Morden Man

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

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Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Apologies for posting again so soon after my first post. I finished it last night and have spent all day tinkering needlessly and posting was the only way to stop myself from doing it.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Whitehall, London

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 that 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 adored 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 not 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 every 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 that 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 growing 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?”

*****

Brixton, London

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.”

*****

Islington, London

On the small television screen in the corner of the New Jersualem’s 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 New Jerusalem 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 New Jerusalem 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 New Jerusalem.

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 very 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 why 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 Liverpool Echo 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.”

*****

Streatham, London

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.”

*****

Brixton, London

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 apparently 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 but 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 need 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 anything 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. Everyone 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 are 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.

*****

Garrett's Green, Birmingham

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 civil 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, human 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 only 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 constantly 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 still 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 “The Souls of Black Folks” 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.”

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Yeah, I can't believe you guys have stuck with it this long. I have every intention of being in it for the long run so you can rely on my posting in a timely fashion for the foreseeable future.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

And to think I was apprehensive about joining because I thought this game was on its last legs. Now it's practically raining posts around here. Naturally I take complete credit.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

An excellent first post, Morden. I think Byrd's right - you're going to fit in just fine here. Welcome aboard.

@gorgenmast

Thanks a lot. I think at 6,500 words it was the longest post I've ever posted but I figure I've got a lot of missed time to catch up on.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Islington, London

Alfred Lambert skipped up the last few steps to the offices of the New Jerusalem magazine. He’d been working at the magazine for the best part of three decades. He could remember his first day as if it were yesterday. He’d worn an ill-fitting linen suit that his mother had picked out for him from the charity shop and been so nervous he’d sweated through it on the way there. Jonathan Aitkens, Jerusalem’s then Political Editor, had teased him mercilessly about it for weeks. Needless to say he’d used his first pay cheque on a new suit. He’d hated Aitkens back then but looking back on the whole ordeal he couldn’t help but laugh. Despite all the teasing Aitkens had made him a better journalist. Three decades ago he’d been a sweaty, chubby freelancer looking to make a dent in the world of journalism and today he was the Political Editor of New Jerusalem. It had been some journey.

As had the journey Lambert had been on this afternoon. Fred had been summoned, along with a half dozen other Political Editors, to a meeting at Downing Street by the Prime Minister’s attack dog Samuel Hobbs. His official role was “Director of Communications” but Lambert had never seen Hobbs do anything other than shout at people. Hobbs was from Newcastle and was one of the few in the Prime Minister’s inner circle that hadn't gone to Cambridge. He started out writing obits in a small-time paper in Newcastle and now he was one of the most powerful men in the government. When he slung insults at you across a Downing Street table they stuck. As many had done this afternoon. Lambert knew better than to interject during the meeting and instead listened in silence as Hobbs briefed the Editors on the government’s legislative agenda for the upcoming twelve months.

It was unspectacular enough to begin with. Amongst the headliners were legislation aimed to crack down on the alleged rise in illegal trade union activity and cutbacks to social programs deemed non-vital. It was the final policy that had almost knocked Alfred off his feet. He almost pinched himself to check he was awake when Hobbs said it. The shocked faces of the other Political Editors around the room mirrored his own. The second Hobbs was done speaking Lambert had tucked the folder Hobbs had supplied each of them with under his arm and broke into a jog out of the meeting room. It was that very same folder that Lambert slapped onto the desk of his Political Correspondent as he entered the New Jerusalem newsroom.

Sebastian “Seb” Hadland was Alfred’s protégé. Hadland was the son of a family friend. Usually Lambert disapproved of nepotism but at the time the boy had been out of work for near to two years and at the point of depression. He’d never worked a news desk before and had no journalistic experience but under Lambert’s wing he’d turned into the finest writer on the New Jerusalem's payroll. The skinny Political Correspondent reached for the folder and skimmed through it as Lambert watched on. Hadland seemed disinterested at first until his eyes fell on the policy on the final page.

He set the folder down on his desk with a bemused look. “You’re kidding, right? ‘The Voluntary Repatriation Bill’?”

“I wish I was.”

“Forced deportations? That’s what it’s come to?”

Lambert sighed. “Hobbs says the Prime Minister will be pushing the legislation through Parliament next week.”

“They’re British citizens,” Seb muttered as he crossed his arms. “This is wrong. We need to go public on this one.”

Going public. Alfred and Seb discussed it from time to time. It was the nuclear option. Ever since the Troubles had ended all news outlets had to clear the contents of its publications with the government. It hadn’t always been like this. After the Troubles the government of the day had introduced the legislation as an emergency measures to combat the mountain of misinformation distracting it from rebuilding Britain. Decades later and the emergency measures were still in place. It made breaking stories near impossible and criticizing the government a risky proposition at the best of times. Going public would mean going to print without state authorization. It was also likely result in the complete closure of New Jerusalem.

