[b]Whitehall, London[/b] It was two o’clock in the morning when Joyce Campbell had woken her husband with an urgent phone call from Samuel Hobbs. Fraser had stirred for a while before taking the phone from his wife, pressing it against his ear, and muttering a barely comprehensible greeting to Hobbs. If his Director of Communications was calling him at this time of night it meant something bad had happened. Fraser shuffled upright and wiped the sleep from his eyes as he readied himself for an account of some unsuccessful operation in Cape Town. Instead Hobbs informed the Prime Minister that a police constable had been shot dead on a Brixton council estate last night. Fraser felt his blood run cold as Hobbs confirmed the shooters had been coloured. A police constable murdered by coloureds on the day he’d announced the government’s repatriation plan. The Prime Minister sighed, instructed Hobbs to set a meeting with his Home Secretary as soon as possible, and climbed from his bed to begin his morning. It took him the best part of an hour to wash, dress, and shake off the throbbing headache that he’d woken with. It was rare that Campbell woke without them. Most nights he managed four hours sleep, sometimes five if it was a slow day in the world, and last night he’d managed a paltry two hours. Undeterred Campbell buttoned up his double-breasted suit and slipped on his thick glasses before making his way downstairs to his Downing Street office. Hobbs and Moore were already waiting for him inside. Hobbs stood as the Prime Minister entered and Fraser gestured to him to take his seat. Moore remained seated in his armchair with a sickly-sweet smile on his face. Moore was the closest thing Fraser Campbell had to a nemesis. He’d had been two years ahead of Fraser at Oxford and rumour had it that he and Joyce had enjoyed a “whirlwind romance” shortly before Joyce and Fraser had met. That nugget grated on Fraser more than Moore’s attempts to undermine him during cabinet meetings or his shameless attempts to curry favour with the King behind Campbell’s back. Joyce had assured him that it had been nothing but Fraser found it hard to suppress the resentment he felt towards Moore about it. Perhaps it was because in the Home Secretary’s deep blue eyes he sensed a quiet self-congratulation. Thomas Moore was tall, in excellent shape, with a full head of bouffant blonde hair smattered with greys that was more befitting of a thespian than it was politician. Even Campbell had to admit that Moore was handsome. It had come as a shock to many that King William had passed Moore over and appointed Fraser Prime Minister two years ago. At least Fraser had [i]that[/i] over him. Hobbs had pleaded with the Prime Minister to remove Moore on more than a dozen occasions but Fraser dared not move against him. Despite Moore’s manifold character flaws he was [i]adored[/i] by the British public and commanded the loyalties of a sizeable contingent of the Prime Minister’s cabinet. As with Campbell’s other great enemy he would have to bide his time before he moved on them. Until then he would hug Moore so closely to him that the Home Secretary would have next to nothing to use to differentiate himself from the Prime Minister with. After a short briefing from Hobbs as to the particulars of PC Oldfield’s shooting Moore looked towards the Prime Minister and spoke at him with his oaky, Shakespearian voiced. “We can’t afford to look weak.” “That’s not going to happen,” Fraser said forcefully. “I want you on the phone with every Police Commissioner in the country the second you leave here. Forget about the paperwork, for the next week I want as many able-bodied police officers out there pounding the pavement. We need to show the British people that have we have the situation under control and that there will [i]not[/i] be a repeat of last night. Times like these require a show of force.” Moore nodded with a well-practised nonchalance. “Agreed.” It was clear from Sam’s expression that he detested Moore. Fraser suspected his Director of Communications might have been the only man whose hatred of Moore outweighed his own. He'd taken to looking out of the window instead of expending effort trying to suppress his dislike of the Home Secretary. “The media are going to want a statement.” Campbell cleared his throat. “The murder of PC James Oldfield was act of senseless violence against a public servant that had dedicated his life to protecting the British people. We’re determined to bring his killers to justice and will use [i]every[/i] resource at our disposal to see justice done. That’s the line.” “And on the Voluntary Repatriation Bill?” Moore asked