[b]Mitcham, London[/b]

In the car park of Vestry Hall were half a dozen white vans, each dirtier than the next one, and a few old, battered station wagons. Right by the entrance was a large coach whose driver snoozed in the seat. It was the Jaguar that had been parked across the street that caught Ray Newman’s eye as he walked towards Vestry Hall. Whoever owned that [i]clearly[/i] didn’t come from Mitcham. Newman brushed down his navy Harrington jacket and took one last glance down at the burnt orange polo shirt beneath it to make sure it wasn’t creased. He’d bought it this afternoon in town and had ironed it using boiled water in a pot. Once upon a time Yvette had done all his ironing. Now he had to make do with what little household items he had lying about. Once he was satisfied he looked presentable he walked up to the heavy doors of Vestry Hall and pulled them apart. 

A dozen heads turned in his direction as he entered. There were men Newman’s age, boys barely out of school, and a few older men sat up at the front. Newman noticed the man on the leaflet, Edgar Francis, stood by the table at the front of the hall. Francis was dressed in a pinstriped double-breasted suit that was charcoal in colour and looked more expensive than everything Newman was wearing. On one of the man’s lapels was a pin in the shape of the National Front logo and its bright reds, whites, and blues contrasted with Edgar’s pale blue tie. Francis was a tall man, in his sixties, with a sense of majesty and seriousness about him that was reflected in his craggy, grave face. He had a full head of gray hair and a goatee that retained a few flecks of black.

Francis glanced towards him and nodded. Newman nodded back and upon finding all the seats taken took to leaning against a wall towards the back. Stood next to him was a young shaven-headed man in a denim jacket and a thick black overcoat that seemed several sizes too big for him. He smiled at Newman and Newman smiled politely to him as Francis shuffled behind the table at the front. A local man introduced Francis, noting his distinguished service in the Armed Forces and the success he’d had as a businessman and an author, before inviting Francis to speak. There was rapturous applause as he rose to his feet.

“First and foremost I want to thank you all for coming,” Edgar said in a crisp, cutting voice that spoke the King’s English better than the King. “I understand that some of you have travelled across London to be here this evening and it means a lot to me that you’ve taken that effort to hear me speak.”

There was another bout of applause and Francis reached down for a pint of ale at the table in front of him. He took a large mouthful of ale, glugged it down, and then wiped the moisture it left on his moustache with the back of his hand. 

“I’d like to tell you that there’s not more work ahead of us, men. I’d like to tell you that the National Front [i]won’t[/i] ask more of each and everyone one of you but I’d be lying if I did. We’re all here this evening because we [i]love[/i] this country of ours. Not the kind of love that’s hidden away and only brought out on special occasions. The love you wear on your sleeve, the love you flaunt, the kind of love you’d fight and die for if it came down to it. The kind of love this government and previous governments have tried their hardest to stamp out.”

There had been loud cheers when Francis had spoken of loving Britain. The young man next to Newman especially had become particularly animated and clapped so loudly that it had hurt Ray’s ears. When Francis had made reference to the government the crowd had burst into a spontaneous volley of boos and hisses. Francis took advantage of each of those moments and would take another mouthful of ale as he waited for them to pass. The crowd seemed to love it. They looked past the double-breasted suit and his accent because he drank ale like they did. It was only then that Newman figured the Jaguar parked across the road likely belonged to Francis.

“We [i]told[/i] them when they introduced the guest worker program it would lead to anarchy on our streets but did they listen? No, they branded us racists and tried to silence our voices. Now, decades later, they’ve realised we were right all along and are trying to roll it back. Well, it’s too late, gentlemen, the coloureds are here and they are here to stay. No [i]voluntary[/i] repatriation is going to change that. If we want to do something about them, about them murdering police officers in our streets, we’re going to have to do it by force.”

There was venom in Edgar’s voice as he spoke of the coloureds. It sent a chill down Newman’s spine. He’d found himself nodding along with Francis somewhere in the avalanche of applause the other men laid on for him. Francis was saying what Ray had been thinking for a long time, even before Oldfield had been murdered, and it was exciting to hear it said out loud in a room full of people that agreed. Though there was something else. As much as it excited Newman there was something in Edgar’s voice that scared him. Ray couldn’t work out whether Edgar Francis was brilliant or dangerous. All he knew was that he agreed with every word that was leaving his mouth. 

