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

King of the Road



The old man woke to another cold, wet day when he would wish they had ignored Alb's clarion call to 'stand up and fight for what is right'.

He, Dilwyn and Reg could have been enjoying a cosy life back at the retirement home. Instead both Reg and Dilwyn were lost to him, no doubt captive or dead.

He stretched out slowly, one leg at a time, cursing his advanced age, his frailty and the fact that he now lived on the street, unable to claim his army pension for fear of capture.

"Look out, Gilly, 'ere 'e comes," mumbled Razza, his pavement mattress companion, speaking through blackened teeth that were barely visible above a salt and pepper, beer stained beard, "it's 'is majesty."

"What? Who?"

Gilly's ancestry was obvious in those two words. He was trying hard to lose his accent, worried it might betray him but he was too old and simply, being one Gilbert Owen, too Welsh.

"'is majesty," repeated Razza, nodding at a dishevelled and forlorn looking figure with an equally forlorn looking mutt in tow.

As he drew near Gilbert felt an unexpected surge of shocked recognition, and the adrenalin that followed made his heart beat faster. He had to breathe deeply to slow it back down.

Razza struggled to his feet and bowed elaborately to the new arrival who disconsolately waved away the ironic tribute.

"No need for that here, my man, we're informal," said the new arrival. His voice was unusually rich, rather like he had something in his mouth other than his tongue.

Gilbert narrowed his eyes, studying the man in front of him, trying to see beyond the dirty clothes and the unkempt appearance.

"Gilly, meet 'is Majesty," Razza said.

"You may call me Charles," the man said, elongating the 'Char' and arriving at the 'les' quite a time later.

Razza laughed nastily, "Finks 'ees the Prince, see, that's why I calls im 'is majesty, innit."

The man tilted his head and looked down his long nose at the two men, "I am Charles Philip Arthur George Windsor, Prince of Wales, and rightful heir to the throne of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and the Commonwealth realms."

Then he sat down on the wall, first plucking at his trousers in a movement Gilbert recognised as an attempt to avoid spoiling their shape.

"Why ain't you in Buck 'ouse then?" demanded Razza, giving Gilbert a wink. This question had obviously been asked before.

The man sighed, saying, "My home is in Clarence House. Buckingham Palace is the sometime home of my parents, the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh," he was speaking as if to a fool, "why would I be there?"

He fell silent; the last time he'd tried to gain entry to the Palace there'd been a queue of imposters stretching for miles. Short men, tall men, even a couple of black men, all resplendent in fancy dress red jackets and fake medals. He had decided to wait until the furore died down before making another attempt.

"Of course, silly me," Razza said, nudging Gilbert as a fellow conspirator.

The man looked at Razza with disdain, then spoke wearily, "It will all be ironed out, I assure you."

"Course it will, yer 'ighness," said Razza, "an' when it is, you won't forgets your old muckers, will ya?"

"Well......" started the man, "I'm sure Mummy....."

Razza burst out laughing, a loud raucous sound that startled Gilbert as well as the other man.

"I say," said the man, "do you have to be so....?"

"So, what?" demanded Razza, "I ain't int'rested in Mummy. I'm talkin' about you, lendin' an 'and to your ole mate. Consid'rin' all wot I've done for you."

The man furrowed his brow; a battle raged across his face as he tried to find an expression other than casual condescension.

"You ain't forgot all I done for you?" said Razza, leaning in a hostile way towards him.

"Of course not, old chap," said the man, clearly unused to this level of aggression, "I'll remember you, I would have to explain things to Mummy, that's all."

Razza reached into one of the deep pockets of his long winter coat tossed the remains of a KFC chicken wing into the man's lap before plonking himself back down on the mattress.

Gilbert lowered himself down, using the wall as a support and muttering quietly, "Is there any way he could be who he says he is?"

"'e can't be, can 'e," Razza said sniffing, "but if 'e is, then 'e needs to remember it was Razza wot 'elped 'im in 'is hour of need, now that's got to be worf somefink, don't ya fink?"

Gilbert went on the attack, annoyed with himself for the initial stab of recognition that had since faded, "He can't be Prince Charles, look you. Prince Charles is debonair. He's been on the Best Dressed list. He's a style icon."

