Karim, King of England

by Baz Wade

  But – how to do it – where, and when?

  He knew the date of the Referendum was 23 March, so he had about 5 weeks to get organised – that was the when – up to a point.

  What about the how?

  He could probably get a gun by joining some jihadi group or criminal gang, but neither idea attracted him as he might easily get busted before he had a chance to achieve his aims – problem was he would never be able to get close enough to use a knife on Love, who was a prominent politician usually surrounded by minders.

  “So how about a bow and arrow?” he said out loud to himself when on one of his solitary cleaning assignments. He said it just to keep his spirits up – then he hit upon a solution – how about a crossbow?

  He knew enough about computers to use one in a public library and, the next day, went to the only public library in Brent, and managed to google the word crossbow on one of the public computers. With the use of a dictionary and after some time-consuming research, he established that he could buy a lethal crossbow for the princely sum of £26.95 and a pack of 12 6.5-inch alloy bolts for £4.75. The next problem was how to pay and take delivery – he had no credit card and no fixed abode – he often took refuge from the rain in the Brent Cross Shopping Centre public toilets open 24/7, but he didn’t reckon that was an acceptable address for delivery purposes.

  He then googled archery products for sale in Hertfordshire and Essex and came up with 2 stores, one in Barnet and one in Epping. After phoning each he was able to establish that the Barnet store had more choice and at cheaper prices.

  The next day he took a trip on the Tube out to Barnet armed with £52.47 which he had saved from the previous week’s cleaning.

  “Good morning sir, how can I help you?” was the encouraging greeting from Bill, the shop’s proprietor.

  “I look for crossbow pliz.”

  “Certainly sir – looking to do a spot of poaching are we?” was the jocular response.

  “Poaching – what is this?”

  “You know, someone’s rabbits, pheasant.”

  “Yes I get hungry.”

  “Don’t we all – there are several here from about £25.00 upwards.”

  “On target at 40 metres pliz?”

  “Well, that’s a bit far – 30 metres, perhaps, with practice.”

  “Pliz show me how to work it then I buy.”

  “Okay, we’ll go into the yard – follow me.” Bill gestured to the door at the back of the shop.

  Bill carried the crossbow with some loose alloy bolts into the yard and KD followed.

  The yard was about 20 metres long with targets at the far end.

  Unaware he was instructing a potential political assassin, Bill patiently explained the basics of the crossbow theory and practice to KD.

  “Practice makes perfect – find yourself a quiet spot, say on Hampstead Heath or Epping Forest, and you’ll get more and more accurate – the beauty of these bolts is you can use them time and time again.”

  After about 15 minutes of instruction, KD said

  “Okay, I buy now – thank you.”

  “Fine. I suggest you take 2 packs of bolts and you can have some targets 12 for £2.50 – they’re on at half price.”

  A few minutes later KD was walking back to the Tube having completed his purchase – on the way back to Brent Cross he was thinking about the where question – up to a point he’d already sorted the when and how aspects of his project.

  Marcus Love was the target and KD needed to focus on when and where he would be speaking in the London area, probably within the last 10 days or so of the Referendum campaign.

  The following day he visited the library again and, with the help of Google and a dictionary, was able to establish that Love was due to visit Finchley on 21 March, 2 days before the vote. There would probably be a walk-about in the car park of the Asda supermarket in Ballards Lane, according to the What’s On section of the Leave campaign HQ.

  Later, in the afternoon, KD, with the crossbow, target and bolts in his rucksack, visited Hampstead Heath for some target practice. He managed to find a sequoia tree with a wide trunk. He nailed a target to the tree and then, from an initial distance of 7 or 8 metres, took aim and fired. To start with he lost a couple of bolts in the undergrowth, but gradually improved his technique and accuracy, working his way further back from the tree.

  After several hours of practice over a 5-day period, he found he could hit the target from 20 metres, 80 per cent of the time.

  He reckoned he might get a second chance so he also practised re-loading, which he perfected in about 6 seconds.

  The crossbow was virtually silent when he fired, so it would take time for a minder to work out from where the weapon was being fired.

  The following Sunday, after Asda had closed, KD carried out a reconnaissance to the supermarket car park and found a good place on the day to wait for his target to appear – it was the first floor level of the multi-storey car park – there was a pillar providing cover but there was also a clear view over most of the car park over the top of a brick parapet.

  That was definitely the “where?” side of the problem sorted.

  Over the next few days he followed a set routine of working in the early mornings and evenings at his cleaning job. During the afternoons he would practice with the crossbow, usually on Hampstead Heath. He was now able to hit the target from 30 metres 80 per cent of the time.

  “Pliz, I need more bolts for crossbow.”

  KD had decided to re-visit Bill’s Sports Shop in Barnet as he was needing to replace bolts he’d lost in the practice sessions.

  “Fine, bud – how many?”

  “Twenty, maybe.”

  “Okay, I can do 24 at £8.50.”

  “Okay, I buy.”

  “Fine – tell me, have you hit anything yet?”

  “Two pigeons and tree, but I practice like you said.”