“They want us to believe the apex of the Troubles was the day the anarchists murdered the Royal Family, God rest their souls, but I say it started the day they let [i]hundreds of thousands[/i] of coloureds onto British shores,” Francis gesticulated wildly as he spoke. “Until Native Britons can walk the streets of their cities safely again how can the politicians say the Troubles are over with a straight face? How can that [i]collaborator[/i] Fraser Campbell tell us that Britain is safe when we have coloreds running our streets like animals and murdering policemen?”

Campbell’s name invoked the most violent response. Men stood up from their chairs so forcefully that the chairs were flung to the ground behind them. The skinhead beside Newman had even spat a mouthful of phlegm on the ground next to them at the Prime Minister’s name. It had landed precariously close to Ray’s shoe and he glared at the young man and shuffled over half a metre or so.

“Force, gentlemen, force is [i]all[/i] the coloureds understand,” Francis bellowed as he pushed a lock of grey hair out of his face. “The liberties that we enjoy in this great country of ours weren’t handed to us, they were won by men that were willing to fight for them against all comers, and unless we are willing to fight for them again we will lose them. Are we going to let that happen, men? Are we going to stand by and watch whilst it happens?”

The “no’s” the men screamed back were almost deafening. Feet in workmen’s boots, trainers, and shoes alike pounded the wooden floorboards of Vestry Hall in support of the man’s words. Finally Edgar Francis lifted one of his veiny, wrinkled hands into the air and the men fell silent in an instance. 

“Then go forth from here and do [i]whatever[/i] it takes to protect our country,” Francis said gravely as his eyes locked intensely on Ray Newman stood at the back of the hall. “Otherwise there won’t be a country to fight for in five years time.”

[center][b]*****[/b][/center]
[b]Albert Dock, Liverpool[/b]

A flood of pain across his face forced Sebastian Hedland into consciousness and his eyes forced themselves open. They shut within half a second as the bright light that hung over him shone into them. A sickening laugh from in front of the journalist assured him he wasn’t stuck in some nightmare and the forceful hand that clamped around his mouth confirmed it. Seb could feel breath against his face but was too frightened to open his eyes again. It wasn’t until he felt a cold blade pressed against his stomach that he opened them and confronted the gravity of his situation. Stood in front of him was the ginger-haired man that had lead the raid on Daley’s Sugar Refinery and knocked Seb unconscious. That was the last thing that he remembered. Now he was strapped to a chair without any clothes on and with no idea where he was.

The man smiled as he noticed Seb’s eyes had opened. “I hate to interrupt your sleep but we don’t have all night, sunshine.”

“What’s going on here?” Hedland said as he looked around. “Where am I?”

The room was perfectly dark but for the man stood in front of him. The lamp that illuminated him was directly behind him and depending on where the man stood Hedland would be plunged into complete blackness or blinding light. In the distance Seb could hear the sounds of other people crying out in pain and the dull thud of fists pounding human flesh. He gulped nervously as the ginger-haired man held the sharp knife for Hedland to inspect.

“I’ll be the one asking the questions, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m not one of them,” Sebastian stammered as he eyed the knife. “I work for the [i]New Jerusalem[/i].”

“You kept saying that,” the man laughed as he slid the knife over the journalist’s stomach. “Is that meant to mean something to me? You think working for some poxxy magazine is going to save you? The way I see it, working for a magazine got you into this little spot to begin with.”

There was that laugh again. It sounded like nails on a chalkboard. The man stepped into the darkness and returned several seconds later with a set of black and white photographs in his hands. He held the pictures in front of Seb’s face one by one.

Once he’d finished going through the pictures he picked up the knife again and slid it along Seb’s groin. “Where are they?”

“I don’t know who those people are,” Hedland said with a nervous shake of his head. “I’ve never seen them before.”

“Don’t lie to me,” the man said with an exasperated sigh as he reached for the photographs again. “Where are they and what are they planning?”

He went through them again, slower and more deliberately this time, and Seb tried desperately to look for something or someone he might recognise in them. Each was as alien to him on second viewing as they had been on the first one but he [i]knew[/i] that wasn’t what the man wanted from him. There was a loud scream from somewhere and it made him jump in his seat. The ginger-haired man’s green eyes were boring into the journalist’s head and finally Hedland succumbed to the pressure.

“I [i]swear[/i] I don’t know who they are.”

The man sighed and smashed the handle of the knife in his hand down on Seb’s fingers. There was a loud crunch and he screamed out in pain. The man asked again and Hedland could barely muster a whimper by way of an answer to it. Seb's captor shook his head and smashed at his fingers again. Seb’s mouth filled with blood as he accidentally chomped down on the inside of his mouth. It dribbled along his cheek as he glanced down at his broken fingers and whimpered in pain. Over the next ten minutes the ginger-haired man pounded on Seb’s slight frame with his fists. Each punch rattled Hedland’s body to its core. Once the barrage of blows had come to an end the man held Seb’s head aloft and breathlessly asked a final time time about the men and women in the photographs.

