Chapter 46 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

46

This is no time for ease and comfort.
It is time to dare and endure.
Winston Churchill

As is traditional on the State Opening of Parliament an MP from the Commons presents himself to the Queen as hostage, on this occasion it was Prentice Prendergast, MP for Morecambe; a potential leadership rival for the PM. He had been surprised to be chosen; but Sir Philip had been adamant and no one cared enough to argue. Once he arrived at the Palace and was safely ensconced, a hostage against potential harm to the Monarch at the hands of Parliament, the Queen, Duke of Edinburgh, Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall left the Palace and made their way to Parliament.

Once there the Queen was draped in the Parliament Robe of State and the Imperial State Crown was placed carefully on the iron grey curls. Finally the Royal procession was able to start for the Lords; preceded by the Earl Marshal, the Leader of the House of Lords carrying the Cap of Maintenance on a white rod, another peer carrying the Great Sword of State and finally out in front marched the Lord Great Chamberlain with his white stick raised aloft.

The procession entered the Lords, the Queen sat upon the throne and said, "My Lords, pray be seated."

"Waste of time," muttered the Duke, seated at her side, "I'm too bally old for this."

"Be quiet, Philip," hissed the Queen through a clenched teeth grimace.

Camilla leaned over and whispered in Prince Charles' ear, "That should be you, you know." It was a well-rehearsed argument, pointless but she found it impossible to refrain.

"What can I do? Mummy just won't go," he responded, managing to speak without appearing so to do, something he'd practised since his Gordonstoun days, "she's going to sit there forever being bloody Queen. She loves it, look at her up there, lording it over everybody."

He wanted to slump, rest his head in his hands, groan out loud at the unfairness of it all; he remained upright and expressionless.

The Queen nodded to the Lord Great Chamberlain and he signalled for Black Rod to summon the members of the Commons. Black Rod, escorted by the Door-keeper of the House of Lords and a Police Inspector, set off for the Commons; the inspector bearing the peculiar responsibility of ordering 'Hats off strangers' to whomsoever they met on the way regardless of the fact that no-one now wore a hat in Parliament.

Upon reaching the Commons the doors were slammed shut and Black Rod banged forcefully on the door three times, at which point the doors were opened, Black Rod and his escort then approached the dispatch box and addressed the House, "Mr Speaker, The Queen commands this Honourable House," as he spoke he bowed to both sides, "to attend Her Majesty immediately in the House of Peers."

Outside Parliament stood a long line of red coated Grenadier Guards, their impractical bearskin hats nestling deep on their brows, blurring their vision. Behind them were hundreds of avid spectators who had gathered for the return journey of the Queen's carriage.

Off to the North in Bridge Street a large coach was parked. It bore the insignia of the Women's Institute. Unusually, the windows of the coach were blacked out. Inside the coach, her thin face alight with excitement, stood Cynthia, hair newly coiffed, a fetching shade of mauve, resplendent in a beige Hardy Amies dress of indeterminate age and draped in her best jewellery, talking quietly but enthusiastically to Esmé. They made an incongruous pair with Esmé kitted out in khaki combats and Doc Martens she'd had in her cupboard for three decades. She was in her element, every nerve ending tingling and feeling exactly as she had all those years previously, when faced with a barbed wire fence at the RAF base at Greenham Common that had had to be breeched.

Fiona was looking at her askance; why a grown woman would want to be seen in public in such an awful get up was beyond her. She herself was immaculate in a dark green Barbour over a calf length camel skirt (kick pleat at the back for ease of movement) and a dark brown cashmere twin-set (pearls left at home in case of breakage). She was shod in (sensible for running although with her knee as it was she wasn't likely to be doing too much of that) Oxford brogues.

Dora had pushed herself to the front of the coach near the driver, an old friend of Pete's dragooned into duty, but enjoying being surrounded by women again. For all the world Dora resembled a coach party courier, huge and quivering in her custom made jacquard coat dress, bright red so she would stand out she'd told Vera. Vera, in a comfortable and serviceable ensemble of navy waterproof jacket, topping a jumper and trousers in subtle shades of grey and pink, had thought spitefully that she didn't need to wear red in order to stand out but hadn't said it out loud.

