[b]Whitehall, London[/b]

Samuel Hobbs rolled his eyes as he listened to the Health Minister trotting out flimsy excuse after flimsy excuse as to why his department had overspent. The Department of Health’s overspend was twentieth on the list of concerns that Hobbs had. At the top of that list was the ill-advised phone call he’d held with the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police yesterday afternoon. Hobbs had been up much of the night worrying that his using Dominic Hewitt’s name would come back to bite him in the backside. He’d come in extra early this morning so as to busy his mind with other things. Currently listening to the Health Minister stammering down the phone was failing to do that. Hobbs scrawled a hastily drawn penis on the notepad in front of him and held it up for Hewitt to see. The young Press Officer smiled and began to scribble an obscene drawing of his own.

Before he had a chance to lift it into view the doors to the Downing Street spin room burst open and Fraser Campbell appeared. Hobbs noticed the look on the Prime Minister’s face straight away and instantly cut the Health Minister off mid-sentence and set the phone down. The other press aides, Hewitt included, continued working completely unaware of Campbell’s rage. Hobbs stood up from the desk he was sat at and opened his mouth to alert the staffers to clear the room but was a second too late.

“Out,” The Prime Minister glowered in the doorway to the room. “I want everybody out.”

Hewitt looked to Hobbs with worried eyes and Hobbs gestured towards the exit. Along with five other Downing Street staffers he slowly made his way out of the room and past the Prime Minister as carefully as they could. They hadn’t seen Fraser Campbell angry before. Hobbs had seen it [i]many[/i] times. Though the public considered the Prime Minister skittish and nervous at the best of times he was prone to the occasional bout of rage. Usually reserved only for the consumption of his wife Joyce and Hobbs. Once the door had shut behind the last of the staffers the Prime Minister paced towards the desk opposite Hobbs and leant against it in silence.

Hobbs looked to his old friend with a concerned smile. “What’s wrong?”

“At my meeting with General Markham-Powell I was asked about an Errol Clarke. Does the name Errol Clarke ring any bells to you, Hobbs?”

Hobbs felt the same knot in his throat he’d felt yesterday after lying to Hewitt. If Campbell knew who Errol Clarke was there was no way he hadn’t worked out what Hobbs had done. Samuel Hobbs was a dead man walking. His palms began to sweat and his pale hands began to shake as he considered confessing to his mistake before Campbell dragged it out of him. That had to be why the Prime Minister was here. There were meetings that he was meant to be this very minute but instead he was [i]here[/i] talking to Hobbs about Errol Clarke instead. Hobbs was done. His career was finished. The second this conversation ended he’d be escorted out of Downing Street. The smart thing for the Geordie to do now would be to own up and go down with his dignity intact.

“None,” Hobbs lied. “Should it do?”

Campbell’s rage was magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses. “He was murdered in Brixton less than twelve hours after James Oldfield. Whilst I was on television calling for calm an old coloured man was being beaten to death less than two miles from where Oldfield was shot dead.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hobbs muttered unconvincingly as he stood up from his seat. “We need to get out ahead of this one.”

“Get out ahead of it? Everyone that matters already knows. The King [i]himself[/i] knows about Clarke, Hobbs, but I had to find out about it by being blind-sided by the Chief of Defence Staff in a meeting that was meant to be about South Africa.”

Hobbs thrust his hands into his pockets to hide their shaking. “Have the press got hold of it? We need to make sure they don’t get hold of it.”

The Prime Minister nostrils flared slightly at the interruption. “I wasn’t done.”

Hobbs gulped at that. Campbell and Hobbs had been friends for the best part of ten years. They had met at a mutual friend’s wedding back when Campbell had been a lowly junior minister in the previous Prime Minister’s cabinet and Hobbs was a relative nobody at [i]The Times[/i]. They had become fast friends. Hobbs and Joyce got on famously and the then-journalist’s ascension at [i]The Times[/i] coincided with Campbell’s through the cabinet. When the King had unexpectedly appointed Fraser Prime Minister he had contacted Hobbs that same morning to come aboard. In all that time and in all the crises, personal and political, Campbell had never looked or spoken at Hobbs the way he was now. He stood in cowed silence as he waited for Fraser to speak the words he knew were coming.

“How did the Palace find out about Clarke’s murder you might ask? The Home Secretary told them about it. That’s right, even Thomas-fucking-Moore knew about it before I did, and instead of telling me he ran to the Palace. He even intimated to the King that we were “out of control” of the situation.”