Through his swollen and bloodied face Seb muttered an answer that left his tormentor dissatisfied. He looked over his shoulder at someone and gestured to something in the corner of the room out of sight.

“Get the broom handle.”

Another man appeared and passed a broom handle to him. Through swollen eyes Seb spotted it and began to mutter barely comprehensible protestations. The ginger-haired man tipped Seb’s seat over and the journalist’s face clattered against the ground as his inquisitor disappeared behind him.

“Please,” Hedland muttered as he felt the broom handle’s searing pain. “Please… please no…”

It was a pain unlike any other Seb had ever felt before and it lasted so long that he had lost all sense of time. Once it was done he felt the blood trickle down his legs and the tears wash down his face. The man asked one last time and this time Seb managed but an exhausted head shake as the pain overcame him and he began to slip from consciousness. Even the searing light that shone in his direction dimmed as Hedland's world started to fade to black. He could make out the silhouette of his captor stood over him and the subordinate that had handed him the handle.

“It’s no good,” Seb's captor muttered dispassionately. “He doesn’t know anything.”

The other man tutted and reached for a weapon on his waist. “Should we kill him?”

“Don’t bother,” came the response as the ginger-haired man gestured to his colleague to holster his weapon. “He’s not worth the bullet.”

[center][b]*****[/b][/center]
[b]Chelmsley Wood, Birmingham[/b]

Conrad Murray stirred his tea gently and watched as the dark brown liquid began to lighten. He lifted the mug to his mouth and went to take a sip of the tea before catching himself at the last moment. It was piping hot. He blew on it a few times as he carried it over to the table that Neil Durham was sat at. The staff room of Chelmsley Wood High School was empty but for the two men. Conrad blew on his tea a little more and finally ventured to take a sip of it. Durham watched on amused as Murray drew his tongue back sharply and set the mug down on the table.

“Are you alright, Conrad? You look a little rough this morning.”

“Thanks,” Murray said sarcastically as he touched the burnt tip of his tongue. “I was up all night trying to get Honor out of that bloody police station.”

Durham made a face and then looked down to the lesson plan in front of him. “Yeah, I heard about that.”

“Don’t give me that look,” Conrad said with a sigh. “They trashed our house, Neil.”

The older teacher took a deep inhalation of breath. Conrad watched as he saw Durham trying to piece together a response. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea considering the… current climate. People might have turned a blind eye to all of that before but since that police officer was shot down in London… It’s changed, people have changed, Conrad, they’re not going to take kindly to what they see as rabble-rousing.”

Rabble-rousing. Conrad gritted his teeth at Durham’s choice of words. West Midlands Police had come into his home, where Conrad and Honor laid their hands at night, and broken, smashed, and destroyed everything they could get their hands on. They’d even broken the only picture Honor had of her father Errol. She didn’t talk about her father much, all Conrad knew was that they had fallen out a decade ago, but he knew that her father meant more to her than she let on. He’d seen her face when she’d found the ruined picture. Just thinking about it filled him with rage. Neil looked at him with sympathetic eyes and Conrad felt his rage fizzle away into nothing. He reached for his mug of tea and took a careful sip from it. He and Neil spoke for a while about the day they had ahead of them, the football the night before, and their plans after work. The sound of someone clearing their throat in the doorway to the staff room brought their conversation to an end.

“Conrad?” Daniel Noble, Chelmsley High’s headteacher said with a polite smile. “Are you busy? I need a word with you.”

Conrad got to his feet, emptied out what little tea remained in his mug, and followed Noble out of the staff room. As he passed through the doorway Durham mouthed the words “good luck” to him and Conrad smirked. Noble was renown around the school for being a hard nut. He was a short, fat man that looked more like a council official than a headteacher and he carried himself like one too. His too-tight suit clung to his rolls of fat and his shoes were old and battered. Noble had no teaching experience of his own. He’d been brought in by the government to turn Chelmsley Wood High around. No one knew what the headteacher had done before but he was definitely not popular amongst the staff there.

As he took a seat in Noble’s office Murray looked up at the headteacher and frowned. “What’s this about?”

The office was plain but for a few certificates along the school’s ways that spoke to Noble’s education. He was the only faculty member at Chelmsley High outside of Conrad that had studied past undergraduate level. Murray had counted three others that had even attended universities. Even his prestigious education didn’t seem to match up to Noble’s schooling. There were certificates from Cambridge and Harvard that had price of place. Murray was staring at those when the headteacher’s deep voice answered back.

