Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 26

Daydream Believers - by Arun D Ellis - a compendium edition incorporating 'Insurrection', 'The Cull' & 'Murder, Money & Mayhem' - books 4, 5 & 6 in the series

P.A.C.T - three


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.



What harm can it do? 2



The two men swayed down the road more than a little worse for wear. The taller of the two was seriously regretting taking up his friend’s invite to after work drinks; if he’d been given a moment to think he could have come up with an excuse but since everyone knew Stacey had dumped him he couldn’t use her as a pretext and the hesitation had been his undoing. Ever since school when Phil had been the first to start drinking, taking to it like a duck to water, it had been clear that his ability to sink pints would become the stuff of legend. Often in the past in trying to keep up Malcolm had taken on board far more than he could handle, much as now, older but no wiser.

“Fancy a shag, Malc?” asked Phil, with an unattractive leer.

“What?” For a horrible moment Malcolm thought he was being propositioned, and then he realised what Phil meant and shrugged his shoulders, “What you got in mind?”

Malcolm watched him weaving down the road, a short, stocky figure, bouncing on his toes as he walked, and debated the wisdom of following. He took off after him when he headed down a side alley next to a launderette; feeling responsible and interested despite himself. He caught up as his friend stopped and slipped into a doorway.

“Bit grim, isn’t it,” said Malcolm, looking over his shoulder nervously.

“Best whore house in town,” whispered Phil.

“Shit!” said Malcolm, “I ain’t goin’ in there.”

“Ah! Strap on a pair,” challenged Phil, “it’s only sex.”

“Er, prostitutes?”

“What did you think? Where else you getting it? Got any better ideas?” The questions flew at him with mounting ferocity. Phil was not an attractive drunk.

Malcolm frowned, “It don’t seem right.”

“Why not? Girl’s gotta make a livin’ ain’t she, besides these bitches love it, all East European.”

“Shit, they sex slaves?” demanded Malcolm, stepping back slightly.

“Don’t be stupid, Malc, they’re here for a husband,” Phil said, smirking, “though fat chance after what they’ve been doing.”

“To be honest Phil, I’m not altogether happy with this,” said Malcolm, sobering up.

“Fuck!” wailed Phil just as the door opened and a customer exited. “Come on, what harm can it do?” he urged, diving in the doorway. Malcolm paused briefly then followed. The inside was lit by several red light bulbs; the wallpaper was red as was the carpet.

“They believe in creating an atmosphere,” said Malcolm in a low tone.

“I’ll ‘ave anyone you got available,” said Phil to the smiling woman on the desk, “but give my mate the best one you got, new customer.”

The woman smiled and disappeared behind a beaded curtain returning a few moments later with a short buxom brunette and a tall blonde.

“Yours is the blonde,” said Phil, “I’ve got Anya here," he put his arm round the brunette, squeezing her, "she knows what I like,” was his parting comment as they disappeared down the hallway.

Distinctly uncomfortable now, Malcolm felt the room closing in on him and he turned, looking for a way out. The blonde smiled, white teeth, no accompanying warmth in her blue eyes, took his hand and lead the way to a room at the back, where the red theme continued.

Malcolm was breathing hard by now, part terror and, he couldn’t deny, part excitement. The girl sat on the bed and let her robe fall away revealing her nakedness. He closed his eyes against the sight then opened them again, trying to see without staring. Pale skin, long legs and unbelievable breasts – could they be real?

“Urm…urm….” He stammered, “How does this work? I mean, do I pay now or later?”

“Up front,” said the blonde.

“And….and what then?” He was shaking, breathing hard.

“You say whatever you want, then you pay,” said the girl, her words seemed to come from outside of her, slightly disconnected from her facial expression. “Then we do it.”

“Right,” said Malcolm.

She stared at him for a few moments, and then she rose from the bed, closed in on him and started to undo his belt. He instinctively went to stop her but then pulled back his hand, ‘shit, she’s hot,’ he made another feeble attempt to resist his desire, then ‘she must want it or why else would she be here? I mean, Phil’s gotta be right.’

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun

Wise Eyed Open - by Arun D Ellis - a compendium edition incorporating 'Helter Skelter', 'Power Grab' & 'Rust' - books 7, 8, & 9 in the series

Descent 7

Louis sipped his tea and continued to channel hop. He allowed himself a moment to reflect on the old man's passing, aware that had the revelations of the past few weeks not been made then he would have been in full mourning. However, the knowledge had been given to him and couldn't be taken back; that it had been done on his great-grandfather's instructions and apparently in the belief that he would understand was just an added irritation. He didn't understand, he was angry and confused and ashamed.

He rubbed his head in frustration, he was descended from Nazis and he couldn't get rid of the notion that evil had come down through the family line to lodge in him.

Admittedly apart from a bit of shoplifting (and who didn't do that) and a drug dabble (ditto) and ok, he'd tried to kill himself but the family thought it had been a mistake so that didn't count, and anyway it was all years ago, so apart from all that, he'd done nothing to concern his family or friends, especially Jenna.

He shivered; they did not know him as he knew himself; he knew what he was capable of and where his darkest thoughts could go.

His phone buzzed, a text from Jenna.

He allowed himself a few moments to contemplate taking comfort with her. He could see her face, both troubled and caring, warm eyes, soft lips and for a moment he wavered. He wanted to be with her but the last time they'd met up he could talk of nothing but his mixed up feelings.

She'd not been as supportive as he'd hoped when he'd explained his need to search out evidence of the Holocaust his great-grandfather had challenged him to find. Nor did she appreciate his need to find similar evidence to refute all the old man's ramblings about pre and post-war conspiracies to stifle the 'social revolution'.

On the other hand, she'd supported his original plan to burn the folder and put the whole thing out of his head; that he hadn't done either of those things was a source of conflict between them that he couldn't handle right now and had no intention of revisiting anytime soon.

He ignored the text, sipped his tea and changed channel yet again.

The post clattering through the letter box broke through the immobility that had seized him. He snatched at the cardboard, ripping it open to reveal the book he'd ordered. He stared at it; to his mind, one of the most dangerous books ever written, one that professed to explain Hitler and the Nazis; clearly revisionist. He felt odd just holding it; somehow defiled. He was convinced he had been put on some surveillance list the minute he looked it up on line.

He sighed and sat back to read.

He hoped the book would be bunkum; easily dismissed to the file marked 'revisionist nonsense' that he was trying to compile. He had worked out a methodology to make his task easier; read until an outrageous claim was made and then check the claim either on line or on his bookshelves. He had been convinced he would find evidence to debunk the assertions but thus far he had only found evidence in support.

This book proved to be more of the same and three hours later he was still reading; finally he yawned and let the book slide from his lap, he wanted to read more but he was dog tired.

He pinched his cheeks, got up and splashed his face with water from the sink, did a few half-hearted stretches and resumed the task, deciding on an internet search to find an interview with the author, discussing his book. Ten minutes later he started to search elsewhere, the book might well have been intensively researched but the author was sending him to sleep.

He found several other revisionist videos and watched them over and over. Something in them, the very concept of what they preached left him feeling uncomfortable after every viewing.

He stood up and stretched, grabbed his coat and went for a walk.

He returned with a food stock that should hold him in good stead for the next few days while he continued his research. He made short work of a Belgian bun and a can of coke, then slumped down in front of his computer, flicking through until he found a traditional video on the causes of the war.
He watched with quiet satisfaction as frenzied, hysterical Germans, dragooned into lines along the roadside, saluted the megalomaniac dictator. The video had a backdrop of satanic music and the commentary was one he could relate to; Hitler deceiving the masses with tricks like 'Strength through joy' where he bought their loyalty with cheap rate holidays and cruises. It rattled through the same old stuff about how he reduced mass unemployment by building roads, once again buying the loyalty of the masses.

Louis found himself relaxing; his long-held beliefs re-energised as he watched. This fitted what he knew from extensive reading, that Hitler was a control freak, a pervert whose love life was a farce, a man who was obsessed with his mother and couldn't form proper relationships, who as a young man formed an obsession with a young girl, was virtually a stalker, hanging out on street corners with Kubizek, the homosexual. Who later in life totally controlled his niece Gellie until she committed suicide to escape him, then he latched onto Eva Braun. He was a controller of people, a master manipulator and this video proved it. Louis hadn't been aware of how much this revisionist junk had been bothering him.

Louis sighed, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

One hour later he woke with a start, a question thumping in his brain. His sleep hadn't been restful.
He had a test he wanted to conduct and he set to it at once. He watched five minutes of the traditional video he'd fallen asleep in front of, then he watched similar scenes on a revisionist video.

Finally, he turned the sound down and watched them again; without volume they were identical.
Both videos showed thousands of happy Germans all frantic to shake Hitler's hand and they weren't brown shirted party members, these were all ordinary Germans; old men and women, working-age adults, young women and young children.

He rested his fingertips on his forehead, his thoughts racing; stripped of the music or talk overs there was nothing to influence his interpretations. He was left to make his own conclusions of what he was seeing on the screen.

'If they loved him this much then maybe there was something in what he said, in what he and the Nazis offered the ordinary German people.'

He let his thoughts go where they would, conjuring a revolutionary system that encouraged people to work together and for the nation...and supposing it worked, got the German people back into employment when every other western economy remained on its knees, no work, soup kitchens and the like.....

He burst out, his voice loud in the quiet flat, "I need to listen to original broadcasts, hear it for myself. Fuck it, why didn't I learn German?"

He grabbed his cup, rinsed it out in the sink, switched on the kettle, threw a tea bag in the cup. 'So where do the Jews come in?'

The kettle boiled.

Louis poured the steaming water into his cup, his brain still racing, 'surely not? Churchill didn't pursue the war just because the National Socialist philosophy was taking hold? That would be insane, waging a war over conflicting political philosophical outlooks?'

Cheers

Arun

The Cull by Arun D Ellis - book 5 in the Corpalism series

Extract below:
Prologue

For Sir Digby Chalfont, a connoisseur, of all the women in the group, one stood out. She was tall, with impeccably cut, gleaming bronze hair.

He noted the Givenchy Pandora box bag slung over the shoulder of her black crepe trouser suit, a Tyrwhitt, if he was not mistaken, and the raspberry shirt that softened the aquiline face was certainly an Emilio Pucci. He imagined a crop twitching against her Eleonaro black riding boots; the thought causing him to smile as he homed in. He had no idea of her standing in the group, although the clothes gave a hint to her status. He cared little; she was the most attractive person in the room and he intended to make himself known to her; his newly acquired knighthood must be good for something.

The faint silk scent of the window drapes was now combined with the perfume of luxurious colognes. The Chairman, a portly man with a well-used face, experienced the effect without enjoyment; well used to the smell of money. Taking advantage of his central seat on the small platform he surveyed the room. He was impressed all over again at the power of the Committee; to be able to summon two hundred people from the international political, military, industrial and social elites at such short notice and achieve their attendance was no mean feat.

Clusters of men, mostly white and middle-aged, their dark, sombre suits offset by a few in full dress uniform, a scattering of crisp white djellabas and several in multi-coloured dashikis. He noted the women; not enough to tip the balance.

All were veterans of this type of gathering, some chatting easily to each other, most keeping their own counsel. At the Chairman's nod, the man who'd been awaiting the signal detached himself from the group and walked to the podium; tall, slim, dark hair at the distinguished stage.

Kurt Silverman, Head of the Institute of Research. He cut an athletic figure; he looked good and he knew it. He also knew that he was amongst those for whom personal appearance mattered less than power and holdings; in that respect he was not their equal, he was there to serve them.

The view offered to him from the uplifted podium was of rows of seats, each one occupied by a glossy A4 booklet he'd prepared and placed there earlier. Gradually, as if in response to an unspoken suggestion, members of the group began to move to these seats.

After a short time the Chairman rose to his feet, his dark grey Kiton suit struggling valiantly to contain and command his ample body.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome," he said, his voice carrying without effort to the back of the room. Given the ratio of male to female and, more pertinently, the balance of power he might have been forgiven for saying, 'welcome gentlemen'. Having caught the eagle eye of the auburn-haired woman in black, seated next to Sir Digby, such a lapse had been rendered impossible. He waved his hand towards the podium, introduced Kurt in a few crisp words and resumed his seat.

