Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 49
August 13, 2016
August 2, 2016
July 3, 2016
Extract from the book Daydream Believers
And gentlemen in England, now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
Wm Shakespeare: Henry V
Arun D Ellis
amazon.co.uk
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00...
Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00...
Five minutes after Alb gave the command twenty model Spitfires were circling Big Ben to the excited oohs and aaahs of the watching crowd. The ex-RAF boys, having made their way round from their spot on the Westminster Abbey lawn, were standing in Parliament Square, each controlling his individual squadron with consummate ease. The troops and police watched in consternation, uncertain how to handle this spectacle without upsetting the watching crowd.
Alb then sent a text to Cynthia. Moments later the ladies of the WI, some of them sporting patriotic pink and blue rinses, tumbled out of their coach; bobbing like buoys in a rough sea.
"Out of my way, girls," hollered a big round woman in a large floral tent of a dress, her multiple chins flapping like a walrus, "pass me my cane, Ethel," she yelled back into the coach, "it’s with my gun thing."
"Don't crowd me, Hilda," hissed a frail yet waspish old lady, flapping her stick wildly against all and sundry, "don't crowd me."
"How does this thing work?" asked another, whipping out an Uzi from under her dress and waving it in the air. She was gloriously bedecked, leaning on a wheeled Zimmer frame.
"Good Lord," said a sightseer who was walking past the coach, "has that old girl got a gun?" He was hurried away by his wife, intent on getting a good viewing point for when the Queen left the building.
"Steady on, Clara," said Cynthia, her diamond bracelets clacking together as she waved her arms "we haven't had the off yet."
"Come on," said Fiona quickly, "hide your guns before they're spotted by the fuzz."
The police officers stationed outside Parliament stared over towards the WI coach, a sergeant clearly speaking into his radio. Several hundred feet above them a Police helicopter hovered. The Guards on the ground also turned their gaze on the WI coach, the men of the household cavalry pulled at their reins as if preparing to charge, though charge what they did not know.
∞
“Let’s get this show on the road," said Alb.
Gerry nodded and removing his flat cap waved his arm above his head from side to side; the attack signal to the RAF boys. Immediately the Spits zipped off in different directions, circled and then flew directly at the building where the House of Lords was situated.
"Someone shoot those bloody planes down!" yelled a sergeant from the guards, at which a hundred L85A2s, the standard British army rifle, aimed skywards.
The infantry fired and two spits exploded but the others sped on and smashed through the paned windows, exploding on impact, sending glass, brick fragments and splinters everywhere. Then the remaining planes flew through the openings and crashed into the red leather seats bearing the rich and obscenely plump behinds of the Lords. At the same time the OSS set off smoke bombs that they had cunningly taped to the underside of their wheelchairs, though not so cunningly as it turned out, for two of them promptly keeled over and died of asphyxiation.
Alb turned towards the crowd and, pulling his AK47 from under his coat, fired off a couple of rounds into the air and shouted, "Get back!"
Immediately the crowd started a panicked dispersal, running for cover, away from Parliament. At the same time Gerry and the others let off a smoke bomb each. The soldiers stationed just in front of Alb's little army turned and aimed their rifles.
"Get out of the way!" ordered the soldiers, seeing only age and infirmity. The old people hastily complied and scurried as fast as they could past the red coated warriors, towards Parliament.
The Police on duty all turned their attention to Parliament Square; they were looking for an ethnic minority group or maybe a young terrorist faction but all they could see was a bunch of old codgers stumbling their way towards them, they presumed desperately seeking cover.
"Over here," yelled the sergeant of Police, waving frantically as he did so, "and keep down."
"They're in the way, Sarge," said a young copper, "I can't see who's firing."
"Out of the way," yelled the sergeant at Alb and his troops.
"What the bloody hell's going on?" yelled a rotund copper; known to his mates as six bellies, "where did those shots come from?"
"Over there," stated Gerry pointing towards Westminster Abbey, "Over there."
"Quick lads," shouted six bellies, "get the chopper over ‘ead, see if they can't see anything."
∞
Meanwhile Bill and Johnno had opened up the rear doors of the van from where Wilf, his sights zeroed in, was taking pot shots at the Police. Unable to identify where the shots were coming from the officers withdrew to the visitor entrance off Cromwell Green.
The nearby guards had fallen back on the Parliament building itself and were also looking for the source of the incoming rounds.
Alb, Gerry, Mags and their small army were still shuffling across the road, intermittently gasping their “For Britain” battle cry. They eventually made it and piled into the courtyard to the side of Parliament, to be joined by the freshly cut and dyed, tight curly perms of the WI.
"Where did all these bloody old gits come from?" demanded a sergeant of the Guards.
"I don't fucking care," yelled the Colonel of the Grenadier Guards, "just get them out of the bloody way."
"This way mate," said a young guard to Alb and Gerry as they paused for breath, Alb with his hand on Gerry’s shoulder, wheezing at the smoke, "If you hang around out there you'll end up getting shot."
Alb and Gerry nodded and squeezed past, followed by Mags and the rest of their motley crew.
∞
"What the..?" yelled a police sergeant as a tiny, wrinkly old lady dressed in a voluminous dark blue evening dress and be-jewelled in diamonds and emeralds appeared through the smoke. For a moment he thought in horror that it might be the Queen then, eyes adjusting to the smoke, he realised his error and called, "quick granny, over here."
"Less of the granny, my boy," snarled Clara as she levelled her Uzi and let rip with a long burst, emptying her magazine. The bullets smashed into everything around the police sergeant. He blinked, unscathed; a shocked expression on his face. "Oh dear," she mused, "I seem to have run out."
"Run for your life, BOY!" yelled the big round woman in the floral dress as she bounced out of the smoke wafting across Parliament. She stepped in front of Clara, shielding her with her huge bulk. "Or I'll waste your ass."
"Shit!" hissed the Sergeant, scuttling backwards for cover.
∞
Wilf, never having had the patience to be a sniper, had abandoned the van and was leading his happy band across St. Margaret Street in what he considered a charge but which was in fact a muddled shuffle. "Death or Glory!" he muttered intermittently, not having the energy for the rallying battle cry he could hear so clearly in his head.
"Keep moving that way," yelled a Colour Sergeant, pointing in the direction of the Peers’ entrance.
Puffing uncontrollably Wilf nodded, wanting very desperately to sit down and never get up again. Cursing himself for an old fool, instead he dug deep and stumbled on until he came to rest at the impressive entrance to the Lords, "Fire in the hole!" he yelled, dumping a satchel of grenades through the doorway before seeking cover further back. The double doors disintegrated into a whirlwind of splinters.
"Up and at 'em, lads!” He yelled to his collection of ruthless warriors; Bill, Johnno, Pete, Ron, Dave and Sticky. Johnno responded with quite a loud shout of “Death or Glory!"
Behind them three Chelsea pensioners, who had been sight-seeing for the day but were now lying in the road sheltering from the mayhem around them, struggled to their feet, they stared wide eyed for a minute or so then with broad grins spread across heavily lined faces they were off and hobbling, screaming at the tops of their voices, "Death or Glory!"
"Give no quarter, take no prisoners," yelled Sticky savagely, surprising himself.
"Who are they?" demanded Johnno of Pete, pointing over his shoulder at the Chelsea old boys.
"No idea," said Pete, "they didn't come with us, did they?"
"They haven't even got weapons," said Sticky.
∞
Alb had been watching Wilf’s assault on the doors with something approaching envy. "Who does he think he is?" he demanded, "he's not running this bloody show."
Suddenly Cynthia appeared, displaying agility that belied her years, hurdling a prone and groaning policeman, then dashing into the darkened, smoke-filled building, following in Wilf’s footsteps, firing madly as she went. Bringing up the rear was Vera, re-loading as she ran, bunions forgotten in her haste to get into the action.
"Bloody crazy woman," muttered Alb, "she's going to hurt someone with that thing in a minute."
Gerry, at his side as always, made a very strange growling noise; his dander was up and he had the scent of fresh blood in his nostrils, "Death or Glory!" he yelled.
"Er....er, Nobby," stammered Mort, "I need to go to the lavatory."
"Well hold it," ordered Frank, pushing Nobby back into line.
"I can't," said Mort, pulling his dressing gown close around him, "it's all this excitement."
"Then go where you are," said Jonesey, "it won't matter in a minute will it; you'll be dead so you're going to piss yourself anyway."
Just then the Deputy Prime Minister stumbled out of the doorway clutching his head; blood running from a slight graze, "Help me," he moaned, "help me."
"Certainly matey," answered Lenny, taking aim and loosing off a whole clip.
The Deputy Prime Minister fell to his knees, "Don't shoot,” he begged as the rounds bounced around him, none finding a target.
"Bugger," moaned Lenny as he struggled to change his mag.
The Deputy Prime Minister checked to see if and where he had been shot, then realising that all of the bullets had missed he struggled to his feet determined to make good his escape. One of the RAF boys, having witnessed the incident sent his last spit crashing into the ground at the Deputy PM’s feet. There was a terrific explosion, a burst of flame and as the huge cloud of smoke and dust drifted off only a forlorn pair of shoes remained where the Deputy PM had stood.
The Prime Minister, from his hiding place in the doorway gulped and slunk further back into the shadows. Ron, emerging from the dust cloud pulled out a butcher’s knife, "Gotcha, you bastard," he snarled. Bill said from close behind him, "I've got the Labour leader."
"He's all yours," said Ron, party loyalties on the back burner, as he shuffled into the blackened building.
Just then the Queen, head held high, crown in her left hand and her tattered and torn robe hanging from her shoulders, strode out of the crumbling building, the Duke of Edinburgh strolling on behind.
Alb and Gerry were immediately transfixed. Mags moved slightly out of line of sight. Lenny stamped to attention, closely followed by Frank.
Prince Philip saw commoners and moved towards them, hand outstretched, "Hello, how are you?" he said, shaking the spell bound Lenny's hand.
"Well, it just isn't good enough, Philip," said the Queen.
"I was only helping her up, cabbage," he protested.
"It didn't look like that to me," stormed the Queen.
"Your Majesties," stumbled Alb, not at all sure of the etiquette required.
"Oh dear, more little people," muttered the Queen.
"Got to put on a good show, old girl," said Prince Philip.
"I don't need you to tell me that Philip," hissed the Queen over her shoulder, "Ah hello," she said, turning her attention to Alb and Gerry, both still mesmerised, "and what is it that you two do around here?"
"Leave this to me, cabbage, old thing," said the Prince, "I know how to talk to these types. Now see here urm, old man...."
"Corporal, Albert Rayner, of the 1st Battalion, Middlesex Regiment, your highness," said Alb, stamping to attention.
"Ah yes," said Prince Philip on firmer ground now, "don't suppose you've seen our carriage have you? It should be around here somewhere, or maybe the Colonel of the Guards?"
"You there," called the Queen pointing to Wilf who was kneeling over the prone figure of a pot bellied MP, "would you be so kind as to call me a cab?"
Wilf stared bog eyed, a bowie knife in one hand and something small and red in the other.
"I say, what do you have in your hand?" asked the Queen.
Wilf shook his head and stuffed something into his pocket.
"Oh my god!" hissed Alb, knowing Wilf, it was probably a trophy.
"What?" said Prince Philip. Alb nodded at Wilf. Prince Philip looked back and forth, a puzzled expression, "What is it?"
"I say," said the Queen, "a cab, per chance?"
"My kingdom for a cab," said Prince Philip sarcastically.