  When he got back to Brent, KD decided to have a chat to Eleni in the trailer cafe.

  “Hi – will you have drink with me when you finish tonight?”

  “No, KD, I have boyfriend and he won’t be keen on the idea – thanks for asking though.”

  KD knew his prospects were minimal but he fancied Eleni big time and decided to try again.

  “How about when you boyfriend at work?”

  Eleni laughed. “Sorry KD – I like you but I also like my boyfriend and I don’t want to lose him.”

  “I save up and take you West End one day.”

  “Dream on KD – here, have another coffee – this one’s on the house.”

  “What means ‘on the house?’”

  “Free – it’s a gift from me.”

  “Thanks, I know you nice girl.”

  KD’s state of mind was such that his rejection by Eleni confirmed what he thought he already knew – that he had no status, no prospects and very little money.

  His desperate circumstances made him even more determined to carry out his plan.

  There were now only 10 days to go til 21 March and his unofficial rendezvous with Marcus Love.

  His routine did not change – by now he had acquired a tent which, for now, he pitched amongst some bushes on Hampstead Heath to be near his practice range. This enabled him to practice firing at least 3 hours per day and it was easier and more comfortable to sleep in the tent than some of the other locations he had had to put up with previously – bus stations, shop doorways, garden sheds, you name it he had tried it.

  He also found time to access a Leave HQ website in order to check that Marcus Love had not changed his plans about visiting Finchley on 21 March. Sure enough, Love was still scheduled to speak – the likely topic being immigration and the need to repatriate those whose English language skills were not sufficient to pass the tests he was proposing.

  During the
afternoon of the 20th, KD went to see Eleni, knowing it was probably going to be the last time he spoke to her.

  “I go away, probably for long time, so I say goodbye.”

  “Sorry to hear that, KD, where are you going?”

  “Not decided yet… maybe Birmingham or Manchester.”

  KD was finding it hard to resist the temptation to confess everything to Eleni about his wish to get even with the likes of Marcus Love, about the crossbow, the endless practising – his desperation and his plan to “end it all.”

  He eventually decided telling her would worry her and she might be tempted to shop him, which would be even worse.

  When they eventually parted company, they shook hands and KD grasped Eleni’s hand firmly but gently, using both his hands. He was welling up, but just managed to suppress the urge to weep openly.

  “I Catholic, Eleni, please pray for me.”

  “For sure, KD – I’m not religious, but if you think it will help I will pray for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  At that point he released her hand, turned and left her – 20 metres away he turned and smiled. Eleni waved, and that was the last time she saw him.

  The next day KD got up early – 5.00 am – packed the tent away and hid it in some undergrowth. He packed the crossbow and bolts into his rucksack and started his short journey to Finchley on foot. He got the Tube for part of the journey and arrived at the Asda store Ballards Lane at 7.30 am. He went into the cafe for coffee and breakfast and contemplated his plan. He was still depressed, but able to focus on what he felt he needed to do. He reckoned he would be doing the other illegals a favour, and would be applauded by the likes of Eleni – he was on a mission and was sure God would forgive him.

  Marcus Love was due to speak from his trademark soapbox at 10.30 am in the open air area to the side of the multi-storey section of the car park. The police had already erected barriers in anticipation of a crowd, and by 9.30 am various people had gathered at the venue, including protesters, mainly from the Socialist Workers’ Party (SWP), with placards reading “Immigrants welcome – Tories out.”

  KD loitered for about 10-15 minutes in the open air section of the car park biding his time.

  Then he made his way up to the first floor level of the car park and re-discovered the pillar he had found on his last visit. He extracted from his rucksack a hi-vis yellow gilet which he put on to look, at first glance, like a Council workman or car park attendant. He was able to stand to the side of the pillar and only be seen by anyone in 3 or 4 cars parked to the side of it, and also by the crowd in the open air section of the car park below, if he leaned forward. He looked over the parapet and surveyed the scene for a few minutes, then carefully extracted the small crossbow, which was wrapped in a cloth, and placed it out of sight on a shadowy area of the parapet. He took two alloy bolts from his pocket in readiness.

  It was now 10.15 am and Marcus Love and his entourage of 3 or 4 minders had arrived. Love was limbering up by pressing the flesh of various supporters, many of whom were brandishing Vote Leave and Pro UKIP placards.

  At 10.29 precisely, Love stood on his soapbox and proceeded with his speech.

  “Good morning ladies and gentlemen – I am very pleased to be here again in Finchley – the constituency of the late great Margaret Thatcher…” There were then cheers from many in the crowd and boos from the SWP.

  “Some of our opponents routinely call us racist, but your race is not defined by the language you speak…” KD took the cloth off the crossbow and loaded.

  “… there are white folk who can’t speak English and there are coloured folk who speak English very well…”

  KD took aim at Love’s chest about 25 metres away.

  “… the point is that English is the language of UK business and people working in this country…”

  KD pulled the trigger – he scored a direct hit – on Love’s left eye – KD quickly re-loaded.

  People in the crowd were screaming – the minders had rushed forward – Love had slumped forward and rapidly lost consciousness.