Razza turned to stare at him. Style icon?

He'd wondered about him from the start, thought him a bit feminine, but then decided he was just one of those dapper old men, bit fussy but nothing more than that. Now he wasn't so sure.

He looked at Gilbert again and dismissed his concerns. The old man was no threat to him. If he tried it on he could flatten him with one blow. Failing that he could dob him in, get him locked up like the rest of the old codgers.

Razza turned to the matter at hand, "Show Gilly 'ere yer clobber," he said, addressing the wannabe prince, "show 'im...under yer coat there."

The man licked his fingers and tossed the remains of the chicken bones to his dog, sighed deeply and opened his dirty overcoat.

Gilbert's heart nearly stopped.

As an ex Welsh infantryman he would recognise a genuine scarlet tunic of the Welsh Guards with its unique five button pattern and the leek collar detail from 200 paces. It was dirty, and obscured by a black substance. Could it be tar? And, lord above, was that a feather? The medals were incredible; surely no one but Prince Charles had so many? He had no words that could cover his shock.

Razza seeing this, nodded excitedly, "See, not so daft, am I? Coverin' me bets is wot I'm abaht doin'."

"Well, I never," sputtered Gilbert, "where did you come by that jacket?"

"My good man, I didn't come by it, as you put it...." The words were a supercilious drawl.

"I told you, Gilly," said Razza earnestly, "'e's the fuckin' Prince of Wales, 'e is. 'E was missin' and I've fahnd 'im."

Gilbert struggled to his feet, indicating to the man to do the same. He wanted to test his known height against that of the newcomer. If he was who he claimed to be Gilbert should reach his chin.

They rose up together. Razza, not understanding, did the same.

The three men stood in a tight circle. Up close the smell of tar was not to be denied.

Gilbert found himself head to chin with the self-proclaimed prince and heir to the throne.

His knees buckled and he sat back down with a bump.

"We should take him to Buckingham Palace," he gasped, too shocked to control his words, "and claim our reward."

Razza blinked. The Prince sat down on the wall, doing the trick with his trousers again.

"What's this, we, Gilly?" snarled Razza, "I'm the one wot's 'elped 'im, I'm the one wot gets the reward."

Gilbert gathered his wits, "Of course you are Razza, look you, I was just talking."

"Well don't," said Razza, only slightly mollified, eyes forming slits of suspicion, "you leave this to me, I got plans I 'ave."

Gilbert raised his hands, but his thoughts were racing. How could this be turned to his advantage? Could he use it to get off the streets? Find Dilwyn and escape the country?



The 2,000 Martyrs



The mosque had been completely restored since the bombing. However, the pain and dishonour of this insult had not dissipated.

According to news reports at the time, 75% of the ground floor, as well as large parts of the first floor and the roof had been destroyed in the blast. Funding for the restoration had come from a variety of unnamed sources; payback on the investments was about to come due.

Arrayed in straight lines, 20 by 100, the men in their black robes stood at attention.

The Imam walked slowly along the front rank and then climbed the 3 steps to the small platform and stood in front of the microphone.

He was older than all of those assembled, venerable and authoritative. He stared out at the men in front of him, capturing the full attention of every one of them, then he raised his hands and spoke, his voice throbbing into the space, a powerful yet melodious sound, "You are the shahid. You are the spirit of all Muslims everywhere. You are the soldiers we will send deep into the lands of the unbelievers."

He paused, the silence a single baited breath, "You are the sacred hand of vengeance."

Insha'allah, Insha'allah came the rumbling response.

He waited for silence then spoke again, "You will be the dagger driving deep into the soul of the west, destroying their culture and destabilising their lives. You will be a constant threat, moving from place to place, evading their police, creating fear in their hearts. Remember your brothers all over the world who depend on your efforts, on your determination and on your success."

He paused, "You will wreak havoc in their cities, in their streets and in their towns. You will defile their women and emasculate their men." He raised both hands to the heavens and put a deeper energy into his voice, "You will strike terror and fear into the infidel! Allahu Akbar."

Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar resonated round the room, rising and falling in waves as row after row confirmed their obedience.

Behind a long curtain at the back of the mosque the man from the Committee sipped his iced tea and smiled.

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun