Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 21

Chapter 34 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

34

The most effective way to destroy people is to deny and obliterate their own understanding of their history.
George Orwell

Breakfast was a lively affair and the dining area was unusually full very early. Bill, Johnno, Pete, Ron and Wilf had been up with the larks and eaten a bacon and egg repast extremely quickly. Dave and Sticky had joined them, bringing over a plate of buttered toast and marmalade and a large pot of tea.

"I don't care what Alb says," said Wilf, "they're a 5th column, they shouldn't be here."

"I agree," said Johnno, "they have no loyalty to Britain, they're foreign for Christ's sake, they have their own countries and their own traditions."

"And their own history," added Dave, putting aside his personal liking for East Europeans in an effort to fit in.

"It's the Muslims that bother me," said Pete, "we're Christians, they're our traditional enemies aren't they? What are they doing here?"

"Exactly," said Wilf, "I think we need to organise our own campaign, do our own op."

"Like what?" said Ron, still uncertain about taking action. He was hoping to get away with agreement in principle whilst avoiding any actual involvement.

"We could burn down one of their mosques," offered Sticky.

"Sounds like a plan," said Dave, although he looked quite concerned at the prospect.

"Make it the biggest one," said Wilf, "something showy."

"There's a really big one in London," said Bill.

"How are we going to get to London and back?" asked Pete.

"Train," offered Wilf.

"How will we burn down this mosque thing?" asked Ron, worry in his voice and manner.

"We'll just start a fire," said Wilf.

"Just like that," said Pete, "anyway, it's a long way to go to start a fire, can't we do a local one?"

"But it would be a statement," said Dave, "to do the biggest one in the UK."

"Nah," said Sticky, self-taught expert on mosques in the UK, "that's in Surrey - the largest mosque in Europe - holds about 10,000 of the buggers at any one time."

An awed silence followed as they tried to imagine the need for a church that big and failed.

"But it sounds really hard," said Pete, first to recover, "and Surrey's a long way to go as well."

"Man up," said Wilf, "we can do this, we're trained."

"I'll get the tickets," said Dave, thinking 'that could be my contribution'.

"What about hiring a car?" said Johnno, a long train journey not being his idea of a fun day out.

"Who's going to drive?" asked Dave.

"My licence's still valid," Bill said, importantly, puffing out his chest.

"Say we hired a van instead," said Pete, "then we could take the...whatever we need to start a fire, in the back."

"What about a mini-bus?" asked Dave, "Bill, can you drive one of them?"

"Fuck sake," moaned Wilf, "this is a military op, forget comfort, we need to toughen up."

"Maybe there's another way of doing this," offered Pete.

"Like what?" asked Johnno.

"I don't know," said Pete, "but to be honest I'm worn out by all this talking and we haven't even done anything yet. We're old, what chance is there of us carrying this out?"

"You're a quitter," said Wilf, "and quitters never do anything, except quit."

"Well, we did have a big breakfast," said Johnno, "and I could do with a nap."

The others, with the exception of Wilf, all nodded their agreement.

∞

Fiona was watching Pete; she was not best pleased to see him with Wilf and that crowd of ne'er do wells. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth pursed. She'd dressed as usual in one of her twin-set and pearls combos, this one a pale blue cashmere set above a navy wool skirt. As always she looked perfect; Pete had yet to notice she was even in the room.

Vera, sitting opposite her, missed very little and nudged Cynthia who glanced over, then smiled with malicious enjoyment.

"I think we should form our own breakaway unit," said Dora, talking round a mouthful of food, "and attack some of these fast food chains, burn them to the ground."

"But they'll be insured," said Esmé, her experience with Greenham Common and later the anti-vivisection group she'd belonged to had taught her that.

"But it will mean they have to start again, won't it," said Dora.

"What about the WI?" said Cynthia, "We could get them involved."

"That might work if we want to run a picket line round a MacDonald's or something," said Vera.

"Sounds good," said Fiona, tearing her eyes away from the back of Pete's head with some difficulty.

"I don't think that would work," said Dora, "I think people would just walk past us."

"Especially the kids," said Esmé, "they have no respect, they won't listen to us."

"Burn them down," said Dora.

"But that's so aggressive," said Vera.

"These are desperate times," said Dora, "and desperate times call for desperate measures."

"What about poisoning their burgers or something?" said Vera.

"How would we do that?" asked Cynthia, "We'd never get anywhere near their stock."

"Besides, we don't want to harm their customers," said Esmé.

"We could rope in the WI, and get them to attack a MacDonald's in their area," said Dora.

Vera was not convinced, "What makes you think the WI would get involved?"

"I know some people," said Esmé, eyes shining, "I could put some feelers out."

∞

"We could always get a list of names of bankers or stock brokers," said Ken, "I can get those really easily."

"Well I'm in," said Harry, wondering if he could get milkmen put on the list without having to reveal his sordid family history.

"Me too," said Tom, his voice a growl, "bloody bankers broke my Dickie, ruined his business. He lost his house and his marriage as a result of those bastards, definitely time someone paid them back."

Ken frowned, he'd not heard Tom mention having a family, not in all the years he'd known him. He'd thought him a loner, must be the highland thing he had going on. "Would your Dickie be able to help us then?" he asked, "with transport and that?"

"Oh yes," said Tom, "he'd be more than willing once he knows the plan."

"But it's quite an enterprise," said Gray, glad that Reg had stayed with Gil and was not in the room to hear all this, "Hot tar and feathers, it's not going to be easy to arrange, boyo."

"I reckon Dickie might be able to rope in a few of his mates as well," said Tom.

Val slipped into the vacant chair next to Ken. A waft of perfume enveloped them all, causing Tom to cough. "What did we all think of what happened last night?" she asked.

"We're going our own way," said Ken, firmly, "we're hunting bankers."

"Are you?" asked Val, "What, all of you?"

They nodded, some with more energy and enthusiasm than others.

"But what about Alb and Gerry's plan to attack Parliament?"

"We thought they could handle that on their own," said Tom, "that would free us up to take out some of these greedy buggers in city suits."

"Sounds rather complicated to me," said Val, "and how can Albie and Gerry take out Parliament on their own? Actually I don't think we can do that, the whole thing is ridiculous, if you ask me."

"But we're not," said Tom.

"Not what?"

"Not asking you."

"Charming." She looked at Ken, waiting for support but it was not forthcoming.

"It adds to their plan," he said, "...we take down a few bankers and they attack Parliament. It sends a message that we're unhappy and we can still have an impact if we want to."

With the exception of Val the others all nodded.

∞

Mags and Alb had their heads together in the corner. Gerry was trying very hard not to feel left out; his best friend and the woman he admired but who never seemed to notice him. If it weren't for the serious nature of what was going on at the moment he might have had to say something. As it was he amused himself by watching the room start to fill up.

Mort and Nobby were sitting together at the back, had been there some time, Mort looking spaced as usual and Nobby trying to engage him in hopeless conversation. Frank came in and flopped down next to Nobby, putting his newspaper down to save a place, probably for Lenny.

Dora and Esmé walked in together, with Cynthia bringing up the rear, all three casting nervous glances over at the spot so recently occupied by a dead body. Cynthia held her hand to her nose, as if to protect herself from any lingering smell. Ken and Val sidled in, joined at the hip as usual. Wilf came in at a march, head stuck out, looking for trouble. Bill and Ron entered, talking civilly to one another, by the looks of it, then Dave, Sticky and Tom, and Gray and Gil, no Reg. The door closed then opened again as Vera hurried in.

"Alb, Mags, looks like most of 'em are here," Gerry could wait no longer to disturb their tête a tête.

"Before you start in there, Alb," said Wilf, "you need to know that we're doing our own op."
Alb's mouth opened in surprise.

"Actually, so are we," said Cynthia.

"And us," said Ken.

"What?" said Gerry getting up alongside Alb, "you can't go splintering off, this is a team effort."

"Well, we didn't like that Bob chap," said Tom, nodding at the now empty space, "and we don't really trust your Mackie friend, no offence Mags, and anyhow, we want to go it alone."

"We're going to picket the fast food chains," said Dora.

"Well we're going to take some bankers down," said a thoroughly invigorated Ken.

"We're going after the Muslims," said Wilf.

"Hold on, hold on," said Gerry, "we can't do all of that."

"You aren't," said Vera, "we are."

There were general nods and much mumbling of approval for their own individual schemes. The door at the back opened and Harry came in, quickly followed by Lenny who moved to the seat held vacant by Frank's newspaper.

"What we gonna do, Alb?" said Gerry, "the whole thing's coming undone."

"It's that Mackie's fault," muttered Alb, "he's confused everything."

"It was our idea," said Gerry, "now everyone's trying to take over."

"Well, we've told you how we feel," said Cynthia standing up and turning to leave, "so we should do our planning separately from now on."

Some of the others started to stand up but subsided quickly when Mags rose, obviously in a fury, "I don't believe what I'm hearing," she said, hands on substantial hips, "you've just been told how the system works by someone who used to run these shows and you're still thinking of making piddling, ineffective and meaningless shows of resistance."

"Don't you start, Margaret Pickles," said Cynthia, "we're not going to let you boss us around the way Alb and Gerry do."

Alb frowned and harrumphed, Gerry cleared his throat and was about to comment when the door opened and Pete and Fiona sidled in. All heads turned and Fiona coloured, hand going to the pearls at her throat.

Mags spoke again. "I don't boss anyone around Cynthia Carlyle, but I do know what I'm talking about, which is more than can be said for you."

"How dare you," yelped Cynthia.

"How dare I? How dare you? What difference do you think your little plans will have on the whole scheme of things, eh? Tell me."

"Well we...." began Dora.

"Say you picket a few fast food chains, do you think people will listen to you, do you think you will stop their trade? If so for how long? An hour? Half a day? A whole day? And you," she continued, turning to berate Ken, "you're going to take some bankers down. How? And do you really think that will terrify the banking community?"

She walked towards Wilf who stood his ground, Ron cowering behind him, "And as for you lot, you're going to attack the Muslim community. What all four of you? There's over 3 million of them, what effect can you possibly have on the whole scheme of things?"

"There's five of us for the op," Wilf said sullenly, "But Johnno's having a lie down."

The room was uncomfortably silent. Alb glanced round, said, "Where's Jonesey?"

There was a chorus of 'allotment' and Harry volunteered to go and fetch him, hastily departing before the atmosphere got any worse.

Mags continued relentlessly, the interruption not swaying her from her path, "The media will portray you all as fanatical racist old fogies, you'll be castigated. They will crush anything you hope to start within minutes. Why do you think Alb and Gerry decided to attack Parliament?" She was at her indomitable best, all resemblance to the contented matron doling out cake and comfort a distant memory. No-one attempted to answer, they muttered, and shuffled and looked at the floor or the walls or the ceiling. "Because that's the power base, that's how they control everything and everyone, if we destroy the power base then we weaken them and those who follow can change things."

Finally Cynthia's dislike of Mags over rode caution. "Change things how?" she demanded.

"They can change the laws," said Mags, "and make things difficult for fast food chains, they can ensure we don't introduce Sharia law, they can reduce immigration and imprison bankers."

"But how do we know they'll do that?" demanded Dora.

"How will they even know why we've done what we've done?" asked Dave.

"We'll leave suicide videos," offered Lenny, "like the Muslims."

"Hey, that's good, I like that," said Wilf, "I've always wanted to make one of those."

"Really?" said Cynthia.

"Actually that's a brilliant idea, Lenny," said Mags, "then we could all leave our reasons for doing what we're doing and we could attack them at their core, how's that for a plan?"

They looked at one another, and gradually one by one, nodded their agreement.

"Great," said Alb, keen not to lose the moment, "now let's choose a name."

"Not so fast, Albert," said Cynthia, "I think we should all get together into our groups and discuss what we've just heard."

"And when we come back can we have some more Angel cake?" asked Mort, "I really liked the last lot you made, Morag."

"Morag?" mouthed Mags to Alb. He shook his head and whispered, "Just go with it."

"We need to make sure everyone's in on this," said Gerry, "Harry should be back with Jonesey shortly, but we need Johnno and Reg as well."

"And whilst you're at it you can think about what we can call ourselves," said Alb.

Cheers for reading

Arun








More form the 'Corpalism' series
















Compendium editions

Chapter 33 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

33

Leadership requires the courage to make decisions
that will benefit the next generation
Alan Autry


After Mackie left a general debate started.

"What in heaven’s name was that all about?" demanded Bill, his face a picture of incredulity, "And what on God’s good green earth are we meant to do with… him?" He gestured towards the slumped figure of the erstwhile Bob.

"Yes, what was that? Did that man just kill him?" said Val, her hand hovering near her mouth, she looked like she was about to cry.