Kurt spoke, his voice betraying a slight nervousness; this was an august company and he would have been a fool not to have regard for their power,

"Thank you for inviting me here to deliver, for your consideration, the proposed solution to the most pressing issue of our times; 'Peak Oil'."

He paused, making deliberate eye contact with the front row, then continued, "As you know, in the 70s it was estimated we would reach Peak Oil somewhere around 2015, after which the rate of production was expected to enter terminal decline, giving us a global fuel crisis somewhere about 2075."

He clicked a hand held device and the screen behind him came to life, showing a map of the location of the last known oil reserves, "However, increased warfare, rises in manufacturing and rampant population growth has meant a massively increased demand. We passed Peak Oil in 2005. As a result, we will reach the projected fuel crisis much sooner than expected."

He clicked again and the screenshot changed, "Of course, we took steps over the last few decades to try and contain the situation. Thanks to the work of the Neo Liberals in the eighties and nineties we were able to offset the increasing costs of oil production by shifting costs of manufacturing to the more cost effective labour force of the third world."

Kurt indicated with a smile the six-strong delegation from China, all male, in identical Prince of Wales check suits and to his eye, with identical faces. He gestured to the smaller group from India, two serious-looking men and one elderly, petite, sari-clad woman.

"You may recall it was estimated that we'd need a further three decades before the third world would be strong enough to take over the consumption of the West."

He paused before delivering the punch line, "I'm happy to say our recent studies have revealed that the new consumers are there in abundance as we speak, and more than able to take up the slack."

A few heads looked up at this revelation, most didn't react at all. Kurt had no time to wonder if they'd already had this information, he had to move on to the crux of the matter.

"This being the case not only have we no further need of the northern hemisphere labour market, we now have no interest in their continued ability to buy our products. In short we have no further need to sustain this part of the population."

Kurt was moving with poise now, as another chart appeared on the screen showing world population levels, "You will be aware of various natural phenomena supporting our aims of constraining population growth; the greatest of which are Aids and famine. The policy of appearing to work towards their eradication whilst achieving very little seems to be working. That takes care of Africa. Helpfully, Eastern and Southern European countries are being depopulated via sustained civil war and ethnic cleansing."

He paused, then, "Rapid economic cleansing is also underway; highly desirable areas of France and Spain are being de-populated and in the UK, London is being cleared to make way for settlement by the very wealthy, with the rest of the South-East to follow."

He couldn't prevent the smug grin that crossed his face; he'd recently snapped up some exquisite properties just outside Primrose Hill, so felt he had to follow up with, "Of course, you will get first pick of these prime slices of real estate as they become available. In fact, I believe you can book your plots now, is that right, Mr. Chairman?"

The Chairman rose awkwardly, caught out by the change of subject, but the words flowed with practiced ease, "Superior Homes has created an exclusive brochure, copies of which will be available in the foyer as you leave conference. You'll find outline plans for a deluxe chateau in an average lot size of 3,000 hectares in the new territories. "

An electric buzz swept the room.

Kurt judged the time was right for the big announcement, "However, attritional reduction of population in these areas is not enough for our needs. We must contain America, the biggest oil consumer on the planet."

Kurt looked round the room, then invested his voice with strength, "We now need to move into the last phase of our plan, which we are calling 'Operation Downsize'. I'd like to introduce General Nathan Goldhirsch of the US Army who will explain it to you."

The US contingent stirred in their seats and a tall man in full dress uniform rose to his feet and headed towards the platform. "That's US Marine Corps, Kurt," he said, smiling. There was a smattering of laughter, quickly suppressed.

"Okay," said the General, his frown bringing them back to complete order, "let's get down to business. We need to reduce the US of A population by at least 25% and we can't pussy-foot around. Economic destabilisation brings its own problems and we have one helluva civilian army out there, all armed. If they get a sniff of what's going on all hell will break loose. So, we gotta do it quickly." He turned to the screen and pointed at the image that appeared, "This here is La Palma, one of the Canary Islands."

A hush settled on the room, this was where it started to get serious.

The screen changed. "And this is the Cumbre Vieja volcano, it is extremely volatile." The screen changed again, "This is the western face of the volcano, which is gradually collapsing. One day, in the natural course of things this side will fall into the sea creating a mega tsunami which will sweep across the Atlantic, ravage the Bahamas and reach the Eastern seaboard in a matter of hours."

He allowed the magnitude of the pronouncement a few moments to settle then delivered the coup de grace, "Well, we don't have time to wait for the natural course of things, ladies and gentlemen, so we intend to blow the whole damn thing sky high. And we're doing it soon." 

Happy reading, hope you have a good week.

Cheers

Arun

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More books in the 'Corpalism' series















Compendium editions

Extract from the books 'From Democracy to Dictatorship' & 'Corpalism' by Arun D Ellis

The Independents - Occupy the Political Space


“My name is Catherine Jenkins, I’m a Head Teacher and I’m standing in Peterborough in the next general election. I have the support of the local Independent group and will endeavour to do everything I possibly can to win my seat for the Independent movement.”

The applause was spontaneous; she was the epitome of a head teacher, a conglomerate of all head teachers all over the country; bright, down to earth, confident yet not brash, used to addressing an audience and brooking no nonsense whilst so doing.

“Like most of you I got into politics because of Colin Carpenter. When I first saw Colin on TV and saw what he was trying to achieve I was inspired. I’d missed him on RT and Al Jazeera, not being my first choice of channel at that time.”

The audience laughed dutifully.

“Until I saw Colin and heard him speak I was resigned to the idea that we had to have more of the same; the same old choice of the same old parties doing the same old things. I thought we had to put up with the endless lies, the constant promises of reform before they come into office and the inevitable back track blaming the previous government when they get elected. Like Colin I was impressed by the Occupy movement yet I saw nothing in it for me; taking to the streets, living in tents, it simply didn’t appeal. Also I couldn’t quite see what they could achieve. It was Colin who opened my eyes to the possibilities that exist for us, for creating our own change; he made me aware of the opportunities that exist already. We don’t need to occupy physical space; we can occupy the political space instead. Now that appealed to me.”

More laughter, and friendlier.

“He made it clear we didn’t have to have the same old thing; that we live in a country where people can vote. Where, just because there’s no real choice at the moment for the voter, it doesn’t mean there can’t be. We live in a democratic and free country; with freedom of choice. Colin tore down the veil and revealed the truth… we, the people hold the power.”
She held her arms out wide, as if to embrace them all, “For years the political elites have deluded us into believing that we only had two choices, maybe three if you think the Liberal Democrats can ever get enough votes to govern without a coalition. They have achieved this by making the two-party system so powerful that it is virtually impossible for any other party to rise onto the scene. They have a virtual duopoly in Parliament; they have a duopoly on political debate, that’s why everything is always the same. What’s more, because they rely on contributions to stay in power party policies are designed to benefit the wealthy few over the majority, that’s why the 1% holds all of the power.”

Someone was fidgeting in the front row, she stared at him and he stilled under her basilisk gaze.

“Colin shone a light on all that; we don’t need a new party with big party finance; we can use the current system to put forward decent, public-spirited, well educated people to stand as independents in their own communities. We just need to get out on the streets and make those communities as aware of the possibilities as we are, aware of the possibility of a new government lead by independently minded, intelligent, educated, experienced, caring professionals who will work their hardest for the people of this country.”

She paused and sipped water whilst the audience applauded; she waited for them to finish. “Now the most common objection that people raise is the same one that the main parties will throw at us, that as independents we can’t form a united government or formulate policy… but they are wrong, we can.”

The audience applauded.

“When we win the next election,” she stated to resounding cheers, “when we win the next election and believe me, win it we will… we will choose who will be in the cabinet, we will vote for whomever we want to lead us….”

There were more cheers from the audience and chants of ‘Colin, Colin, Colin’.

Catherine smiled and raised her arms for silence, “We will hold departmental consultation forums and debate what policy should be. We will form the best policy for the country and for the people and we will vote in the ministers to head each government department. We will ensure that proper representation is maintained and we won’t be susceptible to lobby group enticements or pressure group blackmail because we are independent and we can and will work together to achieve the best and the right policies for us all.”

There were cheers from the hall.

“We will instigate true political reform, we will create a method of government funding for independent political candidates, and we’ll ban parties from politics altogether, and enforce a new system where only people who have independent policies can stand for Parliament. Current and past MPs will be banned from politics altogether for they have proven disreputable in all their dealings. We will break forever this terrible stranglehold the party system has on power in this country, in future, we the people will be represented by truly honourable people, honourable people in not just name but in deed as well. We will do away with the Lords and hereditary political power, we will create a new elected second chamber which will also be filled with independent representatives, and this new chamber will be charged with identifying the weaknesses in policy put forward by the first chamber and it will also work to the benefit of all and not along party lines.”

She walked across the platform to engage with those sitting at the side, “We will introduce full proportional representation where an individual’s vote more truly represents the leanings of the nation, where the most preferred independent candidate can succeed and move on to represent the needs and wishes of his or her community as far as is practicably possible.”

There was general applause whilst Catherine walked back, centre stage.

“But we are left with the question of the head of state, the question of whether we should seek an elected head of state such as a President or whether we should retain the hereditary head of state, the monarch and there are good arguments for both.”

There was a low murmuring from the floor.

She spoke quickly to quell concerns, “Clearly the corruption that exists in American politics is enough to dissuade anyone from pursuing that line but the greed and selfishness of past monarchs is also enough to persuade the Republicans amongst us that that isn’t the way to go either. Yet a country needs a head of state, it must have one. But the questions we can’t avoid asking are, which type?
How do we make it more effective?”

She paused and looked around the hall, “I think there is a general reluctance of most candidates to change the system we have at the moment, for whatever reasons and although there is a growing movement towards the idea of a Republic this still only represents a small percentage of the population. With that in mind it would be wrong for anyone to attempt to change the current structure. However, it has been suggested that the government should actually choose the next monarch as opposed to allowing the first born to be heir apparent simply by courtesy of being born first. There is a growing belief that possibly it would be wiser for the government to choose the best of the relevant royal siblings as monarch.”

She held up her hands to quiet them, “Why should the country have the family idiot as its head of state simply because he or she was born first? Many cultures in the past have had a system where the dying monarch names his or her successor choosing the most capable. I believe this is something that the Romans did,” she said smiling, “I think this is something that we would explore as a government and having said that I believe it would also be possible to include royal cousins as potential candidates for the post, within reason of course, otherwise it could get a bit farcical, the 2nd cousin ten times removed.”

A few laughs rose from the floor and some approving applause.

“You can be sure that we will introduce a system of more regular elections, each year one quarter of each house will have to stand for re-election. In this way we will ensure upward feedback from the people and after the first 4 years a system will prevail where elected MPs will sit for 4 years before having to stand for their seats again. But still, every year a quarter of each house will be refreshed. In this way we ensure no one person or group becomes too powerful, we will ensure we get energizing fresh representation from the people and don’t become isolated and separate, out of touch.”

The audience were clapping now, excited by the vision, she raised her hands for quiet “I will cede the stage now but I want to say one last thing, and that is…you can be sure that these things will be discussed over and again until we get what’s right for the country as a whole and not for the tiny minority as is the case at the moment.”

Thanks for reading

Arun





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Extract from the book 'Uprising' by Arun D Ellis

Extract below

Terry slumped into his settee and started flicking channels, more for something to do than actually find something to watch, he would probably channel hop for a good couple of hours.

It was ironic that under other circumstances he’d have been glad of a few spare hours to run through his patterns; it would have surprised Peter Illyffe and his work colleagues to know that as a Tae Kwon Do 4th Dan he trained regularly. However, abruptly out of work and awaiting re-location to God knows where he didn’t really feel like committing time to any particular activity.

The TV went dead at the precise moment the phone rang, “Terence Jones?”

“Terry,” he corrected, “I prefer Terry.”

“Mr. Jones,” said the woman on the other end, “my name is Delia Helm and I’m phoning from Central Services. We note that you were dismissed from Peter Brooke’s redeployment agency today and as a result are due to be relocated…”

“Well yeah,” said Terry, “but that was only about 5 minutes ago and….”