"Philip," snapped the Queen, "that isn't funny."
"Ear necklace," hissed Alb in Prince Philip's direction.
"I need someone to call me a cab," said the Queen.
"You're a cab," chuckled Prince Philip under his breath.
"I heard that Philip," said the Queen. "I say, what do you have there?" she said, addressing Wilf.
Like a naughty school boy Wilf found himself unable to speak or even to think, slowly he reached into his pocket. Alb's mouth opened in a silent scream, Prince Philip smiled benignly and time slowed down across the universe. Then, just as the bloodied trophy cleared Wilf's pocket, Prince Charles stumbled through the doorway, his multitude of ornamental medals dangling precariously from his chest, "Mummy," he wailed.
∞
Meanwhile in a sumptuous Executive suite at the Savoy, Mackie had positioned himself in front of three lap tops. He had a Skype connection open on two of them; the one on the left was the legal representative of a man identified only as Mr CS and the one on the right was representing a similarly identified, Mr MAF. The centre screen held 12 CCTV images of the events currently unfolding in Westminster.
"Okay, gentlemen," said Mackie, "as agreed, bidding will begin when the target is revealed."
"To clarify," said the man on the left screen, "how do you intend for this to work?" His usual urbane presentation had been overtaken by an unhealthy -looking sheen of what could only be termed, sweat.
"Simple," said Mackie, hiding a smile, "my man will usher the target towards one of the exits. They are all covered by SIG-Sauer SSG2000s which carry an armour piercing round. Each weapon is rigged up to my laptop from which I can control the shot, or shots. Each is fitted with a twenty round magazine. For the right price, working upwards from 5 million, sterling naturally, I will release that control to your client who will then be able to take the shot or shots."
Each of the two screens went blank momentarily; Mackie was untroubled; the middle men were, no doubt, conferring with their employers.
The one on the right, the representative for Mr MAF, came back on, "And how do we take the shot?"
"Press enter once I've switched control across," said Mackie.
The screen went black again.
"Oh, there he is," said Mackie, homing in on Prince Charles, "have to hurry you, gentlemen."
"Ten million," said the representative for CS, abruptly coming back on screen.
"Fifteen," said Mr MAF's representative; a disembodied voice.
"Twenty."
∞
The Queen turned her gaze towards her weeping son, only for a second but it was enough for Wilf to seek cover in the dust clouds sweeping back and forth across Parliament.
"What is it, Charles?" demanded the Queen.
"I think I'm going to be sick, mummy," he wailed.
"Bloody useless idiot," hissed Prince Philip.
"Charles, pull yourself together," commanded the Queen.
"It might be best if you moved on, your Dukeship," whispered Alb to Prince Philip, "it could get dangerous around here."
"Quite," said Prince Philip, smiling, "well, keep it up," he murmured, giving Alb a friendly pat on the shoulder, "you're doing a damned fine job, whatever it is."
"Come on Philip," said the Queen, "We have to be getting orf. What about a bus? Do you think they'll let us on without any money?"
"Doubt it, old girl," said Prince Philip following on behind, "you know what things are like these days, got to pay for everything, gone are the days of the freebies."
"Yes," said the Queen sarcastically, "You would know all about them."
"Protect the Queen!" screamed the Sergeant Major and the guards doubled over to surround their Monarch.
"Fix bayonets!" yelled a corporal.
"Wait for me mummy," called Prince Charles, realising a bit late that he'd need to scurry if he wasn't to be left behind.
"Charles," Camilla had emerged from the smoke, her hair and face blackened, "help me."
"Not so fast, you bounder," snarled Hilda, the floral pattern of her dress clashing wildly with the AK47 she was levelling at Prince Charles' chest, "time to say hello to the devil."
"Bugger," groaned Prince Charles, abandoning Camilla and nipping back inside the House of Lords.
Hilda pulled the trigger but it wouldn't move, it was the same problem she'd been having all afternoon, "Wouldn't you just know I'd get the broken one," she complained.
"Remove the bloody safety catch!" yelled Gerry, as he shuffled past.
"Safety catch?" said Hilda, "what's a safety catch?"
Alb shook his head and followed Gerry into the smoke filled gloom, "Where do we go from here?" he said.
"I don't know," said Gerry, "just push on, I guess."
Meanwhile Prince Charles was ushered by his security detail towards the entrance by Cromwell's Green.
∞
"Okay gentlemen," said Mackie, "I'm going to need you to finish off now, the target will be available in a short moment, final bids please."
"50 million," said the representative for SC.
"60 million," said the representative for MAF.
"70 million," said the representative for SC.
"100 million," said the representative for MAF.
"Sold," snapped Mackie, "transfer of funds required up front, of course."
The representative for MAF then started to type frantically into his lap top.
Mackie sent a quick text, 'Hold at the entrance for my clearance.'
Meanwhile, Ken and Val, having also managed to slip passed the troops and police, a bucket each of hot tar and a bag of feathers in hand, were closing on Cromwell's Garden.
"Money is transferred," said the representative of MAF.
Mackie checked his account on his laptop and smiled, "I am transferring the shot to you, now," he said, "be ready because you will have only a split second in which to fire." Mackie then sent a text to his man in Prince Charles' security detail, 'Now.'
"It's alright, sir," said the security man, to Prince Charles, "I've just had the okay, the way ahead is clear."
"About bloody time," hissed Prince Charles.
"Not so fast," screamed Clara from the shadows behind.
"Bloody hell," groaned Prince Charles, before ducking out of the door.
MAF stared wild eyed at the tablet in his hands, his finger hovering over the enter button, then he saw his target and he started to bash away. At precisely the same moment Tom and Harry leapt out of the smoke and together launched a bucket load of tar all over Prince Charles. Horrified he raised his hands to his face and, stepping backwards, slipped on a police truncheon, just as the rounds from the Sig came crashing into the entrance killing his security escort outright. Ken and Val emptied their bags of feathers all over him.
Crowing with victory the small group disappeared into the grey and white smoke swirling around Parliament.
MAF stared at his screen, eyes bulging. He couldn't see anything through the smoke. His representative stood next to him, also peering.
At the Savoy Mackie was busy putting away some of his other equipment when he saw a lone figure standing up in the camera shot, a figure covered head to foot in tar and feathers. Mackie squinted, shrugged and closed the PC.
MAF looked confused, he stared at the screen, "Did I get him?" he asked, then, "He's still ALIVE!" he screamed, hurling the tablet across the room.
Prince Charles groaned and started to shuffle towards Bridge Street. Behind him he could hear the burst of automatic fire and the screams of dying politicians. "Bloody stupid...." he muttered under his breath. No one stopped him, checked his progress or attempted to molest him in anyway; they steered clear and let the sad lonely figure stumble on down the road, that is, all except a small mousey looking old lady, a bowie knife clamped firmly between her gums as she manoeuvred a bent and squeaky Zimmer frame along the uneven pavement, an empty Uzi dangling at her side.
∞
The Prime Minister, his tie pulled loose and his shirt buttons open at the top, crawled along the floor towards the House of Commons. Behind him he heard the continuous cracking of machine guns. He crawled onwards past a cowering reporter who, realising he had the opportunity of an exclusive, thrust a mike under his nose.
"Prime Minister, what do you make of the day's events?"
"Look," said the PM, falling into his usual intro, then he groaned and crawled off. Trust bloody Blackmore to balls it up.
∞
Outside the army had formed a defensive square around the Queen and the Duke. The police had cordoned off Parliament.
"Are you alright your Majesty?" asked the Colonel.
"Yes, but I'm just a bit tired," said the Queen.
"Sergeant Major!" shouted the Colonel, "seat for the Queen."
"Sir!" shouted the Sergeant Major turning to a couple of privates, "On your hands and knees lads and look sharp about it." The two privates dropped on all fours and the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh sat down.
"Don't suppose you could rustle up a cup of tea, could you?" asked the Queen.
"Cup of tea for the Queen!" shouted the Sergeant Major.
"Whiskey if you've got one," said Prince Philip.
"It's too early for a whiskey, Philip," snapped the Queen irritably.
"Damn it all," he muttered.
Just then about thirty MPs burst from the Peers entrance and dropped to their knees; gasping for air and praising the Lord for their salvation. Seeing their chance the OSS wheeled passed the distracted household cavalry and watching policemen, and rolled on towards the peers' entrance.
"Get them!" shouted a police officer, pointing towards the OSS but too late, for they had reached their target. The MPs, realising they had been approached by ancient invalids, acted as one and sought cover behind the wheelchairs, convinced that no-one would shoot a cripple. Ebullient that their prey had reacted so helpfully, the members of the OSS detonated their charges blowing themselves and the thirty odd MPs into the next world.
∞
Inside the Lord's Chamber Wilf and his merry band were busy despatching the few remaining MPs who had sought refuge behind the seats. They'd been joined by Fiona and Esmé; both of whom had proved to be excellent and ruthless shots. Pete was watching Fiona with a new level of admiration and not a little fear.
"I just got the Chancellor of the Exchequer," bragged Johnno.
"Well, I got the Foreign Secretary," yelled Sticky, "little toad that he is."
"He only counts as half," joked Dave.
Bill staggered into the chamber, blood running from an open chest wound.
"You alright Bill?" asked Esmé, pausing in the middle of a re-load.
Bill slumped down in one of the seats and grinned, "I got the bloody leader of the opposition." Then he slumped forward, his last breath rattling in his throat.
Dave and Sticky bowed their heads for a moment, Johnno put his hand on Bill's shoulder and then they all moved off.
∞
Alb and Gerry had reunited with Mags, Lenny, Dora and Cynthia.
"What now?" asked Cynthia, her hair askew and eyes wild.
Gerry's face was filthy, his smile stretched from ear to ear and his eyes were wild, "Who cares? Never expected to get this far."
"Where are the others? Where's Wilf's lot?" asked Alb.
Gerry shrugged; he'd been with Alb all the time so he knew what Alb knew.
"Mort had a stroke," said Lenny "and I saw Frank and Jonesey get it near the entrance."
"What about Val?" asked Alb.
Everyone shrugged, no one had seen Val or Ken or any of that team.
"And Vera, Esmé?" Dora looked like she might cry; the excitement giving way to despair.
"I say we go down shooting," said Cynthia, brandishing her weapon like she'd been born to it.
"Like Butch and Sundance," said Gerry, smiling at Alb.
"Why don't we just escape?" asked Mags, not altogether ready to meet her maker.
"We're through, Mags," said Alb, "these old bones won't get much further."
"But there's a war still to fight," said Mags.
"That's right," said Lenny, "there'll be others to replace these scumbags, someone will have to tackle them."
"There's no way out," said Alb, "I can't face prison."
"See if there are any more left," Mags said, authority personified, "then gather back here in ten minutes."
"You know a way out?" Alb's voice was high, thick with renewed hope.
"Of course," she said, smiling gently, "I know everything."
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
Wm Shakespeare: Henry V
Arun D Ellis
amazon.co.uk
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00...
Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00...
Five minutes after Alb gave the command twenty model Spitfires were circling Big Ben to the excited oohs and aaahs of the watching crowd. The ex-RAF boys, having made their way round from their spot on the Westminster Abbey lawn, were standing in Parliament Square, each controlling his individual squadron with consummate ease. The troops and police watched in consternation, uncertain how to handle this spectacle without upsetting the watching crowd.
Alb then sent a text to Cynthia. Moments later the ladies of the WI, some of them sporting patriotic pink and blue rinses, tumbled out of their coach; bobbing like buoys in a rough sea.