with a smile. “You know they're going to ask given the shooter was coloured.” The Home Secretary’s smile was thick was meaning. Moore had been the biggest advocate of the Repatriation Bill when Fraser had brought it before cabinet and had made great effort to contact every news outlet to express his unreserved support for repatriation. You wouldn’t know it from that smile. The smile said that despite supporting the policy the Home Secretary would happily see it come acropper so that the Prime Minister might end up with egg on his face. PC James Oldfield was a pawn in Moore's game. One he would seek to use to devastating effect should Fraser row back on repatriation. Fortunately Campbell had no intention of doing that. The Prime Minister stared at Moore through his thick-lensed glasses. “It goes ahead.” The perversity of having to defend a policy he privately abhorred was not lost on Campbell. He reminded himself of the conversation he’d had with Joyce the previous night. They were doing this for something bigger than themselves and their pride. When Fraser had enough power he was going to build a liberal, secular British republic that worked like a democracy was meant to work. A Britain where kings no longer set policy for Prime Ministers in meetings behind closed doors and every man was a king in his own right. Once he’d built [i]that[/i] Britain maybe he could bring the economic migrants back. He smiled at the thought as Hobbs turned back from the window towards him. “On the record we deny, deny, deny any link between the announcement of the Voluntary Repatriation Bill and last night. Off the record we brief the newspapers that PC Oldfield's murder illustrates the [i]growing[/i] threat the immigrant fifth column in our capital poses and that it vindicates the government's decision to kickstart a discussion about repatriation. How does that sound?” Like Hobbs, it was somehow awful and brilliant at the same time. Campbell shot his Director of Communications a laudatory smile. “It sounds like you’re worth every penny of taxpayer’s money I spend on you.” Hobbs flashed a toothy smile back. “Was that ever in doubt?” Moore watched on in silence from behind his interlocked fingers. He looked unimpressed by the scene. The Home Secretary let out an exasperated sigh and pulled his fingers apart. His blue eyes met with Fraser’s and he stared at the Prime Minister as if Hobbs didn't exist. “Have you spoken to the Palace? They’re going to want to be briefed about last night.” Campbell shook his head. “The Palace will have to wait for the time being.” Moore raised his eyebrows at the Prime Minister’s comment and rose from his chair to walk towards the exit. “They’re not going to like that.” The Home Secretary turned to reach for the handle of the Prime Minister's office. Whilst Moore's back was turned Hobbs pointed towards him and mimicked fellatio to make his feelings about Moore felt. Fraser smiled and turned to find Moore looking him straight in the face. There was suspicion in his eyes as he loomed over the Prime Minister in the doorway. Fraser stood his ground, placed his hand on the small of the Home Secretary's back, and ushered him through it with a polite smile. “Why don’t you let me worry about that?” [center][b]*****[/b][/center] [b]Brixton, London[/b] Errol Clarke had woken up later than usual that morning. By the time he was out of bed Keenan and Simone had already left. Errol cleaned up and headed to the kitchen for a cup of tea to wake himself up properly but found the fridge barren. The old man noticed a post-it note on the front of the fridge door as he shut it. On it was the word “milk” written in Simone’s handwriting and a smiley face beside it. Errol smiled and plucked the post-it note from the fridge and placed it into the pocket of his trousers. He felt his stomach rumble and decided he’d venture into Brixton to pick up a few bits and pieces, milk chief amongst them. The old man took great care as he buttoned up the black waist-coat that sat over the pink and purple shirt he wore. When he reached the door to their flat he grabbed his walking stick, pulled on his thick black overcoat, and reached for the black fedora. He’d owned the hat since 1958 and never left the hat without it. He wasn’t about to break the habit of a lifetime. The descent down the stairs of Moorlands Estate was a steep one but Errol always opted for stairs over a lift. It was important for a man of his age to keep mobile and to boot Errol had never been a fan of confined spaces. He took the bus into Brixton and looked around the market for a time. Brixton had been torn apart by the Troubles but Brixton Market was as