by R. Jay
Though feeling suitably browbeaten, the policeman sat up straight behind his desk, fixing his unannounced visitor with a stern look.
"And as I understand it, the remit of your shiny new role is to serve all of the electorate, not just any one favoured segment of it."
Yasir Davi's eyebrows beetled in a righteous scowl. "That comment sounds suspiciously like it has racist undertones to me Chief Constable."
Beaumont pulled miserably at a reddening earlobe, reliving sharp memories of scathing cross examination in the witness box when a much junior officer by the then Yasir Davi QC.
"D - does it?" He countered lamely, regretting already his rare stance of discord. "I am j - just pointing out that these young men who s - style themselves as the EFL, were merely ordinary f - family men not so long ago, and are also worthy of your representation. Are they n - not?" He glanced down at a letter open on his desk received just that morning, feeling slightly buoyed up. "And I gather that the Home Secretary is of m - much the same opinion."
"Racist thugs, Nazis!" Davi's fist pounded the desk top, a spatter of spittle dotting its surface.
"That is a rather d - damning charge Mr. Davi. There is a precedence in English law that guilt must be established before any s - sentence or punishment is meted out." The policeman stated mildly.
"I am very well versed in English law sir as you are well aware. But that ancient out of touch legacy now has a modern codicil, in that we observe consideration for a politically correct interpretation. It is my avowed intent as this region's PCC to ensure that you do so."
"And the UA-F?"
Beaumont's downcast eyes slid nervously across the office to the tousled figure sat slumped in a corner, a wry smile hovering on unshaven features. Benny Mann had been introduced vaguely as Yasir Davi's advisor on extremist groups.
"The UA-F are an accredited organisation that has the ear of cross party MP's and are recipients of government funding for their sterling work."
"Creating s - street riots?"
A snarl of frustration hissed from between Davi's perfect white teeth. "The UA-F have a proud history of combating white extremist scum that lay sole claim to this land." His voice lowered, calm and threatening. "May I remind you Mister Beaumont, my position encompasses the power to remove any Chief Constable if I deem that necessary. Am I making my point clear?"
Oliver Beaumont swallowed with difficulty, thought he would gag his throat was so dry. He rubbed his soft red face with slim, damp hands.
"V - very clear Mr. Davi." His nasally voice scraped through thin, bloodless lips, a mere whisper. "Let me pull the f - file on this Christopher Carter. With his history it looks as if he is s - skating on very thin ice. Quite likely he'll fall through it at any time s - soon."
Benny Mann sniggered, spoke for the first time. "Then he'll 'swim with the fishes. Problem solved all round gentlemen." His wide, delighted grin was missing a couple of yellowed teeth.
***
It had been a very satisfactory Tuesday morning. The Chief Constable of the County had been brought to heel in no uncertain terms by a Police and Crime Commissioner, jumping through burning hoops himself to avoid a melt-down of his own professional and private life. Yep, himself and Kamal Khan would make a winning team alright.
Benny Mann entered the outskirts of Luton, a quick lunch behind him, pigged on at a roadside eatery on the A505 down from Cambridge. He felt energised, ready to gallop a long, flat course, straight and true ahead. Must have been that horse meat in the beef-burgers.
The mosque he had been directed to was bigger, more imposing on the town's façade than the one at Holtingham. A purpose built edifice with cupolas and minarets, built to impress, or at least overshadow the little Methodist Chapel crouching sulkily just one hundred yards away. Yes, a fitting venue he thought. The preachers of hate and murder, rogue Imams from across the midlands and the north, were descending on Luton to formulate the raising of a great army of mujahideen; hopefully in excess of two thousand British born muslims, indoctrinated and recruited at their places of worship, schools and colleges in grey English towns. The great quest was coming home to roost.
Young, men of confused identity, free to exist, mix and merge within the ranks of their avowed foes, whilst sheltering beneath the umbrella of their own communities who could be relied upon to hold their tongues, through covert sympathy or under the threat of severe punishment for betrayal of the Brethren.