Campbell removed his thick glasses, pulled a cloth from the inside pocket of his double-breasted jacket, and then rubbed at them with it. Once he was satisfied the lenses were sufficiently clean he placed them back on and continued recounting the events of that morning. His rage had receded somewhat. Though Hobbs knew that gauging the Prime Minister’s anger by the way he spoke or his facial expression was a fool’s game. Campbell would often seethe away in silence for hours after his rages had come to an end.

“On my way back from my meeting with Markham-Powell I asked myself whether Thomas Moore, as arrogant as he is, would have the balls to take something like that to the Palace if he thought I wasn’t aware of it. I mean, Moore [i]is[/i] a bastard but not a brave one by any means otherwise he would have made his move a long time ago. So I called the Police Commissioner to check whether he’d spoken to anyone from Downing Street.”

Finally Hobbs had heard enough and he interjected “Fraser, I can explain.”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses,” The Prime Minister said forcefully. “He has to go, Hobbs.”

It took a few seconds for it to sink in but once it had the Director of Communication’s facial expression shifted. Gone was the dread and repentance to be replaced by a bemused smile that Hobbs did his best to disguise. “What?”

Fraser walked across the office and stood in front of Hobbs.

“Hewitt spoke to the Commissioner, he [i]knew[/i] about Clarke’s murder and didn’t tell me, and worst of all he made assurances to the Commissioner without my consent.”

The relief that Hobbs felt was so complete he almost found it hard to stand. His stomach had been somersaults as he awaited the coup-de-grace from the Prime Minister but it seemed giving Hewitt’s name had worked up to this point. The tiny smirk on Sam’s face disappeared and he nodded solemnly in a way that was more befitting of the situation.

The Prime Minister let out a pained sigh. “I know you’re fond of the boy but I can’t have someone on my staff that I don’t trust, Hobbs.”

In a rather unconventional way Hobbs [i]was[/i] fond of Hewitt but he was fonder of himself by a magnitude of a hundred. There was still a large part of him that couldn’t believe he’d actually managed to get away with it but he’d learned long ago not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He wouldn’t argue for Hewitt, not even for appearance’s sake, the longer he prolonged this the most chance there was at snatching defeat from the jaws of the unlikeliest victory of all time. 

Instead he nodded his head dutifully as he stared down at the ground whilst trying to look begrudging. “I understand.”

“Pack up Hewitt’s things and tell him I want to speak to him,” Campbell said as he made his way towards the exit. “Oh, and let security know that Mr. Hewitt will need an escort out of Downing Street. I know how important this job is to him. I don’t want to chance the boy doing something drastic."

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

Sebastian Hedland’s eyes crept open slowly and a relieved look washed over his face upon seeing the interior of his flat. It had been a nightmare. He’d never gone to Liverpool, Daley’s Sugar Refinery had never been raided, and what Seb had dreamt had happened [i]hadn’t[/i] happened. He’d never been more relieved in his life. It was when the young New Jerusalem journalist tried to push himself up from the plush sofa that he felt the pain. His hands were red and swollen with welts on them where they’d been struck and Seb’s insides felt like they’d been torn apart. After the shock wore off he could barely sit up from the pain. It [i]had[/i] been real. As he shut his eyes he saw the face of the ginger-haired man with the moustache that had subjected him to unspeakable horrors. He’d remember that face for the rest of his life. It was burnt into his memory. Every few seconds some small, seemingly insignificant detail flashed through his mind and Hedland had to fight back the tears.

A few metres away from him resting on the table beside him was a telephone. Seb dragged his body slowly towards it and tried to reach for it. His fingers hurt so badly that it hurt to stretch his hand out towards it. He tried to shut out the flashbacks, the smiling face of his tormentor as he stood over him, and reached towards the phone. He needed to speak to someone. He needed Lambert. Lambert would help him, Lambert would tell the world about what had happened, [i]this[/i] would be the straw that broke the camel’s back. It had to be. As his fingers contacted the phone it slid off its holder and rattled along the floor even further out of reach. The exertion of the movement made the pain in Hedland’s insides intensify and he curled up in a ball on the sofa.

