Terror in Britain

by Martha Twine

  I continued to direct the bodies of vicious attackers into the desert, and over the next few days, the lions continued to improve. The male lion had time to attend to his grooming, and his coat now looked healthy. He had put on some weight, and had much more energy. When he saw bodies falling from the sky he would leap onto some nearby rocks, in order to reach them more quickly. I knew that he was going to pull through.

  I was less sure about the lioness, whose poor eyesight was a serious drawback. But even she had put on some weight, and I saw her washing her paws and face. When bodies fell from the sky she would look upwards, even though they were nowhere near her. I think she had lost some of her teeth, and she was timid of approaching a body in case it turned out to be alive. All the animals had a well-developed fear of humans, dead or alive, and they would watch a body for a long time before approaching it, in case it attacked them.

  The lioness would turn over the bodies and pat them with her paws, to make sure they were really lifeless, before picking up the smaller ones in her mouth and carrying them off to a sheltered place, where she felt safe to eat. The white stork danced attendance on her, and was rewarded with whatever was left.

  I looked up the lions up on the internet, and found that they were described as East African lions, which despite their name, can be found in a belt below the Sahara, horizontally across Africa.

  Then I saw the third animal again. It was definitely a strange kind of lion, and now that it was in better health it was clearly a male with a short dark mane that extended not much below the top of its neck. From what I could see on the internet, it was a West African lion. It was in the right place, but these animals are rather rare, so I could not be sure.

  I always warned the terrorists when they attacked me that they would go to help hungry animals in Africa, but though they had by now heard about this, they took little notice. Still, at least they were of service to the planet when dead, if not alive.

  One day, everything changed. I was dropping a group of terrorists into the area, when the local IRA tried to prevent me with a strong anti-gravity device. The device did not stop me, but it slowed me down, and I only achieved an altitude of about ten feet above the desert floor. The men spilled out onto the desert, still alive, largely unharmed, but hundreds of miles from civilisation. Later that day I checked in on them, and saw some of them sunbathing on top of a rocky hill. It was the first day off they’d had in years.

  That night, I saw that they had lit a fire at the bottom of the rocky area, in a cave that had been used by the male lion to sleep in. Now he had been chased away, and they were cooking and eating. There was nothing obvious for them to eat, but I had seen them picking meat off bones. There were a lot of dead bodies lying around on the sand, so it is possible that they survived on the bodies of their dead comrades. I guessed that there was a water source at the bottom of the rocks, because the birds and animals never seemed to suffer from thirst, and there were tropical trees and shrubs growing there. The men had now congregated in that area.

  A month later I looked in on the men to see if they had survived. They were doing well. A pale-skinned man in his seventies appeared to be their leader. His face was red with sunburn and he wore a handkerchief draped over his head. He wore no trousers, just underpants with a shirt over them. Beside him was a small white boy of about seven who brought him whatever he asked, scrounging among the dead bodies for clothes and the contents of pockets. The boy seemed cheerful and content, although it became clear that he was being used by the old man for sex.

  Down in the oasis area, I saw several neatly constructed round wooden huts on stilts with roofs made out of leaves.

  ‘The terrorists could not have built them without help from local people,’ I thought. ‘They must have made contact with civilisation’.

  A few minutes later, I saw a black African, of Sub-Saharan appearance, busily employed in loading provisions into a storage area. I wondered how the young boy had arrived. Our local IRA informed me that when I had started to place people alive in the desert, they had studied the landmarks and terrain, and had concluded that the location was somewhere on the border between Algeria and Mali. They had then contacted the Al-Qaida research base in Algeria, and had asked them to send out a search party. There were enough men in the desert to justify starting a small enterprise, and they proposed to begin with drug trafficking, sourced from Algeria.

  A member of one of the ruling French-Canadian IRA families in our area was sent out to manage the new enterprise. The next day I visited the growing village community, and saw the Frenchman sitting at a wooden table in the sun. He was in his early forties, dressed in a khaki polo shirt and shorts. I recognised him as Jules, a local IRA manager. He was much more relaxed than in the past, now that he was away from his supervisors, and was clearly enjoying the warm weather.

  The village looked neat and tidy. An officious white woman, who had accompanied Jules, was organising some white children. I suspected that child trafficking was going on, but if so, the regime was not as brutal as the one in our area. The children were allowed to participate in the work of the village, and there were no punishment weapons in evidence. It looked as if the children were having some schooling, and were being trained to be useful in their community.

  I was visible to the villagers, and an African man came up to me.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss,’ he said, ‘Next time you come, can you please bring some bigger women’s clothes? My wives can’t wear the ones on the dead females that you dropped off.’

  I searched my mind for oversize female terrorists whose wardrobes I might raid. There just weren’t any.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I said, ‘But I do not know anybody who has clothes the right size.’

  I did not like to disappoint him, but there was nothing I could do. Anyway, I did not intend to revisit the village, now that it had turned into the usual terrorist organised-crime outfit.