"Out of my way, girls," hollered a big round woman in a large floral tent of a dress, her multiple chins flapping like a walrus, "pass me my cane, Ethel," she yelled back into the coach, "it’s with my gun thing."
"Don't crowd me, Hilda," hissed a frail yet waspish old lady, flapping her stick wildly against all and sundry, "don't crowd me."
"How does this thing work?" asked another, whipping out an Uzi from under her dress and waving it in the air. She was gloriously bedecked, leaning on a wheeled Zimmer frame.
"Good Lord," said a sightseer who was walking past the coach, "has that old girl got a gun?" He was hurried away by his wife, intent on getting a good viewing point for when the Queen left the building.
"Steady on, Clara," said Cynthia, her diamond bracelets clacking together as she waved her arms "we haven't had the off yet."
"Come on," said Fiona quickly, "hide your guns before they're spotted by the fuzz."
The police officers stationed outside Parliament stared over towards the WI coach, a sergeant clearly speaking into his radio. Several hundred feet above them a Police helicopter hovered. The Guards on the ground also turned their gaze on the WI coach, the men of the household cavalry pulled at their reins as if preparing to charge, though charge what they did not know.
∞
“Let’s get this show on the road," said Alb.
Gerry nodded and removing his flat cap waved his arm above his head from side to side; the attack signal to the RAF boys. Immediately the Spits zipped off in different directions, circled and then flew directly at the building where the House of Lords was situated.
"Someone shoot those bloody planes down!" yelled a sergeant from the guards, at which a hundred L85A2s, the standard British army rifle, aimed skywards.
The infantry fired and two spits exploded but the others sped on and smashed through the paned windows, exploding on impact, sending glass, brick fragments and splinters everywhere. Then the remaining planes flew through the openings and crashed into the red leather seats bearing the rich and obscenely plump behinds of the Lords. At the same time the OSS set off smoke bombs that they had cunningly taped to the underside of their wheelchairs, though not so cunningly as it turned out, for two of them promptly keeled over and died of asphyxiation.
Alb turned towards the crowd and, pulling his AK47 from under his coat, fired off a couple of rounds into the air and shouted, "Get back!"
Immediately the crowd started a panicked dispersal, running for cover, away from Parliament. At the same time Gerry and the others let off a smoke bomb each. The soldiers stationed just in front of Alb's little army turned and aimed their rifles.
"Get out of the way!" ordered the soldiers, seeing only age and infirmity. The old people hastily complied and scurried as fast as they could past the red coated warriors, towards Parliament.
The Police on duty all turned their attention to Parliament Square; they were looking for an ethnic minority group or maybe a young terrorist faction but all they could see was a bunch of old codgers stumbling their way towards them, they presumed desperately seeking cover.
"Over here," yelled the sergeant of Police, waving frantically as he did so, "and keep down."
"They're in the way, Sarge," said a young copper, "I can't see who's firing."
"Out of the way," yelled the sergeant at Alb and his troops.
"What the bloody hell's going on?" yelled a rotund copper; known to his mates as six bellies, "where did those shots come from?"
"Over there," stated Gerry pointing towards Westminster Abbey, "Over there."
"Quick lads," shouted six bellies, "get the chopper over ‘ead, see if they can't see anything."
∞
Meanwhile Bill and Johnno had opened up the rear doors of the van from where Wilf, his sights zeroed in, was taking pot shots at the Police. Unable to identify where the shots were coming from the officers withdrew to the visitor entrance off Cromwell Green.
The nearby guards had fallen back on the Parliament building itself and were also looking for the source of the incoming rounds.
Alb, Gerry, Mags and their small army were still shuffling across the road, intermittently gasping their “For Britain” battle cry. They eventually made it and piled into the courtyard to the side of Parliament, to be joined by the freshly cut and dyed, tight curly perms of the WI.
"Where did all these bloody old gits come from?" demanded a sergeant of the Guards.
"I don't fucking care," yelled the Colonel of the Grenadier Guards, "just get them out of the bloody way."
"This way mate," said a young guard to Alb and Gerry as they paused for breath, Alb with his hand on Gerry’s shoulder, wheezing at the smoke, "If you hang around out there you'll end up getting shot."
Alb and Gerry nodded and squeezed past, followed by Mags and the rest of their motley crew.
∞
"What the..?" yelled a police sergeant as a tiny, wrinkly old lady dressed in a voluminous dark blue evening dress and be-jewelled in diamonds and emeralds appeared through the smoke. For a moment he thought in horror that it might be the Queen then, eyes adjusting to the smoke, he realised his error and called, "quick granny, over here."
"Less of the granny, my boy," snarled Clara as she levelled her Uzi and let rip with a long burst, emptying her magazine. The bullets smashed into everything around the police sergeant. He blinked, unscathed; a shocked expression on his face. "Oh dear," she mused, "I seem to have run out."
"Run for your life, BOY!" yelled the big round woman in the floral dress as she bounced out of the smoke wafting across Parliament. She stepped in front of Clara, shielding her with her huge bulk. "Or I'll waste your ass."
"Shit!" hissed the Sergeant, scuttling backwards for cover.
∞
Wilf, never having had the patience to be a sniper, had abandoned the van and was leading his happy band across St. Margaret Street in what he considered a charge but which was in fact a muddled shuffle. "Death or Glory!" he muttered intermittently, not having the energy for the rallying battle cry he could hear so clearly in his head.
"Keep moving that way," yelled a Colour Sergeant, pointing in the direction of the Peers’ entrance.
Puffing uncontrollably Wilf nodded, wanting very desperately to sit down and never get up again. Cursing himself for an old fool, instead he dug deep and stumbled on until he came to rest at the impressive entrance to the Lords, "Fire in the hole!" he yelled, dumping a satchel of grenades through the doorway before seeking cover further back. The double doors disintegrated into a whirlwind of splinters.
"Up and at 'em, lads!” He yelled to his collection of ruthless warriors; Bill, Johnno, Pete, Ron, Dave and Sticky. Johnno responded with quite a loud shout of “Death or Glory!"
Behind them three Chelsea pensioners, who had been sight-seeing for the day but were now lying in the road sheltering from the mayhem around them, struggled to their feet, they stared wide eyed for a minute or so then with broad grins spread across heavily lined faces they were off and hobbling, screaming at the tops of their voices, "Death or Glory!"
"Give no quarter, take no prisoners," yelled Sticky savagely, surprising himself.
"Who are they?" demanded Johnno of Pete, pointing over his shoulder at the Chelsea old boys.
"No idea," said Pete, "they didn't come with us, did they?"
"They haven't even got weapons," said Sticky.
∞
Alb had been watching Wilf’s assault on the doors with something approaching envy. "Who does he think he is?" he demanded, "he's not running this bloody show."
Suddenly Cynthia appeared, displaying agility that belied her years, hurdling a prone and groaning policeman, then dashing into the darkened, smoke-filled building, following in Wilf’s footsteps, firing madly as she went. Bringing up the rear was Vera, re-loading as she ran, bunions forgotten in her haste to get into the action.
"Bloody crazy woman," muttered Alb, "she's going to hurt someone with that thing in a minute."
Gerry, at his side as always, made a very strange growling noise; his dander was up and he had the scent of fresh blood in his nostrils, "Death or Glory!" he yelled.
"Er....er, Nobby," stammered Mort, "I need to go to the lavatory."
"Well hold it," ordered Frank, pushing Nobby back into line.
"I can't," said Mort, pulling his dressing gown close around him, "it's all this excitement."
"Then go where you are," said Jonesey, "it won't matter in a minute will it; you'll be dead so you're going to piss yourself anyway."
Just then the Deputy Prime Minister stumbled out of the doorway clutching his head; blood running from a slight graze, "Help me," he moaned, "help me."
"Certainly matey," answered Lenny, taking aim and loosing off a whole clip.
The Deputy Prime Minister fell to his knees, "Don't shoot,” he begged as the rounds bounced around him, none finding a target.
"Bugger," moaned Lenny as he struggled to change his mag.
The Deputy Prime Minister checked to see if and where he had been shot, then realising that all of the bullets had missed he struggled to his feet determined to make good his escape. One of the RAF boys, having witnessed the incident sent his last spit crashing into the ground at the Deputy PM’s feet. There was a terrific explosion, a burst of flame and as the huge cloud of smoke and dust drifted off only a forlorn pair of shoes remained where the Deputy PM had stood.
The Prime Minister, from his hiding place in the doorway gulped and slunk further back into the shadows. Ron, emerging from the dust cloud pulled out a butcher’s knife, "Gotcha, you bastard," he snarled. Bill said from close behind him, "I've got the Labour leader."
"He's all yours," said Ron, party loyalties on the back burner, as he shuffled into the blackened building.
Just then the Queen, head held high, crown in her left hand and her tattered and torn robe hanging from her shoulders, strode out of the crumbling building, the Duke of Edinburgh strolling on behind.
Alb and Gerry were immediately transfixed. Mags moved slightly out of line of sight. Lenny stamped to attention, closely followed by Frank.
Prince Philip saw commoners and moved towards them, hand outstretched, "Hello, how are you?" he said, shaking the spell bound Lenny's hand.
"Well, it just isn't good enough, Philip," said the Queen.
"I was only helping her up, cabbage," he protested.
"It didn't look like that to me," stormed the Queen.
"Your Majesties," stumbled Alb, not at all sure of the etiquette required.
"Oh dear, more little people," muttered the Queen.
"Got to put on a good show, old girl," said Prince Philip.
"I don't need you to tell me that Philip," hissed the Queen over her shoulder, "Ah hello," she said, turning her attention to Alb and Gerry, both still mesmerised, "and what is it that you two do around here?"
"Leave this to me, cabbage, old thing," said the Prince, "I know how to talk to these types. Now see here urm, old man...."
"Corporal, Albert Rayner, of the 1st Battalion, Middlesex Regiment, your highness," said Alb, stamping to attention.
"Ah yes," said Prince Philip on firmer ground now, "don't suppose you've seen our carriage have you? It should be around here somewhere, or maybe the Colonel of the Guards?"
"You there," called the Queen pointing to Wilf who was kneeling over the prone figure of a pot bellied MP, "would you be so kind as to call me a cab?"
Wilf stared bog eyed, a bowie knife in one hand and something small and red in the other.
"I say, what do you have in your hand?" asked the Queen.
Wilf shook his head and stuffed something into his pocket.
"Oh my god!" hissed Alb, knowing Wilf, it was probably a trophy.
"What?" said Prince Philip. Alb nodded at Wilf. Prince Philip looked back and forth, a puzzled expression, "What is it?"
"I say," said the Queen, "a cab, per chance?"
"My kingdom for a cab," said Prince Philip sarcastically.
"Philip," snapped the Queen, "that isn't funny."
"Ear necklace," hissed Alb in Prince Philip's direction.
"I need someone to call me a cab," said the Queen.
"You're a cab," chuckled Prince Philip under his breath.
"I heard that Philip," said the Queen. "I say, what do you have there?" she said, addressing Wilf.
Like a naughty school boy Wilf found himself unable to speak or even to think, slowly he reached into his pocket. Alb's mouth opened in a silent scream, Prince Philip smiled benignly and time slowed down across the universe. Then, just as the bloodied trophy cleared Wilf's pocket, Prince Charles stumbled through the doorway, his multitude of ornamental medals dangling precariously from his chest, "Mummy," he wailed.
