by Baz Wade
9
At the Inland Revenue offices in Bradford, the Assistant Chief Finance Officer took a call from a senior official in Whitehall.
“So now you’ve got rid of your bad apples, Malone, when can we expect our dues at the Treasury?”
Malone took the phone across to the window overlooking St. Blaise Way and groaned. The picket line preventing any of his tax collectors entering the building was being reinforced by an army of Government opponents showing muscle and voice enough to deter any but the bravest of his loyal HMRC staff from pushing through. There would be insufficient numbers anyway to reverse the procedure their colleagues had implemented before they were sacked, whereby any tax due from postcodes with constituencies won by Muslim Party MPs would not be collected.
“I haven’t the staff to restore normal tax collection, Mr Gunridge.”
The tone of his superior’s reply was condescendingly sharp. “Then we will have to put the matter into the hands of tax offices elsewhere,” he said. “That won’t help your application for promotion of course.”
Malone was favourite in the running for the Chief Finance Officer vacancy in Bradford. He paused as he resolved not to let this threat rattle his composure.
“The unions won’t let that happen,” he retorted, conscious of the satisfaction in his voice. “They have instructed their members not to revise the procedure.” He waited for a reaction but none came. “Until the Government reinstates Muslim Party MPs,” he went on, “we will have to accept that no tax due on income or services will go to HM Treasury from areas where Muslim Party MPs have been elected.”
The debate in the council chamber was getting heated.
“You can’t expect those earning below the tax threshold to pay more council tax. It unfairly penalises them. It’s a case of double standards when Labour objected so strongly to the supposed poison of the Poll Tax…” The Conservative speaker’s interruption was drowned out in a cacophony of jeers from the crowd of Labour Party supporters that had packed the room.
“Order,” called the Chair. “Let the proposer make his final point so we can at last take a vote on this motion.”
The Labour councillor for Queensbury stood.
“In summary, Ms Chair, if the Government is withholding our block grant, we’ve got to get our revenue from somewhere..”
As the Bradford City Council prepared to vote on the motion to raise council tax by nearly 200%, members of the public were still pushing through the doors of the chamber. Security staff tried to hold them back, and persuade them to leave the building but managed only to block the stairway as more people were entering the town hall from the street. What relieved the bottleneck was entirely unpredicted, both by the victims of the stampede and its perpetrators.
The loud bang that was heard from two floors above the council chamber was a stun grenade being detonated. This was followed by cries and shouting as a door was flung open and several men in Muslim garb came tearing down the stairs. Seeing them pursued by masked gunmen, the crowds two floors down outside the council chamber panicked. The gunmen did not need to fire. Thanks to the blocked staircase, they were able to apprehend their prey within moments, but not before a crush on a corner of the staircase had rendered unconscious several of those seeking to attend the council vote.
By the time the emergency services arrived – police first to take over from the SAS – then ambulances 20 minutes later, six people had passed the point of recovery and expired before paramedics could revive them. Public resentment about the suspension of parliamentary democracy was now fuelled by outrage that the Government was responsible for the deaths of innocent people in a blundered attempt to secure the release of the monarch from a terrorist group covertly run from Bradford City Hall.
Jim McCosh took a slug of whisky from the bottle sitting provocatively on the First Minister’s desk. He paused to reflect before standing up and hurling the bottle at the wall opposite, narrowly missing the framed photograph of his beaming face as a young man with his arm around the shoulder of his mentor and founding father of the SNP, Sandy Wallace. He was furious, not least for letting himself slip back into his old habit of indulging in a tipple during working hours.
He tried to persuade himself he had an excuse this time. Ivan Smithson’s suspension of the Westminster Parliament had closed the only avenue open to his party to influence British economic policy and its relations with the rest of the world. After the SNP had been defeated in the independence referendum, the annihilation of the Labour Party in Scotland had provided Westminster with an anti-austerity block of SNP MPs that punched above its weight. Labour in England would have to adopt the same platform if it was to win its vote back and challenge for Government in the UK in future. This scenario had vanished in a puff of smoke now that Ivan Smithson had suspended Parliament.
McCosh pressed the buzzer on his phone. He didn’t need to. The door of the office was already opening and his PA Lorraine frowning her concern as she surveyed the whisky-stained wall and fragments of glass on the floor opposite his desk. The First Minister didn’t offer her an explanation, preferring to impress on his PA the urgency of the task he wanted her to perform.
“Would you take down a letter, please Lorraine? I want it sent to Smithson right away.”
He began dictating.
‘Dear Prime Minister,
The news that the Monarch has been kidnapped and held to ransom is shocking, and we in Scotland share the wish of the majority of the British people that he and the Queen come to no harm at the hands of this despicable so-called caliphate.
I cannot accept however that such an act justifies the suspension of Parliament. I have decided to declare Scotland an independent country. This will be de facto with immediate effect. The overwhelming support in Scotland for continued membership of the EU in the recent UK referendum is cause enough for us to reject England so that a second referendum on Scottish independence is not necessary.
I await your acknowledgement pending implementation of my Government’s intention to recover our assets from the British state.
