Terror in Britain

by Martha Twine

  I scooped up twelve lads from the garden of an IRA safehouse, where they were being ordered to participate in attacks on my bladder. I deposited them on the floor of a large room inside a young offenders’ prison. The boys spilled out over the floor, looking around them in a bemused way. A kindly prison officer came in and did a double take when he saw them.

  ‘Hey, you’re back! Good to see you!’ he said, smiling.

  One young lad burst into tears and rushed towards him with open arms. The prison officer gave him a hug.

  ‘I know, lad, I know,’ he said in a consoling voice.

  The other boys were smiling at each other, as they recognised their old home. It turned out that they had only recently left this institution. They were picked up by members of the IRA and transported to our area, where they were due to continue their apprenticeship as terrorist trainees.

  By now, there were several friendly prison officers pushing a trolley and ordering the boys to sit on the floor. Bread rolls and cups of water were handed out to everyone. The prison offices righty guessed that these lads had not eaten for some time. A few of them needed a fix as well. They were separated out from the rest, and the prison doctor was heard asking what they were on, and offering them suitable alternatives which would ease their problem temporarily.

  I was surprised to see what a soft regime was being meted out to these young offenders. But it turned out that this was no ordinary institution. It was a place that deprived youngsters with sad family backgrounds were sent to. Often, these kids had never had a real home, and the prison officers tried to make up for that.

  In the following days, I could hear boys asking when the next airlift to the young offenders’ institution would be happening. They did not want to miss it. Older kids, who could no longer be categorised as young offenders looked wistfully at the lucky youngsters. One of them begged me to put him back inside a man’s prison, as a second best. I did so. As he arrived, he was challenged by a prison officer.

  ‘What are you in for?’

  ‘He hasn’t done anything’, I said, ‘He’s a volunteer.’

  ‘I just wanted to get back into XXXXX prison,’ said the lad.

  The prison officer laughed, and ruffled the boy’s hair. Then he patted him on the back.

  ‘Be off with you,’ he said, nodding in the direction of the canteen.

  As the Prison Service got used to these unscheduled arrivals, I had opportunities to chat to the prison officers. They knew a lot about the lifestyle of the kids, but what they had not realised was that the IRA was systematically using prison as a kind of school for crime, and were outside waiting to take them away as soon as they had served their term.

  The men’s prisons were generally firm but fair regimes. The prison officers were used to handling unruly inmates and did not tolerate misbehaviour. When I delivered hardened terrorists into their care, they rounded them up immediately, recognising them as their lawful prey. But nobody wanted to take the genetically- modified mutants. The prison officers groaned when they saw them arriving.

  ‘Oh no, not another one of those things,’ said one officer, as he herded the diminutive figure towards the registration area.

  ‘Well where do you want me to put him, then?’ I replied.

  ‘OK, OK,’ the officer replied, ‘I guess we’ll have to take him.’

  But the prison officers were generally supportive. They understood what I was doing, and seemed to agree with it. They realised that these terrorists were part of a covert war on British citizens, and they had orders from their Authorities on how to handle them. No one asked me to stop bringing the terrorists in.

  The officers who worked in specialist security prisons were the most clued-up people I had ever met, with regards to electronic and electromagnetic weapons. Organised criminals now use covert technologies routinely for their communications, and, in high security prisons, there are advanced systems that stop gangsters outside from communicating with those inside. I met prison managers who were aware that prisoners might have cameras in their eyes with wi-fi send/receive transmitters. What prison managers did not appear to realise, was the extent to which organised crime was interpenetrated by the IRA and other terrorist groups.

  One Prison Governor at a large modern prison expressed interest in meeting some of the IRA managers, and in receiving examples of their electronic and electromagnetic weapons. I delivered both to his prison. He asked someone from MI5 to come and talk to him about this. Then I was asked to take examples of the microwave laser guns, known as ‘fasers’, to a location operated by Special Services. These fasers were a new type, greatly enhanced in comparison with earlier versions. They had several power settings, and could deliver a radiation beam to the brain which mimicked the symptoms of dementia at lower levels, and which could simulate an ischaemic attack or a stroke at higher levels.

  The Prison Governor chatted to me about my background and experiences with the terrorists. When he realised that the microchip at the back of my head was what enabled the terrorists to track me, and sell access to me for target practice, he wondered whether something could be done to block the signal from the chip permanently. This did not happen, but I appreciated his enquiry.

  One night, I was being attacked by a group of weapons operatives in a large IRA building, and I selected the electromagnetic architecture for entire building and dropped it into a large modern men’s Category A prison. As I did so, all the lights in the prison went out, and I could hear officers checking the fuse boxes. After a few minutes, they had everything working again, but they could hear strange noises, like people talking, on their prison public address system. It was IRA radio engineers talking about their work, and they could be heard in any of the prisons that had special security features.

  Dropping the IRA building’s electronic architecture into the environment of a high security prison, connected the IRA’s electronics to the prison wiring. A group of technical specialist prison officers began to take an interest in this. I dropped several more IRA buildings into the Prison Service. They asked me how I had done it. Then the technical specialist prison officers put on head sets and sat at their laptops.