vibrant as it had ever been. On that little stretch of road there were foods and spices to be had from all corners of the world. After a while Errol succumbed to the hunger and stopped at a local Caribbean restaurant for something to eat. A healthy serving of curry goat, a portion rice and peas, and some macaroni cheese left the old man stuffed. Errol was so full that he almost forgot the milk on his way back. Two stops after he’d boarded his bus home it broke down. Upon disembarking Errol remembered he was only a thirty second walk away from an old pub that he'd frequented as a much younger man. He checked his wristwatch for the time and lugged his shopping bags inside it for a Guinness for old time’s sake. A broad smile appeared on the old man’s face as he spotted cricket on the television on the corner of the pub and he set himself down in the corner with his shopping bags. Errol had considered himself a prodigious cricketing talent back in his youth. In truth he had been average at best but the love of the sport had stayed with him. Clarke was so focused on the cricket he barely touched his Guinness. Some time afterward the doors to the pub burst open. It was a small group of teenagers. They were white, which was peculiar for Brixton, no older than seventeen or eighteen, and they all wore identical denim jackets and dark black boots. Only the finest bristles remained on their shaven heads. They shouted, threw things around, and caused enough of a commotion that Errol could barely concentrate on the cricket. When he looked over his shoulder at them he noticed one, the tallest of the group, tap his two friends on the shoulder and gesture in Errol’s direction. Clarke muttered under his breath disapprovingly and tried to turn his attention back to the cricket. It was too late by then. They had found a new target. They set about tearing up beer mats and rolling the scraps into little balls to launch at Errol. He ignored them to begin with and tried to focus on the cricket but even he grew impatient after a while. When one landed in his Guinness as he was about to drink from it Errol drew a line in the sand. They could barely hear him speaking to them as they roared with laughter at their achievement so Errol repeated himself with a smile. “Is there a problem?” The laughter stopped and the three youths crossed the pub and stood by the booth that Errol was sat in. The ringleader pushed Errol in the shoulder and the two watching on laughed with him. “You’re the problem,” the boy said with a scowl. “You and your kind.” Errol sighed. “I think I ought to be on my way.” He leant down to pick up his shopping bags and attempted to squeeze past the three young men. They stood in his way and with the bags in his hands and his walking stick it was near impossible to pass them. Finally the ringleader shook his head and shoved Errol as hard as he could. “Sit down, boy.” Errol fell back into the booth but managed to grab hold of the edge of it to break his fall. It took him longer than it once might have but the old man managed to regain his balance. Once he had he shook his head in the boy’s direction and spoke in a voice as clear and as direct as he could. “I’m not your boy.” Clarke answering back seemed to anger him and the boy swatted what remained of Errol’s pint of Guinness onto the ground. “You’re whatever I say you are, wog.” The landlord of the pub was watching on in silence. He was white, in his fifties, and his cheeks were gaunt. Errol made eye contact with him in the hopes that he might say something but the landlord chose instead to avert his eyes. He looked down at the glass he was pretending to clean. There was guilt in his face but he seemed more relieved that the youths had redirected their ire at someone else than anything. Errol shook his head in disapproval at the man’s cowardice. “Like I said,” Clarke said as he attempted to pass the boys again. “I think I ought to be on my way.” A fist came flying towards him. It was quick, too quick, and it knocked him to the ground upon making contact with his eye socket. “You’re not going anywhere.” Errol could feel the blood rushing from a cut on his eyebrow but not much else. One of the boy’s knelt beside him and rifled through his pocket. He pulled out Errol’s wallet, took the notes from it, and then discarded it on the ground next to the old man. Clarke saw a flash of yellow as Simone’s post-it note floated down onto the floor next to him. “Milk” it read. In his periphery he saw the ringleader pull the carton of milk Errol had bought from one of the shopping bags. He unscrewed it, pulled the plastic seal from the top, and drank from it greedily. Milk