Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 6

Insurrection by Arun D Ellis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Petition our local MP," offered Gerry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I mean as in 'fight' back.”

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

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

“No, like soldiers.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" Alb stared at him

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What about him?" whispered Alb.

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

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

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

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

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

"No, Flora."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

∞

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


Hope you have a great New Years Celebration

Cheers

Arun


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Uprising by Arun D Ellis

Suddenly

A man may die, nations may rise and fall,
but an idea lives on.
John F. Kennedy

Cramming the last piece of toast into his mouth Terry Jones grabbed his jacket and left his apartment for the office.

He’d had the option of a high-rise within walking distance when he was first assigned to Relocations; his reasons for turning it down had seemed sound; cost = astronomical, space = minimal. Now, and not for the first time, he wished he’d taken it. That morning he’d set his alarm earlier than usual in the hopes of beating the rush hour traffic, problem was he never really managed to keep to his schedule (poor time management or lousy schedule?) and he found himself, yet again, bumper to bumper and yet again, late for work.

Brian Olsen made the final adjustments to his tie, jacket and hair before leaving the men’s room and heading to his desk; all the while diligently maintaining an erect 6ft 6in posture, a copy of today’s Times clamped under his right arm, his brief case gripped firmly in his right hand, and as he strode he repeated his mantra over and over in his head ‘today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations, today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations….’

Rain Morgan, stared at the free drinks machine for a few moments before selecting a cappuccino with sugar. Her actual name was Rainbow Sunset, her mother having one her odd moments, but she preferred Rain. She was quickly joined by Debby Jenna and Phillippa Djukovic; just time for a quick debrief of Phillippa’s date with Simon Brookes from Finance.

Peter Illyffe, the divisional manager for Relocations 1, left his office and headed for the usual 8:30 briefing in meeting room 3, aka the cupboard due to its lack of size and windows. His staff fell in behind, a well-rehearsed troupe, that is everyone except Terry Jones who was still driving fruitlessly round and round the car park.

The room filled quickly; those lucky enough to get in the door first grabbed a seat at the table, Peter at their head.

“Morning everyone,” he said, to which there were the usual responses of “morning, morning Peter,” a few nods and coughs and a silky “morning, Boss” from Brian, tall even when sitting down. “No Terry, I see?”

This too was greeted by the usual responses, initial silence, then embarrassed coughs or ums…. followed by a clear and unequivocal “he’s not in yet, Boss” from Brian. Peter made a note in the top corner of his meeting notes, as usual.

“Ok, everyone got a copy of today’s agenda?” general nods everywhere, “good, ok – item one then – the recent merger with Alderson’s. As per our meeting yesterday morning I’ve checked up the line and can confirm that Alderson’s Relocations are being wound down and we will ‘inherit their workload’.”

“Relocations are being relocated.” Phillippa’s quip was not altogether unexpected; there were a few groans.

“Thank you Phillippa,” said Peter.

“How big a workload we talking?” asked Rain.

“Approx half again our existing workload,” replied Peter.

“Will we be getting more staff?” Rain again.

“No,” said Peter.

“But how are we meant to cope with that?” asked Debby, saying what the others were thinking.

“By ‘working smarter’,” Brian jumped in, borrowing one of Peter’s ‘phrases of the moment’, “and if some people spent less time at the coffee machine talking then we’d get a lot more done.”

“Who’re you on about?” demanded Debby, realising too late that by asking the question she had singled herself out. Peter made another note at the top of his meeting papers.

“Moving on” said Peter, sounding tired, “there will be a further meeting at 2pm today with the team from Alderson’s so we can ‘manage the handover’ smoothly. Rain and I will attend that. Another quick point, the company will no longer be providing free drinks.”

There was a collective gasp, then “Why’re they changing it?” asked Debby, “I mean we’ve had free coffee for years now.” For some reason her mouth seemed to be working overtime this morning, in the absence of Terry it could be deemed she had assumed his mantle.

“As you all know we’re facing ever ‘stiffer competition’ out there, which is one of the reasons we’ve been merged with Alderson’s. The Efficiency Department has identified that the company could save almost £100,000 a year by moving to a ‘pay for your own’ drinks environment.”

“Can we bring a kettle and make our own drinks?” asked Phillippa.

“No,” replied Peter, “that would mean providing kitchen facilities – an added expense.”

“What about a flask?” asked Brian.

“Flasks are OK,” said Peter, flashing him a grateful smile.

“If you can drink anything from a flask,” muttered Rain.

“Everyone, now, come to order, please.” Peter was becoming irritated and the strain of not showing it was telling on his stress levels. At that point Terry opened the door and slipped into the room, “Ah! Mr. Jones, glad you could join us.”

“Sorry I’m late,” said Terry “couldn’t find anywhere to park.”

“There were loads of spaces when I got here at 8:00,” said Brian.

“I got held up in traffic,” offered Terry, his expression hopeful.

“Then might I suggest you leave earlier,” replied Brian, “we all make the effort to be here on time, it’s only ever you who’s late.”

“Thank you, Brian,” Peter interceded. “OK the final point, we’ve had a report from C.I.T, the Counter Intelligence Team,” he elaborated, staring pointedly at Phillippa over whose head most things of import were known to sail, “that we have a ‘heightened terror threat’ as a result of our merger with Alderson’s.” He waited for the information to sink in then continued by way of explanation, “Apparently we’re now the 3rd largest provider of labour resource in the EU so it makes us an even bigger target.” Phillippa looked on the verge of tears, possibly at being singled out for the stare, the rest were demonstrating variously dismay or affected disinterest but no-one spoke. “So everybody please ‘stay alert, stay vigilant’ and re-watch the compulsory DVD ‘Terror and Counter Terrorism’. Remember, ‘we’re all in this together’ and it’s up to each and every one of us to …‘keep the workplace safe’.”

Terry winced; he was convinced that Peter’s insistence on speaking in inverted commas and quoting the company watchwords at every opportunity had a damaging effect on his psyche.

“Did anyone see the news this morning?” asked Rain, too brightly. “There was an explosion in the town centre.”

“Yeah,” chipped in Debby, “near Macheson’s.”

“They said something about 20 casualties,” Rain added, “it’s awful”.

“Did they say who it was?” asked Terry.

“It’s a bit early for that kind of info,” snapped Brian.

“I dunno,” defended Terry, “they sometimes give a warning.”

“That’s the Red Freedoms,” said Debby, “the Black Hands don’t give a warning.”

“Which could imply the Black Hands,” said Terry, settling in for a natter on the merits and demerits of one terrorist organisation’s way of doing business versus another.

“OK,” interrupted Peter, forestalling further chat, “Any questions?”

“Parking,” said Terry, opportunistic as ever, “when are they doing something about parking?”

“As we said yesterday and the day before and, oh yes, as we’ve been saying every day in all these months since you joined us, they aren’t going to do anything about the parking, thank you, Terry.” Peter stared round the table, lingering on Phillippa, as if daring any more utterances.

“When are they going to fix the tower clock?” she asked, making a sterling effort to fight back tears.

“And they aren’t going to fix the clock, either, Phillippa. As we’ve already said it will cost too much to repair. Any more questions?”

Silence.

“Good, back to work all of you, except you Terry, if you could just stay back a minute.”

The others filed out of the room and closed the door behind them.

“You were late again Terry.”

“I know but it was the traffic….”

“Traffic is not an excuse, Terry,” said Peter, “you should know to factor that in to your plans. Also, as I recall, Human Resources offered you an apartment close by when you joined us, a much sought after facility that had only come available due to the unfortunate demise of your predecessor.” He fell silent, possibly in recognition of human frailty and the fact that the previous occupant had thrown himself ungratefully off the 7th floor balcony of the much vaunted facility. “You are paid to be here between the hours of 8:30 and 5:00. It’s up to you to get yourself here on time.”

“Yes,” said Terry, for once recognising a time when the less words said might be the better.

“Everyone else manages to be here. I have to come from further away than you so I leave earlier. Brian always gets here at 8:00.”

“I know,” Terry murmured, humbly, while thinking 'yeah but Brian hasn’t got a life…'

“And he doesn’t leave his desk until 5.45 whereas you are packed and out the door by 5:10 if you can get away with it.”

Again, Brian hasn’t got a life …“I always do my hours…”

“Do you want to see your clocking in sheet?” asked Peter. Terry ducked his head; he knew what it would show. “The thing is Terry, it’s not working out for us; I think we need to move you on.”

Terry grimaced “I’m sorry Peter, I promise I will get here earlier in future.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late, Terry, Galaxy has already collated your data and raised it with Human Resources. They’ve spotlighted you and put in the transfer request.”

“You mean I’m already on the List?” asked Terry. “That was quick.”

Peter gave him a look; he was a strange one and no mistake, “Should come through in a few days. …Obviously you can’t be on site when it comes through, that would create a conflict of interest so your employment with Peter Brookes will be terminated this morning.”

Terry placed his head in his hands; his date with Cathy in Finance had just gone down the pan.

“I’m sorry, Terry but you knew your stats were in the system. It was only a matter of time before Galaxy highlighted you. You know the drill; it’s out of my hands.”

“I know, I know,” said Terry.

“I’m afraid I have to escort you off the premises.” Terry nodded. “Straight from this meeting.”

“Right now? Don’t I get to say goodbye to anyone?”

“Afraid not, you will be clocked out …” Peter flicked through his paperwork, “5 minutes from now. Sorry but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Terry, “I know how the system works.”


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Petition our local MP," offered Gerry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I mean as in 'fight' back.”

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

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

“No, like soldiers.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" Alb stared at him

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What about him?" whispered Alb.

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

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

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

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

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

"No, Flora."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

∞

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


Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun


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Uprising by Arun D Ellis FREE from Amazon for Kindle/PC download until Wednesday 14th Aug 2019

Prologue

‘Please note, effective immediately: in order to help the nation heal its wounds after the terrible atrocity of 12/12 it has been decided that senior members of the Civil Service will adopt all 200 resultant orphans’.

Mrs. Mayweather sat at her PC and studied this, a recent email from the Home Office. She stretched her neck and rubbed her forehead, as if she didn’t have enough to contend with already. She re-read the communiqué, the directive, because let’s not kid ourselves, that’s what it was.

She looked at the seven files spread out before her; seven files representing seven children. She’d had her quota, she couldn’t argue that; eight of the 200 had been sent to St. David’s but one of them, Toby, had been adopted by his aunt in Australia. She thought quickly, was it worth making more paperwork by saying she only had 7 left? Would it earn her a black mark?

Truth be told, she was sensing an opportunity to find a good home for one of her other children; the chance of a lifetime, to be lifted out of poverty and placed into the upper echelons of society, public school, city job, a home south of the M4 Corridor …who could resist? She made up her mind; the Government had deposited eight children with her, the Government would expect eight children back and by Jove the Government was going to get what it expected. She needed a boy to replace Toby.

She got up from her desk and went across to the filing cabinet; she knew the staff mocked her behind her back but nothing on this earth would get her to go paper-free.

She pulled out two files; Johnson, Alan; 7 years old, resident for the past 4 years. He needed to get out and into a family. The Richardsons had shown interest in him, they were a decent couple and things were proceeding quite nicely. However, there’s plenty a slip ‘twixt cup and lip as her granny used to say, and you can never be sure. However, they would notice if he suddenly disappeared and could potentially make a fuss. Nothing she couldn’t handle though.

The other child, White, Robert; 8 years old, he’d arrived with the others from the 12/12 atrocity, so he had the background. Not strictly speaking an orphan; mother had sustained serious head wounds in the explosion, leaving her in a coma, no father, live-in boyfriend no longer on the scene having left when the extent of her injuries became known. There was a grandmother but she’d been deemed inappropriate, too old, by Social Services. But, no two ways about it, he was not an orphan, in the strictest sense of the word.

‘So…which one will it be?’ she mused, moving the folders around on her desk.
 


Suddenly

A man may die, nations may rise and fall,
but an idea lives on.
John F. Kennedy

Cramming the last piece of toast into his mouth Terry Jones grabbed his jacket and left his apartment for the office.

