you doing involving an old man like that in a street-fight?" The Sister had demanded, lips drawn tight across small white teeth, with seething disapproval.

Chris could only shake his head miserably, igniting fresh pain. "It was only meant to be a small protest march." He protested mildly, not in the mood to justify or argue right now.

The nurse had merely given him an old fashioned look that would have had the Victoria and Albert Museum in a swoon. The television news report in the ward's common room made him out a liar. Film footage had captured the mass brawl that rolled across Market Square, zooming in on the prone, tragic figure of his grandfather slumped down onto the cobbles like a fallen hero, the glint of medal metal askew across his chest.

One small and peculiar surprise for Chris on his hurried arrival at the A&E department was the shocked reaction of the two uniformed policeman who had pulled him on his first day home. It was they who had attended grandpa with coronary resuscitation until the Paramedics had arrived.

"Who are these bloody UA-F?" He had demanded of them on a second visit that afternoon.

The sergeant merely shrugged his shoulders. "Bloody animals!" He spat. "Someone could easily have gotten killed." He looked carefully over at grandpa on his bed. "Nearly was." He grunted.

The nurse returned, shooed off the constabulary before laying a conciliatory firm hand on Chris's slumped shoulder. "Hey, it's time that you made yourself scarce for a while young man. You've been cluttering up this place all afternoon and it's Doctor's rounds soon.

"Mr. Carter could well be out of it for some considerable time yet. Go home, eat, get some sleep." She noticed a fresh seepage of blood at the back of his head. "And you might want to get that wound seen to before you go."

Chris rose, leaned across, stroked the hairs on the back of grandpa's hand. "You'll phone if... ?"

"We'll phone. Now be off with you."

***

The sun had exhausted itself and crept back behind grey clouds for a rest by the time he had negotiated a warren of corridors and staircases in the hospital block and stepped out into the get-rich-quick car park facility. One small comfort over the copious amounts of money he'd feed the greedy ticket machine was that the War Horse easily occupied two of the mean parking spaces. Twenty quid didn't go far in this land of care for the sick and dying.

A car door slammed hurriedly behind him and he heard the slapping soles of running feet on tarmac. Turning his head too quickly in alarm, he saw a young woman chasing him down. He slowed his own pace, no point in fleeing from the press, they'd only make something up anyway if you didn't speak with them.

"Mr. Carter, er, Chris isn't it?" She stood close enough for him to feel the puffs of her laboured breath on his face, a short slight figure of a girl with short blond hair. "How is your grandfather Henry? I do hope that he'll be okay." She smiled sweetly, gazing up into his eyes with earnest concern.

"Since when did you ever give a flying fuck about other people Miss Lever?" He growled irritably. Grandpa had described her to a tee. "You're partly the cause for him being here. He's not been too well since you sicked the thought police onto him."

Her composed concern slipped a little as she stepped back into her own little space. "You seemed to have regained your aggression at the world rather quickly Mr. Carter. Perhaps the parole board got it wrong. Do you see me as 'the enemy'?"

"You are no friend, I know that much you little bitch. Read you're article, fond of 'chic-lit' are you?"

"I just report the reality mister." She snarled back, sugar and spice back in the packet. A pair of startled hospital staff in green scrubs edged past with curious looks back at them. "Flag waving Fascists like you and your comrades have to be outed."

Chris stared at her twisted, doll like features with exasperation. "We are merely local people trying to protect what is ours."

She cackled triumphantly for the benefit of the concealed digital recorder. "Just my point. A paramilitary mob out to attack anybody you deem to be foreign. Isn't that about the truth of it?"

"Bollocks!"

"You marched in the street with the rest of your storm-troopers, intimidating vulnerable people."

"You mean those families with kids? They can hardly be accused of being storm-troopers. Just local citizens demanding that the police and politicians get up off of their fat arses and do their job. Hardly world domination is it?"

"To support your Xenophobic ideals you mean? Flag waving, jingoistic songs?"

"Are you mad? The flag of St. George is the flag of England and Elgar is hardly Wagner: Scotsmen wear the kilt singing 'Scotland the Brave'; Welshmen wave their silly leaks to whole choirs belting out 'Men of Harlech'; Irishmen sing 'Danny Boy' or 'Galway Bay' sobbing into their Guinness; But if an Englishman waves his flag and sings Land of Hope and Glory he is smeared as a far right thug, Nazi or Fascist.

"Can _WE_ not be proud of our country too? What is it with you people?"

Shaking his head furiously despite the pain, Chris stomped off as Lucy Lever's mobile began to emit some Boy Band number. Benny Mann was calling. Slowly she returned to her car, phone clamped to her ear, all abuzz.

"Hello Benny."

"Hey babe, didn't my boys do well?" He chortled hoarsely, phlegm rattling in his airway.

"Yes dear, but don't forget the girls too."

"Would I ever forget girls?"

"Not while you have a working zip in your trousers you wouldn't. Do you want to hear some good news or some very good news?"

"As it comes."

"The old fart with the medals is in hospital. Heart attack during the disturbance your lot created. I'm just leaving there now. His grandson who is closely involved with the EFL is one real bad boy it turns out. Just released on a life-licence; a cop-killer would you believe?"

Benny Mann whistled thinly through yellowed teeth. "Now that is very, very good news."

"It gets even better honeybee." She gushed. "Daddy has seen to it that my Monday column be brought forward to the Sunday edition, but it has also been syndicated to at least three nationals. This riot of yours could be the making of me."

"Got to be worth a shag in the week then?"

"Why wait, where are you now tiger?"

"Uh, I'm in London with a BBC news editor of long acquaintance. We're doing a cut 'n shut job on the footage we got today in Holtingham. Should get it out in time for the six o'clock bulletin. Hollywood couldn't do it better. Be a real ball-breaker for this EFL. Power to the UA-F people! Great to have friends in the right places ain't it?

"Then I've got a couple of TV interviews lined up for Newsnight and Breakfast TV, educate the great unwashed British public all about those nasty Nazis in Holtingham."

"We're a winning team Benny."

"The race is already won Juicy Lucy. We'll do a lap of honour on that bed of yours in the week. Keep your motor running girl."

***

Chris turned the Landrover out onto the by-pass, eyes more focussed on the rear view mirror than on the road ahead. Grandpa had been right. That posh girl was a conniving little package, got her own agenda. Didn't everybody nowadays?

He was heading back towards Holtingham. On his way into town he would call into Squires Court, see if that absentee Sid had surfaced.

******
SIXTEEN

Anglian Chronical _: Sunday 18th November._

'Holtingham is a quiet English town bordering the Fenlands, that has been torn apart by a display of intolerance and hate reminiscent of Mosley's Blackshirts in the 1930's.

These events may be separated by over seventy years, but yesterday proved that the lessons of history are not always taken on board by some sections of society. Namely the sub-educated, lower socio-income strata of young white men ever eager to offload the burden of their own underachievement. Invariably, the targets for their resentment are minority groups amongst us who fled to this country seeking sanctity from persecution, torture and death, only to find parallel threats levelled at them from our home-bred despots.

Who are these renegades from decency, so filled with loathing for their fellow man? We have seen the rise and fall of the national Front and the stagnation of the BNP. Now in Holtingham we are seeing a new manifestation of the same old right wing extremists.

The English front Line (EFL), is just the latest manifestation of Neo-Fascist politics of supremacy and intolerance, hiding behind the gooey façade of patriotism and national pride.

They marched yesterday against the express advice of the Chief Constable, to accuse the town's Asian population for the recent rise in petty vandalism; the real perpetrators we can only guess at.

The self appointed Standartenfuehrer of this stalwart band, defenders of an England that exists only in their stunted, Bier-Keller fuelled imaginations, is one Christopher Carter, thirty-four years of age. He has only just returned to Holtingham after a long absence. He was recently released on licence from Her Majesty's Prison Norwich after serving fifteen years for the brutal murder of a young police officer in 1997.

Just to add to the general loveliness of the Carter family, his grandfather Henry Carter, is currently awaiting a decision from the Director of Public Prosecutions office whether to proceed on a charge of Hate Crime after a virulent, verbal outburst directed against the immigrant population of Holtingham

I understand that he is currently receiving hospital treatment after his participation in yesterday's violent disorder, during which EFL members viciously attacked, without provocation, a small number of counter-demonstrators opposing them and their views. Namely members of the pacifist Union of Anti-Fascists (UA-F), a decade old movement founded and led by Mr. Bernard Mann, a veteran campaigner for equality and world peace. Indeed the UA-F receive a degree of government funding in recognition of a proud record in opposing far right organisations and their attempts to be engaged in the democratic process's of this country.

To quote Mr. Mann, "The EFL are yet another insidious conspiracy to incite racial tension and the demonization of Islam. As a humane and progressive multi-cultural society, we in Britain must all link our arms to deny passage for these people towards their ambitions. We cannot, will not, tolerate another Holocaust."

A sentiment that I wholly endorse and call on our police chiefs to ensure a fitting punishment for those who tore apart this quiet English town yesterday, and for the Mother of Parliaments, to have the moral courage to ban this conspiracy of evil - the English Front Line!

Lucy Lever _: community and current affairs correspondent._

***

Chris shook his head in utter disbelief, pain flaring behind his eyes, but nowhere as acute as that in his heart. "Are they allowed to print these lies?" He moaned in despair.

Barry Wells put his pint glass back down onto the small table between them. "Depends on who has the biggest lawyers."

"I thought there was an inquiry going on into press ethics and standards, to protect people like us."

"Celebrity are you? You can forget all that baloney, ain't going to happen. Not for the likes of us."

"But we're just protecting what's ours. Since when has self-defence been political extremism?"

"Since during the time you went into prison and came out again fifteen years later. Half of this country is living in a fantasy world of their own making, and the other half are too frightened to point out a few home-truths for fear of being labelled racist, homophobic and all the other homo's, and getting dragged into a kangaroo court. Grandpa being a case of illustration."

In sheer frustration Chris screwed the newspaper into a tight ball and threw it at the wall behind them.

"Oi!" the barman admonished. "What do you think this is, a basket-ball court?"

"How is your grandpa now?" Barry asked, changing the subject quickly.

Chris stared into his drink, deflated. "Saw him this morning, not much change there. Showing some signs of awareness, eyelids fluttering, that sort of thing. But his age, who knows?"

"Going again today? I'd like to come too if that is all right."

"'Course mate." Chris made no attempt to hide his pleasure and gratitude. "Tell you what, let's risk a bite of lunch here then go and see if Sid's back on our way out of town. I tried again yesterday but no luck.

"Getting a bit worried actually, I'm sure he'd have said something if he was going away for a time."

"That bugger is probably yomping all the way back to Afghanistan. He ain't finished with those bastards yet. Too much history now poor sod."

***

As to be expected, the warden of Squires Court was not to be found around the development or in her own bungalow. Sunday afternoon Barry had suggested, she'd probably be with all the other women of a certain age down at the Bingo Hall. Cut-price gaming for the masses. Kept them off of the streets, injected a sliver of hope into bereft lives. For a surreal moment, Chris pondered if Sid had gone with them.

For want of anything better to do, they strolled across to Sid's front door, the 'let yourself in' notice limp and yellowed in the damp November air. With no response to their knock, Barry, exasperated, reached for the handle.

"Fuck this, if it's open lets have a peek. He could be trapped in the bath with his only big toe stuck up a tap."

Surprised that the door was actually unlocked with the owner gone for some days, they edged guiltily along the narrow hallway like naughty schoolboys on a dare. The sound of angry voices in the lounge was quite distinct from there. Barry, slightly in front hesitated, until Chris prodded him forward.

"The note specifically invited us in." He whispered. "So go on."

Tentatively they stepped into the room where James Cagney was bad-mouthing a Chicago cop. Chris turned the TV off, frowning as he looked about the shadowy room.

"Obviously left in a big hurry."

"Blimey, I know that Sid ain't too big on housekeeping, only having one leg and arm and all. But even for Sid this place is looking very under-class chic." Barry was looking concerned himself now.

"True." Chris nodded at an overturned chair, the coffee table pushed aside at an odd angle. There was a mug laying on the sofa cushions, a damp patch of coffee or tea staining the fabric. "Let's look around his bedroom?"

Neither could claim an intimate knowledge of Sid 'Sandwich's' wardrobe, but the impression was that no significant amount of clothing had been taken anywhere. A rather battered but serviceable suitcase sat quite accessible on the top of a freestanding wardrobe. Alongside it was also a bulging, Khaki-brown kit bag, presumably stuffed with his army gear.

In a drawer Barry found a biscuit tin containing his passport and driving licence for which he would possibly have no further use with his disabilities. More worrying was a worn and cracked leather wallet containing forty pounds, credit and debit cards along with other personal paraphernalia.

He clicked his tongue looking very thoughtful. "How long do you think he's been gone?"

"I saw him on Monday, tried again on Friday, but he'd gone a while by then. So anything from three to five days? There's no telling."

Barry returned the items to the tin, shut it in the drawer. "So he ain't just popped out to the chippy then."

"Who's going to notify the police, report him as a missing person. He's got no family, and I wouldn't get much credence if I go walking through their door as a publicly minded citizen."

"Probably shoot you on sight." Barry's eyes slid sideways at the window. "Looks like our Warden lady has returned. Why not get her motivated enough to do her fucking job and report his unexplained disappearance? She should get more attention from the boys and girls in blue if she calls it in."

"Not a bad idea." Chris agreed. "leave her with it then go and see grandpa. If she gets no joy by morning I'll dig out some details of that hospital in Birmingham he's under and that limb fitting centre, give them both a ring. There's always a possibility .. "

"Yeah, life is full of possibilities."

***

He was beginning to find Yasir Davi the newly elected Police and Crime Commissioner for northern Cambridgeshire an irksome little shite. Particularly when his Sunday afternoon at his country cottage in Hampshire was being disturbed after a wonderful lunch at an exclusive little restaurant that had no need to advertise itself; indeed would vet potential diners before condescending to reserve a table for them.

"Yes, yes, Yasir. I have seen the news report, but frankly I cannot conduct the business and responsibilities of my Ministry on the basis of sensationalist bullshit. ...... Yes, I was talking of the BBC...... No, I have never heard of them. What do they call themselves?...... The English Front Line? Assuming you are not confusing them with 'Dad's Army'...... Okay I apologise. But I would need to know much more about this group before I could even consider issuing a Banning Order....... Mmm, I understand that the UA-F were also involved in this fracas...... Well it didn't appear that way to me. Giving as good as they got was how it looked to me...... I know they are widely respected in some quarters, but not in mine I have to say...... Yes I know he does . This government is awash with 'posh' boys looking for street-cred'. Me, I'm a grammar school boy myself. Ultimately, if it came to that, I would have to do as directed with a stiff upper lip.

"But until then Yasir I will examine the known facts of the occurrence at Holtingham yesterday and let you know...... Good, we'll speak soon, enjoy what is left of the weekend. Goodbye."

With a grimace of annoyance and distaste, Roger Palmer, Home Secretary, switched off his mobile then jabbed at the log fire in front of him with a long wrought iron poker. Stretching out luxuriously in his leather recliner, he was soon back asleep.

Tomorrow was another day. Sundays were for eating and sleeping.

***

Grandpa apparently was much improved. He had regained consciousness hours before and was already demanding to be let home. Impossible of course, but encouraging non-the-less.

Yes Chris and his friend could go in and visit him now for a short while, but they were not to get him worked up over anything. That, Chris interpreted, as a delicate instruction not to discuss the Sunday newspapers.

One eye popped open as the two young men sidled into his small room and around to each side of his bed..

"Gawd, I thought I was seeing double there for a second. How are you Barry?"

Barry grinned a little forcibly as he sat down in a visitors' chair. "I'm fine Mr. Carter. More to the point, how are you now?"

Henry Carter snorted like a tethered bull. "Bloody bored in here! They won't give me my trousers back so I can leave." He looked imploringly at Chris. "You come to fetch me lad?"

Chris shook his head emphatically, the pain was easing now. "No grandpa. The doctors want you in here for a few days yet. Don't argue with them, they know what they are talking about. You had a real bad turn, need rest and quiet. No more street riots." He smiled guardedly, could have bitten his tongue off.

The old man's face darkened suddenly. "Those yobs attacked us, who were they?"

Chris shrugged. "Just some rent-a-mob from London. Left wing professional agitators, not one of them ever had a job I suspect. Filthy capitalists one day, motorway by-passes the next. Somebody let them loose on us for whatever reason."

Henry's chin jutted forward combatively, still the old warrior. "Time was I'd have been in there with you boys, broke a few heads." He sighed nostalgically. "How is your mate Sid, coping is he?"

Chris and Barry exchanged a quick glance across the bed top.

"Uh-huh, He's gone back up to Birmingham for further treatment. It'll take a long while to get him back together in half reasonable shape." Chris lied.

"Marvellous places those new military hospitals. Our lads deserve the best care available."

"Yep, don't worry about Sid grandpa. I'll bet he is in good hands."

******
SEVENTEEN

Why he should suffer Monday morning blues in accord with the countless hordes of trolls queuing in the rain for unreliable transport, or sitting in stationary traffic as they dragged their weary souls back to work, he couldn't fathom.

At fifty-five years of age Roger Palmer had only ever known seven day working weeks and had never clocked-in anywhere in his former life. A former Olympian long distance runner, he had embarked upon life's treacherous journey with the desperation charged enthusiasm of a young man from a modest background with grand ambition: grab his share.

Manufacturing had been his natural route to material success, graduating with an engineering degree; evolving from a flop haired young entrepreneur to a captain of industry knocking out heavy earth moving machinery for the construction industry.

His own mid-life crisis, erupting in his late forties, was not for open topped sports cars or outrageous toupees, but for politics. A passion conceived by anger and frustration at the manipulation of reoccurring boom and bust economics for the calculated enrichment of banks and their politician lackeys.

With just a vague plan of beating them at their own games, he had sold his struggling factories and offices to a Chinese conglomerate more accustomed to a child and slave-labour work pool. Taking his millions he joined his local party of choice. Millions that were eviscerated quite expertly by an avaricious second ex-wife, directionless twin sons and large party donations which at least rewarded him with selection to stand at the next election which he won to the surprise of all.

Now his drive and commitment that had pushed him to the top of the dirty pile in both industry and politics had drained his legendary energy. Metaphorically he was spent, breathless with hands on knees bent double at the finish line.

Being Home Secretary he had found, just weeks into the job, was not the exhilarating pinnacle of self achievement he was accustomed to. But a tiresome Rollerball race enacted in an endless circular track strewn with deadly ambush. The haunt of political and media cut-throats clad in tailored suits, skating up from behind, ready to stab and hack remorselessly in a moment's relaxation of caution or judgement. He was tired, disillusioned, wallowing in a deep mud pool of uncertain footing.

Glum faced he gazed abstractedly out of the tall, sealed-unit windows of the Home Office block on Marsham Street, tucked up the arse end of Westminster. Not even a decent view of the river. Outside snow fell steadily onto the grimy bricks and mortar he overlooked, laying a protective cape over the grim reality: a fragile deceit so readily melted away under the heat of daylight exposure. So very much like politics.

A soft knock on his office door was merely the prim, perfunctory politeness as expected before it opened regardless of invitation. His Principal Private Secretary, Graham Turner glided into the room with an economy of visible effort.

"You rang through for me Minister?" He enquired lightly, his greeting totally lacking in warmth or familiarity. A Civil Servant of the most traditional order.

He was a tall man, very thin, a hovering spectral presence, habitually clad in tailored black and white; an undertaker moonlighting as a butler. He stood before the Home Secretary's wide desk bent forward like a tower crane, a hazard to aeronautical traffic.

Graham Turner's role was to serve, advise, assist his current Minister's every action, thought and proposition with honesty, integrity and above all, impartiality. Totally non-political, the Civil Service Private Secretaries were servant to no one political creed or conviction. When one Minister moved on there was always another hovering in the opened doorway with new enthusiasms and misconceptions that needed guidance, caution, re-writing; their arses wiped.

"Yes Graham I certainly did." Palmer rolled his chair around from the window and looked all the way up at him. "I take it you read the papers yesterday?"

"Some Minister. The popular press I use for fire-lighters. Don't you find that damp coal is a bugger to light?" His face creased into a ghastly grimace that Palmer guessed was a smile.

"Well there was a bit of a set-to, public disorder on Saturday out in the 'Shires', small town of Holtingham. Some local lads calling themselves the English Front Line marching on the Muslim hordes, came to blows with the UA-F."

"I did see something on that occurrence. Hardly a Clash of the Titans Minister, a threat to the fabric of our society." The PPS sniffed dismissively. "Yobs is yobs, that's what they do best."

"That's as maybe." Roger Palmer twirled a pen on his blotter, studied it until it ceased movement, as if the direction at which it settled would point to mystical guidance. "But the matter has become official concern to a degree. One of our shiny new Police and Crime Commissioners, Mr. Yasir Davi, has made an official request that this 'EFL', be proscribed as an illicit organisation and a banning order be put in place.

"In fact if you take his testimony as gospel, the whole town has become a hotbed of National Socialism and strutting brown shirts."

"So, feeling his feet, flexing those wannabe muscles, got the foreman's job at last, yes?"

"Not exactly. Our Mr. Davi was the sitting MP for that constituency, a Junior Minister in the Education Department. Had to resign his seat to take up his new role. Prior to all that he was a defence lawyer, renowned for sticking it to the establishment, in particular the police force, over minority rights; due and denied. A regular thorn in the side of the DPP and Chief Constable. Now with his new powers he has virtually become their keeper, got them dancing to his personal hornpipe. That's democracy in action for you."

"Ah, now I'm beginning to get your drift. Think I remember Mr. Davi. Would he be... ?"

"Yes he would be. An ardent promoter of Muslim interests and advancement in the UK. A leading light in the Council Of Muslim Britain."

"And the EFL?"

Protesters against alleged Islamic militants. Vigilantes if you prefer, creating some mayhem over their Jihadist activity; guilt unproven but probable."

"The UA-F? Now if memory serves me well are the self styled Union of Anti-Fascists, usual breed of unwashed, pop-up revolutionaries. A bit of a brawl turning delicate then?"

"Is that what it is Graham, delicate?"

"Oh I should say so. The Prime Minister for one is very keen on minority sensitivities."

"The sensitive minority being Muslims?"

"Rather! Islam is the new growth industry in vote cultivation amongst your most honourable colleagues, as well as the opposition parties. Haven't you noticed?"

"Usual abeyance to political correctness I thought. Just media munch as far as I am concerned."

Graham Turner tentatively stroked the side of his long nose with a long fore-finger. "I think that you underestimate the situation Minister."

"I do, do I?" The Home Secretary's response part cynical, part curious.

"It would seem so sir. Consider this: currently Muslims from the various nationalities and sects, amount to nearly five percent of the British population. That is approximately three million souls."

"Multi-culturism at work then."

"Granted, but what is more important in the priority stakes of your political siblings and particularly your predecessors in this noble office, is the size of the voting block that they represent."

"Why the assumption that their voting intentions would coagulate into a block vote? That's a bit of an assumption isn't it? These people are British citizens from all walks of life, as individual as say, Christians in their views on their identity and preferences."

Turners eyebrows arched ever so slightly, the smallest indication of personal concern. "I am rather surprised sir that you have not previously been better briefed on this matter which the situation demands, given the raft of responsibilities that you bear."

"Yes? Well Graham, I rather supposed that that was your responsibility, which is why I have requested your attendance. So, please educate your Minister."

"Certainly, but all I can give you are statistical facts. The political take on them is not in my brief sir."

Palmer was growing impatient with the Civil Service verbal courtship . "Get on with it Graham." He all but snarled.

"Well, the worrying trend supported by informed statistics, is that our brother Muslim Britons are procreating at a rate tenfold of any other ethnic grouping in Britain. That includes us, the indigenous population."

"Good Lord!"

"Sadly the good Lord may well find his seniority within these shores hotly contested in the not too distant future. If the figures are correct, in twenty-five to thirty years time, Muslims will constitute the largest single religious segment of the British population. Compare that with the reality of today that over fifty percent of Londoners are foreign born. So, if democracy is adhered to, given that block vote, it is a certainty that this blessed Isle will become an Islamic state, possibly within our lifetimes.

"Just don't tell the British public. Why worry them now with the inevitable?"

Palmer's jaw dropped and he pushed his chair back from the desk as if to escape from this cadaverous prophet of doom, rubbing the back of his head as if clubbed from behind. He stared up at his PPS with illogical belligerence.

"Statistically? Who was it said that there were, ' _Lies, damned lies, and statistics'_?

"Look these people come to this country to _escape_ from their own God forsaken, medieval hell-holes don't they. Surely then they would fight tooth and nail to prevent such a thing happening here?"

Graham Turner shook his head with sad amusement at his Minister's naivety. "The establishment of Khilafah is an urgent obligation on _all_ Muslims world-wide regardless of their peaceful outlook or radicalisation. That is a common leadership, with the role to establish the laws of Islamic Shari'ah and carry the Da'wah of Islam to the rest of the world. Failure to undertake this duty is one of the greatest sins according to Mohammed.

"Simply put, any Muslim in Britain, is required by his religion to establish Khilafah, turn this country into a Caliphate, Islamic state, ruled by a Caliph."