“From our records it was 2 hours and 15 minutes ago,” continued Delia, “and as a result of your dismissal and your financial situation we’re terminating all services with immediate effect.”

“What?” the word came out as a gasp, “All services?? But what does that mean?”

“It means that until you have repaid the £30,000 you owe your creditors or until you have the means of repaying them you will be unable to take advantage of any services offered within the UK.”

“What?”

“We have deactivated the purchasing power of your chip,” she paused, “and we will take possession of your flat and its contents today.”

“But you can’t do that!”

“Please don’t shout at me, Mr. Jones or I will have to raise a P118 which will be escalated to your local law enforcement officer.”

He fell silent awaiting the next hammer blow; he knew the drill, but not the detail nor had he anticipated the speed and in any case, it didn’t mean he had to like it.

“Your flat and its contents will be auctioned this afternoon and the funds raised will go to settle some of your debts. For your information I can confirm that Galaxy have estimated that we will raise £1,500 on your possessions and £500,000 on the sale of your flat. However, as you are aware we are currently in a recession which means the market value of your flat is around £150,000 less than you originally paid for it…”

“Oh don’t give me that...” snapped Terry.

“As you had a 100% mortgage you will owe your bank the balance of £150,000 which plus the £30,000 sundry debts minus the £1,500 obtained from the sale of your possessions means you will be looking at an overall debt of approximately £178,500.”

“What!”

“As this sum exceeds the total unemployed indebtedness allowable under section 12a of the Employment Act” she continued relentlessly, “which for your information is £25,000, you will face criminal proceedings for fiscal incompetence.”

“You are fucking kidding!” The expletive resonated round the room.

“Mr. Jones, I warned you - I have raised a P118 reporting you to your local enforcement officer. Please do not leave the building.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” yelled Terry, “I’ll leave the bloody building if I want to.”

“Of course you must do as you wish however I should warn you that your details will have been passed to building security. The minute you step outside your flat you will be Tasered.”

“Fuck off!” shouted Terry as he hung up.

He turned and stormed to the door, opened it and stared into the hallway, ‘Tasered? Who’s going to Taser me? I can’t see anyone.’ Then for the first time he noticed a thin strip running the length of the hall on both sides of the corridor. ‘Nah, that’s just electric cable, surely?’


Hope you have a nice weekend

Cheers

Arun








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Uprising by Arun D Ellis - book 1 in the Corpalism series

Extract below

Community Leaders

Three days later a group of community leaders from lower Boro, Southside made their way to a small community hall; 30 people give or take and each one had received a personally delivered verbal invitation, issued in the name of Donald Snr. Terry had insisted on all wards being represented and had borne impatiently the resultant delay. He’d been given the low-down on the leaders, including a vivid description of the one woman in the group; Irene, widow of one of the most feared men in Boro whose viciousness paled now besides the rumours that surrounded her name.

It was 19:00 hrs by the time the last one was seated. Jimmy had posted his brothers and several of their mates at the various doors; a dual purpose was served, keeping the selected in and the interlopers out. The community leaders understood the risks of such a large meeting and their attendance indicated implied acceptance, but the added burden of knowledge concerning the chip’s locator facility was known only to Terry, Don and the others.

Terry had positioned himself on the stage behind a lectern; a shield, a leaning post and a symbol of authority. Don was seated in one of the chairs in the row behind him, with Lawrence and Dave, stand-in father figures protecting Donald’s boy, positioned solemnly on either side of him. Eric was in the audience, his choice. Sandra had been persuaded to stay home, to be there in case Donald turned up had been Don’s argument, stoutly supported by Terry. He looked out over the assembly, thinking again how glad he was that Sandra was out of it, if this went wrong, it could go seriously wrong. Then he spoke his voice betraying none of this concern, “Gentlemen, and Irene, thank you for coming,”

She acknowledged the personal salute with the barest flicker, some in the audience nodded, others sat stony faced, and all wondered who Terry was.

“You’ve been invited here to talk about the future,” said Terry, “but before we can do that I have to raise a rather thorny issue, that of informants.”

“Where’s Donald?” demanded a large black man in the front; he’d caught Terry’s attention at the start, not just size but demeanour singled him out, this must be the feared Ice Man of whom he’d been told.

Moment of partial truth… “Donald’s not here yet,” said Terry

“Why not?” demanded a small wiry man from a few rows back, “and pardon my French, but who the fuck are you?”

“My name’s…” began Terry at which point Don stepped forward.

“It’s okay,” he said, “most of you will know me and for those who don’t, I’m Donald’s son.”

“So?” said someone.

“My dad would vouch for Terry,” said Don, “if he was here.”

“Well that’s dandy,” said Ice Man, “but not good enough.”

“It’ll have to be,” said Terry, “that is, until Donald gets here.”

“Where is Donald?” demanded the wiry man, getting into his stride.

“Late,” said Terry.

The room was filled with blank looks.

“Look,” said Terry, “you’ve all been invited here by people you know and trust, and Donald would be here if he could. You all know each other and you know Don or most of you know Don, so there should be no real problem.”

“If there is,” said Ice Man, “you’ll be the first to find out about it.”

“I’m sure I will,” said Terry.

“Okay,” said Don, “just give us a chance to explain, that’s all we’re asking.”

There was no reaction from the group so Terry chose to ignore the silent hostility and ploughed on, “First,” he said, “I’d like to tell you a story and I’d appreciate it there were no interruptions until the end, if that’s ok.”

“No it’s not,” said Ice Man, “I didn’t want to be here. I’m not about to sit here an’ let someone I don’t know talk at me.”

“Well,” said Terry, “that’s understandable but please, if you bear with me I think you’ll like what I have to say, eventually that is.”

“I’m with Ice Man,” said someone else, “this is a shit thing you got me into, O’Connell.”

Jimmy jumped in, “Listen, you might not like being here but this needs to be done, things need to be said, we ain’t none of us gettin’ nothin’ outta the way things run round here and it’s about time we did something about it.”

“Is that right?” said Ice Man, rising to his full 6’ 6”.

“Okay ‘Ice Man’,” said Terry, “we can all see how big you are but what are you doing for your community? How are your people coping with the shortages?”

“I’m doing just fine,” said Ice Man, “ain’t no whitey gonna try and slip into my territory and take over.” Having said his piece he folded himself back onto the chair.

“That’s not what this is about, Ice,” said Don, “it’s about all of us acting together, to change things.”

“Ah, this is a waste of time,” said someone from the back of the hall, rising to leave, “you ain’t gonna change nothin’. It’s been like this for years and it’ll always be like this.”

“Sit down Jake,” snapped Jimmy as Brendan readied himself to bar the exit.

Terry thought quickly, recalling the bios he’d been given. If memory served, Jake controlled a small ward, not mission critical; he could use him as a test case. “It’s okay Jimmy, if he wants to leave, let him, at least we’ll know which side of the fence he’s on.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” demanded Jake.

“It means the sinks are crawling with informants,” said Terry, “and anyone who isn’t interested in changing things for the better is more than likely an informant.”

“I ain’t no informant,” said Jake, “and I’ll kill any man who says I am.”

“No one’s saying you are an informant, but,” said Don, turning his hands up in the classic questioning pose, “if you’re not interested in improving things then it’s a bit sus.”

“Sit down Jake,” said Ice Man, “first we’ll hear what little whitey has to say and then if we don’t like it,” he paused for effect, “we’ll kill him.”

Jake grunted a bit, then nodded and sat.

“Okay,” said Terry, “let’s begin at the beginning shall we, where this war really started.”

“War?” demanded someone, “What war?”

“Please, gents,” said Don, “just listen.”

“Yeah, but you said there was a war,” said the same voice, thin and reedy, anxiety paramount.

“He didn’t mean between us, Tim,” said Eric, turning in his chair to look at a young man three rows behind him, “just listen and you’ll see where he’s going.”

“Give me a chance; all of you” said Terry, “please.”

There was a brief silence.

Then “We’re listening whitey,” said Ice Man, “but we ain’t patient types.”

“Okay,” said Terry, “the beginning then. Back in the 80’s,”

“Are you taking the piss? What the fuck do you know about the 80’s?” said someone.

“Look,” snapped Terry, “The world outside your little ghetto is turning to shit and if you really want to change things for your community now’s the time to jump on board.”

“That’s cute, whitey,” said Ice Man.

“Well, you might think so, but it doesn’t seem so cute to me, whilst you people are stuck here, barely scraping a living, d’ you have any idea how the rich are living? How much they have? How completely different your lifestyles are? They live like gods and you live like slaves so listen up, ‘cause this is a wakeup call.”

Ice Man stared at Terry for a full 30 seconds before leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, “I ain’t no slave … and the clock’s tickin’, so get on with it, white boy.”

Terry waited a few seconds, “Okay, so we’re back in the 80s with Thatcher. I know everyone’s heard of Thatcher, hell one of the streets here is named after her, but what she did to this country takes some understanding so I’d like to run through it again so we can see how they achieved all of this,” He waved his arms, indicating all of them, the small hall, their small lives. Those gathered moved restlessly in their seats, some nervously, some irritably and some he noted, rather aggressively. Jimmy nodded to Paddy to move closer to the most restless group …all known bully boys. “Okay, first things first, Thatcher wasn’t the architect; that dubious honour belongs to Keith Joseph, Thatcher was a believer and a credible mouth piece.”

“Keith Joseph? Why’s he got two Christian names?” Sean hissed at the person nearest him who happened to be a Muslim, obvious to anyone but Sean, and one clearly not pleased with the assumptive reference to the infidel’s religion.

“Keith who?” whispered Don to Lawrence.

“Bit before my time,” said Lawrence, “no idea how Terry’s heard of him.”

“Probably his posh education,” sneered Dave, by no means a ‘Terry’ convert, and having taken a seat on the stage only in support of Donald’s son.

“Thatcher and her cronies told British workers that they weren’t competitive enough and then created the right circumstances for British industrialists and entrepreneurs to close their factories and businesses in Britain and then reopen them in poorer 3rd world countries where costs such as wages and rents were nonexistent,” said Terry, passion trembling in his voice.

He’d vented and decried the whole concept to whoever would listen throughout his adolescence. This was the first time he’d tried it out on a real audience, sod’s law it had to be one so hostile.

“The intention of economists at the time was that the private sector would create or develop a service based economy in Britain.” The room was quiet, all eyes on him. He took a sip of water, ‘Christ why am I doing this? “The rich invested in what was termed at the time ‘emerging markets’, namely, companies being set up in the 3rd world by western industrialists and Corporations.” He stood upright; he’d been leaning over the lectern as he spoke, trying to get his message across and putting his whole body into it. “The idea was that the west would invent, the third world would build and the western worker would buy.”

“Yeah, we get the idea,” said a female voice, the infamous widow “and we know already.”

“You should do,” said Terry, looking out across the room, trying to locate her “but somewhere along the way you’ve learned to live with it rather than resist the unfairness of what occurred.”

“Who’re you to talk?” said Jake, “what d’ you know about what we’ve learned to live with? Who the fuck is he, anyway?” He directed this at Don.

“Look please,” said Don,” If you’ll just bear with us for a bit longer.”

“Keep going,” said Ice Man, “I want to hear what you gotta say.”

Terry nodded, “So that was the plan they sold to the people…that the west would ‘invent’, the 3rd world would ‘build’ and the western worker , employed in the service industry which replaced the manufacturing base, would ‘buy’. Now, whether it was meant to be permanent or they had other long term plans, we’ll never know… but what we do know, and what should’ve been clear at the time, is that the ‘private’ sector didn’t create enough service based industry jobs.”

He took another sip of water, he didn’t like public speaking and his throat was painfully dry, “So people were out of work, not enough buying going on….to fill the gap the government created public sector service jobs, all governments did it, right or left; they had to reduce unemployment, to create demand for other services, to increase spending power, maintain the number of consumers for these goods being made in the 3rd world.”

The room came alive at that moment, throat clearing and murmurs of what? Dissent? Agreement? Terry couldn’t tell. Neither could Jimmy who made himself more visible and pointed organizing fingers at the door guards.