With sincere wishes for cordial relations between our countries
James McCosh First Minister’
Kirsty was torn. Her politics were too green for her to feel comfortable with playing a gig on an oil platform, yet she was Scottish enough to support her Government’s UDI. What swayed her was the fervour of the band’s drummer, Nick. He was passionate that McCosh’s Government should not allow itself to be bullied out of securing the oil off the Scottish coast for the Scottish economy alone, by diverting all tankers to the Grangemouth refinery in the Firth of Forth . Hence the Rainbow Warriors had accepted an invitation to play for the oil workers to keep up their morale as Smithson’s Government threatened to send the Royal Navy to restore the transportation of crude oil to the Humber refinery in Lincolnshire.
The gig was being televised and thus guaranteed exposure to an audience outside their London base. But Kirsty had misgivings about this. Instead of a matey slot on BBC’s Later with Jools, their manager Martin had arranged a lucrative deal with a television company based in Riyadh. Saudi Arabia was keen to present an image of British imperialism to the world as it put more pressure on Smithson to reinstate Muslim MPs to Parliament. The news channel Al Ekhbariya would like nothing more than to film the gig against the background of the Royal Navy confronting the Scottish oil tankers in the North Sea. Kirsty the flame-haired political activist with a heart for radical political change was now feeling that the waters she was wading into were becoming rather too deep and turbulent for her taste and comfort.
The weather was also turbulent as the road crew set up the stage on the oil rig platform, there being no room elsewhere on the rig for an audience of more than about 50. Wind mixed shriekingly with electronic feedback as it howled around the PA system but the squally rain eased enough to allow the Rainbow Warriors to mount the stage a
nd launch into “Everybody’s Bully”, now their most recognisable number.
“War is his game and he’s playing for kicks
He has them all fooled with his cheap little tricks”,
belted out Kirsty after introducing it as a reference to the Smithson’s RUK, the Government derived from the rump of a UK Parliament that still tried to boss the Scots.
Hardly had they got into the song when they were startled by a loud explosion some distance from the rig. They stopped playing as their audience leapt to its feet and crowded to the rail. Two warships, bristling with high tech antenna and weaponry, were facing off in an otherwise grey featureless sea. The Royal Navy destroyer had fired a warning salvo across the bows of a frigate commandeered by mutinous nautical supporters of the Scottish Government to protect the tankers that were being primed with crude oil from the rig.
The bully had arrived.
On the screen Andy Sheikh was transfixed by the sight of his protégé Karim contorting himself as he solo’d lead guitar while Kirsty bopped and jived to the rhythm of the song. He heard the Royal Navy cannon. The camera then went quickly off the Rainbow Warriors to catch the incident taking place across the water. Sheikh was on the phone at once.
“I want you to get the rights to these pictures, Bernie. For tomorrow’s front page, with the headline:
‘Prince Karim, son of Princess
Caroline, rocks for Scotland.’”
Resisting the temptation to open the new bottle of Lagavulin on the desk in front of him, Jim McCosh took a sip of tea in an effort to maintain calmness in mood and tone. Smithson had just called him.
“The Scottish economy can’t function since the Bank of England froze our assets,” he reiterated to Smithson. “Until we negotiate our membership of the EU, our offshore oil is our only lifeline now.”
“I’ll use force if I have to,” Smithson barked back down the phone. “Blasting out those terrorists in Bradford should have proved that to you, McCosh.”
The Scottish First Minister laughed. “But look where it got you.” He didn’t bother to hide his derision. “Mass protests on the streets of ungovernable cities against your regime, and still no sign of the King and Queen because your intelligence didn’t tell you the caliphate had relocated their hostages. If you don’t restore Parliament you won’t just have lost Scotland but large parts of England, Wales too probably. I…”
Smithson was still listening but could hear only muffled but frantic chatter in the background.
“McCosh, look, all you have to do is let those tankers pass so they can get to the Humber refinery and I will order the Royal Navy to withdraw. Otherwise, the frigates you have commandeered will become the first victims of conflict between our countries since the Jacobite Rebellion and your mutineers will be charged with treason.”
“Sorry, Smithson… I’m not able to respond to that just now. Something more urgent has come up…”
“What – more urgent than a stand-off between those two warships?
“Yes. I’ve had a call from Admiral McKinley in Faslane. Some mavericks calling themselves the Culloden Brigade have threatened to take matters into their own hands if your forces attack ours. Whether intentional or not, a cruise missile launch has been triggered from a Trident submarine. It’s primed and heading for GCHQ.”
“Christ, how did that happen?”
“Never mind, I just have to tell you we can’t stop it… but we can re-target it onto a large town north of Cheltenham, according to my computer nerd friends up here.”
“How about Burnley? I know a couple of total arseholes from there. We’ll have to retaliate you know, like for like – what Scots town do you particularly dislike? Dundee’s a bit of a shocker isn’t it?”
“No I like Dundee, I went to Uni there – I’ll agree Paisley – Graham Blackson’s old constituency – he’s always trying to scupper us as well as being allegedly the worst British Prime Minister since Lord North.”
“Okay it’s a deal.”