"Of course he did," said Wilf, all matter of fact, "probably cyanide I shouldn't wonder," he added getting close enough to Bob to sniff the air around him, and nodding gently to himself.

"Who was he, Mags?" asked Ken, hastening to Val’s side, "How does he know you so well?"

Nobby, Gerry and Lenny were now bent over Bob's slumped body. Nobby poked him, "Shiiiit!" said Lenny, "this is for real."

"What was that all about?" said Dave, "I mean seriously did we just witness a murder?"

"I need a sit down," moaned Frank, struggling back to his seat.

"What are we meant to do now?" said Fiona, "We can't dig a hole here, the warden would notice. How are we going to get rid of Bob?"

"My thoughts exactly," said Pete, "But I can't dig a hole, not with my back. Who does that Mackie think he is? He comes here without a by your leave and murders someone right in front of us, that was....that was....."

"Goodness knows who he is," added Val, "or if he's really from MI6."

"Yes," agreed Ken, "how on earth are we to know if what he says is true."

"All right everyone, just calm down and take a seat," said Alb, "and we'll explain."

"Oh, it's alright for you, Albert Rayner," said Fiona, "you think you're in charge, well look where it's got us, accessories to murder."

"It wasn't murder," stated Mags, "it was self defence."

"Self defence," blurted Val, her voice rising, "self defence?"

"Self-defence. Because if we'd let Bob go then we'd all be dead within 24 hours, probably a fire or something. Oh, and don't worry about the body by the way, it's all in hand."

"All in hand?" repeated Val sarcastically, "Who do you think you are?"

"And why the hell did that Mackie fellow bring him here?" asked Dave.

"I asked Mackie to help us," said Mags.

"And who gave you that authority?" demanded Cynthia. "To go around inviting whomsoever you like to our little chats."

"They are not 'little chats'," Alb was getting fretful; he needed to think and plan and talking them through this sticky patch was taxing in the extreme, "this is for real, and stop bloody moaning about Bob everyone. What did you think Gerry and I were talking about, eh? Did you think it was just Rose Garden patter for old duffers? Well it wasn't, we're deadly serious."

"Deadly serious," added Gerry. He was secretly amazed to have survived the high drama, his blood pressure was falling and he felt quite good about himself.

"Well, we can see that now, although you had little enough to say in there," said Frank.

"Maybe it's for the best then," said Jonesey, "at least we all understand the stakes involved."

"Exactly," said Wilf, giving the faint hearts his most deathly stare.

"Now you all need to take a seat and we'll explain where we are," said Alb.

"I don't know that I want to be a part of this, this murder thing of yours, Albert," said Fiona.

"It's not a murder thing," Gerry retorted, "haven't you been listening? It's a last ditch attempt to save England from being overrun by foreigners."

"It actually sounded like he was saying that our leaders are busy dismantling the country," said Esmé, "that's not what he meant, is it?"

"Just take a seat everyone," said Mags, "and I'll try and explain."

"Take a seat," moaned Cynthia, to Val, "there she goes again, old Bossy socks herself, why doesn't someone tell her to take a seat."

"Sit down everyone," ordered Wilf as he filched the bottle of Scotch and Mackie's glass from the coffee table. He checked the bottle, still a fair bit left; he could have a lot of fun with that. He slowly made his way back to his seat and the eagerly waiting Jonesey, Harry and Dave. Only the one glass though, so not sure what they were looking so happy about.

"I need the toilet first," said Sticky.

"And me," added Lenny.

"Oh and me," said Esmé followed by a general chorus.

"Well, okay, okay," said Alb, wanting desperately to go himself but refusing to look weak. "everyone go to the toilet, then hurry back here."

"I'm not hurrying anywhere," said Cynthia, "and especially not for you."

"What say we meet back here in half hour?" said Wilf, dipping out the door, still clutching the bottle and closely followed by Dave, Jonesey, Harry and now Frank.

"What a good idea," said Val, "come on Ken, let's get some fresh air."

Ken beamed, he knew what 'fresh air' meant and he knew they wouldn't be going outside to get it.

"Okay then," said Alb to everyone's departing backs, "we'll have a half hour break and then meet back here, say at......" He glanced at his watch, then looked up. The room was empty.

∞

Forty five minutes later Alb, Gerry and Mags were still waiting, trying not to stare at the motionless Bob. Mackie had said he'd arrange the disposal but for the time being they'd draped the body in an old tablecloth. It still looked like what it was but it was more discreet.

"Do you think they got the time wrong?" asked Gerry.

"Either that or they found the whole thing too hot to handle," said Mags.

Alb and Gerry shared a nervous glance. "What if they've gone to the authorities?" asked Gerry.

"They wouldn't do that, they're in it as deep as we are," said Mags firmly.

"They might decide to have nothing more to do with us though," said Alb, "feelings might run a bit high or they might just be awkward for us to be around."

"I don't want to have to move out," moaned Gerry.

"Oh for Christ's sake," snapped Alb, "this is far more serious than that, this is about trying to save what's left of our country from the invading hordes."

Just then they heard chattering voices as everyone started milling back to their original seats. Alb and Gerry beamed at one another, it was all working out, they'd actually returned even though Bob had been killed in front of them, "Now we're cooking," said Alb.

When everyone was in their seats Mags took the floor, "Okay who's first?"

There was a general kerfuffle as everyone spoke at once but Mags raised her voice, "Okay, hands in the air and I'll go around the room. Bill, your question?"

"Who was that and was he really from MI6?"

"That was Mackie, Sir Robert Alexander MacDonald to give his full name and title, and yes he was at MI6, and very high up as well."

"How do you know him?" asked Frank, "Were you at MI6 as well?"

"Yes I was." She couldn't help puffing herself up slightly as she pointed to Wilf, "next question?"

"Forget all that bollocks," said Wilf, slurring happily, "just explain the Belch...Bilch...Bals the new world order rubbish."

"It's really simple, we tend to view the world as nations, as different countries, but to the rich elite these individual nations no longer exist, they no longer count. They see the world as an amorphous whole and they use the natural resources," at which point she indicated those present, "of the world to maintain their wealth."

"You mean that the rich in this country are part of this Bilder thing set up?" asked Harry.

"That's right, Harry, the richest people in the world act together, they control companies and governments and manipulate peoples to achieve more for themselves and their associates, they're like a royal mafia and they use the resources of nations to realise greater wealth for themselves."

"But what about our politicians?" asked Cynthia, "Don't they try and stop them?"

"Come on, Cynthia," said Mags, "our democracy has always been based on the premise that only those with a stake in the national wealth have a right to determine what the country does. Well, now that same premise is being applied on a global scale, that's all."

"That's true enough when you see how the Tories have treated us over the years," Ron's voice was bitter from personal experience.

"The rich manipulate the government to create policies that achieve their goals, like cutting taxes, exporting manufacturing to 3rd world countries."

"Running down the NHS," Doris called out.

"But that's not fair," said Ron, "what are we supposed to do about it?"

"You're meant to get on with your lives, watch rubbish on TV and not think about what's happening under your nose," Gerry chipped in, his face again bordering on puce.

"We're not doing that anymore," stated Alb, wobbling to his feet, "we're going on the attack."

"Attack who, you old fool?" said Fiona, "haven't you been listening, there's no-one to attack."

"Don't go saying we're going to attack the foreigners," said Val, "what difference would that make to all of this?"

"Yeah Alb," said Dave, "who can we attack? What can we do?"

"I still think we should attack the foreigners," said Wilf, "especially the Muslims."

"And what about the fast food chains?" demanded Dora and Cynthia together, "something should be done about them."

"I'm with Wilf," said Lenny, "the Muslims have to go; they aren't loyal to this country."

"How could they be?" said Harry, "Our history is Richard the Lion Heart and theirs is Saladin."

"What about Gordon of Khartoum," said Esmé, "my granddad was at Omdurman, you know."

"I had a great, great um...great uncle, I think," said Nobby, "he was killed at Gandamak fighting the Afghans, served with the 44th foot."

"That's right," said Johnno, quite riled up, "Muslim's have always been the enemies of Britain, what has really changed now? Nothing."

"I think we should clean up the streets," said Val, "there are too many yobs around these days."

"Let's not forget the bankers," said Ken, seeing his chance for vengeance slipping away, "they started a lot of today's problems."

"Bankers and politicians," said Sticky, "I've always thought of them as the snotty nosed little teachers pets at school who always wanted to be prefect so they could boss everyone around."

"I don't trust the Americans," said Dora, apropos of nothing, "and I think Bob was a horrid little man, it's jolly good he's dead."

"What about the druggies," said Pete, "something should be done about them, you know."

"Alright, alright," yelled Alb, "everyone just calm down, we can't deal with everything."

"Besides," said Mags, "Mackie said that these things are peripheral, not the source of the problem."

"We need to attack the people who are responsible for this mess, the politicians," said Alb.

"But how?" asked Harry.

"We have a plan," said Gerry, "Oh and by the way, we intend to take out the royals as well."

There was a general gasp followed by, "You can't do that," from Val, shocked almost to tears.

"Why not?" demanded Gerry, "Weren't you listening? The aristocracy and the royals are as much a part of selling us down the river as the bankers."

"And don't forget it all started under the Queen," stated Mags, a trifle wearily.

"I can't believe she would have involved herself with such a thing," said Val indignantly.

"Why not?" demanded Mags, "What makes you think she was any different? She was more concerned with her portfolio than with the wellbeing of this nation, and most royal families are sworn up Bilderberg members."

"Hey, we can sort details later," said Alb, "but first we need a name, so we can go down in history."

∞

The royalist versus republican argument raged for several hours, broken by the need for refreshment and toilet breaks. Part way through proceedings a van had turned up and two men had removed Bob, table cloth and all. This had had the effect of halting all conversation and a few had taken the opportunity to slip back to their apartments. By now, most of those still in the room were exhausted; several had fallen asleep in their chairs. However, Alb and Gerry were still going strong, supported ably by Mags and challenged intermittently by Val, Fiona and Bill.

"So that's settled then, we're going to attack Parliament," said Alb, "at the State Opening."

"We're going to execute every last politician," said Gerry, adding sotto voce, "and the Royals."

"Not the Royals," snapped Fiona and Val in unison.

"We'll get as many of them as we can in that one attack," said Alb.

"Well?" asked Gerry, "Any objections?"

There was silence, broken only by a few snores. They still had the majority in the room so technically it was a decision making forum.

"To the name then," said Alb.

"Can we come back to the name?" asked Fiona, "I'm too tired."

"Me too," said Val and Bill in unison.

"Tomorrow morning then, after breakfast, in here," said Alb. 

Cheers

Arun







More books in the 'Corpalism' series
















Compendiun editions

Chapter 33 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

33

Leadership requires the courage to make decisions
that will benefit the next generation
Alan Autry


After Mackie left a general debate started.

"What in heaven’s name was that all about?" demanded Bill, his face a picture of incredulity, "And what on God’s good green earth are we meant to do with… him?" He gestured towards the slumped figure of the erstwhile Bob.

"Yes, what was that? Did that man just kill him?" said Val, her hand hovering near her mouth, she looked like she was about to cry.

"Of course he did," said Wilf, all matter of fact, "probably cyanide I shouldn't wonder," he added getting close enough to Bob to sniff the air around him, and nodding gently to himself.

"Who was he, Mags?" asked Ken, hastening to Val’s side, "How does he know you so well?"

Nobby, Gerry and Lenny were now bent over Bob's slumped body. Nobby poked him, "Shiiiit!" said Lenny, "this is for real."

"What was that all about?" said Dave, "I mean seriously did we just witness a murder?"

"I need a sit down," moaned Frank, struggling back to his seat.

"What are we meant to do now?" said Fiona, "We can't dig a hole here, the warden would notice. How are we going to get rid of Bob?"

"My thoughts exactly," said Pete, "But I can't dig a hole, not with my back. Who does that Mackie think he is? He comes here without a by your leave and murders someone right in front of us, that was....that was....."

"Goodness knows who he is," added Val, "or if he's really from MI6."

"Yes," agreed Ken, "how on earth are we to know if what he says is true."

"All right everyone, just calm down and take a seat," said Alb, "and we'll explain."

"Oh, it's alright for you, Albert Rayner," said Fiona, "you think you're in charge, well look where it's got us, accessories to murder."

"It wasn't murder," stated Mags, "it was self defence."

"Self defence," blurted Val, her voice rising, "self defence?"

"Self-defence. Because if we'd let Bob go then we'd all be dead within 24 hours, probably a fire or something. Oh, and don't worry about the body by the way, it's all in hand."

"All in hand?" repeated Val sarcastically, "Who do you think you are?"

"And why the hell did that Mackie fellow bring him here?" asked Dave.

"I asked Mackie to help us," said Mags.

"And who gave you that authority?" demanded Cynthia. "To go around inviting whomsoever you like to our little chats."