They'd given up their dream to attack McDonalds; had been forced into acquiescence by the combined eloquence of Alb, Tom and surprisingly Pete, who'd told Fiona privately that he wanted her to be where he could 'keep an eye' on her.

Now Dora was addressing the group, thirty women of varying ages, shapes and sizes, all brought in for the purpose, many of them Esmé's old cronies, all willing to die for the cause.

She spoke passionately, "Ladies, today we act for our grandchildren, today we act to return this nation to them, today we act to save their jobs and their standard of living, their hopes and dreams for the future." She paused, tired from the effort, face as red as her dress, then launched again, "Today we act as we should've acted before, to stop these greedy, self-serving people from selling off more of our national estate to foreign powers." She stopped again and looked across at Vera, Cynthia, Esmé and Fiona then, on her signal, they all chorused, "Today we strike a blow for freedom!"

The rest of the women cheered, raising their assorted weaponry and clutching at one another, smiling, eyes bright with fervour. Fiona shivered slightly; she was of the huntin', shootin', fishin' brigade but most of these women looked as though they'd have trouble telling one end of a gun from the other. On the long coach journey she'd tried to impart the rudiments but had given up; too much to learn, too little time. 'Point and shoot' she'd told them in the end.

Another shout rent the air, in response to some other nonsense from Dora; self appointed spokesperson and rabble rouser. Outside the coach a few passers-by exchanged perplexed expressions before going about their business.

"Dora?" called a mousy, frail-looking woman from the back. Although she'd had her moments in the past, been a minor activist against vivisection and the like, she had long since settled for a slow, painful ignominious decline into senility. When Esmé had given her the call she'd answered it as a life-saver, though it would likely culminate in her death.

There was so much commotion that Dora could barely hear, "Quiet!" she barked.

The mousy woman raised her arm again, "erm, I know the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh have a free pass but what about Prince Charles and that dreadful woman?"

"Let me reiterate," said Cynthia, having worked her way into a position beside Dora; Little and Large, together at the end. She waited until she had their full attention, "The Queen and the Duke must be left unmolested, but Prince Charles and Camilla are fair game."

There was a general cheer, "But don't concentrate your efforts on them," stressed Fiona, her voice commanding in its lack of effort so to be, "remember, we're primarily here for the treacherous Politicians."

∞

Meanwhile, parked up just in front of Winston Churchill's statue was a van in the colours of Westminster City Council.

Johnno had inveigled it from an old acquaintance who had stored it in a lock-up for them. After their strange Viagra fuelled night Wilf's team had gone early to the lock up and, using the paint Johnno's friend had supplied, had managed to disguise it sufficiently to pass first inspection.

The plan revolved around them being accepted as volunteer gardeners; in an effort to look the part they'd got hold of a few trays of young plants and Johnno, Pete, Bill and Ron were mooching about trying to place them. Up till now they had successfully resisted all requests from the Police to 'move on', a feat achieved primarily due to their age.

Dave and Sticky were sitting together on a bench some way off, sulking about the change of plan. It transpired this was the reason they had chosen to be on Wilf's team; they'd set their hearts on taking out a mosque and couldn't be reconciled. Also, they were both exhausted after the antics of the night before; Wilf had not mentioned the after-effects of Viagra before plying them with copious amounts of the drug.

Wilf, meantime, had made himself comfortable in a prone position in the back of the van. He had already scoped out the arc of fire and intended to pick off the MPs as they fled the assault. Alb and Gerry had worked mightily to dissuade him from this course but he wouldn't let it go, he felt he could get more of the buggers this way before being taken out himself. He'd had a last-minute go at persuading Jonesey to join him in the van; as an ex-sniper he thought he'd have jumped at the chance, but no, more fool him, he'd committed to be with Alb.

"What do you think of planting the lobelias along the front here?" Pete asked, peering at the label hoping for enlightenment.

"What colour are they?" replied Ron, poking desultorily at the soil, trying to look knowledgeable and failing.

"I'm not sure," said Pete, "it doesn't say but they trail, apparently."

"Johnno," said Ron, "what colour are lobelias?"

"Blue," said Johnno, "but don't put them there, I was going to plant the....."