  KD fired again, but this time he missed and the bolt skidded away after hitting the ground close to Love’s motionless body.

  A policeman with an interest in shooting and archery saw the bolt and yelled “it’s a fucking crossbow bolt” – the crowd gasped.

  KD calmly surveyed the chaotic scene below him, took a 6-inch kitchen knife from his rucksack and, with it, he slit his own throat 15 seconds before 2 policemen got to him – one of whom had noticed a glint of metal – the barrel of the crossbow – shortly before the second shot was fired.

  In the distance the siren of an ambulance could be heard.

  Love never re-gained consciousness and died in the ambulance 20 minutes later from loss of blood and shock.

  KD died a few minutes after the police got to him – the cause of death was asphyxiation and loss of blood – he had managed to sever the main artery in his own neck.

  KD had wanted at least Eleni to know he was the perpetrator and the police found a letter addressed to Mr Koco Dine c/o Brent Law Centre. The letter was from the Refugee and Asylum section of HM Immigration Service, Croydon. It read:

  Dear Sir

  We regret to inform you that your application for asylum on the grounds of persecution in Albania has been rejected.

  The medical practitioner who examined the injuries you have sustained believes such injuries were probably self inflicted and were so recent as not to have been inflicted before 15 November 2015, your stated date of arrival in the UK.

  You may appeal against this finding, but we have to tell you that we will strongly resist any attempt to alter the decision we have taken.

  Yours faithfully

  During the 36 hours left approximately until the Referendum started, the Press and media had a field day. The assassination of Love seemed to the pro-Leave papers a vindication – not that they ever believed they needed vindicating.

  As just about every 10-year old English schoolkid knows, King Harold, the Anglo-Saxon king, was killed by an arrow through the eye by the invading Norman French Army at the Battle of Hastings in 1066 – hence the headlines:

  “950 YEARS LATER – IT’S GROUNDHOG DAY”

  was The Sun’s offering.

  The Express went with:

  “1066 RE-VISITED – ENGLISH STATESMAN

  FELLED BY FOREIGN ARCHER – AGAIN.”

  The Mail decided to try and capitalise on Love’s death:

  “DON’T LET MARCUS’S DEATH BE IN VAIN –

  VOTE LEAVE TOMORROW”

  The King called for calm.

  It eventually looked as though 3 per cent of the Electorate listened to The Mail, as Vote Leave won the vote with 52.5% of the vote, having had 49.5% in the poll of polls the night before Love was assassinated.

  Naturally, Ibrahim was content with the result but saddened by Marcus Love’s “martyrdom”. He made sure all the journalists who spoke to him knew this and that he was not in any mood to be triumphalist, although he thought the right result had been achieved.

  In any event, his own prestige as a politician and statesman were enhanced by being on the winning side.

  “Now that Leave has won, I feel like I must be a member of the Establishment,” he joked with Karim next time they met.

  “Kirsty and I are very upset – if it wasn’t for Love’s death we reckon Remain would have won. In the end it was an old fashioned sympathy vote that clinched it,” observed Karim.

  “Let’s just thank our lucky stars the perpetrator was not a Muslim…”

  At least Ibrahim was right about this… and Karim knew it.

  8

  Sandringham – April 2016

  Easter morning

  The King entered the morning room and greeted Sophia and Richard.

  “A Happy
Easter to you both. I was expecting to see my grandchildren out hunting for their eggs. Don’t tell me they are still in bed?”

  “No James,” Sophia replied. “They’ve been out and back and are getting ready for Church.”

  “Ah, splendid.”

  A knock at the door announced the children’s nanny.

  “We’re ready, sir,” she announced to the King.

  “Very well, Harriet. Let’s go down. We’ve been advised to drive to church in three cars, for security reasons. Clarissa and I will go in the second car and you can go in the third. We’ll see you in church.”

  The King’s car moved slowly along the lane that led from Sandringham House to the village church. Each car was identical with blackened windows so that any attacker wouldn’t know which was carrying royalty. Out of the woods from both sides of the road some forty masked gunmen emerged to open fire on the first car, prompting the convoy to stop and the King’s armed guard in the attending vehicles to open doors and retaliate. But they were hopelessly outgunned.

  Once the armed escorts were all dead, the gunmen shot the driver of the second car and opened the door. The bodyguard in the passenger seat succeeded in shooting three of the attackers until he was killed. The terrified King and Queen were pulled out and bundled into a van, that had parked up alongside, and driven at furious speed through the village toward the main road to Kings Lynn.

  There being no surviving police or intelligence officers, by the time the authorities were informed of the attack, the getaway car had despatched its precious cargo into another vehicle which was now heading up the motorway to Yorkshire. Within an hour, the BBC was broadcasting the kidnappers’ terms: the immediate recall of Parliament including members who had won seats at the election and to enact the establishment of Sharia Law in any borough that had a preponderance of Muslims living there. If these terms were not met within 48 hours, the King would be executed. Within 30 minutes of the announcement, GCHQ confirmed the source of the terrorists’ command and control. It was Bradford City Hall.