"They are not 'little chats'," Alb was getting fretful; he needed to think and plan and talking them through this sticky patch was taxing in the extreme, "this is for real, and stop bloody moaning about Bob everyone. What did you think Gerry and I were talking about, eh? Did you think it was just Rose Garden patter for old duffers? Well it wasn't, we're deadly serious."

"Deadly serious," added Gerry. He was secretly amazed to have survived the high drama, his blood pressure was falling and he felt quite good about himself.

"Well, we can see that now, although you had little enough to say in there," said Frank.

"Maybe it's for the best then," said Jonesey, "at least we all understand the stakes involved."

"Exactly," said Wilf, giving the faint hearts his most deathly stare.

"Now you all need to take a seat and we'll explain where we are," said Alb.

"I don't know that I want to be a part of this, this murder thing of yours, Albert," said Fiona.

"It's not a murder thing," Gerry retorted, "haven't you been listening? It's a last ditch attempt to save England from being overrun by foreigners."

"It actually sounded like he was saying that our leaders are busy dismantling the country," said Esmé, "that's not what he meant, is it?"

"Just take a seat everyone," said Mags, "and I'll try and explain."

"Take a seat," moaned Cynthia, to Val, "there she goes again, old Bossy socks herself, why doesn't someone tell her to take a seat."

"Sit down everyone," ordered Wilf as he filched the bottle of Scotch and Mackie's glass from the coffee table. He checked the bottle, still a fair bit left; he could have a lot of fun with that. He slowly made his way back to his seat and the eagerly waiting Jonesey, Harry and Dave. Only the one glass though, so not sure what they were looking so happy about.

"I need the toilet first," said Sticky.

"And me," added Lenny.

"Oh and me," said Esmé followed by a general chorus.

"Well, okay, okay," said Alb, wanting desperately to go himself but refusing to look weak. "everyone go to the toilet, then hurry back here."

"I'm not hurrying anywhere," said Cynthia, "and especially not for you."

"What say we meet back here in half hour?" said Wilf, dipping out the door, still clutching the bottle and closely followed by Dave, Jonesey, Harry and now Frank.

"What a good idea," said Val, "come on Ken, let's get some fresh air."

Ken beamed, he knew what 'fresh air' meant and he knew they wouldn't be going outside to get it.

"Okay then," said Alb to everyone's departing backs, "we'll have a half hour break and then meet back here, say at......" He glanced at his watch, then looked up. The room was empty.

∞

Forty five minutes later Alb, Gerry and Mags were still waiting, trying not to stare at the motionless Bob. Mackie had said he'd arrange the disposal but for the time being they'd draped the body in an old tablecloth. It still looked like what it was but it was more discreet.

"Do you think they got the time wrong?" asked Gerry.

"Either that or they found the whole thing too hot to handle," said Mags.

Alb and Gerry shared a nervous glance. "What if they've gone to the authorities?" asked Gerry.

"They wouldn't do that, they're in it as deep as we are," said Mags firmly.

"They might decide to have nothing more to do with us though," said Alb, "feelings might run a bit high or they might just be awkward for us to be around."

"I don't want to have to move out," moaned Gerry.

"Oh for Christ's sake," snapped Alb, "this is far more serious than that, this is about trying to save what's left of our country from the invading hordes."

Just then they heard chattering voices as everyone started milling back to their original seats. Alb and Gerry beamed at one another, it was all working out, they'd actually returned even though Bob had been killed in front of them, "Now we're cooking," said Alb.

When everyone was in their seats Mags took the floor, "Okay who's first?"

There was a general kerfuffle as everyone spoke at once but Mags raised her voice, "Okay, hands in the air and I'll go around the room. Bill, your question?"

"Who was that and was he really from MI6?"

"That was Mackie, Sir Robert Alexander MacDonald to give his full name and title, and yes he was at MI6, and very high up as well."

"How do you know him?" asked Frank, "Were you at MI6 as well?"

"Yes I was." She couldn't help puffing herself up slightly as she pointed to Wilf, "next question?"

"Forget all that bollocks," said Wilf, slurring happily, "just explain the Belch...Bilch...Bals the new world order rubbish."

"It's really simple, we tend to view the world as nations, as different countries, but to the rich elite these individual nations no longer exist, they no longer count. They see the world as an amorphous whole and they use the natural resources," at which point she indicated those present, "of the world to maintain their wealth."

"You mean that the rich in this country are part of this Bilder thing set up?" asked Harry.

"That's right, Harry, the richest people in the world act together, they control companies and governments and manipulate peoples to achieve more for themselves and their associates, they're like a royal mafia and they use the resources of nations to realise greater wealth for themselves."

"But what about our politicians?" asked Cynthia, "Don't they try and stop them?"

"Come on, Cynthia," said Mags, "our democracy has always been based on the premise that only those with a stake in the national wealth have a right to determine what the country does. Well, now that same premise is being applied on a global scale, that's all."

"That's true enough when you see how the Tories have treated us over the years," Ron's voice was bitter from personal experience.

"The rich manipulate the government to create policies that achieve their goals, like cutting taxes, exporting manufacturing to 3rd world countries."

"Running down the NHS," Doris called out.

"But that's not fair," said Ron, "what are we supposed to do about it?"

"You're meant to get on with your lives, watch rubbish on TV and not think about what's happening under your nose," Gerry chipped in, his face again bordering on puce.

"We're not doing that anymore," stated Alb, wobbling to his feet, "we're going on the attack."

"Attack who, you old fool?" said Fiona, "haven't you been listening, there's no-one to attack."

"Don't go saying we're going to attack the foreigners," said Val, "what difference would that make to all of this?"

"Yeah Alb," said Dave, "who can we attack? What can we do?"

"I still think we should attack the foreigners," said Wilf, "especially the Muslims."

"And what about the fast food chains?" demanded Dora and Cynthia together, "something should be done about them."

"I'm with Wilf," said Lenny, "the Muslims have to go; they aren't loyal to this country."

"How could they be?" said Harry, "Our history is Richard the Lion Heart and theirs is Saladin."

"What about Gordon of Khartoum," said Esmé, "my granddad was at Omdurman, you know."

"I had a great, great um...great uncle, I think," said Nobby, "he was killed at Gandamak fighting the Afghans, served with the 44th foot."

"That's right," said Johnno, quite riled up, "Muslim's have always been the enemies of Britain, what has really changed now? Nothing."

"I think we should clean up the streets," said Val, "there are too many yobs around these days."

"Let's not forget the bankers," said Ken, seeing his chance for vengeance slipping away, "they started a lot of today's problems."

"Bankers and politicians," said Sticky, "I've always thought of them as the snotty nosed little teachers pets at school who always wanted to be prefect so they could boss everyone around."

"I don't trust the Americans," said Dora, apropos of nothing, "and I think Bob was a horrid little man, it's jolly good he's dead."

"What about the druggies," said Pete, "something should be done about them, you know."

"Alright, alright," yelled Alb, "everyone just calm down, we can't deal with everything."

"Besides," said Mags, "Mackie said that these things are peripheral, not the source of the problem."

"We need to attack the people who are responsible for this mess, the politicians," said Alb.

"But how?" asked Harry.

"We have a plan," said Gerry, "Oh and by the way, we intend to take out the royals as well."

There was a general gasp followed by, "You can't do that," from Val, shocked almost to tears.

"Why not?" demanded Gerry, "Weren't you listening? The aristocracy and the royals are as much a part of selling us down the river as the bankers."

"And don't forget it all started under the Queen," stated Mags, a trifle wearily.

"I can't believe she would have involved herself with such a thing," said Val indignantly.

"Why not?" demanded Mags, "What makes you think she was any different? She was more concerned with her portfolio than with the wellbeing of this nation, and most royal families are sworn up Bilderberg members."

"Hey, we can sort details later," said Alb, "but first we need a name, so we can go down in history."

∞

The royalist versus republican argument raged for several hours, broken by the need for refreshment and toilet breaks. Part way through proceedings a van had turned up and two men had removed Bob, table cloth and all. This had had the effect of halting all conversation and a few had taken the opportunity to slip back to their apartments. By now, most of those still in the room were exhausted; several had fallen asleep in their chairs. However, Alb and Gerry were still going strong, supported ably by Mags and challenged intermittently by Val, Fiona and Bill.

"So that's settled then, we're going to attack Parliament," said Alb, "at the State Opening."

"We're going to execute every last politician," said Gerry, adding sotto voce, "and the Royals."

"Not the Royals," snapped Fiona and Val in unison.

"We'll get as many of them as we can in that one attack," said Alb.

"Well?" asked Gerry, "Any objections?"

There was silence, broken only by a few snores. They still had the majority in the room so technically it was a decision making forum.

"To the name then," said Alb.

"Can we come back to the name?" asked Fiona, "I'm too tired."

"Me too," said Val and Bill in unison.

"Tomorrow morning then, after breakfast, in here," said Alb. 

Cheers

Arun







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Chapter 32 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

32

If the freedom of speech is taken away
then dumb and silent we may be led,
like sheep to the slaughter.
George Washington


The Preacher sat and stared at the wall.
Barry leant back in the armchair and studied the man in front of him for some time, funny how he'd never really noticed the shape of his head before, cloaked as it was in long straggly hair, the grey overtaking the brown; he was reminded of Charlie Brown, the round headed kid.

"What do you think of what I do?" said the Preacher.
Barry was shocked; in all their dealings he had never been asked what he thought; the Preacher had never welcomed any pre or post discussion or comment. Barry played for time, hoping it was a random thought which didn't require an answer. No such luck.

"Well?" pressed the Preacher turning to face him.

Barry felt the full force of his penetrating eyes, "I agree with almost everything that you say..."

"Almost everything?" questioned the Preacher, "What do you not agree with?"

"Well....er...." struggled Barry, 'shit,' he wasn't prepared for this, "well, the theft of Palestine, and the creation of Israel, all that stuff about the Jews I guess, a bit anti-Semitic, isn't it?"

The Preacher stared at him, "I find it strange that the minute anyone says anything against the Jews they're accused of being anti-Semitic. Especially if they speak in support of the Palestinians or question the extent of the holocaust. I give you forewarning, I intend to speak on the Jews and their influence on our economic system again tonight."

Barry sat upright, he always worried when the Jews came into the Preacher's sermons, primarily because he didn't know what he was going to say, "Are you sure that's absolutely necessary? Some of it is hard for people to digest, at least I think that's what erm.... causes.... erm..."

"People fear any comments about the Jews because of the stigma that is instantly attached."

"Well yes," said Barry, "exactly, that's it. But the Holocaust did happen, I mean the Germans did kill 6 million of them, they've had it pretty bad after all."

"What about the 20 million Russians who died or the millions of Europeans? What of the millions of Chinese who died or the Germans who were killed who didn't want war and had nothing to do with the work of the Reich? What of the Germans in Dresden? What of the defenceless Japanese civilians murdered by the Americans at Hiroshima and Nagasaki? Are these any the less horrific?"

"Well erm....," said Barry, looking distinctly uncomfortable, "but the holocaust was so cold blooded, so methodical."

The Preacher turned away and stared at the wall for several minutes. "Have you been to Auschwitz?" he asked, his voice even and untroubled.

"Well, no," said Barry, "but we did it in school."

"So did we," said the Preacher, "and of course it's been on TV, then there was the film, and several documentaries."

Barry sipped his tea. He was not comfortable with this, not in the least bit.

The Preacher continued, "I think that if you asked most people to name one aspect about the war, they'd say the Holocaust. Why is that?"

"Well obviously it's such a terrible concept," said Barry, "the extermination of a people simply because of their race and on an industrial level as well, it's just shocking."

"A religion not a race but no matter..... the Americans exterminated the Native American Indian and no-one cares, in fact we are lead to believe that the Americans were victims of the savage nomadic warriors of the plains."

"But that was so long ago," said Barry.

"Is that disqualifying factor then? Time? And if that is so then should we still be talking about the holocaust so many years later?"

"I'm serious," said Barry, "you can't go there, people will not tolerate you questioning the holocaust."

"Because it's anti-Semitic?" questioned the Preacher. "What about the killings regularly committed by Israel in Palestine? Can I mention that? What about the prominent Jewish banking families, the same bankers that have brought the world to the edge of bankruptcy and despair? Can I mention the same Jewish families who now control the most powerful western governments through their financial support to political parties? Or are all of these things out of bounds because of the holocaust?"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," said Barry, "these things you mention, they don't lessen the holocaust. You can't just go steaming in there like you usually do, this is a whole different ball game."

"I didn't say that the Germans and East Europeans didn't kill millions of Jews," said the Preacher, "I merely said that the Israelis and the western Jews are capitalising out of our deference, our reluctance to challenge them."