"As in Ayatollah Khomeini?"

"Correct."

"No way would British Muslims want that regardless of what is taught in the mosque."

"Surveys reveal that eighty-one percent of them classify themselves as Muslim before being British. Particularly the second generation born here, brought up amongst us in our culture. Many see themselves as returning to their 'roots' as it were ,with blind abeyance to a radical translation of Islam that demands the death of all Kafurs, non-believers; that's you and me by the way.

"They are being encouraged by rogue clerics to adopt extremism, 7/7 being one example and the numerous other plots that have thankfully failed or been nipped in the bud, due mainly to their amateur planning. This is a purely wanton policy as sheer logistics will eventually deliver up what they wish for.

"A new, rather pathetic manifestation which began in Whitechapel, are hooded gangs laying in wait outside their mosques accosting passers by, berating and threatening young women in 'scanty' clothes and anybody seen carrying alcohol. They have even filmed this activity, including physical assault on obvious homosexuals, posting them on U-Tube.

"Going back on the statistics, seventy percent of our Muslim citizens favour the arrest and prosecution of anybody they perceive to insult Islam. Some demand harsher penalty. Take Salman Rushdie for example. His 'crime' of leaving the faith is strictly forbidden under Sharia law, equated to treason under a charge of Apostasy, for which the penalty is death."

"Sharia Law? " Palmer tilted his head to one side tapping at his front teeth with a blunt fingernail, slightly agitated. "You mean stoning rape victims to death, amputating the hands off of minor felons? Just as well that in Britain we have our own civilised rule of law."

"That may be so at present. Forty percent of British Muslims want their Sharia Law, the Law of God, introduced in the UK. I do not want to worry you, but the process has already started. Mr. Blair's government quietly sanctioned local Sharia Courts to rule on family disputes through the Muslim Arbitration Council which operates to this today."

Roger Palmer looked openly dismayed. "The thin end of the wedge then?"

"Indeed, a concession which has only whetted the fanatics' appetite for Khilafah to replace the national identity of Great Britain, which is to be stripped away in favour of an Islamic doctrine, putting us all under the rule of the Imams and Sharia Law."

The Home Secretary looked rather pale. "That could never happen."

Turner's twisted grimace of a smile excelled itself. "Oh, but it will. It is happening now. The virtual colonisation of this island by a thousand little cuts. The Muslims of the world are simply replicating what the Europeans did in invading other lands and imposing Christianity on the indigenous populations.

"All the indications are that the rest of the Western world will follow suit, succumb to the flood of Islamic immigration and breeding patterns. Some cases, maybe Holland or France, could precede us. America would be particularly vulnerable given their Bill of Rights. Democratic nations have no defence against the insidious infiltration of an alien culture that utilises our own laws and freedom of expression for minorities, against us.

"So Minister, whilst you and the security services fight the radicals and home-grown terrorists, it is the good Muslims, law abiding citizens of this country with rights and more importantly the vote, who ultimately will deliver what their Allah demands of them.

"Which brings us full circle as they say, to your little problem in little Holtingham."

"Smack bang up against it Graham."

The tall Civil Servant nodded a sombre confirmation, stepped back from the desk, precipitating the conclusion of his duties.

"So Minister, have I performed my duties in assisting you in your decision making?"

Roger Palmer stared bleakly back at him, lost, bewildered. The pencil snapped between his fingers; it had failed to point in the right direction. "Yes Graham, I rather believe that you have. Thank you."

With a crisp little click of shiny heels, the consummate Civil Servant left the office, the polished door shutting behind him with a whisper of a sigh.

***

It had taken him long enough to get around to it. Walking about in clothes bought fifteen years and more before, and frankly didn't fit too well now, was not to be desired. But neither was trailing up and down the High Street laden with plastic carrier bags and shoe boxes. Yet it did serve to take his mind off of present worries.

The EFL had unanimously voted to suspend any further night time patrols and to keep a low profile. The mosque vigilantes, 'The Invaders', had been conspicuous only by their reluctance to show their swaggering presence lately, even before Saturday's little debacle.

His grandfather Henry seemed to be reviving quite nicely, certainly for an eighty-nine year old. But the warning had been written on the wall in glowing capitals. The beginning of the end was in sight; depressing but inevitable.

As for Sid, the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham had no knowledge of his whereabouts or intentions. If anything the doctor that Chris had spoken to on the telephone had sounded a little concerned for his patient, if not miffed at the lack of contact. Sergeant Sydique Sahni could, in theory, still be adjudged AWOL if he did not report his whereabouts soon.

The warden of Squires Court had attended the police station to report one of her charges missing, but the local constabulary's concerns for a young adult in a least a sound frame of mind and relatively mobile, were not overwhelming.

Suddenly tired of the whole shopping experience, Chris turned on his heel and pushed contra-flow through the crowded pavement, in the direction of Mafeking Road and home.

***

He was getting a dab hand at this cooking lark. Micro-wave ovens were a wonderful thing if you remembered to take the packaging off. Not that he had particularly felt hungry but the clock had declared it lunch time so he ate. Routines were strictly adhered to in Her Majesty's prisons.

Any appetite he may have accrued had been rudely depleted on his return home to find Mr. Piper, grandpa's next door but one neighbour for over thirty years, standing at their gate with a sad, perplexed look on his lined face. He'd removed the old rosewood pipe that he never lit from his mouth as Chris approached and stood alongside him with a frown of enquiry.

"Just what do you think the education budget per pupil runs out at nowadays?" Mr. Piper asked. When Chris followed his gaze at the house, a punch of dismay and indignation had hit him in the solar plexus. Scrawled with white chalk in two foot high lettering on the brickwork alongside the front door was the endearing greeting: 'NARTSY SKUM'. "I'd have gotten the cane at school for spelling that bad." He mused, tapping his empty pipe-bowl on the gate post before sticking the thing back into his mouth.

"Chances nowadays are that it was done by one of the bloody teachers ." He turned around, preparing to go. "Now if you'd been a famous poet young man, the council would have stuck a blue plaque up there commemorating your residence in Holtingham."

He winked as he stepped around Chris and wandered off in the direction of the High Street to go and draw his pension. "Give Henry my best wishes will you? May even get in to see him myself if the old bugger is not home soon."

It took but a matter of minutes to remove the graffiti with a bowl of water and a scrubbing brush, but the sense of violation of grandpa's home would sour his feelings for much longer. A feeling of guilt that he had brought this about himself burned deep; it seemed that all his adult life trouble was ever at his door. Now, literally.

Having finished his meal, he dumped the dishes into the kitchen sink as the front door bell rang. He froze for a second, visions of a torch bearing lynch mob from town at his door flashed through his aggrieved thoughts. But the shock awaiting him as he threw it back, braced for altercation with any 'Banksy' wannabe looking for a face to face, quivered all the way down to his boots.

"Hello Chris." Alison stood on his front step, her voice tinny and tense under the stress of what she had finally forced herself to do.

He could only stare back at her, a stupid expression on his whitened face, tongue stuck to the roof of his dry mouth.

"It's been a long time." She tried again, face twitching with nerves, her whole body seemingly poised for flight.

Noisily he cleared his throat, a dry rasping sound like a bronchial dog. "What's fifteen years between friends?" Was all he could whisper, the attempted humour not working its way through.

"Friends Chris. Is that all we were?" Her eyes grew moist with anger or hurt he couldn't tell.

He glanced over her shoulder at the little Nissan parked tight into the kerb. Not bad parking for a woman he noted with near surreal thought. A baby chair was strapped into the front passenger seat, a small pink hand fluttered into view through the glass.

"What can I say?" He shrugged, genuinely at a loss for any meaningful comment. "Do you want to come in Alison?" Just saying her name threatened to seize up his vocal chords.

"No best not Chris, can't leave the little one out here, and if I take him out of the car now there'll be hell to pay later. It's time for his feed back home."

"Oh, I see." His mind was racing like an engine on full throttle with the clutch pedal down. "What do you want then?" Blunt but honest.

Her face, which he could now see this close, had acquired a few worry lines across her once smooth forehead, crows feet at the corners of those big liquid eyes, and pinked over like a colour-wash.

"You were never a man of words Chris."

He grimaced, the ghost of a private smile loitering there. "Not likely to get a blue plaque on _my_ front wall either."

Alison gave him a moment's baffled, suspicious look. "I just had to come by and say this Chris." She swallowed hard, a tremor in her voice now. "Despite what happened, what you did, how you treated me after, I could forgive and forget. If you wanted to take up where we left off, you know, be an item again, nothing has really changed, not for me it hasn't."

Words swirled around his tongue, but for an appalled moment he could only stare at her, eyes wide with disbelief. When he could finally speak his voice came out as a strangled croak.

" _Nothing has changed_? Are you kidding me Alison? You have a husband and two children. Barry is also my best friend who has lost everything; his home, family, self respect.

"Do you really think that I am so callous as to rub his nose into this sort of shit you are suggesting. What happened has happened. I don't blame either of you for getting together, trying to make a life for yourselves. I was well and truly out of the running.

"Rather stupidly, when I came back I did entertain thoughts of some great romantic re-union. But we are different people now Alison. Strangers. So just go back to your husband while you can still do so. Think of your children at least. They won't want a stranger for a dad. They want Barry back, and frankly, so should you."

She stepped back suddenly as if he'd slapped her face. No tears flowed, but the distraught look on it twisted his insides with agonising savagery. Without another word she turned to stride angrily away, slamming the gate so hard the metal catch snapped. Chris stood watching her car spin away from the kerb, revving noisily as gears crunched.

"That's more like a woman driver." He said aloud. Hating himself quietly.

***

He was cold, shivering violently. His whole body hurt from when they had beaten him with sticks, and yes, he was very frightened. He had been held in this black hole it seemed for ever. No means to determine minutes from hours, night from day, days from a week.

They'd brought him minimal amounts of food, disgusting swill, spitting into it before dropping it beside his huddled form with a snarl, and sometimes a kick at his arm or ribs. What exactly they wanted from him he did not know, yet had known that something of this nature was always a possibility.

Closing his eyes was academic, there was nothing to see in this perpetual darkness ,only broken by painful light from the doorway as they came and went. He laid his head back down on filthy damp straw. Whatever fate awaited him, there was little he could do to avert it. This much he did know.

******
EIGHTEEN

"Chief Constable Beaumont, as newly elected PCC for this region I would remind you of my previous warning. It is my responsibility to safeguard the interests of the community I represent. In short, you will perform your duties in a manner that is acceptable to these citizens of Holtingham."

Though feeling suitably browbeaten, the policeman sat up straight behind his desk, fixing his unannounced visitor with a stern look.

"And as I understand it, the remit of your shiny new role is to serve _all_ of the electorate, not just any one favoured segment of it."

Yasir Davi's eyebrows beetled in a righteous scowl. "That comment sounds suspiciously like it has racist undertones to me Chief Constable."

Beaumont pulled miserably at a reddening earlobe, reliving sharp memories of scathing cross examination in the witness box when a much junior officer by the then Yasir Davi QC.

"D - does it?" He countered lamely, regretting already his rare stance of discord. "I am j - just pointing out that these young men who s - style themselves as the EFL, were merely ordinary f - family men not so long ago, and are also worthy of your representation. Are they n - not?" He glanced down at a letter open on his desk received just that morning, feeling slightly buoyed up. "And I gather that the Home Secretary is of m - much the same opinion."

"Racist thugs, Nazis!" Davi's fist pounded the desk top, a spatter of spittle dotting its surface.

"That is a rather d - damning charge Mr. Davi. There is a precedence in English law that guilt must be established before any s - sentence or punishment is meted out." The policeman stated mildly.

"I am very well versed in English law sir as you are well aware. But that ancient out of touch legacy now has a modern codicil, in that we observe consideration for a politically correct interpretation. It is my avowed intent as this region's PCC to ensure that you do so."

"And the UA-F?"

Beaumont's downcast eyes slid nervously across the office to the tousled figure sat slumped in a corner, a wry smile hovering on unshaven features. Benny Mann had been introduced vaguely as Yasir Davi's advisor on extremist groups.

"The UA-F are an accredited organisation that has the ear of cross party MP's and are recipients of government funding for their sterling work."

"Creating s - street riots?"

A snarl of frustration hissed from between Davi's perfect white teeth. "The UA-F have a proud history of combating white extremist scum that lay sole claim to this land." His voice lowered, calm and threatening. "May I remind you _Mister_ Beaumont, my position encompasses the power to remove any Chief Constable if I deem that necessary. Am I making my point clear?"

Oliver Beaumont swallowed with difficulty, thought he would gag his throat was so dry. He rubbed his soft red face with slim, damp hands.

"V - very clear Mr. Davi." His nasally voice scraped through thin, bloodless lips, a mere whisper. "Let me pull the f - file on this Christopher Carter. With his history it looks as if he is s - skating on very thin ice. Quite likely he'll fall through it at any time s - soon."

Benny Mann sniggered, spoke for the first time. "Then he'll 'swim with the fishes. Problem solved all round gentlemen." His wide, delighted grin was missing a couple of yellowed teeth.

***

It had been a very satisfactory Tuesday morning. The Chief Constable of the County had been brought to heel in no uncertain terms by a Police and Crime Commissioner, jumping through burning hoops himself to avoid a melt-down of his own professional and private life. Yep, himself and Kamal Khan would make a winning team alright.

Benny Mann entered the outskirts of Luton, a quick lunch behind him, pigged on at a roadside eatery on the A505 down from Cambridge. He felt energised, ready to gallop a long, flat course, straight and true ahead. Must have been that horse meat in the beef-burgers.

The mosque he had been directed to was bigger, more imposing on the town's façade than the one at Holtingham. A purpose built edifice with cupolas and minarets, built to impress, or at least overshadow the little Methodist Chapel crouching sulkily just one hundred yards away. Yes, a fitting venue he thought. The preachers of hate and murder, rogue Imams from across the midlands and the north, were descending on Luton to formulate the raising of a great army of mujahideen; hopefully in excess of two thousand British born muslims, indoctrinated and recruited at their places of worship, schools and colleges in grey English towns. The great quest was coming home to roost.

Young, men of confused identity, free to exist, mix and merge within the ranks of their avowed foes, whilst sheltering beneath the umbrella of their own communities who could be relied upon to hold their tongues, through covert sympathy or under the threat of severe punishment for betrayal of the Brethren.

Benny Mann himself didn't care a hoot for Islamist expansionism, didn't really believe it could happen. But he was more than happy to assist in social unrest and disruption of ordinary, fruitful lives. His only motivation since the hazy, drug spiced 70's, was to destroy the tattered banner of democracy, truth and justice that fluttered weakly over fortress Britain; barely at half mast now and still slipping down the pole.

He left the car in a nearby multi-story car-park to wander back along unfamiliar pavements towards the great rally. Already local people were watching with dark suspicion the robed figures of muslim Holy men converging on the mosque that mocked.

Benny spotted the tall stern figure of Kamal Khan, striding unconcerned across the busy road through moving traffic, his retinue of scarred minders and lackeys skipping between the cars like the herd of goats he had abandoned in the Punjab hills when a young boy.

Mann slipped into a narrow alley, like a feral cat seeking fish heads in the bins there, quick shifty eyes busy, to a more discreet side entrance. It was known by his hosts, or at least suspected, that MI5 agents occasionally conducted bored surveillance operations from a defunct dry-cleaning premises opposite. That nugget of info was merely added spice to an aging agitator with long experience of the security services, a brain addled on banned substances and the self pitying, persecution trauma of a spoilt childhood.

As he knocked furtively on a paint peeling door, he buzzed with an enhanced excitement. He could feel it in his juices, this enterprise was to be the one. An ultimate inside job, aliens tearing out through the stomach walls from within. How could the great beast of England fight a foe that burrowed inside its own vital organs?

***

Chris stood at the doorway, watching as brilliant white emulsion was rollered across grandpa's bedroom ceiling. It presented an acute contrast to the discoloured and smeared surface that was rapidly disappearing.

It had taken the lads over two hours that morning to scrub off and seal the strata of nicotine and time borne dirt, a patination of life spent in this simple but loved house. The walls had been stripped of floral wallpaper that had been hung during the era of the Vietnam war disaster. Turgid, dark brown paintwork, rubbed down, filled and a soft cream eggshell acrylic paint was being applied.

Nobby Clark and his work team had steamed into the task early that Tuesday morning, barely pausing at lunchtime for hot sweet tea and cheese rolls.

"Sorry I have to charge you at all Chris, but I have to pay my blokes and I'm scrapping the bottom of the money pit myself." Nobby apologised a little sheepishly. "Those bloody East Europeans are flooding the building trade, undercutting me something terrible, and half of them have never picked up a paint brush in their lives. Hardly a tradesman amongst them apart from some of the Poles."

Chris patted his shoulder. "No worries Nobby. I don't expect a freebie, and if I want to pay peanuts I'll only get monkeys. Let's face it, society has kept me for the past fifteen years. I really appreciate you coming in at such short notice. Grandpa's coming home Friday, he'll think he's walked into the wrong house.

"I've got some new carpet being laid in here Thursday and an electric wall heater fitted. That'll do until I can get some central heating organised in the New Year. When they've finished tearing the place apart perhaps you lot can come back and do the rest of the place. I'll see if I can get grandpa away for a couple of weeks, somewhere warm, but where he won't try to shoot the natives."

That got a laugh from the four decorators. A heartfelt laugh.

***

Lucy Lever sat glumly at her desk, absentmindedly shredding a pack of tissues, the mess accumulating all around her. It was a habit she had acquired as a sulky toddler who couldn't get her own way _. Bad daddy, bad mummy!_

It had been two days since her own exclusive on the 'Holtingham Riot', as she thought of it, popping up onto the pages of some Sunday Nationals. Okay, not exactly on the front pages; yobs brawling in some provincial hick town didn't set the presses alight. But her name was on that report in bold type, a sure promise that she was on her way to being a big shot reporter, daddy had assured her.

But that fucking phone had not rung and what was wrong with her e-mail account? No invitations to enter those citadels of her ambition. She was stuck out here in the muddy shires, undervalued and ill utilised in her estimation. A resentment was mushrooming in dark corners of her mind that daddy was lacking in commitment to her golden career, buying his way into such a rabid little county news-sheet she wouldn't line a litter tray with.

And the editor hated her, she knew that for a fact. The bastard objected to her being foisted upon his meagre staff budget, having to find a nothing slot to keep her occupied. She knew he was still a drinking buddy of that old prat Norman Batty, dripping poison about her into each others' whiskery ears over pints of brown and mild or whatever ancient wrinklys drank these days.

Come to think of it, the whole of the staff hated her too. Jealous they were, damned turnip-head bumpkins. Couldn't write a shopping list between them whilst she was confined to a small Monday morning filler column.

"Lucy?"

She looked up sharply, startled out of her reverie. Simon the spotty little school leaver post-room trainee, who often developed a disconcerting bulge in the front of his cheap trousers whilst in her presence, stood by her desk with an envelope held out for her to take.

"Letter just came in addressed to you." He imparted huskily. Was he leering?

She snatched the thing off of him, keeping her eyes above his belt line. "Ta, bye." She snapped dismissively, swinging half around on her office swivel chair, not the executive model, to pointedly turn her back on him, studying the envelope in her hands. With an audible sigh, Simon slouched off, probably to go and peruse those girlie magazines she knew he had hidden down there in the musty, dingy post-room.

The brown envelope had no stamp or frank marks, ' _Private and personal_ ' printed across the top in a large clumsy hand, obviously hand delivered or at least shoved into the letterbox sometime during the afternoon. Definitely not from 'Fleet Street'. For an impetuous moment she considered dropping it unopened into her waste-bin but wilted before rising curiosity.

Inside was a single sheet of A4 folded in half, one side filled with the same spidery writing as on the envelope, but in a smaller 'font'. A child-like sketch of a quarter moon and star emblem of Islam had been drawn at the top.

With some difficulty she read through the ill-formed words as a rising glare of excitement, like the sun of Nippon, threw broad rays of hope across her dark horizons. Her manicured nails pinched deeply into the paper and perspiration popped out on her ladylike, smooth forehead.

'The Invaders'

Crusaders be warned. We have captured a British soldier. A muslim who has betrayed his brothers by serving in the brutal Imperialist forces of this Godless country. He has been charged with the crime of Apostasy by the Holy Judges of a Sharia court and the traitor found guilty of treason. In accordance with Sharia Law a sentence of death has been declared.

Take note, unless the kafur government in Westminster immediately:

1) Release all muslim political prisoners, our glorious martyrs who have carried the wrath of Allah into this infidel nest of vipers.

2) Deliver for trial in a Sharia Holy Court the British military butchers responsible for ordering the invasion of our brother Islamic states.

Then this sentence of death will be carried out in two days time in the Sharia tradition.

Also, the fire of Islam will be unleashed. Jihadist warriors, even now amongst you, will slash and burn you, spill your blood, kill your women and children. You will cry an ocean. There will be no mercy.

Allahu Akbar! God is great!'

Lucy Lever was beside herself, certain that exposing 'white extremists' had marked her out for this honour. She was sure that she was going to pee herself. What to do? Take the letter straight to the police? Oh yeah, then have HER story snatched straight out of her hands. Not bloody likely!

Time was on her side. The deadlines for tomorrow's nationals was hours away. After she had got her BIG revelation into print next morning, there would still be a day and a half before any threat was to be carried out. That would be for the authorities to worry about.

Meantime she had a reputation to build, Lucy Lever, trusted conduit to oppressed freedom fighters. Oh it was delicious! She'd insist her name be printed double height, top and bottom.

Go baby GO!

With a frenzy of activity, she spun back around on her chair and ravenously attacked her keyboard, the icy blue glow from the computer monitor coating her fixated, damp face.

******
NINETEEN

Not one word of Lucy Lever's big scoop translated into print that Wednesday morning. Her editor at the Anglian Chronical struck out for media ethics and made a phone call. 'Fleet Street' still smarting from recent drubbings and threats of a political spanking, clung to caution and complied with urgent 'requests' from the Home Office to pass up on Ms. Lever's offering.

During the night hours her desk at the Chronical and her apartment in Peterborough received brisk but thorough examination by a couple of 'funnies' from the Smoke. _'No madam, the Special branch no longer exists. Try the Assistant Commissioner of Counter terrorism Command, SO15, if you wish to make a complaint.'_

Not in the least mollified, definitely not a happy bunny as her cherished communiqué had been confiscated and borne away in a plastic evidence bag, Lucy Lever had resorted to her customary screaming fits that required temporary containment in plastic cuffs and medical sedation.

In the wee small hours at a hastily convened security briefing, the Home Secretary and the Director-General of MI5, Willard Stafford, were of one accord. Claims that a British serviceman had been abducted by an Islamist terrorist group within the British Isles just had to be suppressed.

The MI5 man had pressed home a valid point. "This country is a melting pot about to bubble over under too much heat and pressure. Any number of discontents are out there limbering up for the big fight. Given a blatant provocation of this nature, regiments of 'Lion-hearts' might just snap at last and go for it. Let us not underestimate Enoch Powel's 'Rivers of Blood' prediction. There could be some serious grief before we could contain it all.

"Of course this ultimatum might just be pseudo extremists blowing steam out of their arses after watching too many Jihadist U-Tube videos. But a few ounces of verbal semtex in some wanker's business hand can still blow a lot of fingers off, cause a really loud bang."

Roger Palmer blanched at the security chief's imagery. "But do we know yet of any British soldier on the AWOL list? Cannot be too hard to check surely. Not that many left and still in Blighty. The bulk of them are getting shot at in Oil-Land or been made redundant."

The MI5 man quickly wiped a smirk off of his guarded composure. "Checks are still being made Minister, but as yet, no servicemen appear not to be where they should. In the meantime we will continue to treat this threat as real and act accordingly. As I am sure all the law agencies under your control will do."

The Home Secretary nodded glumly. "Of course. But these ' _Invaders'_ must surely know that their demands cannot be met?"

"That goes without saying. If genuine, it is obvious they have every intention of committing this threat regardless of what we do or promise. Be assured sir that we will turn this country upside down if necessary to find our boy, or girl. But we have less than one and a half days to do this?"

Roger Palmer looked bleaker than ever, stared meaningfully into the other man's face. "The Prime Minister has voiced, _'a need to balance actions with due consideration and respect for community sensitivities'_."

The MI5 man broke eye contact, looked away into the middle distance. "Can I translate that as the PM would rather lose one of our own than alienate the ethnic block vote?" A fusion of vivid colour flooded his face with bottled up anger. "You don't have to answer that Roger, I realise that you are in a difficult position concerning freedom of expression as a member of the Cabinet.

"However, be assured, finding our man takes top priority, and your political masters will have to scrub their own toilet clean afterwards."

"Thank you for your frankness Willard. Any indications of who these 'Invaders' are?"

"Midlands to East Anglia almost certainly. There has been some very recent activity in Luton, a gathering of the tribal chiefs so to speak. Probably centred on a small town north of Cambridge, Holtingham. You ever heard of it?"

"Twice this week. All of a sudden, Toy town is at the centre of the universe!"