He’d had the option of a high-rise within walking distance when he was first assigned to Relocations; his reasons for turning it down had seemed sound; cost = astronomical, space = minimal. Now, and not for the first time, he wished he’d taken it. That morning he’d set his alarm earlier than usual in the hopes of beating the rush hour traffic, problem was he never really managed to keep to his schedule (poor time management or lousy schedule?) and he found himself, yet again, bumper to bumper and yet again, late for work.

Brian Olsen made the final adjustments to his tie, jacket and hair before leaving the men’s room and heading to his desk; all the while diligently maintaining an erect 6ft 6in posture, a copy of today’s Times clamped under his right arm, his brief case gripped firmly in his right hand, and as he strode he repeated his mantra over and over in his head ‘today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations, today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations….’

Rain Morgan, stared at the free drinks machine for a few moments before selecting a cappuccino with sugar. Her actual name was Rainbow Sunset, her mother having one her odd moments, but she preferred Rain. She was quickly joined by Debby Jenna and Phillippa Djukovic; just time for a quick debrief of Phillippa’s date with Simon Brookes from Finance.

Peter Illyffe, the divisional manager for Relocations 1, left his office and headed for the usual 8:30 briefing in meeting room 3, aka the cupboard due to its lack of size and windows. His staff fell in behind, a well-rehearsed troupe, that is everyone except Terry Jones who was still driving fruitlessly round and round the car park.

The room filled quickly; those lucky enough to get in the door first grabbed a seat at the table, Peter at their head.

“Morning everyone,” he said, to which there were the usual responses of “morning, morning Peter,” a few nods and coughs and a silky “morning, Boss” from Brian, tall even when sitting down. “No Terry, I see?”

This too was greeted by the usual responses, initial silence, then embarrassed coughs or ums…. followed by a clear and unequivocal “he’s not in yet, Boss” from Brian. Peter made a note in the top corner of his meeting notes, as usual.

“Ok, everyone got a copy of today’s agenda?” general nods everywhere, “good, ok – item one then – the recent merger with Alderson’s. As per our meeting yesterday morning I’ve checked up the line and can confirm that Alderson’s Relocations are being wound down and we will ‘inherit their workload’.”

“Relocations are being relocated.” Phillippa’s quip was not altogether unexpected; there were a few groans.

“Thank you Phillippa,” said Peter.

“How big a workload we talking?” asked Rain.

“Approx half again our existing workload,” replied Peter.

“Will we be getting more staff?” Rain again.

“No,” said Peter.

“But how are we meant to cope with that?” asked Debby, saying what the others were thinking.

“By ‘working smarter’,” Brian jumped in, borrowing one of Peter’s ‘phrases of the moment’, “and if some people spent less time at the coffee machine talking then we’d get a lot more done.”

“Who’re you on about?” demanded Debby, realising too late that by asking the question she had singled herself out. Peter made another note at the top of his meeting papers.

“Moving on” said Peter, sounding tired, “there will be a further meeting at 2pm today with the team from Alderson’s so we can ‘manage the handover’ smoothly. Rain and I will attend that. Another quick point, the company will no longer be providing free drinks.”

There was a collective gasp, then “Why’re they changing it?” asked Debby, “I mean we’ve had free coffee for years now.” For some reason her mouth seemed to be working overtime this morning, in the absence of Terry it could be deemed she had assumed his mantle.

“As you all know we’re facing ever ‘stiffer competition’ out there, which is one of the reasons we’ve been merged with Alderson’s. The Efficiency Department has identified that the company could save almost £100,000 a year by moving to a ‘pay for your own’ drinks environment.”

“Can we bring a kettle and make our own drinks?” asked Phillippa.

“No,” replied Peter, “that would mean providing kitchen facilities – an added expense.”

“What about a flask?” asked Brian.

“Flasks are OK,” said Peter, flashing him a grateful smile.

“If you can drink anything from a flask,” muttered Rain.

“Everyone, now, come to order, please.” Peter was becoming irritated and the strain of not showing it was telling on his stress levels. At that point Terry opened the door and slipped into the room, “Ah! Mr. Jones, glad you could join us.”

“Sorry I’m late,” said Terry “couldn’t find anywhere to park.”

“There were loads of spaces when I got here at 8:00,” said Brian.

“I got held up in traffic,” offered Terry, his expression hopeful.

“Then might I suggest you leave earlier,” replied Brian, “we all make the effort to be here on time, it’s only ever you who’s late.”

“Thank you, Brian,” Peter interceded. “OK the final point, we’ve had a report from C.I.T, the Counter Intelligence Team,” he elaborated, staring pointedly at Phillippa over whose head most things of import were known to sail, “that we have a ‘heightened terror threat’ as a result of our merger with Alderson’s.” He waited for the information to sink in then continued by way of explanation, “Apparently we’re now the 3rd largest provider of labour resource in the EU so it makes us an even bigger target.” Phillippa looked on the verge of tears, possibly at being singled out for the stare, the rest were demonstrating variously dismay or affected disinterest but no-one spoke. “So everybody please ‘stay alert, stay vigilant’ and re-watch the compulsory DVD ‘Terror and Counter Terrorism’. Remember, ‘we’re all in this together’ and it’s up to each and every one of us to …‘keep the workplace safe’.”

Terry winced; he was convinced that Peter’s insistence on speaking in inverted commas and quoting the company watchwords at every opportunity had a damaging effect on his psyche.

“Did anyone see the news this morning?” asked Rain, too brightly. “There was an explosion in the town centre.”

“Yeah,” chipped in Debby, “near Macheson’s.”

“They said something about 20 casualties,” Rain added, “it’s awful”.

“Did they say who it was?” asked Terry.

“It’s a bit early for that kind of info,” snapped Brian.

“I dunno,” defended Terry, “they sometimes give a warning.”

“That’s the Red Freedoms,” said Debby, “the Black Hands don’t give a warning.”

“Which could imply the Black Hands,” said Terry, settling in for a natter on the merits and demerits of one terrorist organisation’s way of doing business versus another.

“OK,” interrupted Peter, forestalling further chat, “Any questions?”

“Parking,” said Terry, opportunistic as ever, “when are they doing something about parking?”

“As we said yesterday and the day before and, oh yes, as we’ve been saying every day in all these months since you joined us, they aren’t going to do anything about the parking, thank you, Terry.” Peter stared round the table, lingering on Phillippa, as if daring any more utterances.

“When are they going to fix the tower clock?” she asked, making a sterling effort to fight back tears.

“And they aren’t going to fix the clock, either, Phillippa. As we’ve already said it will cost too much to repair. Any more questions?”

Silence.

“Good, back to work all of you, except you Terry, if you could just stay back a minute.”

The others filed out of the room and closed the door behind them.

“You were late again Terry.”

“I know but it was the traffic….”

“Traffic is not an excuse, Terry,” said Peter, “you should know to factor that in to your plans. Also, as I recall, Human Resources offered you an apartment close by when you joined us, a much sought after facility that had only come available due to the unfortunate demise of your predecessor.” He fell silent, possibly in recognition of human frailty and the fact that the previous occupant had thrown himself ungratefully off the 7th floor balcony of the much vaunted facility. “You are paid to be here between the hours of 8:30 and 5:00. It’s up to you to get yourself here on time.”

“Yes,” said Terry, for once recognising a time when the less words said might be the better.

“Everyone else manages to be here. I have to come from further away than you so I leave earlier. Brian always gets here at 8:00.”

“I know,” Terry murmured, humbly, while thinking 'yeah but Brian hasn’t got a life…'

“And he doesn’t leave his desk until 5.45 whereas you are packed and out the door by 5:10 if you can get away with it.”

Again, Brian hasn’t got a life …“I always do my hours…”

“Do you want to see your clocking in sheet?” asked Peter. Terry ducked his head; he knew what it would show. “The thing is Terry, it’s not working out for us; I think we need to move you on.”

Terry grimaced “I’m sorry Peter, I promise I will get here earlier in future.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late, Terry, Galaxy has already collated your data and raised it with Human Resources. They’ve spotlighted you and put in the transfer request.”

“You mean I’m already on the List?” asked Terry. “That was quick.”

Peter gave him a look; he was a strange one and no mistake, “Should come through in a few days. …Obviously you can’t be on site when it comes through, that would create a conflict of interest so your employment with Peter Brookes will be terminated this morning.”

Terry placed his head in his hands; his date with Cathy in Finance had just gone down the pan.

“I’m sorry, Terry but you knew your stats were in the system. It was only a matter of time before Galaxy highlighted you. You know the drill; it’s out of my hands.”

“I know, I know,” said Terry.

“I’m afraid I have to escort you off the premises.” Terry nodded. “Straight from this meeting.”

“Right now? Don’t I get to say goodbye to anyone?”

“Afraid not, you will be clocked out …” Peter flicked through his paperwork, “5 minutes from now. Sorry but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Terry, “I know how the system works.”





More books in the Corpalism series












Compendium editions

Uprising by Arun D Ellis FREE from Amazon for Kindle/PC download until Sunday 19th May 2019

Prologue

‘Please note, effective immediately: in order to help the nation heal its wounds after the terrible atrocity of 12/12 it has been decided that senior members of the Civil Service will adopt all 200 resultant orphans’.

Mrs. Mayweather sat at her PC and studied this, a recent email from the Home Office. She stretched her neck and rubbed her forehead, as if she didn’t have enough to contend with already. She re-read the communiqué, the directive, because let’s not kid ourselves, that’s what it was.

She looked at the seven files spread out before her; seven files representing seven children. She’d had her quota, she couldn’t argue that; eight of the 200 had been sent to St. David’s but one of them, Toby, had been adopted by his aunt in Australia. She thought quickly, was it worth making more paperwork by saying she only had 7 left? Would it earn her a black mark?

Truth be told, she was sensing an opportunity to find a good home for one of her other children; the chance of a lifetime, to be lifted out of poverty and placed into the upper echelons of society, public school, city job, a home south of the M4 Corridor …who could resist? She made up her mind; the Government had deposited eight children with her, the Government would expect eight children back and by Jove the Government was going to get what it expected. She needed a boy to replace Toby.

She got up from her desk and went across to the filing cabinet; she knew the staff mocked her behind her back but nothing on this earth would get her to go paper-free.

She pulled out two files; Johnson, Alan; 7 years old, resident for the past 4 years. He needed to get out and into a family. The Richardsons had shown interest in him, they were a decent couple and things were proceeding quite nicely. However, there’s plenty a slip ‘twixt cup and lip as her granny used to say, and you can never be sure. However, they would notice if he suddenly disappeared and could potentially make a fuss. Nothing she couldn’t handle though.

The other child, White, Robert; 8 years old, he’d arrived with the others from the 12/12 atrocity, so he had the background. Not strictly speaking an orphan; mother had sustained serious head wounds in the explosion, leaving her in a coma, no father, live-in boyfriend no longer on the scene having left when the extent of her injuries became known. There was a grandmother but she’d been deemed inappropriate, too old, by Social Services. But, no two ways about it, he was not an orphan, in the strictest sense of the word.

‘So…which one will it be?’ she mused, moving the folders around on her desk.
 


Suddenly

A man may die, nations may rise and fall,
but an idea lives on.
John F. Kennedy

Cramming the last piece of toast into his mouth Terry Jones grabbed his jacket and left his apartment for the office.

He’d had the option of a high-rise within walking distance when he was first assigned to Relocations; his reasons for turning it down had seemed sound; cost = astronomical, space = minimal. Now, and not for the first time, he wished he’d taken it. That morning he’d set his alarm earlier than usual in the hopes of beating the rush hour traffic, problem was he never really managed to keep to his schedule (poor time management or lousy schedule?) and he found himself, yet again, bumper to bumper and yet again, late for work.

Brian Olsen made the final adjustments to his tie, jacket and hair before leaving the men’s room and heading to his desk; all the while diligently maintaining an erect 6ft 6in posture, a copy of today’s Times clamped under his right arm, his brief case gripped firmly in his right hand, and as he strode he repeated his mantra over and over in his head ‘today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations, today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations….’