Cheers

Arun








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Chapter 31 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

31

The government, which was designed for the people,
has got into the hands of the bosses and their employers, the special interests.
An invisible empire has been set up above the forms of democracy.
Woodrow Wilson

The room had emptied slightly; Nobby had left with Mort, ostensibly to take him back to his room for his medication and a lie down. He planned to use the opportunity for a stiff drink to calm his nerves. The mistreatment of a U.S citizen was causing him concern and a split loyalty with regard to his antecedents was giving him a headache. Gil had done the same for Reg, despite his muttering that he was quite capable of walking by himself, thank you very much. Although these departures had created a restlessness in those left behind no-one else looked like leaving, ‘more excitement than they’d had in years’ was the main audible comment.

“There was a fear in the West in '54,” began Bob, “within the corporate world, that communism would win. There was growing anti-American feeling spreading across the world and it sent a lot of people into a near state of panic.”

“McCarthyism,” whispered Dora.

“We’d had the McCarthy purges in the US,” said Bob, “and weeded out potential traitors but in so doing, we also turned off a lot of Europeans. We stopped the spread of communism but strengthened the left wing groups in Europe and they had to be stopped.”

“That’s ridiculous,” stated Esmé, “those poor people weren’t communists; they were just liberal minded individuals who were standing up for the rights of ……”

“Appreciate the sentiment but if we could come back to that later,” said Mackie.

“It needs to be said,” pressed Esmé. She rammed her bottom lip upwards and, frowning heavily, stared at Bob.

Bob shook his head and took another sip, looking up at his interrogator, “Ok, what now?”

“Continue from where you left off,” Mackie said, fixing Esmé with a commanding stare.

“As I was saying before the lady interrupted, key members of the aristocracy, the industrialists, bankers, CEOs whatever, you name it, they all got their invites to attend a meeting held at the Bilderberg Hotel in Holland.”

“Is this about the Illuminati?” said Bill, “Because if it is then it’s a load of rubbish.”

“No, it’s not about the Illuminati,” said Mackie, “now please stop interrupting.”

There was a rustling of indignation in the room; they hadn’t got as old as they were only to be told what to do by an interloper with bushy eyebrows. Alb stood up quickly and made conciliatory gestures and the noises subsided. Gil and Nobby used that moment to slip unnoticed into the back row, Nobby slightly inebriated but mellow.

“You gotta remember, back in ’54 we were at the height of the Cold War," said Bob, "It got serious back then, we were dealing with the end of democracy, the end of our freedoms, the damned commies were winning for Christ’s sake, they were outperforming us everywhere and they’d just bled us dry in the Korean War. People didn’t have the stomach for fighting anymore. Something had to be done to stop the spread of communism.”

At the mention of the Korean War a collective sigh went round the room, a memory shared.

Bob raised his empty glass and Mackie refilled it, “So they met, the most powerful and wealthy people in the west and they discussed what should be done to put the world back on track.”

“They discussed how to beat the spread of communism, you mean,” said Bill.

“Exactly,” said Bob.

“So what’s all the fuss about?” demanded Bill.

“I would imagine that you include socialism in that statement,” said Dora.

“Socialism is communism by stealth,” hissed Bob.

“That’s a matter of opinion,” said Ron, stung.

“Back to ‘54,” said Mackie, throwing a dark look at Mags. She raised her shoulders helplessly.

“I don’t think you’ve been listening,” said Esmé, roused by Dora and Ron's courageous interjections. She was bobbing up and down, trying to make eye contact with Bill whose comment had enraged her, “they were trying to stop the spread of social freedoms in the west.”

Ron’s head was nodding his head up and down, he’d not realised Esmé and Dora were of a socialist bent.

“That’s not what he said,” argued Bill.

“I think you’ll find it’s exactly what he was saying,” said Fiona, tartly.

Mackie glared at each one individually, daring a further comment then signalled for Bob to continue.

Bob shook his head wearily, bloody Brits, they just don't get it, then he tried again, “They had to infiltrate and destroy the left wing movements, they had to get control of the media so they could influence the public and they had to gain political power. So that’s what they did.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” asked Harry.

“Looking for ways to control us,” said Dora, her tone flat.

“No, you’re wrong,” argued Bill. Dora turned her back towards him.

Bob was still speaking, “In a lot of countries it seemed to work fine, mainly third world countries, Asia, Africa and South America but the Europeans were a bit trickier.”

“What about Britain?” asked Val, determined her voice should be heard, “what did you do here?”

“They blackened Harold Wilson and the Labour party for a start,” said Ron.

“Well, that would’ve been easy enough,” sniped Bill.

“Hah!” said Bob, his face alive with malice, “you got no idea how deep we got into your poxy little country.”

Bill’s shoulders jerked back and his chin jutted out; he saw no need for insults and disparaging comments.

“Where'd 'you think the IRA got its funding? That was us.”

"But the US backed us against the IRA," said Ron.

"Jeez," said Bob, "look fella, the politicians say one thing and then tell the agency to do something different; we were solid with the IRA."

"Let's leave the Irish thing alone for a bit," said Mackie, sensing this could go on a while and would lose him his audience.

"No!" said Lenny, angrily, "I want to know what he's talking about, I lost some good mates to those bastards and I want to know what went on."

“We’re digressing,” said Mackie, directing his gaze at Lenny, trying to calm the man by dint of personality, “keep it strategic, please Bob.”

“Strategic, right,” said Bob, “so, the Bilderberg’s determined that America was the most powerful country in the west, economically the strongest and, therefore, the country best placed to plough the furrow.”

“What’s he talking about?” asked Fiona, hissing in Pete's ear.

“It was decided that all western investments and political drive would be put into the US and global dominance would come from her ability to put troops on the ground anywhere in the world.”

“What does this all mean, Mackie?” asked Mags, the question on her lips sounding more imperative to him.

Mackie signalled Bob to wait and then addressed her question, “At this meeting of the wealthy members of the western world they decided they had to take control of where the west was headed; to avoid it slipping into communism.”

“I got that,” said Mags, snippily, “but what’s he talking about now?”

“The group still meets up every year. It calls itself the Bilderberg group, after the hotel. The crux of matter is that they are the real rulers of the western world, not our governments.”

His words echoed round the room. There was a moment’s hush, then a buzz of mumbled incomprehension and mutterings of ‘what did he say?’ from several of those caught napping and murmurs of ‘I don’t understand.’ from those that did hear.

Finally Alb spoke loudly for all of them, “What do you mean, they’re the real rulers?”

“The most powerful people in the world, the richest people in the world,” said Mackie, a shrug evident in his shoulders, the nearest they would get to an apology from the messenger, “They meet and discuss what should happen and then they send the politicians to do their bidding. Unelected and unaccountable rulers, a bit like kings and queens, you might say.”

“And they're called the what?” said Dora, her voice high with tension.

“The Balderbags,” said Ron, knowledgeably, he’d been listening.

“Bilderbergs,” corrected Harry, absently, still trying to process the message.

“But what does any of this mean?” demanded Bill, “and is it so bad if all they’re doing is trying to fight communism?”

Mackie nodded at him, “When they formed the battle was against communism. But once formed they attacked everyone, even those who were just a little bit to the Left of centre. They did it here in the UK as well. We let them do it.”

“Why?” demanded Mags, "We were always fighting the enemy, I was fighting the enemy, and our boys were fighting the enemy."

Gerry growled something in support, his face an unhealthy puce. He was trying without much luck to control the effects of Mackie’s words on his blood pressure.

"Not so, Margo," said Mackie, "we were fighting to build private fortunes for the hidden few. And everything that destabilised the western world was conceived and formulated by the Bilderbergs.” He waved his hand towards Bob, who was a bit glassy eyed now having polished off quite a bit of scotch, “Bob, examples please.”

“You want general or UK only?”

“General will do,” said Mackie.

“Hah!” said Bob, “JFK.”

“You killed JFK?” said Sticky, the scale of this just percolating his brain.

“No way,” growled Wilf.

“OK, no, we didn't,” agreed Bob airily.

“Wait a minute,” Mackie intervened, anxious to avoid being side-tracked, “let me explain. The powers that be, we’ll call them the Bilderbergs for ease, the Bilderbergs decide what they want to happen and they formulate an outline plan for it. So if we take a recent example, 9/11 for instance….”

“9/11?” repeated Nobby, inebriated or not, this was not acceptable, “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“If you’ll give me a moment,” said Mackie, “you need to understand, the Bilderbergs will have sat round the table and the topic of Peak Oil will have come up…”

“Peak Oil?” Sticky squeaked.

“What’s Peak Oil?” asked Esmé. It sounded like something she might need to protest about.

Bob sighed, “There’s a finite amount of easily accessible oil in the world, and we’ve already got to most of it. But the West needs oil. Can’t exist without it. Industry would collapse, economies would collapse, we’d be thrown back into the dark ages if we ran out of oil.”

He waited for comments that didn't come then continued, “So the Bilderbergs decided that the West….”

Mackie broke in, “Bearing in mind that the most powerful voices in the Bilderbergs belong to the industrialists, the CEOs, the rich, the bankers etc…..”

“Ok,” said Bob, glaring at Mackie, “the wealthiest people in the world are members of the Bilderbergs so they decided that they had to have control of the remaining oil fields in the Middle East, and as they had influence over the US….”

“Influence?” questioned Mackie.

“As they owned the US government,” Bob amended, “it was decided that America, having had all the military investment, would be the country to lead the assault on the oil fields.”

“But that’s rubbish,” Gerry had had enough, “they went into the Middle East because of 9/11.”

“Just continue, Bob,” instructed Mackie, putting his finger out to forestall further outbursts.

“The Bilderbergs wanted to control the oilfields, they wanted the US to provide the hardware and the troops on the ground, they just needed a pretext.”

“9/11,” offered Mags.

“What the hell does that mean?” demanded Gerry, “you’re not going to tell me that the Bilderbergs did 9/11.”

“Jesus,” sighed Bob, “is this guy for real?”

“The Bilderbergs determine policy,” said Mackie, turning towards Gerry for a moment then back to the rest of the room, “and then contract it out to specific corporate bodies or to specific governments. In this instance they contracted out the hit on the twin towers to Al Qaeda. Demolition was pre-positioned in the buildings by Mossad and the subsequent invasion of Afghanistan and Iraq was left to the US. Blair was roped in to give the American initiative impetus, because Bush was such a fop.”

“Wait a minute,” said Harry, “how does that work?”

“Look,” said Bob, irritably, "I could tell you folks everything, but the whole thing is so large, so huge that you could never fully understand it. Heck, I was involved and I don’t understand it. I don’t even know who did what or who gained, all I know is our overall strategic aim was to get control of the last big oil reserves for western corporations before the Middle East tore itself apart."

“Let me get this straight,” said Ron, standing up to make his point, “are you seriously suggesting there is a group of super elites who run the world? Who meet secretly every year and decide what’s going to happen in the world?”

“Not secretly, bold as brass, but yeah,” said Bob.

“And they tell political leaders what to do?” said Ron.

“Now you're getting it,” said Bob.

“But that’s impossible,” said Val, “I mean we’d know, wouldn’t we?”

“How would you know?” asked Mackie, “These people are very good at what they do. We had 9/11 and for about a year it was accepted without question. Then people began to ask questions, to doubt the official version, to ask how it was that those buildings could actually collapse.”

“That just shows we are able to question, what's your point?” said Bill.

“They reacted,” said Mackie, “in 2005 the price of oil started to rise. Three years later, after enough stress had been created in the lower end of the economy, when enough lower class households had been placed under enough pressure and the banks had exposed themselves enough we had the greatest financial crisis the world has ever known.”

"What does all that mean?" demanded Alb.

“Who is asking about 9/11 now?” asked Mackie, “Only the families of the deceased. That's my point, everyone else is too worried about their finances, losing their jobs, prices in the shops.”

“You can't mean...?” Dora was appalled, the answer to awful to contemplate.

“They created the recession. That's exactly what he means, Dora,” supplied Harry.

“But how is that possible?” asked Val.

“Because it’s not a real recession,” said Mackie, “they created the pressures that brought it on and they can remove them when they want. They can print more money as and when they like. They are in control of the whole thing, they control the whole game.”

“This is too weird,” said Sticky.

“No, it's very simple," said Mackie, “once you accept the basic premise of a group of really rich people, all nationalities, who meet every year and decide what needs to happen to ensure their continued prosperity." He stared out at their shocked faces, "Once decided they subcontract the relevant tasks down to political leaders or to CEOs of lesser or different corporations. QED.”

“But what’s that got to do with our plans to hit back at the Muslims?” Frank had found his voice.

Mackie stared at him.

“He's saying they aren’t the problem,” said Tom, turning to address Frank.

“They are pawns,” said Mackie, “moved around a global chess board.”