Benny Mann himself didn't care a hoot for Islamist expansionism, didn't really believe it could happen. But he was more than happy to assist in social unrest and disruption of ordinary, fruitful lives. His only motivation since the hazy, drug spiced 70's, was to destroy the tattered banner of democracy, truth and justice that fluttered weakly over fortress Britain; barely at half mast now and still slipping down the pole.
He left the car in a nearby multi-story car-park to wander back along unfamiliar pavements towards the great rally. Already local people were watching with dark suspicion the robed figures of muslim Holy men converging on the mosque that mocked.
Benny spotted the tall stern figure of Kamal Khan, striding unconcerned across the busy road through moving traffic, his retinue of scarred minders and lackeys skipping between the cars like the herd of goats he had abandoned in the Punjab hills when a young boy.
Mann slipped into a narrow alley, like a feral cat seeking fish heads in the bins there, quick shifty eyes busy, to a more discreet side entrance. It was known by his hosts, or at least suspected, that MI5 agents occasionally conducted bored surveillance operations from a defunct dry-cleaning premises opposite. That nugget of info was merely added spice to an aging agitator with long experience of the security services, a brain addled on banned substances and the self pitying, persecution trauma of a spoilt childhood.
As he knocked furtively on a paint peeling door, he buzzed with an enhanced excitement. He could feel it in his juices, this enterprise was to be the one. An ultimate inside job, aliens tearing out through the stomach walls from within. How could the great beast of England fight a foe that burrowed inside its own vital organs?
***
Chris stood at the doorway, watching as brilliant white emulsion was rollered across grandpa's bedroom ceiling. It presented an acute contrast to the discoloured and smeared surface that was rapidly disappearing.
It had taken the lads over two hours that morning to scrub off and seal the strata of nicotine and time borne dirt, a patination of life spent in this simple but loved house. The walls had been stripped of floral wallpaper that had been hung during the era of the Vietnam war disaster. Turgid, dark brown paintwork, rubbed down, filled and a soft cream eggshell acrylic paint was being applied.
Nobby Clark and his work team had steamed into the task early that Tuesday morning, barely pausing at lunchtime for hot sweet tea and cheese rolls.
"Sorry I have to charge you at all Chris, but I have to pay my blokes and I'm scrapping the bottom of the money pit myself." Nobby apologised a little sheepishly. "Those bloody East Europeans are flooding the building trade, undercutting me something terrible, and half of them have never picked up a paint brush in their lives. Hardly a tradesman amongst them apart from some of the Poles."
Chris patted his shoulder. "No worries Nobby. I don't expect a freebie, and if I want to pay peanuts I'll only get monkeys. Let's face it, society has kept me for the past fifteen years. I really appreciate you coming in at such short notice. Grandpa's coming home Friday, he'll think he's walked into the wrong house.
"I've got some new carpet being laid in here Thursday and an electric wall heater fitted. That'll do until I can get some central heating organised in the New Year. When they've finished tearing the place apart perhaps you lot can come back and do the rest of the place. I'll see if I can get grandpa away for a couple of weeks, somewhere warm, but where he won't try to shoot the natives."
That got a laugh from the four decorators. A heartfelt laugh.
***
Lucy Leve
r sat glumly at her desk, absentmindedly shredding a pack of tissues, the mess accumulating all around her. It was a habit she had acquired as a sulky toddler who couldn't get her own way. Bad daddy, bad mummy!
It had been two days since her own exclusive on the 'Holtingham Riot', as she thought of it, popping up onto the pages of some Sunday Nationals. Okay, not exactly on the front pages; yobs brawling in some provincial hick town didn't set the presses alight. But her name was on that report in bold type, a sure promise that she was on her way to being a big shot reporter, daddy had assured her.
But that fucking phone had not rung and what was wrong with her e-mail account? No invitations to enter those citadels of her ambition. She was stuck out here in the muddy shires, undervalued and ill utilised in her estimation. A resentment was mushrooming in dark corners of her mind that daddy was lacking in commitment to her golden career, buying his way into such a rabid little county news-sheet she wouldn't line a litter tray with.