  However, I was back two days later. The reason was that I had to rescue a small girl from some ghastly brutal child brothel runners who had moved into our area after the Al-Qaida batch kids left for Algeria. I tried not to get involved, but there was a lot of noise and screaming going on, a few houses down the valley, where the child traffickers lived. I looked in on what was happening. I saw a man and a woman both hitting a girl of about six, who was unwilling to participate in child brothel activities.

  The child looked up, saw me and held her arms out towards me. What could I do? I got rid of the evil pair and picked up the child. But where could I put her? She was not an Al-Qaida batch kid, so I could not ask Al-Qaida to take her in. The only place I could think of was the African village. I was fairly sure that child trafficking was going on, which is always terrible, but the regime was not cruel, like our local child brothel had been. With a heavy heart, I deposited the child on the rock that looked over the African village below, and watched to see whether there was a possibility that she might find some shelter there.

  At that moment, the little boy I had first seen, came climbing up the rock, as if he had heard something worth investigating. When he saw the little girl, he gave a happy cry.

  ‘Natalie! It’s my friend Natalie!’ The little girl brightened up, and laughed with surprise. The little boy took her hand, and led her down to the village. Jules, the French IRA man, gave me an enquiring look.

  ‘I really am sorry about this,’ I said. ‘But I had to rescue her from a bad situation at home.’

  ‘Oh, it’s OK,’ he smiled. ‘We’ve got loads of kids here. She’ll get along fine with them’.

  I had reservations about the whole thing, but Natalie was looking so much happier that I felt it could have been worse.

  I was still looking for alternative places to dump the hordes of terrorists that were being bussed into our area, with the objective of attacking me. Sometimes I had to relocate over one hundred bodies a day. I looked on the internet at a picture of place in the Syrian desert where some murderous Arab terrorists h
ad filmed videos showing people about to be decapitated. I tuned into the frequency of that area. My thinking was that if there were murderers living there who spent their time executing people, a few more bodies wouldn’t bother them.

  The first time I visited the area to drop bodies, I found myself in an empty desert at sunset. There was no sign of life at all. But when I returned with more bodies, I saw three Middle Eastern men dressed in Bedouin clothes and carrying rifles. One was on horseback. They were going through the clothes of the dead men, and pocketing anything of value. In the distance was a battered old truck, and a young man in Western clothes was sitting in there.

  The next time I visited the area, there were several Bedouins waiting. The men had put all the bodies in the truck, and were looking at the sky in an expectant way.

  ‘They must be very poor,’ I thought, ‘if they are prepared to spend most of the day hanging around in case anything should turn up.’

  There was no evidence to suggest that they were terrorists. They seemed to have formed a friendly alliance amongst themselves, and were quite happy just sitting out in the warm evening air chatting.

  It occurred to me that I could recycle some of the IRA and Our Group terrorists’ vehicles, and give them to these desert people. I turned my attention to the car park of one of the local terrorist installations, and tried placing an electromagnetic field around a small car. Then I lifted it into the desert environment, and when I was sure that I was fully ‘there’, surrounded entirely by desert sand and a starry night sky, I carefully placed the car on the ground.

  The Bedouins became extremely excited, and ran towards the car. At first, they could not open it, so they pushed it down the hill and out of view, shouting loudly.

  ‘Hmm,’, I thought. ‘It would be better if I could get the car keys as well, next time.’

  I watched the terrorists’ car park, until a man drove in and got out of his smart BMW. He held the keys in his hand, and, as he walked away, turned to lock the car. Using anti-gravity, I snatched the keys from his hand, and placed them on the top of the car. Then I quickly airlifted the car into the Syrian desert and dropped the keys right next to the car door with a clunk.

  The Bedouins gave a great shout, and the young man in Western dress sank to his knees, pulled out a rosary that hung round his neck, and thanked Mother Mary for her gracious gift. Then he raced to the car, picked up the keys, and jumped inside. Two of the men piled inside with him, and the rest climbed on the roof, waving their rifles. The car slowly started to move round and round in circles in the desert, while the Bedouins fired their weapons into the sky in celebration.

  After that, if our local terrorists tried to harass me, I would head straight for their vehicles, and airlift them to the desert, sometimes in groups of ten or twelve. The Bedouins started a second-hand car business, and the price was right for scores of local people who timidly approached to inspect the cars, and bargain over the bonnet, before being given a set of keys from a large stock which the Bedouins had now acquired. It was heart-warming to see local families packed into the cars, driving away with bemused dream-like expressions on their faces.

  HM PRISON SERVICE

  It seemed that no matter how many terrorists I disposed of, the IRA, backed by Al-Qaida, were determined to replace them with others from other terrorist units within the British Isles or overseas. I decided to adopt a different approach. Why not drag and drop them into UK prisons? I had no idea what would happen if I did, but it was worth trying. I had visual memories of one or two prisons, which I had seen on television, and I started by dropping terrorists, one at a time, into these locations.

  The first place I picked was a high security jail for violent male prisoners. I dropped an IRA officer in his forties into the hospital wing. A doctor and a prison officer were in the room, discussing a patient. They looked up and saw him.

  ‘What are you doing here? How did you get in?’ shouted the prison officer.