Lambert shook his head. “You know we can’t do that.”

“Then what the bloody hell are we for?” Seb said with an exasperated sigh. “We can’t keep pretending to be journalists forever, Fred.”

It stung. Once upon a time New Jerusalem had prided itself on its independence. Those days were long gone. The anarchists that had torn their country apart in the wake of the Great War had ensured that. For as great as men like Jonathan Aitkens were, even they had to bend the knee and hand over their work to the government ahead of time. It was a bitter pill to swallow for Alfred, no doubt a bitter pill to swallow for Aitkens too, but there was more than pride at stake here. Lambert had a duty of care for all of the members of staff and unilaterally deciding to run a scathing piece about the Voluntary Repatriation Bill would have repercussions for all of them.

“We don’t have a choice. We print what they want us to print or GCHQ turn up and take everything,” Lambert said through gritted teeth. “Including us if they’re feeling particularly vengeful. You know that.”

Seb nodded despondently and Alfred walked across the small, cramped office to hang up his coat. The office building that contained the New Jerusalem's office was almost a hundred and fifty years old. The whole building felt like it shook every time someone walked across the office. Finally Lambert took to his seat at the desk next to Seb’s and found his protégé giving him a pensive look.

“How old were you during The Troubles?”

“Young,” Lambert said with a shrug. “Too young to remember them, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“All I ever hear is how bad things were then. On days like these it’s hard to imagine how things could be much worse than they are now.”

*****

Whitehall, London

A thin, pale figure slinked through the hallways of Downing Street. His footsteps made no sound and he drew no more attention to himself than was unavoidable, except for the occasional polite nod to the cleaning staff still hard at work. It was four in the morning and the Prime Minister wasn’t due to arrive in Downing Street for two hours. Samuel Hobbs had been awake for two hours. He was slender, barely filling out the inexpensive grey suit wrapped around his pale flesh, and his face was beset with deep wrinkles. His hair was more grey than black and his teeth had been yellowed by cigarettes in his youth. Yet Hobbs retained an unconventional attractiveness to him that even his most ardent admirers would struggle to explain. He brushed some lint from his shoulder as he reached the door to his office and reached for the doorknob.

A smile crept across his thin lips as he opened it very slowly and peered inside. There sat on the chair at his desk was Dominic Hewitt. Hewitt was his second-in-command and had agreed to take the night shift whilst they tried to smooth the land for this repatriation thing. He was a tall, gangly man with a smug face and his hair was immaculately parted at all times. Even at this early hour having worked through the night Hewitt was still inexplicably well turned out. Hobbs opened the door a crack and slide through it with care as he approached Hewitt from behind. He made certain to mask his footsteps as he approached and ran one of his pale hands through Dominic’s hair with a mocking laugh.

Hewitt pulled his hair away with a nervous chuckle. “Jesus fucking Christ, Hobbs, how do you do that?”

Hobbs ignored him completely and pointed down to the newspapers spread across his desk. “What are the papers saying?”

A self-satisfied smile appeared across Hewitt’s face as he fired back. “They say what we tell them to say.”

Hobbs glared at Hewitt and the Press Officer laughed nervously and reached for the newspapers in front of him and brandished them in Sam's direction.

“The Times called it a “necessary step to curb growing Afro-Caribbean extremism in the capital” and the Mail went with the guest-worker angle like we suggested. Only the Guardian really dragged its feet.”

Hewitt handed Hobbs a copy of the morning’s Guardian and the Prime Minister’s Director of Communications scanned the front page with his beady, probing eyes. A pained expression appeared on his face and he threw the copy back down on the desk and gestured to Hewitt to get out of his seat. Hobbs set his briefcase down beside his seat and then sat down and pulled a pen from the inside pocket of his suit. He scribbled down the name of the Guardian’s Political Editor with a menacing smile.

“Trust me, Charlie Whitebread is going to have a damascene-fucking-conversion to the merits of voluntary repatriation overnight unless he wants the Mail to find out about his little gambling problem.”

“Stop it,” Hewitt said with an over-zealous laugh. “You know it turns me on when you talk dirty.”

As the words left his mouth Hewitt spotted a young Downing Street staffer in the doorway to the office. In her hands was a tray with Sam's morning coffee and a selection of biscuits. Hewitt could tell from the look on her face that she’d heard the tail end of his sentence and he turned blushed red.

“We were just going over the papers.”

The young staffer smiled and set the tray down in front of Hobbs. “Of course.”

Hobbs nodded by way of thanks and Dominic stood up from his chair to shut the door behind her as she left the two men alone. His cheeks were still rosy with embarrassment as he sat back down. Hobbs reached for a custard cream on the tray in front of him and took a bite out of it as he scanned over the newspapers one last time.