poured all down the boy’s front and he roared with laughter once he was satisfied. Then his eyes met Errol there on the ground. Clarke had managed to pull himself up and though his ears were ringing he still was attempting to stand. The ringleader gestured to the two other boys to hold him and they placed their hands around Errol’s biceps and restrained him there on his knees. The ringleader swaggered over with the carton of milk in his hand and tiltled it precariously over Errol’s head. A single drop splashed against his forehead to begin with but within seconds the whole carton had been emptied onto him. He was soaked through with milk. “We’ve had enough of your kind,” the ringleader shouted angrily as he ran his hand through Errol’s milk-soaked hair. “You come over here, take our jobs from us, and then act like you fucking own the place. What you need to do is fuck off back to Africa and take your twenty children with you. You hear me?” An involuntary titter escaped from Errol’s lips and the young man’s spiteful face grew twisted with rage. “What are you fucking laughing at?” He slapped Errol across the face and it sent the old man’s ears ringing even worse. Errol spotted his walking stick just out of his reach and one of the other boy’s bent down to pick it up with a smile. He twiddled it between his fingers. The other boy reached down and picked up Errol’s hat. It had fallen from his head when the ringleader had punched Errol in the eye. The boy looked ridiculous with it on, though no more ridiculous than he already did, but Clarke figured he probably wasn’t in a position to give out sartorial advice. No matter how badly these young men needed it. He tittered again at skinhead wearing a fedora manufactured in Montego Bay and once again the ringleader’s rage bubbled. “Having a right laugh at that policeman your boys shot last night, I bet.” There on the ground next to Errol was Simone’s post-it note. He tried to reach out towards it but the boy with his walking stick brought it crashing down against his hand. Clarke cried out in pain and drew his hand back towards him. Before he’d had a chance to cradle it he saw a black leather boot flying towards his face. It connected with a crunch and Errol Clarke slid to the ground again. Simone’s post-it note rested inches from his face but Clarke was barely conscious, barely breathing, as boot after boot began to rain down on him. With each that connected was a sickening crunch and the milk that had pulled beneath Errol turned blood red. Finally the barrage of kicks ended and the three boys stared down at Errol Clarke’s lifeless, battered body with triumphant smiles. The ringleader stepped across Clarke’s body and lifted his overcoat from the booth. He pulled it over his thick shoulders, gestured to the other boys that they were leaving, and then shot a menacing smile at the landlord as they moved to make their exit. “See you around.” [center][b]*****[/b][/center] [b]Islington, London[/b] On the small television screen in the corner of the [i]New Jersualem’s[/i] office was Prime Minister Fraser Campbell stood in front of a lectern. Beneath him on a ticker tape football scores whirred past. Sebastian Hedland glanced down at them with a smile as he noticed Plymouth Argyle had beaten Exeter by two goals. The Prime Minister had been speaking for fifteen minutes uninterrupted about the murder of PC James Oldfield, the “robust” and “thorough” response the Metropolitan Police had planned, and the need for calm on Britain’s streets. Prime Minister Campbell wasn’t exactly the most gifted orator and he’d put half of the [i]New Jerusalem[/i] staff to sleep after ten minutes. Fred Lambert chewed on a pen at the desk next to Seb and gestured towards the television screen with it. “What do you think?” Seb smiled mischievously at his Editor and spun to face him. “I think I’m awfully glad I don’t live in Brixton.” Lambert looked unimpressed and Hedland shrugged his shoulders. “We should have gone on the Repatriation Bill. There’s no way the two aren’t related. South London’s a dump and has been for decades but since the Troubles died down even they stop short of murdering policemen. This has to be about the Repatriation Bill.” He’d pressed Lambert on the nuclear option yesterday and his Political Editor had turned him down. Lambert was an excellent Editor and Hedland understood that he owed his career to him but the man had grown cautious in his old age. He looked at the staff of the [i]New Jerusalem[/i] like they were his children rather than his subordinates. Seb wondered sometime what it would take to get Lambert to go public on something and break the government’s