  ‘I wonder…’ said one of them.

  ‘Let me try something…’ said another.

  They had found out how to get into the IRA’s electromagnetic environment. Then they began creating tools like sugar tongs, to pick up terrorists that they could see attacking people, and drop them in their prisons. Soon all the top security prisons were in on this. Then one night the IRA decided to fight back. A very stupid IRA manager, in charge of the electronic weapons division, shot a woman prison officer in the backside with a laser gun. It was a cowardly thing to do. She was not too hurt, but she was very angry.

  Several prison officers from men’s top security prisons immediately retaliated. Leaning in from several locations they hunted for the man who had done it. Two of them found him at the same time, and both of them tasered him. Electricity flashed from his head to his feet in a loop. I was sure he must be dead after that. One of the offices recovered his body, and announced that he was still breathing. He was taken away to the prison sick bay.

  After that, I didn’t have to bother so much about dealing with terrorists. I was lying in bed one night when an IRA marksman, using telemetry, hit me with a laser gun. Before I had time to roll over and look into the matter, a prison officer had picked up the culprit with the sugar tongs, and that was the last I saw of him. I got a bit more comfy under my duvet and went back to sleep.

  ‘This is the life,’ I thought.

  It was such a relief to meet people from our Authorities who understood all the terrorist technologies; who knew what was going on; and who cared about what was happening to victims of covert terrorist attacks. I began to feel that things were looking up.

  But how come HM Prison Service were so advanced in technology that they could start picking off terrorists in the electromagnetic environment? It turned out that they had recentl
y got a technology upgrade, in response to the growing numbers of mobile phones and SIM cards being seized in prisons, and the associated security risks. These risks had been identified as long ago as 2009.

  One night, while I was going to sleep, some IRA weapons operatives and their supervisor attacked me with laser guns. I looked over to where they were, and saw two gentlemen from HM Prison Service and one lady prison officer looking down into the terrorists’ electromagnetic environment from above. They towered like giants over everything, picking the terrorists off and dropping them into large brown reinforced paper bags the size of dustbin liners. Then I saw rows and rows of them positioned across the country, around what appeared the Pennines, and all the way up to Northumberland, busily picking off thousands of terrorists and bagging them up.

  When the bags were full, the prison officers took them back to their prisons, where other staff took each terrorist out separately, and carefully placed them on the ground. As the terrorists touched the ground, the magnetic field which had kept them in their covert environment dissipated, and they expanded to their normal size.

  The terrorists were then frisked for weapons and having handed in their guns, were escorted to a registration area, where their personal details were recorded. Then they were sorted into groups, and transported to detention centres in different parts of the country.

  I have heard senior IRA staff speculate that, five years ago, they numbered over a hundred thousand in total, although many left voluntarily for other shores, when the British Military started to clear them out. That night, the dedicated staff of the Prison Service made a significant contribution to cleaning up the pollution of evil that has been afflicting this country, bringing in least ten thousand terrorists.

  I GO TO NORTH KOREA

  As the weeks went by, the IRA imported more and more Daesh troops from North Africa, providing them with false identity papers, including EU passports. It seemed a waste of tax payers’ money to drop them into HM Prison Service, so I began to look for prisons overseas. Iran was an obvious choice, as they were no friends of Al-Qaida. I looked up Iranian prisons on the internet, and found three that seemed suitable.

  All three prisons had high walls with barbed wire on the top. The first one I chose was near Tehran. I selected eight genetically modified Daesh dwarves from Algeria and six full-height men from Tunisia, and dumped them over the wall in the prison grounds. There was a lot of shouting, and prison guards came running out, their rifles pointed at the interlopers. The Daesh men all put up their hands, and were instructed to get in line, facing the back of the colleague in front of them. Then they were told to put their hand on the shoulder of the man in front, and to march inside.

  Inside, the prison duty manager was sitting at a desk. He asked for the leader of the North Africans to sit down in the chair opposite him.

  ‘Why are you here?’, he asked.

  ‘We were forced here by a woman,’ said the leader of the Tunisians.

  ‘Why has she forced you here?’ asked the prison manager.

  ‘We were sent to attack her, as part of our UK training,’ replied an Algerian.

  At this point, I decided to make an appearance in my long black puffa-coat and hood.

  ‘They are all Al-Qaida,’ I said.

  The prison manager smiled.

  ‘You know Al-Qaida are our enemies,’ he said.

  The North Africans nodded. They did not know where they were, but they could tell that they were not among friends.

  The prison manager looked at me.

  ‘We will take them,’ he said. ‘We need plenty of gardeners here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, and I left.

  Later that day, I looked in to see how things were going. All the Algerian dwarves were in the prison kitchen garden, digging away with little spades. The Tunisians were levelling the stony ground further up the hill. The place looked like a waste land. Clearly there was lots of work for all of them for the foreseeable future.