“Yeah, they created the national debt that we’re still paying off,” shouted someone,

“All of this was designed to make sure,” continued Terry, raising his voice against the catcalls now emerging from the crowd, “that the industrialist and the investor had their constant return of interest.” He paused briefly, ‘this is a nightmare. How’m I ever going to convince these people that they’ve been had.’

“You got this all wrong.” shouted someone else.

Don and Dave were on their feet; Lawrence still seated was making ineffectual calming hand gestures.

“What’s he on about?” hissed Sean to Brendan.

“Fucked if I know,” said Brendan, “I just hope he knows what he’s doing.”

“What d’you mean?”

“You been paying attention?” asked Brendan.

“Yeah.”

“Well, he’s pissed off just about everyone in the room, and if he don’t put it right there’s gonna be an awful ruckus.”

“So?” said Sean, “we can handle it.”

“Idiot,” said Brendan, “c’n you count?”

Sean scanned the room, “I’m not scared of any of these fat fucks.”

“Good,” said Brendan, “then you fight ‘em, all of ‘em.”

Ice Man stood up and signaled to the room for silence, and then he sat down again; an unexpected ally.

Terry took heart and continued, “In the end, a service based economy, shops, restaurants, hotels, holidays, is vulnerable to collapse when there’s a recession and that is exactly what happened, with the great banking disaster of 2008.”

He started to pace, coming out from behind the lectern and moving from one side of the stage to the other, his stride lengthening as his confidence grew. “I’m not going to go into the ins and outs of how the banks lost all the money, I’m just going to say that it put huge pressure on the world economies and governments when they were already exposed…most of them, just like the UK, had spent a lot on creating jobs that didn’t bring any financial return by way of Gross Domestic Product. The net result was that the economies of several countries collapsed and a desperate period of austerity began for all, except….”

He paused and took a drink before continuing, then recommenced his pacing, “It wasn’t actually austerity for all. It was austerity for the likes of you and me. The seriously rich are seriously rich still. The industrialist still had his factories in the 3rd world and the investor still had his money in emerging markets, all they had to do was find a new consumer for their products …which they did.”

Ice Man started to nod his head almost imperceptibly; it was not wasted on Don and the others.

“They made money more available to the workers in the 3rd world so they could become buyers as well as builders” he was almost shouting now, “Western governments told their people they’d over spent on their credit cards, bringing this recession on themselves” he paused, and then he did shout, a controlled burst of fury “but this was a lie.”

He checked the room, he had their attention. He softened his voice “The industrialists and investors wanted to maximize their return, so they put all their funds into the 3rd world. The result was massive unemployment and poverty in the west, western governments raised fewer taxes, and to top it off those same governments reduced the taxes for the rich, scared of the threat of them leaving if they didn’t.”

He walked over to the lectern and leaned against it, needing its shelter and all his energy for the finale. “Governments, like the UK government, hid behind ‘austerity measures’ to reduce services for the masses, like libraries and refuse collections, to privatise the NHS, to cut social benefits and scrap free public education, then they forced up property prices and cut out social housing.”

He glared round the room, his anger at the conspiracy fuelling the tirade. “You’ve all heard of the Occupy Movements? Ordinary people taking to the streets to protest peacefully about the 1% who own everything? People willing to stand up for the rest of us against the system and its weapons; pepper sprays, tear gas, water cannon, rubber bullets…”

“Yeah, we heard” Jake stood up and spoke, looking round at his fellow leaders, rallying support, “and where are they now? In prison, dead, destitute…”

Terry looked down from the stage and met his eyes. He nodded slowly, “Yes …they were crushed, deliberately and coldly crushed in the tidal wave of anti-terrorist laws brought in to combat so-called atrocities on our streets.” He lifted his arms “As was Colin Carpenter and the rest of the Independents, who were trying to achieve a fairer society using democracy, trying to occupy the political space…yet the real atrocity is here and now, in Boro and places like it all over the world, where hundreds of thousands of people, millions of people, are condemned to live their lives in squalor and penury while the world’s 1% still lives in obscene luxury.”

He stopped talking, took a deep steadying breath, wondered briefly if he was insane, and then continued, “They drove the poor to places like this; fenced them in, no way in or out without a pass, ghettos. The mass of the British people now live in places like Boro…I know this for a fact…” final pause, “because I used to work in Relocations.”

The hall erupted. Chairs overturned as their occupants leapt to their feet, a few were sent flying towards the stage. Jimmy and Paddy waded in, fists flying as some of those nearest the stage leapt on to it, trying to get to Terry. Dave happily gave as good as he got, standing back to back with Don who was enjoying himself for the first time since his dad’s disappearance.

Lawrence disappeared; physical violence had never been his strong point. Terry cleared the stage swiftly of the most ambitious attackers, a motley crew of barrel-bellied bullies who were used to size being important. He had the look of someone prepared to defend a position for hours if needs be and gradually the number of takers lessened.

It took a good fifteen minutes for tempers to cool and for people to settle down enough so that individual voices could be heard. By that time Sean and Brendan had cut a swathe through the section of the crowd who’d been luckless enough to sit their side of the hall. One of these had been Eric, apparently unrecognized in the mêlée and now unconscious on the floor. It was another twenty minutes before Terry felt able to reclaim his position at the lectern. The chairs had been righted and people who could sit comfortably were doing so, those more appreciably damaged were leaning against the walls and some, like Eric, had stayed down.

Ice Man had remained aloof from the fracas. He stood and made sure he was seen, “We’re gonna sit here a little longer, and you get to finish your little lecture but you better have something good at the end of it ‘cause if not, that little confession of yours is gonna cost you big time.”

“Fair enough,” said Terry, “but to be honest, I don’t really get why you’re all so upset with me, considering most, if not all of you, are informers.”

There was a collective intake of breath as Don moved swiftly to Terry’s side, “you can’t call them informers,” his voice a hiss.

“That’s not a thing for you to say,” Ice Man’s control was slipping, “and you’re asking for it, saying such a thing.”

“Come on, we all know you’re informers,” Terry persisted, shrugging away from Don, “you know it and I know it, the only ones who don’t know are your followers.”

Jake made a lunge onto the stage, Terry sent him flying backwards with a front push kick, resuming conversationally “Look, we can all end up fighting again but that’s not what this is about, we’re here to work together and find a real way forward.”

Don tried again, “you won’t get anywhere calling them informers.”

“Why not,” said Terry, “they are; how else you think their little empires run so smoothly?”

“They don’t have to be informers for that to be the case,” said Don, “look at dad and how he ran things.”

Terry looked at him without speaking, sighed then turned back to the audience, “Listen,” he shouted, reaching to the back of the room “I know you’ve just been trying to make things work for your people, trying to work out a set of rules with the pigs, trying to keep things calm in the ghettos to keep the riot squads out but that hasn’t worked, all that’s happened is they’ve left you here and swelled the size of the ghettos.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” yelled a voice from the back.

“Don’t you get it? You’re as much victims as anyone who’s ever been sent here, you’ve not been rewarded for your loyalty, with a big house, money, beautiful women fawning over you...”

“That’s what you fink” said the same voice, nursing a black eye and a grievance.

“He’s seen your Brenda, Mike, he must’ve.” laughed another.

Terry grinned but continued quickly, “you live here, with the rest of us, in a ghetto and you have probably lived here most of your lives. Some of you’ve had children here…but what are you getting out of the deal? What are you getting for your years of loyalty?”

“Quiet everyone,” yelled Ice Man, “as for you” he gave Terry a long, hard stare, “you’re talking yourself into a nice early grave, whitey.”

“He keeps callin’ him ‘whitey’, ain’t that racist, Brendan?” Sean whispered hotly into his brother’s ear, for once apparently thinking before he spoke.

“Sean, shut the fuck up” the subtlety evidently wasted on Brendan.

“Yeah, don’t I know it,” said Terry, “the authorities want me dead, you guys probably want me dead and if I don’t win you over, one of you will make certain that I am dead. So yeah, I’m taking a very big risk here but I’m prepared to do that for a better life, for a better way, for me and my friends. All I ask is that you let me finish.”

Ice Man stared at Terry for what seemed an age but was probably only a few seconds, and then he nodded and sat back down.

Terry continued, “What you might not know is there is more than one place in the UK called Boro” he stopped, waited for it to sink in, then continued, “there are three; Boro; Boro 2 and Boro 3, each with a total population of 5 million. Boro is a Triplet city.” There was a shared intake of breath and a shuffling of feet, but no-one spoke. “There are other cities, Liverpool, known as ‘the Pool’; Manchester aka Mancs, Newcastle or ‘Toontown’; all of them ghettos and all of them Triplets.”

He looked behind him at a noise from Don who shook his head quickly; he was just as appalled as the rest of them.

Interruption over, “The M4 corridor is now the UK’s dividing line; anything north of the line is a ghetto. Meanwhile the nouveau riche, those who belong to the new global aristocracy, the super rich, they all live south of the line, below the M4 corridor, in luxury.”

He pointed south for effect, “they have everything you can only dream of and it’s all financed by dividends from manufacture and sale in the 3rd world. They don’t need us anymore and that’s why the government doesn’t look after us, why there’s no investment in UK manufacturing.”

Ice Man rubbed his chin, “You claim to know a lot about us but we don’t know nothing about you ‘cept you claim to have worked in Relocations.”

“He did,” said Don, quickly defensive.

“There’s more to it,” said Ice Man, “no-one who just worked in Relocations would know all that.”

“You’re right, Ice Man, there is more.” Don and Dave leaned forward in their chairs, Lawrence put his head down, grimly awaiting this next revelation, “I’m Special Forces and I’m trained to infiltrate and destroy.”

Jimmy responded with a loud burst of amused annoyance, “I knew it, yer bastard!” He gestured to Paddy, “see, he’d never of taken us otherwise.”

Sean’s loud; “I told you he was a liar” was hushed swiftly by Brendan’s elbow to the gut.

Don and Dave looked shocked; Lawrence sat still and silent.

The community leaders, each of them an informant as Terry had said, all of them government plants, were equally stunned. What was going on? Why had the government sent a Special Forces operative to brief them like this?

“Were you sent here to tell us all this?” asked Ice Man, “or are you rogue?”

“Both,” said Terry.

“Which means what, exactly?” demanded Don, recovering and angry.

“I was sent here to contact community leaders, the government informants here” he waved his arm to indicate the whole group, now sitting as if pinned to their chairs. “I was to monitor the situation on the ground.” He paused and turned to face Don,

“However, I’m also rogue - I’m a member of a group trying to overthrow the current regime which is driving our country into the ground and destroying the lives of the vast majority of its people.”

“Are you accusing my dad of being an informant?” demanded Don.

“It is what it is,” stated Terry, “ask your friends here, they know.”

“What in hell’s going on?” demanded Eric, conscious now, having missed all but the last 5 minutes of the proceedings.

“This sounds well dodgy,” said Jake.

“It is,” said Ice Man, “Quiet everyone. Quiet. What are you up to, whitey?”

“You’ve got to listen to me and think about what I’m saying.” He broke off and stared out at the angry faces. “The state is meant to represent the will of the people, the will of the majority of people but today it only represents a few thousand people, everyone else is either ignored by or is a slave to the system. That’s it. That’s all there is. Whatever you were promised in the past, whatever you’ve been promised recently, none of it is real, none of it is ever going to happen, you are always going to be here enforcing their code and if you should ever question it or ask for your pay off… they will kill you.”

“And how do you know that?” asked Ice Man.

“Because I’m the man they’d send,” answered Terry.

Even Ice Man felt the need to get involved this time; he made it as far as two feet in front of Terry before a turning kick to the head floored him. The rest of the activities took place over him and next to him and he was quickly joined on the floor by a few colleagues who’d not taken heed of the warning afforded by his prone position. The fighting was over quicker second time round; Jimmy and Paddy were faster off the mark and isolated the worst troublemakers, Sean and Brendan’s side of the hall still hadn’t recovered from the first bout and most were too damaged to join in at all, others with a bit more energy threw a few punches but their hearts weren’t in it. The vocal arguments went on for a bit and then after some sub-debates, a bit of shoving and pushing everyone was back in their seat.