And the editor hated her, she knew that for a fact. The bastard objected to her being foisted upon his meagre staff budget, having to find a nothing slot to keep her occupied. She knew he was still a drinking buddy of that old prat Norman Batty, dripping poison about her into each others' whiskery ears over pints of brown and mild or whatever ancient wrinklys drank these days.
Come to think of it, the whole of the staff hated her too. Jealous they were, damned turnip-head bumpkins. Couldn't write a shopping list between them whilst she was confined to a small Monday morning filler column.
"Lucy?"
She looked up sharply, startled out of her reverie. Simon the spotty little school leaver post-room trainee, who often developed a disconcerting bulge in the front of his cheap trousers whilst in her presence, stood by her desk with an envelope held out for her to take.
"Letter just came in addressed to you." He imparted huskily. Was he leering?
She snatched the thing off of him, keeping her eyes above his belt line. "Ta, bye." She snapped dismissively, swinging half around on her office swivel chair, not the executive model, to pointedly turn her back on him, studying the envelope in her hands. With an audible sigh, Simon slouched off, probably to go and peruse those girlie magazines she knew he had hidden down there in the musty, dingy post-room.
The brown envelope had no stamp or frank marks, 'Private and personal' printed across the top in a large clumsy hand, obviously hand delivered or at least shoved into the letterbox sometime during the afternoon. Definitely not from 'Fleet Street'. For an impetuous moment she considered dropping it unopened into her waste-bin but wilted before rising curiosity.
Inside was a single sheet of A4 folded in half, one side filled with the same spidery writing as on the envelope, but in a smaller 'font'. A child-like sketch of a quarter moon and star emblem of Islam had been drawn at the top.
With some difficulty she read through the ill-formed words as a rising glare of excitement, like the sun of Nippon, threw broad rays of hope across her dark horizons. Her manicured nails pinched deeply into the paper and perspiration popped out on her ladylike, smooth forehead.
'The Invaders'
Crusaders be warned. We have captured a British soldier. A muslim who has betrayed his brothers by serving in the brutal Imperialist forces of this Godless country. He has been charged with the crime of Apostasy by the Holy Judges of a Sharia court and the traitor found guilty of treason. In accordance with Sharia Law a sentence of death has been declared.
Take note, unless the kafur government in Westminster immediately:
1) Release all muslim political prisoners, our glorious martyrs who have carried the wrath of Allah into this infidel nest of vipers.
2) Deliver for trial in a Sharia Holy Court the British military butchers responsible for ordering the invasion of our brother Islamic states.
Then this sentence of death will be carried out in two days time in the Sharia tradition.
Also, the fire of Islam will be unleashed. Jihadist warriors, even now amongst you, will slash and burn you, spill your blood, kill your women and children. You will cry an ocean. There will be no mercy.
Allahu Akbar! God is great!'
Lucy Lever was beside herself, certain that exposing 'white extremists' had marked her out for this honour. She was sure that she was going to pee herself. What to do? Take the letter straight to the police? Oh yeah, then have HER story snatched straight out of her hands. Not bloody likely!
Time was on her side. The deadlines for tomorrow's nationals was hours away. After she had got her BIG revelation into print next morning, there would still be a day and a half before any threat was to be carried out. That would be for the authorities to worry about.
Meantime she had a reputation to build, Lucy Lever, trusted conduit to oppressed freedom fighters. Oh it was delicious! She'd insist her name be printed double height, top and bottom.
Go baby GO!
With a frenzy of activity, she spun back around on her chair and ravenously attacked her keyboard, the icy blue glow from the computer monitor coating her fixated, damp face.
******
NINETEEN
Not one word of Lucy Lever's big scoop translated into print that Wednesday morning. Her editor at the Anglian Chronical struck out for media ethics and made a phone call. 'Fleet Street' still smarting from recent drubbings and threats of a political spanking, clung to caution and complied with urgent 'requests' from the Home Office to pass up on Ms. Lever's offering.