censorship laws. If the introduction of a painfully illiberal “Voluntary” Repatriation Bill wasn’t enough then Hedland wasn’t sure what would be. Lambert was critical of the government’s conduct in private, the way it interfered in everyday life without care, and sought to micro-manage every aspect of public life. Yet not once had the old man’s words found their way into the [b]New Jerusalem[/b]. He was as scared of Hobbs as the rest of the Political Editors even though he liked to pretend otherwise. Hedland could smell Lambert’s fear as his face twisted at the suggestion Oldfield’s murder and the repatriations announcement were somehow linked. “We can’t prove that.” Seb pointed to the images of Brixton flashing across the television screen. “I could go down there and see what I could find out.” “You’re not going to get anything of worth,” Lambert said with a shake of his head. “The Met are going to have Brixton locked down and word has come on down from Downing Street they won’t tolerate any attempt to link the two. It’s not worth the time.” There it was. When Lambert said “Downing Street” had sent word it almost always meant Hobbs. On a few [i]very[/i] rare occasions it meant the Director of Communication’s second-in-command Dominic Hewitt. Seb had met Hewitt a few times and found him to be agreeable enough, if a little self-regarding, but he was certainly the lesser of two evils compared to Samuel Hobbs. Hedland let out an exasperated sigh and rested his hands on the back of his head. “This is the biggest story in years, Fred. We have to run something.” Lambert nodded. “That’s exactly [i]why[/i] we’re not going to waste our time with it. If you think they’re not going to handwrite our editorial for this thing you have another thing coming.” Fred used his feet to propel his office chair from his desk towards Seb’s and slapped a newspaper cutting down next to his protégé. It was a small story from the [i]Liverpool Echo[/i] bearing a picture of some workers stood beside their machinery with proud smiles on their faces. One of Lambert’s chubby fingers tapped the picture of the men as he muttered to Hedland. “I’m hearing rumblings out of Liverpool about something interesting happening up there. Talk of some workers in a sugar refinery up there forming a co-operative. We might even be able to get out ahead of Downing Street this time.” “A co-operative,” Hedland said, his voice thick with surprise. “What next? Unions? I didn’t even realise co-operatives were still legal.” Trade unions had been outlawed decades ago. They had stood with the anarchists after the murder of the British Royal Family during the Troubles. That had signed their death warrant. Once the Armed Forces managed to secure control over Britain and the fighting had stopped anything remotely linked to them was outlawed. The days of organised labour were long gone and the government cracked down hard on the occasional attempt at recreating them under a different name. It meant working conditions in factories and shop floors were dreadful but it was a price worth paying to safeguard Britain’s future. At least that’s what the government said. “So do you want in? Or should I send you down to Brixton to get stonewalled by the Met all afternoon?” Hedland thought about it for a while. The Home Secretary gave a short statement after the Prime Minister finished speaking and announced that tens of thousands of police officers would walk London’s streets tonight. As much as he wanted to cover Oldfield’s murder he couldn’t help but begrudgingly agree with Lambert that the story had gone as far as it could. Nothing more of interest was going to happen in Brixton today with such a strong police presence there. “Liverpool it is then.” [center][b]*****[/b][/center] [b]Streatham, London[/b] Keenan Gayle muttered an obscenity under his breath as he surveyed the traffic on the road ahead of him. Driving through Streatham at this time of day was a nightmare. Keenan’s tired old Vauxhall Viva was caught in both the school rush and people driving home from work. The only silver lining to all the traffic was that Gayle’s tired muscles seemed thankful for the rest. He’d been hard at work on a building site all through the morning and afternoon. In the passenger seat of Keenan’s Vauxhall was his hard hat and a few tools. In the back his daughter Simone sat and stared out of the window whilst flicking through a book she’d taken out of the school library. Keenan looked at in his rearview mirror and smiled. His daughter was his world. She was the reason he woke up early in the mornings and put his body through hell. He hoped one day she’d be a doctor or a