∞
Meanwhile in a sumptuous Executive suite at the Savoy, Mackie had positioned himself in front of three lap tops. He had a Skype connection open on two of them; the one on the left was the legal representative of a man identified only as Mr CS and the one on the right was representing a similarly identified, Mr MAF. The centre screen held 12 CCTV images of the events currently unfolding in Westminster.
"Okay, gentlemen," said Mackie, "as agreed, bidding will begin when the target is revealed."
"To clarify," said the man on the left screen, "how do you intend for this to work?" His usual urbane presentation had been overtaken by an unhealthy -looking sheen of what could only be termed, sweat.
"Simple," said Mackie, hiding a smile, "my man will usher the target towards one of the exits. They are all covered by SIG-Sauer SSG2000s which carry an armour piercing round. Each weapon is rigged up to my laptop from which I can control the shot, or shots. Each is fitted with a twenty round magazine. For the right price, working upwards from 5 million, sterling naturally, I will release that control to your client who will then be able to take the shot or shots."
Each of the two screens went blank momentarily; Mackie was untroubled; the middle men were, no doubt, conferring with their employers.
The one on the right, the representative for Mr MAF, came back on, "And how do we take the shot?"
"Press enter once I've switched control across," said Mackie.
The screen went black again.
"Oh, there he is," said Mackie, homing in on Prince Charles, "have to hurry you, gentlemen."
"Ten million," said the representative for CS, abruptly coming back on screen.
"Fifteen," said Mr MAF's representative; a disembodied voice.
"Twenty."
∞
The Queen turned her gaze towards her weeping son, only for a second but it was enough for Wilf to seek cover in the dust clouds sweeping back and forth across Parliament.
"What is it, Charles?" demanded the Queen.
"I think I'm going to be sick, mummy," he wailed.
"Bloody useless idiot," hissed Prince Philip.
"Charles, pull yourself together," commanded the Queen.
"It might be best if you moved on, your Dukeship," whispered Alb to Prince Philip, "it could get dangerous around here."
"Quite," said Prince Philip, smiling, "well, keep it up," he murmured, giving Alb a friendly pat on the shoulder, "you're doing a damned fine job, whatever it is."
"Come on Philip," said the Queen, "We have to be getting orf. What about a bus? Do you think they'll let us on without any money?"
"Doubt it, old girl," said Prince Philip following on behind, "you know what things are like these days, got to pay for everything, gone are the days of the freebies."
"Yes," said the Queen sarcastically, "You would know all about them."
"Protect the Queen!" screamed the Sergeant Major and the guards doubled over to surround their Monarch.
"Fix bayonets!" yelled a corporal.
"Wait for me mummy," called Prince Charles, realising a bit late that he'd need to scurry if he wasn't to be left behind.
"Charles," Camilla had emerged from the smoke, her hair and face blackened, "help me."
"Not so fast, you bounder," snarled Hilda, the floral pattern of her dress clashing wildly with the AK47 she was levelling at Prince Charles' chest, "time to say hello to the devil."
"Bugger," groaned Prince Charles, abandoning Camilla and nipping back inside the House of Lords.
Hilda pulled the trigger but it wouldn't move, it was the same problem she'd been having all afternoon, "Wouldn't you just know I'd get the broken one," she complained.
"Remove the bloody safety catch!" yelled Gerry, as he shuffled past.
"Safety catch?" said Hilda, "what's a safety catch?"
Alb shook his head and followed Gerry into the smoke filled gloom, "Where do we go from here?" he said.
"I don't know," said Gerry, "just push on, I guess."
Meanwhile Prince Charles was ushered by his security detail towards the entrance by Cromwell's Green.
∞
"Okay gentlemen," said Mackie, "I'm going to need you to finish off now, the target will be available in a short moment, final bids please."
"50 million," said the representative for SC.
"60 million," said the representative for MAF.
"70 million," said the representative for SC.
"100 million," said the representative for MAF.
"Sold," snapped Mackie, "transfer of funds required up front, of course."
The representative for MAF then started to type frantically into his lap top.
Mackie sent a quick text, 'Hold at the entrance for my clearance.'
Meanwhile, Ken and Val, having also managed to slip passed the troops and police, a bucket each of hot tar and a bag of feathers in hand, were closing on Cromwell's Garden.
"Money is transferred," said the representative of MAF.
Mackie checked his account on his laptop and smiled, "I am transferring the shot to you, now," he said, "be ready because you will have only a split second in which to fire." Mackie then sent a text to his man in Prince Charles' security detail, 'Now.'
"It's alright, sir," said the security man, to Prince Charles, "I've just had the okay, the way ahead is clear."
"About bloody time," hissed Prince Charles.
"Not so fast," screamed Clara from the shadows behind.
"Bloody hell," groaned Prince Charles, before ducking out of the door.
MAF stared wild eyed at the tablet in his hands, his finger hovering over the enter button, then he saw his target and he started to bash away. At precisely the same moment Tom and Harry leapt out of the smoke and together launched a bucket load of tar all over Prince Charles. Horrified he raised his hands to his face and, stepping backwards, slipped on a police truncheon, just as the rounds from the Sig came crashing into the entrance killing his security escort outright. Ken and Val emptied their bags of feathers all over him.
Crowing with victory the small group disappeared into the grey and white smoke swirling around Parliament.
MAF stared at his screen, eyes bulging. He couldn't see anything through the smoke. His representative stood next to him, also peering.
At the Savoy Mackie was busy putting away some of his other equipment when he saw a lone figure standing up in the camera shot, a figure covered head to foot in tar and feathers. Mackie squinted, shrugged and closed the PC.
MAF looked confused, he stared at the screen, "Did I get him?" he asked, then, "He's still ALIVE!" he screamed, hurling the tablet across the room.
Prince Charles groaned and started to shuffle towards Bridge Street. Behind him he could hear the burst of automatic fire and the screams of dying politicians. "Bloody stupid...." he muttered under his breath. No one stopped him, checked his progress or attempted to molest him in anyway; they steered clear and let the sad lonely figure stumble on down the road, that is, all except a small mousey looking old lady, a bowie knife clamped firmly between her gums as she manoeuvred a bent and squeaky Zimmer frame along the uneven pavement, an empty Uzi dangling at her side.
∞
The Prime Minister, his tie pulled loose and his shirt buttons open at the top, crawled along the floor towards the House of Commons. Behind him he heard the continuous cracking of machine guns. He crawled onwards past a cowering reporter who, realising he had the opportunity of an exclusive, thrust a mike under his nose.
"Prime Minister, what do you make of the day's events?"
"Look," said the PM, falling into his usual intro, then he groaned and crawled off. Trust bloody Blackmore to balls it up.
∞
Outside the army had formed a defensive square around the Queen and the Duke. The police had cordoned off Parliament.
"Are you alright your Majesty?" asked the Colonel.
"Yes, but I'm just a bit tired," said the Queen.
"Sergeant Major!" shouted the Colonel, "seat for the Queen."
"Sir!" shouted the Sergeant Major turning to a couple of privates, "On your hands and knees lads and look sharp about it." The two privates dropped on all fours and the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh sat down.
"Don't suppose you could rustle up a cup of tea, could you?" asked the Queen.
"Cup of tea for the Queen!" shouted the Sergeant Major.
"Whiskey if you've got one," said Prince Philip.
"It's too early for a whiskey, Philip," snapped the Queen irritably.
"Damn it all," he muttered.
Just then about thirty MPs burst from the Peers entrance and dropped to their knees; gasping for air and praising the Lord for their salvation. Seeing their chance the OSS wheeled passed the distracted household cavalry and watching policemen, and rolled on towards the peers' entrance.
"Get them!" shouted a police officer, pointing towards the OSS but too late, for they had reached their target. The MPs, realising they had been approached by ancient invalids, acted as one and sought cover behind the wheelchairs, convinced that no-one would shoot a cripple. Ebullient that their prey had reacted so helpfully, the members of the OSS detonated their charges blowing themselves and the thirty odd MPs into the next world.
∞
Inside the Lord's Chamber Wilf and his merry band were busy despatching the few remaining MPs who had sought refuge behind the seats. They'd been joined by Fiona and Esmé; both of whom had proved to be excellent and ruthless shots. Pete was watching Fiona with a new level of admiration and not a little fear.
"I just got the Chancellor of the Exchequer," bragged Johnno.
"Well, I got the Foreign Secretary," yelled Sticky, "little toad that he is."
"He only counts as half," joked Dave.
Bill staggered into the chamber, blood running from an open chest wound.
"You alright Bill?" asked Esmé, pausing in the middle of a re-load.
Bill slumped down in one of the seats and grinned, "I got the bloody leader of the opposition." Then he slumped forward, his last breath rattling in his throat.
Dave and Sticky bowed their heads for a moment, Johnno put his hand on Bill's shoulder and then they all moved off.
∞
Alb and Gerry had reunited with Mags, Lenny, Dora and Cynthia.
"What now?" asked Cynthia, her hair askew and eyes wild.
Gerry's face was filthy, his smile stretched from ear to ear and his eyes were wild, "Who cares? Never expected to get this far."
"Where are the others? Where's Wilf's lot?" asked Alb.
Gerry shrugged; he'd been with Alb all the time so he knew what Alb knew.
"Mort had a stroke," said Lenny "and I saw Frank and Jonesey get it near the entrance."
"What about Val?" asked Alb.
Everyone shrugged, no one had seen Val or Ken or any of that team.
"And Vera, Esmé?" Dora looked like she might cry; the excitement giving way to despair.
"I say we go down shooting," said Cynthia, brandishing her weapon like she'd been born to it.
"Like Butch and Sundance," said Gerry, smiling at Alb.
"Why don't we just escape?" asked Mags, not altogether ready to meet her maker.
"We're through, Mags," said Alb, "these old bones won't get much further."
"But there's a war still to fight," said Mags.
"That's right," said Lenny, "there'll be others to replace these scumbags, someone will have to tackle them."
"There's no way out," said Alb, "I can't face prison."
"See if there are any more left," Mags said, authority personified, "then gather back here in ten minutes."
"You know a way out?" Alb's voice was high, thick with renewed hope.
"Of course," she said, smiling gently, "I know everything."
Extract from the book Daydream Believers
This is no time for ease and comfort.
It is time to dare and endure.
Winston Churchill
Arun D. Ellis
As is traditional on the State Opening of Parliament an MP from the Commons presents himself to the Queen as hostage, on this occasion it was Prentice Prendergast, MP for Morecambe; a potential leadership rival for the PM. He had been surprised to be chosen; but Sir Philip had been adamant and no one cared enough to argue. Once he arrived at the Palace and was safely ensconced, a hostage against potential harm to the Monarch at the hands of Parliament, the Queen, Duke of Edinburgh, Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall left the Palace and made their way to Parliament.
Once there the Queen was draped in the Parliament Robe of State and the Imperial State Crown was placed carefully on the iron grey curls. Finally the Royal procession was able to start for the Lords; preceded by the Earl Marshal, the Leader of the House of Lords carrying the Cap of Maintenance on a white rod, another peer carrying the Great Sword of State and finally out in front marched the Lord Great Chamberlain with his white stick raised aloft.
The procession entered the Lords, the Queen sat upon the throne and said, "My Lords, pray be seated."
"Waste of time," muttered the Duke, seated at her side, "I'm too bally old for this."
"Be quiet, Philip," hissed the Queen through a clenched teeth grimace.
Camilla leaned over and whispered in Prince Charles' ear, "That should be you, you know." It was a well-rehearsed argument, pointless but she found it impossible to refrain.