“We’ve had some complaints from some of the parents, Conrad.”

Conrad sighed. “Is this about what happened yesterday?”

“Look, I understand that you aren’t responsible for the actions of your partner and I’m sure she believed her actions were justified but we can’t have her bringing the school’s name into disrepute. God knows that we have enough of a mountain to climb to salvage the school’s reputation without giving people even more reason not to send their children here.”

“What are you saying?” Murray said as he ran a nervous hand through his beard. “Are you letting me go?”

Noble smiled and shook his head. “Of course not, we can’t afford to lose a teacher like you over something like this, Conrad, but let’s consider this… an unofficial verbal warning, shall we? A very gentle slap on the wrists if you will.”

It was wrong. Everything was about this was wrong. Conrad and Honor had been targeted because of the colour of his girlfriend’s skin and now Conrad was being punished because Honor had refused to take it lying down. Worst of all was that Noble was smiling at Conrad as if he was doing him a favour in “only” giving him a slap on the wrists for it. Conrad wanted to give Noble what for but he knew the fat man held his career in his hands. Instead he nodded dutifully and pushed himself up from his seat with his hands. Conrad had made it to the door with his hand wrapped around the handle when he changed his mind.

He clutched onto it and mumbled without turning. “What kind of message is this sending the kids?”

Noble looked up from his desk at Conrad with a raised eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

The young history teacher turned to face his boss with his hand still wrapped around the handle. Noble stared at Conrad as if waiting for him to repeat his question and Murray stood silently and matched his gaze. After a few seconds Noble let out a sigh and shook his head. His stomach wobbled with it. Murray watched as the headteacher leant back in his chair and placed his feet up on his desk.

“I’m your best friend at this school, Conrad, though you might not believe it,” Noble shrugged with a smile. “Half of the Board of Governors wanted you gone the second your girlfriend’s little stunt got underway but I managed to talk them out of it. Making an enemy of me would be a very bad decision.”

Murray's shoulders slumped and a repentant look appeared on his face. Without a word he disappeared through the door of Noble's office. As he wandered through the halls of Chelmsley Wood High School he replayed the conversations he had with Neil Durham and Daniel Noble over and over ahead in his head. For the first time in years, Connor Murray started to wonder whether the righteous indignation he'd been carrying with him was misplaced.

[center][b]*****[/b][/center]
[b]Whitehall, London[/b]

Along the walls of the Ministry of Defence were portraits of Britain’s great military leaders over the years. Fraser Campbell sneered at the last, a portrait of Owen Pyke, as he passed through into the office of General Sir Jonathan Markham-Powell. As Fraser entered into the office he spotted Markham-Powell seated behind a large dark brown wooden desk. The title “Chief of Defence Staff” was engraved into a nameplate on the front of Markham-Powell’s desk. Upon spotting Fraser enter the room the general took to his feet and saluted. Markham-Powell was in his late sixties and his military uniform adorned with countless medals did little to disguise the still gym-fit body beneath it. The general had lost his hair young but had resisted the temptation to fashion what remained of his hair into a comb-over. There was an air of geniality to Markham-Powell that had always put Fraser Campbell at ease. Their meetings were one of the few duties that the Prime Minister looked forward to. Campbell gestured to the general to take his seat as he approached.

“Please, Jonathan, there’s no need for that.”

Markham-Powell flashed the Prime Minister a smile and sat back down. “You know what they say about old habits.”

Fraser took the seat opposite the general and loosened his tie with a relieved sigh. Ostensibly he was there to discuss the progress of the British campaign in South Africa but he was intent on taking this rare moment of privacy to relax. Once he was done with Markham-Powell there were another six meetings for the Prime Minister to get to and the events of the past few days had exhausted him enough as it was. He’d have to deal with aides, advisers, and disgruntled Cabinet members until late into the evening and that was just the things they had planned. Chances are with the luck that Fraser was having recently [i]another[/i] police officer would be shot whilst he was talking to Markham-Powell. 

Once he was comfortable the Prime Minister looked to the general and smiled. “How’s the new gazebo coming along?”

“Splendidly,” Markham-Powell said with an appreciate smirk. “It should be done within the week. As always with these things it has overrun a little and the estimates we were given were quite some way short but the wife seems happy enough with it. That’s all that matters at the end of the day.”

The general lived for his wife as much as Campbell and the pair had been married for nearly fifty years. Campbell hoped that he and Joyce would wear their love on their sleeves as proudly as Jonathan and Hortensia Markham-Powell wore theirs. On the general’s desk were several pictures of his wife and he on their travels and another of a young man that Campbell did not recognise. 