Rain Morgan, stared at the free drinks machine for a few moments before selecting a cappuccino with sugar. Her actual name was Rainbow Sunset, her mother having one her odd moments, but she preferred Rain. She was quickly joined by Debby Jenna and Phillippa Djukovic; just time for a quick debrief of Phillippa’s date with Simon Brookes from Finance.

Peter Illyffe, the divisional manager for Relocations 1, left his office and headed for the usual 8:30 briefing in meeting room 3, aka the cupboard due to its lack of size and windows. His staff fell in behind, a well-rehearsed troupe, that is everyone except Terry Jones who was still driving fruitlessly round and round the car park.

The room filled quickly; those lucky enough to get in the door first grabbed a seat at the table, Peter at their head.

“Morning everyone,” he said, to which there were the usual responses of “morning, morning Peter,” a few nods and coughs and a silky “morning, Boss” from Brian, tall even when sitting down. “No Terry, I see?”

This too was greeted by the usual responses, initial silence, then embarrassed coughs or ums…. followed by a clear and unequivocal “he’s not in yet, Boss” from Brian. Peter made a note in the top corner of his meeting notes, as usual.

“Ok, everyone got a copy of today’s agenda?” general nods everywhere, “good, ok – item one then – the recent merger with Alderson’s. As per our meeting yesterday morning I’ve checked up the line and can confirm that Alderson’s Relocations are being wound down and we will ‘inherit their workload’.”

“Relocations are being relocated.” Phillippa’s quip was not altogether unexpected; there were a few groans.

“Thank you Phillippa,” said Peter.

“How big a workload we talking?” asked Rain.

“Approx half again our existing workload,” replied Peter.

“Will we be getting more staff?” Rain again.

“No,” said Peter.

“But how are we meant to cope with that?” asked Debby, saying what the others were thinking.

“By ‘working smarter’,” Brian jumped in, borrowing one of Peter’s ‘phrases of the moment’, “and if some people spent less time at the coffee machine talking then we’d get a lot more done.”

“Who’re you on about?” demanded Debby, realising too late that by asking the question she had singled herself out. Peter made another note at the top of his meeting papers.

“Moving on” said Peter, sounding tired, “there will be a further meeting at 2pm today with the team from Alderson’s so we can ‘manage the handover’ smoothly. Rain and I will attend that. Another quick point, the company will no longer be providing free drinks.”

There was a collective gasp, then “Why’re they changing it?” asked Debby, “I mean we’ve had free coffee for years now.” For some reason her mouth seemed to be working overtime this morning, in the absence of Terry it could be deemed she had assumed his mantle.

“As you all know we’re facing ever ‘stiffer competition’ out there, which is one of the reasons we’ve been merged with Alderson’s. The Efficiency Department has identified that the company could save almost £100,000 a year by moving to a ‘pay for your own’ drinks environment.”

“Can we bring a kettle and make our own drinks?” asked Phillippa.

“No,” replied Peter, “that would mean providing kitchen facilities – an added expense.”

“What about a flask?” asked Brian.

“Flasks are OK,” said Peter, flashing him a grateful smile.

“If you can drink anything from a flask,” muttered Rain.

“Everyone, now, come to order, please.” Peter was becoming irritated and the strain of not showing it was telling on his stress levels. At that point Terry opened the door and slipped into the room, “Ah! Mr. Jones, glad you could join us.”

“Sorry I’m late,” said Terry “couldn’t find anywhere to park.”

“There were loads of spaces when I got here at 8:00,” said Brian.

“I got held up in traffic,” offered Terry, his expression hopeful.

“Then might I suggest you leave earlier,” replied Brian, “we all make the effort to be here on time, it’s only ever you who’s late.”

“Thank you, Brian,” Peter interceded. “OK the final point, we’ve had a report from C.I.T, the Counter Intelligence Team,” he elaborated, staring pointedly at Phillippa over whose head most things of import were known to sail, “that we have a ‘heightened terror threat’ as a result of our merger with Alderson’s.” He waited for the information to sink in then continued by way of explanation, “Apparently we’re now the 3rd largest provider of labour resource in the EU so it makes us an even bigger target.” Phillippa looked on the verge of tears, possibly at being singled out for the stare, the rest were demonstrating variously dismay or affected disinterest but no-one spoke. “So everybody please ‘stay alert, stay vigilant’ and re-watch the compulsory DVD ‘Terror and Counter Terrorism’. Remember, ‘we’re all in this together’ and it’s up to each and every one of us to …‘keep the workplace safe’.”

Terry winced; he was convinced that Peter’s insistence on speaking in inverted commas and quoting the company watchwords at every opportunity had a damaging effect on his psyche.

“Did anyone see the news this morning?” asked Rain, too brightly. “There was an explosion in the town centre.”

“Yeah,” chipped in Debby, “near Macheson’s.”

“They said something about 20 casualties,” Rain added, “it’s awful”.

“Did they say who it was?” asked Terry.

“It’s a bit early for that kind of info,” snapped Brian.

“I dunno,” defended Terry, “they sometimes give a warning.”

“That’s the Red Freedoms,” said Debby, “the Black Hands don’t give a warning.”

“Which could imply the Black Hands,” said Terry, settling in for a natter on the merits and demerits of one terrorist organisation’s way of doing business versus another.

“OK,” interrupted Peter, forestalling further chat, “Any questions?”

“Parking,” said Terry, opportunistic as ever, “when are they doing something about parking?”

“As we said yesterday and the day before and, oh yes, as we’ve been saying every day in all these months since you joined us, they aren’t going to do anything about the parking, thank you, Terry.” Peter stared round the table, lingering on Phillippa, as if daring any more utterances.

“When are they going to fix the tower clock?” she asked, making a sterling effort to fight back tears.

“And they aren’t going to fix the clock, either, Phillippa. As we’ve already said it will cost too much to repair. Any more questions?”

Silence.

“Good, back to work all of you, except you Terry, if you could just stay back a minute.”

The others filed out of the room and closed the door behind them.

“You were late again Terry.”

“I know but it was the traffic….”

“Traffic is not an excuse, Terry,” said Peter, “you should know to factor that in to your plans. Also, as I recall, Human Resources offered you an apartment close by when you joined us, a much sought after facility that had only come available due to the unfortunate demise of your predecessor.” He fell silent, possibly in recognition of human frailty and the fact that the previous occupant had thrown himself ungratefully off the 7th floor balcony of the much vaunted facility. “You are paid to be here between the hours of 8:30 and 5:00. It’s up to you to get yourself here on time.”

“Yes,” said Terry, for once recognising a time when the less words said might be the better.

“Everyone else manages to be here. I have to come from further away than you so I leave earlier. Brian always gets here at 8:00.”

“I know,” Terry murmured, humbly, while thinking 'yeah but Brian hasn’t got a life…'

“And he doesn’t leave his desk until 5.45 whereas you are packed and out the door by 5:10 if you can get away with it.”

Again, Brian hasn’t got a life …“I always do my hours…”

“Do you want to see your clocking in sheet?” asked Peter. Terry ducked his head; he knew what it would show. “The thing is Terry, it’s not working out for us; I think we need to move you on.”

Terry grimaced “I’m sorry Peter, I promise I will get here earlier in future.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late, Terry, Galaxy has already collated your data and raised it with Human Resources. They’ve spotlighted you and put in the transfer request.”

“You mean I’m already on the List?” asked Terry. “That was quick.”

Peter gave him a look; he was a strange one and no mistake, “Should come through in a few days. …Obviously you can’t be on site when it comes through, that would create a conflict of interest so your employment with Peter Brookes will be terminated this morning.”

Terry placed his head in his hands; his date with Cathy in Finance had just gone down the pan.

“I’m sorry, Terry but you knew your stats were in the system. It was only a matter of time before Galaxy highlighted you. You know the drill; it’s out of my hands.”

“I know, I know,” said Terry.

“I’m afraid I have to escort you off the premises.” Terry nodded. “Straight from this meeting.”

“Right now? Don’t I get to say goodbye to anyone?”

“Afraid not, you will be clocked out …” Peter flicked through his paperwork, “5 minutes from now. Sorry but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Terry, “I know how the system works.”





More books in the Corpalism series















Compendium editions

Uprising by Arun D Ellis FREE from Amazon for Kindle/PC download until Sunday 19th May 2019

Prologue

‘Please note, effective immediately: in order to help the nation heal its wounds after the terrible atrocity of 12/12 it has been decided that senior members of the Civil Service will adopt all 200 resultant orphans’.

Mrs. Mayweather sat at her PC and studied this, a recent email from the Home Office. She stretched her neck and rubbed her forehead, as if she didn’t have enough to contend with already. She re-read the communiqué, the directive, because let’s not kid ourselves, that’s what it was.

She looked at the seven files spread out before her; seven files representing seven children. She’d had her quota, she couldn’t argue that; eight of the 200 had been sent to St. David’s but one of them, Toby, had been adopted by his aunt in Australia. She thought quickly, was it worth making more paperwork by saying she only had 7 left? Would it earn her a black mark?

Truth be told, she was sensing an opportunity to find a good home for one of her other children; the chance of a lifetime, to be lifted out of poverty and placed into the upper echelons of society, public school, city job, a home south of the M4 Corridor …who could resist? She made up her mind; the Government had deposited eight children with her, the Government would expect eight children back and by Jove the Government was going to get what it expected. She needed a boy to replace Toby.

She got up from her desk and went across to the filing cabinet; she knew the staff mocked her behind her back but nothing on this earth would get her to go paper-free.

She pulled out two files; Johnson, Alan; 7 years old, resident for the past 4 years. He needed to get out and into a family. The Richardsons had shown interest in him, they were a decent couple and things were proceeding quite nicely. However, there’s plenty a slip ‘twixt cup and lip as her granny used to say, and you can never be sure. However, they would notice if he suddenly disappeared and could potentially make a fuss. Nothing she couldn’t handle though.

The other child, White, Robert; 8 years old, he’d arrived with the others from the 12/12 atrocity, so he had the background. Not strictly speaking an orphan; mother had sustained serious head wounds in the explosion, leaving her in a coma, no father, live-in boyfriend no longer on the scene having left when the extent of her injuries became known. There was a grandmother but she’d been deemed inappropriate, too old, by Social Services. But, no two ways about it, he was not an orphan, in the strictest sense of the word.

‘So…which one will it be?’ she mused, moving the folders around on her desk.
 


Suddenly

A man may die, nations may rise and fall,
but an idea lives on.
John F. Kennedy

Cramming the last piece of toast into his mouth Terry Jones grabbed his jacket and left his apartment for the office.

He’d had the option of a high-rise within walking distance when he was first assigned to Relocations; his reasons for turning it down had seemed sound; cost = astronomical, space = minimal. Now, and not for the first time, he wished he’d taken it. That morning he’d set his alarm earlier than usual in the hopes of beating the rush hour traffic, problem was he never really managed to keep to his schedule (poor time management or lousy schedule?) and he found himself, yet again, bumper to bumper and yet again, late for work.

Brian Olsen made the final adjustments to his tie, jacket and hair before leaving the men’s room and heading to his desk; all the while diligently maintaining an erect 6ft 6in posture, a copy of today’s Times clamped under his right arm, his brief case gripped firmly in his right hand, and as he strode he repeated his mantra over and over in his head ‘today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations, today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations….’

Rain Morgan, stared at the free drinks machine for a few moments before selecting a cappuccino with sugar. Her actual name was Rainbow Sunset, her mother having one her odd moments, but she preferred Rain. She was quickly joined by Debby Jenna and Phillippa Djukovic; just time for a quick debrief of Phillippa’s date with Simon Brookes from Finance.

Peter Illyffe, the divisional manager for Relocations 1, left his office and headed for the usual 8:30 briefing in meeting room 3, aka the cupboard due to its lack of size and windows. His staff fell in behind, a well-rehearsed troupe, that is everyone except Terry Jones who was still driving fruitlessly round and round the car park.

The room filled quickly; those lucky enough to get in the door first grabbed a seat at the table, Peter at their head.