"What can I do? Mummy just won't go," he responded, managing to speak without appearing so to do, something he'd practised since his Gordonstoun days, "she's going to sit there forever being bloody Queen. She loves it, look at her up there, lording it over everybody."
He wanted to slump, rest his head in his hands, groan out loud at the unfairness of it all; he remained upright and expressionless.
The Queen nodded to the Lord Great Chamberlain and he signalled for Black Rod to summon the members of the Commons. Black Rod, escorted by the Door-keeper of the House of Lords and a Police Inspector, set off for the Commons; the inspector bearing the peculiar responsibility of ordering 'Hats off strangers' to whomsoever they met on the way regardless of the fact that no-one now wore a hat in Parliament.
Upon reaching the Commons the doors were slammed shut and Black Rod banged forcefully on the door three times, at which point the doors were opened, Black Rod and his escort then approached the dispatch box and addressed the House, "Mr Speaker, The Queen commands this Honourable House," as he spoke he bowed to both sides, "to attend Her Majesty immediately in the House of Peers."
Outside Parliament stood a long line of red coated Grenadier Guards, their impractical bearskin hats nestling deep on their brows, blurring their vision. Behind them were hundreds of avid spectators who had gathered for the return journey of the Queen's carriage.
Off to the North in Bridge Street a large coach was parked. It bore the insignia of the Women's Institute. Unusually, the windows of the coach were blacked out. Inside the coach, her thin face alight with excitement, stood Cynthia, hair newly coiffed, a fetching shade of mauve, resplendent in a beige Hardy Amies dress of indeterminate age and draped in her best jewellery, talking quietly but enthusiastically to Esmé. They made an incongruous pair with Esmé kitted out in khaki combats and Doc Martens she'd had in her cupboard for three decades. She was in her element, every nerve ending tingling and feeling exactly as she had all those years previously, when faced with a barbed wire fence at the RAF base at Greenham Common that had had to be breeched.
Fiona was looking at her askance; why a grown woman would want to be seen in public in such an awful get up was beyond her. She herself was immaculate in a dark green Barbour over a calf length camel skirt (kick pleat at the back for ease of movement) and a dark brown cashmere twin-set (pearls left at home in case of breakage). She was shod in (sensible for running although with her knee as it was she wasn't likely to be doing too much of that) Oxford brogues.
Dora had pushed herself to the front of the coach near the driver, an old friend of Pete's dragooned into duty, but enjoying being surrounded by women again. For all the world Dora resembled a coach party courier, huge and quivering in her custom made jacquard coat dress, bright red so she would stand out she'd told Vera. Vera, in a comfortable and serviceable ensemble of navy waterproof jacket, topping a jumper and trousers in subtle shades of grey and pink, had thought spitefully that she didn't need to wear red in order to stand out but hadn't said it out loud.
They'd given up their dream to attack McDonalds; had been forced into acquiescence by the combined eloquence of Alb, Tom and surprisingly Pete, who'd told Fiona privately that he wanted her to be where he could 'keep an eye' on her.
Now Dora was addressing the group, thirty women of varying ages, shapes and sizes, all brought in for the purpose, many of them Esmé's old cronies, all willing to die for the cause.
She spoke passionately, "Ladies, today we act for our grandchildren, today we act to return this nation to them, today we act to save their jobs and their standard of living, their hopes and dreams for the future." She paused, tired from the effort, face as red as her dress, then launched again, "Today we act as we should've acted before, to stop these greedy, self-serving people from selling off more of our national estate to foreign powers." She stopped again and looked across at Vera, Cynthia, Esmé and Fiona then, on her signal, they all chorused, "Today we strike a blow for freedom!"
The rest of the women cheered, raising their assorted weaponry and clutching at one another, smiling, eyes bright with fervour. Fiona shivered slightly; she was of the huntin', shootin', fishin' brigade but most of these women looked as though they'd have trouble telling one end of a gun from the other. On the long coach journey she'd tried to impart the rudiments but had given up; too much to learn, too little time. 'Point and shoot' she'd told them in the end.
Another shout rent the air, in response to some other nonsense from Dora; self appointed spokesperson and rabble rouser. Outside the coach a few passers-by exchanged perplexed expressions before going about their business.
"Dora?" called a mousy, frail-looking woman from the back. Although she'd had her moments in the past, been a minor activist against vivisection and the like, she had long since settled for a slow, painful ignominious decline into senility. When Esmé had given her the call she'd answered it as a life-saver, though it would likely culminate in her death.
There was so much commotion that Dora could barely hear, "Quiet!" she barked.
The mousy woman raised her arm again, "erm, I know the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh have a free pass but what about Prince Charles and that dreadful woman?"
"Let me reiterate," said Cynthia, having worked her way into a position beside Dora; Little and Large, together at the end. She waited until she had their full attention, "The Queen and the Duke must be left unmolested, but Prince Charles and Camilla are fair game."
There was a general cheer, "But don't concentrate your efforts on them," stressed Fiona, her voice commanding in its lack of effort so to be, "remember, we're primarily here for the treacherous Politicians."
∞
Meanwhile, parked up just in front of Winston Churchill's statue was a van in the colours of Westminster City Council. Johnno had inveigled it from an old acquaintance who had stored it in a lock-up for them. After their strange Viagra fuelled night Wilf's team had gone early to the lock up and, using the paint Johnno's friend had supplied, had managed to disguise it sufficiently to pass first inspection.
The plan revolved around them being accepted as volunteer gardeners; in an effort to look the part they'd got hold of a few trays of young plants and Johnno, Pete, Bill and Ron were mooching about trying to place them. Up till now they had successfully resisted all requests from the Police to 'move on', a feat achieved primarily due to their age.
Dave and Sticky were sitting together on a bench some way off, sulking about the change of plan. It transpired this was the reason they had chosen to be on Wilf's team; they'd set their hearts on taking out a mosque and couldn't be reconciled. Also, they were both exhausted after the antics of the night before; Wilf had not mentioned the after-effects of Viagra before plying them with copious amounts of the drug.
Wilf, meantime, had made himself comfortable in a prone position in the back of the van. He had already scoped out the arc of fire and intended to pick off the MPs as they fled the assault. Alb and Gerry had worked mightily to dissuade him from this course but he wouldn't let it go, he felt he could get more of the buggers this way before being taken out himself.
He'd had a last-minute go at persuading Jonesey to join him in the van; as an ex-sniper he thought he'd have jumped at the chance, but no, more fool him, he'd committed to be with Alb.
"What do you think of planting the lobelias along the front here?" Pete asked, peering at the label hoping for enlightenment.
"What colour are they?" replied Ron, poking desultorily at the soil, trying to look knowledgeable and failing.
"I'm not sure," said Pete, "it doesn't say but they trail, apparently."
"Johnno," said Ron, "what colour are lobelias?"
"Blue," said Johnno, "but don't put them there, I was going to plant the....."
"What are you lot on about?" demanded Bill, "it doesn't matter where you plant the bloody things does it? No-one's going to care, are they?"
"Well, I care," stated Pete, truculently.
"Me too," said Ron, "if a jobs worth doing, it's...."
Goaded, Bill asked, "Do you want me to call Mad Dog over?"
Pete cleared his throat, "Err....urm...I suppose anywhere will do."
Johnno pulled a face and put down the tray he'd been carrying; he was having a problem breathing and he really needed a sit down and a cuppa.
∞
Meanwhile, Tom, and his son Dickie had parked Dickie's beat up Nissan Hardbody truck, also now bearing the Westminster City Council colours, at the bus stop just in front of the statue of Abraham Lincoln, situated behind Parliament Square. Dickie's mates had promised to join them later, arriving by myriad means to avoid detection. Dickie had let the air out of one of the tyres just in case the police should try to move them on and was engaged in an apparently fruitless attempt to undo the wheel nuts.
In the back of the open truck were three large vats of tar, already steaming, and several sacks of feathers; despite all Alb's urgings to the contrary, no one in the group had wanted to kill anyone and they still felt a massed tar and feathering was enough to get the message across.
On arrival Ken had clambered out of the van in a state of discomfort and dishevelment; after stretching and bemoaning his back's frailty for several minutes he had finally leaned in and helped Val to do the same. He felt a frisson of pride as she exited to stand beside him on the pavement; she was a good looking woman despite her age and he felt privileged that she'd chosen to be in his group when she could have gone with Alb.
Harry, having come up with Gray, Gill and Reg, was there to greet them, and he gave Val the once-over, Ken noted. They'd arrived by train then taxi; Reg had the money he had told them over and over, his voice querulous with age and irritation, and he was damned if he was travelling to his death in anything less than 1st class.
∞
Just round the corner from Parliament Square, on the patch of grass outside Westminster Abbey, three ex-RAF squadron leaders, friends of Vera's from her days in the WRAF, roped in to great effect at the last minute, had set out their twenty Spitfire replica models. The engines were running, the flaps were working and the Semtex was onboard. They just needed the off from Alb.
∞
Alb, Gerry and Mags were positioned round the corner with their team, Jonesey, Lenny, Frank, Nobby and Mort, on the edge of Parliament Square. Mags had insisted on being with them rather than on the WI coach. The only absentee from what Alb had always thought of as his Eden Hall gang was Sticky; inexplicably he'd chosen to go with Wilf and Johnno to take pot shots at people from inside a bloody van.
Alb looked along the line. All but one of them were dressed like the Long Riders from the Jesse James movie, in specially imported drovers coats. This had been Gerry's idea, him being a fan of westerns.
Beneath this all encompassing outer wear they wore fatigues with full battle webbing. Each had an AK47, an Uzi, a nine millimetre pistol and half a dozen grenades concealed amongst the folds of the floor-skimming coats.
All but one; Mort had ruined the look. Ok, Jonesey was in his slippers but he was a martyr to his corns and wanted to die comfortable. Ok, Gerry had been adamant about his flat cap, but Mort, having insisted on dressing himself, and despite having managed to get the webbing right using a long distant memory lodged somewhere in his brain, on leaving the apartment had mistaken his dressing gown, a green and red check woollen affair, for his long coat.
Although the outfits had been Gerry's idea it was Alb who had been incensed. He'd announced abruptly that Mort could no longer be part of the op but he'd been overruled in the end; it was too late for anyone to accompany him back to the Village, no-one knew what he might do on his own and they didn't want to take the chance. Besides, no-one wanted to impose the indignity of being left behind on anyone, especially on a suicide mission.
∞
At the same time as the members of the Commons began piling into the Lords eight wheelchair bound octogenarians started to wheel their way from Victoria Tower Gardens towards the Monarch's entrance. Each of these wheelchair volunteers was determined that their final breath be expended defending Britain from the greedy leaches leading the nation. Eyes fixed, jaws set the old men and women of the Octogenarian Suicide Squad, or the OSS as they liked to call themselves headed for their positions in the tree line just south of their target.
When they were all in place one of them sent a text to Alb who then sent a message to the ex-RAF boys, 'GO!'
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It is time to dare and endure.
Winston Churchill
Arun D. Ellis
As is traditional on the State Opening of Parliament an MP from the Commons presents himself to the Queen as hostage, on this occasion it was Prentice Prendergast, MP for Morecambe; a potential leadership rival for the PM. He had been surprised to be chosen; but Sir Philip had been adamant and no one cared enough to argue. Once he arrived at the Palace and was safely ensconced, a hostage against potential harm to the Monarch at the hands of Parliament, the Queen, Duke of Edinburgh, Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall left the Palace and made their way to Parliament.