lawyer so that they’d have to treat her with the respect they denied him. That was if the government hadn’t sent them home by then. “Tell me what you learned about today.” Simone looked up from her book and shrugged her shoulders. “The Romans.” “The Romans, eh?” Keenan said with a curious smile. “Tell me about the Romans.” His daughter paused for a few seconds and then muttered uncertainly at Keenan. “They built the… roads?” He had no idea whether it was true or not. Keenan had barely gone to school as a child and once he’d finally been enrolled in one he was so far behind that he mostly tried to avoid being called on. It was why his nine year old daughter would often correct his spelling or have to read letters that arrived for him. Keenan was trying to fix that though, with Errol’s help, and he’d been saving up the money he made on building sites around London to pay for schooling. Then maybe he’d be able to take books out of the library himself and teach Simone about the Romans instead of the other way around. For the time being he feigned an impressed face at his daughter. “What else?” “I think… I think that’s it.” “Well, roads are important,” Keenan said with an encouraging smile. “How would the cars know where to go without them? And how would I pick you up from school if there weren’t any roads? I’d have to drive through the woods, wouldn’t I?” His daughter looked back at him with an unimpressed face. “That would be stupid. You’d get a puncture.” After sitting in gridlock for another twenty minutes they finally managed to make a little progress and passed through into Brixton. There were policemen everywhere. Keenan figured it was about the police officer that had been shot dead on Angell Town estate the night before. It was all over the newspapers and on every radio station. He’d even heard some of the guys on the site this morning speculating that it had something to do with the repatriations thing the government had announced. Keenan wasn’t sure about all that. All he knew was that whoever had done it was really stupid and that they’d made every coloured person in Brixton and elsewhere a little less safe. The police had been quick to target coloureds before. Now they’d be out for blood. Simone noticed some of the police officers and looked to Keenan with a frown. “Why are there so many police officers?” Keenan should his head. “I don’t know.” After they’d driven a way down the road Keenan spotted a road cordoned off by the police and several people crowded round it. He rolled down his window to take a look but couldn’t make out much. A man in the crowd made eye contact with Keenan and Keenan pointed towards the police cordon. The man approached the Vauxhall and rested his arm on its roof whilst Keenan asked. “What’s going on?” “A bunch of kids attacked some old man.” Keenan’s eyes widened and he gestured towards Simone in the back seat as if to suggest the man use more tact. The man nodded and reached into the inside of the burgundy leather jacket he was wearing. From it he plucked a loose cigarette and placed it between his lips whilst Keenan and he watched the crowd gathered around the cordon. “Is he going to be okay?” The coloured man shrugged whilst he lit up. “Your guess is as good as mine.” It was one thing after another in this bloody place. Brixton hadn’t been a utopia to begin with if Errol’s stories were to be believed but now it was even worse. There was still colour and life here but the events of the previous night had shown how dangerous Brixton could be after dark. People round here knew not to leave their homes at night. They knew it wasn’t safe. This was something else though. An old man attacked in the middle of the day? The day was sacred. The day was meant to be safe. Keenan sighed and looked at his daughter in his rear view mirror again. She was oblivious to it all. He hoped to keep her that way for as long as he could. “We’d better get home,” Keenan said with a warm smile. “Uncle Errol is going to be wondering where we’ve gotten to.” [center][b]*****[/b][/center] [b]Brixton, London[/b] Ray Newman’s face grew purpler by the second as he listened to Chief Superintendent Christopher Walsh speak. Walsh was leant against his desk explaining to Newman that he was to be placed on leave. It was [i]apparently[/i] standard protocol but given that a police officer hadn’t been murdered in London since shortly after the Troubles he had no idea whether that was true. All he knew was that he’d spent the past ten years of his life patrolling London’s streets and he had no interest in doing anything [i]but[/i] that. Walsh had been kind to Newman over the years. He’d stuck by Ray through