Then he noticed it. There on the floor next to him was a post card. Seb figured he’d knocked it to the ground as he’d woken. He reached down for it and lifted it in front of his face to inspect it. On the front of the postcard was the skyline of the Liverpool Docks with the words “come back soon” over it. Seb grimaced and turned the postcard over to inspect the back. It was blank but for an immaculately circular smiley face drawn in black pen. Hedland whimpered and let it slide from his fingers back onto the ground. It was him, he couldn’t explain how he knew it, but Seb [i]knew[/i] that the ginger-haired man had written it.

Then the belated realization came to him. He was in Liverpool and now he was back in London. They had tortured him, violated him, and then to add to his mental anguish had transported him two hundreds miles back to London to [i]prove[/i] they knew where he lived. They had been in his space, in his home, whilst he had lain there unconscious and vulnerable. They were trying to send him a message. They were watching him and could snatch him up again [i]anytime[/i] they wanted to. 

The young journalist buried his face in his broken hands and sobbed into them.

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

A bead of sweat crept down Dominic Hewitt’s forehead. His life was crashing down around him. He had been called into the Prime Minister’s office ten minutes ago only to be informed that Fraser Campbell was letting him go. He’d worked to the bone for five years to prove that he was [i]more[/i] than his father’s son and now all of his work had been undone. Worst of all was that Campbell seemed determined to let him go for something he hadn’t done. According to the Prime Minister there had been a murder in Brixton the morning [i]after[/i] James Oldfield was shot and Hewitt had spoken to the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police about it. No matter how many times Hewitt protested his innocence the Prime Minister didn’t seem to want to hear it. In fact his protestations only seemed to make Fraser Campbell even less patient with him. Nothing Hewitt said seemed to make a difference.

For the fifteenth time Hewitt pleaded his innocence with Campbell. “I swear I never said a word to the Commissioner, Prime Minister, I would [i]never[/i] do something like that.”

Campbell glared at Hewitt and then exhaled with frustration. He reached into one of the draws and pulled out a thin file. He looked Hewitt dead in the eye as he opened the file and slid it across his table to Hewitt.

“We pulled the records, Dominic.”

Hewitt’s eyes scanned the one page document as he tried to make sense of what he was reading. There circled in red pen was a phone call from Hewitt’s phone from the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police. Dominic screwed his face up as he spotted it. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

After five more minutes of pleading the Prime Minister finally lost his patience and called for the security officers waiting outside of his office. Hewitt fought back the tears as they escorted him out and to the small office where his things had already been carelessly dumped into a cardboard box. A few of the colleagues Hewitt was closest to stopped by to say their goodbyes but most kept their distance. Finally as Hewitt began the long march out of Downing Street he spotted Hobbs stood waiting for him with a sympathetic smile. Hobbs gestured to the security team to give them some privacy and they nodded in acknowledgement and left the two men alone.

“I heard about what happened.”

“I didn’t speak to the Police Commissioner,” Hewitt muttered despondently to his former boss. “I didn’t do it.”

Hobbs sighed heavily and placed a supportive hand on one of Hewitt’s shoulders. “I know, Dominic.”

Suddenly the pieces snapped into place and Hewitt’s red, bleary eyes came to life with recognition. He remembered leaving Hobbs alone in the office to go for a cigarette and returning to find the Director of Communication’s hand on his phone. He’d said it was Fat Pat from the Department of Health, he’d even made the stupid “tit wank” joke for the fifteenth time, but it was [i]actually[/i] the Commissioner that Hobbs had been speaking to. Hobbs was the one that had taken that call, the one that given all the assurances, and worst of all he’d thrown Hewitt to the wolves by giving his name. 

Hewitt was so angry he was nearly frothing at the mouth. “It was you.”

A derisive chuckle left Sam’s lips and he shook his head as if Hewitt was insane. “What? Don’t go getting ahead of yourself there, mate.”

“You used my phone that day,” Hewitt said, his voice slowly rising as he spoke. “It was you, you piece of shit.”

Suddenly the smile disappeared and Hobbs wrapped one of his pale hands around Hewitt’s arm and dragged him to the side. He pushed a bony finger into Dom’s cheek as he spoke. “You fucking listen to me, you preening cunt, I am the one that decides whether you spend the rest of your life writing the fucking horoscopes for an in-house magazine or whether you land on your fucking feet.”