"What are you lot on about?" demanded Bill, "it doesn't matter where you plant the bloody things does it? No-one's going to care, are they?"

"Well, I care," stated Pete, truculently.

"Me too," said Ron, "if a jobs worth doing, it's...."
Goaded, Bill asked, "Do you want me to call Mad Dog over?"

Pete cleared his throat, "Err....urm...I suppose anywhere will do."

Johnno pulled a face and put down the tray he'd been carrying; he was having a problem breathing and he really needed a sit down and a cuppa.

∞

Meanwhile, Tom, and his son Dickie had parked Dickie's beat up Nissan Hardbody truck, also now bearing the Westminster City Council colours, at the bus stop just in front of the statue of Abraham Lincoln, situated behind Parliament Square. Dickie's mates had promised to join them later, arriving by myriad means to avoid detection. Dickie had let the air out of one of the tyres just in case the police should try to move them on and was engaged in an apparently fruitless attempt to undo the wheel nuts. In the back of the open truck were three large vats of tar, already steaming, and several sacks of feathers; despite all Alb's urgings to the contrary, no one in the group had wanted to kill anyone and they still felt a massed tar and feathering was enough to get the message across.

On arrival Ken had clambered out of the van in a state of discomfort and dishevelment; after stretching and bemoaning his back's frailty for several minutes he had finally leaned in and helped Val to do the same. He felt a frisson of pride as she exited to stand beside him on the pavement; she was a good looking woman despite her age and he felt privileged that she'd chosen to be in his group when she could have gone with Alb.

Harry, having come up with Gray, Gill and Reg, was there to greet them, and he gave Val the once-over, Ken noted. They'd arrived by train then taxi; Reg had the money he had told them over and over, his voice querulous with age and irritation, and he was damned if he was travelling to his death in anything less than 1st class.

∞

Just round the corner from Parliament Square, on the patch of grass outside Westminster Abbey, three ex-RAF squadron leaders, friends of Vera's from her days in the WRAF, roped in to great effect at the last minute, had set out their twenty Spitfire replica models. The engines were running, the flaps were working and the Semtex was onboard.

They just needed the off from Alb.

∞

Alb, Gerry and Mags were positioned round the corner with their team, Jonesey, Lenny, Frank, Nobby and Mort, on the edge of Parliament Square. Mags had insisted on being with them rather than on the WI coach. The only absentee from what Alb had always thought of as his Eden Hall gang was Sticky; inexplicably he'd chosen to go with Wilf and Johnno to take pot shots at people from inside a bloody van.
Alb looked along the line.

All but one of them were dressed like the Long Riders from the Jesse James movie, in specially imported drovers coats. This had been Gerry's idea, him being a fan of westerns. Beneath this all encompassing outer wear they wore fatigues with full battle webbing. Each had an AK47, an Uzi, a nine millimetre pistol and half a dozen grenades concealed amongst the folds of the floor-skimming coats.

All but one; Mort had ruined the look. Ok, Jonesey was in his slippers but he was a martyr to his corns and wanted to die comfortable. Ok, Gerry had been adamant about his flat cap, but Mort, having insisted on dressing himself, and despite having managed to get the webbing right using a long distant memory lodged somewhere in his brain, on leaving the apartment had mistaken his dressing gown, a green and red check woollen affair, for his long coat.

Although the outfits had been Gerry's idea it was Alb who had been incensed. He'd announced abruptly that Mort could no longer be part of the op but he'd been overruled in the end; it was too late for anyone to accompany him back to the Village, no-one knew what he might do on his own and they didn't want to take the chance. Besides, no-one wanted to impose the indignity of being left behind on anyone, especially on a suicide mission.

∞

At the same time as the members of the Commons began piling into the Lords eight wheelchair bound octogenarians started to wheel their way from Victoria Tower Gardens towards the Monarch's entrance. Each of these wheelchair volunteers was determined that their final breath be expended defending Britain from the greedy leaches leading the nation.

Eyes fixed, jaws set the old men and women of the Octogenarian Suicide Squad, or the OSS as they liked to call themselves headed for their positions in the tree line just south of their target.

When they were all in place one of them sent a text to Alb who then sent a message to the ex-RAF boys, 'GO!'

Cheers

Arun








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