several accusations of mispractise and had even turned a blind eye when Newman had totaled his car after he’d been on the booze a few years back. Now though Ray could tell that Walsh was speaking to him as Chief Superintendent rather than Chris. Newman wasn’t going to wriggle out of this one by paying for a few rounds. Once Walsh had finished speaking Ray shook his head with an angry frown. “I [i]need[/i] to be out there on the street taking the fight to the people that killed James.” “You’re too close to it,” Walsh sighed with a sympathetic smile. “You know that.” “That’s why it has to be me.” Walsh let out a pained sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, arguing isn’t going to do you any good this time, Ray, word’s come down from upstairs that you’re to go on administrative leave and that’s what’s going to happen. If it were up to me I’d have you out there in the field but it’s out of my hands. There’s nothing I can do on this one.’” Newman looked down at his calloused hands. “But what am I meant to do?” “You’re married, aren’t you? Spend some time with the wife.” Ray fiddled with the ring on his finger with an embarrassed smile. “Yvette and I separated last September.” “I’m sorry to hear that,” Chris muttered. “Just… find something to pass the time with away from all of this, some hobbies or something. You might not be able to see it now but this time is going to be good for you. Trust me.” Newman sat in silence and stared into the distance. There was nothing Ray could do to change Walsh’s mind but outside of the police Ray had nothing left. Yvette had left him when his drinking had got out of hand, his children were away at university and even if they weren’t wouldn’t want [i]anything[/i] to do with him, and all of his friends were here. Ray had no hobbies. The thought of spending his days alone in his lonely little flat scared him. Every time he shut his eyes he saw James bleeding out on the ground. He didn’t want to be left alone with his thoughts but that was all he had left without his work. He cleared his throat and stood up from his seat. Walsh extended a hand to him and Ray shook it. He did his best to hide his disappointment as he left Walsh’s office and made his way across the station. It was almost entirely empty now that the Prime Minister had demanded a strong police presence on the streets. The Home Secretary had leant on the Commissioner who had in turned leant on the bosses. [i]Everyone[/i] was to be out on the streets today, tomorrow, the day after that, and the day after that. They’d be out there until people forgot about James Oldfield. A hand on Ray’s shoulder made him jump and he turned to see a familiar face looking back. “I’m sorry about what happened to James.” It was Paul Winters. Winters was a member of Ray’s darts team. He was a decade older than Newman, maybe more, and his hair had been completely white for as long as Ray had known him. He was a slim man, always excellent turned out, and today he wore a tailored navy suit with a light blue shirt and a navy tie. Winters could afford fancy suits. He was CID. “Thanks,” Newman said as he gestured to the file beneath Paul’s arm. “What do they have you doing?” “Some old fart was beaten to death this afternoon in Brixton. Poor sod. Two hours later and the whole bloody borough would have been swarming with police officers. Guess it wasn’t his day.” Ray’s ears pricked up at the mention of Brixton. “Coloured?” Winters nodded. “Fuck him then," Ray placed one of his hairy hands around Paul’s arm and pulled him close to him. “We shouldn’t be wasting time chasing after their kind given it was one of them that did James in.” “I hear you,” Winters smiled wryly as he tapped the file. “Administrative errors [i]are[/i] wont to happen from time to time.” Newman let go of Paul's arm and patted him on the back with a supportive smile. They stood and shot the shit for a few minutes more, mostly about Ray's impending administrative leave, but Winters had to leave to visit the scene of the crime in Brixton. He had to make it look right if he was going to fudge it. Ray walked out with him and took slightly more comfort from briefly extending the time he spent in Winters company as he knew his lonely flat awaited him once they parted. At least he'd have the knowledge that all across Britain the police would be giving hell to the people that had put James in the ground. That would get him through the first night at least. [center][b]*****[/b][/center] [b]Garrett's Green, Birmingham[/b] Honor Clarke and Conrad Murray climbed the stairs of their apartment building hand in hand. Conrad was meant to be running an after school