The live coverage of the North Sea faceoff kept running. Kirsty could see the cameras were still rolling and ran back to her microphone.
“If proof were still needed, the Smithson Government’s contempt toward our nation is there for all to see, how it is prepared to use brute force to get its way. Well, I for one won’t be a subject of your King, Smithson, even if you find him…”
Shouts from the rail interrupted her. “Come here, Kirsty,” came Karim’s voice. “They are withdrawing.”
Sure enough Karim’s words were borne out as Kirsty rushed back to the crowd of riggers at the rail. Four destroyers had turned from the frigates defending the tankers and were sailing away southwards. Had McCosh caved in to Smithson when he had demonstrated his intention to use force?
“So what the fuck are you going to do?”
“I’ve asked the admiral to abort the attack,” said McCosh. “They are trying to down the missile on open land but it’s not guaranteed. Just now it is crossing the Lake District.”
“One gem of British landscape ruined for hundreds of years then,” grimaced Smithson, “though minimal human casualties at least. I will get onto the BBC at once.”
“Will you call off your warships too?”
“That will depend on where the missile lands and the number of casualties.”
Assuming the incident had passed, Al Ekhbariya’s cameras were now back filming the Rainbow Warriors who had resumed their set. Still watching from his office in Leeds, Andy Sheikh was in the middle of another call about declaring Karim as the rallying point for opposition to the Smithson Government when the broadcast was interrupted by a news announcement in Arabic showing a picture of the Prime Minister. He flicked onto the BBC News Channel on another screen.
“… a grave state of emergency,” Smithson was saying. “Fringe nationalist elements have launched a nuclear missile from a Trident submarine. All attempts to abort it have failed. Government control of the local situation for people close to GCHQ is now being directed from nuclear bunkers in Gloucestershire. If you are in the vicinity, your Government strongly advises you to find whatever shelter from the fallout is available to you within the next 25 minutes. ‘Duck and cover’ was the slogan Mr Macmillan would have used in the 1950s. I am sorry I cannot offer any better advice now.”
Andy Sheikh looked back at the Al Ekhbariya broadcast from the oil rig. Its cameras were now showing the retreat of Smithson’s destroyers had halted. They were now turning to face the rig again.
Next morning’s papers had sold out before Ibrahim had reached Andy Sheikh’s office. He had hoped for a more complete picture of events before he met his political backer. He got more information from his taxi-driver than the scrambled conversation he had with Sheikh at 6 a.m. All Sheikh would say was that he was not going to say anymore over the phone and that Ibrahim should come in person to his office. With grim irony, Ibrahim reflected that there would have been no need for such caution, had GCHQ been devastated.
After the brinkmanship and tension of the past 24 hours, and while back in Sheikh’s office once more, Ibrahim experienced a sensation he had never felt before. He trembled with relief as he kissed the hand of the woman proffering it to him. Dressed in ill-fitting khaki trousers and a red sweatshirt, Queen Clarissa of England smiled wanly on being introduced to him.
“Ibrahim is the man who will lead this country forward as it comes to terms with a new multicultural constitutional arrangement, your Majesty,” said Andy Sheikh.
“I’m afraid I don’t know where this is all leading, Mr Sheikh. Are we to believe that the Muslim population of this country are not breeding violent extremists?”
“It won’t if I have anything to do with it, Ma’am,” said Ibrahim. “Contrary to what you may have heard, not all Muslims hold extremist views. The whole purpose of the Muslim Party is to represent those strands of Muslim belief that
are consistent with the democratic and pluralistic traditions of this country.”
“And that includes advocating equal rights for minorities and women,” said Andy Sheikh.
“As well as the rule of law”, added Ibrahim. “So how did you get here, Ma’am?” he asked.
“I was driven here blindfolded. I don’t know where they were holding us. It was about an hour’s drive away.”
“Why is the King not with you?”
“Because whoever paid those scumbags their ransom didn’t pay enough. That’s what I gathered from my captors’ conversation during the car journey. They seem to think Mr Sheikh is sympathetic to their cause and my appearance in his media will put pressure for acceptance of their demands – more money and Sharia Law for Muslim areas.”
“And has there been a response from Smithson?” asked Ibrahim.
“Yes, my reporters are with him now.” Andy Sheikh unmuted the TV that dominated the wall of his office so they could hear what the Prime Minister was saying. Smithson was addressing the massed ranks of constabulary preventing anyone gaining access to Bradford City Hall. Many had been bussed in from other police forces to tackle the crowds protesting against the closure of the council on the orders of the Government since the events of the previous week when the SAS had stormed the building. Their banners read ‘Police brutality – Orgreave again’, and ‘Time for another Civil War’.
“… nothing changes my resolve to restore law and order here,” the PM intoned, “and to defeat the forces of terror, whether they be Islamist or nationalist…”
As the Prime Minister was being guided into a Daimler by his bodyguards so as to be promptly driven away, pictures of a Tesco superstore appeared on the TV. The smoking remains of a missile clearly marked by the symbol of a trident was lying next to the Tesco sign that had fallen from the front of the flattened building. Bomb disposal experts had not yet started work to establish why the warhead had not detonated. The TV picture switched back to Smithson.