***

"The stupid little bitch!" Benny Mann's day had started on a high. Now a cloud of apprehension hovered over his tousled head as he sat amongst the disorder of his flat back in Angel Islington, slurping a large mug of tea that failed to rehydrate the alcohol and substance excess of the night before. Her exhilarated late evening phone call had spiced up a spaced out binge. Now in the cold light of a Wednesday morning a nagging doubt was shaking his demons awake.

Firstly, nothing of what she had triumphantly reported had surfaced in any newspaper or TV bulletin. Lucy herself was not just unavailable, but both her land-line and mobile appeared to be' temporarily unavailable'. A call to her newspaper office had achieved only the frosty observation that Ms. Lever had not reported in for work that morning. Lucy, it occurred to Mann, was tucked away in lock-down somewhere. The boot prints of the security services were stomped all over this.

Benny Mann's bowels were beginning to curdle in the sobriety of daylight at the stark reality of kidnap and murder. His marching tune of anarchy was an erratic banging of a drum with no recognisable tune. Street marches, broken windows, chanting like wild haired banshees, yes that was the stuff of student protest; civil disobedience a socialist Utopia. The Blair-Peach killing and Broadwater Farm travesty he didn't like to dwell on.

Killing was another matter entirely, not in _his_ repertoire of mischief making. It dawned on him that perhaps this Islamic Jihad adventure was slipping out of his control. For the first time in his aimless life, Benny Mann the revolutionary was frightened of the consequences of his own actions.

***

The caller at his door, was not who he was expecting. The bedraggled figure standing pensively on his doorstep was definitely not the carpet fitter come to measure up grandpa's bedroom. Chris, taken aback, stared warily out at the young Arabic man in loose traditional clothing, a worn leather satchel hanging at his side from a strap around his neck.

"Who the fuck are you?" He growled after a silent moment of adjustment.

"You are Mr. Christopher?" The other enquired in a thin, wavering, heavily accented voice.

"I asked first sunshine." Chris eyed him cautiously still, watchful for any sudden moves involving knives or machetes, particularly towards the satchel. His grandfather had often recounted of his army days in the Middle East, of how many a young 'Tommy' had bought it with a curved blade between the ribs, a startled expression on their pale faces as they died.

' _Those wops are like greased monkeys. Literally. They'd slip into camp at night, stark, bullock naked, covered in animal fat; shiv a sentry, grab some supplies or a gun, then be off over the wall before anyone could get a bloody grip on them. Slippery little bastards, don't ever trust 'em lad.'_

"I am Abu Sharif. Sydique Sahni asked if I would come to see you."

Chris's face twisted with shock and distrust. Despite Sid's origins he could never have associated him with this rabid looking 'camel jockey', straight out of the souks of Morocco or the Yemen, wherever.

"See me? Why didn't he come himself? I've been looking for _him_ for days. Why you, you ain't exactly an old friend of his are you?"

The young Arab looked puzzled. "Sydique said that you would not believe me."

"You've got that right Sabu."

"No, _Abu_. He said to tell you, ' _Hello White Boy, would you like a sandwich?_ You understand please?"

"Kind of. Why you, you pop up out of a bottle somewhere?"

The Arab's confusion showed in his delicate, almost girl like features. "'Proof of life', he said to tell you also. Have you not heard yet Mr. Christopher? About Sydique?"

Cold fingers stroked the back of Chris's neck. "What about him? 'Proof of life'? Is Sid in trouble?" His voice now both anxious and threatening.

Abu's expression turned fearful, not expecting to be the messenger who got shot. "We - they took Sydique. He has been a prisoner of 'The Invaders' for many days now. They have made demands of your government... "

Chris exploded from the doorway lunging for the Arab, bunching the cloth of his gown in two fists. Pulling him in close his nose wrinkled at the smell of an unwashed body, damp cotton, indicative of somebody sleeping rough in unheated places.

"Tell me fucker!"

Abu was terrified, began to gabble in a high pitched pleading squeal. "Please sir, please Mr. Christopher. This is not of my doing. I am trying to help Sydique. I swear this to be true!"

Chris held him out at arm's length. "You one of those bastards playing silly buggers about town?"

Thin hands waved a denial. "No sir, I came here only looking for food, shelter. I had no money, no papers." He gasped desperately. "But that mosque is not a good place. The Imam is a bad man. He and other bad men are training 'The Chosen Ones' for a Holy war. He has driven away the true worshippers of Allah to pray in their own homes. Mohammed would weep at what is being done in his name sir."

Chris relaxed his grip a little, looking up and down the street for signs of trickery, 'greased monkeys' hiding behind cars, garden hedges.

"So just where do you come into all this Al Qaeda shit Abu, tell me?"

The other was crying now, shame and self pity pouring from him. "We did those bad things in your town. We were made to attack your churches, your statue of the dead soldier. Then we were taken away after midnight to be trained as Jihadist fighters. Somewhere nobody would see or here us.

"We went in the back of a big van and Sydique was tied up in a car that followed behind us. I was scared then. It was a long way, several hours. When we got there he was taken and put in a hut that pigs had lived in. We muslims are forbidden to eat pork. It was a deliberate insult to put him there because he had renounced The Faith."

"A sty? They put Sid in a pig sty?"

A real danger that Chris would beat Abu Sharif senseless right there on grandpa's front path hung in the balance. Eventually he shook off the impulse, shook the other man too, hissing threateningly through bared teeth.

"That's a bloody week ago. Wednesday week. Why?"

"They put your friend on trial for treason to Islam. Sharia law demands this, but I do not agree. He has chosen his own spiritual path so I pray for him instead."

"But you are back now, are the others, is Sid here?"

"No, no sir." Abu's distress increased. "I was not selected to be a 'Chosen One'. They said I was too much of a girl. That I could be their messenger boy instead. They gave me train tickets. I was told to go to Peter's Borrow yesterday and deliver a letter. Then I was to come back here and report back to Kamal Khan himself, with more letters to post later. But I do not want to go back there. I do not want to have anything more to do with all this badness. I think I will leave this town, find somewhere else that will give me shelter, a job.

"But I went to see Sydique before I left and told him this. They had taken away his new leg and arm so he may not escape. By then it became my job to take his food, carry away his pail of shit. I told him I was not like the others, that I would not return there. He asked me then, to come and see you, tell you what has happened to him.

"Now I go, find another place to give me shelter. Maybe, I go home. Without papers I cannot work, cannot live."

Chris retightened his grip. "You ain't going anywhere yet pal. First you are coming with me to the police station, tell them all this. Then you are going to take me to him. Don't worry, I have friends who will come with us. We are not afraid of these 'Invaders'."

Abu wriggled miserably. "You do not understand Mr. Christopher. The letter I delivered to Peters Borrow... "

"Peterborough, a town north of here?"

"Yes sir. That letter was for a lady writer of the papers. I took it to her office of the Chronical. Your policemen will know of this already, it told your government what is demanded of them. If they do not... " His eyes dipped suddenly, a knowledge too heavy to bear.

Chris clicked his tongue dismissively. "Don't be too certain of that. I know this bitch you must have gone to. There is no guarantee that she has passed this on yet. There is nothing in the newspapers or on the television this morning. No, you will take me and my friends there after we tell the police.

"Right, come on in while I get my things. And don't steal anything."

Despite the desperation in Abu's eyes at the mention of the police, Chris pulled him into the hallway whilst he fetched his jacket and keys.

***

The front reception of Holtingham police station was relatively quiet, this being a Wednesday morning, not a fitting time for the locals to go getting drunk and obnoxious just yet. They had weekends for that.

A mildly miffed travelling salesman type had presented himself at the counter to produce driving documents. "I _don't_ carry them in the car. Somebody breaks into the thing when I'm away working, then they'll know I'm not at home and break in there too."

"Very possibly so sir. But you were still speeding when stopped by our patrol car even without them." The desk sergeant obviously thought himself a bit of a wit.

A young mother sat waiting on a bench against a green wall, her eight year old son glowering at the world alongside her. She had brought him into the station to be reprimanded for refusing to go to school. Tough love.

Chris waved the unhappy looking Abu towards the bench to sit and wait. Good dog. He stood at the counter himself, twitching impatiently for the best part of ten minutes while the details of driving licence, insurance certificate, what your aunt Fanny had for tea, were duly noted laboriously into a computer. The policeman obviously had no inclination to let his foot tapping transgressor get back into his car outside in a hurry.

When at last they were done, the paperwork was snatched back and shoved into an inside pocket as the salesman of the month contender stomped moodily away towards the glass exit doors.

"Bloody waste of my time. I've got targets to meet!"

"The fine will come in the post sir. Drive safely." The sergeant called after him cheerily. His attention switched to Chris, noticeably chilling.

"And what can I do you for... sir?" He enquired pointedly.

Chris pursed his lips, a little embarrassed now with the drama laced content of what he had come to report. Not so certain all of a sudden of its authenticity.

"Well I've come to report a possible abduction."

The desk sergeant laid down his pen that had been hovering over a notepad, rested his elbows on the countertop, stared at him searchingly.

"Is that so Mr. Carter?"

"I didn't give you my name." Chris pointed out.

"You don't need to. You are quite a celebrity in _some_ circles."

Chris smothered a look of aggression, that wouldn't get anybody anywhere. "Are you going to listen to what I'm telling you sergeant or should I go higher?" He snapped, exasperated with this ingrained bad attitude where he was involved.

"You haven't told me anything yet." The policeman countered waspishly.

"Sydique Sahni. Thirty-three years of age. Currently a serving member of the Royal Marines, injured, on permanent sick leave for now. Been missing for a week. Information has come to light that he may have been taken by a terrorist group based here in Holtingham. Is that enough information for you to pick that pen back up and start to do your job?"

The policeman didn't answer immediately, but picked up his pen that he held aloft between them, like a talisman to ward off an evil presence.

Eventually he cleared his throat, looked directly back at Chris with a dour expression. "Lady already made out a missing persons report on a Mr. Sahni. The warden of Squires court, a responsible member of the community. That will be sufficient for us now. But thank you for your time."

Chris slapped the counter top angrily, knew he was being taunted. "I bloody well know that. I sent her here on Monday. But now more serious details have come to light. The man has been taken forcibly from his home and is being threatened. Is that enough for you to at least fill in a fucking form!"

"Please do not swear or shout in here Carter. We have a zero tolerance policy for unruly behaviour. Your temper has not served you best in the past has it? Also there is a lady and child over there whom you have rudely by-passed in the queue

"Nevertheless, now where have you garnered this rather fanciful information from?"

Chris cocked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bench behind. "Him over there. He is, or was, a member of the group that snatched Sydique a week ago. Now they are making threats against his well-being."

The policeman flicked a glance over Chris's shoulder. "That is an eight years old boy who's turned school shy. I don't think that things have got that bad out on those streets just yet. This isn't Los Angeles."

"Not him! Next to him, there, Abu Sharif... " Chris turned, pointing his finger, saw an empty end of bench which Abu had very reluctantly occupied a few minutes before. "Oh shit! Shit!"

Chris ran for the street doors, had to find the Arab boy quickly, acutely conscious he'd had several minutes head start.

"I did ask you to refrain from bad language sir." The smug sergeant called after him as Chris barged back out onto the High Street.

***

Frantically Chris gunned the Landrover in different directions for several minutes walking distance from the station. ' _I think I will leave this town... '_

He spotted him eventually on the A141 heading towards Wisbech and the Fens. A bitterly cold wind was ripping across the open flat fields without so much as a hedgerow for cover. A solitary pathetic figure stumbling but steadfast, along the unmade mud and grass verge that lined the busy trunk road, buffeted by the slip-stream of speeding lorries. One helpful driver's mate leaning out of the passenger window, "Oi! Lost your camel son?"

Chris squealed the Landrover to a halt just in front of him, reached across the cab and threw open the door, blocking his progress. "Sabu, get the fuck in here!"

The Arab stopped where he was, a stubborn look on his drained face. "It is _Abu_ Mr. Christopher. No I will not come with you. I cannot talk to the police, they will arrest me and send me back."

"Look, this country is full of bloody illegal immigrants the police don't bother with. Why should they get out of bed just for you? Now get the fuck in here before I break your skinny legs and throw you in."

With great trepidation Abu Sharif climbed up onto the passenger seat alongside Chris, staring sulkily out of the windscreen.

"Right." Chris lowered his voice, breathing hard with all the shouting. "Okay, the police are a no-go, savvy? But you are definitely going to help me and my friends find Sid, show us where to start looking."

Abu reached for the door and pulled it closed. "I'll try Mr. Christopher, to help Sydique. But I don't think that I like you very much."

******
TWENTY

Despite being midweek, enough EFL members turned out to an urgent call by Chris, to congregate at their unofficial headquarters in the Holtingham Rugby Club bar. Nobby Clark was unnecessarily apologetic as he walked in the door last, bringing their total number to six, including Chris, and also a skinny looking Arab boy in loose robes.

He stopped short in surprise as most of the others had. "What's Wee Willy Winkie doing here?" He changed subject quickly seeing a glint of annoyance in Chris's face. "Don't worry about the job Chris. My boys can handle it now without my being there. They've already let in the carpet fitter with his tape measure. Reckons he can do the business tomorrow. We'll be finished and out of there no prob's by then."

Chris nodded vaguely, mind on other things, turned Abu Sharif around by the shoulder to face his assembled friends. "I'd like you to meet Abu here." He noted the thin coat of suspicion on their faces. "You can relax lads, he's on our side. More or less."

"Then Gawd help us!" Alan Grundy, predictably nick-named Solomon or Sol', chortled.

"I'm afraid the Almighty takes a back seat on this one." Chris answered grimly. "Apparently Sid's absence from amongst us is because that he's been kidnapped by that bunch calling themselves 'The Invaders' what've been causing all this grief in town."

The general reaction was a stunned silence until Ned Ryan stabbed a thick hairy forefinger towards Abu. "So where does he fit in?" Faint menace in that simple question.

"Abu here," Chris paused, searching for a delicate way to relay the facts. "was press-ganged into their number for a while until he got out and came back here. He was only in that mosque he says for bed and board until he gets on his feet. But there's more going on in there than yodelling on their knees five times a day.

"According to Abu, they have a training camp for would-be terrorists, running around in the undergrowth pretending to shoot all us pale faces. They took off up there after doing the churches last week and took Sid with them. Sid asked Abu here to come and tell me about it.

"I intend to go and find him double quick with Abu my Indian guide. Any of you willing and able I could do with all the help possible."

"I am Libyan Mr. Chris, not an Indian." Abu corrected him with an aggrieved air.

"Well where is he then, Sid?" Barry Wells spoke for the first time, strangely subdued.

"A long way from here." Abu stated gratified to have an input.

"Oh that _is_ fucking helpful. Narrows it down a bit." Rick Ryan put in.

"We went north."

"That's a start. Which road?" Nobby enquired encouragingly.

"A green road."

"'Scuse me son but they are black mostly."

"'E's been watching the Wizard of Oz." Ricky Ryan muttered darkly, his patience already wearing thin.

"Then we went on a red road, then more green roads." The young Arab continued doggedly.

"He's talking road maps!" Barry blurted out.

"Do you know where you _finally_ ended up?" Chris gently probed, smothering a sigh.

"Over a big white bridge to the land of the goats." Abu answered, looking inordinately pleased with himself now.

"Is he taking the piss? Smack him one, loosen his memory up a bit, and a few teeth with some luck." Rick Ryan had had enough of this.

Abu looked suitably alarmed. "No, it is there. There are smoky trains like in India and your black films." He insisted, a desperate edge to his voice as he eyed Rick glaring at him.

"Must be on about steam trains." Nobby snapped his fingers. "One of those enthusiast set ups. All these anoraks buy up a few miles of redundant track and stations, do up a couple of old locomotives and shunt tourists up and down them. Took the kids on one when we were in Cornwall. Loads of them all over the country."

"Right, someone get a bleeding road map." Chris felt the stirring of optimism at last.

"Got one behind the bar." Ned piped up. "We often play away up North." He fetched a road atlas, laying it out flat on one of the bar tables as they all crowded round. Flicking through the pages he found the one with Holtingham at its lower edge. Slowly he traced a northerly route with his finger on random main roads having to turn the page once where at the top it encountered the wide River Humber.

"Big white bridge?" Barry suggested. "The Humber Bridge? Makes sense. Turn the page again Ned, see what we've got above apart from Hull."

"'Here be dragons', I imagine." Nobby ever helpful.

Their virtual trip up the East coast continued via York and into the spreading expanse of the North Yorkshire Moors. A tingle of excitement spread amongst them. If anybody was going to operate a secret training camp in small, crowded England, one of the Moors was a natural choice of location.

A black meandering line with small cross dashes running up the right side was an unmistakeable rail track.

"Jesus wept! The boy is right." Barry shouted in exhilaration, his own finger stabbing down onto the map. "Right here look, 'Goathland'. The land of goats."

"Trust an Arab to come up with that interpretation." Nobby chuckled. "Abu sunshine, you get us to the right place and I'll buy you the biggest virgin they got in Yorkshire."

"Ain't got no virgins in Yorkshire." Rick Ryan stated, dead-pan face. "Got sheep, should make no difference to an Arab."

"The sheep there are prettier than the lasses anyhow." His brother laughed.

Chris leaned forward, circled his finger around the marked station of Goathland on the North Yorks Steam Line. "You got off here did you? Then where?"

"No, we did not use the train. One night we went to learn how to blow up railway tracks. We did not actually do it of course. We had no explosives or real weapons even."

"A variation on mass murder on the London underground." Rick seethed.

"But your camp was nearby, where Sydique is?" Chris pressed on.

"Our camp was not near anywhere. We had to drive on small roads, too thin for two cars to pass each other. There was a dirt road by trees we went along. Then we had to walk with hills all around us. A stream was at the bottom."

"A valley?"

"There was an old house made of stone. It had no glass and holes in the roof. There were little houses for pigs and a barn."

"That just about describes anywhere on the moor." Barry observed glumly. "Anything else nearby, other houses or whatever?"

"Nobody lived nearby." Abu shook his head vigorously. "We did not want anyone to see us. There was a forest there. We went into that and hunted each other. If anybody came along, walking or on horses, we had to hide in the bushes like naughty children until they had gone."

"You say you had no weapons either?" Chris asked.

"No. But our teachers, those rough men from the mosque did. They had small pistols, said they would shoot us if we did not learn well. I was not very good but they did not kill me."

"We kind of guessed that. But if we took you up there today ,would you be able to show us where this camp is?"

"I do not want to go back up there Mr. Christopher." Abu's face took on a haunted, pensive look.

"What you want Abu and what happens are different things. We need to find Sid before they hurt him, sodding around like that."

"Is that all you did then, run around pretending to shoot one another?" Nobby asked with a grin. "Best put the country on Red Alert Chris."

"We went to the sea-side."

"Day out for the Kiddies was it? Buckets and spades and a little stick of Blackpool rock?" Ned looked incredulous.

"Why did you go to the sea-side?" Chris butted in, impatient.

"To show us the boat."

"What bloody boat?"

"They one they are going to use."

"What for, fishing?"

"This is getting surreal man." Rick shook his head in disbelief.

"No, to attack England."

Ned Ryan gave a barking laugh. "Shit, I'm shaking in my boots here. The Spanish Armada no problem. But a bunch of Paki's and Arabs in a row-boat, best run up the white flag now."

Abu just shrugged his thin shoulders, clammed up as Chris Carter stepped away from the table gripping the road atlas in one hand and Abu's elbow in the other.

"Right those of you who can come, let's get in the War Horse, got a bit of a drive ahead of us lads." He said briskly even as his friends filed out of the door, already arguing as to who would sit in the cab and who got the back.

Nobby Clark had a sudden thought. "Hey Chris, stop by my place, pick up my 410. Could come in handy if those 'rough' boys start popping off their little pistols."

"Why not Nobby? But as far as I know you ain't even hit a rabbit yet."

Barry Wells hung back, sidled over to Chris outside as Ned locked up behind them.

"Got a minute?"

"What's on your mind Barry?"

"Well it's a bit awkward mate. Mind if I sit this one out?"

Chris merely raised his eyebrows, waited for his friend to continue.

"A while ago I applied for emigration to Australia. I'm a qualified plumber, still relatively young and er, got a young family, which gives me a bloody good chance in the points system.

"Alison all of a sudden is all for it. I only told her this morning before I came over here. Seems quite excited. Don't know what brought on this change of mind about us, but I'm over the moon about it myself." His scrutiny of the other's face had an inquisitive air about it.

Chris had not seen his friend as happy as this since he'd returned home. A bitter-sweet glow spread through him, but held his tongue.

"Nor would I Barry, but that's just great. Really good news."

"Thing is, we have got an interview at Australia House in the morning, down in London... "

"So cutting to the chase," Chris interrupted with an understanding smile. "is that, one: you'll need your beauty sleep tonight, and, two: you can't go getting yourself caught up in anymore punch-ups and getting charged with a criminal offence."

"That's about it Chris. I'm desperate for this opportunity, I really am. A new life back with my family, living in the sun, away from all the shit going down here. There's nothing for me in the UK anymore, the place has been gutted by slime-ball politicians, greedy bankers and grasping foreigners.

"All I want to do is to work, rest and play. Not too much to ask is it? But those bastards won't ever leave us alone to live decently will they?"

Chris clapped Barry's shoulder, relinquishing his grip on a wide eyed Abu. "You go for it, you, Alison and the kids. I'm really pleased for you Barry. Go on, get out of here and get yourself all scrubbed up and perky for tomorrow. They'd be mad not to have you Cobber!"

***

Travelling any great distance in a Landrover is not the most comfortable of experiences, but it'll get you there in all weathers, all terrains. The motorway route skirting around the Humber River, though longer would have got them there sooner. But it seemed a sensible plan to replicate the probable journey taken by 'The Invaders', directly up country and across the Humber Bridge, a more or less straight line to the moors.

In the event they completed the trip in a little over three and a half hours, including a short stop at a roadside truckers café for tea and bacon rolls. The lads in the back had climbed down onto a pebbled car park with stiff joints and back pains, grumbling and groaning theatrically until they secured a grudging agreement to swap places and ride in the cab for the remainder of the journey.

Goathland was more familiar to most of them as 'Aidensfield', the fictional village featured in the long running television series, 'Heartbeat'. They gaped about them at the familiar rail station, and garage cum funeral parlour. The pub they learnt, was in a different village. That's location scouts for you.

Chris stood in front of Abu, lips pursed, hands on hips. No time for sight-seeing. "Well?" He demanded of the lad who stood shivering in a stiff North Easterly breeze blowing in off bare, rounded hills on the moor. "Where to from here, you remember?"

Abu did a slow three hundred and sixty degree rotation, eyes screwed in concentration, watched by a party of tourists just exiting a grand steam locomotive, who obviously thought that this exotic figure, for the York Moors anyhow, to be entertainment laid on for their benefit.

"That way." He pointed along a lane meandering away in a Westerly direction, deep into the wild landscape. He didn't sound too sure.

"You certain?"

"No Mr. Christopher, but I'm less certain about the other way. It was at night."

"fair enough, we'll give it a go. Let's mount up lads?" He clapped his hands feeling like a ring-master.

They climbed back on board arguing again about who should ride in the back this time. He rolled his eyes and got back behind the wheel, Abu in the front passenger seat as before, which drew envious, resentful glances.

The road led them quickly into open countryside with immense horizons and soaring skies. Chris's confidence and anticipation increased with equal measure each mile they covered. There was a reckoning to be had, without van loads of riot police to stick their noses in. He felt good.

There were not too many alternative routes branching off to consider. At each lonely junction he slowed the Landrover, giving Abu time to study the confusion of identical terrain and weather battered signposts before continuing forward as directed. Eventually the little Arab spotted a narrower lane that angled away down into a wooded cleft in the landscape.

"There!" He jabbed a finger at it, more positive than he had been the whole way.

Chris Carter made the sharp turn, driving slower, again giving Abu leeway to affirm to himself every yard they covered. They had passed through dense, natural woodland in a small sump valley that clustered about a clear gurgling brook, when the road began to incline up to the next wind scoured rise.

Their guide urgently threw up his hand. "Stop!"

Chris looked at him askance. "This it?" He asked dubiously, staring around them at hectare after hectare of open, inhospitable grassland.

"No. Go back down to the trees, we have come too far. We drove off this road onto a dirt track there."

Chris executed a laboured five point turn on the skinny breadth of tarmac that was lined tightly each side by solid dry-stone walling.

"I hope you are right about this." He muttered darkly, puffing heavily and breaking out a sweat as he hauled on the wheel around and around.

"I try to help you Mr. Christopher." Abu answered sulkily.

Back at the bottom to where the brook flowed across the road in a small ford, Abu pointed, a little agitated now, to their right. A sagging five-barred gate, the oak timber silvered with age and exposure, barred access to a barely discernable track running alongside the tree line of the thick forest. It was largely overgrown and followed the tall beech, oak and ash trees.

Chris parked opposite to the gate, looked at it closely, then back at Abu Sharif. "Definite?"

"I - I think so Mr. Christopher."

"Fuck this!" Rick Ryan climbed huffily down out of the cab and walked over to the gate giving it an experimental shove. Reluctantly it gave ground as he pushed it back through long, green rye grass with arthritic stiffness. Frowning he bent down, fishing for something shiny glinting through the vegetation.