During the night hours her desk at the Chronical and her apartment in Peterborough received brisk but thorough examination by a couple of 'funnies' from the Smoke. 'No madam, the Special branch no longer exists. Try the Assistant Commissioner of Counter terrorism Command, SO15, if you wish to make a complaint.'
Not in the least mollified, definitely not a happy bunny as her cherished communiqué had been confiscated and borne away in a plastic evidence bag, Lucy Lever had resorted to her customary screaming fits that required temporary containment in plastic cuffs and medical sedation.
In the wee small hours at a hastily convened security briefing, the Home Secretary and the Director-General of MI5, Willard Stafford, were of one accord. Claims that a British serviceman had been abducted by an Islamist terrorist group within the British Isles just had to be suppressed.
The MI5 man had pressed home a valid point. "This country is a melting pot about to bubble over under too much heat and pressure. Any number of discontents are out there limbering up for the big fight. Given a blatant provocation of this nature, regiments of 'Lion-hearts' might just snap at last and go for it. Let us not underestimate Enoch Powel's 'Rivers of Blood' prediction. There could be some serious grief before we could contain it all.
"Of course this ultimatum might just be pseudo extremists blowing steam out of their arses after watching too many Jihadist U-Tube videos. But a few ounces of verbal semtex in some wanker's business hand can still blow a lot of fingers off, cause a really loud bang."
Roger Palmer blanched at the security chief's imagery. "But do we know yet of any British soldier on the AWOL list? Cannot be too hard to check surely. Not that many left and still in Blighty. The bulk of them are getting shot at in Oil-Land or been made redundant."
The MI5 man quickly wiped a smirk off of his guarded composure. "Checks are still being made Minister, but as yet, no servicemen appear not to be where they should. In the meantime we will continue to treat this threat as real and act accordingly. As I am sure all the law agencies under your control will do."
The Home Secretary nodded glumly. "Of course. But these 'Invaders' must surely know that their demands cannot be met?"
"That goes without saying. If genuine, it is obvious they have every intention of committing this threat regardless of what we do or promise. Be assured sir that we will turn this country upside down if necessary to find our boy, or girl. But we have less than one and a half days to do this?"
Roger Palmer looked bleaker than ever, stared meaningfully into the ot
her man's face. "The Prime Minister has voiced, 'a need to balance actions with due consideration and respect for community sensitivities'."
The MI5 man broke eye contact, looked away into the middle distance. "Can I translate that as the PM would rather lose one of our own than alienate the ethnic block vote?" A fusion of vivid colour flooded his face with bottled up anger. "You don't have to answer that Roger, I realise that you are in a difficult position concerning freedom of expression as a member of the Cabinet.
"However, be assured, finding our man takes top priority, and your political masters will have to scrub their own toilet clean afterwards."
"Thank you for your frankness Willard. Any indications of who these 'Invaders' are?"
"Midlands to East Anglia almost certainly. There has been some very recent activity in Luton, a gathering of the tribal chiefs so to speak. Probably centred on a small town north of Cambridge, Holtingham. You ever heard of it?"
"Twice this week. All of a sudden, Toy town is at the centre of the universe!"
***
"The stupid little bitch!" Benny Mann's day had started on a high. Now a cloud of apprehension hovered over his tousled head as he sat amongst the disorder of his flat back in Angel Islington, slurping a large mug of tea that failed to rehydrate the alcohol and substance excess of the night before. Her exhilarated late evening phone call had spiced up a spaced out binge. Now in the cold light of a Wednesday morning a nagging doubt was shaking his demons awake.
Firstly, nothing of what she had triumphantly reported had surfaced in any newspaper or TV bulletin. Lucy herself was not just unavailable, but both her land-line and mobile appeared to be' temporarily unavailable'. A call to her newspaper office had achieved only the frosty observation that Ms. Lever had not reported in for work that morning. Lucy, it occurred to Mann, was tucked away in lock-down somewhere. The boot prints of the security services were stomped all over this.