Recovered from his brief flirtation with unconsciousness, Ice Man took up Terry’s spot by the lectern, “Okay, okay” he said, flattening his hands in the universal signal of calm, “I don’t like him any more than you do” rubbing the side of his head as he spoke “but it seems to me he got a point. We been stuck in this shit hole for 20 years grubbing out a living and I don’t see anything changing, we still gonna be here another 20 years time.” There were murmurs of assent all round him and much nodding of heads. “I don’t like the idea that some fat banker is sitting on his arse laughing at us, thinking we too stupid to know what’s going on, that don’t sit well with me at all.” More nods, “but if we act, then we all gotta go the same way ‘cause if just one of us sings the wrong tune this place be crawling with Feds and we all be dragged out an’ shot.” He glared at Terry and then back at the crowd, “I don’t mean to get shot, so if anyone thinking to sell us out, he better know we’ll find out an’ when we get him he take days to die.”

“We’re all in this together,” shouted someone, “we all gotta make an oath.”

“An oath is good,” said Ice Man, “and it better be on the bible.”

“Not everyone’s religious, Ice,” said Jake.

“Don’t matter, they sell us out, we get them, the pigs hate this shit as much as us, they won’t take much persuading to come over, anyone does sell us, we get to them,” He tilted back his head, raised his eyes to the ceiling and opened his palms, “and they face the Lord or me.”

Terry walked to the lectern “Remember it won’t just be us in Southside, we need to spread word across the whole of Boro and to the other ghettos so there’s a general uprising.” There were shouts of agreement, “and remember, the people who have jobs and work within the system, the ones working to keep the rich and the ghettos in place are so heavily in debt and so screwed by their workloads that they will join us.”

“But can you be sure of that?” asked Eric.

“Oh they’ll join us, they might be slow off the mark because they don’t look outside their tiny bubble, but they will, once we make it clear to them that they, the workers, are serfs to a system, that their debt is the yoke that holds them, once they realise the reality they will rise with us.”

“They will rise,” intoned Ice Man.

“And remember,” said Terry, “We, the people are the state. So the 1% who have seized control of the nation and its money, they’ve committed an act of treason, treason against the people is the same as treason against the state.”

Don, Dave and Lawrence surrounded Terry, “We need to talk,” said Don.

“I know,” said Terry, but first we need to see this ends smoothly or we’re all dead.”

“We need to talk,” said Don.

“Okay,” said Terry, “tomorrow.”

“No, now,” said Don.

“Tomorrow, we gotta make sure this all ends well here tonight or else everything is lost.”

“You got a lot of questions to answer,” said Dave.

“Not really,” said Terry.

“Tomorrow?” said Dave.

“Tomorrow,” said Terry.

≈ ≈

Superintendent Bill Travers opened his emails. There was one marked high security. He opened it and entered his password. The message told him that over 30 local community informants had been gathered in one place with a number of known transgressors. He was instructed to resolve the issue. “What the fuck does that mean,” he muttered, “resolve the issue?”

Hope you enjoy the book and have a nice week

Cheers

Arun






More books in the 'Corpalism' series

















Compendium editions

The book 'Helter Skelter' by Arun D Ellis

The Handling

Gareth scanned the room, eyes settling on a dark-haired young man sitting on a stool at the bar. He'd put on a bit of weight since last he'd seen him, broadened across his shoulders but, no doubt about it, it was Louis. Gareth took a deep breath, lowered his shoulders and relaxed his face into amiability, effortlessly becoming younger, less than he was.

"Hey you, long time, no see," he said, smiling and lowering himself onto the adjacent stool.

Louis glanced up, a frown creasing his forehead. He wanted no company. His face cleared when he recognised the man, "Dave," he said, "hey, good to see you."

"Mutual, I'm sure," smiled Gareth, surprised to find he meant it, "it's been a while."

"So, where've you been?" Louis' mood, always mercurial, had changed completely.

"You know I'm not supposed to tell you that," said Gareth, finger to his nose.

"Of course," said Louis, disappointed.

"Iraq." This was said with a conspiratorial wink.

"I thought we were out of there."

"ISIS."

"Wow," said Louis, admiration widening his
eyes, "pretty scary."

"They're just men like the rest of us."

"Yeah, of course," said Louis, "but I meant all the beheadings and stuff."

"Fear tactics, in a stand up fight they're just men."

"Yeah, yeah," said Louis, unable to let it go, "but if they catch you?"

"No-one would let themselves be taken alive, not now anyway."

"Right," said Louis, with a nod, "are we winning?"

"It'll never end. Too many sides, no clear objectives and too much money to be made." Louis' face was a question mark, causing Gareth to add, without thinking, "It's all about profit and the oil at the end of the day."

Louis tried to look like he knew what Dave was talking about and failed miserably.

"How've you been anyway, Louis?" asked Gareth, getting off dangerous ground quickly.

Louis sighed and sipped his pint, "Not good, my great grandfather died recently."

"Sorry to hear that," said Gareth, again a genuine sentiment, "pint of Fosters, please mate," he said, addressing the hovering barman, "what about you?" to Louis.

"No, thanks, I'm good," said Louis, covering the top of his glass, "I've gotta get home."

"Oh, come on, you're not going to make me drink alone, after all I don't get back much."

"No, sorry Dave," said Louis, "really can't stay long."

"Okay, no worries."

They sat and sipped their pints.

"Listen," said Louis, "I haven't told anyone this, no-one knows, only family, but my Gampy, he was a fucking Nazi."

Gareth tried to look suitably shocked and thought he pulled it off.

"Yeah, fucking SS," hissed Louis, too loudly, "death's head and all that."

It was clear that Louis had been at the bar for a while.

Gareth went for a neutral response, testing the water, "Compared to some of the things we've done in the name of democracy, I guess the Nazis were small fry."

"What?" said Louis. This was unexpected, support from an outsider, someone like Dave who knew things. This might be worth hearing.

"Some of the things we've done," said Gareth, leaning in, lowering his voice, "you wouldn't believe. I've seen grown men crack under the strain and I'm not talking no powder puffs."

Louis was hooked; excitement in his eyes.

"Real fucking hard bastards, Louis. If there's a hell, that's where I'm headed."

"No shit," said Louis, finishing his pint. He made no move to leave.

"You sure you won't have another one?" asked Gareth.

Louis pretended to think for a second, then, "Okay, but just a quick one."

∞

Louis fiddled with the key to his flat, by now seriously incapacitated, his voice thick, "You sure you won't come in?"

Gareth wanted him safely inside the flat, then he was off to write his report and get the Colonel off his back. "No, I'm good, kid," he said, "I've got to go, people to see, you know."

Louis nodded slowly, eyes owlish, "Okay, I'll see you again though, eh? And thanks for the....stuff," he said, patting his pocket.

"Oh, no worries, make sure you use them judiciously." He saw the blank look, "carefully," he amended.

∞

As he walked away Gareth texted the Colonel promising a report on his desk in the morning.
His instructions had been 'to employ all means necessary to get the subject to a place where he would happily act as a weapon' and 'to raise the Jewish question and the war'. He'd been supplied with a reading list and, there was no other way, he would have to work through it if he was to get Louis to the place the Colonel had described. He had no material of his own so the only option was back at the office, in the archives.

∞

He swiped his pass and walked in through the doors.

"Can I help you?" The question came from a bespectacled, wizened man, wrapped in a cardigan that had seen better days. He always pretended not to know any of the agents.

No point in arguing the toss, Gareth said, "I'm looking for anything you have on the build up to the Second World War."

"Downstairs, at the back," said the man, turning away, job done.

Five minutes later Gareth found himself down the darkest end of the filing system. He flicked the light switch and after a stuttering few moments, a couple of 40 watt bulbs flickered into life. To no noticeable effect. He switched on the torch on his phone.

Two hours and dozens of box files later he had several small folders laid out on the table. He'd ticked off most of what had been on the prescribed reading list and added a few more for luck.

The first folder, marked Lt Col T E Lawrence, he'd selected out of idle curiosity. He flicked through birth, early service records, time in Arabia fighting the Turks, his friendship with Moseley, the planned meeting with Hitler; that had been of particular interest. Why would a British war hero want to meet Hitler?

His interest was piqued when he read Lawrence had died in an accident on his motorbike; swerving to avoid two boys on bicycles on a road he knew well. The subsequent rumours of a black car and MI5 murder squad, possibly acting on Churchill's orders intrigued him further as did the later suicide of one of the witnesses, a Private Catchpole.

He shrugged, he had work to do; reaffirming that plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose was not part of his brief, he knew nothing ever changed.

He opened the folder marked 'The Protocols of the Elders of Zion' circa 1905, Russian origin, author unknown, suspected to be a fake, designed to smear the Zionist community. There was a section on the many pogroms in the 'Pale' which he knew to be modern day Lithuania, Belarus, Poland, Moldova, Latvia, Ukraine and parts of Eastern Russia.

These took place in 1905, subsequent to Russia's defeat by Japan in the same year, although pogroms were a fairly regular occurrence in Russia at that time.

He flicked forwards through the folder, there were more details on the Jewish hierarchy, a section on Theodor Herzl and the founding of the Zionist Organisation by the Zionist Congress; the primary function of which was 'to gather funds from Jews around the world with the practical intention of influencing political, economic and cultural leaders to support the creation of a Jewish homeland'. He found this very interesting; apparently Herzl had initially been offered Uganda by the British Government as a possible home for the Jews but he had rejected it.

He opened a box file about WWI. He was instantly intrigued.

It stated in simple terms that the causes of WWI were diverse; French desire for revenge for the defeat of 1870 and the subsequent loss of Alsace-Lorraine; Serbian desire to assimilate all the Serbian peoples in the Austro-Hungarian Empire; Austro-Hungarian naivety and military weakness; Russian expansionist aims in the Balkans; German belligerence; a weakening British economy when measured against a growing German economy and, finally, a weak willed Liberal cabinet in Downing Street intimidated by Churchill 'in all his war paint'.

Gareth made a disgusted noise in his throat; Churchill was a favourite of his and it annoyed him when people took cheap shots at the dead. He sucked his teeth, conceding the point that Churchill was alive when this particular report had been written.

It struck him that all of these things taken singularly would've been enough to have caused a political and military crisis, let alone aggregated. However the report categorically stated that all European leaders had resolved many similar conflicts in the past without major cataclysm. It further stated that all parties were acutely aware of the disastrous consequences for them all should any disagreement be allowed to escalate to an all out shooting affair; in essence it had always been in their own best interests not to go to war.

He read on; 'but there is a now a new power on the world stage, as yet underestimated by the leaders of nations. This power exists outside of the normal boundaries that separates nations and keeps them divided. This new power crosses all borders yet works only for the one objective, the creation of a new Zionist state. For the Jews to gain a homeland anywhere in the world the existing population or power that controls the desired territory must either be bought or crushed. It is the belief of this agent, on evidence of supporting documents herein enclosed that certain Zionist leaders in the media, economic community and political spheres incorporated in the whole sphere of the European theatre have conspired to exacerbate relations between the powers with the objective intention of weakening them and ultimately bringing about the collapse of the Ottoman Empire in the region of Palestine. The Balfour declaration is the fruit of this ambition.'

He lifted out the rest of the files in the box, looking for the supporting documents, but found nothing.
He frowned and tossed the folder aside. He then fumbled through the other folders spread out on the table and settled on the one marked 'Magda and Haim'.

He opened it and was surprised to see a wedding photograph of Joseph and Magda Goebbels pinned to the left hand side of the top page. He peered at it, and recognised Hitler in the background. Pinned to the top right was a yellowing photograph of a young man in round spectacles, someone he didn't recognise. He unpinned it from the page; the name pencilled on the back was Haim Arlosoroff. He was interested to read that Magda's mother had been married twice, the second time to a Jewish businessman named Richard Friedlander. Magda had taken his name, and aged 17, become friends with a Jewish refugee by the name of Lisa Arlosoroff, sister of Haim, the young man in the photograph.

Gareth sat upright, this was interesting.