  Next day I dropped in another consignment of Algerian dwarves. This time, the prison guards were not alarmed.

  ‘Look,’ cried one. ‘The young gardeners have arrived!’ The prison guards smiled and waved to them.

  The men marched into the prison manager’s area, and were seated around his desk.

  ‘We haven’t eaten our evening meal yet, and we want to meet our friends,’ said their leader.

  ‘You’ve missed the last meal for today,’ said the prison manager. ‘And your friends are fast asleep in their bunks, but you can join them tomorrow.’

  The Algerians were duly marched off to their room.

  Word soon spread to other Iranian prisons. When I dropped off twelve Tunisians and six Algerians at a high-profile prison outside Tehran, the prison guards came running to watch, clearing a space where everyone could view the teleportation event to best advantage. When the Tunisians appeared, everyone clapped enthusiastically, and when the Algerians appeared, there were cheers.

  ‘It’s the young gardeners!’ they shouted.

  They continued clapping and cheering as the men lined up, each one touching the shoulder of the one in front of him, and marching off in an orderly fashion.

  ‘Hmm,’ I thought. ‘That is all very well, but the celebrity status wouldn’t last long if I dumped all the ‘prisoners’ I’ve got in there. The Iranians would not welcome thousands of them. I’ll have to find a more sustainable solution.’

  It so happened that my internet searches for prisons in countries not favoured by Al-Qaida had turned up a rather gruesome Daily Mail report about the conditions inside prison camps in North Korea. In fact, the Daily Mail had run several reports on what a North Korean whistle-blower now living in the States had divulged about these prison camps. What I read turned my blood cold. We have not forgotten the prison camps of Nazi Germany, and I never thought to read of such things yet again.

  My first reaction was shock. Then I wondered what, if anything, could be done to help the poor people being tortured and starved to death, often just because a member of their family had fallen out of favour with someone in authority. It seemed that there was nothing anyone could do.

  I looked up North Korea in Wikipedia, and discovered that despite its poverty, it was endowed with excellent mineral resources, and spectacular mountain scenery. In other situations, there would have been a thriving tourist trade, including ski resorts, if it had not been for the horrific regime, which terrorised and repressed its own people to an appalling degree.

  Then a mad thought occurred to me. Even Al-Qaida and Islamic State are not quite in the same class as North Korea, ghastly as they are. Al-Qaida has a secret underground base in Algeria. What if they could be interested in secretly developing something similar in North Korea, while putting up a front as a private commercial organisation that specialised in running prisons to international standards in different countries? North Korea was desperate for cash, and might even let them in, and Al-Qaida’s friends might be willing to come in on things, if rights to exploit minerals were somewhere mentioned in the deal.

  How would this help? It would mean that prisoners would get food, and be kept in more humane conditions, and perhaps North Korea would like to have some modern prisons that would enable it to demonstrate to the world that it was cleaning up its act. And I would have a place to dump the IRA sub-contractors known as ‘Our Group’. It is true that these terrorists had been in league with Al-Qaida, but in recent times, Our Group had been caught stealing money from them, and seemed to be working against them, though it was not clear who for. There was no love lost between those parties.

  Looking back, I wonder why I thought this was a good idea, but I think I was emotionally affected by the reports I had read about North Korea, which coloured my judgment. I decided to visit one of the prison camps in a remote mountainous area, which I had seen pictured in a Daily Mail article. The acreage of this camp was enormous in comparison with the number of prisoners kept there. The prison huts which con
tained the prisoners were little more than chicken coops, which made me shudder. It seemed suitable for development.

  After that, whenever Our Group or the IRA attacked me, I ‘hoovered up’ about a hundred at a time, and dumped them in the grounds of the North Korean prison camp. I provided the prisoners with the basics - food, water, tents and blankets – which, by now, I produced by visualising what was required. Soon the visitors outnumbered the North Koreans, who retreated to the other end of the prison camp. One day, I was walking through the prison camp woods, making sure that all my prisoners had enough to eat, when I met some North Korea prison guards, spying on me.

  One of the men, their leader, came up to me.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he said, grabbing me roughly by the shoulder.

  I knocked him down, and then regretted it, remembering that this was not a good start to the relationship with North Korea’s prison service, if my plan was to come to fruition.

  ‘I’m interested in buying this property,’ I said.

  The man picked himself up and walked over to his men. They went into a huddle, talking excitedly. Then the man came back to me.

  ‘You want to assist us here?’ he asked in disbelief.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘It could be possible,’ said the man. ‘We will consider and come back to you.’

  ‘Good,’ I said, and I left.

  That weekend, the local IRA was hosting a training event for Islamic State troops imported from North Africa. Normally on these occasions, I raided all the delegates, and put them in prisons overseas, but this time, I went in search of the organisers. The event was being run by some senior ranking Islamic State officers, whose regular job was putting new recruits through their paces in a Western country. They tried to look like the British Army, with smartly pressed khaki uniforms and maroon berets. These guys had seen active service in the past, but they were now in their fifties, and did not get involved with fighting any more.