“So whenever they want something to happen...” offered Val.

“They just move a pawn,” said Mackie. He was growing tired now; if they hadn't grasped the message after all this effort then too bad; they weren't worth any more of his time.

"Are we pawns now?" asked Gerry, truculently, "Are you telling us the truth or are you using us to do your dirty work?"

"Truth be told, you can do as you please. Take it or leave it, I did a favour for a friend coming here," He glanced over at Mags and crinkled his eyes, "the rest is up to you."

He poured two generous drinks, palmed a small tablet into one of the glasses, paused to swish it about, then, handed it to Bob asking, "Are you ready to go?"

Bob nodded, they clinked glasses, raised a toast, "To those who believe," and downed their drinks in one swallow. Thirty seconds later Bob was dead.

Cheers for reading

Arun







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Extract from the book 'Uprising' byArun D Ellis

Extract below


“Hello Mr. Jones.” Terry flicked a glance at the young lady opposite, sort of smiled and nodded. He’d been escorted to the local Relocations operations office and been kept waiting for 3 hours before meeting her; his state-allocated counsellor, Debby. “Have you been fighting?”

He stared at her; he’d survived the 8 days incarceration, in what he’d been told was one of Middlesbrough’s roughest prisons, by being funny, something he’d found useful at boarding school until his first black belt rendered such tactics unnecessary. Whilst in the prison he’d kept his martial art skills under wraps; feeling his way, thinking it best to avoid attention. His speed had come in handy, mostly in deflecting blows when a few hard nuts hadn’t appreciated his humour and in generally keeping out of people’s way. Not much use when it came to the screws though; enclosed spaces and mob handed.

“No.”

“Oh, but the cuts and bruises, and your eye?” asked Debby

“Police hospitality,” replied Terry.

“Oh!” she said, “Are you saying the police did this?” She reached for her notepad and began writing.

“No” replied Terry, hastily “No, I’m not.”

“But you said….”

“Never mind,” replied Terry.

“If you have a complaint against…” continued Debby.

“If I have a complaint against anyone, especially the police,” said Terry, “I’m not going to tell you, am I.”

“But you have to,” said Debby, “everything has to be logged so it can be investigated.”

“Well I don’t have a complaint,” said Terry, “I fell.”

“You fell?”

“I fell.”

“But that’s not what you just said,” pressed Debby.

“Well, it’s what I’m saying now.”

“You do know it’s an offence to make a false accusation against the police, don’t you,” pressed Debby.

“I haven’t made an accusation against the police, false or otherwise,” said Terry.

“But you said it was police hospitality thus implying they had beaten you up.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Er…yes you did,” pressed Debby, “I’ve made a quick note of the time on my pad and I can play the conversation back for you if you like.” Terry frowned. “Everything in this meeting is filmed and recorded,” she said, pointing to a small black camera in the corner of the ceiling.

“Great,” moaned Terry, “look I didn’t mean anything ok, the police were fantastic, they made me feel right at home. I fell, that’s all.”

“Where did you fall?”

“In the shower.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

Debby stared at Terry for a good 30 seconds before proceeding. “Ok, as you know, you are here in Middlesbrough because your debts exceed the total unemployed indebtedness allowable under section 12a of the employment act, which for your information is….”

“Yes I know,” interrupted Terry, “£25,000, thank you.”

“In which case you’ll know you face criminal proceedings for fiscal incompetence,” continued Debby.

“Yes,” said Terry.

“Which carries a minimum fine of £300,000.” pressed Debby.

“£300,000?” blurted Terry, “no-one told me that! How the fuck’m I meant to get £300,000? On top of what I already owe, how’m I supposed to pay that?”

“And 25 years social labour.”

“What!”

“25 years social labour,” repeated Debby.

“I heard…but 25 yrs and what the fuck’s social labour?”

“Please modulate your language, Mr. Jones. It does not help your cause” she nodded at him, a mild frown furrowing her brow. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. Basically we will find you work and all your wages will be paid into Central Services who will refund your debtors.”

“And what do I get?” asked Terry incredulously.

“Nothing until your debts are paid,” said Debby.

“But how do I live?” asked Terry.

“We will put you up in social housing and provide you with the basics, food and heating, social welfare, that sort of thing…for which you will of course be charged.”

“What... and this goes on for...?” he spluttered, unable to finish the sentence.

“For 25 yrs, yes. Galaxy has provided a calculation….”

“But I’ll be nearly 50 when I get shot of it all…that can’t be right...”

“…of your total indebtedness with a projection of your social welfare debts….”

“Oh let me guess,” said Terry, “I mean what with the £170,000 I already owe….”

“I think you’ll find that’s £178,500, not including interest…”

“Interest?” he squeaked.

“…..at 3% above base rate which is currently at 9% so today your interest is 12% but that’s probably going to go up ½% in the coming months as most forecasts reckon the Bank of England will raise base rates in a month or so.” Debby finished in a triumphant burst.

Terry sneered and made a mock laugh.

“This isn’t anything to be taken lightly, Mr. Jones.”

“I know,” said Terry, “I was being facetious.”

“I wouldn’t make a habit of that, not in your position.” Terry sneered again. “As I was saying,” pressed Debby after a brief pause, “you owe £178,500 already, plus the fine of £300,000 plus a projected welfare debt of £130,000 with interest at 12% over 25 years totaling £1,825,500….” Terry leaned back and burst out laughing “Mr. Jones, this is very serious.”

“Oh yes,” said Terry, “it’s very serious, it’s so serious it’s insane.”

“Mr. Jones.”

“You’re trying to sting me for how much? It’s got to be over 2 million pounds, you tell me that’s not insane.”

“Mr. Jones.”

“I mean, I lost my job, I was late a few times and just because some crappy Government organisation reckons I’m low on points I get screwed over by the state for 2 million, well, fuck you.”

“Language, Mr. Jones and actually it is £2,434,000.” said Debby, “My advice to you, Mr. Jones is that you need to accept you brought this on yourself. The bottom line is you have proven yourself to be a poor employee….”

“Poor employee!” shouted Terry.

“Yes Mr. Jones,” said Debby, “a good many people would’ve loved to have had the opportunities you’ve had, it’s no-one’s fault but your own that you squandered them.”

“I was late a few times!” snapped Terry, “How can they do this to me, it’s bloody ridiculous.”

“It is Justice, Mr. Jones,” replied Debby, “the world doesn’t owe you a living. When a company agrees to employ you they place themselves at a disadvantage in that they don’t know what kind of person you are and they have to trust….”

“I’ll have you know I work very hard, I shifted more work than most of my colleagues, I was just late a few times and I didn’t suck up to the management.”

“Of course,” said Debby, “it was the management’s and your work colleagues’ fault, I’ve heard it all before. Isn’t it funny how it’s always someone else’s fault. People like you think that the world owes them a living, you want an easy ride whilst everyone else works hard.”

“I worked hard,” snapped Terry.

“Of course you did,” said Debby, “but hey, you were sacked for tardiness, funny that.”

Terry gritted his teeth, he couldn’t afford to lose it with her completely.

She continued, “Your employer was good enough to give you the opportunity to prove your worth to society; employed you, paid you, got you on the property ladder and this is how you repay them.”

She shuffled her papers and then left the room. After 30 minutes she returned with a cup of coffee; she obviously took her counseling position seriously. Terry smiled nastily, “Back so soon.”

“You are to be housed in a one bedroom flat,” said Debby. “With an open plan kitchen and lounge and very unusually, this flat comes with its own bathroom.”

Terry pulled a face, “I was hoping for a separate dining room and maybe a guest room.”

Debby ignored him, “It’ll be furnished with everything you need.” She answered his unspoken question, “Bed, wardrobe, sofa, 12” TV, kitchen table and chair and basic dinner set.”

“What more could I want?” He smirked at her.

Debby pulled a fake grin.

“This is the address, your front door key, your bus fare and a week’s sub money,” said Debby, standing to leave, “we found a place for you with a local sanitation company, you start next week and the money will be docked from your first week’s wages. Enjoy.”

Terry pulled a fake grin.

Cheers

Arun





More books in the 'Corpalism' series
















Comepndium editions

Extract from the book 'Uprising' by Arun D Ellis

Extract below


Welcome to ‘Boro

As with a game of patience your life is predetermined,
The only variable is in how you play the game.

Author

He was woken by a loud banging. At first he didn’t know where he was or where the noise was coming from, then he saw the wallpaper and remembered with a depressed sigh. The banging continued. He staggered up from the chair into the hallway, stumbled down the stairs and opened his front door to the unwelcome sight of an ugly youth in track suit bottom and a sleeveless grey hooded garment.

“What you doin’ in Mike’s ‘ouse?” Terry frowned, still a bit bleary from his doze, making out the intent if not the meaning of the words. “I said what the fuck you doin’ in Mike’s ‘ouse!” screamed the angry youth, his face barely 6 inches from Terry’s.

Terry was now very quickly awake; he slipped his right leg back, raised his heel slightly and turned his right shoulder away from the threat, but kept his expression benign, his posture relaxed and his hands low.

“I said! What the fuckin’ ‘ell’re you doin’ in Mike’s ‘ouse?”

Terry didn’t answer; just stared into the angry eyes.

If the lout hadn’t been so angry then Terry’s stance, relaxed and loose limbed, in the face of such aggression might have sent a warning. To be fair he couldn’t be expected to know that the six year old Terry, then slightly built and shy, had been introduced to Tae Kwon Do by his adoptive parents and unexpectedly thrived, gaining a black belt 4 years later. He’d gone further; by age 12 he was a 2nd Dan, at 15 a 3rd and by the time he was 20 he was a 4th Dan. He’d found his niche, and whilst gaining notoriety in TKD he’d also trained in Shotokan Karate, and mastered the art of Wing Chun, Jujitsu, Judo and Jeet Kune Do. For good measure he was also a fair boxer, an enthusiastic wrestler and an excellent shot but, all things considered, using that skill here could be considered extreme; besides a gun hadn’t been on the list of necessities that had been provided to him.

“Are you fuckin’ deaf?”

“Are you from ‘round here?” asked Terry, politely.

“What?”

“That’s not a Yorkshire accent, is it?” asked Terry.

“Jest shut the fuck up, I’ll do the fuckin’ talkin’,” he added as he jabbed a finger at Terry’s chest.

The thrusting finger never reached its intended target. Terry reached up, grabbed it with his left hand, imprisoning the wrist with his right, and snapped the finger back so that it rested on the top of the captive hand. In one fluid movement he brought his right leg up, knee to chest, then snapped his leg straight out, driving the ball of his foot into the young man’s solar plexus, this thrust sending him flying backwards virtually all the way the end of the garden.

It was only then that Terry became aware of the watching crowd.

“Fuuuuck!” said a voice in the general commotion that followed, “did you see that?”

Terry strolled down the path and grabbed the now squealing youth and threw him backwards into the road.

“You’re gonna get it now Mister,” said one of the kids.

“Really,” answered Terry, “I don’t think he’s in any fit state, do you?”

“Not from him,” said the kid, “from his brothers.”

“Yeah the O’Connells,” said a girl on Terry’s left.

“Fuckin’ hardest bastards you’ll ever meet,” shouted someone.

“Really?” questioned Terry, “and where can I find these hard nuts?”

“They’ll find you” the girl yelled, pointing at a bike squealing up the road in the direction of her pointing finger.

“Thatcher Close!” shouted another girl, excitement in her eyes.

“Follow us,” shouted the kids as they raced off on their BMXs.

Terry strolled after them followed by a small crowd. They hadn’t travelled far when the kids came racing back on their bikes, “They’re comin’!” they shouted more or less in unison, “the O’Connells are comin’.”

They were coming indeed, marching down the centre of the road towards him.

Four in all, five if you counted the one Terry had just seen off, which Terry didn’t. Mostly sporting variations of the ubiquitous track suit bottom and assorted shapeless upper garments, the biggest one wore jeans instead of trackies, a coating of grease disguising the original colour and his arms were dark with tattoos. Prison tats, Terry would put money on it.

“Is this ‘im, Sean?” yelled the leading O’Connell, this one fully encased in a tracksuit, arms and all.

Terry walked into the middle of the road and waited, there was no traffic so he felt safe enough. He stepped slightly forward with his left leg, raised his heels and spread his balance evenly between both feet. He rotated his shoulders a couple of times and raised his open hands to his chest. The one he’d already tangled with dropped off to the left, hanging back while his brothers spread out across the road; effectively closing off escape should Terry have been contemplating this action, which he wasn’t but they weren’t to know that.

“Yeah, Jimmy, that’s ’im.”

“I’m ‘im, Jimmy,” yelled Terry, grinning ear from ear.

“You watch your mouth,” yelled the O’Connell on Terry’s far left.