Apparently Magda had an affair with Arlosoroff, she knew he was an ardent Zionist and attended meetings with him. He went to Palestine, they lost touch, he met someone else. She married the industrialist Gunther Quandt. There was a footnote: Magda's son by this marriage went on to become one of the richest men in Germany after the war; family owned Daimler-Benz and BMW. Gareth checked the wedding photo, there was a young boy with them, presumably he was the boy in question.

Gareth shook his head and puffed out in disbelief.

He read on: Magda had an affaire with the nephew of the US President Herbert Hoover, divorced Quandt and married Goebbels.

"Bloody hell, she gets around," he spoke aloud into the room.

He sipped his tea; apparently Arlosoroff was the leader of the Labour Zionists and believed that Jewish settlement in Palestine could be achieved peacefully with the co-operation of the indigenous Arabs and with the support of the British. Here he fell into conflict with the new group called the Revisionists lead by one Vladimir Jabotinsky. The Revisionists believed even more forcefully that if the Jews were to get a homeland then they would have to take it by force and they did not believe in any form of conciliation with the Arab community. There was a further note to read Appendix iii 'The Iron Wall'.

He rubbed his eyes and breathed in deeply before continuing to read.

Apparently the Zionists no longer trusted the British who they believed had reneged on the spirit of the 'Balfour Declaration'. In 1933 Arlosoroff went to Germany. Through his connections there, possibly helped with an introduction by Magda, he managed to achieve the Ha'avara program whereby German Jews could transfer some of their wealth to Palestine, via the circuitous route of purchasing German agricultural equipment, thereby facilitating Jewish immigration and settlement into Palestine.

He was interested to read that Arlosoroff was subsequently murdered, possibly because of his beliefs; the three suspects were known Revisionists believed to be acting on the orders of Jabotinsky.

Gareth discounted the alternative, that the Nazis were involved. It didn't seem likely that having just agreed a process of ridding themselves profitably of their Jewish population they would kill the author of the plan.

He reattached the photograph before closing the file.

He ferreted amongst the other folders he'd pulled out; interested by one marked 'Churchill conflict of interest' and in brackets below [family's Jewish financial backers]. He rubbed his ear, he felt this would irritate him even though he'd read somewhere about the support that Churchill received from the Jewish community in the so called wilderness years.

He read on, he wasn't prepared for what he found. Randolph Churchill had been bailed out by Rothschild for years so the family owed a debt of honour in that direction. Apparently Winston Churchill had been an alcoholic, a gambler and had been personally bailed out by Bernard Baruch and Sir Henry Straksoh, see footnote; Strakosh had been the main source of info re German re-armament for Churchill's campaign in Parliament.

He read on, there were unsubstantiated accusations of Churchill's homosexuality. Jesus, if any of this was ever publicly known, that would make him highly susceptible to blackmail. It can't be true. How did he ever attain such high office?

A little voice in his head answered the unspoken question: if he was owned by the wealthy then that might explain a thing or two, like why he pressed for war in the first place and why he kept on fighting after Dunkirk, why he squandered Britain's wealth and sacrificed the Empire for the sake of Zion.

He cast a cursory glance at two other folders he'd taken out.

The first covered the bombing of the King David hotel, 22nd July '46, organised by Menachem Begin, leader of the Zionist group Irgun, latterly Prime Minister of Israel, in which there had been 91 deaths; 28 of them British. The second covered the attack by the Israeli air force on the USS Liberty, 8th June '67; 34 Americans had been killed and 171 injured.

He tossed these back into the box as irrelevant to his current agenda and he had more than enough for his immediate needs.

Cheers

Arun









More books in the 'Corpalism' series
















Compendium editions

The book 'Helter Skelter' by Arun D Ellis

The Handling

Gareth scanned the room, eyes settling on a dark-haired young man sitting on a stool at the bar. He'd put on a bit of weight since last he'd seen him, broadened across his shoulders but, no doubt about it, it was Louis. Gareth took a deep breath, lowered his shoulders and relaxed his face into amiability, effortlessly becoming younger, less than he was.

"Hey you, long time, no see," he said, smiling and lowering himself onto the adjacent stool.

Louis glanced up, a frown creasing his forehead. He wanted no company. His face cleared when he recognised the man, "Dave," he said, "hey, good to see you."

"Mutual, I'm sure," smiled Gareth, surprised to find he meant it, "it's been a while."

"So, where've you been?" Louis' mood, always mercurial, had changed completely.

"You know I'm not supposed to tell you that," said Gareth, finger to his nose.

"Of course," said Louis, disappointed.

"Iraq." This was said with a conspiratorial wink.

"I thought we were out of there."

"ISIS."

"Wow," said Louis, admiration widening his
eyes, "pretty scary."

"They're just men like the rest of us."

"Yeah, of course," said Louis, "but I meant all the beheadings and stuff."

"Fear tactics, in a stand up fight they're just men."

"Yeah, yeah," said Louis, unable to let it go, "but if they catch you?"

"No-one would let themselves be taken alive, not now anyway."

"Right," said Louis, with a nod, "are we winning?"

"It'll never end. Too many sides, no clear objectives and too much money to be made." Louis' face was a question mark, causing Gareth to add, without thinking, "It's all about profit and the oil at the end of the day."

Louis tried to look like he knew what Dave was talking about and failed miserably.

"How've you been anyway, Louis?" asked Gareth, getting off dangerous ground quickly.

Louis sighed and sipped his pint, "Not good, my great grandfather died recently."

"Sorry to hear that," said Gareth, again a genuine sentiment, "pint of Fosters, please mate," he said, addressing the hovering barman, "what about you?" to Louis.

"No, thanks, I'm good," said Louis, covering the top of his glass, "I've gotta get home."

"Oh, come on, you're not going to make me drink alone, after all I don't get back much."

"No, sorry Dave," said Louis, "really can't stay long."

"Okay, no worries."

They sat and sipped their pints.

"Listen," said Louis, "I haven't told anyone this, no-one knows, only family, but my Gampy, he was a fucking Nazi."

Gareth tried to look suitably shocked and thought he pulled it off.

"Yeah, fucking SS," hissed Louis, too loudly, "death's head and all that."

It was clear that Louis had been at the bar for a while.

Gareth went for a neutral response, testing the water, "Compared to some of the things we've done in the name of democracy, I guess the Nazis were small fry."

"What?" said Louis. This was unexpected, support from an outsider, someone like Dave who knew things. This might be worth hearing.

"Some of the things we've done," said Gareth, leaning in, lowering his voice, "you wouldn't believe. I've seen grown men crack under the strain and I'm not talking no powder puffs."

Louis was hooked; excitement in his eyes.

"Real fucking hard bastards, Louis. If there's a hell, that's where I'm headed."

"No shit," said Louis, finishing his pint. He made no move to leave.

"You sure you won't have another one?" asked Gareth.

Louis pretended to think for a second, then, "Okay, but just a quick one."

∞

Louis fiddled with the key to his flat, by now seriously incapacitated, his voice thick, "You sure you won't come in?"

Gareth wanted him safely inside the flat, then he was off to write his report and get the Colonel off his back. "No, I'm good, kid," he said, "I've got to go, people to see, you know."

Louis nodded slowly, eyes owlish, "Okay, I'll see you again though, eh? And thanks for the....stuff," he said, patting his pocket.

"Oh, no worries, make sure you use them judiciously." He saw the blank look, "carefully," he amended.

∞

As he walked away Gareth texted the Colonel promising a report on his desk in the morning.
His instructions had been 'to employ all means necessary to get the subject to a place where he would happily act as a weapon' and 'to raise the Jewish question and the war'. He'd been supplied with a reading list and, there was no other way, he would have to work through it if he was to get Louis to the place the Colonel had described. He had no material of his own so the only option was back at the office, in the archives.

∞

He swiped his pass and walked in through the doors.

"Can I help you?" The question came from a bespectacled, wizened man, wrapped in a cardigan that had seen better days. He always pretended not to know any of the agents.

No point in arguing the toss, Gareth said, "I'm looking for anything you have on the build up to the Second World War."

"Downstairs, at the back," said the man, turning away, job done.

Five minutes later Gareth found himself down the darkest end of the filing system. He flicked the light switch and after a stuttering few moments, a couple of 40 watt bulbs flickered into life. To no noticeable effect. He switched on the torch on his phone.

Two hours and dozens of box files later he had several small folders laid out on the table. He'd ticked off most of what had been on the prescribed reading list and added a few more for luck.

The first folder, marked Lt Col T E Lawrence, he'd selected out of idle curiosity. He flicked through birth, early service records, time in Arabia fighting the Turks, his friendship with Moseley, the planned meeting with Hitler; that had been of particular interest. Why would a British war hero want to meet Hitler?

His interest was piqued when he read Lawrence had died in an accident on his motorbike; swerving to avoid two boys on bicycles on a road he knew well. The subsequent rumours of a black car and MI5 murder squad, possibly acting on Churchill's orders intrigued him further as did the later suicide of one of the witnesses, a Private Catchpole.

He shrugged, he had work to do; reaffirming that plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose was not part of his brief, he knew nothing ever changed.

He opened the folder marked 'The Protocols of the Elders of Zion' circa 1905, Russian origin, author unknown, suspected to be a fake, designed to smear the Zionist community. There was a section on the many pogroms in the 'Pale' which he knew to be modern day Lithuania, Belarus, Poland, Moldova, Latvia, Ukraine and parts of Eastern Russia.

These took place in 1905, subsequent to Russia's defeat by Japan in the same year, although pogroms were a fairly regular occurrence in Russia at that time.

He flicked forwards through the folder, there were more details on the Jewish hierarchy, a section on Theodor Herzl and the founding of the Zionist Organisation by the Zionist Congress; the primary function of which was 'to gather funds from Jews around the world with the practical intention of influencing political, economic and cultural leaders to support the creation of a Jewish homeland'. He found this very interesting; apparently Herzl had initially been offered Uganda by the British Government as a possible home for the Jews but he had rejected it.

He opened a box file about WWI. He was instantly intrigued.

It stated in simple terms that the causes of WWI were diverse; French desire for revenge for the defeat of 1870 and the subsequent loss of Alsace-Lorraine; Serbian desire to assimilate all the Serbian peoples in the Austro-Hungarian Empire; Austro-Hungarian naivety and military weakness; Russian expansionist aims in the Balkans; German belligerence; a weakening British economy when measured against a growing German economy and, finally, a weak willed Liberal cabinet in Downing Street intimidated by Churchill 'in all his war paint'.

Gareth made a disgusted noise in his throat; Churchill was a favourite of his and it annoyed him when people took cheap shots at the dead. He sucked his teeth, conceding the point that Churchill was alive when this particular report had been written.

It struck him that all of these things taken singularly would've been enough to have caused a political and military crisis, let alone aggregated. However the report categorically stated that all European leaders had resolved many similar conflicts in the past without major cataclysm. It further stated that all parties were acutely aware of the disastrous consequences for them all should any disagreement be allowed to escalate to an all out shooting affair; in essence it had always been in their own best interests not to go to war.

He read on; 'but there is a now a new power on the world stage, as yet underestimated by the leaders of nations. This power exists outside of the normal boundaries that separates nations and keeps them divided. This new power crosses all borders yet works only for the one objective, the creation of a new Zionist state. For the Jews to gain a homeland anywhere in the world the existing population or power that controls the desired territory must either be bought or crushed. It is the belief of this agent, on evidence of supporting documents herein enclosed that certain Zionist leaders in the media, economic community and political spheres incorporated in the whole sphere of the European theatre have conspired to exacerbate relations between the powers with the objective intention of weakening them and ultimately bringing about the collapse of the Ottoman Empire in the region of Palestine. The Balfour declaration is the fruit of this ambition.'

He lifted out the rest of the files in the box, looking for the supporting documents, but found nothing.
He frowned and tossed the folder aside. He then fumbled through the other folders spread out on the table and settled on the one marked 'Magda and Haim'.

He opened it and was surprised to see a wedding photograph of Joseph and Magda Goebbels pinned to the left hand side of the top page. He peered at it, and recognised Hitler in the background. Pinned to the top right was a yellowing photograph of a young man in round spectacles, someone he didn't recognise. He unpinned it from the page; the name pencilled on the back was Haim Arlosoroff. He was interested to read that Magda's mother had been married twice, the second time to a Jewish businessman named Richard Friedlander. Magda had taken his name, and aged 17, become friends with a Jewish refugee by the name of Lisa Arlosoroff, sister of Haim, the young man in the photograph.