“Morning everyone,” he said, to which there were the usual responses of “morning, morning Peter,” a few nods and coughs and a silky “morning, Boss” from Brian, tall even when sitting down. “No Terry, I see?”

This too was greeted by the usual responses, initial silence, then embarrassed coughs or ums…. followed by a clear and unequivocal “he’s not in yet, Boss” from Brian. Peter made a note in the top corner of his meeting notes, as usual.

“Ok, everyone got a copy of today’s agenda?” general nods everywhere, “good, ok – item one then – the recent merger with Alderson’s. As per our meeting yesterday morning I’ve checked up the line and can confirm that Alderson’s Relocations are being wound down and we will ‘inherit their workload’.”

“Relocations are being relocated.” Phillippa’s quip was not altogether unexpected; there were a few groans.

“Thank you Phillippa,” said Peter.

“How big a workload we talking?” asked Rain.

“Approx half again our existing workload,” replied Peter.

“Will we be getting more staff?” Rain again.

“No,” said Peter.

“But how are we meant to cope with that?” asked Debby, saying what the others were thinking.

“By ‘working smarter’,” Brian jumped in, borrowing one of Peter’s ‘phrases of the moment’, “and if some people spent less time at the coffee machine talking then we’d get a lot more done.”

“Who’re you on about?” demanded Debby, realising too late that by asking the question she had singled herself out. Peter made another note at the top of his meeting papers.

“Moving on” said Peter, sounding tired, “there will be a further meeting at 2pm today with the team from Alderson’s so we can ‘manage the handover’ smoothly. Rain and I will attend that. Another quick point, the company will no longer be providing free drinks.”

There was a collective gasp, then “Why’re they changing it?” asked Debby, “I mean we’ve had free coffee for years now.” For some reason her mouth seemed to be working overtime this morning, in the absence of Terry it could be deemed she had assumed his mantle.

“As you all know we’re facing ever ‘stiffer competition’ out there, which is one of the reasons we’ve been merged with Alderson’s. The Efficiency Department has identified that the company could save almost £100,000 a year by moving to a ‘pay for your own’ drinks environment.”

“Can we bring a kettle and make our own drinks?” asked Phillippa.

“No,” replied Peter, “that would mean providing kitchen facilities – an added expense.”

“What about a flask?” asked Brian.

“Flasks are OK,” said Peter, flashing him a grateful smile.

“If you can drink anything from a flask,” muttered Rain.

“Everyone, now, come to order, please.” Peter was becoming irritated and the strain of not showing it was telling on his stress levels. At that point Terry opened the door and slipped into the room, “Ah! Mr. Jones, glad you could join us.”

“Sorry I’m late,” said Terry “couldn’t find anywhere to park.”

“There were loads of spaces when I got here at 8:00,” said Brian.

“I got held up in traffic,” offered Terry, his expression hopeful.

“Then might I suggest you leave earlier,” replied Brian, “we all make the effort to be here on time, it’s only ever you who’s late.”

“Thank you, Brian,” Peter interceded. “OK the final point, we’ve had a report from C.I.T, the Counter Intelligence Team,” he elaborated, staring pointedly at Phillippa over whose head most things of import were known to sail, “that we have a ‘heightened terror threat’ as a result of our merger with Alderson’s.” He waited for the information to sink in then continued by way of explanation, “Apparently we’re now the 3rd largest provider of labour resource in the EU so it makes us an even bigger target.” Phillippa looked on the verge of tears, possibly at being singled out for the stare, the rest were demonstrating variously dismay or affected disinterest but no-one spoke. “So everybody please ‘stay alert, stay vigilant’ and re-watch the compulsory DVD ‘Terror and Counter Terrorism’. Remember, ‘we’re all in this together’ and it’s up to each and every one of us to …‘keep the workplace safe’.”

Terry winced; he was convinced that Peter’s insistence on speaking in inverted commas and quoting the company watchwords at every opportunity had a damaging effect on his psyche.

“Did anyone see the news this morning?” asked Rain, too brightly. “There was an explosion in the town centre.”

“Yeah,” chipped in Debby, “near Macheson’s.”

“They said something about 20 casualties,” Rain added, “it’s awful”.

“Did they say who it was?” asked Terry.

“It’s a bit early for that kind of info,” snapped Brian.

“I dunno,” defended Terry, “they sometimes give a warning.”

“That’s the Red Freedoms,” said Debby, “the Black Hands don’t give a warning.”

“Which could imply the Black Hands,” said Terry, settling in for a natter on the merits and demerits of one terrorist organisation’s way of doing business versus another.

“OK,” interrupted Peter, forestalling further chat, “Any questions?”

“Parking,” said Terry, opportunistic as ever, “when are they doing something about parking?”

“As we said yesterday and the day before and, oh yes, as we’ve been saying every day in all these months since you joined us, they aren’t going to do anything about the parking, thank you, Terry.” Peter stared round the table, lingering on Phillippa, as if daring any more utterances.

“When are they going to fix the tower clock?” she asked, making a sterling effort to fight back tears.

“And they aren’t going to fix the clock, either, Phillippa. As we’ve already said it will cost too much to repair. Any more questions?”

Silence.

“Good, back to work all of you, except you Terry, if you could just stay back a minute.”

The others filed out of the room and closed the door behind them.

“You were late again Terry.”

“I know but it was the traffic….”

“Traffic is not an excuse, Terry,” said Peter, “you should know to factor that in to your plans. Also, as I recall, Human Resources offered you an apartment close by when you joined us, a much sought after facility that had only come available due to the unfortunate demise of your predecessor.” He fell silent, possibly in recognition of human frailty and the fact that the previous occupant had thrown himself ungratefully off the 7th floor balcony of the much vaunted facility. “You are paid to be here between the hours of 8:30 and 5:00. It’s up to you to get yourself here on time.”

“Yes,” said Terry, for once recognising a time when the less words said might be the better.

“Everyone else manages to be here. I have to come from further away than you so I leave earlier. Brian always gets here at 8:00.”

“I know,” Terry murmured, humbly, while thinking 'yeah but Brian hasn’t got a life…'

“And he doesn’t leave his desk until 5.45 whereas you are packed and out the door by 5:10 if you can get away with it.”

Again, Brian hasn’t got a life …“I always do my hours…”

“Do you want to see your clocking in sheet?” asked Peter. Terry ducked his head; he knew what it would show. “The thing is Terry, it’s not working out for us; I think we need to move you on.”

Terry grimaced “I’m sorry Peter, I promise I will get here earlier in future.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late, Terry, Galaxy has already collated your data and raised it with Human Resources. They’ve spotlighted you and put in the transfer request.”

“You mean I’m already on the List?” asked Terry. “That was quick.”

Peter gave him a look; he was a strange one and no mistake, “Should come through in a few days. …Obviously you can’t be on site when it comes through, that would create a conflict of interest so your employment with Peter Brookes will be terminated this morning.”

Terry placed his head in his hands; his date with Cathy in Finance had just gone down the pan.

“I’m sorry, Terry but you knew your stats were in the system. It was only a matter of time before Galaxy highlighted you. You know the drill; it’s out of my hands.”

“I know, I know,” said Terry.

“I’m afraid I have to escort you off the premises.” Terry nodded. “Straight from this meeting.”

“Right now? Don’t I get to say goodbye to anyone?”

“Afraid not, you will be clocked out …” Peter flicked through his paperwork, “5 minutes from now. Sorry but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Terry, “I know how the system works.”



More books in the Corpalism Series














Compendium editions

30 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis

The Biter Bit


You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view...
Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.
Atticus Finch – To Kill a Mockingbird


Rob marched Terry into a huge chandelier lit conference chamber. More light fell into the room by means of floor to ceiling windows. The high-ceilinged room was empty of people yet full of ornate gilded carvings and watched over by massive portraits. A large fire burned in a cavernous fireplace, guarded by two huge statues, built in to the mantelpiece. A square table arrangement outlined by about 20 ultra-modern sway-backed chairs, took up most of the available floor space.

Rob guided Terry to a seat somewhere near the middle of the table and they waited in complete silence. Five minutes passed and Sir Phillip Blackmore walked in, the door closing silently behind him. Despite Rob’s forewarning Terry was shocked, so convinced had he been by the trick played on him. Before he could challenge the man the door opened again and two armed security guards walked in and stationed themselves by the door. They were closely followed by Sir Clive Walters, a junior Minister from the Foreign and Commonwealth Office and Sir Patrick Muldaur, Permanent Secretary from the Ministry of Defence who entered the room, chatting easily one to the other. Though Terry and Rob sat in plain sight, they greeted Sir Phillip effusively as if there was no-one else present, and the conversation continued with some considerable energy.

Eventually Sir Phillip turned to Terry, “Welcome home Clayton. How are you?”

Terry cocked his head on one side, “Puzzled; thought you were dead.”

“Well, I’m not, which is all for the best, I think.”

Terry leant back in the chair, his face expressionless, “I’m confused, what’s this all been about?”

“Haven’t you worked it out yet, my boy?”

“Not all of it,” said Terry, “obviously you’re not dead so the Black Hands thing was a hoax, but that included deceiving me, so I’m inferring I’m as good as dead because I went along with it.”

“It’s not that bad, I’m sure that with some readjustment we can work things out.”

“Probably not,” said Terry, “and I’m fairly sure you don’t mean it anyway, ‘father’.” He put deliberate emphasis on the last word; the accompanying sneer appeared of its own volition. Sir Phillip smiled slightly, the other men shuffled. “But I still don’t know what you were hoping to achieve by all this.”

“I’d have thought it was fairly obvious, Clayton, we wanted you to create the current unrest.”

Terry frowned, “I don’t understand. Why would you want…..”

“Not too bright, are you,” said Sir Clive, the blustering interruption typical of the man, “we’ve been in power now for almost 30 years...”

“…and 30 years is long enough for things to change.” This quiet statement came from Terry’s erstwhile father as he sat back and steepled his fingers.

“Long enough for people whom we supposed to be loyal,” said Sir Patrick, “to have become disillusioned.”

“Or disgruntled, to the point of insurrection or at least to the point where the very suggestion might sound appealing to them.”

“It was fishing exercise,” said Terry, “it was all just a fishing exercise.”

“And a jolly good job you made of it, Clayton, look at the results, thanks to you, we have riots right across the North.”

“It spread then?” Terry couldn’t help but ask the question, his voice was gruff when he continued “Good for them …I hope they explode all over you.”

“Tch!” said Sir Clive, addressing Sir Phillip, “just like you said.”

“He’s referring to your temperament, my boy,” said his father, responding to the angry question in Terry’s eyes, “That was why we selected you, because we knew you would be swayed by the arguments.”

“Yes, I’m swayed by the arguments, because they’re valid. This is a corrupt regime ruled by corrupt individuals who are obsessed with money and power.”

“Well, yes,” Sir Phillip conceded smoothly, “but then what else is there?”

Terry stared long and hard at Sir Phillip, the man he’d called father for 20 years, the man he’d thought dead, the man he’d mourned, “Did you orchestrate 12/12?”

Rob flinched; it went unnoticed by all but Terry.

“My word, what on earth…? Where did you come up with that one?”

“Don’t fart around;” said Terry, “did you orchestrate 12/12?”

“12/12 was a terrible tragedy caused by some very ruthless people. Why, your mother and I….”

“Don’t call her that,” Terry’s eyes bored into Sir Phillip’s. “My parents were killed in 12/12. Just answer the question; did you authorize 12/12?”

As he spoke he studied Sir Phillip’s left eye, he was looking for the slightest of movements that even now he hoped desperately wouldn’t be there.

He asked again, “Did you orchestrate 12/12? Did you allow a false flag?”

“No, I did not,” said Sir Phillip firmly, and it happened; the tell-tale flicker of the left eyelid.

“Liar,” gasped Terry, his voice and his knees weak with shock.

“Ungrateful wretch,” said Sir Phillip rubbing his brow, “your mother will be so disappointed.”

“Take him away, Spencer,” said Sir Clive.

“Yes sir,” said Rob, pulling his pistol from his shoulder holster and starting to attach the silencer.