“Whilst we’re on the topic of things that have overrun,” Fraser said glibly as he reluctantly veered back on topic. “How goes our campaign in South Africa? The last time we spoke you assured me that things were going well and yet I hear from my man Hobbs that there’s bad news out of Cape Town.”

Markham-Powell nodded. “I’m afraid so, sir, the whole thing has proved [i]far[/i] more complicated than we’d imagined. We had hoped that with the support of the Dutch Afrikaaners that make up most of the country’s ruling elite we’d have taken South Africa in weeks. The natives have proven more resilient than we’d imagined, they seem to have a better understanding of the terrain than the Dutch, and have dug themselves in.”

“Any chance the Ethiopians involve themselves?”

“No, sir, I don’t see the natives holding out in South Africa long enough for that to be viable,” Markham-Powell said bluntly. “The Ethiopians have problems of their own at the moment and getting involved in South Africa would only increase those problems tenfold.”

The Great War had reduced Britain to a shadow of its former greatness and the Troubles had meant to world had left Britain behind. Once the British Empire laid claim to two-thirds of the world and now Britain was an afterthought. Decades of civil war and infighting had left the nation inwards looking, technologically backwards, and indifference to the goings on of the outside world at the best of times. King William had lobbied Campbell [i]hard[/i] to invade South Africa and it was made clear to the Prime Minister by Moore’s faction that non-compliance with the order would result in his deposition. The King’s justification for the invasion was that it would restore some national pride to Britain. So far all it had done for Campbell was caused him innumerable headaches at great expense to the public purse. Plus the Prime Minister now lived in constant fear of the Africans turning their ire towards Britain.
 
“Well, that’s reassuring at least,” Campbell smiled as he pushed his thick lensed glasses up his nose. “The sooner this thing is over the better for everyone. We can’t afford to keep pouring money into South Africa if there’s no end in sight. God knows Britain has enough problems of its own too.”

“It’s interesting that you say that,” Jonathan muttered tentatively. “I had a discussion with some people from the Palace this morning,” 

Fraser could feel his heart in his mouth as he gestured to the general to continue. “Go on.”

“Word seemed to have reached our King of a particularly [i]troubling[/i] murder.”

“PC James Oldfield,” Campbell sighed as wave of relief flooded over him. “We’re doing everything we can.”

Markham-Powell shook his head. “No, no, not Oldfield, another one. A man by the name of Errol Clarke was murdered in Brixton the morning after Oldfield was shot.”

Campbell’s face flushed red. He had no idea who Errol Clarke was. There was [i]nothing[/i] that the King and the Chief of Defence Staff knew that the Prime Minister shouldn’t be privy to already. He searched the recesses of his mind silently for some forgotten reference to Clarke or a murder in Brixton that morning. There was none. Campbell’s memory was second to none. If the Prime Minister had been told about it he’d know about it. Suddenly he became aware that he’d been silent for too long and smiled in Markham-Powell’s direction modestly as he searched for an excuse. He couldn’t find one.

“I’m afraid this is the first I’m hearing of it.”

Markham-Powell looked at him with eyes that betrayed a fatherly disappointment. “Yes, well, King William was [i]very[/i] concerned when he heard about it. It’s one thing to send them home, sir, but another to have them murdered on our streets in the middle of the afternoon. I believe the King is concerned that if things like this keep happening that people might believe we don’t have a handle on the situation. He might be minded to make some [i]changes[/i] were such a perception to become widespread.”

It wasn’t a threat. At least if it [i]was[/i] a threat it definitely wasn’t coming from Markham-Powell. To the best of Fraser’s knowledge the general thought as highly of him as Campbell thought of Markham-Powell and their relationship had never been anything but cordial. There was concern in the general’s tone, real concern, like he was trying to warn the Prime Minister of the danger he was in. Changes. It was a diplomatic choice of word that belied the true nature of what the Palace had intimated to Markham-Powell. If Campbell didn’t get a hold of the situation he’d be ousted. King William would remove him as Prime Minister and appointed someone else. That would be the end of Fraser Campbell’s political career, the end of his time in public life, and [i]most importantly[/i] the end of any hopes he might have at building the kind of Britain that the British people deserved. One where King’s didn’t discuss changing Prime Ministers as one might would changing their underpants. 

“Who informed the Palace if you don’t mind my asking, General?”

“Who else? Thomas Moore,” Markham-Powell smiled knowingly. “I believe the Home Secretary lunches with the King at least once a week.”