Terry stared at Jimmy, fixing him as the leader; “is it one at a time or do you need to hold hands?”

“Don’t you fuckin’ worry ‘bout it, shit head,” yelled Jimmy, “it’ll only take one O’Connell to put you down.” That the direct contradiction to this statement was standing over to his side looking sheepish wasn’t about to deter him from making this rash boast. Terry smiled. He could have beaten them all together, at a push; easier to take them one at a time. “Take him out, Dale”.

Dale, the mouthy one on Terry’s far left moved forwards and pulled a short iron bar from behind his back. Terry nodded. Dale was now at a significant disadvantage; his whole attack would be based round swinging the bar whereas Terry had the freedom to strike with any part of his body, from any angle.

Dale went to raise his right arm so he could swing the iron bar but stopped short, seemingly recognising that doing this would expose him to an attack to his midriff or maybe lower, if Terry fought dirty. He stepped back slightly and pulled his right arm across his body so he could swing backhand. Terry adapted; stepped to his left and, crossing his feet, slipped round to Dale’s right. Dale tried to turn and swung his arm but Terry blocked, striking Dale’s elbow as his arm came round, at the same time he kicked him in the back of his right knee, sending him to the ground. He punched him in the temple and Dale’s world went black.

Terry stepped back and grinning beckoned the O’Connell on his far right forwards.

Jimmy waved him back, “No, not you, Brendan…Paddy,” he instructed.

Terry turned to face the jeans wearing brother, made swarthy with tattoos, a bigger, heavier version of the now unconscious Dale. Terry raised his open hands to guard his face, crouching slightly to protect his lower ribs with his elbows. Paddy pulled out the motor bike chain he wore for a belt and started to swing it round, above his head.

Terry grinned, same mistake as his brother.

The chain came swinging towards Terry’s head and Terry slid backwards out of range. Paddy pulled back and swung the chain again. His recovery was slow and awkward but Terry wanted to check it again; he allowed Paddy to close in once more. Paddy swung the chain at Terry’s head a third time, angrily huffing as Terry ducked easily away. This time Paddy’s recovery was so ponderous that Terry allowed him to close again and when Paddy pulled the chain back above his head Terry followed in and placed a left jab clean on Paddy’s nose. The speedy follow up - a right hook to the body - sent Paddy straight to the ground; the floating rib, it’ll do that to you. Terry stepped back and raising his eyebrows at Jimmy, said, “So who’s next, Jim?”

The O’Connell on Terry’s right started to move forward, “Leave it, Brendan” instructed Jimmy, “this one’s mine.” Terry grinned and made ready.

Jimmy took off his track suit top revealing a well defined muscular torso; a slighter build so possibly more flexible than his lumbering brothers. He cracked his knuckles and, clenching his fists, took up a good boxing stance. Terry nodded, he recognised the mistakes Jimmy had just made and could predict the ones he would make next. Clenching his fists had tightened Jimmy’s shoulders and reduced the speed of any technique he would deliver and if Jimmy’s fighting knowledge had led him to clench his fists then Terry was confident his movement would not be speedy.

Terry allowed Jimmy to close in. Jimmy threw out a left jab as Terry slipped back, tapping it down with his lead open hand. Nothing annoyed opponents like having a punch swatted away with an open hand. Predictably, Jimmy threw another left, fierce and angry and then threw a right but Terry ducked his way out of both techniques. Terry bounced round behind Jimmy knowing as he did so that the fourth O’Connell would try to take him from behind; he did. Terry threw out a reverse side kick into this new assailant’s floating rib; job done.

Jimmy tried to take advantage of this distraction but Terry had already danced out of range. Jimmy closed again and threw more jabs and rights but each time Terry, a broad grin across his face, blocked or ducked or danced out of range. Jimmy got more and more annoyed. Terry offered his chin. Taking the bait, Jimmy swung a right but Terry wasn’t there anymore. “Come on, Jimmy,” he goaded, “surely you’re faster than that.”

Jimmy went to throw a left jab, pulled it and tried a quick kick but it was weak; uncontrolled and directionless. Terry shook his head and waited until Jimmy’s foot landed, leaving him off balance with his legs too stretched. Terry then bounced in, planted a left on Jimmy’s nose, a right on his left cheek, another left into his left side floating rib followed by a right upper cut onto his chin.

Jimmy collapsed onto his knees, swaying, dazed and bloodied. Terry bounced out and then swung a right legged turning kick at Jimmy’s temple stopping his foot millimetres from contact. He pulled his leg back and placing it behind him looked over to the one called Sean who waved his hands and shaking his head, backed off.

Terry returned to his flat followed by a large crowd of adoring fans.

Hope you have a nice weekend

Cheers

Arun








More books in the 'Corpalism' series
















Compendium editions

Extract from the book 'Uprising' by Arun D Ellis

Extract below


Welcome to ‘Boro

As with a game of patience your life is predetermined,
The only variable is in how you play the game.

Author

He was woken by a loud banging. At first he didn’t know where he was or where the noise was coming from, then he saw the wallpaper and remembered with a depressed sigh. The banging continued. He staggered up from the chair into the hallway, stumbled down the stairs and opened his front door to the unwelcome sight of an ugly youth in track suit bottom and a sleeveless grey hooded garment.

“What you doin’ in Mike’s ‘ouse?” Terry frowned, still a bit bleary from his doze, making out the intent if not the meaning of the words. “I said what the fuck you doin’ in Mike’s ‘ouse!” screamed the angry youth, his face barely 6 inches from Terry’s.

Terry was now very quickly awake; he slipped his right leg back, raised his heel slightly and turned his right shoulder away from the threat, but kept his expression benign, his posture relaxed and his hands low.

“I said! What the fuckin’ ‘ell’re you doin’ in Mike’s ‘ouse?”

Terry didn’t answer; just stared into the angry eyes.

If the lout hadn’t been so angry then Terry’s stance, relaxed and loose limbed, in the face of such aggression might have sent a warning. To be fair he couldn’t be expected to know that the six year old Terry, then slightly built and shy, had been introduced to Tae Kwon Do by his adoptive parents and unexpectedly thrived, gaining a black belt 4 years later. He’d gone further; by age 12 he was a 2nd Dan, at 15 a 3rd and by the time he was 20 he was a 4th Dan. He’d found his niche, and whilst gaining notoriety in TKD he’d also trained in Shotokan Karate, and mastered the art of Wing Chun, Jujitsu, Judo and Jeet Kune Do. For good measure he was also a fair boxer, an enthusiastic wrestler and an excellent shot but, all things considered, using that skill here could be considered extreme; besides a gun hadn’t been on the list of necessities that had been provided to him.

“Are you fuckin’ deaf?”

“Are you from ‘round here?” asked Terry, politely.

“What?”

“That’s not a Yorkshire accent, is it?” asked Terry.

“Jest shut the fuck up, I’ll do the fuckin’ talkin’,” he added as he jabbed a finger at Terry’s chest.

The thrusting finger never reached its intended target. Terry reached up, grabbed it with his left hand, imprisoning the wrist with his right, and snapped the finger back so that it rested on the top of the captive hand. In one fluid movement he brought his right leg up, knee to chest, then snapped his leg straight out, driving the ball of his foot into the young man’s solar plexus, this thrust sending him flying backwards virtually all the way the end of the garden.

It was only then that Terry became aware of the watching crowd.

“Fuuuuck!” said a voice in the general commotion that followed, “did you see that?”

Terry strolled down the path and grabbed the now squealing youth and threw him backwards into the road.

“You’re gonna get it now Mister,” said one of the kids.

“Really,” answered Terry, “I don’t think he’s in any fit state, do you?”

“Not from him,” said the kid, “from his brothers.”

“Yeah the O’Connells,” said a girl on Terry’s left.

“Fuckin’ hardest bastards you’ll ever meet,” shouted someone.

“Really?” questioned Terry, “and where can I find these hard nuts?”

“They’ll find you” the girl yelled, pointing at a bike squealing up the road in the direction of her pointing finger.

“Thatcher Close!” shouted another girl, excitement in her eyes.

“Follow us,” shouted the kids as they raced off on their BMXs.

Terry strolled after them followed by a small crowd. They hadn’t travelled far when the kids came racing back on their bikes, “They’re comin’!” they shouted more or less in unison, “the O’Connells are comin’.”

They were coming indeed, marching down the centre of the road towards him.

Four in all, five if you counted the one Terry had just seen off, which Terry didn’t. Mostly sporting variations of the ubiquitous track suit bottom and assorted shapeless upper garments, the biggest one wore jeans instead of trackies, a coating of grease disguising the original colour and his arms were dark with tattoos. Prison tats, Terry would put money on it.

“Is this ‘im, Sean?” yelled the leading O’Connell, this one fully encased in a tracksuit, arms and all.

Terry walked into the middle of the road and waited, there was no traffic so he felt safe enough. He stepped slightly forward with his left leg, raised his heels and spread his balance evenly between both feet. He rotated his shoulders a couple of times and raised his open hands to his chest. The one he’d already tangled with dropped off to the left, hanging back while his brothers spread out across the road; effectively closing off escape should Terry have been contemplating this action, which he wasn’t but they weren’t to know that.

“Yeah, Jimmy, that’s ’im.”

“I’m ‘im, Jimmy,” yelled Terry, grinning ear from ear.

“You watch your mouth,” yelled the O’Connell on Terry’s far left.

Terry stared at Jimmy, fixing him as the leader; “is it one at a time or do you need to hold hands?”

“Don’t you fuckin’ worry ‘bout it, shit head,” yelled Jimmy, “it’ll only take one O’Connell to put you down.” That the direct contradiction to this statement was standing over to his side looking sheepish wasn’t about to deter him from making this rash boast. Terry smiled. He could have beaten them all together, at a push; easier to take them one at a time. “Take him out, Dale”.

Dale, the mouthy one on Terry’s far left moved forwards and pulled a short iron bar from behind his back. Terry nodded. Dale was now at a significant disadvantage; his whole attack would be based round swinging the bar whereas Terry had the freedom to strike with any part of his body, from any angle.

Dale went to raise his right arm so he could swing the iron bar but stopped short, seemingly recognising that doing this would expose him to an attack to his midriff or maybe lower, if Terry fought dirty. He stepped back slightly and pulled his right arm across his body so he could swing backhand. Terry adapted; stepped to his left and, crossing his feet, slipped round to Dale’s right. Dale tried to turn and swung his arm but Terry blocked, striking Dale’s elbow as his arm came round, at the same time he kicked him in the back of his right knee, sending him to the ground. He punched him in the temple and Dale’s world went black.

Terry stepped back and grinning beckoned the O’Connell on his far right forwards.

Jimmy waved him back, “No, not you, Brendan…Paddy,” he instructed.

Terry turned to face the jeans wearing brother, made swarthy with tattoos, a bigger, heavier version of the now unconscious Dale. Terry raised his open hands to guard his face, crouching slightly to protect his lower ribs with his elbows. Paddy pulled out the motor bike chain he wore for a belt and started to swing it round, above his head.

Terry grinned, same mistake as his brother.

The chain came swinging towards Terry’s head and Terry slid backwards out of range. Paddy pulled back and swung the chain again. His recovery was slow and awkward but Terry wanted to check it again; he allowed Paddy to close in once more. Paddy swung the chain at Terry’s head a third time, angrily huffing as Terry ducked easily away. This time Paddy’s recovery was so ponderous that Terry allowed him to close again and when Paddy pulled the chain back above his head Terry followed in and placed a left jab clean on Paddy’s nose. The speedy follow up - a right hook to the body - sent Paddy straight to the ground; the floating rib, it’ll do that to you. Terry stepped back and raising his eyebrows at Jimmy, said, “So who’s next, Jim?”

The O’Connell on Terry’s right started to move forward, “Leave it, Brendan” instructed Jimmy, “this one’s mine.” Terry grinned and made ready.

Jimmy took off his track suit top revealing a well defined muscular torso; a slighter build so possibly more flexible than his lumbering brothers. He cracked his knuckles and, clenching his fists, took up a good boxing stance. Terry nodded, he recognised the mistakes Jimmy had just made and could predict the ones he would make next. Clenching his fists had tightened Jimmy’s shoulders and reduced the speed of any technique he would deliver and if Jimmy’s fighting knowledge had led him to clench his fists then Terry was confident his movement would not be speedy.

Terry allowed Jimmy to close in. Jimmy threw out a left jab as Terry slipped back, tapping it down with his lead open hand. Nothing annoyed opponents like having a punch swatted away with an open hand. Predictably, Jimmy threw another left, fierce and angry and then threw a right but Terry ducked his way out of both techniques. Terry bounced round behind Jimmy knowing as he did so that the fourth O’Connell would try to take him from behind; he did. Terry threw out a reverse side kick into this new assailant’s floating rib; job done.