Once there the Queen was draped in the Parliament Robe of State and the Imperial State Crown was placed carefully on the iron grey curls. Finally the Royal procession was able to start for the Lords; preceded by the Earl Marshal, the Leader of the House of Lords carrying the Cap of Maintenance on a white rod, another peer carrying the Great Sword of State and finally out in front marched the Lord Great Chamberlain with his white stick raised aloft.
The procession entered the Lords, the Queen sat upon the throne and said, "My Lords, pray be seated."
"Waste of time," muttered the Duke, seated at her side, "I'm too bally old for this."
"Be quiet, Philip," hissed the Queen through a clenched teeth grimace.
Camilla leaned over and whispered in Prince Charles' ear, "That should be you, you know." It was a well-rehearsed argument, pointless but she found it impossible to refrain.
"What can I do? Mummy just won't go," he responded, managing to speak without appearing so to do, something he'd practised since his Gordonstoun days, "she's going to sit there forever being bloody Queen. She loves it, look at her up there, lording it over everybody."
He wanted to slump, rest his head in his hands, groan out loud at the unfairness of it all; he remained upright and expressionless.
The Queen nodded to the Lord Great Chamberlain and he signalled for Black Rod to summon the members of the Commons. Black Rod, escorted by the Door-keeper of the House of Lords and a Police Inspector, set off for the Commons; the inspector bearing the peculiar responsibility of ordering 'Hats off strangers' to whomsoever they met on the way regardless of the fact that no-one now wore a hat in Parliament.
Upon reaching the Commons the doors were slammed shut and Black Rod banged forcefully on the door three times, at which point the doors were opened, Black Rod and his escort then approached the dispatch box and addressed the House, "Mr Speaker, The Queen commands this Honourable House," as he spoke he bowed to both sides, "to attend Her Majesty immediately in the House of Peers."
Outside Parliament stood a long line of red coated Grenadier Guards, their impractical bearskin hats nestling deep on their brows, blurring their vision. Behind them were hundreds of avid spectators who had gathered for the return journey of the Queen's carriage.
Off to the North in Bridge Street a large coach was parked. It bore the insignia of the Women's Institute. Unusually, the windows of the coach were blacked out. Inside the coach, her thin face alight with excitement, stood Cynthia, hair newly coiffed, a fetching shade of mauve, resplendent in a beige Hardy Amies dress of indeterminate age and draped in her best jewellery, talking quietly but enthusiastically to Esmé. They made an incongruous pair with Esmé kitted out in khaki combats and Doc Martens she'd had in her cupboard for three decades. She was in her element, every nerve ending tingling and feeling exactly as she had all those years previously, when faced with a barbed wire fence at the RAF base at Greenham Common that had had to be breeched.
Fiona was looking at her askance; why a grown woman would want to be seen in public in such an awful get up was beyond her. She herself was immaculate in a dark green Barbour over a calf length camel skirt (kick pleat at the back for ease of movement) and a dark brown cashmere twin-set (pearls left at home in case of breakage). She was shod in (sensible for running although with her knee as it was she wasn't likely to be doing too much of that) Oxford brogues.
Dora had pushed herself to the front of the coach near the driver, an old friend of Pete's dragooned into duty, but enjoying being surrounded by women again. For all the world Dora resembled a coach party courier, huge and quivering in her custom made jacquard coat dress, bright red so she would stand out she'd told Vera. Vera, in a comfortable and serviceable ensemble of navy waterproof jacket, topping a jumper and trousers in subtle shades of grey and pink, had thought spitefully that she didn't need to wear red in order to stand out but hadn't said it out loud.
They'd given up their dream to attack McDonalds; had been forced into acquiescence by the combined eloquence of Alb, Tom and surprisingly Pete, who'd told Fiona privately that he wanted her to be where he could 'keep an eye' on her.
Now Dora was addressing the group, thirty women of varying ages, shapes and sizes, all brought in for the purpose, many of them Esmé's old cronies, all willing to die for the cause.
She spoke passionately, "Ladies, today we act for our grandchildren, today we act to return this nation to them, today we act to save their jobs and their standard of living, their hopes and dreams for the future." She paused, tired from the effort, face as red as her dress, then launched again, "Today we act as we should've acted before, to stop these greedy, self-serving people from selling off more of our national estate to foreign powers." She stopped again and looked across at Vera, Cynthia, Esmé and Fiona then, on her signal, they all chorused, "Today we strike a blow for freedom!"
The rest of the women cheered, raising their assorted weaponry and clutching at one another, smiling, eyes bright with fervour. Fiona shivered slightly; she was of the huntin', shootin', fishin' brigade but most of these women looked as though they'd have trouble telling one end of a gun from the other. On the long coach journey she'd tried to impart the rudiments but had given up; too much to learn, too little time. 'Point and shoot' she'd told them in the end.
Another shout rent the air, in response to some other nonsense from Dora; self appointed spokesperson and rabble rouser. Outside the coach a few passers-by exchanged perplexed expressions before going about their business.
"Dora?" called a mousy, frail-looking woman from the back. Although she'd had her moments in the past, been a minor activist against vivisection and the like, she had long since settled for a slow, painful ignominious decline into senility. When Esmé had given her the call she'd answered it as a life-saver, though it would likely culminate in her death.
There was so much commotion that Dora could barely hear, "Quiet!" she barked.
The mousy woman raised her arm again, "erm, I know the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh have a free pass but what about Prince Charles and that dreadful woman?"
"Let me reiterate," said Cynthia, having worked her way into a position beside Dora; Little and Large, together at the end. She waited until she had their full attention, "The Queen and the Duke must be left unmolested, but Prince Charles and Camilla are fair game."
There was a general cheer, "But don't concentrate your efforts on them," stressed Fiona, her voice commanding in its lack of effort so to be, "remember, we're primarily here for the treacherous Politicians."
∞
Meanwhile, parked up just in front of Winston Churchill's statue was a van in the colours of Westminster City Council. Johnno had inveigled it from an old acquaintance who had stored it in a lock-up for them. After their strange Viagra fuelled night Wilf's team had gone early to the lock up and, using the paint Johnno's friend had supplied, had managed to disguise it sufficiently to pass first inspection.
The plan revolved around them being accepted as volunteer gardeners; in an effort to look the part they'd got hold of a few trays of young plants and Johnno, Pete, Bill and Ron were mooching about trying to place them. Up till now they had successfully resisted all requests from the Police to 'move on', a feat achieved primarily due to their age.
Dave and Sticky were sitting together on a bench some way off, sulking about the change of plan. It transpired this was the reason they had chosen to be on Wilf's team; they'd set their hearts on taking out a mosque and couldn't be reconciled. Also, they were both exhausted after the antics of the night before; Wilf had not mentioned the after-effects of Viagra before plying them with copious amounts of the drug.
Wilf, meantime, had made himself comfortable in a prone position in the back of the van. He had already scoped out the arc of fire and intended to pick off the MPs as they fled the assault. Alb and Gerry had worked mightily to dissuade him from this course but he wouldn't let it go, he felt he could get more of the buggers this way before being taken out himself.
He'd had a last-minute go at persuading Jonesey to join him in the van; as an ex-sniper he thought he'd have jumped at the chance, but no, more fool him, he'd committed to be with Alb.
"What do you think of planting the lobelias along the front here?" Pete asked, peering at the label hoping for enlightenment.
"What colour are they?" replied Ron, poking desultorily at the soil, trying to look knowledgeable and failing.
"I'm not sure," said Pete, "it doesn't say but they trail, apparently."
"Johnno," said Ron, "what colour are lobelias?"
"Blue," said Johnno, "but don't put them there, I was going to plant the....."
"What are you lot on about?" demanded Bill, "it doesn't matter where you plant the bloody things does it? No-one's going to care, are they?"
"Well, I care," stated Pete, truculently.
"Me too," said Ron, "if a jobs worth doing, it's...."
Goaded, Bill asked, "Do you want me to call Mad Dog over?"
Pete cleared his throat, "Err....urm...I suppose anywhere will do."
Johnno pulled a face and put down the tray he'd been carrying; he was having a problem breathing and he really needed a sit down and a cuppa.
∞
Meanwhile, Tom, and his son Dickie had parked Dickie's beat up Nissan Hardbody truck, also now bearing the Westminster City Council colours, at the bus stop just in front of the statue of Abraham Lincoln, situated behind Parliament Square. Dickie's mates had promised to join them later, arriving by myriad means to avoid detection. Dickie had let the air out of one of the tyres just in case the police should try to move them on and was engaged in an apparently fruitless attempt to undo the wheel nuts.
In the back of the open truck were three large vats of tar, already steaming, and several sacks of feathers; despite all Alb's urgings to the contrary, no one in the group had wanted to kill anyone and they still felt a massed tar and feathering was enough to get the message across.
On arrival Ken had clambered out of the van in a state of discomfort and dishevelment; after stretching and bemoaning his back's frailty for several minutes he had finally leaned in and helped Val to do the same. He felt a frisson of pride as she exited to stand beside him on the pavement; she was a good looking woman despite her age and he felt privileged that she'd chosen to be in his group when she could have gone with Alb.
Harry, having come up with Gray, Gill and Reg, was there to greet them, and he gave Val the once-over, Ken noted. They'd arrived by train then taxi; Reg had the money he had told them over and over, his voice querulous with age and irritation, and he was damned if he was travelling to his death in anything less than 1st class.
∞
Just round the corner from Parliament Square, on the patch of grass outside Westminster Abbey, three ex-RAF squadron leaders, friends of Vera's from her days in the WRAF, roped in to great effect at the last minute, had set out their twenty Spitfire replica models. The engines were running, the flaps were working and the Semtex was onboard. They just needed the off from Alb.
∞
Alb, Gerry and Mags were positioned round the corner with their team, Jonesey, Lenny, Frank, Nobby and Mort, on the edge of Parliament Square. Mags had insisted on being with them rather than on the WI coach. The only absentee from what Alb had always thought of as his Eden Hall gang was Sticky; inexplicably he'd chosen to go with Wilf and Johnno to take pot shots at people from inside a bloody van.
Alb looked along the line. All but one of them were dressed like the Long Riders from the Jesse James movie, in specially imported drovers coats. This had been Gerry's idea, him being a fan of westerns.
Beneath this all encompassing outer wear they wore fatigues with full battle webbing. Each had an AK47, an Uzi, a nine millimetre pistol and half a dozen grenades concealed amongst the folds of the floor-skimming coats.
All but one; Mort had ruined the look. Ok, Jonesey was in his slippers but he was a martyr to his corns and wanted to die comfortable. Ok, Gerry had been adamant about his flat cap, but Mort, having insisted on dressing himself, and despite having managed to get the webbing right using a long distant memory lodged somewhere in his brain, on leaving the apartment had mistaken his dressing gown, a green and red check woollen affair, for his long coat.
Although the outfits had been Gerry's idea it was Alb who had been incensed. He'd announced abruptly that Mort could no longer be part of the op but he'd been overruled in the end; it was too late for anyone to accompany him back to the Village, no-one knew what he might do on his own and they didn't want to take the chance. Besides, no-one wanted to impose the indignity of being left behind on anyone, especially on a suicide mission.
∞
At the same time as the members of the Commons began piling into the Lords eight wheelchair bound octogenarians started to wheel their way from Victoria Tower Gardens towards the Monarch's entrance. Each of these wheelchair volunteers was determined that their final breath be expended defending Britain from the greedy leaches leading the nation. Eyes fixed, jaws set the old men and women of the Octogenarian Suicide Squad, or the OSS as they liked to call themselves headed for their positions in the tree line just south of their target.