Hewitt stared at Hobbs with dead eyes. Even now, even after Hewitt had found him out, Hobbs [i]still[/i] couldn’t bring himself to apologise for what he’d done. Samuel Hobbs had been something of a mentor to Dominic ever since he’d arrived at Downing Street, even if he was a reluctant one, but now Hewitt understood the truth of it. The Director of Communications only cared about his own survival. He was a cockroach. He’d be here in Downing Street long after the rest of them because there wasn’t a soul that Hobbs wouldn’t screw over to stay at the top. 

As if sensing he’d overstepped the mark Hobbs pulled his finger back and patted him on the shoulder with a smile. “If you keep your mouth shut, I’ll see to it that you’re back in this place within five years and this whole Commissioner snafu will seem like some half-forgotten nightmare. You want my job? In ten years you can fucking have it. But not if you go throwing [i]baseless[/i] accusations like that. Do you hear me?”

In his periphery Hewitt made out the security team approaching the two of them. Hobbs had offered him a way back in. It would mean five more years of hard work. Five years of trying to piece back together his broken reputation. Hewitt wondered what his father would say when he found out that he’d been let go by Downing Street. Probably that he never should have bothered to begin with. His father never thought he was good enough. Nigel Hewitt only cared about one thing. Himself. He was like Hobbs in that sense.

“I want to hear you say it,” Hobbs whispered to Hewitt as the security team were within a few metres. “Say the words, Hewitt.”

For a second Hewitt considered it. He’d spent his whole life trying to earn the approval of men like his father and Samuel Hobbs. If he walked out of Downing Street today without agreeing he’d be considered a failure, even by his friends, but Hewitt would sooner fail on his own terms than give Hobbs the satisfaction. He spat in the Director of Communication’s face and smiled as he saw the pale man’s face sour with disgust as he realised what had happened. The security officers wrapped their heavy hands around Hewitt and dragged him away from Hobbs before the Geordie could lay a hand on him. As Hewitt was being dragged out of Downing Street he brandished a grin worthy of the Cheshire Cat at his old boss. 

“Fuck you.”

[center][b]*****[/b][/center]
[b]Garret's Green, Birmingham[/b]

Honor Clarke and Conrad Murray sat round a plastic table in the centre of their living room. The table they usually sat around had been broken when the police had turned over their flat. It was fluorescent green and partially see-through. On the table were a selection of vegetarian dishes that Conrad and Honor made together that they ate from at their leisure. Whilst he ate Conrad’s mind thought back to the conversations he’d had with Neil Durham and Daniel Noble that morning. The feeling he’d felt after he’d left Noble’s office had played on his mind ever since. He told himself once he’d finished eating he would talk to Honor about it. In truth he was scared to share those feelings with his girlfriend. She had spent much of the meal fuming at Conrad’s boss for having given him a warning.

“Those bastards,” Honor muttered as she took a mouthful of butternut squash casserole. “I can’t believe they would put you in that position.”

It was now or never, Conrad though, as he cleared his throat. “Well, I’ve actually been thinking about it and I’m starting to think they might have a bit of a point.”

Honor stopped chewing and shot her boyfriend an incredulous look. “What? How can you say that?”

“You have to see it from their point of view,” Conrad said as he eyed his plate nervously in an attempt to avoid making eye contact. “My association with you brings the school negative attention, Honor, and that negative attention impacts my student’s education, my relationship with my colleagues, and the standing of the school in general.”

Honor threw her cutlery down and glared at Conrad. He could feel the weight of her stare boring into his skull but kept his eyes glued on his meal. [i]This[/i] was the reason the teacher had been reluctant to talk to Honor about this. He knew she wouldn’t take it well. Some part of him hoped that they’d be able to have a grown-up discussion about it without resorting to argument. The look on Honor’s face said otherwise. They almost never argued but tonight seemed destined to be one of those rare nights. His girlfriend’s activism was so much a part of herself that she took any criticism of it as a criticism of her person.

There was more than a hint of annoyance Honor’s voice. “So what? You want to disassociate from me? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

Conrad sighed. “That’s not what I said. I just think maybe you should think about toning things down a little.”

“Toning things down? You knew who I was and what I believed in when you agreed to enter into this relationship, Conrad. Once upon a time you would have been out there with me too. It’s not fair of you to ask me to “tone things down” because it makes things a little uncomfortable for you at work.”