Jimmy tried to take advantage of this distraction but Terry had already danced out of range. Jimmy closed again and threw more jabs and rights but each time Terry, a broad grin across his face, blocked or ducked or danced out of range. Jimmy got more and more annoyed. Terry offered his chin. Taking the bait, Jimmy swung a right but Terry wasn’t there anymore. “Come on, Jimmy,” he goaded, “surely you’re faster than that.”

Jimmy went to throw a left jab, pulled it and tried a quick kick but it was weak; uncontrolled and directionless. Terry shook his head and waited until Jimmy’s foot landed, leaving him off balance with his legs too stretched. Terry then bounced in, planted a left on Jimmy’s nose, a right on his left cheek, another left into his left side floating rib followed by a right upper cut onto his chin.

Jimmy collapsed onto his knees, swaying, dazed and bloodied. Terry bounced out and then swung a right legged turning kick at Jimmy’s temple stopping his foot millimetres from contact. He pulled his leg back and placing it behind him looked over to the one called Sean who waved his hands and shaking his head, backed off.

Terry returned to his flat followed by a large crowd of adoring fans.

Hope you have a nice weekend

Cheers

Arun


amazon.co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Uprising-Aru...

amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Uprising-Arun-...

Extract from the book 'Uprising' by Arun D Ellis

Extract below


“Hello Mr. Jones.” Terry flicked a glance at the young lady opposite, sort of smiled and nodded. He’d been escorted to the local Relocations operations office and been kept waiting for 3 hours before meeting her; his state-allocated counsellor, Debby. “Have you been fighting?”

He stared at her; he’d survived the 8 days incarceration, in what he’d been told was one of Middlesbrough’s roughest prisons, by being funny, something he’d found useful at boarding school until his first black belt rendered such tactics unnecessary. Whilst in the prison he’d kept his martial art skills under wraps; feeling his way, thinking it best to avoid attention. His speed had come in handy, mostly in deflecting blows when a few hard nuts hadn’t appreciated his humour and in generally keeping out of people’s way. Not much use when it came to the screws though; enclosed spaces and mob handed.

“No.”

“Oh, but the cuts and bruises, and your eye?” asked Debby

“Police hospitality,” replied Terry.

“Oh!” she said, “Are you saying the police did this?” She reached for her notepad and began writing.

“No” replied Terry, hastily “No, I’m not.”

“But you said….”

“Never mind,” replied Terry.

“If you have a complaint against…” continued Debby.

“If I have a complaint against anyone, especially the police,” said Terry, “I’m not going to tell you, am I.”

“But you have to,” said Debby, “everything has to be logged so it can be investigated.”

“Well I don’t have a complaint,” said Terry, “I fell.”

“You fell?”

“I fell.”

“But that’s not what you just said,” pressed Debby.

“Well, it’s what I’m saying now.”

“You do know it’s an offence to make a false accusation against the police, don’t you,” pressed Debby.

“I haven’t made an accusation against the police, false or otherwise,” said Terry.

“But you said it was police hospitality thus implying they had beaten you up.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Er…yes you did,” pressed Debby, “I’ve made a quick note of the time on my pad and I can play the conversation back for you if you like.” Terry frowned. “Everything in this meeting is filmed and recorded,” she said, pointing to a small black camera in the corner of the ceiling.

“Great,” moaned Terry, “look I didn’t mean anything ok, the police were fantastic, they made me feel right at home. I fell, that’s all.”

“Where did you fall?”

“In the shower.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

Debby stared at Terry for a good 30 seconds before proceeding. “Ok, as you know, you are here in Middlesbrough because your debts exceed the total unemployed indebtedness allowable under section 12a of the employment act, which for your information is….”

“Yes I know,” interrupted Terry, “£25,000, thank you.”

“In which case you’ll know you face criminal proceedings for fiscal incompetence,” continued Debby.

“Yes,” said Terry.

“Which carries a minimum fine of £300,000.” pressed Debby.

“£300,000?” blurted Terry, “no-one told me that! How the fuck’m I meant to get £300,000? On top of what I already owe, how’m I supposed to pay that?”

“And 25 years social labour.”

“What!”

“25 years social labour,” repeated Debby.

“I heard…but 25 yrs and what the fuck’s social labour?”

“Please modulate your language, Mr. Jones. It does not help your cause” she nodded at him, a mild frown furrowing her brow. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. Basically we will find you work and all your wages will be paid into Central Services who will refund your debtors.”

“And what do I get?” asked Terry incredulously.

“Nothing until your debts are paid,” said Debby.

“But how do I live?” asked Terry.

“We will put you up in social housing and provide you with the basics, food and heating, social welfare, that sort of thing…for which you will of course be charged.”

“What... and this goes on for...?” he spluttered, unable to finish the sentence.

“For 25 yrs, yes. Galaxy has provided a calculation….”

“But I’ll be nearly 50 when I get shot of it all…that can’t be right...”

“…of your total indebtedness with a projection of your social welfare debts….”

“Oh let me guess,” said Terry, “I mean what with the £170,000 I already owe….”

“I think you’ll find that’s £178,500, not including interest…”

“Interest?” he squeaked.

“…..at 3% above base rate which is currently at 9% so today your interest is 12% but that’s probably going to go up ½% in the coming months as most forecasts reckon the Bank of England will raise base rates in a month or so.” Debby finished in a triumphant burst.

Terry sneered and made a mock laugh.

“This isn’t anything to be taken lightly, Mr. Jones.”

“I know,” said Terry, “I was being facetious.”

“I wouldn’t make a habit of that, not in your position.” Terry sneered again. “As I was saying,” pressed Debby after a brief pause, “you owe £178,500 already, plus the fine of £300,000 plus a projected welfare debt of £130,000 with interest at 12% over 25 years totaling £1,825,500….” Terry leaned back and burst out laughing “Mr. Jones, this is very serious.”

“Oh yes,” said Terry, “it’s very serious, it’s so serious it’s insane.”

“Mr. Jones.”

“You’re trying to sting me for how much? It’s got to be over 2 million pounds, you tell me that’s not insane.”

“Mr. Jones.”

“I mean, I lost my job, I was late a few times and just because some crappy Government organisation reckons I’m low on points I get screwed over by the state for 2 million, well, fuck you.”

“Language, Mr. Jones and actually it is £2,434,000.” said Debby, “My advice to you, Mr. Jones is that you need to accept you brought this on yourself. The bottom line is you have proven yourself to be a poor employee….”

“Poor employee!” shouted Terry.

“Yes Mr. Jones,” said Debby, “a good many people would’ve loved to have had the opportunities you’ve had, it’s no-one’s fault but your own that you squandered them.”

“I was late a few times!” snapped Terry, “How can they do this to me, it’s bloody ridiculous.”

“It is Justice, Mr. Jones,” replied Debby, “the world doesn’t owe you a living. When a company agrees to employ you they place themselves at a disadvantage in that they don’t know what kind of person you are and they have to trust….”

“I’ll have you know I work very hard, I shifted more work than most of my colleagues, I was just late a few times and I didn’t suck up to the management.”

“Of course,” said Debby, “it was the management’s and your work colleagues’ fault, I’ve heard it all before. Isn’t it funny how it’s always someone else’s fault. People like you think that the world owes them a living, you want an easy ride whilst everyone else works hard.”

“I worked hard,” snapped Terry.

“Of course you did,” said Debby, “but hey, you were sacked for tardiness, funny that.”

Terry gritted his teeth, he couldn’t afford to lose it with her completely.

She continued, “Your employer was good enough to give you the opportunity to prove your worth to society; employed you, paid you, got you on the property ladder and this is how you repay them.”

She shuffled her papers and then left the room. After 30 minutes she returned with a cup of coffee; she obviously took her counseling position seriously. Terry smiled nastily, “Back so soon.”

“You are to be housed in a one bedroom flat,” said Debby. “With an open plan kitchen and lounge and very unusually, this flat comes with its own bathroom.”

Terry pulled a face, “I was hoping for a separate dining room and maybe a guest room.”

Debby ignored him, “It’ll be furnished with everything you need.” She answered his unspoken question, “Bed, wardrobe, sofa, 12” TV, kitchen table and chair and basic dinner set.”

“What more could I want?” He smirked at her.

Debby pulled a fake grin.

“This is the address, your front door key, your bus fare and a week’s sub money,” said Debby, standing to leave, “we found a place for you with a local sanitation company, you start next week and the money will be docked from your first week’s wages. Enjoy.”

Terry pulled a fake grin.


Hope you have a nice weekend


Cheers

Arun







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Compendium editions

Insurrection by Arun D Ellis - book 4 in the Corpalism series

3

We don't stop playing because we grow old;
we grow old because we stop playing.

George Bernard Shaw

Ken had lived in the same street as Alb and Gerry when they were children, too young to have been in their gang, an acquaintance rather than friend. He now lived in a corner apartment in the same part of the complex, having arrived at the Village, out of the blue, some years after them. Almost all the male residents were ex-army, navy or air force; Ken had no military connection. Alb was certain he had used questionable excuses to avoid playing his part. For this and myriad other reasons, Alb and Gerry held Ken in no particular regard.

"You in there, Ken?" asked Alb, thumping on the door.

"Ken!" added Gerry. "We're after biscuits, you got any?"

Silence. Then they heard movement and muffled voices; a door opened and closed.

"Who's in there with you? Is that Val you've got in there? 'Cause it better bloody not be," Alb was rattling the letterbox, scowling. He considered bending to peer through it but Ken's voice was suddenly close at hand.

"You can't come in here yet; I'm not decent."

"Who's that with you?"

"No one."

"Is that Val? Val, is that you?" demanded Alb.

He couldn't have explained why he felt so territorial about it; he had no claim on Val, it just got his goat to see her wasting herself on slime ball Ken.

Gerry was holding back laughter, his eyes watering with the effort. He couldn't understand Alb's fixation with Val Compton, the Village siren but there was no doubt, fixated he was.

She opened the door, pink-cheeked and flustered, adjusting her skirt, her voice aquiver, "I'd appreciate it if your tone wasn't so insinuating."

"Insinuating?" repeated Alb, "I'm not insinuating, I'm downright bloody accusing."

"Well, you'd better not be." She pushed past him with a toss of her head, a gesture that in her younger days would have resulted in hair rippling attractively but currently only served to slightly disturb a carefully constructed blue rinsed concoction. Age not withstanding she was off down the corridor as fast as Alb had ever seen her walk.

"Where you going?" demanded Alb to her swiftly disappearing back.

"And what were you doing?" asked Gerry with barely suppressed glee.

"Certainly nothing that concerns you, Gerald Arbuthnot,” she threw over her shoulder.

"What were you two up to?" Alb was now addressing Ken, whose head had appeared round the door. He looked flustered, and his hair always heavily 'Brylcreemed', was a bit mussed up.

"Nothing." Ken’s voice was surly, every bit the recalcitrant child.

"Then why won't you let us in?" Alb was desperate to see round the door, identify what it was that Ken was trying to hide, "What's that about you not being decent?"

"Val was just helping me with my back," offered Ken.

"Doin' what with your back?" pressed Alb; they all knew about Ken's slipped disc, ancient history yet he moaned constantly about the discomfort.

"Erm...she...she...she was rubbing it for me."

"Oooh, she was ‘rubbing it for you’."

Gerry was enjoying himself too much to let this one go despite Alb’s obvious distress.

Ken was anxious to placate Alb, not wanting to have him for an enemy, not even at this late stage in their lives, "You remember, she used to be a professional masseuse?"

Alb mulled this over, "Okay," he said, letting it go, "you got any biscuits?"

"Oh yes," said Ken, keen to move on, "Bourbons." He opened the door fully and ushered them in.

The apartments were all organised the same way; no hall, front door opening straight into the living room, with a compact kitchen off. The bedroom with en-suite bathroom was accessed via a short corridor; this also led to the 'outside space' - a small easily maintained courtyard.

"Custard creams?" asked Gerry, adding in a mumble, as he and Alb bundled in, taking the best seats, "bit dark in 'ere, more like a bloody cave…and what’s that smell?"

Ken crossed to the window and pulled back the curtains, hastily snuffing out scented candles before Alb, who'd grabbed the TV remote, turned up the volume, and was busy flicking through the channels, made some caustic comment, ".... uh...would you like a....."

"Cuppa?" Gerry nodded happily, "Yes please."

Alb had found the lie detector show, and settled down in the recliner to watch the next pair of unfortunates. "Bugger, we missed the end of that Felicity and Randall."

"Don't matter," said Gerry, pulling over the velvet pouffé Ken kept by the side of the TV, “we saw enough to know she was lying." He leaned back, settling his feet up for a long stay.

"True," said Alb, "spotted that a mile off. You just had to look at her to know she was lying."