He brought back to the driver's window a new looking, heavy duty padlock, its stainless steel hasp sliced clean through with powerful cutters.

He held it up for Chris's inspection. "Well someone was determined to get in there, and you can just see recent tyre tracks in the furrows."

Abu studied it briefly. "We had a key. Somebody else has done that." He asserted with confidence, a small frown forming on his brown face.

"So, the plot thickens." Chris mused. "Jump back on board Rick, don't bother closing the gate, we may want to leave in a hurry. Let's go and take a look?"

Nobby Clark, sitting in the back, reached behind him and pulled out the double-barrelled shotgun from its canvas bag, stroked its blue-black metal.

"Personally I'd rather not scuttle off like the Famous Five, or seven in this case, chased off by the baddies. I rather stick around and let them have both barrels first."

Chris laughed as he eased the big vehicle between the two leaning gate-posts. "Let's hope that they make a bigger target than those rabbits you hunt."

They bumped along slowly and steadily on the faint trace of a track that held straight and true for over a mile, leaving the forest behind, when Abu nudged him, pointing to an equally obscure track that angled off to their left. It crept into a tight little blind side valley surrounded on three sides by heather clad hills on which clumps of stunted trees and rocky outcrops were dotted about their slopes above.

Barely a quarter mile deeper into the narrowing cleft of the moor, a jumble of old stone buildings clustered together at the plugged end of the remote spot. Even from a distance, it was obvious that the sorrowful farmstead was long abandoned and near derelict. Another hill farmer crushed by economic reality and a broken spirit, left a harsh struggle for survival for paid drudgery in the smoky towns beyond the moor.

Chris braked the Landrover a full hundred yards short of their destination. Faces in the back of the cab crowded one another at his shoulder, peering inquisitively out through the windscreen.

"Do you think that they are still here Abu?" he asked tersely, hands gripping the steering wheel just that little bit tighter.

Abu was in an obvious state of terror now, his face taut, seemingly shrinking back into his seat. "Please Mr. Christopher. Don't let them take me back. They are bad dangerous men."

"And they've got guns." Chris added softly.

The sharp metallic click of Nobby loading the shotgun in the back made them both jump a little. "So have I." He growled.

Chris half turned his head to answer, but his wary eyes never left the jumble of grey granite ahead, assembled by man's hand, slowly disassembling back into Mother Nature's bosom.

"Keep it out of sight for now Nobby. You're the only one of us with a shooter. Sounds like they'll out gun us. Let's get in close and jump the fuckers?"

"We'll still be outnumbered." Nobby pointed out, disappointed.

"Yeah, well we're the EFL ain't we?" Rick grinned cockily, fooling no-one.

Chris perused the buildings that seemingly leaned sideways in unison away from the constant wind that bore up the valley. He switched off the engine.

"Seeing as how we are outnumbered anyway, you best stay here a sec', keep an eye on Abu, look after him."

Nobby's face dropped. "Stop the little bugger doing a runner and warning his mates you mean."

"It's the best plan I can think of right now. Not the best maybe, but I'm not General Montgomery. If things go pear shaped you can always charge to the rescue and pepper their arses."

Carefully opening the driver's door he slid down onto the long, flattened grass. "Coming then lads?"

The other four slid out of the cab and the back, bunching up apprehensively around him for an uncertain moment, the winds whistling mockingly at them.

Rick Ryan drew himself up to his full height, stepped forward, grinned back at them. "Well are we The Lads, or just a bunch of wimpy nancy boys?" He spat, raising his right arm. "To me EFL. UP AND AT 'EM!"

With a howling whoop he launched himself into a full frontal charge towards the farm buildings, big boots thumping on rocky ground as he ran, arms pumping.

Stung into action, the others took off after him, taking up his war cries like a band of wild savages, testosterone and reckless courage on full bore. Young toughs again, spoiling for a fight.

"'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO, 'ERE WE GO!" Grundy chanted.

"Storm the building!" Ned boomed in his best megaphone voice. Surely bullets would have merely bounced off of them?

The front door didn't resist much as it was kicked off of its rusty, bent hinges, clattering flat down onto a rubble and weed cluttered flooring. Rick and Chris burst through screaming at the tops of their voices, both to intimidate and bolster their own nerves as the others fanned out amongst the other buildings.

"It's a raid!"

"Stand still!"

"Against the wall!"

Despite the uncertainties they both burst out laughing at the idiocy of their demands. If the birds amongst the exposed rafters above could understand them, they showed no inclination to comply. They took off with a noisy fluttering of wings, out through a substantial hole in the roof slates.

Ina feverish rush of aggression the pair searched the empty house calling out Sid's name but found no evidence of current occupation. But fresh ash and empty food cartons discarded everywhere proved Abu's assertions that this was the place, 'The Invaders' rat nest.

Deflated and trembling with unspent adrenaline they walked from the house to be met by Ned Ryan outside.

"Not so much as a pile of camel dung Chris. No luck yourselves I see."

Before he could answer, 'Sol' Grundy' loped out of the barn structure. "Oi, come and have a dekko at this."

They crossed a cobbled yard following him into what had been a small storage barn. The roof here was in fairly good shape, a solitary window boarded over and the door fairly solid. Inside a few bundles of mouldy hay were stacked against a far wall. On the one to their right a large black banner depicting the quarter moon and star of Islam with the crossed silhouettes of Kalashnikov assault rifles beneath, hung limply at head height.

Immediately before it on the beaten earth floor were an old upturned kitchen table and a wooden chair, left laying in dark pools of water. Despite the bad light, lengths of rope could be seen still secured to the back rest and front legs of the chair. Clearly the knots had been pulled too tight to undo easily as the free ends had been cut through cleanly.

A chill feeling passed through them all despite the already low temperatures.

"The bastards had Sid trussed up like a turkey in here!" Nobby seethed from behind them, framed by daylight in the barn's doorway. He had obviously grown tired of playing first reserve back in the Landrover. As a concession to his responsibilities he held Abu's upper arm firmly alongside him. The Arab's expression was of desperate terror as he too surveyed the ominous scene there.

Chris savagely kicked at the table top in front of him. "We've not long missed them. Those ashes back in the house are still warm. Now we still have no clue where he is."

"They could be on the boat." A small voice offered. Nobody had really noticed Abu.

"What sort of bloody boat is it then?" Chris snapped, angry with himself for forgetting a small fact that had now mushroomed in stature.

Abu blinked in fright at the sharpness of Chris's tone. He _was_ trying to help. "A fisherman's boat. We had to do some work on it, take food and blankets. The Imam, he bought it a week ago. Before he left to go back to Holtingham he blessed us all, said all our plans and glory would sail with us in that boat. Only I was not wanted there."

Chris stepped up to him warily, as if trying not to scare a young child; asked in a quiet, patient tone. "Now, Abu, this boat, where is it exactly?"

The young Arab's face puckered in concentration, his small mouth trying to form unfamiliar sounds. "W - Wha - Whit... "

"Whitby? Abu is it Whitby?" Abu nodded, looking pleased with himself. "That makes sense. It's on a direct line from here to the coast. Lots of fishing boats there."

"Used to be before the EU fucked them over." Ned ventured helpfully.

"Jesus, this is turning into a paper-chase!" Chris stepped back to kick at the table again, splashing dark water up his jeans leg. "And where's all this water come from?"

Abu looked away, dark thoughts haunting his expression. "We must hurry if you want to catch them Mr. Christopher." He muttered unhappily.

Chris Carter stared at him, frowning. There was something he was not telling them.

"He's right Chris." Rick spoke up. "The buggers ain't coming back here and they're on their way somewhere."

Chris nodded. "True. We could always stop by here again if there's no luck there." He looked searchingly at Abu again. "You recognise this boat again?"

"No Mr. Christopher, I do not think so."

"A trawler full of bloody Bedouins in salty old Whitby should stand out a treat." Nobby ever so practical.

"That right? Nobody spotted Dracula sneaking ashore did they?" Sol' being facetious.

"We got East European blood suckers by the thousands turning up here now and nobody's bothered. At least he had his own coffin to live in and fed himself. In a manner of speaking." Ned observed with a grin.

Chris smiled. "Come on then, let's roll. It'll be getting dark before we know it."

***

The two watchers hidden in the shadowy recess of a small copse up on the hill, aimed binoculars and a telephoto lens at the small troupe of young men as they filed dejectedly back out of the barn towards the Landrover. The photographer snapped several pictures and more of the number plate for good measure.

The other man with the field glasses had a mobile phone pressed to his ear. "Yes seven of them. One is Arabic or Pakistani in appearance dressed in traditional garb. Bit bizarre out here in deepest Yorkshire.... I can't tell, but he doesn't look to be in any distress. From here, who knows?... Whoever they are, they're here for the same reason and have come to the same conclusion, the targets have flown the coop. Lord knows where, bound to show themselves sooner or later... yeah, we cleaned up as best we could, an old water pump in the yard still operational, just... Middlesbrough, yes... They understand the need for absolute discretion.

"Anyhow, we are forwarding photos to you right now with the registration plate of their vehicle. Hopefully you can identify the driver at least... Okay, we'll let them get well clear before we're away ourselves. Freezing our nuts off here. Should get back to the Smoke in what, five hours? Be good to see civilisation again, if you can call London civilised... Okay, Ciao."

As the Landrover moved slowly back up the track, the two MI5 men gingerly rose to their feet, brushing off dead bracken, massaging stiff, cold joints.

"Half the fucking day and we got sod all." The photographer grumbled.

"Well we did." The other man corrected grimly, anger flushing across his face. "Only not what we really wanted. Not at all."

******
TWENTY-ONE

On narrow torturous roads that roughly followed the course of the River Esk, Chris guided the Landrover down through a broadening cleft of the North Yorkshire Moors and into the old town and harbour sitting on a bottle shaped estuary. Whitby, the only natural refuge from raging North sea storms along that hundred miles stretch of treacherous coast between the Humber and the Tees.

They cruised through medieval streets on the west side of the river that were lined with gnarled, red roofed cottages and proud Georgian merchants' houses. Chris parked up behind the Fish Market on pier road abutting the Lower Harbour to the seaward side of the iconic swing bridge. A marvel of Edwardian engineering, the whole edifice, seventy-five feet of roadway, street lamps and all, could be moved aside at high tide, to allow tall ships access to the yacht moorings in the Upper Harbour.

They stood in an uncertain knot on old stone cobbles slippery with fish scales and oil, watching battered, sea rusted trawlers unloading plastic crates and baskets of white fish and shell fish. Robust, florid faced fishermen swapped banter and grumbles between themselves as they hoisted their harvest up onto the dockside, studiously ignoring the inquisitive outsiders. Particularly the Arab boy who slowly paced the harbour's edge, followed a step behind by his companions, closely scrutinising the chain moored boats that bobbed gently in the rising tide.

They showed no interest in the usual tourist attractions; the ruined Abbey crouching on its high headland across the river that gave Bram Stoker inspiration, or the great bronze statue of Whitby's most famous son, Captain James Cook, posing proudly on his stone plinth on West Cliff.

Getting distinctly impatient and tetchy, Chris rounded on Abu as they neared the end of the dock, close to the modern ornamental gate that gives access to the West Pier. Together with its twin East Pier, they reach out part way across choppy waters towards one another, affording the town and its fleet, shelter from the tempestuous storms that funnel down from Arctic waters.

Sea-gulls swooped overhead, screeching dire warnings to those who go down to the sea in ships, beady eyes fixed on the unloading operations below, ever hopeful of a dropped or discarded free meal. Ominous spots of rain drifted in the cold wind as twilight edged over the far horizon.

"Nothing at all? You don't recognise any of these bloody boats floating right in front of you? What was it then, a submarine? Would it help if I ducked your sodding head under the water to look for it?"

Abu pouted miserably. "Sorry Mr. Christopher. I do not think it is here."

"Bleeding marvellous!"

"It could just as easily mean that the thing has gone Chris." Nobby pointed out, eyeing a nearby pub longingly. "Sometimes a negative is an affirmative you know?"

Chris glared back at him slightly nonplussed. "I wish I'd left you back at grandpa's bedroom hanging my wallpaper."

Nobby laughed. "If you want it put upside-down fine. I ain't no sticker, just a common old painter."

Chris smirked, ire abated. "Paint is probably on back to front then. 'Ere, where's he going the sulky little git. Oi, Abu, get your scrawny arse back here!"

The young Arab pretended not to hear him, continued walking away, the bottoms of his pantaloons soaking up rain water and fish oil.

"I'm afraid you've missed the boat young man." A stout figure in naval blue serge and gold braid had wandered down from the marina office, quietly observing them from the lee of the ice-house.

Abu stopped sharply, at once fearful of this authoritive figure in uniform. Chris quickly crossed the dock to stand alongside the dumbstruck Abu, a polite smile of enquiry on his face.

"Is that in the literal sense do you mean?"

The Harbour Master scratched at his pepper and salt beard, tilted back his peaked white cap, every inch a man of the sea.

"Aye I do mean that son. This here lad your friend then?"

Chris thought quickly. "Not exactly. Found him up the road a bit thumbing a lift, doesn't speak much English." He lied, nudging Abu in the ribs. "But we got the gist of what he wanted. To come here and meet some friends from college. Have you seen them then?"

"I have. A rum business it was an' all. Some wild looking character straight out of Lawrence of Arabia turns up here to view Lonny Grogan's boat. A light trawler he's had up for sale for months.

"Not had too much interest, who'd want to be a fisherman these days with no fishing allowed. Anyhow, this character pays him out on the spot, thirty-eight grand cash in the hand. Not that the beggar had much in that department; had half his fingers missing. Fish must have been biting well that day.

"Didn't even take her out for a sea trial until after the deal was done. Turned up later with another of his ilk for Lonny to give him a crash course on how to sail a fishing boat. Lord, that's half a life time's experience that is.

"Must have got the bug for suicide, because a couple of days later, a whole bunch of them turn up an prepare her for a jolly boys outing. Food and such like. Then today a bunch of them shows up again, but without Three Fingered Freddy, settle the mooring charges and prepares for the immediate off.

"'Not until you get a bit more water under your keel I tells 'em."

Getting vexed at the verbal odyssey, Chris cut in quickly. "But they've gone ?"

The man looked surprised he could ask such a question, made a show of looking up and down the dockside. "'Course, no holding them any longer. The tide had barely turned when they took off. The bottom o' that tub musta' been scraping over the cockle-beds all the way to open sea, a good two hours ago."

"Two hours?" Chris had a sudden urge to punch Abu's face.

"At least, possibly more, I'd have to check my log. But I hope they know what they're about. Bought themselves a tidal table for Hunstanton down in Norfolk. That's a good days sailing or more. At least in that old tub. Not to be taken lightly, not along this coast, one of the busiest sea lanes in the world. Then there's the windmill farms off of the Lincolnshire coast, gas platforms, to avoid, ferries in and out of Hull cutting across your bows.

"Bad enough in daylight, but in the dark?" He jabbed the stem of a briar pipe, unlit, that had appeared miraculously in his big hairy hand at Abu. "Probably done himself a favour turning up here late. What are you going to do with him now?"

Chris shrugged. "Oh he'll be okay. We'll just drop him off somewhere on our way south." He answered vaguely. "Just as well he was late probably. Sea-sick prone I'd say judging by how peaky he looked in the back of my truck."

"Big seas out there tonight, not like riding on a camel's back." The big man chuckled, winked, then strolled away through the gathering darkness to his office, lighting the pipe with an old brass lighter that had just as miraculously appeared in his other hand.

Exasperated, defeated, Chris turned back to the other lads who looked just as glum at their wasted, uncomfortable day. "Back home chaps? Let's hope that Sid don't suffer from seasickness himself too much."

"Shouldn't do, a roughty-toughty, Naval Royal Marine." Ned Ryan observed drily.

***

The long drive back south was an ill-tempered, tiring journey, for six disappointed, cold, angry men. Abu had been relegated to the back of the cab, wedged in between Nobby and Rick Ryan. Ned was honoured to sit up front on the passenger seat on the understanding he would share the driving with Chris who was feeling the strain of a long day.

Nobby gave vent to some of the animosity that had built up, stoked by fatigue and unspoken worry for their mate Sydique Sahni.

"Led us on a right fucking fool's errand ain't you sunshine?" He grunted, poking a stiff finger into the boys ribs.

Abu winced, the thin cotton of his clothing little protection against assault no matter how trivial, or the cold and dark night.

They by-passed Scarborough on the A165, hugging the coast road as if that would catch them up with their sea borne quarry. Rick rapped the knuckles of his left hand against the door's window glass in his vexation, staring out into a cloak of blackness broken only by the holiday town's illuminations to their left and tiny pin-points of ship's lights far out to sea.

"You Muslims going to take over the world then Mustafa?" He sneered at Abu's reflection staring back at him in the glass.

"Abu sir. My name is Abu."

"Sounds like a fucking monkey."

Nobby chuckled until a surprise belch rose from his churning guts, courtesy of the suspect burger he had wolfed down before leaving Whitby. Wished he'd had the fish and chips instead like the others. At least there you knew where the fish came from.

"But you don't like Christians?" Rick pressed the topic for want of anything else to talk about.

"Sir, I have no quarrels with Christians, but your church is misguided. Islam is the true religion. In time you will come to recognise this and embrace Allah."

For a fraction of a moment the temperature inside the Landrover's cab dropped below that on the outside.

Chris Carter's warning grimace transmitted via the rear view mirror quelled the threatened eruption of violence.

"So you believe that Britain will turn Islamic?" Nobby asked in a low, level tone.

Abu turned his head to face him, white teeth prominent in the cab's darkness. "Oh yes, certainly. We are many, have lots of children, they will have lots of children. Mohammed demanded this of us. England will be a blessed muslim Caliphate."

"Cheeky fucker!" Nobby could contain himself no longer and slapped Abu hard up the side of the head before slumping down further on his seat, breathing heavily, staring moodily out of the windscreen between the two heads in front, wondering like the rest of them, what lay ahead beyond the cone of halogen light spread before them.

***

It had been a dispiriting journey of over four hours on unfamiliar roads in the dead of night before they rolled into the Holtingham Rugby Club car park. It was close on midnight and their cars there had acquired a thin skin of sparkling frost that glittered under the arc lights on tall poles at each corner.

Most of those on board had dozed fitfully once over the Humber Bridge, hunched in their seats, arms wrapped about themselves to ward off the bitter November night. Surprisingly, Nobby had donated a woollen fleece body warmer that he tucked over Abu's sleeping form. Only Chris and Ned had stayed fully awake the whole time.

"Listen lads," Ned yawned as he switched off the engine and stretched short, strong arms. "We're outside of licensing hours but there's an unopened bottle of scotch under the counter I can replace in the morning. My treat?"

There were no arguments with that proposal as he pushed open the cab door and an inrush of cold air swamped the warmed cocoon of the cab. Eagerly they filed into the bar snapping on lights and the big blower heaters. Them and a couple of glasses of whisky restored some measure of humour and blood-flow.

Thawed out, relaxed and laughing once more, it was time to call it a night, go home to hearth and family. Back out into the shock of cold night, as Ned threw switches and rattled keys, Nobby stopped with a sudden thought, staring about them.

"Erm, where's Ali Baba?"

Consternation cutting away his exhaustion, Chris thought hard, back on the last hour. "I haven't seen him since we got here. Have any of you?"

"His lot ain't supposed to touch alcohol, perhaps he just butted out, the party pooper." Solly suggested.

Chris shook his head with concern. "Shit! He's done a runner again."

Nobby laughed, clouds of vapour swirling above his head. "Look on the bright side Chris. You won't have to share your bed with him tonight, because grandpa's room ain't useable yet."

"You're a big help." Chris grumbled, taking the Landrover keys back off of Ned.

"Well we don't need him anymore. He's got no more idea of where Sid is right now than we do." Rick said dismissively. He just wanted to get home. Sod another search. "What are you Chris, his keeper. Can't force him to stick with us, we virtually kidnapped him as it is."

"Yep, you'd do better standing on Hunstanton beach to wave at them as they sail by. Assuming that they get that far without drowning that is." Ned added for everyone else. "You coming brother of mine? I'll drop you off. Night all."

Chris reluctantly had to agree. "But he'll bloody freeze wandering about dressed like that. Perhaps he's gone back to the Mosque, kissed and made up with the mad Mullah."

"Yeah, say a few 'Hail Mecca's' and bend over for the Imam as penance." Rick sniggered as he slid into his brother's car.

"You're just too Catholic at times, you know that?" Nobby called over jocularly, reaching into the back of the Landrover for his shotgun. "Aye, aye, what's this then?" He pulled out the battered leather satchel that Abu had carried with him all day." The boy's left his make-up bag."

Chris rubbed at his eyes. "Just leave it there Nobby. If he wants it back he knows where I live sure enough."

***

At about the same time as the group of friends blearily swung their cars out of the Rugby Club in Holtingham, nearly two hundred miles north, a black unmarked van drove slowly out of Middlesbrough, heading on a long south-westerly journey through the night; inconspicuous were it not for the two police motorcycle outriders on big Triumphs.

******
TWENTY-TWO

Long hours at the wheel, smoky whisky and a late night had made their mark. No sooner had Chris Carter dragged the blankets up over his muzzy head, he had dropped into a well of sleep that had no bottom, the smell of paint and wallpaper paste a fleeting tang on the fading senses.

A heavy banging noise that eventually woke him could have been a nightmare, or a spectacular headache. Painful light stabbed into his eyes, having been too whacked to close the curtains before crash landing onto his bed. The clock level with his smarting eyes declared it to be past nine-thirty, the latest he had slept in for years. Prison did not allow for such laxity. Neither did grandpa.

Delicately he sat up, wondering in his confusion whether he had got the day wrong and Grandpa was out there now with his bag of pyjamas and left-over grapes, stranded on his own doorstep on Thursday morning. 'Shit!' His new bed and heater had not even been delivered yet, not due until that afternoon.

With the irrational thought process and loose joints that interrupted exhausted sleep bestows, Chris rolled out of his bed, still fully clothed, and stumbled down the stairs, shouting back at the door that shuddered and rattled under another flurry of knocking.

"I'm coming, hold your horses!" He flung back the street door with an apology ready on his tongue.

Standing in a loose group were four, no five, young men about his own age. Strangers, but he recognised toughs readily enough. Short cropped hair, windcheaters, jeans and no nonsense boots; lean, stern faces. Chris could feel the pain in his ribs and face already just looking at them.

"Chris Carter?" The nearest man who had done all the knocking demanded. Medium height but well packed with muscle bulk, West Country accent. Chris studied them suspiciously through gritty, sleep encrusted eyes, balanced on the balls of his feet, ready for fight or flight.

"Look here lads," He snarled with a bravado he didn't feel. "if you're from those UA-F wankers you can fuck off right now!"

The man who had spoken actually stepped back genuinely startled, his companions swapping baffled looks tinged with amusement. He held up a placating hand.

"You can rest easy there pal, we are friends of Sydique Sahni, haven't seen or heard from him in a while. We're getting kind of concerned for him and understand that you've reported him missing."

Chris blinked in confusion. "I pushed the old bat who did into it yes. But Sid didn't have any other friends that I know, of apart from me and a few other local lads. None of them here." He eyed them accusingly.

Their spokesman smiled thinly. "Oh he does you know. We served with him for a number of years. Soldiers form their own bonds that you just couldn't imagine Chris." On an impulse he pulled a dog-eared and cracked photograph from an inside pocket, held it out for Chris to inspect. "There's my 'ID'. I'm Russ by the way."

Chris peered closely at the picture of this man with his arm slung around Sid's shoulders, laughing into the camera. Fit young men without a care in the world. Others stood around them, some of those on his pathway now. All were in battledress and green berets on the side of a grassy, windswept slope.

"Salisbury Plain." Russ informed him. We were on manoeuvres. This was taken just days before we were posted out to Afghanistan and Sydique took a stroll onto that IED." His chuckle was a mirthless, dry rasp, a black humour safety barrier.

Chris stepped back into the hallway. "Well you'd best come in gents, we can compare notes."

He shepherded them into the small lounge where quick eyes took in grandpa's own collection of photographs, taken decades before in different theatres of war. There was interest there, not a 'oh gosh' reaction. Been there themselves.

"I got accepted into your lot before I... "

"Yeah, we know." Russ answered quickly. "Sydique told us all about it - you. Entertainment is thin on the ground in Camp Bastion. We talk a lot, tell each other all sorts of things, like a load of old washerwomen. You were a bit of a celebrity in our mess for a while.

"Your old man was in the Marines too, tragedy what happened to you all."

Chris grimaced, not sure whether to take umbrage at the intimate knowledge of him and his family they had. For him the subject was too painful to talk freely about.

"So the Navy has a use for me after all." He replied acidly.

"Actually we ain't soldiers, not any more. One week the PM was cuddling up to us in Bastion for the cameras, spouting how he values us and what we are doing there, the next we know we are out on our ears with our cards in hand. Surplus to requirements, a drain on the public purse. ' _Thanks lads, now piss off!'_ "

The bitterness, a sense of betrayal, poured from him through a fissure in his composure. "I hate politicians."

