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

3

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

George Bernard Shaw

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who's that with you?"

"No one."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oooh, she was ‘rubbing it for you’."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





4



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

we shall never surrender.

Winston Churchill



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Petition our local MP," offered Gerry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I mean as in 'fight' back.”

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

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

“No, like soldiers.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" Alb stared at him

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What about him?" whispered Alb.

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

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

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

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

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

"No, Flora."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

∞

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

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun





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