“Good God man, don’t do it here.” Sir Phillip looked appalled.

The two security men on the door both slipped their hands towards their holsters, already unclipped, needing one extra movement to clear the guns for use.

“Sorry sir,” said Rob, giving the silencer a final twist.

“Good bye Clayton,” said Sir Phillip.

“Good bye ‘father’,” said Terry.

Rob raised his pistol and shot each security man in the centre of the forehead, their guns falling uselessly to the floor. He spun and shot Sir Patrick in the neck as he made for the other door, and shot Sir Clive neatly through one eye as he tried to duck under the table.

Sir Phillip sat without moving, “How did you know?”

“Your left eyelid,” said Terry.

Sir Phillip conceded his weakness with a wry smile, “Of course.”

Rob shot him twice in the mouth.




The Serpent’s Head

If you see a snake, just kill it -
don't appoint a committee on snakes.
Ross Perot

“Okay,” said Col. Watkins, “get a chip reading and let’s see where these bastards are.”

Col. Watkins and Major Timms had been on the laptop studying Galaxy software, to be precise a detailed map of Boro 1; streets, alleys, open spaces. A skilled operator would have been able to navigate inside buildings and look almost in real time at what was happening on the ground. Major Timms was no expert but knew enough to click a button; now they could see the whole complex, the triplet cities in all their glory. The colonel grunted and Major Timms clicked on the ‘little man’ icon and a mass of red appeared. He didn’t consider himself a fanciful man yet to him it seemed like a pool of blood spreading over the screen. A number popped up in the top right hand corner, flashing, demanding attention.

“That can’t be right,” said the Colonel, “Four million in a concentrated mass like that … I don’t like it, Timms … not that many altogether.”

Timms looked embarrassed, “Sir…there’s meant to be fifteen million spread over all three cities” He waited for the remark to sink in then rammed the message home with “so where’s the rest of them?”

“Eh?” the Colonel rounded on him, “Whaddya mean …we’ve lost some?”

“I don’t know sir,” said Timms hastily, “I’ll check the missing stat with Galaxy,” He typed as he spoke. The response was immediate, eleven million chips deactivated.

“What the …? What does it mean deactivated?”

“It looks like they’ve found a way of neutralizing their chips, sir,” said Timms unsteadily, “I didn’t know that was technically possible.”

“Well, it might not be technically possible,” the colonel muttered, making a twisting motion like a hand holding a screwdriver and pushing it at his forearm, grudging respect in his voice, “but it is physically.”

Timms nodded, aghast “they could be anywhere; millions of ‘em and none of this crap is any good to us.”

∞

“They’ll be here soon,” Rob said, nodding to the camera in the ceiling. “Get the weapons and spare clips,” Terry moved quickly, picking up the fallen guns and then frisking both the security guards and removing clips and the thoughtfully provided, ‘tuck inside an ankle-holster’, back up pistols. “What’ve we got?”

“Two Glock 9mm, two .380 mouseguns and two spare clips for each,” said Terry.

“Not exactly an arsenal.”

“Can we fight our way out?” asked Terry. Rob shrugged. “Then we put up a ‘no hope’, last redoubt, stubborn defence and die laughing.”

Rob shook his head, “you don’t change, do you?” He thought for a minute then, “How about we go on the attack, strike at the head itself?”

“With four pistols?” said Terry.

“You forget,” said Rob, his head on one side, his eyes dancing, “we have family; 200 of ‘em and all still living at last count.”

“And they’re here... in Whitehall? All of them?”

“No, not all,” said Rob, “twenty, thirty maybe.”

“How does that help, though … seriously?”

“I’ll text ‘em …can’t hurt” said Rob, pulling out his iPhone and putting word to action.

“30 texts…that’ll take forever”

“Idiot,” said Rob, “I have ‘em as a group…you never know when you might need someone’s help…I s’pose you missed the networking course.”

“I don’t network.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Rob, “well, isn’t it lucky that one of us does.”

“What’re you telling them?” said Terry, watching with interest Rob’s flying finger, “come'n help us, we’ve gone native?”

Rob ignored the mockery, “No, I’ll just pass on that 12/12 was a false flag… after all, you’re not the only one who cares about lost parents, you know.”

They heard the thunder of running boots outside in the corridor.

“Well, you’d better send it quickly,” said Terry, “I think we’re about to have company.”

∞

With the road system around the Boros gridlocked the Jacksons had abandoned their car and were now trekking south with thousands of other families. Ken felt like he was in a disaster movie, one with no hero and no happy ending.

“Why are we going south anyway?” asked Kevin, and not for the first time.

“Because the mob will get us, idiot,” said Kim.

“But why are we running away?” repeated Kevin, “Surely we should be joining them.”

“Don’t be stupid Kevin,” snapped Michelle, “your father’s a policeman; he has a job to do.”

She’d been in his ear for the past hour about ‘rescuing’ her parents but he’d insisted that they’d be safe in their ‘middle of nowhere’ farmhouse, refraining from saying so would she and the kids if they’d done as he’d wanted at the start.

Privately he also felt Jack and Hayley were fully able to defend their home to the death if it came to a fight, but he felt that also was better left unsaid.

“Yeah …serving the rich,” sneered Kevin.

“You watch it, if it wasn’t for me and my mates this scum would’ve run riot years ago.”

“Well perhaps they’ve got reason to run riot,” argued Kevin.

“Says who?” demanded Ken, “What the bloody hell do you know about it?”

“Be quiet, Kevin,” ordered Michelle, “You don’t know anything.”

“Well I know we’re in debt,” said Kevin, “and that we’re just peasants like them”

“It’s not like that,” said Ken.

“Yes it is,” argued Kevin, “anyway I heard you and mum talking about it so don’t lie.”

“Be quiet, Kevin,” snapped Michelle.

“Leave it, Kev,” said Kim.

“No, I won’t leave it. I heard ‘em talking about whether or not they’d join them.”

“Well we didn’t, did we” said his mother shortly, “So that must tell you something.”

“But why didn’t you?” demanded Kevin.

“Leave it Kevin,” ordered Ken.

“Why?” said Kevin.

“Because I said so,” said Ken.

“Your dad’s a copper, how do you think they’ll receive him? Eh? With open arms?”

“And since that opportunity is no longer available to us,” said Ken, “I’d like it if you’d just shut up and move.”

∞

Rob’s phone rang into his earpiece, “What the fuck’s going on, Rob?”

“Dan, where are you?” asked Rob, “I need urgent help, can’t hang around chatting.”

“I’m outside, in the corridor,” said Dan, his voice an insistent whisper “what’s going on?”

“I’m with Clay; we just executed Blackmore, Muldaur and Walters.”

“Sir Phillip Blackmore? Clay’s father?”

“Yeah,” said Rob, “you have a problem with that?”

“Was Clay involved?” the whisper incredulous now.

“You going to help or just talk?” asked Rob.

“Hey, come on Rob,” said Dan, “five seconds ago you were one of the boy scouts, remember?”

“Well things have changed, admittedly rather quickly, but they have changed.”

“Can I talk to Clay?”

Rob passed Terry the ear piece. “Dan Cleave,” he said.

“What’s going on, Clay? Has Rob gone mad or something?”

“No,” said Terry, “it’s just as he said; they orchestrated 12/12 to facilitate a state takeover.”

“Okay …but how is your…Sir Phillip?”

“He’s dead,” said Terry, “we killed him.”

The other end of the phone went silent.

“You still there Dan?” asked Terry.

“Yeah,” said Dan, “you guys are for real, right?”

“Oh yeah,” said Terry, “We just executed these mother fuckers. Are you with us?”

“Well, if 12/12 was an inside job then, of course,” said Dan.

“Good,” said Terry, “how many out there?”

“Five,” said Dan, “I’m the only friendly.” Dan looked down the corridor, “Two seconds,” he whispered, releasing his safety. He fired 5 rapid shots, hitting each man in the back of the head, “all clear.”

∞

“When they get within 50 yards let loose with the water cannon,” ordered Maj. Timms before turning to Lt. Phipps, “right, get the lads up front and be ready to charge, I want ten men on baton rounds, I want pepper canisters fired and I want that ADS right here NOW! We’re going to drive these bastards back if it kills us.”

Maj. Timms had positioned his three platoons across a road leading into a leafy suburban estate. The front gardens were over hung with bushes and there were driveways providing access to back gardens; a nightmare to patrol if the rioters broke through. Most of the families had fled but there were still a few resolutely refusing to budge and, outraged by the breakdown of ‘Law and Order’, were vociferously demanding the protection their taxes had paid for.

“Come on lads,” yelled Dave, “we need to hit them quick, before they can organize.”

Jimmy lead from the front, Brendan and Paddy at his shoulder, all screaming like banshees. The crowd they had with them had come from all over; some were known, grown up with on the sink, others were strangers but all were united in one objective. The first blast of water knocked the lead runners off their feet. Jimmy struggled up, Brendan half-dragging him along, turning together to face the way they’d come. They lead the way, driving those coming forward back out of range. Then the baton rounds started to find targets.

“Shit!” said Jimmy, “they’re going to kill us all.”

“We need to attack on all fronts, said Dave “that bloody cannon can only fire in one direction and at a mass, if we spread out across the gardens or go round the backs of these houses we might be able to get nearer.”

“Fire up the ADS,” yelled Maj. Timms, “let’s nuke these bastards.”

∞

“The FCO building’s opposite Number 10, isn’t it?” said Rob, acknowledging Dan’s entrance with a short nod, adding an appreciative grin when he noted the arsenal of weapons he’d brought into the room with him.

“We’d never make it,” said Terry.

“It won’t be just us,” said Rob, “how many more are there here, Dan?”

“I dunno, about twenty, twenty-five.”

Rob checked his inbox, “well, I’ve got plenty of incoming, and we just need to direct local support in the same direction.”

“It’ll cause massive commotion,” said Terry.

“Disrupt their response,” said Dan.

“And it doesn’t matter who gets there,” said Rob, “as long as we’re all heading in the same direction.”

Rob sent another text, ‘Those of the 200 in Whitehall, head to the FCO building, attack No 10 and kill the PM.’, “Should do the trick,” he said.

∞

The ADS beam was aimed straight at Dave and Jimmy’s location.

“Shit!” said Dave, “Are you burning up or is it just me?”

“Fuck!” yelled Jimmy, “it feels like I’m on fire, FUCK!”

“We gotta get out of here,” said Dave.

“Into the house, run.”

“They’re going to seek refuge in the houses,” said Maj. Timms, “commence pepper rounds fire through the windows.”

“Are we allowed to damage private property sir?” asked Lt. Phipps.

“Just do it,” ordered Maj. Timms, tersely.

∞

“What is it now, Nigel?” demanded the P.M.

“Well Sir, er...” started Sir Nigel, “… it appears that Sir Phillip Blackmore, Sir Clive Walters and Sir Patrick Muldaur have been assassinated.”

“What? When?”

“Barely 15 minutes ago,” said Sir Nigel.

“Where?”

“Here, Prime Minister,” said Sir Nigel.

“Here? ...What do you mean here? In London …where?”

“In Whitehall, Prime Minister.” The PM rose abruptly, colour draining from his face. “Security is dealing with the situation but it appears to be a contagion of sorts.”

“What the hell do you mean? a contagion?” demanded the P.M.

“Well, there appears to be a large number of assassins throughout Whitehall.”

“Impossible,” said the P.M. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’ve had a preliminary report from Galaxy and security surveillance,” said Sir Nigel, “and it would appear that a number of individuals have become hostile.”

“Become hostile, don’t talk drivel, man.”

“According to Galaxy’s chip readings we’re looking at twenty-seven people, Prime Minister.”

“Twenty-seven? How the bloody hell did twenty-seven terrorists get access to Whitehall?”

“It appears we gave it to them, Prime Minister.” Sir Nigel felt sicker even than he looked, security vetting was his bailiwick.

“Explain,” said the P.M.

“Well we don’t have any confirmed data as yet,” said Sir Nigel, “but it would appear that Robert Spencer, Clayton Blackmore and Daniel Cleave are all involved.”

“Clayton Blackmore?” said the P.M., “but that’s…?”

“Yes Prime Minister,” said Sir Nigel, “I know.”

“And Robert Spencer?” said the P.M., “Why do I know the name?”

“Aah, Prime Minister,” said Sir Nigel, “all three were adopted under the….”

“… ‘Caring Society’ programme,” said the P.M., “have they all gone rogue?”

“We’re checking Prime Minister,” said Sir Nigel, “in the meantime, we think you should evacuate.”

“Really?” said the P.M., “you think that’s necessary?”

“The cars are coming round now, Prime Minister.”

∞

Dave and Jimmy lead their followers into full retreat. They evacuated the area, moving fast and low to the ground, dragging unconscious comrades with them, eyes streaming from pepper spray, hot tears mingling with blood and all feeling the painful burning effect of the ADS beam.

“Do we follow them, Major?” asked Lt. Phipps.

“Stand down, Phipps … if we follow them they’ll regain the advantage. We’ll hold our ground here and await reinforcements.”

∞

Terry burst into the furthest office of the FCO, it was empty. Behind him Rob and Dan were engaged in a fire fight with security. Terry ran to the window, he saw the cars in the street below, watched as the door to No. 10 opened and Sir Nigel Downes lead the Prime Minister out.

“He’s there! He’s getting away…,” said Terry raising his pistol. Rob and Dan crashed into the room followed by several bullets, “It’s the PM. …He’s leaving No. 10.”

“He’s in the open?” asked Rob.

“I’ve got him,” said Terry.

“Let me,” said Rob, “I’m a better shot, you help Dan.”

Terry paused; irritated but conceding the point, he moved to stand facing the door, shoulder to shoulder with Dan, the final redoubt.

Rob raised his pistol and aimed; he had the PM.’s head in his sights.

His phone rang.

“Mrs. Mayweather…” said Rob, gun in one hand, mobile in the other.

“What the fuck are you doing?” shouted Terry, “just take the bloody shot.”

“Hello Robert, dear…how are you?”

“Bit tied up at the moment, Mrs. Mayweather.”

“Oh, okay dear, well I was just phoning to let you know that your mother has been showing definite signs of improvement … they told your granny she’s coming back, Robert.”

“Okay, thank you,” said Rob. His heart lifted.

“By the way, dear do you still see Clayton…?”

“Sorry, got to go,” he disconnected and fired.

“We can’t hold the room,” shouted Terry.

For answer Rob threw a chair through the window.

Terry turned and hurdled through it, he wanted to get to the Prime Minister first. He was quickly followed by the others as they unloaded their weapons into the PM’s Security team. Terry ran round the car and found Cholmondeley lying in a pool of blood, a neat hole in his chest.

“Clayton, why in God’s name?” The words were a choked garble.

“We’re the 200 and we’re putting an end to your fucked up world.”



More books in the 'Corpalism' series














Compendium editions

29 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis

Operation Strike Back

Once money was the oil that kept the machine going,
Now the machine runs simply to create money,
Surely only a psychopath would destroy the natural world for money.
Author

Colonel Mike Watkins sat behind a huge oak desk. He had reclaimed it from stores when they first arrived at the base and since then had worked on restoring it to its original state. Mike liked real wood, real furniture and this desk had certainly been a fantastic find.

There was a knock at the door and Major Timms entered.

“Yes Major?”

“Message from the Ministry sir,” said Timms.

“Gist?” asked the Colonel, only interested in detail when it concerned wood.

“Seems the riots we’ve been preparing for have started,” said Timms.

“Really, I can’t believe it, here let me see,” he reached up and took the message.

“Looks pretty real,” said Timms, “I’ve checked for TV coverage but there seems to be a media blackout.”

“To be expected …that’s the first thing they’d do, stop the cancer. Okay, better put the base on alert. No doubt we’ll get the call in the next few hours or so.”

Timms nodded and left the room.

Col. Watkins sat for a few moments in dark consideration and then rubbed his face with his hands, roughly, as if to remove grime. Then he opened the top drawer of the desk and pulled out a small cloth roll which he laid on the reconditioned leather square in the middle of the desk’s pitted surface. He selected and removed a wooden pick, rolling it between his fingers, relishing the moment. Then he went round to the front of the desk, pulled up his trousers to avoid creases, got onto his knees and started to gently dig out some of the aged deposits that concealed the beauty of the carved ornamentation.

∞

Rob boarded the helicopter and sat next to the pilot, behind them was the 4 man SAS patrol; they were dressed in civvies and each carried the Sig P228 pistol; small, easily maneuverable but effective. Rob had briefed them himself; he’d amended Blackmore’s order, stressing that the target be taken alive.

∞

Ken Jackson unlocked his front door and entered, walked straight into the front room and sat down, grabbing the remote as he did so. He turned on the TV and began flicking from news channel to news channel, nothing.

Then Michelle came downstairs, “Ken? What’s happened?”

“It’s kicked off in Boro, I’ve checked the news stations but they’re not mentioning it.”

“Jesus, Ken…what happened to your head?”

Ken touched the fresh, clean bandage, glad she hadn’t seen him blood soaked, “Dunno what hit me, but it’s a deep gash. Gary’s in hospital, I don’t know about the others.”

“Oh my god, what’s going to happen?”

“They’re calling in the army.”

“And they’ll stop it,” she said.

“I guess that’s what they think,” said Ken.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” said Ken, “it was crazy, they were everywhere and it seemed like there were thousands of them.”

“Can they get out of Boro?”

“I heard some talk that it had spread outside, to other cities…so if the army don’t get here quick enough, then what’s to stop them?”

“What about the children? ...Should we leave?”

“Well, I did tell you to go and stay with your mother, didn’t I?”

“I know, but I didn’t think it would be this bad.”

“Take the kids to Hayley’s now,” said Ken, “I’ve got to get back there.”

“What? No you haven’t, who said so?”

“It’s all hands. We’re being overrun, they need everyone.”

“But you’re injured, and you should be here, with me and the kids.”

“You’ll be safe,” said Ken, “but just in case you go to your mum’s like we said. I’ve got a job to do.”

∞

Major Timms passed Col. Watkins another message.

“Have you read this?” asked the Colonel.

“Yes sir.”

“By the way,” said the Colonel, “does it have a name?”

“Operation Strike Back sir,” said Maj. Timms.

“Strike Back?” said Col. Watkins, “the rubbish these fellows come up with”. He sat for a moment, thinking, the Major shuffled, then “okay, Major, let’s go and crack some skulls.”

∞

“We’ve done it! The pigs are on the run!” Jimmy punctuated the words by hurling bricks into the retreating line, and leaping into the air.

They’d caught up with the O’Connells on the outskirts of the sink, the three of them almost indistinguishable, faces blackened with smoke, eyes shining, fists bruised and old blood caking on heads and hands. No sign of Dave as yet. Don had suggested he and Terry go looking for Jimmy and Dave to help ease the tension of the 12/12 stuff. He knew from bitter experience that the only way to stop Eric once he’d got started was to run away from him. Terry was laughing; the sheer joy of fighting back was exhilarating, the success so far had been more than he’d dreamed possible despite his talk of wholesale revolution. He’d hoped the Triplets would react as one but had no way of being sure their messages had got through or that the tensions would run as high in Boro 2 and Boro 3 as they did in the original sink. He sobered up and gave thought to Jimmy’s triumphant words.

“It’s good, Jimmy, you’re right about that…but it’s not over, they’ll be bringing up reinforcements soon, either that or the army.”

“Any news from anywhere else?” said Jimmy.

“Just rumours, that bloke from Boro 2 who made it over the wall …and if he’s to be believed Boro 3’s aflame as well,” said Terry, “but no official stuff about it spreading anywhere else, there’s a news blackout.”

“I thought we were using pigeons,” said Don.

“Are we?” asked Terry.

“Yeah,” said Jimmy, “Brendan keeps some, but he’s not had anything back yet.” He turned slightly and called to his brother, “hey Brendan, you had anything from those pigeons of yours?”

Brendan shook his head, shouted back, “I could go back and take a look if you like?” Terry nodded agreement.

“Let’s just hope the Mancs, and Brum and the Toons went for it,” said Don, “otherwise the Boros are all alone.”

“We were always on our own,” said Terry, “we just hoped the others would join in.”

“An’ if they don’t we’ll do it ourselves…” Paddy was laughing, elbowing Jimmy.

“Yeah, we just have to keep going,” said Terry, “until the rest join in.”

The four of them stood together, heads down, no-one saying anything, as near a prayer session as any of them were ever going to get. Then they broke apart, clearing throats and slapping backs.

“You’d better check how things are on the line,” Don said to Jimmy.

Jimmy nodded; grabbed Paddy and the two of them ran off.

Don was facing away, looking over Terry’s shoulder, “Hey Terry, I think we’ve got trouble.”
Terry turned just in time to see one of the men raise a pistol with a silencer, a smooth and practiced movement using both hands. He turned back, grabbed Don and shouted “Run….”

As he did so the man fired twice, a double tap, shooting Don in the mouth, the first shot severing his spinal cord and blowing out part of his brain, the second shot superfluous. Don was dead before the second shot was fired, crashing into Terry as he folded to the floor.

Terry saw all this but barely registered it before one of the other soldiers clubbed him hard across the back of the head.

∞

Ken climbed back into his car, he’d been told to take a couple of hours off but Michelle was doing his head in, he couldn’t stay there and he couldn’t go to the station so he decided to head back to the front line in Boro. As he pulled out of his close he found himself in heavy traffic; bumper to bumper HGVs. It was dark and he couldn’t see them clearly so it was some time before he realized they were military trucks, “About bloody time too,” he said aloud, banging his steering wheel.

∞

“FUCK!” shouted Jimmy, “FUCK! FUCKING PIGS!”

“Jimmy, wait, hold on, we can’t do nothing,” said Paddy, struggling with his brother like when they were kids. “He’s dead …you can see he’s dead … the way he went down, shit I’ve never seen anything like that… but he’s dead, Jimmy, you can’t help him now…”

“FUCK! Get everybody; tell everyone they’re SHOOTING people now.”

“They took Terry, Jim…”

“We gotta kill some pig, tell everyone, we gotta kill some FUCKING pig.”

∞

Terry groaned and tried to move, his hands and feet were bound. He kept drifting in and out of consciousness; vaguely aware of a rumbling vibration, voices and army boots near his face, aware enough to recognise Rob’s voice. His anger at Don’s summary execution bored through him, a sustaining fire of rage.

∞

The army never reached Boro central.

With the news that the police were shooting people, the rioters, now totally enraged, had charged police lines and smashed through. The police had tried to regroup further back but the rioters kept on coming until they had overrun checkpoint after checkpoint and were now entering the suburbs where the working community lived.

They were joined by rioters from Boro 2 and Boro 3, thousands of young reinforcements, each one fired with repressed energy and youthful fury at the status quo. Behind them came the older renegades, years of behaving, following rules and accepting repression spilling out into a frenzy of revolution. They spread out, looting, smashing, burning and attacking anyone and everyone who wasn’t of their kind.

They ran straight into the army convoy, the trucks having stopped due to traffic. A rising tide running up a pole stuck in the sand, truck after truck was swamped by rioters. Troops found themselves fighting one on one, no time or space to use their weapons, a frenzied life struggle enacted in a thousand separate places all along the convoy.

The trucks further back had no idea what was going on, what the holdup was, until the rioters reached them.

Boro had now fallen, but to whom had it fallen? Where was the leadership?

∞

Terry was dragged from the helicopter and bundled into the back of a van, driven for 45 minutes, dragged out and frog marched into a large building and thrown into a holding cell.

Later that morning, at around 10:00 hrs, he was cleaned up, given a smart suit to put on and told he would soon be moved.

At 10:30 hrs Rob entered Terry’s cell, “Morning.”

“You killed him,” said Terry.

“What?” said Rob, “killed who?”

“You killed Don,” said Terry, “Sandra’s brother.”

“Sandra being …?” said Rob.

“My girlfriend, you remember. Donald’s ‘daughter’”

“Ooops,” said Rob, “sorry. But you were the one who killed her dad, that wasn’t me...”

“Ooops? What the fuck does that mean? Why’d you kill him? Who authorised that?”

“Well I was authorised to kill you as well,” said Rob, “so I think you should say thank you.”

“Why’d you kill him? He was just standing there; you didn’t have to kill him.”

“Hey,” said Rob, “I didn’t, that was the SAS, and you know how they work, no questions, straight in bang, bang and straight out again. And Clay, be reasonable, a) we didn’t know he was your girlfriend’s brother and b) if he hadn’t been, would you still be so upset?”

“Not the fucking point, you killed an innocent man, he wasn’t doing anything.”

“He was rioting,” said Rob, “that’s against the law, as you know, so they would’ve killed him eventually anyway, just a matter of time.”

“Why am I here? Why didn’t you kill me as well?”

“Because I’m like that,” said Rob, “besides, don’t you want to see your father again?”

“What?”

“Don’t you want to see Sir Phillip again?” said Rob.

“He’s dead,” said Terry.

“No, he’s not,” said Rob, “he is, in fact, very much alive.”

Terry stared at the floor and raised his hands to his head, “Shit, you fucking bastards, you used me.”

“I guess we did,” said Rob.

“FUCK!” said Terry, “I killed Donald, I killed Sandra’s father, FUCK!”

“He deserved it, believe me,” said Rob.

“Did he do anything to me?” demanded Terry, “did he tell? No, of course he didn’t, if my father’s alive then we were never discovered, he used Donald to pretend our op was blown, which means….”

“Which means that the ‘Infiltrate Black Hands’ operation was never real, well done.”

“I was never meant to get near enough to kill the Prime Minister, was I…? Then what the fuck was it about? What was it all about?”

“I’ll let Sir Phillip explain that one to you,” said Rob, “I think you’ll like it, except the bit where everyone dies. I guess you won’t like that bit as it includes your girlfriend.”

Terry made a move to attack but held back, there were several guards in the corridor, now was not the time.

Rob grinned, “maybe later, eh Clay?”

∞

Col. Watkins withdrew his force 2miles south of Boro, and counted his losses. Less than he had feared, mostly bruises and a few cracked heads. But he had left a few dead behind and he regretted that deeply. No time for reflection though; time to regroup and advance to the target on foot.

He was determined not to be taken by surprise again, and with rioters running amok in the suburbs he now had to clear them first before progressing on towards the sinks.

Maj. Timms had been dispatched to the main Police station to get an update on police reserves and any current analysis they had available.

All in all it had been a right fucking cock up and Watkins knew his arse was on the line. On the brighter side he might have time to finish the desk reclamation project.

∞

Ken tossed the last suitcase into the boot and ran back to the house, “Come on,” he shouted.

“Alright, alright,” moaned his daughter Kim.

“Where’s Kevin?” he demanded.

“I don’t know,” said Kim, “… in his room.”

“Kev,” yelled Ken, “Come on, quickly.”

“Alright!” shouted his son, “I’m coming, hold your horses.”

“Have you got everything?” asked Mich, on her way out the front door.

“Well if we haven’t, it’s too late now,” said Ken, “Come on Kevin, we’re leaving. NOW!”

“Alright, alright,” moaned Kevin, “like you’re gonna go without me.”

All up and down the street families were tossing the bare essentials into their cars and then heading for the main routes south, everyone wanted to go south, away from the riots.

∞

Lawrence was touching Sandra’s hair, not quite a stroke more of a pat; not sure if that was the right thing to do but in the absence of Donald he’d felt obliged to do something. He was perched on the arm of the chair in which she had scrunched; a tight, wretched ball of misery. She’d been crying softly for the last hour, the sound forming a melancholic backdrop to their muted conversation. They’d agreed that at some point one of them would have to tell her that Terry was missing but no-one wanted a return to the awful wailing that had greeted them when first they’d arrived with Don’s body, so for the moment they were keeping it to virtually soundless whispers.

“But...where could he be?” asked Eric, probably the fifth time of asking, directing his question at Jimmy and Paddy who’d brought Don back from the line.

“They took him, I keep telling youse, but none of you’ll listen” said an aggrieved Paddy.

“Don’t know,” said Dave. “But it’s been a couple hours.”

“You don’t suppose he’s run out on us?” said Brendan.

“I can’t see him doing that,” mused Lawrence, moving away carefully to avoid disturbing Sandra, “he didn’t need to come back when he did and all this is his idea…and d’you really think he’d have stood by and let them kill Don.”

Paddy, tired of being ignored, raised his voice “They took him and he’s dead as well”.

Sandra started to cry loudly.

“Oh well done,” said Jimmy, “idiot.”

Paddy backed away.

“He’s not dead,” said Eric, “but it’s probably not better, not if Paddy’s right and they took him.”

“What d’you mean ‘they took him’?” said Dave. “Who the fuck’s ‘they’? The police were running for their lives.”

“The police didn’t kill Don … it must’ve been Special Forces,” said Eric.

“Why not just kill Terry then, like they did Don?” asked Lawrence, sotto voce, although the noise now coming from Sandra was sufficient to drown him out.

“But why did they kill Don?” asked Jimmy.

“Perhaps they wanted to kill more of us,” said Eric, “perhaps they only found Terry and Don.”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” said Jimmy irritably, “what does it all mean?”

“It means they might be after the rest of us,” said Dave.

“Well they can come,” stated Jimmy, “bring it on, we’re ready for them.”

Sandra continued to sob, then abruptly shouted “I want my dad”, struggling out of the chair, “and I want my brother…” She stared round at the group, her eyes wild in a face made puffy with tears, “…and where the hell’s Terry?”

Jimmy and Brendan hastened out of the room; Paddy jumped up and followed his brothers.

“Should we leave her alone for a bit?” asked Eric, watching their departure with envy.

“Dunno,” said Dave, “not such a good idea, really…” He stared at her, uncertain, damping down his flight instinct. “Lawrence, what about if you pop over the way and get your Marjorie...she’ll know what to do for the poor little cow.”

A crash from upstairs shocked them all before they remembered Darren; he’d taken to his room in silent fury and was obviously now venting his anger on the furniture.

“Good thinking” said Lawrence, relief evident “and you get Doreen; she’s good with kids, the more hands the better.”




More books in the 'Corpalism' series

















Compendium editions

28 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis

A Day to Remember


During times of universal deceit,
telling the truth becomes a revolutionary act
George Orwell

Terry and Sandra sat close together on a low wall. Nearby, a burning police van provided both light and warmth. The fight back had been an energizing experience; bright eyes shining out of smoke-blackened faces attested to that. Sandra had come out onto the street as soon as the main fighting moved to other streets. She’d set up a makeshift hospital in her front garden and some of the other women were moving round in it, patching up the walking wounded. There was a tea table on the pavement, this having materialised quickly once the last of the riot police had fled.

“Looks like it’s really kicking off now,” said Sandra.

Terry nodded, “We just need to keep it spreading; otherwise they’ll snuff it out.”

“And then do you think my Dad’ll be able to come back?”

“Hopefully,” said Terry, nodding slowly. He was going to have to find a way to ‘kill off’ Donald without involving himself in the process, she needed closure and he nearly had a heart attack every time the subject came up. “So, tell me, why do you believe the Muslim’s didn’t do 12/12?”

Sandra frowned, “You want to talk about that now?”

“Might as well,” said Terry, “it’s as good a time as any.”

She shook her head, “good a time as any?” He made a face at her, “…ok then, what makes you think they did?”

“Not fair,” said Terry, “I asked you first.”

“Yeah well,” said Sandra, “I’m a girl, who said things were fair?”

Terry gave a slight grin, “Okay, well …all the evidence…”

“What evidence?”

“I thought I was going to say what I thought first,” said Terry.

“Yeah but I’m going to rebut it all as you go,” said Sandra, “so what evidence?”

“HA! Okay, the CCTV ….”

“Could’ve been faked,” said Sandra.

“There were times and dates on the footage,” said Terry.

“Come on, are you serious?”

“Okay,” said Terry, “could be faked, I’ll give you that…but what about the confessions of the guys themselves? They recorded their goodbyes and clearly stated what they intended to do and why they were going to do it.”

“That’s true, but when I said the Muslims didn’t do it, I didn’t mean that they didn’t actually do it” Sandra looked about her, “… what I meant was, it was all set up.”

“Oh I see … like a false flag,” said Terry. Sandra pulled a face. “…what have I said?”

“To be honest,” said Sandra, “I don’t know quite what a false flag is….”

“Oh,” said Terry, “well it’s when …..”

“Okay stop,” said Sandra, “All I know is that Dad and Don used to say it was all very suspicious…”

“AH,” said Terry knowingly.

“Ah what?” said Sandra.

“Well, if you don’t actually believe it,”

“Of course I do,” said Sandra, “it’s just that I don’t know the details”

“Ah, that’s okay,” said Terry, “another time maybe.”

“What?” said Sandra, “No way, you’re not dropping it now…you need to speak to Don.” She looked around for her brother, “Don!”

Lawrence answered, “He’s over there,” before walking over to sit on the wall next to Terry. He indicated a small group that included Eric, standing, drinking tea. Sandra nodded; walked away to fetch her brother and Lawrence quickly took advantage of her absence “D’you know where Dave and Jimmy are?”

Terry shrugged, “following the action?”

Sandra came back with Don in tow, filling him in with “Terry doesn’t know about 12/12,”

“Really?” Don was grinning, “And here’s me thinking you knew everything.”

“Very funny,” said Terry, “I do know about 12/12, I just don’t believe in conspiracy theories.”

“Bet you think it was Bin Laden who did 9/11 as well, don’t you.”

“Yeah,” said Terry, “and I believe Lee Harvey Oswald shot JFK.”

“Right,” said Don, “then you need to speak to Eric; Eric’s our resident conspiracy theory expert.”

“Er, no I don’t,” said Terry.

“Oh yes you do,” said Sandra.

“Yeah,” said Don, “especially after all that stuff you’ve put us through, ERIC!”

“Uh!” sighed Terry, “we could do this another time.”

“No,” said Don, “now’s good.”

Eric wandered over; to Terry’s eyes he looked different, more confident, a bit like he liked himself perhaps, “Yeah?”

“Terry wants to know about 12/12,” said Don.

“No I don’t,” said Terry.

“And 9/11,” said Sandra, returning to her place on the wall.

“And who shot JFK,” added Don.

“No, I really don’t,” said Terry.

“Oh yes you do,” said Sandra

“Fire away Eric,” said Don.

“Where to begin,” said Eric, “what do you know?”

“He doesn’t know anything,” said Sandra, “he believes what he’s been told by the state.”

“Oh, fantastic,” said Eric, “a virgin.”

“HA HA,” said Terry, “I’ve heard of the conspiracies, I just don’t believe in them that’s all.”

“Right then,” said Eric, “let’s start with the easy stuff; you’re OK with the idea that Hitler and the Japs used false flags because they were really nasty fascist dictator types, and oh yeah, they’re foreign.”

“Yes,” said Terry, ignoring the sarcasm, “and the Yanks used the Gulf of Tonkin incident to start the Vietnam War but…..”

“But what?” asked Eric, “you can’t believe that anyone would allow 9/11 or 7/7 or 12/12 to happen?”

“Those other incidents didn’t carry many casualties, in the case of Hitler he used criminals….” said Terry

“Political prisoners,” said Lawrence. “and think of the casualties in the Vietnam War…”

“Okay, whatever, but the Gulf of Tonkin incident didn’t even really happen whereas….”

“Whereas 12/12, 7/7 and 9/11 had real casualties.” said Eric.

“Yeah,” said Terry, “proving they were real terrorist attacks, made by real terrorists.”

“Oh, they were real terrorists all right,” said Eric, “that’s not the question; the question is whose terrorists were they?”

“Ah, now…” began Terry.

“Come on, Terry,” said Don, “We’ve listened to you, now you listen to us.”

Terry exhaled; he knew he’d have to sit through this, ‘fuck,’ “Okay, fire away Eric.”

“Have you seen the film ‘ Loose Change?” asked Eric.