Chris eased himself down into grandpa's chair, motioned to his visitors to help themselves to the other seats. "So Sid, is he - you know, jobless too?"

Ross sat on the sofa's arm, not enough for them all on there. "Technically no. The party spin-doctors are no doubt working on that hot chestnut. How to dump the wounded too without stirring up the public and care organisations like the Queen Elizabeth in Birmingham. Give it a couple of years and they'll all be history too I suspect."

"Is that where you learnt that I've been asking after Sid?"

"What?"

"The hospital. Spoke to a doctor there a few days ago. Quite concerned himself."

"Sorry yeah. Went up there to visit the blighter and were told he'd checked out months ago. Never even went back for proper physio'. Then you set alarm bells ringing, man gone AWOL! Do the police have any ideas?"

Chris shook his head in disgust. "Won't take me seriously. They'd rather lock me up again and throw the key away."

"Any ideas of your own then Chris? You've seen him recently, any clue as to where he may have gone? If he's in any trouble we'd like to know."

Was there a veiled threat there? Chris Carter shifted uncomfortably in his chair. It was not just the prominent springs pushing up through the moth-eaten cushions prodding at him. Habitually he treated everybody with caution. Everyone in prison was on the make, he found it best not to take some at face value.

He stared searchingly at the five pairs of eyes scrutinising him in return. He had met quite a few ex-servicemen inside, there for a variety of reasons, not necessarily dishonesty or greed. For many, the rocky journey back along civvy street led straight to those prison doors. Re-adjustment was not always so easy for fighting men.

He made a decision. "Actually I have more that ideas. Fella' came knocking here yesterday, an Arab lad, claimed that Sid had been abducted a week ago by some so called radical Islamic group here in Holtingham. Led us all the way up to the North Yorkshire Moors where they had been in training for Jihad, running around the countryside like a bunch of Ninjas'. But he or they, were no longer there."

"Us?" One of the other men squashed in at the end of the sofa queried.

"Yeah." Chris felt foolish talking about it now to these people. "Myself and a few old mates got peeved over the shite those cut-price mujahideen were creating all over town. Threatening us 'Kafurs' outside their Mosque, then graduating to attacking churches, the War Memorial and even the Remembrance Sunday Parade. Even put up posters calling for the instatement of Sharia Law here.

"Anyhow we formed our own little bit of nonsense to oppose them, the English Front Line. We patrolled the streets at night trying to catch them up to their mischief. We even organised a protest march on the Town Hall to try and get the police motivated enough to clamp down on them, but that got well out of hand."

Russ clicked his fingers. "Saw the riot on the TV news, made you out to be a bunch of Brownshirts. So you were involved in that too. You've only been out of prison for two weeks, that right? Don't let the grass grow under your boots do you?"

"Got some catching up to do." Chris grinned ruefully. "Anyway, someone has to do something. The police don't seem too keen on clamping down on them. Everybody is afraid of upsetting Muslims these days"

"The Arab boy you mentioned, seems to know what the score is?"  
"Yeah, Abu Sharif. Almost certainly an illegal."  
"what's one more amongst ten million?"

"True. Apparently he got press-ganged into this mob who call themselves 'The Invaders', when he went to the mosque for shelter. He says that when they went off on this 'Jolly Boys Outing' they took Sid with them after he'd been found guilty of _treason_ to Islam by a Shariah court. Claims that they have made demands on the government using Sid as a bargaining tool.

"Six of us _'EFL_ ' Took Abu up there with us to get Sid back after the local law gave me the bum's rush. We found their lair in old farm buildings , missed them by a few hours."

"So we are no wiser as to Sydique's whereabouts?" Russ looked deflated.

"Yes and no." Chris leaned over closer to the other man. "Here it starts to get a bit strange. Seems that they'd acquired a fishing boat, a small trawler from over in Whitby. Been mouthing off as to how they were going on a great mission to strike at England's heart, wherever they think that may be. Cut a long story short, they've taken off in a boat for Hunstanton of all places. Scraped out of the harbour before high tide against all the advice."

"Hunstanton?"

"They bought tide tables for there and the Wash. But The Harbour master doesn't rate their chances of survival, none of them had a clue how to sail a boat."

"So you went chasing after this armed band of desperados bare handed?" One of the others in the opposite armchair teased with a wry grin.

Chris coloured a little, feeling more daft by the minute. "One of my lads brought his shotgun. Said if we got a pull by the law he'd claim we were going up there to pot a few pheasants."

"Six of you and one gun, that'll... " A flare of inspiration lit Russ's eyes. "Hunstanton you say? Pheasant? Now that paints a certain picture my friend!"

"Does it?" Chris's enquiry was brushed to one side.

"This Abu the Sherriff... "

"Abu Sharif."

"... where is he now?"

"Dunno'. We rounded off a shit day with a few drinks before any of us noticed he was missing. Probably run off back into the arms of the ranting Imam. He'll have a bit of explaining to do though, going AWOL for twenty-four hours."

"So why did he come to you in the first place with all this info'? Concerned citizen?" Russ's demeanour had subtly shifted from casual enquiry to polite interrogation.

A slight concern built an arched frown on Chris's forehead. "He claimed that Sid asked him to come and see me when he left there, explain what had happened to him."

"Wasn't _he_ supposed to be on the boat then?"

"Nope, failed the warrior test. Relegated to courier. On his way back down he stopped off in Peterborough to deliver a letter to some girl reporter on the Anglian Chronical, Lucy Lever, a right pain in the Adam's rib."

"A letter?"

"Demands on the government using Sid as a bargaining chip like I said."

"Doesn't sound too good. What were the demands?"

"Who knows, apart from the government I presume. There was nothing in the papers yesterday, no announcement by the authorities." Chris looked closely at Russ's tight expression. "You look worried, so I am too. What's you're take on this? Oh, by the way." He reached down beside his chair and hoisted Abu's satchel into view. "Here we go, his 'Postman Pat' kit."

Russ took it from him, inspecting it curiously. "A bag like this to carry just one letter?" He undid the metal clasp and flicked it open, peeping inside. "Have you seen this?" He withdrew a buff, square, reinforced envelope, one of two in there, angling it so Chris could see Lucy Lever's name scrawled in thick marker pen across it.

Chris shook his head. "No. I was too knackered when I got home. Just dropped it here and went to my bed, crashed out big time. Thought he'd already delivered her letter."

Russ pressed it between strong fingers. "This is no letter." He quickly checked the other envelope that had a London address on it. "And the dates on the backs are for tomorrow. This was meant to be delivered three days later, Friday." He muttered sliding a finger under the flap and ripping it open.

Delving inside he withdrew a blank DVD disc. Creased eyes did a quick circuit of the room connecting with each of his fellow soldiers in turn. Chris sensing the dramatic shift of mood in the room nodded dumbly when Russ asked in harsh tones if there was a DVD player.

Wordlessly he took the disc and knelt before a modern forty inch TV and player he had bought that week, a present for grandpa, slotted it in. He returned to his seat with a knot of worry in his gut.

The filming was a hand held camera, amateur production, jerky and badly focussed. It began with a loud mujahideen battle song in high pitched Arabic wailing, and centred on a familiar black banner with the crescent moon and star over crossed Kalashnikovs, in close up.

The shot panned back to take in the whole wall of the dark, wet little barn in which Chris had stood only the day before. With shock he recognised the cowed, ragged figure of Sydique Sahni, bound securely to that kitchen chair with the tightly wound rope they had found still there, despite his missing leg and lower arm. He was positioned behind the rickety old table they had found overturned in dark puddles.

Two tall fearsome figures in full Afghanistani robes stood one to either side of Sid, both displaying hand guns held flat against their chests like a ceremonial guard. Against the background of reedy music, a disembodied voice began to rant in a distinctive midlands accent, but with an underlay of natural or effected Pakistani lilt.

"British government, we warned you that this criminal soldier who chose to serve the Infidel army killing our Brothers in Afghanistan has been sentenced to death.

If you wish to avoid greater punishment under the bloodied hands of The Invaders then release all our Brothers held as political prisoners in your concentration camps.

Your despicable courts are illegal. Bow to Sharia Law and Allah.

There is now no hope for this puppet of the Kaffur. And tomorrow the thunderbolt of Islam will strike at your heart and head. Then you will surely heed our demands.

_Allahu Akbar_ , Allahu Akbar, ALLAHU AKBAR!"

The exultation rocketed to a screaming decibel before the audio track ceased entirely to a deadly silence, the camera lens zoomed in to a close up shot of Sid's face as he peered desperately about him like a terrified tortoise pulled from its shell. Simultaneously the men to either side of him stepped forward and gripped his arms, forced him forward still bound in his chair. His head was slammed down onto the table top turned to one side, one eye staring beseechingly into the camera as he gabbled silently for mercy from what was to come.

A masked figure in dark robes stepped swiftly into camera shot wielding a long, broad bladed machete. With a two handed grip he raised it high above, then swung it down hard, grunting with the effort, severing Sydique Sahni's young head at the neck in one clean, practised stroke.

The grotesque reality of what had just happened, a gory rush of blood as his friend's head rolled off of the table onto the blood wet barn floor, lifeless eyes still locked it seemed onto the camera's lens, spun Chris around in his chair and he vomited onto the carpet. Repeatedly he retched until he heaved on a dry stomach, hot tears coursing from sore eyes.

The film had ceased, the screen a dark, blank square, the final curtain down on a tale of horror, when Chris erupted to his feet. Weak at the knees and so light headed he almost slumped back down, but grabbed at the chair arm, wiped his mouth on the back of a shaking hand. He glared wildly at the group of silent young men who returned expressionless stares.

"Stay here if you want." He rasped through an acid burnt throat. "But I'm going out now. I'm going to burn down that fucking mosque and all those murdering cunts in it!"

As he moved purposefully, unsteadily towards the door, burning face set with hate, that black rage spitting into life, Russ quickly reached forward and gripped his forearm.

"No mate! Sit down and think this through."

Chris looked down on him with disbelieving eyes. "Think! You want to sit here and just think? It's time to get up off our arses and go and punish those evil fucks. If the law won't, we can."

Russ pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut a moment, his own reaction to sorrow and shock.

"Chris, the guilty bastards are on a boat right now that left Whitby, what, fifteen hours ago? Attacking innocent worshippers is not the way. It's you who'll get punished not that scum who are out of our reach for now.

"Listen, that old tub they've bought probably can only manage five or six knots an hour. If they are heading directly for the North Norfolk coast, and I have a hunch exactly where, dodging in and out of all the offshore installations and other shipping, that's over a hundred and thirty miles. That will take in excess of twenty four hours, if they do not detour in any way, or get lost, what ever.

"You see what I am saying Chris? We have until tonight to find them. And you won't do that by standing on some God-forsaken beach waving a Tilley lamp. There is quite a sophisticated monitoring system in place on our borders, tracking every boat out in the North Sea. It's possible that I can access that facility on the quiet. We'd rather keep this a private affair wouldn't we?

"If you want to post that other DVD to the authorities I cannot stop you. But if they act on it and collar this lot, what justice will they really get? A few years inside kept fed and warm. So at least, please do not reveal what you know of the identities or whereabouts of these bastards. But if you can be patient, wait until after midnight at least, before you do anything rash yourself to exact revenge or whatever, myself and the lads here, all Sydique's pals too, soldiers of the Queen as were, can sort this satisfactorily.

"They _will_ suffer real consequences, believe me."

******
Twenty-three

They met on Millbank, a curt nod sufficient greeting, exchange of pleasantries inappropriate. Their official cars with drivers and close protection officers, stood idling at the kerb, annoying the busy lunchtime traffic.

Willard Stafford, Director General MI5, stood alongside Roger Palmer, elbows resting on the stone capping of the riverside wall, gazing pensively across the dirty, grey waters of the turgid Thames, to the opposite Albert Embankment.

"Thank you for agreeing to this rather irregular venue Home Secretary."

Palmer worked a tongue around the inside of one cheek, half turned towards the security chief, his attention diverted over his shoulder to an overweight fifty-something in unseasonal lycra shorts and new trainers, pounding the pavements and puffing like a locomotive on a full head of steam. He lumbered heavily past them, on a quest to discard a life-time of self abuse.

"We try to keep them safe and all they do is to go all out to kill themselves." He observed drily. "No problem meeting here Willard, out in the bracing winter air, away from the prying ears of Private Secretaries and their support staff.

"We are in the realm of the 'unofficial' so do blather on won't you?"

"Unofficial is good. I rather suspect that the drift of this conversation would rather fly in the prim face of our hoody-hugging, esteemed Prime Minister's principles."

"I serve the people of this country first and foremost, as I hope and expect you do Director-General."

Stafford flicked a dry nugget of pigeon shit off of the stonework down into the cold waters below. "We received by express courier service an hour ago, a DVD sent from Cambridge, which incidentally is not a million miles from Holtingham. Stranger still, tomorrow's date was pencilled on the back. Seems that someone has jumped the gun."

"Ah, I suspect that this would not be recommended viewing for the general public?" Palmer's face clouded over with grave concern.

"Not advisable Roger." Stafford's mouth set in a tight, grim line.

"The girl reporter?"

"First thing we checked. Swooped all over her. Still smarting over our close encounter of yesterday. She doesn't appear to have received any such thing unless she is an Oscar nominee with a death wish."

"Hmm. Any other possible leaks?"

"Hopefully not, difficult to say. Whoever sent this was not in the loop but thought we deserved a preview before U-Tube presented a world premier."

The Home Secretary's hand formed a loose fist, pummelled the stonework softly. "How do you deal with savages like this on a daily basis and not lose your faith in mankind Willard? Cold hearted killers who can snuff out innocent life on a misguided whim. Animals, bloody animals!"

The MI5 man stubbed the toe of a well polished shoe against the wall. "Wickedness is what gets me out of bed in the morning Roger. If I can't face it, why should anybody else have to?

"To gauge the depth of callous cruelty here, you have to understand that the date-time on the film indicates that Sergeant Sydique Sahni was killed at the _outset_ of their deadline. The night before we found him. How sick is that?"

"Sydique Sahni?" The Home Secretary turned back to him in surprise.

"Correct Roger. Took us a while to suss things out. Though still a serving soldier, Sergeant Sahni was no longer on active service. Was never likely to be either. He is one of our unfortunates who has suffered irreversible injury in Afghanistan.

"Though I do not think identifying him earlier would have got us there in time as he was plainly already dead. It was an anonymous tip-off on the Terrorist Hot Line that sent us roaring up to Yorkshire yesterday morning. They rather stood out in such a remote setting, to the locals. I'm sure those country bumpkins sleep in the hedgerows, spot everything that moves in the countryside, even if you don't see _them_.

"Anyhow, you know what we found when we got there. The young man had just been left there like a pile of trash. My men had the body removed to Middlesbrough Municipal Morgue then cleaned up the mess as best they could. Wouldn't fool a forensic team but it will not come to that hopefully.

"Our men stayed most of the day to keep a watching brief, but as expected none of the perpetrators returned, just that rag-bag vigilante group from Holtingham. And they went away empty handed, nothing worth our lads breaking cover for. Let them disappear back home, presumably."

Roger Palmer chewed his bottom lip. "I don't share our venerable leader's obsession with preserving 'ethnic sensitivities', not when atrocities like this have been committed. My sensitivity has been offended, damn others' petty griping. But nevertheless, I agree it is not in the public interest to learn the gruesome facts here."

Stafford nodded. "The matter is rather delicate I agree. So we moved his body down to Queen Elizabeth Hospital Birmingham overnight in strict secrecy.

"If you agree Roger, can I request the Ministry of Defence to issue a statement that Sergeant Sydique Sahni has sadly died from wounds sustained in Afghanistan one year ago? Give him a military funeral with full honours of course. Recommend him for a gong perhaps. He deserves that much at least.

"I know that he was not a practising Muslim so there should not be any issues over the form of his internment."

"What about family?"

"None we are aware of. I believe that his mother died in Pakistan some years ago but details are sketchy on that. The authorities there are rather tight lipped on the subject, and the father was never registered. No, the Royal Marines were his family."

Palmer nodded his approval. "Best not stir up any ethnic issues regarding his origins, let the murdering bastards who did this reap any glory from their warped version of religion.

"Any clues as to their whereabouts at the moment? It is rather crucial we get our hands on them."

"Sorry Home Secretary, they seem to have disappeared into the hills. Unlikely they knew we were on their trail so quickly. We threw up an immediate and widespread net to catch them. All major routes; road, rail, even small airfields out of the North Yorkshire area are closely watched. They may be running, but there is nowhere for them to go except to ground."

"What was to be their next move do you think? Hopefully your hunt will nix that ambition. They certainly seemed to infer something momentous was about to happen amongst all that rhetoric."

"Sahni's murder was probably part red-herring to divert our attentions and resources. The threat is repeated quite forcefully on that DVD, claiming that tomorrow, Friday is or was, to be their great moment. As you say, great ambition was in play.

"Yet strangely, we have had no intelligence of any significant arms sales to any Jihadist group within the UK. In the film only two small handguns are apparent. If they had more it's a certainty a bunch of dreamers like that would be waving them about. Some bloody terrorist force this bunch are going to prove."

"But there are ways they could or will obtain weapons? They have clearly been in training for such an armed assault."

"There are and yes they have been." Stafford's economical reply caused the lifting of one eyebrow on the Home Secretary's sombre face. "All the more important that we nab them once they do break cover."

"What is your assessment of that little group of interlopers yesterday?"

"The EFL? Usual wannabes' that come crawling out of the woodwork. Of no consequence really."

"No? Well they weren't so far behind your professionals with all of your big budget resources were they? Not to mention the presence of that young Arab lad; their very own Gunga Din by the sounds of it." Palmer asserted curtly.

Stafford bit back his retort, face reddening behind his turned up collar that shielded him from a brisk, chill breeze. "Nevertheless Roger, these people are a stone in the shoe, crashing in our security operation. Could blast this whole situation wide open publicly."

"Given your lack of useful data, is it possible that they have useful avenues of information we need to tap into? How can you be sure that DVD was not a little gift courtesy of the 'wannabes'?" The home Secretary's tone had acquired a noticeable cynical edge.

Willard Stafford blew hot breath into his cupped hands, wishing he hadn't left his gloves in the Daimler behind them. He was really feeling the cold these days, must get his blood circulation checked out.

"I was coming around to that." He answered with combative snap. "Cambridgeshire police have reported finding the body of a young Arab boy by the side of the A141 heading up to Wisbech at a fairly open and isolated stretch of the road.

"Initial examination indicates that he's been strangled 'Thuggee' style, _whilst_ being stabbed repeatedly _._ The interesting thing is, and my men on the spot have confirmed it from the scene of crime photos, he looks very much like the young man that they snapped in the company of those EFL mob at that farmhouse in Yorkshire.

"We have blown up and enhanced our pic's and sent them up there to Cambridge for close comparison. Also, a motorist rubber-necking past the crime scene at the roadside, stopped to say he saw a similar looking young Arab, being virtually dragged into a Landrover near there the previous morning. Guess who has such a vehicle. Perhaps the well of information ran dry and there was a falling out."

"Really? Have you brought any of them in for a chat?"

"No, I thought that in the interests of discretion, it best that the local plods treat it as a common crime but to keep us posted."

"Can you trust them to take it seriously enough?"

"Murder, I would hope so. Also the Chief Constable, Oliver Beaumont possesses a great desire to jump on these lads from a great height, particularly a Mr. Christopher Carter their self proclaimed leader. I get the feeling that he is desperate to prove his ethnic friendly credentials, particularly as his newly elected Police and Crime Commissioner is your old friend Yasir Davi, he of the fearsome reputation for shoving it up the local constabulary.

"Now this utter nonsense of PCC's has placed the top cop's gonads nicely in his grip, I'm sure we could find room to slide in there without introductions once he has Carter housed snugly in a cell."

"Good. Davi's been on my back over the EFL. Should stay his tongue a while. Make it soon though, without revealing to Mr. Beaumont whom our prime targets are. I want those cut-throats brought to book asap; so whatever information you glean from these Holtingham chaps I want it." His cocked his head closer in to Willard Stafford's face whilst studying the far bank. "Use any means to stop those ' _Invaders'_ Willard. _Any means_."

"Don't worry sir, the beggars are not going anywhere far, whatever they are up to. We have them well and truly bottled up in Yorkshire. Take my word on that."

"Worry? We have to be lucky one hundred percent of the time Willard. They need only to be lucky the once."

***

Ashik Naseer, twenty-six years of age, was an engineer by education, born and raised in Bradford. He had never practised at his profession, electing instead to give himself over to a life, and death, in the service of Allah.

To his parents discomfort, after leaving university Ashik had discarded the trappings of Western culture that he had grown up and thrived within. He now wore only the Pakistani Pashun tribal robes and proudly sported a full, wild, untended beard that hung down to his chest, contrasting with the premature balding at the dome of his round head. His only concession to modern necessity were the rimless eyeglasses that he wore.

His extremist views and inclinations had been nurtured at his adopted nearby mosque whilst still studying in a Cambridge University for a degree he would never utilise. In the four years since graduating he had attached himself to Kamal Khan's closest circle despite never having fought with the mujahideen in foreign holy wars. Though he had attended terrorist training camps in Pakistan on two occasions, cherishing the handgun awarded him on his last return.

Now he had been blessed with the honour, by Khan himself, to lead this Holy strike at the hated Infidels' throat. An act that would surely write him into the pages of Islamic history.

He was fairly confident that his natural practical abilities, would enhance the rudimentary instruction he'd received in sailing this rusty old fishing boat that greedy Kafur had overcharged his Imam for. He had made a solemn promise to himself that one day, Allah willing, he would return and slit that old man's throat.

Resolutely he had ignored advice not to set sail when he did, a schedule had to be adhered to. Mohammed would guide and protect them. Stoically he had endured the jibes and grins of the perplexed fishermen as he stood in the small wheelhouse, hands tightly gripping the wheel, casting off with the ungainly, unpractised assistance from his crew of ten, watching them stumble over rope and bollards in their panic to get back on the drifting boat, with a fascinated premonition of disaster in which they would run aground at the mouth of the harbour, or ram other vessels preparing to unload their cargo.

Against all expectations they had made the open sea, the tired old diesel engine battling gamely against the incoming tide; the undulating Yorkshire coastline with the sprinkling of lights in Whitby running down to the water, a thinning smudge behind them in the dusk.

As instructed he'd maintained their course directly out into the steely waters of the North Sea for some miles before swinging them around on a South-Easterly direction, now running with the Tidal Surge, giving some relief to the hot engine that had thumped on gamely, but perilously close to self-destruction.

They were now moving at a gentle angle away from the East Coast, further out into one of the world's busiest sea-lanes, en-route to a predetermined rendezvous midway between the flat Norfolk coastline and the Dutch port of Den Helder; a watery unmarked location ninety miles from land in either direction.

The only means to achieve such a colossal feat of navigation for somebody totally void of any such ability, was a total dependence on the Marine GPS, or Global Positioning System, receiver, clipped onto the bulkhead before him, that would remarkably guide them to within one hundred yards of where they should be, in approximately twenty four hours sailing time. That depending on the miserly five to seven knots aggregate speed this vessel was capable of.

Ashik could sense the pressure on his rounded shoulders at the knowledge that the success of this glorious enterprise rested squarely upon them. To fail on these wide open waters under an even wider sky would mean they were lost, literally and metaphorically, unable to return to face the dread consequences of letting down the Brotherhood and the undoubtedly grim repercussions.

Already bedevilled with fraught fears, Ashik Naseer peered out with aching eyes through the spray slashed cabin windscreen, wipers working rhythmically, an enticement to sleep, with the bubbling fear in his gut of running under the crushing bows of a gigantic tanker or container ship, in the incredible darkness of night time North sea.

After some hours that felt like days, they passed relatively close to an incoming Zeebruger ferry, Grimsby bound. Occasionally he would stiffen with fright as distant lights, looming high over the water level, blinking in the far distance, before assuring himself that these were the harmless, stationary gas or oil installation platforms that littered the thousands of square miles about them.

His sense of isolation in that dark space, the throb of the engine vibrating up through the wooden boards he stood on and up his legs, was accentuated by the lack of empathy with his Brothers in arms, the eleven young men below deck in their late teens, early twenties, seemingly totally lacking in maturity.

Impressionable boys, street thugs nothing more, drawn to the fire-brand teaching of their Imam, urging them to blindly kill for Islam. But for Ashik, faith demanded more than unquestioning obedience to a mere man. His was a fundamental belief in Allah and the prophet Mohammed, to wage a bloody war on the Crusaders in their name. Now he, Ashik Naseer, had been the Chosen Man to lead the most dramatic and historic death blow to the hated pale enemy.

It was that burning commitment that would carry him through the next thirty something hours, fuel his energies, and to tackle whatever adversity they faced.

***

Long hours had sloshed by their bows when a dirty, grey stain in the sky heralded a cold November dawn. Despite fanatical resolve, Ashik could feel the exhaustion begin to creep up on him, knew that a further twenty-four hours at his post without sleep and rest was impossible, would jeopardise the very mission. He would have to share the duty of steering the boat through the bouncing waves, onwards to their glorious endeavour.