When they were all in place one of them sent a text to Alb who then sent a message to the ex-RAF boys, 'GO!'
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June 28, 2016
Extract from my book 'Daydream Believers'
Something in the Wind 6
It has been said that when human beings stop believing in God they believe in nothing.
The truth is much worse: they believe in anything.
Malcolm Muggeridge
Barry had upped the ante a bit with this one, moving the venue and taking a chance on filling it. Turned out to be no trouble at all; he could have gone for bigger. It was still word of mouth and a bit on Twitter; low key enough for Blackmore to believe he was still in control. For his own part he was a bit worried it was gaining its own momentum; might be difficult to put the genie back in the bottle. The money was good though and he was enjoying being part of something real.
The Preacher was in full swing and the audience was giving him their complete attention.
"In the 1930s the German nation's children were seduced by the grand assertion that they were the new master race, the young Olympians who would inherit the world, when in reality they were destined to a life of despair as their futures spiralled out of control. Such was the pitiless evil of the Nazi empire."
He looked around the theatre, larger than usual but with barely an empty seat, "But that was the 1930s and that was the Nazis. This is now and we live in completely different times, we live in a completely different world."
He raised his hands, "I would like to speak of my children, young adults now, my two sons and my daughter. I love my children as I'm sure you do yours, if you have them. I don't see them often since my divorce but I do know what they have become, and I'm sure that some of you would recognise the characteristics."
He stopped talking, this was obviously painful for him and very personal. There was silence whilst they waited for him to collect himself. Not much fidgeting, Barry noted; a good sign.
Then he raised his head and his voice rang out, "Glued to the TV, obsessed with ludicrous soap storylines, the drama being played out more real to them than real-life. On Xbox, playing the latest violent action-packed game that makes reality seem pale and insignificant. On one of those social sites talking inane drivel to their friends. Texting feverishly. They don't read and can't spell. They have no idea about the UK beyond the confines of their own town, know nothing of our history unless it's US biased cinema in glorious Technicolor. They drive rather than walk, leave lights on, bath instead of shower, and in short, don't give a damn. Does this ring any bells?"
There were nods of agreement from the older members of the audience, "But they do know about mobile phone contracts, in fact they have several mobile phones, I've even inherited some myself, the ones they no longer want, I actually took on their contracts so that they could upgrade. They have to have the latest tablets, the most up to date PCs, TVs ...the list goes on."
He paused and checked the nodding heads, "The ad men have seduced our young people; they have mesmerized them with photo shopped images of super models and ridiculously over-paid sporting personalities. Promoted as false idols these prescription meds addicted film stars, and singers who condone violence to women and who prostitute their talent for fame. Seduced them with a flashy, selfish, skin-deep alternative reality of stardom, fame and celebrity; the antithesis of hard work, stoicism and compassion. All of these things have been designed to turn our children into consumer addicts; believing themselves to be inheritors of the world by right; the modern-day Hitler Youth."
Barry was fascinated. He had no clue how to report this back up the line; the preacher was unique, a one-off and it was hard to gauge his impact. The audience was also hard to read; murmurings and mutterings but to what end? All he could say for sure was that they were still listening and no-one had walked out.
The Preacher wandered around the stage, "We have failed our young because we did not stop the Corporations seducing them with their adverts. Worse yet, we encouraged it by buying them the next new thing, by getting them the biggest and the best that money could buy simply because we could. Or was it because we wanted to get them the things we never had as children?"
He paused and looked around at the nodding heads, "We gave them cold, heartless, meaningless things and deprived them of emotional engagement."
He took a quick sip of water, "We bought them a colour TV and piped SKY® into their rooms and left them with a plastic and glass companion that had no soul. We left them to feed off inane US imports with their false concepts of wealth and greed and lust and promiscuity and gender confusion. We left them to absorb all this by themselves without guidance and discussion and challenge. We deprived them of the core concepts of love, compassion and communication. I ask you, what have we created?"
They were silent as they waited for him to continue, Barry could sense their discomfort but it was obvious they would sit it out to the bitter end. He noted with mounting concern that the mobiles were out, filming the speech. Christ, he'd be on YouTube® next...that might draw too much attention from Blackmore.
"We have created a generation of indifferent, avaricious, selfish, dysfunctional, celebrity adulating, trivia junkies who believe that the most important thing in the world is to tweet their latest sociopathic self aggrandizing thought."
This got him applause from parts of the theatre, some people were standing up.
He continued, "They buy ridiculously cheap products knowing that someone was forced to make it in near slave conditions for a pittance and they don't care."
He was on a roll as he worked the stage, "Billions of people are suffering in poverty, hundreds of thousands are dying needlessly every day, and all our kids want to do is watch TV, text, spend, eat crap food, burn fossil fuels with no regard for the consequences and generally lay around all day doing nothing. I ask you, are such individuals really worthy of life?"
There were a few concerned looks, Barry thought he'd gone too far even for this crowd, most of whom had clearly heard him speak before, "Our children are the new Nazis for they know that over a third of the world suffers so they can live a life of self indulgence and they don't care, worse still they think it is their birth right. Our children bitch and moan at us, we have spoiled them and we have allowed the media men to turn them into moribund social and economic leaches whose sole purpose is to consume and create waste."
His voice tailed off as he paused in the centre of the stage. "And so it is, we have sold our children's souls and created a social nightmare, we have given birth to a greedy self interested society that must be destroyed before the rest of humanity can live."
He walked off so quickly from the stage that even Barry was taken by surprise.
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It has been said that when human beings stop believing in God they believe in nothing.
The truth is much worse: they believe in anything.
Malcolm Muggeridge
Barry had upped the ante a bit with this one, moving the venue and taking a chance on filling it. Turned out to be no trouble at all; he could have gone for bigger. It was still word of mouth and a bit on Twitter; low key enough for Blackmore to believe he was still in control. For his own part he was a bit worried it was gaining its own momentum; might be difficult to put the genie back in the bottle. The money was good though and he was enjoying being part of something real.The Preacher was in full swing and the audience was giving him their complete attention.
"In the 1930s the German nation's children were seduced by the grand assertion that they were the new master race, the young Olympians who would inherit the world, when in reality they were destined to a life of despair as their futures spiralled out of control. Such was the pitiless evil of the Nazi empire."
He looked around the theatre, larger than usual but with barely an empty seat, "But that was the 1930s and that was the Nazis. This is now and we live in completely different times, we live in a completely different world."
He raised his hands, "I would like to speak of my children, young adults now, my two sons and my daughter. I love my children as I'm sure you do yours, if you have them. I don't see them often since my divorce but I do know what they have become, and I'm sure that some of you would recognise the characteristics."
He stopped talking, this was obviously painful for him and very personal. There was silence whilst they waited for him to collect himself. Not much fidgeting, Barry noted; a good sign.
Then he raised his head and his voice rang out, "Glued to the TV, obsessed with ludicrous soap storylines, the drama being played out more real to them than real-life. On Xbox, playing the latest violent action-packed game that makes reality seem pale and insignificant. On one of those social sites talking inane drivel to their friends. Texting feverishly. They don't read and can't spell. They have no idea about the UK beyond the confines of their own town, know nothing of our history unless it's US biased cinema in glorious Technicolor. They drive rather than walk, leave lights on, bath instead of shower, and in short, don't give a damn. Does this ring any bells?"
There were nods of agreement from the older members of the audience, "But they do know about mobile phone contracts, in fact they have several mobile phones, I've even inherited some myself, the ones they no longer want, I actually took on their contracts so that they could upgrade. They have to have the latest tablets, the most up to date PCs, TVs ...the list goes on."
He paused and checked the nodding heads, "The ad men have seduced our young people; they have mesmerized them with photo shopped images of super models and ridiculously over-paid sporting personalities. Promoted as false idols these prescription meds addicted film stars, and singers who condone violence to women and who prostitute their talent for fame. Seduced them with a flashy, selfish, skin-deep alternative reality of stardom, fame and celebrity; the antithesis of hard work, stoicism and compassion. All of these things have been designed to turn our children into consumer addicts; believing themselves to be inheritors of the world by right; the modern-day Hitler Youth."
Barry was fascinated. He had no clue how to report this back up the line; the preacher was unique, a one-off and it was hard to gauge his impact. The audience was also hard to read; murmurings and mutterings but to what end? All he could say for sure was that they were still listening and no-one had walked out.
The Preacher wandered around the stage, "We have failed our young because we did not stop the Corporations seducing them with their adverts. Worse yet, we encouraged it by buying them the next new thing, by getting them the biggest and the best that money could buy simply because we could. Or was it because we wanted to get them the things we never had as children?"
He paused and looked around at the nodding heads, "We gave them cold, heartless, meaningless things and deprived them of emotional engagement."
He took a quick sip of water, "We bought them a colour TV and piped SKY® into their rooms and left them with a plastic and glass companion that had no soul. We left them to feed off inane US imports with their false concepts of wealth and greed and lust and promiscuity and gender confusion. We left them to absorb all this by themselves without guidance and discussion and challenge. We deprived them of the core concepts of love, compassion and communication. I ask you, what have we created?"
They were silent as they waited for him to continue, Barry could sense their discomfort but it was obvious they would sit it out to the bitter end. He noted with mounting concern that the mobiles were out, filming the speech. Christ, he'd be on YouTube® next...that might draw too much attention from Blackmore.
"We have created a generation of indifferent, avaricious, selfish, dysfunctional, celebrity adulating, trivia junkies who believe that the most important thing in the world is to tweet their latest sociopathic self aggrandizing thought."
This got him applause from parts of the theatre, some people were standing up.
He continued, "They buy ridiculously cheap products knowing that someone was forced to make it in near slave conditions for a pittance and they don't care."
He was on a roll as he worked the stage, "Billions of people are suffering in poverty, hundreds of thousands are dying needlessly every day, and all our kids want to do is watch TV, text, spend, eat crap food, burn fossil fuels with no regard for the consequences and generally lay around all day doing nothing. I ask you, are such individuals really worthy of life?"
There were a few concerned looks, Barry thought he'd gone too far even for this crowd, most of whom had clearly heard him speak before, "Our children are the new Nazis for they know that over a third of the world suffers so they can live a life of self indulgence and they don't care, worse still they think it is their birth right. Our children bitch and moan at us, we have spoiled them and we have allowed the media men to turn them into moribund social and economic leaches whose sole purpose is to consume and create waste."
His voice tailed off as he paused in the centre of the stage. "And so it is, we have sold our children's souls and created a social nightmare, we have given birth to a greedy self interested society that must be destroyed before the rest of humanity can live."
He walked off so quickly from the stage that even Barry was taken by surprise.
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Extract from my beeok 'Daydream Believers'
This multicultural approach,
saying that we simply live side by side and live happily with each other has failed.
Utterly failed.
Angela Merkel
The Preacher had been sitting in the centre of the stage, eyes closed whilst the theatre had slowly filled. He had yet to move from that position; the audience was getting a little restless. Just as Barry was considering an unprecedented appearance on stage to nudge his man into action, the Preacher sighed, got to his feet and began, "Today I speak on a thorny subject, one that most of you will take issue with, not because you disagree but because you think you should." He walked slowly along the front of the stage, "We are continuously being bombarded by politicians, by the media and by the church with the notion that we live in a multicultural society."