“Yes, I have. It’s all very good but it doesn’t actually prove anything, it just raises a lot of questions and still leaves the possibility that it was all planned and carried out by al-Qaeda.”

“Sure,” said Eric, “al-Qaeda planned and carried out 9/11 but did the US Government let it happen - false flag? Gulf of Tonkin? Pearl Harbour? You know?”
Pearl Harbour? Where do they get this stuff from...? “Okay,” said Terry, “why?”

“Oil,” said Sandra, “because they wanted to get access to the Arab oil fields.”

“Oh come on,” said Terry, “if the Yanks had wanted to go into Iraq they could’ve any time, besides, 9/11 only gave them the right to go into Afghanistan…the Iraqi bit came later with UN resolutions…”

Eric interrupted his flow, “To clarify, the UN never sanctioned any invasion of Iraq. We went into Iraq supposedly because of WMDs; although it later transpired that they actually didn’t exist… same as Saddam didn’t have 45 min deploy capability…and the big question there is ‘did Blair/Bush know that already’. We went into Afghanistan to get the 9/11 bad guy, Bin Laden, who was being protected by the Taliban.”

“… d’ you really think that the Yanks would let 9/11 happen just to get into Afghanistan and attack the Taliban? Listen to yourself… and remember the Taliban were their allies not so long before.”

“Not arguing with you there, and Bin Laden was a CIA operative,” said Eric, “but how else could the Yanks get into Afghanistan if they didn’t have a really good reason and 9/11 seems like a really, really good reason, besides which did you know that the FBI have never provided any evidence against Bin Laden, in fact they have stated they don’t have any.”

“Why would they want to get into Afghanistan?” asked Terry, “there’s nothing there.”

“Three reasons,” said Eric, “One, they wanted to lay a gas pipeline and the Taliban had already refused them. Two, the poppy, they needed more drugs to flood the US streets and the Taliban had all but ceased production. Three, they wanted to start the encirclement of Iran, and as a block to prevent China advancing into the Middle East.”

“That’s four,” said Terry.

“Whatever,” said Sandra.

Terry pulled a face at her and she laughed.

“Right, now forget the Twin Towers,” said Eric, “they were for big showy effect and definitely carried out by al-Qaeda, but with US Intel knowledge.”

“That’s still just a theory,” said Terry, “and one that has been debunked thousands of times.”

“Mainly by the authorities, but as I say, forget the Twin Towers, what about Tower 7?”

Terry pulled a face, “Yes, I admit, on the face of it that does look strange.”

“On the face of it?” said Sandra, “even I’ve seen that footage.”

“Well I’ve seen it,” said Terry, “and yes it does look like demolition, but the question is how did they do it?”

“That’s not the question,” said Eric, “that’s never the question, the ‘how’ doesn’t matter, it’s the ‘why’.”

“Of course the how matters,” said Terry, “Because if they couldn’t have done it, then it was the result of the terrorist attack.”

“You tell me, if you’re so interested in the how…” Eric tipped his head back, eying Terry through interrogative slits, “how does a forty odd floor tower block collapse into its own footprint in 6.5 seconds?”

“Because it was hit by….” started Terry.

“By what?” asked Eric, pouncing.

“Well, yeah – it was just on fire…” said Terry, “okay, that is peculiar.”

“Exactly, but then you think about the ‘why’…Why did it happen? You find out that Enron records were housed in that tower block and you begin to realise how useful it would be if all those records were destroyed.”

“Yeah okay,” said Terry, “but if that was the case why not just destroy that Tower?”

“Too obvious” said Eric, “al-Qaeda attacked the Twin Towers, the US secret service let it happen unopposed and hid the demolition of Tower 7 in the attack; destroying all those records of financial irregularity in the process.”

“And then there’s the Pentagon,” said Don.

“Yes and I’ve also seen that footage,” said Terry.

“No plane,” said Sandra.

“You can’t tell that,” said Terry, “if they’d released more footage ….”

“Then perhaps you could see the plane,” offered Eric.

“Exactly,” said Terry.

“Well then, why not release the footage? It would shut the conspiracy theorists right up.”

“Well yes,” said Terry, thinking, it’d take a lot to shut you up…

“And then there are the witnesses,” said Eric, “the ones who were on the scene immediately who saw no plane wreckage, no wings, no fuselage, no seats, no dead passengers lying around.”

“…and that woman who worked there,” Sandra chipped in; “she carried her child out through the hole and didn’t have to climb over a plane to do it…”

“Okay,” said Terry, “again, all a bit odd.”

“I’ll tell you something ‘odd’,” said Eric, “… the day before 9/11 Donald Rumsfeld had announced that the military had misplaced 2.4 trillion dollars. And would you believe it, the main room destroyed by the plane was the one holding the records detailing where the 2.4 trillion dollars had gone.”

“Ok that’s a bit suspect, admittedly,” said Terry.

“Now let’s not get underwhelmed here,” said Eric, “we’re talking 2.4 trillion dollars. Back in 2001 that was a huge amount of money. If you had somehow been responsible for the misallocation of 2.4 trillion dollars and you had the power to blast the evidence away do you think you’d take it?”

Terry grimaced, “Obviously I understand the concept but ….nearly 3000 people died.”

“But what if you thought you could cover up the loss and achieve your military goals abroad in one fell swoop?” said Eric, “I mean if you were in charge?”

“But that doesn’t cover 7/7 or 12/12,” said Terry, avoiding the question, suspecting that his ‘early days’ relationship with Sandra might not survive a purely rational affirmative response, “because the UK had no cover story for either of those, we had no ambitions in the Middle East, hell we could barely afford to go to war as it was.”

“We were already in Iraq and Afghanistan when 7/7 happened. For the Blair government 7/7 was justification for the continuation of the war on terror,” said Eric, “it proved we had a fifth column at home. The fact that it was just 4 young impressionable lads who were trying to do their bit for Islam, independent of al-Qaeda, seems to escape everyone.”

“Four young lads,” said Terry, “you make them sound like….”

“Like what?” demanded Eric, “run of the mill blokes? They were. Listen, they did what they did, they filmed themselves, they attacked the underground and tried to bring the war in Iraq to us here on our streets… but there were only 4 of them. There wasn’t a massive al-Qaeda cell, there weren’t hundreds of Jihadists roaming the streets as we were told; there was just the 4 of them. Okay there were hundreds of unhappy Muslim youths watching military atrocities in Muslim countries and getting angry, but there were still only 4 bombers.”

“Yeah,” said Terry, “but they were home grown which meant the intelligent services couldn’t spot them.”

“Exactly,” said Eric, “how convenient is that?”

“Oh what?” exclaimed Terry, “You find an excuse to your crazy theories everywhere.”

“Just think a minute,” said Eric, “if they hadn’t been home grown we wouldn’t have seen any of the anti terrorist legislation that came in afterwards, would we.”

“But we needed the legislation,” said Terry, “for national security.”

“If they’d been terrorists who had just flown into the country then it would be a question of improving border control but because they were home grown we had increased ‘stop and search’, kettling, more guns in the hands of the police, we had yet more anti terrorist legislation that restricted our freedoms. Restrictions by the way that fit nicely alongside all that stuff you’ve been spouting.”

“And what about the Enabling Act after 12/12?” said Don, getting in on the conversation for the first time, “…curfews, no right to gather in groups larger than 50, no right of peaceful protest, tear gas and tazers on the hip of every copper, and those fucking heat rays, so called crowd control systems ….”

Lawrence spoke quietly in support, “…it allowed the PM to introduce martial law in certain parts of the country, and resulted in huge populace relocations, in far greater numbers than you’ve been involved in …should’ve been called the ‘disabling act’ for what it did to the rights of ordinary people.”

Terry looked a bit shame-faced; the reference to relocations and his part in it all made him an outsider again. “Okay,” he conceded, “say our Government did know about 7/7 and that they let it happen… it doesn’t necessarily follow they let 12/12 happen, does it?”

“Oh come on Terry,” said Sandra, “I thought you were some sort of Special Agent type or something.”

“No,” said Terry, his tone cool, “I have Special Forces training, that’s all.”

“Okay,” Sandra persisted, “but you said you’d be sent in here to sort things out if people got out of line…” Terry glared at Don, then Lawrence seeking a sign of which of them might’ve given Sandra that snippet of information, decided on the absent Jimmy as the most likely to be involved in blackening his reputation, “so this Government must have people it would send into another country?”

“Well yeah,” said Terry, “but that’s in another country, in the best interests of the nation state.”

“To be honest, I don’t get why you have so much difficulty with this?” Sandra continued, driven by her need to understand him, “a few blokes acting alone does not make a fifth element, nor does it mean the entire Muslim community is about to rise up and slaughter us in our beds. But that’s exactly the picture the Government painted.”

Terry nodded, “I know, and yes, if you want to look at it like that then it could’ve been a false flag because yes, the Government was able to give itself powers it couldn’t have otherwise but it’s still a big leap to say they let it happen. I mean it could’ve happened the way the Government said and the laws they introduced were just a kneejerk reaction.”

“You could say that,” said Eric, “but then why did they keep those powers? It was only 4 guys who did 7/7, they never found a whole cell operating and from then right through ‘til 12/12 when it was still only a few blokes, we had no more real big incidents, even the Black Hands could’ve been dealt with using laws available from the IRA stuff….yet since 12/12 they took the opportunity to clamp down hard and for the past 20 odd years we’ve had martial law, why is that?”

Terry grimaced and exhaled.

“Well?” said Sandra, “that doesn’t sound right does it.”

Terry shook his head, “I agree it doesn’t sound right but I just can’t believe it.”

“Why not?” asked Sandra.

Terry’s shoulders dropped, “Because if it was a false flag my adoptive father would’ve been in on it. And my parents died in it….and I’m not sure how I can deal with that…”

“Ah,” said Sandra. She nestled closer and made a face, looking at her brother for support.

“Tough one,” said Don, nudging Eric.

“’nough said?” said Sandra.

“Yeah,” said Eric, “yeah.”

∞

“Take a seat, Robert” Sir Phillip said, without bothering to look up from his papers, “Well, it looks like Clayton’s been busy.” Rob nodded. “Boro is in flames, across all sectors, riots have broken out in Boro 2 and the police line in Boro 3 is teetering. We have small riots breaking out in 6 other major ghettos.” He folded his arms across his stomach and smiled, “….so we now have our excuse to lay them waste.”

“Love it when a plan comes together,” said Rob.

“Mmm… it’s something they should have done in ’81, or if not then, they could’ve struck harder in summer 2011 when the opportunity afforded itself…but there are always those who are just too soft….”

“Perhaps they worry how history will describe them,” Rob said, thinking ‘no such worry with you though is there, you cold bastard.’

“And the result of their weakness was the Occupy movement and look how much trouble that caused…and how hard we had to clamp down to stop that spiraling out of control…and as for those damned Independents, if that had ever taken hold…” He gave Rob a sharp look and for a second Rob felt he’d read his thoughts, and then came the inevitable question, “Do we know where Clayton is at the moment?”

“Yes,” said Rob, “his chip has been static for a while now which we take to mean he has removed it but the tracker is still working.”

“He doesn’t know about the tracker?” asked Sir Phillip.

“No,” said Rob, “it was injected whilst he was unconscious.”

“Good, well, dispatch a team and bring him in.”

Rob nodded, “will do.”

“Oh,” added Sir Phillip “bring him in alive preferably, see what Intel we can get from him but dead will do.”

∞

Mark Cholmondeley strode into the Cabinet office, “Well?” he demanded.

“Prime Minister,” said Sir Nigel Downes, “I’m rather afraid Operation Mongoose has thrown up a few problems. It would appear the ghettos were a little more receptive to rebellion than even we had feared.”

“Meaning?” demanded the P.M.

“Meaning that the whole of the North appears to be rising against us,” said Sir Nigel.

“That won’t be a problem, surely,” said the P.M., “we’ve planned for this eventuality, and in fact it’s the most desired outcome.”

“Prime Minister?” said Sir Nigel.

“Above your pay scale,” said the P.M.



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