“It’s more than that,” Conrad said as he met Honor’s gaze for the first time. “I could lose my job over this. Noble said the board wanted me gone because of the protest yesterday and that he had to talk them round. I’ve barely been working there for five minutes and they [i]already[/i] want me out because of your…”

His feelings had gotten the better of him. In his mind he’d taken his newfound reservations about the impact of Honor’s protesting to their natural conclusion and his mouth had followed. Luckily he’d managed to catch himself in time. At least he [i]thought[/i] he’d managed to catch himself in time. Honor was glaring at him from across the table with her arms crossed. Even with fury emblazoned on her face she was still beautiful. Her thick black dreadlocks hung over one shoulder and her dark, deep eyes were locked on Conrad. 

“Go ahead,” Honor muttered. “Say it.”

The teacher hesitated for a second and then finished his sentence tentatively. “Posturing.”

Those dark, deep eyes grew angrier still. “Posturing? Can you even hear yourself? [i]Posturing[/i]? I was out there trying to make a difference, Conrad, trying to change things so that people like me, some of whom are your students, don’t have to live in fear of police brutality every second of their lives.”

“Sitting in a street isn’t helping them,” Conrad sighed as he finally set his own cutlery down. “I teach those children, Honor, and I treat them [i]exactly[/i] the same as I do all of the other children. I try to equip them with the knowledge they’ll need so they can be more than a statistic when they grow up. That is helping them, that is making a tangible difference to their lives in the here and now, not inconveniencing some police officers whilst they go about trying to do their jobs.”

Honor sat in silence for nearly a minute after Conrad had finished speaking and the teacher grew slightly worried. When he decided to open his mouth to check whether his girlfriend was okay Honor stood up from the table and picked up her late. Conrad attempted to follow after her but she looked at him with a blank expression and shook her head.

“I’m done with this conversation.”

“Wait,” Conrad called out to her as she walked towards the bedroom. “Honor, I’m sorry.”

She stopped dead in her tracks and turned to face her boyfriend. “No, that’s the worst thing. You’re not.”

He wanted to deny it for her sake if nothing else but the words wouldn’t come. She waited for Conrad to say something, to tell her that she was wrong, but once it became clear it wasn’t going to happen she turned her back again and slammed the bedroom door shut behind her.

[center][b]*****[/b][/center]
[b]Sevenoaks, Kent[/b]

There was a stirring in Jonathan Markham-Powell’s home that woke him from his sleep. His wife murmured as Markham-Powell climbed out of bed and he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead and whispered to her to go back to sleep. The old general reached for a dressing gown that hung from the edge of a wardrobe and took a glance out of his bedroom towards the source of the noise. Any other man might have put it down to the floorboards creaking or the wind but Jonathan Markham-Powell knew better than that. He was old enough to remember the Troubles. He’d seen the violence that had torn Britain’s streets apart and he’d vowed then to [i]always[/i] be prepared for the worst. He knelt down beside his bedside table and reached beneath it for a Great War-era pistol he kept in case of emergencies. Once he was certain it was loaded he stalked out of the bedroom and began to creep downstairs.

The general cleared each room one by one until he spotted a silhouette in his kitchen. He let out an exasperated sigh as he recognised the man sat at his kitchen table. To British intelligence the man was known only as “Marine B” but Markham-Powell knew him as Roger Black. They had a long history with one another that stretched back before the general’s appointment as Chief of the Defence Staff. Black was the most effective tool that Markham-Powell had against the closeted republicans, anarchists, and socialists that wanted to drag Britain back to the dark ages all over again.

The general could make out Black’s smile in the darkness. “Can’t sleep?”

Markham-Powell flicked the kitchens light on. Black was still wearing his black combat gear as he slurped from a can of uncooked bake beans. The sauce from the beans had caked itself in Black’s ginger moustache. He scratched at the sides of his slicked-back hair with the back of his hand as Markham-Powell watched on displeased.

He gestured towards the can of beans that Black was slurping nosily from. “You couldn’t have heated those up first?”

“They’re fine cold,” Black said between mouthfuls. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

The general would have shot any other man dead on sight for intruding into his home whilst he slept but Roger Black’s loyalty to him was absolute. He showed no regard for rank and rarely bothered with niceties but Markham-Powell knew that he would throw himself under a moving train if the general commanded it. That didn’t make him any more comfortable at the thought of the Marine skulking around in his house whilst he was sleeping but he knew better than to attempt to explain that to Black.

“How did the operation in Liverpool go?”