He stopped and looked out at his audience, realising with a start of surprise that some in the front rows were familiar to him, he shrugged the thought away as distracting and continued, "We are told that the 21st century is dominated by the global economy and so multiculturalism is the future, but when I look back in history and search for successful examples of multiculturalism, I find none. What I find are civil wars such as took place in Nigeria in the late 60s; result: starvation and dislocation and its bedfellow, rampant criminality. When I look in today’s world for successful examples of multi-culturalism, I find none. I find intolerance and indifference, racism and hatred, callous rape and vicious murder and the underlying villain of the piece, abject poverty."
He took a breath, then "How does this affect us in the UK? We are told that this is Britain, we will not succumb to the weaknesses of the human condition; we won't go that way. That somehow as a race we are so advanced we can flourish in a social structure that no other society in history has ever survived."
He allowed them to digest his words for a few moments then, "What are the drivers of that complacency? Arrogance? Blatant stupidity? Criminal greed?"
He moved to the centre of the stage, "Look at the Balkans - racial hatred, look at Africa - tribal hatred, look at America - racial and cultural hatred. To say nothing of what happens when you toss religion into the mix." He paused, "If we look back into our own history we see that the country was divided up into kingdoms of different ethnicity, Vikings, Saxons, Danes, Picts and Celts and the land was constantly torn asunder by wars." He paused, "It was only when the Saxons emerged triumphant that we began to form a kingdom."
"What about William the Conqueror?" shouted a man from the front row.
"Of course," the Preacher flashed a rare smile, "We can't forget the Normans and their place in all this,"
He moved back to the front of the stage. "Consider...it was only when we had one culture, one religion, one language, one centre of political leadership that we finally became a strong and homogeneous peoples with but one aim, to be British."
There were several murmurings of disapproval but he ignored them, "But now we have a multicultural society and we are told it is good to have diversity. But I ask you, do we also not have an increase in opportunist crime? A divided language? Increased threats from home grown terrorists? A crumbling education system? Decline of our faith?"
He placed his hands together and breathed deeply, "I'd like to relate a personal experience of mine, from the work place, when many years ago I worked on a particular team. We worked under extreme conditions and brought in most of the money. We had a culture, a work ethic, an unwritten rule that everyone would stay until the last item was processed. We all pulled together to achieve the common objective so naturally we thought we were the best." He sighed, "In order to cut costs the management decided to run the section close to the bone, even though there was serious risk of loss. Not unexpectedly, we made an expensive error. In response they restructured the department, brought in new people from other teams."
He moved back to his chair and took a quick sip of water, "These new staff members came from teams where they had a more singular culture, where each person would get a bundle of folders and work through until the end of the day and then go home, no matter what. That was their work ethic," he returned to the front of the hall, "and the thing is, our unwritten rule was exactly that. It wasn't enforceable, it was just our culture, so when we got near the end of a time critical task all the new people went home and the only ones who remained to complete the tasks were those who had been on the original section. Although we were the 'indigenous' people we were unable to influence the new people into adopting our culture, our philosophy."
He waited for what he was saying to sink in, "Instead, the new people, arriving in such numbers, were able to impose their culture on the team. That was the end of our team culture, our team ethic." He started to move around the stage a bit quicker now, talking excitedly, "Now if that can happen in business just think what effect it can have on a society. We wouldn't know how deep that corrosion had gone until there was a crisis."
He was getting into it now, "Today!" he shouted, "we live in a time of supposed economic wealth, Britain still has an NHS, still has a state paid education system, still has a strong welfare system although all of the above have actually been crippled at their foundations by a lack of government funding, crippled to the extent that some time in the near future they will collapse."
He dashed to the side of the stage and dragged on a large globe, "Here is the industrial west," he was pointing to Europe, "and here is the impoverished third world," he added, "only it is no longer the case. The rich and the corporations have been allowed to invest heavily in the third world."
He tossed the globe aside, "This means that now, in the west, we are a service based economy and the third world has a manufacturing based economy. But it matters not to the rich. They get their divs from their investments in the new economic powerhouses south of the Equator."
He raised his hands skywards, "But it affects us, it will affect you and your children and your grandchildren because a service based economy cannot support the state or social programmes such as the NHS, education or welfare and the prime examples of that can be seen in history. The west was wealthy because it had a manufacturing base and the third world was poor because it was service based. Now that's all been flipped on its head. That's where the rich investors, where the Corporate Directors are driving the future."
He paused, then continued, "So what does that mean? And what's it to do with multiculturalism? Simple, our society is now rotten underneath and it is waiting for an event to implode it. That event will be unparalleled poverty. Once economies in the west collapse, which they will because there are now too many of us, once our social structures crumble beyond repair we will turn on our neighbours, we will allow our resentments and hatreds to rise to the surface, we will take to the streets and, as has happened in all other countries in such times, we will fall upon outsiders to our society."
He moved to the edge of the stage, "When once you decried the BNP or the EDL, saw UKIP as espousing old fashioned beliefs, yet soon they will appear as your only hope, just as all radical nationalistic groups have appeared to desperate peoples in the past. It's no good deluding ourselves into believing that somehow we are going to be better than those people. People are people and we all react the same, whether we like it or not. Thus when our economy finally collapses and we become a poor nation we will look around for those to blame or for those we can expel and it will lead to our own holocaust, that is where multiculturalism always leads", he dropped his voice to a near whisper, "and only fools delude themselves otherwise."
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saying that we simply live side by side and live happily with each other has failed.
Utterly failed.
Angela Merkel
The Preacher had been sitting in the centre of the stage, eyes closed whilst the theatre had slowly filled. He had yet to move from that position; the audience was getting a little restless. Just as Barry was considering an unprecedented appearance on stage to nudge his man into action, the Preacher sighed, got to his feet and began, "Today I speak on a thorny subject, one that most of you will take issue with, not because you disagree but because you think you should." He walked slowly along the front of the stage, "We are continuously being bombarded by politicians, by the media and by the church with the notion that we live in a multicultural society."He stopped and looked out at his audience, realising with a start of surprise that some in the front rows were familiar to him, he shrugged the thought away as distracting and continued, "We are told that the 21st century is dominated by the global economy and so multiculturalism is the future, but when I look back in history and search for successful examples of multiculturalism, I find none. What I find are civil wars such as took place in Nigeria in the late 60s; result: starvation and dislocation and its bedfellow, rampant criminality. When I look in today’s world for successful examples of multi-culturalism, I find none. I find intolerance and indifference, racism and hatred, callous rape and vicious murder and the underlying villain of the piece, abject poverty."
He took a breath, then "How does this affect us in the UK? We are told that this is Britain, we will not succumb to the weaknesses of the human condition; we won't go that way. That somehow as a race we are so advanced we can flourish in a social structure that no other society in history has ever survived."
He allowed them to digest his words for a few moments then, "What are the drivers of that complacency? Arrogance? Blatant stupidity? Criminal greed?"
He moved to the centre of the stage, "Look at the Balkans - racial hatred, look at Africa - tribal hatred, look at America - racial and cultural hatred. To say nothing of what happens when you toss religion into the mix." He paused, "If we look back into our own history we see that the country was divided up into kingdoms of different ethnicity, Vikings, Saxons, Danes, Picts and Celts and the land was constantly torn asunder by wars." He paused, "It was only when the Saxons emerged triumphant that we began to form a kingdom."
"What about William the Conqueror?" shouted a man from the front row.
"Of course," the Preacher flashed a rare smile, "We can't forget the Normans and their place in all this,"
He moved back to the front of the stage. "Consider...it was only when we had one culture, one religion, one language, one centre of political leadership that we finally became a strong and homogeneous peoples with but one aim, to be British."
There were several murmurings of disapproval but he ignored them, "But now we have a multicultural society and we are told it is good to have diversity. But I ask you, do we also not have an increase in opportunist crime? A divided language? Increased threats from home grown terrorists? A crumbling education system? Decline of our faith?"
He placed his hands together and breathed deeply, "I'd like to relate a personal experience of mine, from the work place, when many years ago I worked on a particular team. We worked under extreme conditions and brought in most of the money. We had a culture, a work ethic, an unwritten rule that everyone would stay until the last item was processed. We all pulled together to achieve the common objective so naturally we thought we were the best." He sighed, "In order to cut costs the management decided to run the section close to the bone, even though there was serious risk of loss. Not unexpectedly, we made an expensive error. In response they restructured the department, brought in new people from other teams."
He moved back to his chair and took a quick sip of water, "These new staff members came from teams where they had a more singular culture, where each person would get a bundle of folders and work through until the end of the day and then go home, no matter what. That was their work ethic," he returned to the front of the hall, "and the thing is, our unwritten rule was exactly that. It wasn't enforceable, it was just our culture, so when we got near the end of a time critical task all the new people went home and the only ones who remained to complete the tasks were those who had been on the original section. Although we were the 'indigenous' people we were unable to influence the new people into adopting our culture, our philosophy."
He waited for what he was saying to sink in, "Instead, the new people, arriving in such numbers, were able to impose their culture on the team. That was the end of our team culture, our team ethic." He started to move around the stage a bit quicker now, talking excitedly, "Now if that can happen in business just think what effect it can have on a society. We wouldn't know how deep that corrosion had gone until there was a crisis."
He was getting into it now, "Today!" he shouted, "we live in a time of supposed economic wealth, Britain still has an NHS, still has a state paid education system, still has a strong welfare system although all of the above have actually been crippled at their foundations by a lack of government funding, crippled to the extent that some time in the near future they will collapse."
He dashed to the side of the stage and dragged on a large globe, "Here is the industrial west," he was pointing to Europe, "and here is the impoverished third world," he added, "only it is no longer the case. The rich and the corporations have been allowed to invest heavily in the third world."
He tossed the globe aside, "This means that now, in the west, we are a service based economy and the third world has a manufacturing based economy. But it matters not to the rich. They get their divs from their investments in the new economic powerhouses south of the Equator."
He raised his hands skywards, "But it affects us, it will affect you and your children and your grandchildren because a service based economy cannot support the state or social programmes such as the NHS, education or welfare and the prime examples of that can be seen in history. The west was wealthy because it had a manufacturing base and the third world was poor because it was service based. Now that's all been flipped on its head. That's where the rich investors, where the Corporate Directors are driving the future."
He paused, then continued, "So what does that mean? And what's it to do with multiculturalism? Simple, our society is now rotten underneath and it is waiting for an event to implode it. That event will be unparalleled poverty. Once economies in the west collapse, which they will because there are now too many of us, once our social structures crumble beyond repair we will turn on our neighbours, we will allow our resentments and hatreds to rise to the surface, we will take to the streets and, as has happened in all other countries in such times, we will fall upon outsiders to our society."
He moved to the edge of the stage, "When once you decried the BNP or the EDL, saw UKIP as espousing old fashioned beliefs, yet soon they will appear as your only hope, just as all radical nationalistic groups have appeared to desperate peoples in the past. It's no good deluding ourselves into believing that somehow we are going to be better than those people. People are people and we all react the same, whether we like it or not. Thus when our economy finally collapses and we become a poor nation we will look around for those to blame or for those we can expel and it will lead to our own holocaust, that is where multiculturalism always leads", he dropped his voice to a near whisper, "and only fools delude themselves otherwise."
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Extract from my book 'Corpalism'
Community Leaders
Experience demands that man is the only animal which devours his own kind, for I can apply no milder term to the general prey of the rich on the poor.
Thomas Jefferson
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?”
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Experience demands that man is the only animal which devours his own kind, for I can apply no milder term to the general prey of the rich on the poor.
Thomas Jefferson
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?”
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