There was just one amongst their number he felt could be entrusted with such a task. Ifzal, a serious young medical student for whom privately, adherence to the Hippocratic oath did not include the Kafur. The choice required no great comparisons. Even now his other companions, after a long night of playing cards and singing the battle songs of the mujahideen in a tongue they didn't fully understand, slumbered fitfully below. Except when one or the other would stumble up onto the deck and vent their stomach contents over the side of the boat, despite there being only a gentle swell in the sea that was a blessed relief. A storm or any particularly bad weather would surely spell disaster, for there was not one sailor in their number.

At approximately mid-morning he fancied he could see far to their starboard side the great windmill constructions, sprouting up out of the sea-bed off of the Lincolnshire coast, that harvested free electricity from the howling North-Easterlies that scraped over the white tops of the North Sea. It was with a faint pang of a sense of desertion as he watched the man-made engineering recede into the morning mists as he continued on a straight course, assiduously consulting the GPS receiver, their guiding star. In time they would by-pass the East Anglian hump penetrating out into that watery divide between England and mainland Europe.

Full daylight brought the new worry that their anonymity of another small trawler roaming the sea in search of dwindling fish stocks could evaporate under too close inspection by the UK Border Agency patrol cutters that ploughed up and down the coast, ever vigilant for illegal immigrants. A shabby old boat crewed by young men of Pakistani or Arabic descent, despite English regional accents, would only provoke suspicion and investigation.

Despite his stalwart resolve to resist exhaustion, Ashik had awoken on more than one fright filled occasion with the realisation that a slumbering man had been piloting the boat. Despite a great relief on consulting with the GPS that they had barely strayed from their plotted line to a fixed point of longitude and latitude, Ashik knew that a time had come to acknowledge that any longer at the wheel was not only foolish but impractical.

That combined with forceful argument from Ifzal, decided him to relinquish control of the wheel with fervent promises made to awaken Ashik well before they reached their rendezvous. Ifzal clasped the wheel with the suppressed delight of a kid sneaking into Dad's car on the driveway to play with the controls. Not entirely at ease with the arrangement, Ashik refused to leave the cramped little wheelhouse entirely, rolling himself into a dirty blanket stored in a locker, on the floor at Ifzal's sandaled feet. He was asleep seconds after nestling his head into his arm and dreamt of death, destruction and glory.

Yet it seemed but a nano-second before Ifzal's foot tapped against his ribs, nudging him awake, provoking a rush of doom laden alarm. Struggling free of the stubborn embrace of the blanket, he scrambled agitatedly to his feet peering wildly at the small illuminated screen of the Magellan marine GPS on which a set of co-ordinates glared triumphantly up at him in red.

"We are here already my friend." Ifzal spoke softly, evidently pleased with himself at his accomplishment at getting them there.

Ashik merely scowled, poked his head out of the wheelhouse door. A steady drizzle had developed, merging rolling sea and shifting clouds into a grey woollen cape draped all about them.

"There is no-one here." He muttered accusingly, face wet and twisted with inner turmoil.

"We are a little early Ashik, and somebody has to be first." Ifzal reasoned, reducing the engine to a lumpy tick-over as the waves bobbed them up and down like nature's plaything.

"Do we throw an anchor overboard or something?" He enquired.

Ashik looked blank. "I don't know, I never thought to ask that. Isn't the water too deep? I've never sailed a boat before."

Ifzal grinned worriedly. "Now you tell us Ashik. We are a hundred miles nearly from the nearest land. Should we not pray to Allah for guidance?" He joked.

"Shush!" Ashik held up a shaky hand. "Hear that?"

Above the rumble of their own engine and the gurgle of sea water beneath them, they could now hear the unmistakable growl of powerful outboard motors. Trepidation gripped them, which transmitted to a pair of their companions who had come up on deck to enquire why they had stopped.

"Has the navy come to arrest us?" One of them asked, voice trembling with fear.

"Surely they would need to sink us first. We will die as brave warriors." The other barked, pushing out his chest heroically before suddenly darting to the rail and vomiting over the side.

Ashik glared with disdain at him. "We are not here to feed the fishes Talib. Go back below and prepare food. I have not eaten since yesterday. Bring some for Ifzal too. And send the other eight up, we may need their help."

As the pair tottered sheepishly back down through the hatch, on the horizon, such as it was, the unmistakeable white 'V' of a foam trail drew their attention just before the small dot of a vessel at its apex became visible. In less than a minute a sleek dart shaped speedboat with three outboards bolted to its stern, slewed abreast of them at a wary fifty yards distance, de-accelerated sharply and began circling them in ever decreasing circuits like a hunting shark. Binoculars were trained on the trawler and the nervous faces congregating on its rail.

At a loss for how to respond Ashik waved at the smaller boat shouting. "Hello my Brothers!"

"Correct salutations you fool or we go!" Called a deep exasperated voice in reply.

"Ah. Er, 'BASRA'!" Ashik shouted loud enough to be heard on shore.

The other boat came in alongside them, two brown faces peering up at them from beneath sailing caps, cynical twists to their lips.

"Which of you idiots is in charge?" A squat, bulky Yemeni demanded harshly.

Ashik quivered with pride. "I am leader of this mission." He announced loftily.

"Then pass down the damned basket then." The second newcomer growled wearily. He was a tall, thin Chechnyan, and like his querulous partner bore ragged blast scars on his face; campaign medals of past conflicts. Al-Qaeda fighters, plainly unimpressed by this bunch of posturing amateurs.

Aided by Ifzal, Ashik picked up the 'cats-cradle' of thick coir rope, heaving it over the side and lowering it clumsily down until it hit on the bottom of the speed boat. Immediately the two men bent to side lockers and dragged long canvas holdalls out, lifting them gently into the basket. Briskly the Yemeni waved a hand aloft. The load was surprisingly heavy as Ashik and two others eagerly hauled it up, hand over hand on the rough brown rope. With a final burst of effort, they hoisted it up and over the rail and set it down on the deck boards with a metallic clunk.

Leaning back over the side, panting with the effort, Ashik smiled ingratiatingly down at the two stern looking men.

"Is that all?" He enquired.

"Just how much of our valuable hardware do you need to kill two Infidels?" The Chechnyan snarled. "Use it bravely in the name of Allah. Even if you die doing so."

"Mohammed watches ov... " Ashik began to reply, when the speedboat engines roared back into frenzied life with the ferocity of an airliner's, and it swung back around in the direction of Den Helder from where it had travelled.

"Be on your way quickly!" The Yemeni called back to them. "We are monitored on radar even as we speak, our meeting noted. Go!"

With a blast of throttles, the quartermasters of Al-Qaeda in Europe, slashed a way through the rain and building waves, leaving a furious froth of white water in their wake.

Ashik watched them fade back into grey anonymity while his companions dragged the bags and contents down below. Caught up in the bubble of excitement he joined them in a small, smelly mess room as they pulled free several AK- 47's, hand guns, a box of grenades and a shoulder-fired rocket launcher. Boxes of shells and magazines for the pistols and assault rifles, a curious package wrapped tightly in brown waxed paper, stayed in the bottom.

"Allahu Akbar!" One of them shrieked like a little boy on Christmas morning, wielding aloft an automatic rifle. "Allahu Akbar!"

Some of the others dropped to their knees amid all the scattered weaponry and began to chant prayers of gratitude in shrill high voices. Ashik merely shook his head, sick with misgivings as he glanced sideways at Ifzal. "With these heroes of Islam we place our lives." He murmured.

Ifzal nodded sagely. "So be it Brother." He raised his face aloft as if seeking heaven. "Should we not listen to our Brethren just departed back to Holland, and make our own return journey to glory?"

Ashik nodded, face glum all of a sudden, as he stepped around all the commotion, heading for the narrow steps that led up on deck.

"Glory must wait. We have at least twelve hours of journey time if we are to catch the rising tide there. Our timing has to be perfect, the whole success of our mission depends on that.

"Come Ifzal, bring our food with you. We can share that and the task at hand together."

******
TWENTY-FOUR

Ms. Lucy Lever flounced through the open plan office of the Anglian Chronical that mid-afternoon, as if she possessed options on schedules and time keeping. Haughtily ignoring the inquisitive stares, or outright glares of condemnation from her colleagues, she sailed on past them without a care in the world, bearing a slightly glazed and dreamy countenance.

Barry Mann had found the inclination to seek her out in her apartment in Peterborough in a strange mood of worry and unexplained fear. They had passed the evening and early hours sampling a pick-n'-mix of pills and herbal substances. _'The very best Afghani' opium'_ , he had tapped the side of his nose secretively, as if the whole world had never heard of it. They then engaged in largely unsuccessful bouts of love making and querulous debate.

Lucy could not believe that he was entertaining doubts as to the righteousness of 'The Invaders' cause, even though she was a little uncertain as to what that actually was. Even worse was his rambling on withdrawing support for Kamal Khan; a man she found a most fascinating a figure, charismatic and a little frightening. Argument, dissent and bad temper had ground on to near dawn in slurred ever increasing acrimony, when she had ejected him from her rumpled bed and home, slamming the front door before he had even entered the lift, still tucking his shirt in.

Just to garnish her gut-full of a night, the bastard police had come barging into her home yet again shortly after, accompanying those severe looking men wearing cheap suits and a lack of respect. Their thorough, disruptive foraging through her belongings had produced nothing but their refusal to elucidate as to what they were looking for this time. Not the scattered detritus of illegal substances in her bedroom that was for sure. Lucy had gone running to Daddy down in London with tales of beastliness and cruelty.

Hours later she was back in Potato Land, mollified if not smugly triumphant, as she rapped once, overly loud, on the editor's door with its one way mirrored glass pane that spied outwards on his minions. Not waiting for an invitation to enter, she swept into the room leaving the door wide open behind her.

He was sitting back comfortably in his chair, arms folded across his ample stomach, as if expecting her. Installing that spy panel had been inspirational he thought.

"My, my, Lucy, so kind of you to join us mere mortals." He cooed. "I trust that you are well rested and feel up to doing a little work my dear?"

She stopped just short of his desk, a lascivious look on her face, legs braced slightly apart in a combative stance, sneering down at him with unfocussed eyes.

"Fuck work! Fuck this newspaper! Fuck you Jerry!" She ranted, flecks of spittle dotting her chin.

"Don't think that the invitation is not appreciated Lucy, but I'm a happily married man. Besides, I have never entertained the notion of having sex with an ill-bred little mare like yourself." He answered mildly, blessing her with a cold smile, his head cocked to one side. "By the way, you are fired."

A bolt of shock sprang momentarily into her face before she burst into near hysterical laughter, an unhinged bout of private amusement.

"You, you're sacking me?" She all but screamed, that must have rattled the cups in the outer office. "I have resigned you stupid little shit! Daddy is setting me up as an Interior Designer with premises in Belgravia. I've been and viewed them already this morning."

"I'm sure that London deserves to have you back."

"Who needs all this crap anyway?" her hands twirled all about her. "Getting jerked about by dunderheads like you lot out in the provinces!"

"Well then, this has all worked out splendidly." He grinned mockingly, genuinely pleased. "Goodbye young Lucy, missing you already. Shut my door after you please."

The smart cream envelope caught him on the side of the head as she wheeled around, crowing over her shoulder as she strutted out of his office. "Read that letter. Daddy has also had a word with the other proprietors. _YOU_ are dismissed forthwith. Plenty of ex-News Of The World staff looking for work." She stormed triumphantly past her former colleagues sitting open mouthed at their desks. "PLEBS!" She shrieked at them, and with another burst of demented laughter was out of the exit doors and gone for good.

***

What they had witnessed gave no room for mere words, for discussion, argument or conjecture. To sit in an ordinary urban lounge and watch your friend's head hacked of in such gruesome, savage manner, induced a state of shock that rejected such reasoned response. Pure revenge stalked the room, murder maybe.

Chris Carter had assembled a core of the EFL, no longer coy or embarrassed about their being. The Ryan brothers, Nobby, Solly and seven others had come to grandpa's house on just the vague hint of something urgent and important enough to disturb their daily labours yet again.

Chris had mumbled an apology for what was to come as he pressed the 'Play' button on the DVD player, turning away quickly to slump down heavily into his chair, damp eyes fixed on the ceiling as his friends underwent the same trial of horrors that he had endured earlier.

In time, when the obscenity on the wide screen had long ceased to play, Rick Ryan croaked out a bewildered demand. "You've shown this to nobody else Chris? The police, not anyone?" There was a stain of disbelief in his hushed tone, part accusatory.

Chris had his face covered by splayed fingers, concealing real his real trauma, but not his trembling hands.

"The authorities have been informed in a manner of speaking. But not of whom is responsible - just yet. I promised those lads here this morning that I would hold back on any action off of my - , our own backs. I doubt that it would be taken that serious down at the local nick anyhow. There are any number of sick, spoof videos on the internet."

"That is no spoof and we all know it." Nobby seethed angrily. "Who are these 'action-men' you made such a promise to?"

Chris lowered his hands slowly, fixing Nobby with a brittle glare. "Friends of Sid's. I told you."

"Soldiers you said."

"Yeah, well, ex-soldiers."

"Great, Chelsea Pensioners gonna' sort it!"

"No, lads our age. Kicked out of uniform to conserve money for bankers' bonus's."

"Why do they want you to stay 'mum' Chris?" Ned Ryan too was finding his personal loyalty under strain.

Chris shrugged his slumped shoulders, vacantly staring at the DVD logo swirling around the blue TV screen. "They seem to have twigged just what this bunch of fucks are up to now, and where to go and find them."

"Then what, demand an apology?" Rick Ryan snarled, bouncing on the edge of his seat, ready to go for it now.

"Not quite. Got their own version of real justice to dole out. Like we would, only a tad more practised at it I'd say. They just asked that we give them a bit of time before kicking the bonfire into the tent."

"Real justice? What's that when it's home?" Rick's two big fists were balled tightly in his lap, white, bloodless offensive weapons.

The hard glare Chris lasered his friend with, cut short the griping. "They are Royal Marine Commandos, the world's best. Said they'd fix it. I said Okay. I expect you lot to back me up on that."

"You said tomorrow." Rick breathed huskily. "Five minutes past midnight _is_ tomorrow in my book. That's the extent of _my_ promise to _you_ to stay put. Then I for one am going to hit that fucking mosque hard. I'm going to burn it to the fucking ground, and any terrorist cunt who comes running out of there and wants to make a fight of it, I'll cut _their_ fucking heads off! Understood?"

A trickle of an icy smile frosted over Chris's face. "I was hoping one of you was going to say something like that." He stood up, feeling light headed, reckless, the old burning rage reactivating inside him like a volcano. "Rugby club at eleven thirty tonight lads? Put the word out. Come tooled up, I'll get some petrol, bottles and rags."

"And I'll bring my bloody shotgun." Nobby growled. "They want a holy war, let's go take the bastards, put them in hell!"

***

BBC News Bulletin: Thursday, 22nd November.

'The Ministry of Defence today have announced the death of another soldier, one year after suffering extensive injuries caused by an IED blast in Helmand Province, Afghanistan.

Sergeant Sydique Sahni had been undergoing further remedial treatment at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham when his condition unexpectedly deteriorated to a critical state and he sadly passed away overnight.

The MOD have agreed to provide a military funeral with all honours observed, through the offices of the Service Personnel and Veterans' Agency, in his home town of Holtingham, Cambridgeshire.

The service is scheduled for some time during the next week. Parties or individuals wishing to attend and pay their last respects are asked to contact the local branch of the Royal British Legion for full details.'

******
TWENTY-FIVE

The swift fall of the all enveloping long, dark, night hours had restored some of the confidence in the nervously beating breast of Ashik Naseer. Rather naively he nurtured the notion that if he could not see UK Border Control boats, then they could not see his.

Yet despite the rash of real and imagined dangers that he had silently prayed his way through, Ashik maintained a fervent, almost worshipful belief in the little illuminated screen of the GPS receiver. It had safely delivered them to their first step to victory, and now led them like that biblical star to the co-ordinates off of North Norfolk and their own date with destiny.

With breathless wonder he watched the mapped lines of their target stretch of coast inch onto the visual aid. A great pride blossomed in his heart at how he had disproved the sniggering jests of the Whitby fishermen, the cynical grimaces of the ferocious looking Chechnyan and Yemeni. He, Ashik Naseer, a simple engineer from Burnley with virtually no sailing experience, had brought this old boat nearly two-hundred and eighty miles through enemy waters, and was now within hours of achieving one of the greatest terrorist strikes against the Western Infidels.

The Imam Khan's instructions had been explicit, committed to memory.

" _Look_ _out for the marker buoys. They will guide you through the Kings Lynn Channel, roughly five kilometres off of the coastline to your port side. When you reach those second pair of co-ordinates, you must be prepared and ready to instantly abandon the boat into the inflatable's with barely any noticeable halt in its progress. By now the Border Agency's eyes will be upon you as a matter of course._

"Cut your engines to make the transfer, then when it is done, cast yourselves free. The incoming Tidal Stream is near five knots, close to your own cruising speed and perfectly acceptable for such a boat preparing to come into port. With luck, the boat could drift far enough to enter the Ouse estuary, maybe even be swept through to the Baltic Timber wharves up river, as far as Kings Lynn itself.

"The drugs package you leave behind will convince the authorities that it is merely a smuggling operation from Holland and that you could have made shore many miles from where you actually will do. There must be no indication of what your true purpose really is.

"Do not use the outboard motors, you will be heard from miles around. With six strong young men to each boat, you can paddle yourselves ashore. The third set of co-ordinates will bring you to within one and a half, to two kilometres off land. At low tide, this area is exposed sea-bed and is dangerous marshland and sandbanks all the way to the sea wall. So it is crucial that you time your arrival exactly right so that you will be with the rising tide and water beneath you to the landing spot three and a half kilometres below Ingoldisthorpe

"Your direction will be clear. From that spot, a natural creek flows out directly from there and is a far more accurate indicator of where you want to be. Local fishermen have marked its way with tall staves hammered into the mud which are visible even when the area is submerged. So drop the GPS overboard; as well as a friend and guide it will also serve to mark out your journey to there. Our friends in Holland are most insistent on this.

"Beyond the seawall at the landing spot, the countryside is cultivated fields, some with long commercial greenhouse, they will be your marker point. Be aware, that this is the Estate boundary. Follow the line of fields on a south-easterly direction. Do not rely on the minor country lanes to lead in a logical direction. They follow medieval boundaries, of no use to us.

"Soon you will come upon the small hamlet of Wolferton, the only habitation for some miles. Circumnavigate this, you must not be seen. If you are, kill them. Past there you will come upon a small road junction, take the left fork which will take you directly towards the Royal lair of Sandringham House. You need not go so far. Do not cross the A149. Fields your side of it will be the location of Friday's Pheasant shoot; our killing ground too.

Marker flags will have already been positioned ready for an early start. There is much woodland all about. Choose your cover close to the firing line but be aware of the risks. Beaters will work their way through the woods to scare the pheasants into flight; retriever dogs will be close by to fetch the downed birds. They represent your greatest danger of discovery should they pick up on your scent.

"By that time after a week on the moors and a day and a half at sea you will all smell bad. Take the bags of chilli-pepper to cover yourselves and the immediate surrounds. Hopefully that will deter the animals.

"Do not make your move until the shooting party have spread out along the firing line. The beaters will probably favour the larger Wild Wood to present the birds overhead to the South-West, so your targets will have their backs to the rising sun and to you when you press your attack.

"You can identify your primary target easily. We have all seen the Demon Prince boasting of his exploits against our Muslim Brothers in Afghanistan on the television news. His bright ginger hair will make a fine target to aim at. You all must press your initial onslaught onto him. Press it hard until there is no conceivable doubt that he is dead, blasted out of his sorrowful existence.

"Only then can you turn your weapons on the others, particularly his older brother, your second priority. I believe that their father, the Heir Apparent could also be present. Kill him also and you will have cut off the head of the Imperialist snake

"There may be armed police, close protection officers who will pose a more effective response. But they have only handguns, so concentrate on them next. .

"The others will all be armed with sporting shotguns. Good for killing dumb birds. Most of them will have never shot at a human target and you will have automatic assault rifles, grenades and a shoulder-fired rocket launcher. Do not leave a single man there standing. If you are spread out and well concealed, most of you should survive any fire-fight. Do not run away after like frightened schoolgirls. When your task is done, take time to remove the main target's head with its red hair. Bring it back to me.

"Use their own Landrovers to reach the rendezvous at the A149 - A148 intersection. Fast cars will be waiting to bring you home with your Royal prize.

"You will all be celebrated forever in our history as great heroes. The Islamic Tiger will have unsheathed its claws and drawn blue blood from this bloated and corrupt beast of England.

"Allahu Akbar!"

***

"Ashik." Ifzal had sidled up alongside him, unnoticed in his reverie, in the darkened wheelhouse, causing him to jump with fright. "You have reduced speed. Are we there, everybody is ready to go."

Ashik grunted an affirmative, tense and irritable, his exhaustion and stress peaking now that the great moment was at hand. Ifzal pointed a slender finger at the GPS receiver, a touch of concern in his whispered question.

"There does not seem to be much depth of water under our hull Ashik. If we were a container ship we would have run aground long ago."

Ashik bit back an angry retort, resisted an urge to strike the smaller man. "This channel is regularly dredged, high tide should raise the sea level at least eight metres."

Ifzal peered worriedly through the glass before them into early morning darkness. "I have the men and weapons already in the dinghies, towing along side of us." He glanced back at the GPS for a second. "There is no way we can make shore without the tide coming in more is there?

"What has happened Ashik, you said yourself that precise timing is crucial?"

Ashik rubbed furiously at his tired face, his fingers entwining in his beard briefly with frustration. He'd had damn all sleep since when? Ifzal had stood in on occasion but he could not relinquish control of the boat or responsibility for the mission for too long or too often. Without answering he pulled the tide tables out from under the bulkhead, perusing the columns of figures quickly, regretted not doing the math on paper like a good engineer should, too bloody security conscious. He saw his mistake immediately.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" He wailed, thumping the wheel with his bunched fist, frustration and self blame pouring from him. "I am so tired and confused. These columns and figures are so small that somehow I am working on the wrong date. I have calculated the tide times as they would have been the day _after_ we left Whitby. Twelve hours later, not thirty-six as I should have done." He turned anguished eyes toward Ifzal, shame and fear on his haggard face. "We are at least an hour and a half too early."

"Can we not wait a while?" Ifzal asked, eyes wide with concern.

"Not for one minute! We cannot be seen loitering in the channel, it is a through route for many other vessels, and would raise concerns about us, particularly given the proximity of our target area." Despondently Ashik checked his watch, the luminous figures a damning testimony to his incompetence. "It has gone 5 am. Daylight is not so far away."

Ifzal maintained a diplomatic silence, realising the intractable position they were in, uneasy as Ashik looked increasingly overwrought. His mood also, was not helped by their fellow 'Invaders' singing overloud war songs they had learnt by rote at the Holtingham mosque madrassa. Both men privately suspected that some of them had sampled the illicit white powder left down below.

Wearily, physically depleted, Ashik unclipped the GPS from its mounting. "We are committed now to joining those donkeys in the boats immediately. I will leave this trawler on half power which should get her far from our place of abandonment. Perhaps all will not be lost. Our next co-ordinates take us to a small water channel that cuts through the salt marshes from our point of landing. Maybe our inflatables can negotiate their way through it. Do not mention our, - my mistake to the others, it may spook them. They need strong hearts and clear heads to carry this task through.

"Come Ifzal, come!"

They left the wheelhouse and Ashik waited for his companion to descend the 'Jacob's ladder' before following him into the mass of inflated black rubber being dragged through dark waters below. Quickly untying the rope painter he let it trail away through his fingers, its end dropping into the widening expanse of water between them and the pilotless trawler as it swung away from them into the dark, borne along on the currents towards Kings Lynn.

With bitter self recrimination hissing quietly through his beard, he consulted the GPs again, pointed at an oblique angle to their landward port side and called softly to the six men in the other boat.

"Follow us in this direction and stay close. I will check and correct our course as we go. Do not splash the paddles, keep them wrapped in the cloth. Noise carries far across open water. Synchronise your efforts or we'll just go round in circles. May Allah be our guide."

Bracing himself on the tiny board seat, Ashik plunged his own oar deep into the water that seemed determined to slop over the sides of their overloaded, flimsy craft and sink them.

Laboriously the rounded rubber stern swung around and began to move clumsily through heaving swells of Tidal Surge. To a man they feared this demonstration that nature, always, was in charge.

***

They were spaced apart, at equal intervals, along the banked earth sea wall, encompassing the best part of a half mile of the bleak coast of North Norfolk; an estimated ideal secret landing point for unholy mischief.

Hours had passed by slowly, the bitterly cold wind whipping off of the North Sea and racing across the intervening marshland and sand-dunes like chill razor blades, harrying the wild rye grass in which they lay. The extreme discomfort was as nothing to these men who had been trained to endure discomfort, hone the craft of concealment, commit sudden, explosive violence.

The figure at the centre of the stake-out felt the soft vibration of the mobile phone inside an oilskin pouch on his belt. He withdrew it quickly, numb fingers readily finding the right button in the dark.