club for some of the boys this evening Neil offered to cover for him. Honor had given a speech at a local university in the wake of James Oldfield’s murder that had been well received by the students there. She stressed the importance of [i]civil[/i] disobedience, the staggering number of coloured deaths in police custody, and the inequality of access to health insurance between whites and coloured. It all added up, Clarke argued, and the government’s Voluntary Repatriations Bill would only worsen matters. Protesters had waiting for Honor as she left, as they often did when she invited to speak somewhere, but the receptiveness of the students to Honor’s argument left her in high spirits nonetheless. The romantic dinner she shared with Conrad only served to raise her spirits even more. She was looking forward to getting him home and feeling his skin against hers. What with her work and Conrad’s teaching schedule it had been too long. As the pair reached the door to their apartment Conrad stopped dead in his tracks. He pulled Honor behind him forcefully and pointed towards the door that was slightly ajar and broken at the hinges. There were noises coming from inside, [i]human[/i] noises, whoever had broken into their home was still inside. The teacher crept towards the door and looked towards Honor with a stern look. “Stay behind me.” Honor scoffed at the comment. “Stay behind you? It’s 1980, Conrad, not 1908.” She overtook her boyfriend and pushed the door open. It creaked the entire way as it swung over and revealed the inside of Conrad and Honor’s flat. Their belongings were strewn all over the floor. Honor’s books were scattered around with pages torn out, glasses had been pulled from the kitchen cupboard and smashed on the ground, and even the windows of the flat had been broken. None of this deterred Clarke as she stepped through the doorway without a second’s hesitation. “We know you’re in there,” Honour shouted into the flat. “Come out now or we’re calling the police.” Conrad pulled his keys from his pockets and pushed them through the gaps in his fingers. He’d never been in a fight before, he’d never needed to be in one, but if he was about to enter into one he was going to make sure he won it. The sound of footsteps crunching along broken glass made his heart pound a little faster and a chubby bald man in a lime green polo shirt appeared. It was one of their neighbours. He smiled at them as if he realised he’d erred in not announcing his presence. “I’m afraid that’s not going to do you much good.” “Jesus, Zach, you scared the life out of me,” Conrad said as he slipped his keys back into the pocket of his trousers. “What on Earth happened here?” “It was the police,” Zach sighed as he walked towards Honor and Conrad. “There must have been at least half a dozen of them. Jane saw them kick your door in through the hole in the front door but she was too scared to come out.” Jane was Zach’s wife. As far as the law was concerned Zachariah Cherney was a happily married man. Zach was a homosexual. On top of that he happened to be Jewish. Both were considered undesirable although [i]only[/i] one of them was outlawed. The close relationship that Jews had with the labour movement in Britain and their supposed intellectual sympathy with social democracy had lead to their internment for several years after the Troubles had ended. They were released once the Armed Forces had secured Britain and restored order but being Jewish in Britain meant having to [i]constantly[/i] affirm one’s loyalty to King and country. His “wife” Jane was an older woman, Jewish also, though cripplingly shy and entirely disinterested in sex with either men or women. Their marriage served both of them well. They had been good neighbours to Conrad and Honor since they had moved to Birmingham. Conrad even noticed that Zach had begun making some attempt to clean the place up before they’d arrived. It wasn’t much, the place was [i]still[/i] a mess, but the little gestures like that made Conrad certain there was something wrong with Britain if they thought men like Zach were somehow dangerous. Murray pointed about the flat. “Where they looking for something?” Zach shook his head. “No, she said the were just trashing the place, I think they wanted to send a message of some sort.” Honor bent down and picked up a copy of [i]“The Souls of Black Folks”[/i] by W. E. B Du Bois that’d had most of its pages torn out and flicked through it in silence. She shut her eyes and nodded. “Message received.” “Honor?” Conrad called out to his girlfriend. “I know that face. What are you thinking?” “I think it’s about time I sent them a message of my own.”