Christian preachers, none very complimentary, ranging from faith healers to purveyors of the Holy Spirit. Citing his psychological techniques as a danger to the Tribunal making a fair determination, he was hauled off before he could even answer the charges against him. In his absence he was found guilty of perverting the national character by using his position to promote homosexuality, which was against God's command. Various other charges including heresy and blasphemy were also listed.
"Grab Shaun, pack your bags. We're leaving!"
"What?" my wife replied.
"It's time to go, they've established the Inquisition. Witch trials, the whole bag of tricks. We won't be able to hide from that."
"But, our whole lives are here."
"So will our deaths, and that of our son. That, or he'll be raised by the state to shoot anyone they feel like arguing with. Can you abandon him to that for a few more days, weeks or months here? We. Have. To Go. NOW."
"We could take some time to get organised, properly plan what we are doing."
"We don't know when they will come for us. Now is the only time, and we may have left that a little too late. We should have left when Tanveer did."
"Where will we go? What will we do, you don't even have a plan!"
My wife was crying, clawing at my clothes as I tried to find the bare essentials to put in the car. No, I didn't have a plan, just the get the hell out of the UK. Right then, that was enough of a plan.
"Russia, we'll go to Russia."
"Why Russia?"
"Because it's the only place left we might survive long enough to see our son grow up."
She cried all the way to Dover, I had to pack all her things myself. Our son, I had put in the car, she hadn't lifted a finger. To her credit she hadn't stopped me, and I hadn't been exactly gentle in persuading her. I still had a few bruises from when I had dragged her to the car. I was sorry about that, but we didn't have enough time for me to explain and I hadn't been in a frame of mind where I could have done that. I had panicked.
We paid cash and the car to a fisherman at Dover, I had begged for him to give us at least twenty-four hours before he reported the incident, to tell the authorities we had forced him to do it. He had refused, we were the last he was going to take and he wasn't coming back. He was going to cruise the coasts of Africa plying his trade in the warm equatorial waters. I tried to explain that Africa was probably next, but he wouldn't listen. He dropped us off with a wave and a hug.
"Godspeed to you and your family, wherever you end up."
We managed to scrape together small exchanges of currency, which wasn't easy without proper travel documents. A few Pounds converted to much less than their worth in Euros. Our life savings dwindled drastically, but we got enough to pay for fuel and a doddering old banger. No mean feat, considering I was relying on the French I learned back at school. Not exactly suited for a midnight flit across occupied France. My wife had obtained an old dog-eared map of Europe from an elderly couple who claimed their grandparents had been in the resistance. We tried to put money in their hands but they refused to take it. They even scraped together enough for a few meals for our journey when they saw how little we had with us. It would appear that the machinations of the president had not found their way to corrupt all men's hearts.
As we drove towards the French Riviera, a detour that would attract less border issues, my wife navigated, only punctuating our journey with directions. I felt that the upheaval had been harder on her than for me. She had been the one with a grand image of our house when we had viewed it for the first time, kids, a dog in the back garden, when Shaun was old enough to pitch in to help him learn responsibility. Now we had abandoned that dream and were half-way across Europe, almost penniless and on our way to try and start over in a country where we didn't even speak the language. I tried to analyse where it had all gone wrong, why we hadn't seen this coming. I couldn't find one defining moment, but we had known all along. Not being Muslim we hadn't had to come to the realisation as quickly as Tanveer and his family, but it had been there. The pattern had been laid down in history, a financial crisis, a madman who came to power with an axe to grind and power as his goal. What had been done had been done too late.
Luckily, Monaco had no real involvement in the struggles around the world, being seen as too small and unimportant to even be invited to take part. We were also advantaged by the small amount of luggage, we didn't look like we were fleeing an oppressive regime, more like lost holiday makers. My wife even came out of her reverie to play the scolding wife when I chose to ask for directions to Italy from the border patrol to make sure they didn't think we would be staying. They let us go with a cheery wave and a "Bon Voyage" on their part, a sigh on our part when we were out of sight.
We were almost at the Russian Border when a military jet in the distance caused us to pull over under some trees to avoid hostile attention. We couldn't be sure that the Russians were not seeking out refugees or that our own allies were looking for anyone fleeing ahead of the new wave of trials. We had turned off the engine to conserve fuel, of which we were running desperately low. After the jet passed, the engine refused to start. We had no choice but to abandon the car and much of our possessions. We simply couldn't carry them and our son. We walked the last few miles in blistering gales and biting cold. Having glanced at the weather report when we left, we knew the weather would be bad and had put on as many items of our clothing as possible before leaving the stricken motor vehicle.
As we got to within a mile of the border we noticed the traffic on the roads had grown more frequent, and by the time we reached the fence we were part of a veritable convoy. Others like us were fleeing France, Germany, Italy and, of course, the UK. Many of us were relegated to travelling on foot, the lucky ones had cars and vans. The vehicles were full by the time they reached us and so we had to trudge on in step with the rest. So much for my plan to slip across the border unnoticed.
The fence had come as a surprise. Russia had closed its borders. No one was being let across. Russia did not exactly have the resources to support a vast refugee influx and so we had to hunker down huddled with the others to see what would become of us.
As our breath misted in the air, a movement at the back of the mass alerted us to the fact that something was wrong. Suddenly everyone was shoving and pushing their way towards the fence, clawing their way up it, only to be roughly shoved back down by soldiers on a platform at the back of it. When that did not dissuade the desperate masses, shots rang out. Lines of men, women and children fell from the chain links to be swallowed up by the ocean of humanity. Knowing that to try and climb the fence even on our own was suicide, let alone with a small child we turned to see a dark line appear on the horizon. The hum of engines quickly became a roar. As the dark tide drew ever closer we could make out turrets, the line of tanks stretched across the whole horizon. When they were close enough we could make out emblems, American stars, the Union Jack and the Tricolours of the European Alliance.
Track to track, the tanks moved forward, neither stopping nor slowing down, even when they reached the sea of people. Some pushed away and moved towards the fence, sending those at the front into the hail of bullets. Others stayed where they were and tried to attract the attention of the drivers of those machines of death. They were crushed beneath the tracks, torn down screaming. As though sensing that the refugees may in desperation tear down the fence with their weight, the tanks opened fire. They started at the back and began to methodically fire further toward the fence.
How had it come to this? Was I in part to blame for not standing up to the rhetoric in the beginning? When it would have made a difference. The horror erupts around us, screams and blood flying through the air. I pull my wife and son down into as small a target as possible, knowing that there is no escape from this. This is our last moment together, one last hug before the end. We try and close out the horror and turmoil around us. I whisper to my son that everything will be alright, I lie to him to spare him the
thought that it won't ever be alright, so his last moments are spent with as much love in his heart and mind as possible. I tell them both that I love them, that I'm sorry. I hear the words back, we hug and wait for the end.
I love you my darling wife, I love you my son, who brought my life into the light in a way I did not know possible.
I love you both so much.
So very, very much.
I…
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Kashif Thomacz Richardo
The Day The Tanks Came Page 4