Black shrugged his shoulders. “We got nothing.”

The old general grumbled. The intelligence the general had received had indicated that Daley’s Sugar Refinery in Liverpool had been a front for a republican plot. It had long been said that the only reason the refinery had survived the Troubles was because its founder had been a renowned socialist. Whilst the other factories, refineries, and businesses burned to the ground Daley’s Sugar Refinery remained undamaged because it had stood shoulder to shoulder with those doing the burning. This latest move to become a “co-operative” had been nothing but an attempt to put the funds directly into the pockets of the plotters. At least that was what the intelligence had indicated.

“There was a journalist from some magazine called the [i]New Jerusalem[/i] there,” Black said as he produced a business card from one of his pouches and took a glance at it. “His name was Sebastian Hedland.”

“Was?” Markham-Powell growled with a frown. “Did you kill him?”

Black chewed on a mouthful of beans, swallowed, and then shook his head. “No, it wasn’t worth the effort.”

“You know I don’t like loose ends.”

It was rare that Black left any witnesses. There was no crime Roger Black wasn’t willing to commit to keep Britain safe. Wanton murder and destruction was his calling card. He was a walking one-man Blitzkrieg that never failed to get results. He tortured, murdered, and maimed without hesitation if Markham-Powell asked it of him. If the general had a nation of men like Black he could restore Britain to its former glory within a fortnight. It was why it was so shocking that on this occasion Black had stayed his hand.

The Marine shot the general a confident smile. “Trust me, he won’t be talking to anyone.”

“Good,” Markham-Powell nodded. “We [i]may[/i] have had some bad intelligence this time around but I know those Liverpudlians are hiding something. If there’s a place in Britain where the bastards that tore our country apart can rest their head without fear – it’s Liverpool. I’d sooner burn the entire city to the ground before I’d stop looking. They’re out there, Black, they’re still out there.”

A decade ago Markham-Powell had warned the government that the Troubles were not over and they had ignored him. The Prime Minister at the time, William Robert Jones, had even accused Markham-Powell of being paranoid. Then a republican cell had blown up an RAF barracks in Uxbridge that Jonathan’s son, Alexander Markham-Powell, had been stationed at. His son’s death had spurned the general into [i]finally[/i] making his move. In secret he used the full weight of his influence to rally the Armed Forces behind him and deposed Jones. To the public, the King and the Prime Minister of the day were the most powerful men in Britain. To those in the know, General Sir Jonathan Markham-Powell was the man with his hands on the lever and both the King and the Prime Minister did his bidding. Even if they weren’t aware of it.

Black looked up from his beans with an inquisitive look. “The King?”

Markham-Powell sighed. “Yes, I met with William the Limp-Wristed this morning. He is as disinterested as ever when it comes to matters that do not regard clay pigeon shooting or water polo. The boy knows where his bread is buttered. He’ll do as I tell him because he knows what will happen to him if doesn't.”

Black smiled. “And the Prime Minister?”

“The least said about that sweaty buffoon the better,” Markham-Powell laughed. “The poor man still thinks he’s in charge even [i]after[/i] the King forced his government into introducing the Voluntary Repatriations Bill. Can you believe that? I wouldn’t be surprised to find out the man doesn’t tie his own shoes in the morning.”

“Probably that pretty wife of his.”

The general picked up Sebastian Hedland’s business card and inspected it. His eyes weren’t what they once were and it took him a few seconds to make out its characters. After a few seconds of thought the general pieced together a plan of action that would explain away Black’s raid on Daley’s Refinery in Liverpool.

“We’ll tell the newspapers the refinery was the headquarters of a republican plot against King William and then sell it off to the highest bidder in a few weeks time.”

“What about the situation up in Birmingham? The protests?” Black said with a frown. “I could go up there with the boys and put a stop to those if need be.”

“It’s nothing the police can’t handle,” Markham-Powell said with a shake of his head. “We made a lot of noise on this thing in Liverpool, Black. It’s best you and your team lay low for a time until I have need of you again.”

The marine seemed disappointed at that. The general slid the business card back across the table and the marine stopped it beneath his fist. From upstairs Markham-Powell heard his wife stirring and the general took a look at the stairs with a sigh. He tucked the old pistol into the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, tied his dressing gown tight, and then walked towards the door of the kitchen. 

As he reached it he looked back at Black still slurping from the can of beans. “Turn the light out after you when you leave.”