Gareth sat upright, this was interesting.

Apparently Magda had an affair with Arlosoroff, she knew he was an ardent Zionist and attended meetings with him. He went to Palestine, they lost touch, he met someone else. She married the industrialist Gunther Quandt. There was a footnote: Magda's son by this marriage went on to become one of the richest men in Germany after the war; family owned Daimler-Benz and BMW. Gareth checked the wedding photo, there was a young boy with them, presumably he was the boy in question.

Gareth shook his head and puffed out in disbelief.

He read on: Magda had an affaire with the nephew of the US President Herbert Hoover, divorced Quandt and married Goebbels.

"Bloody hell, she gets around," he spoke aloud into the room.

He sipped his tea; apparently Arlosoroff was the leader of the Labour Zionists and believed that Jewish settlement in Palestine could be achieved peacefully with the co-operation of the indigenous Arabs and with the support of the British. Here he fell into conflict with the new group called the Revisionists lead by one Vladimir Jabotinsky. The Revisionists believed even more forcefully that if the Jews were to get a homeland then they would have to take it by force and they did not believe in any form of conciliation with the Arab community. There was a further note to read Appendix iii 'The Iron Wall'.

He rubbed his eyes and breathed in deeply before continuing to read.

Apparently the Zionists no longer trusted the British who they believed had reneged on the spirit of the 'Balfour Declaration'. In 1933 Arlosoroff went to Germany. Through his connections there, possibly helped with an introduction by Magda, he managed to achieve the Ha'avara program whereby German Jews could transfer some of their wealth to Palestine, via the circuitous route of purchasing German agricultural equipment, thereby facilitating Jewish immigration and settlement into Palestine.

He was interested to read that Arlosoroff was subsequently murdered, possibly because of his beliefs; the three suspects were known Revisionists believed to be acting on the orders of Jabotinsky.

Gareth discounted the alternative, that the Nazis were involved. It didn't seem likely that having just agreed a process of ridding themselves profitably of their Jewish population they would kill the author of the plan.

He reattached the photograph before closing the file.

He ferreted amongst the other folders he'd pulled out; interested by one marked 'Churchill conflict of interest' and in brackets below [family's Jewish financial backers]. He rubbed his ear, he felt this would irritate him even though he'd read somewhere about the support that Churchill received from the Jewish community in the so called wilderness years.

He read on, he wasn't prepared for what he found. Randolph Churchill had been bailed out by Rothschild for years so the family owed a debt of honour in that direction. Apparently Winston Churchill had been an alcoholic, a gambler and had been personally bailed out by Bernard Baruch and Sir Henry Straksoh, see footnote; Strakosh had been the main source of info re German re-armament for Churchill's campaign in Parliament.

He read on, there were unsubstantiated accusations of Churchill's homosexuality. Jesus, if any of this was ever publicly known, that would make him highly susceptible to blackmail. It can't be true. How did he ever attain such high office?

A little voice in his head answered the unspoken question: if he was owned by the wealthy then that might explain a thing or two, like why he pressed for war in the first place and why he kept on fighting after Dunkirk, why he squandered Britain's wealth and sacrificed the Empire for the sake of Zion.

He cast a cursory glance at two other folders he'd taken out.

The first covered the bombing of the King David hotel, 22nd July '46, organised by Menachem Begin, leader of the Zionist group Irgun, latterly Prime Minister of Israel, in which there had been 91 deaths; 28 of them British. The second covered the attack by the Israeli air force on the USS Liberty, 8th June '67; 34 Americans had been killed and 171 injured.

He tossed these back into the box as irrelevant to his current agenda and he had more than enough for his immediate needs.

Cheers

Arun






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The book 'Helter Skelter' by Arun D Ellis

Descent 11


"Okay Adolf, you canny old bastard."

Louis was at his book shelves, rummaging. He had taken to referring to Hitler by his Christian name ever since his dream, feeling as if he'd been given permission. He was also speaking out loud, something he had been doing more and more, "Let's just check out your racial theories, shall we? I know just the place to start, Jesse Owens. Let's see, you wouldn't shake the black man's hand, or so legend has it..."

He stopped abruptly, scowling, then his glance fell to the piles of books on the floor, seeing them as if for the first time. He knelt down and continued rummaging, "now... 1936 Olympics, got to be here somewhere."

He sat back, dispirited.

He did have rather a lot of books; some he'd accumulated over several years, a few had come in courtesy of Dave, still more had been coming in the door fast and furiously over recent weeks. He had not disposed of the packaging that the new ones had come in and this added to the general disorder. "I'll have to alpha sort this lot one day, but not now..."

He reached for his phone and speed dialled Jenna.

"Hi babe," he spoke over her excited cries, "have you seen my Nazi Olympics book?"

"What?" Her voice was instantly frosty.

"My Nazi Olympics book." Her icy tone had not registered.

"I heard you, Louis but seriously, that's the first thing you say to me?"

"What's wrong?" He leaned over to dig about in one of his stacks, "Who's upset you?"

"Louis, we haven't seen each other for a week, doesn't that mean anything to you?"

He stood up, she had his attention, "Sorry Jenna, I've just been so busy studying."

"Rubbish Louis, you're still researching your great-grandfather's folder."

'Oops,' thought Louis, 'busted.'

"Louis?"

"Yeah," said Louis, not realising he had been expected to say more.

"LOUIS!"

"Sorry, I know it's been ages," he spoke hastily, fearing a visit, "but I've been studying babe, honest. I changed my thesis, combined the two...look, I'll try and get to see you tonight...."

"Oh, don't trouble yourself, not for my sake," said Jenna, trap laid. She waited for the protestations, the promise to turn up come hell or high water.

Louis was about to do exactly that but he spotted the book he had been seeking, 'YES!'

"Well?" pressed Jenna.

"Cheers babe," said Louis, a smile on his face, as he hung up.

He grabbed the book and stumbled over to his desk, searching the index for Jesse Owens, found the bit he wanted page 227 item 17 and read through the paragraph, 'Owens was the recipient of more adulation than any other athlete had received from the German crowds.' And what's this? Jesse Owens claimed that 'When I passed the Chancellor he arose, waved his hand at me, and I waved back at him. I think the writers showed bad taste in criticizing the man of the hour in Germany'.

"No, fuck!" wailed Louis, "FUCK!"

His head drooped, he waited a few seconds then turned the page, it went on, 'Hitler had congratulated several German and Finnish winners on the first day but as the day ended he left early and didn't shake the hands of the American high jumpers, two of whom were black.' "Hmm, now I have you Adolf, you lying bastard, that's more like the racist we know." He read on, 'Count Baillet-Latour, president of the International Olympic Committee, sent a message to Hitler that he was only a guest of honour and should either congratulate all of the winners or none, so Hitler chose none. So it is unclear whether he would've shaken Jesse Owens' hand or not.'

Louis dropped the book, "You're a right dodgy bastard Adolf, kept everything under a shroud of mystery. Would you or wouldn't you have shaken Jesse Owens' hand? Damn you."

He got up and paced, telling the room, "And, as if that wasn't enough, Owens returned to segregation and poverty in the US, forced to earn a living racing horses." He sighed heavily, said, "A country where they were still lynching blacks not to mention keeping the Indians on reservations. Fuck, this is so messed up."

His phone buzzed, he checked, it was Jenna. He ignored it, he had bigger fish to fry. 

∞

Louis tossed and turned unable to sleep. Hitler was trampling through his thoughts; so many questions and no way of gaining any answers.

He kicked off the duvet and rolled out of bed. No point trying to sleep; he might as well get back to his research. He reached for his jacket and pulled out a small packet of pills. This time he had insisted on paying Dave. He popped one into his mouth and dry swallowed.

He waited until the immediate and familiar buzzing had quietened down, waited for the surge of creative energy, the second stage of the process that came when the chemicals fully hit his bloodstream.
He'd noticed a slight lag in the timing of the surge, a longer period of the angry buzzing, and was wondering if he'd got a bad batch. It was more likely that he was growing impatient.

While he waited he stared at the ceiling, his thoughts wandering back to a time in his early teens, when he had struggled with the meaning of life. The circularity of these thoughts had thrown him into mental turmoil. He had little recollection of that time in his life but for the residual feeling of frantic panic.
The chaos he was feeling now was reminiscent of the confusion he had experienced in those dark days.

He had been told by his mother that he had sat staring at the walls for weeks on end, so desperate had he been to resolve the issue of where life had come from and how it had evolved. He knew he had been 'referred' for treatment with a Dr Stephanovich and with that recollection came the memory of his 'therapeutic friend' the one that Dr Stephanovich had conjured for him to help break the cycle, the friend that was meant to bring him back from the depths of his mind.

Louis shuddered at the memory; it had worked but there had been consequences.

Where Dr Stephanovich had created a pleasant cuddly Koala Bear figure and called it Milo Louis' mind had turned it into a ghoulish zombie-like creature that wanted to kill his parents. It had taken a suicide attempt to bring him out of that and he certainly had no desire to return.

He stared at the wall and tried to conjure Hitler's image. Nothing. He tried again, nothing.

He flopped down and swiped his tablet into life and started interrogating the internet for more revisionist videos. On the wall of his living room he now had three pictures of Hitler in various poses.
That was another reason he didn't want anyone round his flat; he'd have a hard job explaining them away. He'd spent so much time studying them and
Hitler that he now more or less knew every expression that the man had, or at least every televised version.

"This is insane," moaned Louis, as he finished another video showing how the holocaust could not have happened, "how could this be?"

"You just have to look, Louis," said Gampy Jaggs.

Louis woke with a start, although he couldn't be certain he'd been asleep. The video was still showing the credits but he was sure he'd heard Gampy's voice.

It was all getting too much for him; he was researched out, he knew everything there was to know about the revisionist claims, he knew all the revisionists' names, all their theories. He knew all the counteracting arguments.

His mind was awash with numbers and stats and Zyklon B and camp names and Poland and who declared war on who and when and what this leader and that leader meant by this or that but it was all a jumbled mess and none of it seemed to help him to a satisfactory conclusion.

He got his coat and walked out of the flat; fresh air would clear his mind.

He stopped, he was in the middle of the cereal aisle in a supermarket. He frowned, he had no memory of going in the shop, of the roads leading to it.

"Psst!"

He looked around, the aisle was empty but people were walking past at the bottom. He looked over to the nearest shelf, there was a picture of Hitler on a cornflakes box. He squinted, got up very close. 'Really? Hitler? On a box of cornflakes?'

"Cakes," said the face on the box. It sounded like a demand.

Louis slapped his cheeks, hard. Christ, he was hallucinating.

"Cakes," the demand came again.

"What are you doing here? How did you get here? Just go, before people see you," said Louis, waving him away, "are you even here? Am I here? Is this another dream?"

Just then two small children ran past, their mum close behind. She tossed some cereal boxes in her trolley, smiled at Louis and marched on.

Louis swallowed, looked back at the cornflakes box, no Hitler, he gulped, wiped his sweaty brow and made his way to the cake aisle.

He woke to find he was back in his flat. Or perhaps he had never left? He was holding a book, no longer reading the words, they were a blur.

It struck him that no matter what he read or where he looked he couldn't actually find any factual evidence that the holocaust as described ever happened. Of course, there were plenty of pictures of Jews with their suitcases, having their names written down at desks, getting onto over-crowded freight trains. There were pictures of gaunt people in rags, starving and probably dying of typhus which, although horrible in itself, was not proof of gas chambers.

"Fucking hell Gampy! Why couldn't you have been normal? Why did you have to saddle me with this?"

His voice sounded odd to his own ears, as if he was in a large, empty space.

"I need you to understand Louis," said Gampy.

"Yeah of course," said Louis, without thinking.

"It did not happen and I want you to be the one to tell the world."

Louis went over it again in his mind, desperately trying to be fair.