"That Randall had her bang to rights," Gerry responded, with a deep sigh of contentment.

"Well," said Alb, "I'd definitely know if a woman was lying to me, that's for sure."

"Did you see the news?" asked Ken returning with the biscuits, overhearing the tail end of the conversation and keen to move it on. Gerry grabbed a custard cream, filching a Bourbon as well as the plate moved away. Ken continued despite the lack of interest, "Some of the top families have agreed to adopt the orphans of 12/12."

"What do you mean?" asked Alb, his mouth full, "top families?"

"I saw that," said Gerry, nodding, into outrage mode in an instant, "Adopted by the richest families in the country, hah, they'll live like pigs in muck for the rest of their lives."

Ken nodded, even though having lost his own parents when he was quite young he had some sympathy for their plight. He was disappointed that Gerry appeared to have forgotten; still Gerry and Alb weren’t the types you argued with; not when they were kids and not now.

"That's not the bloody point," spat Alb, "what are they doing about the terrorists?"

"Well, they're dead," said Ken, amiably.

"I know that," snapped Alb, "destroyed Wembley fucking stadium in the process, the heathen bastards. But, what about the rest of them? All those other ‘home grown terrorists’. It's them that should be in the news, not a bunch of kids."

"What’s up with you, Alb? It wasn't the kids’ fault was it?” Ken had drawn strength from somewhere and continued, “At least they'll get something out of all this."

"And it's better than the orphanages they've been stuck in," Gerry was aware he was arguing both sides to the middle as his mum used to say, but Alb did that to people sometimes.

"Bollocks to that," snapped Alb, "it's the bloody politicians’ fault anyway."

"How d'you figure that?" This from Ken.

Gerry nodded; it was the question he would've asked had he not been munching his third custard cream.

"Because the politicians let them in here in the first place." Alb looked over at Gerry and Ken and saw blank incomprehension. "The bloody foreigners," he continued patiently, speaking now as if to children.

"Ah well, yeah," agreed Gerry, "you're right there, but what can you do."

"They're here now," murmured Ken, pacifically.

"That's not the point," stated Alb, "just 'cause they're here doesn't give them the right to go around blowing things up and killing British people does it."

“Course not," said Gerry and Ken in unison.

"So what are the politicians doin' about it?"

"Well," said Ken, "they're getting the kids adopted...."

"Not the kids," blurted Alb, "what are they doin' about the bloody mess they've created?"

Gerry responded quickly, sensing that Ken was stuck, "They're fighting the terrorists, Al Qaeda and that."

"Not Al Qaeda, what's that to do with home grown terrorists anyway?"

"Well," started Ken, "they were...."

"Shut up, Ken," snapped Alb, "if these foreigners weren't here do you really think 12/12 could've happened?" Ken opened his mouth to comment, but was cut off by Alb’s dismissive, "Don't give me that, just tell me, do you think 12/12 and 7/7 could've happened?"

"Well no," said Gerry, answering for both of them, "As it happens.”

"Exactly," said Alb, "so what are the politicians doing about that then?"

"Well," said Gerry thoughtfully, "I don't know, maybe behind the scenes they're...."

"Behind the scenes? Tosh," Alb’s dander was up now and no mistake thought Ken, reminding himself to stay out of it, "you know as well as I do that behind the scenes they're not doing anything, oh...with the exception of placing these bloody orphans that is, how's that going to help? How's that going to change anything?"

"Well...." started Ken, best intentions forgotten.

"There are millions of these buggers in our country now and they can do whatever they want." Alb's tone brooked no interruption, "They can protest against our troops in the streets, our troops, British troops coming home from fighting a war to protect us from these bloody terrorists…."

“I know,” agreed Gerry, “where’d they get the idea they can do that? And how'd it ever come to pass that they'd murder one of our lads in broad daylight?”

“And who let the bastards in? We fought for this country, in Korea and Aden and the like, who the fuck let them in?”

Ken had sidled out of the room, least said soonest mended, another cuppa that was what was needed. His back was sore from Val’s ministrations amongst other things best not mentioned and he could do without one of Alb’s tirades

“That’s right,” said Gerry, “Enoch had it right, blood on the streets, an’ to my mind, it wasn’t their colour he was talkin’ about, it was their not bein’ British.”

Alb nodded, “An’ what's the bloody Government doin’ about it? Nothing as usual. I really don’t get it, why don’t they just deport all these bloody foreigners and make the streets safer?”

“We fought for this country,” said Gerry, his eyes taking on a ruminative stare, “an’ we lost mates, an’ that’s what hurts the most, the fact that we gave everything.”

“I know,” said Alb, passion spent, an old man again, reaching for the solace of a Bourbon, “what was it all for if they’re just going to give it all away?”





4



We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be ....

we shall never surrender.

Winston Churchill



Alb and Gerry chose to breakfast in the communal room, both wanting the proximity of others although the gruffness of their exchanges hid this well; to the uninitiated it would appear that the last thing either of them required was the company of another living thing.

"Bloody Muslims," muttered Alb, head in his newspaper, "It says here they're pressing to have Sharia law. Foreign laws here, in England? What's that about?"

He sounded grumpy, never at his best at breakfast, not yet having unwound from the night’s tightening that welded his joints together. He'd had his tablets; fifteen in all, some to counter the side effects of another and so on. He was privately convinced that that was where the last vestiges of his sex drive had gone. One day he'd stop the lot and just see what happened.

"The government wouldn't let them introduce that," said Gerry, looking up from the demolition of his second boiled egg.

"Says here that they're thinking of it," said Alb, "and apparently they have it in Canada. There's a piece about these so-called honour killings as well, apparently there's more of it going on all the time. We've let these bloody people into our country and they go around flouting our laws."

Gerry nodded, happily eating his toast soldiers, aware that his doing anything other than listening would be superfluous to requirements at the moment.

Alb continued, "And there're the Muslims who prey on our young girls, as well. What's that about, why aren't the police dealing with that, eh? I bet they're worried about causing offence."

Gerry nodded vigorously, still waiting for the right moment to speak; he knew from experience it was not yet.

"We're English so this land should have English laws, we can't go around changing our laws just because some idiot let too many bloody foreigners in. And don't even get me started on that mutilation they're doing to young girls right under our noses..."

"Hmmm." Gerry wasn't sure that that was Muslims but the point was valid so he let it pass.

"That's why we fought the bloody krauts in the first place," said Alb, "to defend England so that we could live like Englishmen, with our own laws and own way of life."

He went back behind his newspaper, explosion over. Gerry waited a few moments, munching steadily, then said, ruminatively, “You know, someone should do something, something to make people sit up and take notice.”

“Eh? Like what?” asked Alb, muffled words emerging from behind the newspaper.

"I don't know," said Gerry, "something."

"That's all very good and well," said Alb, "but what?"

"Petition our local MP," offered Gerry.

"Ah, what good would that do?" dismissed Alb, "When did they ever listen to what we want? It's all about them and their fancy careers."

"True, and whether or not they can claim it on their expenses. Well, what about getting a local protest movement together?"

"Waste of time," Alb snorted, "who'd turn up?"

"We could do a Hitler and form our own party?"

"At our age? Anyway, it's a waste of time," Alb was back into his newspaper, "there's nothing that we can do to save our country. If Churchill were alive today he'd turn in his grave."

"Ha!" said Gerry, "turn in his grave, like it."

"What?" Alb was frowning; he'd already forgotten his exact words.

"If he was alive today he'd turn in his grave," repeated Gerry.

"Oh, you know what I mean, he'd know what to do." Alb was in no mood for jokes.

"Of course he would," said Gerry, "he knew what to do when the Nazis were threatening....we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds...."

"We shall fight in the fields and in the streets...." Alb chimed in.

"We shall fight in the hills," said Gerry, with a wide smile, they'd done this before.

"We shall never surrender," spoken in unison, loud with a deep growl.

They were quiet for a few moments in homage to the Great Man and also to give some of the other occupants of the communal dining area a chance to eat in peace.

Then, "He'd lead a bloody revolution against this lot, that's what he'd do," said Alb, "but there's nothing we can do about it."

Gerry sat upright and lengthened his neck, "Well, there is," he said, his voice mild as befit the fact of other people’s proximity, “we can fight back.”

“We already covered this, Gerry.” Alb was curious as to why his friend was re-working the argument, it was unlike him. He surveyed him, his head bent forward at an odd angle the better to see him over the top of his reading glasses.

“No, I mean as in 'fight' back.”

Ken plonked himself down, jarring the table as he did so then leaning past Gerry and helping himself to toast. Alb surrendered the newspaper to him, folding it in half and half again, like the old days when it was a broadsheet and had proper news in it.

“Like the rioters, you mean?” now a little more interested.

“No, like soldiers.”

“Ah,” said Alb, propping his chin in his hand, “you mean a proper military campaign? Like Churchill would organise if he were alive today.”

Gerry was pleased with Alb's interest, and his idea grew on the strength of it, “We were in the forces, we’re trained, we’ve all seen dead bodies, we’re more than qualified to take these bastards on.”

“Dead bodies? Take who on?” Ken whispered, looking round at the other tables. "Have I missed something important?"

Alb ignored him, playing with the idea. “Mmm, they’re all a bit fitter and younger than us.”

“Yes, but we're trained,” said Gerry, “and we’re not afraid to die, I mean, at our age an’ all.”

"Die? Why would we die?" Ken was aghast, his voice high.

“You’re right, Gerry and when you’re right, you’re right!" Alb nodded, thoughtfully, musing, “We could do it, you know.”

Ken looked from one to the other, his face almost young with wide-eyed astonishment.

"And let's face it the army and police can't go after them, the government won't let them, they're chasing votes and it's not 'PC'," Gerry did the fingers movement as he spoke.

"What?" Alb stared at him

"PC – you know, ‘Politically Correct’."

There was silence for a few moments; Ken appeared to be having difficulty swallowing and his voice was strangulated, "I don't understand, Gerry - go after who?"

Gerry continued, “We need to get the others together and see what we can come up with. But, there's Pete for starters, he was a sapper."

"An' Wilf," said Alb, naming one of their oldest friends, "he was a marine and did a spell as a mercenary in the Congo, if I recall correctly."

"Pete's not very ...fit, though, is he." Ken inserted a down-to-earth bubble buster into what he rather hoped was a purely fanciful conversation.

"Then there's Jonesey, he's an ex-para."

"And David Hall, he's ex-REME," said Gerry.

"Now Dave, I do know, finds it hard to walk very far." Ken was growing desperate. "And you know I...I didn't serve in any...my feet for one thing..."

"Okay, that's settled, we'll get them all together, later on and sound them out."

"Sound them out for what?" Both Alb and Gerry turned to stare at him as though he'd appeared from nowhere.

"More toast?" asked Gerry, proffering the now empty plate at him.

"Oh, yes," said Ken disappearing with alacrity into the kitchenette.

"What about him?" whispered Alb.

"Don't know, do you think he knows too much already?"

Alb nodded, "We might have to silence him."

"I can't do it," said Gerry, affronted, "he's my bridge partner, it wouldn't be right."

"Well, I can't do it either," said Alb, "he went out with my sister."

"Not Margie, she'd not..."

"No, Flora."

"Oh, 'cause I liked Margie," said Gerry, ignoring Alb's quick scowl.

They fell silent; Gerry in contemplation of a tall girl with warm brown hair and equally warm brown eyes, married a spiv who left her high and dry. By that time he'd married his Gwennie and that was that. Alb's mind was on the potential disposal of Ken and the wider campaign, running through the inhabitants of the Village, discarding all the women, about whom he knew little, remembering past conversations whereby each man on arrival had paraded his military credentials to demonstrate a prouder time.

"What about Johnno? He's a mate, he'd do him for us."

"No," said Gerry, "heart condition and besides he likes Ken, they play chess together."

"Someone will have to do it if he bails on us."

"Don't worry," said Gerry, "if he bails, we'll find someone."

"If who bails?" Ken asked, approaching soundlessly, plate proffered.

“No-one, Ken,” Gerry spoke fast, grabbing toast off the plate, "and get Mags to bring some of her Angel cake, she makes lovely Angel cake.”

“Right on,” said Alb, a high colour in his cheeks, have to sharpen up, be more alert if this was going to work, walls have ears and all that.

∞

Gerry and Alb passed the afternoon in an agony of impatience; Ken had retired to his room to lie down. Given he'd not long got up Alb took it to mean he was shocked and wanted to be alone with his thoughts. Gerry was all for smothering him if he dozed; he could get another bridge partner if needs must. Alb urged caution; an unexplained death would 'draw the heat' and they needed to keep a 'low profile'. They consoled themselves with making a list of those in the Village who could prove useful, bearing in mind the need to be selective, and firming up their plans for attack.

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun





More books in the 'Corpalism' series
















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