  The terrorist turned white with shock, and stuttered a few words. The prison officer grabbed him by the shoulders and marched him off to a lift.

  I dropped an IRA weapons technician into the corridor. He quickly dashed through the swing doors and up a staircase. He was seen on CCTV, and two prison officers began climbing the stairs, looking for him. He froze, but when they came too close he made a run for it down the other staircase, where he was met by another prison officer. He was frogmarched away.

  I could hear some prison officers in a nearby room, discussing how the terrorists could have got in, breaching prison security. Meanwhile, an IRA weapons operative foolishly attacked me with a laser gun. I dropped him outside the building. He ran round the back, pressing himself up against the wall. A prison officer walked past without seeing him. The terrorist followed him into the building. There was a shout from two prison officers behind him.

  ‘Oh, I see, he came in from out there.’

  The three terrorists were put in handcuffs and marched to a waiting van. They went to a detention centre.

  A young woman terrorist wearing a red frock, which designated supervisor status, started screeching obscenities in my ear. My mind went to a woman’s prison that had been closed for some time, but was still used as a temporary holding bay. I placed her in the corridor. You could see the CCTV cameras placed along the top of the wall. A minute later, a sturdy woman police officer wearing a bullet-proof vest, with a lot of keys in her belt, pushed through the swing doors and nabbed her. The female terrorist struggled and swore as she was taken away.

  I could see a row of toilets at the end of the corridor. I dumped another white-frocked woman terrorist into one of the cubicles. Her outfit showed she was an IRA trainee. Two women police offices extracted her, and sent her off to join the red-frocked terrorist in a van. They were taken away to a women’s detention centre. Then the women prison officers went round securing all the windows.

  I went back to the prison later, and saw women police officers patrolling the areas where the terrorists had been seen. They were trying to figure out how the terrorists had got in. Then they walked over to a reception room, where several other women prison officers were looking at a prison announcement on their laptop.

  ‘Look, there’s been a break-in in a men’s prison in Yorkshire, just like us,’ said one of them. ‘See, there are photographs of three men.’

  A senior woman prison officer came into the room.

  ‘I’ve been in contact with our central security people,’ she said. They want us to post our experience on the HMP intranet, so that other prisons can be alerted in case there are any more cases.’

  I was impressed by the proactive approach of the HM Prisons security people. I looked up a list of UK prisons on Wikipedia, and found photographs which I could use to tune into the locations of each prison. Then, the next time some IRA women from ‘Our Group’ used Al-Qaida money to commission electromagnetic attacks on me, I dumped them in a high security women’s prison. The prison had caged-in areas with bars, and locks on the doors. It looked very intimidating.

  The IRA women I selected were child brothel managers and drug distributors, trained in the use of synthetic telepathy for psychological warfare. They commanded groups of trainee teenage girls, who they put in to bat against me. These girls had to read my mind, repeating my every thought in an irritating manner, and making hostile comments about me. They were being prompted by a senior woman IRA manager, linked in by webcam from a gracious mansion, safely outside the battlefield area.

  My policy was to place younger girls in a young offender’s institution for women. When I dumped them in there, they were immediately detected via the CCTV screens, and motherly women prison officers came out and picked them up. The women prison officers displayed a lot of compassion.

  ‘Come with me, Dearie’, said one of them to a young Asian girl, aged about eleven. ‘You go in there and have a wash, and take off that outfit you’re wearing. Then we’ll get you something to eat’.

  The
young girl had to ask the woman guard to help her, as the plastic pinafore she was strapped into was tricky to lift over her head. These uniforms had unique barcodes and tracking devices in them, so that the IRA could see where all their employees were and identify them. When the girl took off her battle dress, the IRA could no longer locate her, or identify who she was.

  After getting the girls cleaned up and fed, the woman prison officers took them to a reception room, where they were asked to give their name, address, and any previous time they had been in prison. The girls were then taken away in a minibus to a detention centre.

  I was surprised to find that in high security prisons, the prison guards could see me. It was something to do with the electronic security in the prison. They asked who I was, and why I had brought the women in. I explained the situation, and what crimes each one of them had committed. Once in the prison environment, the women terrorists were visibly cowed, and admitted carrying out attacks on me and other British citizens. They enjoyed the unusual attention being paid them by the Authorities.

  The IRA women were not taken to detention centres. They could be seen, promenading in a line round the prison garden every morning. I dropped a child brothel manager into the caged part of the prison. The woman prison officer expressed her disgust at her crime, saying, ‘Come along, you horror, let’s get you inside.’

  On one occasion, I dropped an Eastern European woman terrorist from Romania into a barred woman’s prison. When the woman prison officer went to get her, she drew a knife on her. That was a mistake. The woman prison officer was armed, and tasered her. I watched as two men carried her body out on a stretcher.

  The IRA were constantly urging teenage boys from the Al-Qaida child soldier batches to attack me, in the hope that I would remove them permanently from the planet, saving the IRA further food and lodging expenses. I started putting the lads in a young offenders’ institution. I was surprised at how many of them had been in prison before. This reflected the IRA policy of incriminating their troops at an early age.