"Tell me... " He nodded. "As I'd have thought... Bit premature aye?... No, I'll memorise them, already have... Definitely the drop-off spot you think... Good enough, we'll take it from here... No need to make it an open invitation, we 'd prefer to party on our own, leave others to clear up the mess in the morning... Be lucky my friend. Bye."

Tucking the mobile back into its weatherproof bag, he withdrew a small shortwave radio from the same pouch, flicked the switch, rattled of two map co-ordinates.

"They are moving towards us. If they maintain a straight line more or less, they should arrive at that location in less than thirty. Looks like they've fucked up on tide times. Will probably try to use the creek to get ashore now.

"Rendezvous one hundred yards this side from there. Let's go shark fishing lads?"

He replaced the transmitter then pulled a walker's GPS from the webbing harness strapped to his upper body that supported also the long, thin, oilskin case across his back, tapped in the required data. Pulling down night vision goggles over his blackened camouflaged face, he slid down the wet grassy, seaward slope of the sea-wall.

Carefully he began to pick his way through the slithering, sucking bogs of black mud and green trailing sea-bed vegetation of the treacherous sands and marshes of the exposed Wash. An area reaching out a mile and more to the open sea that even now was building momentum as the Tidal Surge raced forward.

To either side of him, out of sight and earshot, four other dark figures in identical shiny black wet-suits, moved steadily forward across that inhospitable, unpredictable terrain that would soon be submerged under metres of broiling sea-water, converging with grim resolve to a final reckoning.

***

Though he had felt nervous of chugging about the North sea in a small fishing boat, bobbing about in a rubber dinghy that seemed just inches above certain disaster, guided only by a small luminous green square of technology terrified Ashik.

Even the inane chatter and boasts of impending valour and glory from his fellow Jihadists had dwindled away into introspective musings and regret. The physical effort of paddling their ungainly craft, combined with fearful imaginations in the pitch dark, bore down on the group like a restraining hug.

After what had felt like the eternal labours of Hercules, the continuous heave and roll of ocean waves began to dissipate into white topped breakers onto the lumpy outline of sandbanks that loomed menacingly through the dark ahead of them. A sight both comforting and ominous.

Ashik whispered instructions to stop paddling as he felt their underneath scrape on sand and mud, concerned now of tearing the vulnerable rubber fabric. He peered anxiously into the darkness in both directions, fervently hoping that the GPS had accurately delivered them to within a few yards of their way marker. As his tired strained eyes adjusted to solid shapes and alternating faint tones of light and colour, an almost imperceptive tall thin shape, a timber stave, stood out against the irregular mass about it. Then another further in, and another.

Silently praising Allah, he motioned that they begin to paddle forward again, using his own oar to lever them away from the terra-not-so firma. As claimed the series of wooden marker posts denoted a course of clear water that meandered through the expanse of treacherous land spreading glutinously to either side of them. Looking back over his shoulder he shivered, with both the cold wind and at the spectacle of a great bank of Fret, dense sea mist that those fishermen of the north call Haar, rolling purposefully towards them, riding on the incoming tide.

Somewhere further out on the open water, a long sonorous blast of a ship's horn, a Russian timber ship, announced its presence to other vessels as it waited patiently for enough depth of water to rise in the Kings Lynn Channel for it to come into port and unload its cargo.

Entering the narrow creek, though with much awkward manoeuvring, gave a measure of comfort to those twelve men crammed into the two frail craft. Not that the unstable ground about them looked too safe or welcoming.

"Keep paddling my brothers." Ashik urged, a measure of relief creeping into his hoarse whisper. "We have but two kilometres between us and eternal greatness."

They progressed at a slow steady pace, sea water gurgling either side of them as it drained in swift rivulets into the channel from dark gullies, swelling its depth and width. Was it imagination that the swirl of incoming tide had increased its energy? Indeed, the visible portion of the wooden staves stretching before them looked to have reduced already. Ifzal sat alongside him, dipping his oar into the water with increased fervour born of excited anticipation, grinned broadly, the first time Ashik had seen him show any lightness of spirit or good cheer.

A piercing white flash to their left and an immediate loud 'phut' sound, caused every man in the lead boat to jump with sudden fright. The rubber inflatable beneath them gave something like a tremble and a continuous sigh, like a wounded sea mammal. In rising panic Ashik stared disbelievingly at the neat round hole that had appeared in the rapidly deflating craft, as their progress stuttered to a sluggish wallow.

Before he could even call out in surprise, another flash to their right and a strange popping noise, caused the dinghy behind his to shudder and the hiss of escaping air was unmistakeable.

"We are being shot at!" One of the paddlers screamed out.

"Not us, the boats." Ashik growled. "Someone is trying to sink us."

Third and fourth silenced shots hit the boats which were already refusing to respond to the frantic efforts of those few with the presence of mind to keep paddling. They settled further down in the water which now began to seep over the sides at an ever increasing flow, swirling about their feet, then knees and buttocks. Panic set in, causing them to try to stand, slopping the water from side to side, as one by one they scrabbled about snatching at their weapons with befuddled intent to fight back.

One young lad, balanced in his wallowing boat, an AK- 47 at his shoulder, screaming fearful defiance at an unseen enemy. His first spray of bullets flew harmlessly into the night as the resultant kick-back of the weapon knocked him completely overboard. In just moments, both dinghies had given up the struggle to stay afloat and all the twelve 'Invaders' fought to keep their heads above the freezing, fast flowing waters. Some had retained hold of their guns, but the immediate concern was to escape from the rapidly deepening creek to the relative safety of the soft ground to either side of them.

Ashik himself crawled out of the water on hands and knees, salt water running out through his nose, having swallowed a copious amount whilst shouting unheard instruction to his terrified comrades. Rising unsteadily to his feet, still knee deep in coursing dark water, he realised with dismay that their number had been divided to either side of the ever widening creek, spread out along its slippery sides wherever they had managed to claw themselves out of the water.

Only a handful had managed to retain their automatic rifles; the grenades, the rocket launcher and spare ammunition as irretrievably lost in the sands of the Wash as King John's treasure. At least the GPS had been meant to be caste into the waters. Everybody it seemed were shouting in terror, confusion and blind anger. Two of the youngest sprayed the thickening mist that was advancing on them, mindlessly screaming out that Allah would slay his enemies. Right. Too soon their ammunition ran out, leaving them with hot, useless weapons which they slung aside with rage. Now it was all down to Allah.

Unbelievably, at that moment, a dark figure arose from the very earth itself in their startled midst. Wordlessly it seized one of the shooters, dragging him down behind a sandbank. In the frozen silence following the shock appearance, just the sound of gurgling water reached their ears; or, maybe, the sound of someone drowning.

Four more dark figures appeared simultaneously as if from hell itself, seizing the remaining 'Invaders' still with weapons in their frozen hands, pulling them too back down into their watery underworld.

Ifzal, the last to be standing now on the far bank to the horrified Ashik, screamed out with pitiful, primeval fear, a lifetime's education and modern sophistication stripped away by deep rooted superstition.

"The djinn are upon us! They have come to steal our souls, deliver us to Shaytun. Oh Allah, save your children!"

The raising of the Islamic Devil and genies, the evil spirits of another dimension that travel at speed and can assume human form or orbs of scorching fire, spread unreasoning dread and panic in those that remained. Despite Ashik's screams for reason, the survivors all turned and fled in different directions, into the all enveloping Fret, desperately seeking its concealment. Blindly, without thought of destination, they stumbled away through deepening rivulets and swelling ponds into sucking mud and bogs. In mindless frenzy, the Warriors of Islam fled like stampeding goats into the white-out of a freezing November morning, the hungry, merciless Tidal Surge of chasing waters hard on their heels.

Ashik remained rooted to the spot, literally, slowly sinking up to his thighs in soft quick-sand, watching dumbly in shock as Ifzal was seized too by the shiny black being that erupted yet again from the waters of the creek tugging him down under foaming water as a thick bank of Fret rolled over and obliterated the sickening sight.

In a state of detachment from the ugly world he now inhabited, Ashik barely heard the rustle of wet movement behind him, barely felt the iron grip of the dreadful djinn as he also was pulled firmly onto his back anchored by his lower legs. Below the rising seawater that sought out his facial orifices, his wide eyes stared uncomprehendingly straight up at the black figure with protruding goggle-eyes holding him fast and firm, as he slowly, painlessly drowned.

******
TWENTY-SIX

Despite their ferocious words and heartfelt intent earlier in the day, the assembled members of the EFL each privately baulked at the plan of retaliatory action agreed. Grievous Bodily Harm and arson were not natural traits that ran through their collective psyche. All were hard working, everyday young men with family and home to consider. Except for Chris Carter of course, but then bitter twists of fate had indiscriminately singled him out for rough treatment.

Yet amongst this grim gathering of good souls was a general consensus that something had to be done, a stand made; a need to step over to that wild side of harsh reality that failed to reach most decent lives. But these men had watched that DVD of horror, spent the rest of that afternoon and evening in a jumbled state of shock and numbed acceptance that shit was going to happen tonight.

As the church clock chimed a midnight call to arms, they quietly drained their glasses in the sombre bar at the Rugby club. Nothing wrong in a bit of Dutch Courage. Outright heroes throughout history had downed their noggin of rum before engaging in bloody war, screaming battle cries as they went over the top or swung across to the other ship's decks, cutlass in hand.

Chris moved away first, gravely surveying his dozen or so friends with him that night. "I'm going out this door alone and will wait for one minute exactly in the War Horse. Anybody has second thoughts about this and wants to stay here, I have absolutely no beef with that. There's a score note on the bar. Get yourselves another drink then go home to your beds. Coming along with me now could be a one way ticket to the slammer. I'm heading back there regardless without any say in the matter, so I have nothing more to lose personally."

With a grim nod he bent and picked up a heavy, canvas tool bag that clanked metallically; sled hammer against crow-bar. There wasn't a door into that mosque that could resist his storming trespass that night, with rags, petrol and hatred. The red flames before his eyes burned as brightly as they had done the night his parents had been slaughtered by reckless disregard; now his friend Sydique Sahni had been butchered with callous evil. He would do what had to be done.

Yanking the door open he stepped outside onto the gravelled car park, steely determination propelling him onward to the Landrover. Two things happened simultaneously. Blinding white light obliterated the world about him, drilling into his startled eyes with insistent intensity. A cacophony of sirens and screamed commands to, ' _Lay down, don't move!_ ' shook the very air, as blue revolving lights flashed with intermittent beat on the half a dozen police vehicles that had crept into the darkest corners of the parking lot, waiting with sly patience for their quarry to show. And he had duly obliged.

His immediate reaction had been to fight, charge the banks of white halogen lights swinging the crow-bar in his hands, fully expecting to encounter the poisonous ranks of the UA-F behind them.

To his right, heavy footfalls thundered from around the side of the club-house. Before he could react to this unseen threat a thin metal baton hammered down viciously across the crown of his head. He went down fast, sprawling flat onto the cold stones as another blow slashed across the back of his knees. Vaguely he was aware of a uniformed troupe of police officers pouring across the open space, vigorously battling to push his friends back into the bar who had erupted outside lashing out with fist and boot against his attackers to reach him. But they were not wearing full riot gear with helmets, shields and batons. It was an uneven contest.

An amplified voice crackled in the crisp air. " _Get back inside or you will all be arrested and charged with affray!_ "

Slowly but inevitably, the EFL were beaten, literally, back inside the room behind, bloodied, injured, maddened with rage and pain. Eager hands grabbed at Chris's shoulders and arms, one entwined in his hair, pulling him roughly to his feet as blood coursed from a split scalp down his face and neck. A dimly remembered police Inspector pushed through to him, the snarl on his face grotesque in pulsing blue light, words were spat at him.

"Christopher Phillip Carter, I am arresting you for the suspected murder of an as yet unidentified Asian male sometime in the early hours of yesterday morning. You have the right to remain silent, but... "

***

During his younger life continually exposed to life or death situations, Henry Carter had barely ever pondered his own mortality. A strange anomaly that a young man with his whole life at stake would merely shrug off the prospect with blasé fatalism; but at the end of days with at best a small fraction of ones allotted span left to savour, that morsel of life was so precious. Laying in that hospital bed plumbed into a myriad of life support systems, he had come to acknowledge that insight.

Returning home now in the passenger seat of Doug Easton's little car, Henry felt a much humbler man, not so certain now that his do or die bravado had really been so sound. Was any extraneous, imposed responsibility worth sacrificing up your own young life. Except for family of course, and country yes.

Doug had been characteristically tactful as they neared Mafeking Road. "They've arrested that grandson of yours again. For a different murder this time. Buggers are determined to put him away for ever ain't they?"

A sour grunt of acknowledgement was all Henry was prepared to give up. The news had not come as a great shock, more a relief that Chris's failure to show up at the hospital to bring him home himself was not down to lack of desire. Deep down he had always known that Christopher was not destined for a life of happiness, or even fairness. Some people were born that way, singled out for a life of hard knocks.

Moodily conscious that he had not been overly diplomatic, Doug lapsed into awkward, disjointed conversation; small talk about the weather; how many pills a day Henry was meant to pop, eyeing the pharmacy bag, bigger than the average workman's lunchbox, balanced on his friend's knees.

The elephant in the car hovered over them, ignored, but the question was there regarding Chris Carter. To kill once is unfortunate, but to kill twice is a nasty habit? A return to delicate matters was inevitable, as Doug braked gently into the kerb outside Henry's house. He cleared his throat staring through the windscreen at a skinny dog scouting through bags of household refuse for food, left out on the pavement for collection day.

"There's a funeral to arrange for next week, for that lad Sydique. You know, Chris's mate? Apparently he died all of a sudden at that military hospital up in Birmingham." He shook his head sadly. "Looked to be coping quite well on Remembrance Day. Goes to show you can never tell. Anyhow, as the poor little sod appears bereft of any close family, the Legion has been asked to do the business, see he gets a good send off." He glanced with sudden concern at his mate alongside him. "You okay Henry?"

Henry nodded slowly, didn't mention that was another piece of news that had passed him by laying in that hospital bed.

"Yes Doug. Thanks for the lift, you've been really kind."

"Whoa there mate, can't let you go tottering off on your own. I'll come in with you, put the kettle on, settle you back home for a couple of hours."

Henry responded a little too quickly. "You've done enough Doug. But if you don't mind, you can get that suitcase out of the back for me and just pop it inside the front door. I'm bushed to tell the truth, think I'll go straight up to bed for the rest of the day."

Doug looked uneasy, a bit hurt even. "I can still hang around a bit while you sleep. Make certain you are going to be alright?"

"No Doug, just the case thanks."

The short walk to his front door with short, uncertain steps, was the longest he had made in his life, even with his friend's arm to hang on to. Then still protesting, Doug had driven off as Henry shut the door after him, leaning against the hallway wall a moment to let his head stop spinning. He frowned at the unaccustomed smell of paint in the air, seemingly wafting down the stairs to greet him. With determined effort born of concern and curiosity, Henry pulled himself up the stairs, hand over hand on the balustrade.

He stopped short in his bedroom doorway, breath coming in rasping bursts, as he stared into the room a little dismayed at the transformation. All clean fresh surfaces, old memories swept away. That wallpaper had been chosen by his long gone wife Doris, ten shillings and sixpence a roll from Woolworths in the High Street. Those intertwining roses and stems, though faded and yellowing, had been a fleeting contact with her memory when he opened his eyes first thing every morning. Now gone.

That ceiling was so white and unblemished, he was certain to succumb to snow-blindness staring up at it. Even his family photos had been re-housed into new, brushed stainless steel frames, out of their homely, dark wood affairs. The bed was also new, deep mattress, thick duvet thingy, and what was that shiny electric convector heater doing there, hanging on the wall below bright new curtains?

Somehow he didn't feel like sleeping in this unfamiliar room, that was as alien to him as that hospital ward he had just left. Deciding that a hot cup of tea would be best, he regretted sending Doug away in a haste bordering on rudeness. Just when had he become a curmudgeonly old man?

It was soon apparent that Chris's modernisation spree had extended into Henry's old kitchen too. A shiny enamelled cooker had replaced the decrepit old gas appliance that had long been a risk to life and half of the street; a futuristic looking white plastic kettle sat on a new granite effect worktop butting up to the trendy, coloured sink. It was all enough to hurt tired old eyes.

He spied a cardboard box on the floor in a corner, packaging for the new now containing the old, awaiting for a trip to the council tip. Rummaging through it he recovered his old blackened kettle and chipped mug. Filling the tin kettle he placed it on top of the electric cooker, no need to burrow through drawers for matches, then loaded the mug with an unhealthy dose of sugar and tea-bag from a fancy set of ceramic containers, lined up in a neat row like Sandhurst Officer Cadets.

Waiting for the kettle to boil he brooded on how his old home life had gone for good, those familiar little way-markers of domestic history. Chris had acted with the best of intentions, he knew that without a doubt. Yet his well meant efforts at improving his grandpa's environment was perhaps a subconscious declaration of the old man's failures and shortcomings as a homebuilder. This little house judged not fit for purpose. Maybe Chris was right in that assessment? Henry had been married first and foremost to the army, Doris his 'mistress', whom he bestowed with one small son and an occasional holiday in Cromer when the army no longer had any use for a man of a certain age.

Carrying his tea over to the kitchen table, which had thankfully survived the make-over from hell, Henry noticed the crisp, white envelope with his name and address in bold print, propped up on the mantelpiece. Sitting down he opened it, pulling stiff paper from inside. The grand crest and letter-heading of the County Constabulary darkened his mood in a heartbeat before he had even read the contents.

'Henry Edward George Carter, you are charged to appear at Cambridge Magistrates Court on December the sixth to answer a charge of Verbal Hate Crime as... "

He could not read any further. A heavy blanket of despair and anger pulled its folds over him, a suffocating wrap that caused him to fight for precious breath, threatening to squeeze the very life from him.

During his active service he had proudly fought Fascism and Communism in harsh theatres of real war. Now the establishment order of authority that he had served so loyally, had donned the tight apparel of the oppressor, wielding the whip and cudgel to beat back the liberty and natural justice that generations of men like him had wrestled from evil transgressors at great cost.

His tea tasted bitter and sour suddenly as if a witch's tit had been dipped into it. He pushed the mug away so sharply that the liquid slopped over its rim staining the corner of the letter. With a need for movement to work off his mounting agitation and gripping chest pains, Henry Carter rose unsteadily to his feet, left the kitchen and wandered in a daze into his lounge to see what changes to his cosy familiar world had been committed there.

Thankfully that appeared to have been restricted to a massive new, flat screen television and one of those DVD contraptions slotted below it, on a matching custom made silver stand. Curiously, though a little resentful, he examined the set which had no obvious buttons to flick or push, the rectangular, remote thingy on top of the DVD player seemingly the only obvious means of control.

Listlessly he slumped down into his chair, only vaguely aware of a whiff of vomit, experimenting with the contraption, pushing haphazardly at buttons until the TV screen suddenly bloomed briefly into a life of bright blue, before a jerking picture flooded across it with loud Arabic music assaulting the senses. He stared transfixed with growing comprehension, at a tableau of masked gunmen standing under the black banner of Islam, and with a spiralling dread, the familiar young man roped to a chair behind a wooden table, not unlike the one in his own kitchen.

With a dry throat and a pounding in his temples, he watched the beheading of the young lad he knew as Sergeant Sydique Sahni; the brutal slash of the broad bladed machete, gripped in manic zeal with hands that were missing several of their fingers. Hands he had witnessed with suppressed rage, threshing the summer air in Market Square, conducting sermons of hate to kneeling ranks of followers, in the shade of Holtingham's War Memorial; a calculated slight to the town's fallen.

He rubbed his broad chest as pain flickered through it like an impending electrical storm, panting with breathless stress, the bedevilment of Chris's tortured soul startlingly brought home. He sat carefully still as his body raged within itself, cursing himself for not being there for his grandson as he drifted in and out of fitful sleep.

From somewhere beyond the swirling storm clouds in his grizzled old head, a distant clarion call to arms sounded. An order had been passed on - to engage in one last patriotic charge.

***

Willard Stafford sipped his tea, took a delicate bite of a wafer thin biscuit. "These Civil Servants certainly know how to make a decent cuppa'. Must be all the practice they get."

He smirked at Roger Palmer whose attention was partially elsewhere, speed-reading a typed report that the Director General of MI5 had placed before him.

"I thought that we were all Civil Servants?" The Home Secretary responded mildly at last, glancing up with a faintly fazed look.

"Point taken Roger." Stafford placed his bone-china cup back onto its saucer, folded soft white hands into his lap. "Well?"

Palmer sat back into his chair, forefinger tapping the papers on the desk before him. "Do you consider that this was a serious attempt at the unthinkable?"

"Looks very much to have been the case, yes."

"So what happened instead do you think?"

"Like the report says, they all drowned."

"Drowned aye? Any indications of violence on the bodies?"

"Some had bruising on their upper arms and chests, _possibly_ consistent with being held down forcibly, knelt on even. But the incoming tide can be quite ferocious. One of the blighters was severely chopped about, but we are reasonably certain he'd been caught in some ship's propeller coming into port."

"Oh are we? No weapons found it says here."

"Any weapons they may have had are presumably under the mud and sand, not to mention fifteen metres of seawater right now.

"Though there were reports of gunshots out there in the early hours of this morning, but that could just as easily have been wildfowlers decimating the bird population over the Wash. God knows what Sir Peter Scott would have had to say about that."

Palmer nodded agreeably. So far so good. "This fishing boat found drifting about in the Great Ouse River, what do we know about that? Any connection?"

"Apart from it being a potential hazard to other sea traffic at about the same time our buddies here were going down for the third time you mean?"

"I do?" The Home Secretary was sounding a little insistent now, not so good.

"A Whitby boat, which coincidently is not a million miles from where all the fun was going down on the moors. It was very recently sold off by its previous owner when he retired from playing footsy with EU fishing quotas. Sold his licence separately to Spanish trawlermen who are not so particular on abiding by Brussels' directives. Reckons he'll make a better living running a Bram Stoker Museum and selling Goth clothing, back of the harbour there. Probably right."  
"And he sold it to whom." Palmer was showing signs of exasperation at pulling hens teeth in his search for immediate enlightenment.

"Oh a rather familiar sounding character whom he described as having wandered in off of the North West Frontier. Gave a name our vendor couldn't pronounce and can't remember now he claims.

"Mmm. Whoever, he was the dream buyer. Didn't have a clue as to what the merchandise was really worth and paid in cash. A few days later he returned with a motley crew of dusky landlubbers and hired our wily old Yorkshireman to give a couple of them rudimentary sailing lessons. Barely adequate to get them out of the harbour onto the open sea. Foolhardy or what?

"Couple of nights later, Wednesday actually, that is exactly what they did well before high tide, must have had a tight schedule. Harbour Master reckons they must have been scraping their bottom on the cockle beds out in the estuary. That was the last time anyone saw or heard from them."

"These 'landlubbers', is it feasible that they were our flotsam and jetsam washed up on the Norfolk coast thirty six hours later? Or am I being a tad fanciful here?"

"Political Correctness would have me say only that they had English accents but it's most unlikely that their parents had."

"For fuck's sake Willard, were they of Asian origin or not? As were the men you were hunting on land, everywhere between Yorkshire and Cambridgeshire?"

"It certainly looks that way, yes."

"So probably the same bunch of desperadoes you assured me could not escape your comprehensive, widespread net; road-blocks, rail and airport surveillance?" The Home Secretary's eyebrows had arched sternly.

Willard Stafford looked longingly at the fancy tea-pot on its silver tray, balanced on the corner of the desk. His throat had gone rather dry.

"Didn't reckon on the cheeky buggers buying themselves a beautiful pea-green boat and going out to sea. We've become rather dependent on nabbing these armchair mujahideen on the motorways with a boot full of 'exhibit ones'."

"So one for the text books of the future don't you agree? A cruise down to Norfolk, beat the traffic jams at the road blocks."

Stafford nodded miserably. "The tide table they apparently bought was for Hunstanton. A little way down the coast is the ideal landing point for the Sandringham Estate; a quick trot across the fields and Pussy-Cat, Pussy-Cat don't need to go all the way to London to see the Queen. Or her grandsons at any rate."

"Can we just cut out the nursery rhymes and concentrate on hard facts?" The Home Secretary's private nightmare over what was increasingly looking like a near disaster was butting through. "Willard, do you agree that what we have here is the proverbial _'only lucky once'_ scenario. A fucking great loop-hole in the Royalty protection programme in which a few fanatics have only need to yomp across a couple of fields to turn our little world upside down?"

"Of course. Weak links are continually exposed in our operations and we have to respond to them forthwith, grateful that the worst has yet to happen. Expand the possibilities across the whole of the country to every man, woman and child we are pledged to protect and the blood runs cold."

Roger Palmer closed his eyes for a moment as a tremor passed through him at the possibility of such a catastrophic act happening on his watch.

"So the target, not the Queen but her grandsons and eventual heir to the throne?"

"No, she is not due there for a few weeks for the Christmas family get-together. We whisked the brothers away double quick when we had an inkling of what may have been intended. Daddy wasn't there after, still down in Cornwall talking to the flora." Stafford pursed his lips speculatively. "In their communiqué' they _did_ threaten to commit something spectacular."