There was plenty of witness testimony and hearsay but never of the gas chambers only of the treatment that individual Jews had received from their prison guards. Whenever it came to the gas chambers themselves the so called witnesses always said something along the lines of "And of course they were sent to the gas chambers," and then, when pressed on the details, they said, "Well I never actually saw them go in myself but we never saw them again and the flames were always burning at the top of the crematoria." If he did find a witness testimony it was so outrageous that it would surely have been inadmissible in any court of law.

"No-one will listen," said Louis, still conversing happily with his dead Gampy, "All the revisionists are ruined; if they're not in prison for denying the holocaust then their careers are well and truly fucked."

"But I need you to be brave, Louis, like we were."

"You hid it from me, and from the world, you weren't brave," snapped Louis.

He waited several minutes, then, "Gampy?"
Silence.

"Gampy?"

Cheers


Arun







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The book 'Rust' by Arun D Ellis

Living it Large

The Colonel stopped walking abruptly and turned back to face Ken and Tony.

"I say, you chaps, I'm exhausted, don'cha know. Do you mind having a recce by yourselves?"

Ken shook his head, "Not at all sir, we can manage, can't we, Tony."

That conversation had taken place half an hour ago, and the pair had split up and gone in opposite directions to circumnavigate the house.

Meeting up again outside the front door Tony, by now sweating profusely, unbuckled his flak jacket and put it in the boot of the car. After a few moments thought Ken did likewise.

"What do you think?" he asked.

Thus far they had barely made a dent in the grounds that surrounded the house, let alone the adjoining fields and woods.

Tony said, "We need to get a team up here. We can't search the fields without a heck of a lot of help."

"Nah, the Sarge'll never wear that one," said Ken, "or the Commissioner for that matter, this lot carry some serious clout. We can't mount a full scale search, not without evidence of foul play."

Tony nodded, "Anyway, those two idiots will turn up sooner or later."

"Yeah," said Ken, "reckon you're right, should we just go then?"

"Hold your horses," said Tony, "it's a bit of a cushy number, can't we make it last another hour or two?"

Ken nodded, sunny day, no hassle, "You're on."

"We'd better split up again, make a bit of an effort. I'll go this way," said Tony.

Ken nodded and wandered off in the other direction.

∞

Unbeknownst to the two policemen, Lord Geoffrey's faithful canine companions were holding guard over the Big House and its lands whilst their master was ensconced inside.

The Red Setter, Rusty, leader of the gang, lay on his belly, head between his paws, eyes glued on Tony. Gladstone, an English Bulldog, sat alongside him, snuffling. In an attempt to contain his excitement, Disraeli, a Springer Spaniel, was keeping slightly back from this vigil, standing alert and ready for action when it came.

The three dogs were joined by Cameron, previously the companion of the recently deceased Prince. A terrier of indeterminate breed, she had adopted this pack, and was also silently watching.

As soon as Ken and Tony set off the dogs exited the bushes and ran to sniff the spot where the men had last been standing.

After turning a few excited circles, and with an eager yelp, Rusty was off after Tony. Gladstone followed albeit at a slower pace.

Disraeli watched them go, then had one more sniff to distinguish Ken and motored off, nose firmly rooted to the ground. Cameron jumped up and down on the spot, then scurried off after him.

As the dogs departed in hot pursuit of their prey, an orange Ferrari California raced up the driveway, closely followed by a low-slung red Chevrolet Corvette.

Both cars skidded to a halt, the Ferrari creating a spray of gravel whilst executing a 180◦. The door of the car opened, to reveal the long shapely legs of Wilhelmina Ashington Bledley-Smythe.

The driver of the Corvette, a tall young man with an indeterminate chin, leapt out of his car without opening the door, calling imploringly, "Don't be like that, honeybee."

"Get away from me, Gerald, you absolute pig," snapped Wilhelmina, before turning away from him, her fiancé, Gerald Ponsonby-Trevelyan, and marching off in the same direction Tony had just taken.

"Wilhelmina, dahling?" Gerald said, in a weak voice.
She didn't answer, didn't turn, didn't give him the slightest hope that he hadn't ruined his whole life.

"Bugger," he hissed, then he leapt back into his car and, stamping the accelerator, roared back down the drive.

∞

Meanwhile Tony was peering into a coal bunker. It was cavernous and dark. He called out, feeling stupid for so doing but there was no way he was going in unless absolutely necessary.

"No-one in there," he muttered, closing the door with relief. He was about to walk off when he was arrested by the unexpected but extremely welcome sight of a beautiful girl.

She called over at him, "I say, who the devil are you?"

The sound was not quite in keeping with the sight, but Tony was transfixed. His mouth opened and closed, but before he could find his voice she was at him again.

Clearly not impressed by the uniform she said, "Does my father know you're nosing around the grounds?"

"Your father? Oh, the Colonel...er ...yes he does, miss," said Tony, making the assumption that, however unlikely, this gorgeous girl was the progeny of that dreadful couple he'd just met. "I'm on official business looking for....."

He didn't get any further. The girl smiled at him suddenly and he was lost completely.

For her part, Wilhelmina had just thought of a deliciously naughty way to get back at that beastly Gerald. She would seduce this bloody policeman and to hell with him and the rest of the Ponsonby-Trevelyans.

She looked around, getting her bearings, then pointed, "Over there."

"What?" said Tony, spinning round, expecting to see his missing colleagues.

"Come on," she said, snappily, "over there, that's where we'll do it."

Tony looked confused but followed the autocratic vision as she led the way through an archway into a hidden part of the garden.

She stopped just in front of a rose covered structure he'd seen only in his wife's gardening books. A gazebo she called it.

Wilhelmina stamped to a halt in the centre, her legs spread, "Right, get your clothes off."

"What?"

"Your clothes, uniform...get it off."

"Now see here, Miss..."

Wilhelmina sighed, the initial excitement of the idea was fading fast, "Look I don't have all day, do you want to fuck me or not?"

"Er....er..." was all Tony could muster.

Recognising the need for encouragement, Wilhelmina pulled open her blouse revealing a black and red lace bra that only partially hid voluptuous, lightly tanned breasts.

Tony's enthusiasm rose in an instant. He began to pull at Velcro and buttons.

"Hurry up," snapped Wilhelmina, dropping her skirt.

Tony gulped, then gulped again as Wilhelmina's bra and pants hit the floor.

∞

Ken was in his element.

The sun was shining, the bees buzzing, he was out in the open air. He forgot the ignominy of the Barbie Flak jacket, now languishing in the boot of the patrol car, you couldn't beat a job that gave you so much variety and so many opportunities.

He'd spotted some greenhouses and was beating his way through the weeds to get to them. He was almost upon the nearest of them when a large man loomed up in front of him, out of nowhere, barring his way.

Ken was quite taken aback, he hadn't expected anyone to be in the greenhouse, from what he could see it was literally a jungle of weeds.

"I'm looking..." he squeaked. He paused, coughed, then in as manly a voice as he could muster, said, "I'm looking for two of my colleagues, their last call in came from this estate."

"Reckon you should be speaking to the master of the 'ouse then," said the man.

Ken wondered if this time he would be right in thinking this was the gardener. He decided to make sure, "And you are...?"

The man eyed him, "Did the Colonel say for you to come nosin' round 'ere?"

Ken frowned, "I asked for your name..."
The man leant back and for a moment Ken thought he might be about to hit him, but instead he nodded, "Perkins, the gardener. I'll show you'm round."

He walked off, leaving Ken with no choice but to turn about and follow him.

A few moments later a pink-cheeked Lady Augustine poked her head out of the greenhouse. After checking the way was clear, she scurried out, pulling bits of grass off her skirt as she headed for the main house.

∞

Tony was in his element.

Face buried in Wilhelmina's beautifully full breasts, his loins perfectly conjoined with hers, his hips moving rhythmically. Wilhelmina was making delightful noises that served to increase Tony's enthusiasm for the task at hand. He managed a throaty noise of his own. He felt like a king.

Behind him, eying his moving buttocks, sat Rusty and Gladstone, salivating.

∞

Perkins stopped in front of a giant, foul smelling compost heap.

Ken stood and stared, in awe and consternation, "Shit," he said.

"Yep," agreed Perkins.

Ken looked at him, realised what he'd said and nodded, smiling.

A voice came at him from behind, "Wot you doin' 'ere?"

Ken turned to see another tall man, weather-beaten in a different way than the gardener. Not quite as healthy-looking, Ken decided. A bit shifty, out of place.

"Ah, Sar'nt Reynolds," Perkins greeted the man, but not with any sign of friendship that Ken could see. "This 'ere polis is 'ere lookin' for some other missin' polis, so 'e says."

"And so 'e might be, but 'e ain't gonna find 'em 'ere," said Razza.

"accordin' to 'im, they was 'ere," said Perkins.

"When woz they 'ere?" demanded Razza.

"Are you an army man, Sergeant Reynolds?" said Ken, trying to establish his authority.

Razza ignored the question, but again asked one of his own, addressing Perkins, "If 'you don't know when they was 'ere, 'ow'd 'ya know they's missin'?"

Perkins was clearly enjoying himself, "It b'ain't me as says they is missin', it's 'im."

Ken tried again."Excuse me, Reynolds...is it?"

"Stands to reason," Razza continued, "if there was a couple o' coppers knockin' abaht the place, I'd a come across 'em. Just like I come across you just nah, dint I."

Ken raised his eyebrows and nodded, he had to admit it, Reynolds had come across him.

"Unless they'm under this 'ere compost 'eap," said Perkins, helpfully, "they'm wouldn't be obvious then, would they?"

Razza's heart stopped. Perkins was grinning evilly. Did he know?

"Pr'aps the officer 'ere would loik to 'ave a bit of a dig about, look under it."

Razza resisted the flight adrenalin now coursing through his veins. Ken looked horrified at the idea.

Seeing this Razza relaxed, saying, "'e might well at that, Perkins. You'd best get 'im a shovel."

Abruptly Perkins burst out laughing. Razza theatrically bent double at the joke.

Ken made a face, "Yeah, very funny, ok," he said.

A terrifying scream rent the air.

Ken unclipped his Taser and raced off towards the noise, leaving Perkins and Razza staring after him.

∞

Ken skidded round the corner of the house just in time to see two dogs burst out of the bushes and scurry off towards the house.

He blinked and saw Tony, his trousers round his ankles and his truncheon in his hand.
As he hobbled past the open-mouthed Ken his naked buttocks came into view, blood trickling down from what looked like savage bite marks.

Ken had no time to ponder the origin of the bites; a completely naked, very attractive young woman came running into view, her breasts bobbing delightfully. She was holding various items of clothing across her lower body in the vain hope of concealment.

Transfixed, Ken was unable to decide what to do, should he go to Tony's assistance or should he help the young lady with her attire.

It was precisely at this moment that Disraeli and Cameron chose to launch their own attack, flying out of the bushes, barking wildly and clamping, one each, onto Ken's ankles.

He screamed and tried to fire his Taser at his attackers. Unbalanced, with the dogs pulling and tearing at his trousers, his aim went high.

The volt- carrying barb shot through the open library window and struck Cadger, the 70 year old much loved and revered African Grey, killing him in an instant.

"What in blue blazes?" shouted Lord Geoffrey, woken from his drug-induced sleep, "Max,
Augustine....some scoundrel killed Cadger, get me gun."

∞

Five minutes later Ken and Tony were safely locked in the patrol car, Ken in the driver's seat and Tony in the back, his naked backside in the air.

Disraeli and Cameron were jumping about outside, hurling themselves at the car.

"Get me to a hospital," wailed Tony.

"Shit, shit, shit," Ken was blaring the horn repeatedly, hoping to get the dogs to move.

The Colonel appeared at the front entrance, calling out a command to the dogs. They obeyed on an instant and slunk into the house.

"Oh god, it hurts so much. I've probably got rabies.
Those fucking dogs, I think they've left some teeth in me, oh god."

"Listen," said Ken, putting the car in gear and driving away, "we can't report this. I mean, what the hell did you think you were doing with that girl?"

"Ow, ow.. it hurts, what do you think? Ow, don't give me grief..get me to a hospital."

"We'll just say we searched the place and didn't find anything," said Ken, "that'll do it."


Cheers

Arun








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