"Well that would have fitted the bill rather wonderfully."

"But my guess is that their primary, or at least equal target, was the ginger man of action. The publicity machine has been grinding out the overtime to portray his derring-do in Afghanistan."

"Setting him up as a prime target then?"

"Such is the price of fame. It gets worse too. Our intelligence suggests that if this outrage had been successful, then the rocket flare would have gone up for a planned widespread Jihadist uprising across England. Murders, bombings, mass rioting. External threats to our national security are easily definable. But we have spawned the enemy within, more home-grown terrorists than we know how, or are allowed, to deal with."

Roger Palmer eyed him with a steely reproach. "I do not recall placing restrictions on your combating hostile elements from within this country Director General."

Stafford raised his shoulders a fraction. "No Home Secretary, _you_ have not."

Palmer used his thumb and forefinger to press lightly against his eyelids, as if to push his eyes back into their sockets after too many shock revelations.

"So what are the facts Willard. How have we a dozen of 'Mohammed's Best' littering the beach this morning? And don't tell me they fell overboard."

The Director General of MI5 cleared his throat noisily, marshalled his thoughts, mentally clearing a way through a verbal minefield. "Actually only five were found on the beach. Two others were bobbing about in Kings Lynn docks and the others were pulled out of the water by the UK Border Agency patrol boats.

"Heading back to Whitby on the outgoing tide probably." He joked irreverently. "Local knowledge tells us that they must have used a small craft to even attempt to navigate through the sandbanks at low tide."

"Which they plainly didn't?"

"None found. Could have used a RIB, a Rubber Inflatable Boat, that got holed and sank."

"That would explain a lot Willard would it not?" Roger Palmer mused silkily, his eyes fixed suspiciously on the other's bland face.

"Certainly would Home Secretary." Stafford agreed blithely.

"According to your report they appeared to have taken a day and a half to arrive in the area after leaving Whitby. Tell me, what would be a reasonable estimate for such a journey? Seems an awful long time to me. You could drive it in four to five hours easily."

"In that tub at five to seven knots, a full day's sailing would be about right."

"So what could have taken them so long?"

"Well, erm, radar detected a boat approaching the Norfolk coast coming directly from the East rather than from the North West as would be expected from Whitby."  
"So they diverted to mid channel?"

"Looks that way yes. A rendezvous to pick up weapons from associates on the European mainland? A quantity of drugs were found on board, just a small package that is probably a deliberate red-herring, forgive the pun, to give an impression of a smuggling operation if caught. Who knows?"

"I'd like to know." Palmer asserted pointedly.

"We all would Roger. A shame that the EU's commitment to the Maritime Domain Awareness initiative doesn't appear to be that effective in this case." Stafford agreed avoiding direct eye contact. "Ironic that after all that effort they turn up a couple of hours early for high tide. Those sandbanks and marshland is the last place on earth you want to be in the dark with the incoming tide lapping at your backside."

The Home Secretary's smile was bitter-sweet as he leaned forward, peering closely at his colleague. "Forgive me Willard, but your version of events seems to have graduated from supposition to factual reporting. At what point did you become aware that you had been outflanked by these people? Literally."

"The Terrorist Hot-Line does have positive results sometimes Roger." Stafford replied crisply.

"So, we have a third party in the mix. Or a fourth even, fully aware of just where they intended to land on all of that coast. Your mysterious 'Deep-throat', were they privy to radar intelligence too do you think?"

The Director General's eyes slid about the room, looking in every direction but across the desk on which the Home Secretary had propped his bulk on bent elbows.

"That would suggest a degree of collaboration between the security services or the Border Agency or both Roger." He spoke softly, an edge of warning to his voice. "All I can say is that a witness statement describes how five men in black wet-suits were seen clambering back over the sea wall at about the relevant time frame and to drive off in an unidentified car... "

"A witness statement?" Palmer held up a hand to stop him, surprise on his face. "The plot positively thickens. Do enlighten me Willard, please."

Stafford looked a touch uncomfortable now, in deep water himself, and floundering. "A sea angler, getting set up for the incoming tide. He thought it strange. That part of the coast below Hunstanton isn't exactly surfers' paradise, and certainly not in freezing darkness. Most surfing activity takes place further North off of the Lincolnshire coast. The Wash has a deadly incoming tide but it is hardly the Severn Bore is it?"

Palmer stared at and through him, seeking out prevarication or deceit. "So we have no idea who these five mystery men could be, who show remarkable capability in hostile terrain and conditions, as one would expect from the military; Special Forces or Royal Marines maybe?"

"Certainly not Home Secretary." Stafford's eyes did another circuit of the room.

Roger Palmer knew the game. The less you were told, the less you had to confess at a later date to any cross party committee interrogation. Best to duck the flying dung altogether, don't stand in front of the fan.

"Where does all this go from here then Willard. For once I am in agreement with our Prime Minister. It is imperative that the general public are not made aware of what was attempted here. Just that possibility it could spark off a race war in many of our towns. Luton is already on the verge of erupting.

"Which brings us to what we do about this EFL group, whom I suspect know more about all this than we do perhaps?"

Willard Stafford gave a grim little smile. "It appears that their spokesman, sorry, spokesperson, one Christopher Carter, has been arrested for the murder of that Arab lad I spoke with you about, found dead at a Cambridgeshire roadside."

"On what evidence?"

"Well by association in the main. We have photographs of them together in Yorkshire and DNA evidence on their clothing indicates close physical contact."

"Is that all? You only have to travel a few stops on the underground and you'll have a whole bagful of strangers' DNA plastered all over you. But is he guilty?" The Home Secretary looked genuinely concerned.

Willard Stafford splayed his hands. "There were traces of blood on his shoes, though nobody has thought of DNA confirmation here. Probably Sergeant Sahni's that he paddled in inside that barn in Yorkshire.

"Anyhow, the Chief Constable seems keen to pin it on him and it is his investigation. So what becomes of Mr. Carter is hardly our remit is it? However convenient."

******
TWENTY-SEVEN

Friday's midday news report on BBC Radio, led with the usual lies released by government on the economy and the plainly failing euro zone. But tucked in amongst all the brain anaesthetic was a brief item on how a party of young Asian men had perished on the sandbanks of the Wash, apparently caught out by the rapidly incoming tide whilst they were presumably engaged in harvesting cockles by hand.

' _The Eastern Inshore Fisheries and Conservation Authority have no record of these unfortunate young men being licensed cocklers. That may explain their presence there in the early hours of the morning as opposed to the more logical afternoon low tide._

'A spokesperson added, "We wish to emphasise to anybody contemplating illegal poaching of Molluscan Shellfish, of the extreme danger faced, even by experienced local fishermen, of being entrapped out on the exposed sea-bed by the rising tides"

'Police are trying to identify the victims so that their families may be informed as soon as possible.'

No mention was made of an abandoned trawler in the area, and the few phone calls from Whitby offering information were fielded as not relevant to this tragedy.

***

Like a stalwart Man O' War, Henry Carter ploughed a course through the Friday afternoon shoppers stocking up for the weekend. Medals, newly polished that morning glinted brightly against the blue serge of his blazer bearing the pocket insignia of the Legion. One hand swung stiffly to a marching beat in his head, the other carried a Tesco shopping bag that hung heavily from gnarled, curled fingers.

Most of the pedestrians on the High Street, stood aside to grant passage for this grand, erect pensioner who clearly knew where he was headed, a mix of amusement, respect or plain annoyance on their busy faces.

As if on the command, _'Squad halt!'_ , he came to an abrupt stop immediately outside the Holtingham mosque; always the Countryman hotel in his cherished memories. His wedding day ad hoc reception in the lounge bar, a one nights stay there in lieu of a honeymoon, no money, no time, an Empire to defend.

Performing a smart parade ground, _'Left turn!_ ', he pivoted on his polished heel and mounted the three wide stone steps to the entrance. Pushing through the big oak door, he re-entered a grandeur of the long past and marched into an environment now entirely and hostile. The sing-song prayer response rose and fell in orchestrated rhythm beyond doors he remembered led to the big ballroom. The very place he had met his young bride to be, on a rare excursion into pleasurable leisure time; remembered the band in shiny jackets, rolling out the Glen Miller sound, the Andrews Sisters, a short thrash at the new Bill Hailey rock and roll, that for him was a bit too raucous.

Rows of shoes had been placed to one side of the entrance, as many as fifty pairs, some new and expensive, some old and worn. Removed as a sign of respect in this place of worship that preached treachery and death.

Thrusting the door back so violently that it smacked hard against the wall behind it, Henry Carter marched into the large, lofty room to be confronted by ranks of worshippers on their knees, facing the tall, fierce Imam who towered above them on the low stage. The same tired, stained old safety curtain from all those years ago hung down in place behind him. The congregation turned shocked faces in his direction as this big impertinent Infidel strode purposefully down the centre aisle, street shoes clacking sharply on the parquet flooring, bright eyes fixed firmly on the rogue Islamic cleric who called himself Kamal Khan.

Four thuggish characters dotted along the flank walls, a stern, threatening Praetorian Guard, jerked forward from their relaxed stance, moving forward in unison, intent on waylaying this intruder with whatever force and pain that would entail. Kamal Khan waved them back with angry and contemptuous gestures as the congregation watched with fear filled eyes, rising up on their knees to view what was to come like badly dressed Meerkats.

Henry mounted the single step up onto the stage, his shopping bag banging gently against his thigh, panting for breath now, his pallor wan, unhealthy. He stopped an arm's length from the Imam, matching him in height and fearlessness, eyes bright with harsh purpose as memory replayed the obscenity he had witnessed that morning; the hacking, slicing swing of that wicked machete, gripped with maniacal fervour by hands crippled with half of the fingers missing. An evil man beheading his only son in the name of hate. Not Allah, not Mohammed, but pure and simple hate.

"You disrupt our prayers Christian?" Khan snarled loudly for the benefit of those who cowed before him for five prayer sessions every day.

"Your worshipping is a farce!" Henry spat back, his strong voice echoing around the old ballroom. "You neither believe in prayer, religion or your Allah. You and all the other psychotic scum calling yourselves Jihadists are nothing but cold-blooded murdering Wops! I have come to make _you_ confront your sins. There is no room for people like you in England."

Kamal Khan's black eyes blazed with ferocious emotion, three fingered hands slashed at the air space between them like a Bengali Tiger's killing stroke.

"This country, this land is our land. Our Brotherhood breed within you, consume you from the inside out and will emerge like an eagle from the broken shell. Islam conquers all Crusader!"

Some colour returned to Henry's lined face now as he twitched with a deep flaring of spirit; just briefly looking young and vital again.

"In 1805 at the Battle of Trafalgar, Lord Horatio Nelson held this nation's very survival in his hands. He knew that the consequences of failure were unthinkable. To rally his forces to the task at hand he sent a simple message to the fleet _. 'England expects that every man will do his duty'._

"Well Mr. Khan, I have obeyed that call to arms all of my life and I have no intention of failing my country now."

The Imam snorted like a bull jabbed with a Picador's spear, thick lips drawing back from yellowed teeth in a sneer, his foul breath exhaling into Henry's unflinching face.

"You are a pathetic old man. Your teeth are all drawn and your claws are blunt. You are no threat to me. The days of the British Raj are over. Go home and wait for your grave to call you."

Henry Carter nodded reflectively, as if to ponder the truth of that cutting statement. Then with a tired sigh he pulled his Webley .455 service revolver from the Tesco shopping bag, calmly aimed it directly at the centre of Khan's enraged face with both liver spotted hands, and pulled the trigger. He didn't flinch as the mashed contents of the Imam's head splattered across the safety curtain behind him.

The hammering recoil of the big military gun reverberated up his stiffened arms and hit his chest like a boxer's punch. As manic turmoil exploded all around the room, dozens of wailing worshippers fled for the exit door bottleneck, and the dead cleric's bodyguards grabbed for him, Henry felt the fire of tearing pain in his chest. It flared up like an artillery barrage, consuming and destroying his heart, his being, his life.

Henry Carter was dead before he hit the floor, impervious to the ferocious onslaught of kicking and punching that rained down onto his lifeless body. His duty done.

******
EPILOGUE

Two weeks later:

Her Majesty's Prison Belmarsh is a relatively modern establishment sited in the Thamesmead district of Greenwich, South-East London. It is a Category A prison housing some of the nation's most dangerous and notorious criminals. Also a number of high profile terrorists. Predictably a high percentage of them habitually complain of intimidation and racial victimisation by the staff there, often after engaging in riots and attacks on prison officers or fellow prisoners.

A subsequent report severely curtailed the prison staff's' response to inmate violence and aired damning criticism of the harassed officers for not understanding 'cultural needs'. Demoralised staff members complain despairingly that the Belmarsh establishment now bend over backwards to accommodate the 'sensitivities' of muslim inmates in particular. Quaintly, there is even a support group to aid foreign national criminals there with advice on immigration law.

The natural consequence of this restraint on discipline and appropriate response to disruptive behaviour, is that opportunistic prisoners conduct a virtual reign of terror. Predominant amongst these are the 'Muslim Boys' gang, former devotees of Abu Hamza who was interred there before eventual extradition to the USA.

With the knowledge and advantage that the staff have their hands tied behind their backs by starry-eyed liberalists, the 'Muslim Boys', Asians, Arabs and converts, run amok assaulting whoever they consider an enemy at will.

***

Barry Wells, Alison and the two children, had endured the obligatory security checks, X-ray machine, metal detectors and a full pat down; Alison in particular pink cheeked with embarrassment at the close attentions of a butch something or other, private security personnel.

Eventually along with other family groups and prisoners, they were ushered into the Family Centre to find Chris Carter waiting for them. He sat with tense anticipation on his drawn face behind a plain, melamine topped table, hands flat on its cold green surface, looking at least ten years older than when he had been recently committed there for trial by a mean faced magistrate in Cambridge.

Barry fought to keep the shock off of his face, failing miserably to do so as he arranged his little family on the chairs provided. Sitting opposite his friend he tried lightening the mood with a guarded smile and mock complaint.

"Took two bloody weeks to get a Visiting Order for just sixty minutes. And it's a right bugger just getting here Chris lad. Once I'm over that Dartford Crossing and south of the Thames I'm lost. Damn near wound up in Margate, totally opposite direction. Anyway, how are you keeping?"

Chris's grim features betrayed tiredness and defeat. "As good as I'm ever going to get Barry." He nodded wryly and winked at Alison, briefly reaching across the table to squeeze her shaking hand. "Thanks for coming Alison, bringing your kids and all. This ain't the best place for them to be so I appreciate you doing it. It really counts for a lot in here, a bit of normality you know?" He blinked back what could have been tears. "I understand that you are off to Australia in January. I'm really pleased for you all. A new life in a new country, it's a wonderful opportunity."

She smiled tightly, eyes bright with her own embryonic tears, playing the _'isn't life good?_ ' game. No point in depressing a depressed man further with defeatist gloom and recrimination.

"We are honoured to be here Chris," Her tone a forced cynical humour. "You wouldn't let anybody near you... before. Now we have to move half way around the world just to get to visit you two counties away.

"But thank you. It'll be tough getting on our feet out there to start with, but we'll manage it somehow."

"Yeah, give me the opportunity of a level playing field and I'll see us alright." Barry interjected. He scratched the side of his nose and cocked his head inquisitively. "How come they put you in here this far from home? Why not Norwich Prison like before? Not that you should be banged up at all." He added hastily.

Chris grimaced. "If you remember, when I first went down I was only eighteen. Norwich had a Young Offenders Institution. When I got to be twenty-one they simply transferred me to the main adult block.

"The authorities don't make it their priority to cater for the convenience of visitors. Besides, this place is 'Category A' and I'm one of the really bad boys apparently."

Barry snorted in protest. "But you're only on remand mate, haven't even had a trial yet. Besides being innocent, any prat can work that one out."

Chris shook his head. "Barry I'm in here primarily for my original conviction, murder of a police officer. As I was a juvenile my sentence was custody for life that normally demands a thirty years minimum. But I was released on licence in line with universal relaxation of parole board recommendations, not given any special consideration. In fact I was made well aware that my release didn't go down too well in certain quarters and the first opportunity to yank my chain and drag me back for the remaining fifteen years was on the cards.

"Going on trial for a second murder of poor little Abu was a godsend, particularly if I cop a guilty verdict. So hey presto, here I am!"

Barry thumped the table between them, drawing sharp glances from the attendant staff. "But you didn't kill Abu." He hissed. "His bastard mates in that mosque did for him. That's obvious."

Chris shrugged. "There are photographs and DNA 'evidence', sweat from my hands when I grabbed hold of him on one occasion. There's even traces of him at grandpa's house. Hours later he is dead. So they are not looking at anybody else, I'll do nicely thank you very much. Not to mention that grandpa went and shot their chief cleric halfway through his act.

" _'The family from hell_ ' the papers called us." His faced screwed up with sad thoughts. "Tell me Barry, how did grandpa's funeral go?" There was a slight catch in his voice and he lowered his face to table top.

"Out of order not letting you attend." Barry growled. "But you'd have been proud of the old boy all over again Chris. The Legion, current members of his old regiment, friends from all over; half the town turned out to say their goodbyes I reckon. A right royal burial he had. Apparently he'd bought a double plot next to your parents and grandma, they put him in there."

"Double plot?"

Barry coloured slightly, looked pointedly back at Chris. "Well none of us are going to live for ever are we?"

For an uncomfortable moment, Chris Carter stared wordlessly into the void, despair bleeding from hollow eyes. "No mate, we won't. Me, I'm on my last lap, won't even make it to my trial probably. So it's nice to know that I have somewhere welcoming to wind up in."

"Leave it out Chris. I know things couldn't get much worse for you right now, but don't go doing anything stupid!"

Barry's mini tirade was both desperate and exasperated. Beside him Alison stiffened with sudden distress, eyes wide with fear.

Chris leaned forward on his elbows, whispering slowly, conspiratorially. "It's no accident that I've been put here in Belmarsh Barry. Dozens of convicted terrorists are in here. The muslim gangs run this place. The screws are afraid to touch them for fear of their jobs.

"A young white lad converted to their religion, got too involved. When they discovered he was gay they tossed boiling water laced with sugar straight into his face while he slept. No amount of plastic surgery will ever make him pretty again. The whole thing has been hushed up, put down as an accident on the kitchen detail."

"Sugar?"

"Yeah. Melts in the hot water and sticks to the skin, burns right into it. Like home-brewed napalm."

Alison sobbed out loud, turned away quickly ushering her little girl towards a play area provided, watched over by a stern attendant.

"Not for you though, getting into all that kind of trouble Chris." Barry pleaded. "You've been in prison long enough to take care of yourself ain't you?"

"Not in here Barry. Got no buddies or allies. There's an open season on my head. I'm held responsible for their Brothers being washed up on that Norfolk beach, not to mention killing Abu. I've already been made aware that I'm on their hit-list. They're boasting that before the New Year comes around, guarantee it even, they will have killed me."

Alison let out a horrified scream that rattled the bars on all the windows at Belmarsh Prison.

***

On the second of January, the law firm of Messrs. Cardew, Pope and Bond, effected a substantial money transfer representing the entire estate of the late Christopher Phillip Carter, into the joint account of Mr. and Mrs. Barry Wells, days before they boarded a BA flight for Sydney, Australia.

A short explanatory note was passed on to the shocked couple inside a white envelope on the occasion of his 'accidental' death in the prison workshop.

'Barry, Alison, I have gone to join grandpa and my parents like I said I would soon enough. Please accept this money as I have left nobody behind who is more entitled or deserving.

Remember England as she once was, but don't ever come back. God bless Australia.'

***

A bitterly cold January wind tugged at the window frames, squeezing through any available gaps and crevices of the old building with triumphant squeals and sighs.

But Prime Minister Dennis Campbell felt rather warm around his starched collar thank you very much. He sat at the long trestle table positioned on the stage of the former ballroom in Holtingham mosque, trying hard not to glance down again at the shabby rug he had been assured covered the irremovable blood stains of The Blessed Martyr, Kamal Khan.

Outwardly, as ever, he appeared as sleek and polished as only a Public School upbringing could laminate over a mediocre but greatly expectant son of the very well heeled.

To his right sat Yasir Davi, smug and relaxed, whose fear of scandalous exposure had soaked away into the wooden boards beneath his feet: the outgoing Member of Parliament for this modest little town bordering the Fenlands; now the newly installed Police and Crime Commissioner for that same region, a new initiative in local political control that totally baffles the majority of the British public. A transition that had invoked this Parliamentary By-election which the Prime Minister would rather not have faced at this time of shrinking support for his government. Every vote now was crucial for his political survival, wherever it came from.

On his left slouched the admittedly transformed figure of Benny Mann. Odious but nevertheless the rising Che Guevara of the politically correct lobby. Though not quite as big a legend. A bizarre choice of candidate, even by local party standards, Mann had scrubbed up remarkably well during the preceding two months. Shaved, neat haircut, manicured finger nails; the trace of dark shadows underneath reptilian, aqueous eyes were the only visible legacy of long term drug and drink abuse; a triumph of intensive therapy.

Secretly he craved the conclusion of this 'bleeding' By-Election, so he could get at his hidden stash of wonder powder in the Angel Islington flat, that his party minders had not detected during his re-settlement programme back into respectable society.

Throughout that day's campaigning, giving top flight support out on the grey, wet streets, the Prime Minister had cursed his Private Secretary for adding this date in hell into his official events diary, had carried an air about him of having wandered onto the wrong side of the tracks and got lost.

A light sheen of nervous perspiration coated his practised, earnest face, as he rose with a greasy smile to address the attentive Brotherhood of potential voters. The raw facts of opportunistic reality had been recited quite firmly to him by the party number-crunchers. _'Get the muslim vote, now and forever if you want to stay in power. Without them, we are lost.'_

"Gentlemen," He choked back the 'and ladies' in a last minute realisation of where he was, whom he was addressing. "I do not have need to introduce Mr. Yasir Davi who as your MP and formerly a Barrister, fought tooth and nail for the interests of your community. Now he has moved on to an exciting new role as your Police and Crime Commissioner where his influence and control of local policing will forever be at your service.

"Indeed he has already engaged himself in the Chief Constable's fight against the recent disgraceful upsurge in ethnic violence against your number, culminating in the shocking and disgraceful cold-blooded murders of your esteemed cleric Kamal Khan and one of his young flock."

He paused, turned reluctantly to his left, his hand wafting limply in the direction of Benny Mann who sat impassively, and rather glassy eyed as if already halfway through his cherished stash.

"Our friend here, Mr. Benjamin Mann, who has readily stepped up to the mark to stand as your new Member of Parliament, has long been involved in the fight for minority rights. He is a true campaigner who has led the Union of Anti-Fascists for a decade to oppose racism and bigotry."

Choking back acidic bile that flooded the back of his throat he continued with a wan smile. "I can also proudly announce that our valued candidate for your precious votes, has recently converted to the faith of Islam. He is committing his life to the Ummah, to stand as one of your own community, to promote and further your demands, ambitions and interests. So before I invite Mr. Mann to stand before you and say a few words, can I as _your_ Prime Minister, your most humble servant, welcome your efforts to sweep away the tired old order of this country, and to join us in the new beginning of a multi-faith, multi-cultural England.

"Gentleman, you are Legion, the future direction and very character and identity of this country, is now in your blessed hands."

******

THE END

CONTINUED »»»»»
If you have enjoyed reading this book, can I suggest that you consider these other Titles I have produced? Glowing reviews are always welcome! R.J.

## ***

TRIPLE-TAP

A deranged assassin is on the loose. An ex-DCI with a murky past his first victim. Suspects Edgar Marshall, Private Security Contractor, killing his trade, and 'Mad' Lenny Lester, retired 1960's gangster, revenge will be his, unite to prise free the 'grisly secrets of gruesome old men' from the Fat American. A history best not told. But the Last Tramp is out there, programmed to kill them both

***

STRANGE FRUIT ON TYBURN TREE

2005: Bodmin Moor, Cornwall, Ewan Hurd was raised an orphan. An unknown twin brother has traced their genealogy. A dark family history of pursuit by the Thief-Taker in a campaign to eradicate their bloodline. Hunted himself for murder, an enigmatic American girl reveals an amazing tale of 'Jack' an 18C ancestor who founded a dynasty, a family tree with roots embedded on both sides of the Atlantic.

***

CONTINUED »»»»»»»»»

A BAND BEGINS TO PLAY

An evil spanning 250 years. The 18thC Hellfire Club marries Dionysian Dismemberment to 20thC German Supremist philosophy offering mass sacrifice with World Wars; provoke the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse to invoke prophesies of the Book of Revelations: The End Time. Two brothers, a Great War Veteran and an enigmatic journalist launch a violent confrontation with the ultimate atrocity - HELLFIRE!

***

KILLER-BLOOD

Kristina Keillor is pursued by a killer with big hands. He's killed all the others. Jerry Keller must protect her, as promised. Geoffrey Gerrard is a drunken old hack. Perhaps this story will relaunch his career, but maybe not. Prime Minister Andrew Booth's future is in the blood-stained grasp of fugitive oligarch Stanislav Vasiliev. But he must buy peace with Vladmir Putin - London the price.

***