“From the looks of it this should be enough to get the PM to stop breathing down my neck for a couple of days. He’s really worried about this one. He seems to think that with South Africa dragging out longer than anticipated there might be trouble over this repatriation thing. Some blowback from the Afro-Caribbeans in the inner-cities seeing as it’s all happening at once.”

Hewitt leant back in his charge and smiled sardonically. “I don’t blame him. Have you ever been to Brixton on a Saturday night?”

“Oh, relax, you poof,” Hobbs said as he crunched on a custard cream. “They’d eat those Brixton boys for breakfast up in Newcastle. There’s nothing to be worried about. It’ll be fine.”

Hewitt leant back in his chair and noticed his ruffled hair in one of the reflective surfaces in the office. Hobbs rolled his eyes and he noticed the younger man go to painful lengths to fix his hairstyle. He was about to jab Dominic about it when the young man started speaking.

“The Ethiopians are not going to like it. They might kick up a bit of a stink but I think privately there’ll be some that will be pleased by the move. It plays into their hands, after all, so I don’t expect too much trouble on that front.”

Hobbs nodded appreciatively and reached for the coffee on the tray in front of him. “So what you’re saying is that the PM has nothing to worry about on this? Is that what you’re saying to me, Dominic?”

“I’m not sure if I’d say nothing but the nearest thing to it.”

“Well, the Prime Minister will be very glad to hear that when he arrives this morning,” Hobbs said as he took a mouthful of coffee. “Now fuck off and go fiddle with your hair somewhere I don’t have to see you.”

Dominic laughed nervously at the dig. Hobbs stared at him impassively over the brim of his coffee. Hewitt’s nervous laughter fell silent and he looked at the Director of Communications as if attempting to deduce whether he was being serious or not. After several seconds of silence Hobbs looked towards the door instructively and Dominic made his way towards the exit.

Once it had closed him Hobbs shook his head and muttered to himself under his breath. “Oxbridge wanker.”

*****

Brixton, London

At a small, square table crammed into the corner of a cramped, messy kitchen are Errol Clarke and his adoptive son Keenan Gayle. In Keenan’s hands was a copy of this morning’s Guardian. Errol could see the young man struggling to read the headline on the front page and urged him to try to sound it out. The boy had always been slow, even when he was at school, and now that he was out it seemed like he’d gotten even worse. Errol tried to encourage the boy to read where he could. It was important to keep your wits about you. It was even more important for Keenan now that his daughter was around. Up until six months ago Keenan had seen his daughters at weekends. Then her mother fell into a very strange crowd and decided she wanted to move to Ethiopia. It had all came entirely out of the blue and Keenan, who at that point had been unemployed despite being twenty-five, had been forced to get his life in order since. Learning to read properly was part of that.

Errol could see Keenan losing his patience as he tried to sound the word out. “Rep… repatr… repatri-“

“Repatriate,” Errol said as he tapped the word on the front page with his index finger. “The word you’re looking for is repatriate.”

Keenan scratched his chest through his green string vest and then smiled blankly in Errol’s direction. “What does it mean?”

Clarke had seen the signs. He’d been about Keenan’s age when he’d come to Britain after they had invited workers from the colonies to help rebuild the nation. He remembered at the time that the “guest worker” program was a temporary initiative and that workers would be expected to return to their native countries once the program was finished. Problem being that the problem never finished. The guest workers had children, British children, and built lives for themselves here in Britain. His daughter Honor had been born in Tooting, attended school in Roehampton, and had never so much as ventured north of the Thames until she was eighteen, let alone Jamaica. Yet in one foul swoop the government had declared that Errol, Honor, Keenan, and even little Simone as having outstayed their welcome.

Errol spoke as plainly as he could. “It means they’re going to send us back.”

“Send us back where?”

Errol shrugged his shoulders and then stared out at the morning’s sky with a sigh. “Jamaica I suspect, though if they won’t have us I’m sure they’ll try to palm us off on the Africans.”

“I don’t understand," Keenan said with a frown. "I was born here.”

Errol’s thick lips twisted into a smile. “You think that makes you one of them?”

A confused look appeared on Keenan’s face. The boy was strong and had a good heart but it was clear from his expression that even speaking plainly Errol had managed to confuse him. It was a wonder the boy managed to tie his shoes correctly in the morning, let alone look after a child, but as always Errol endeavoured to explain it to Keenan in a way he’d understand. The old man leant on his cane and tried to formulate his approach when memories of his father flashed across his mind. He had been like Keenan in a lot of ways; both were strong, openhearted, and quick to trust. It hadn’t done Errol’s father any good but there was still time for Keenan to learn.

“My father travelled across the Atlantic to fight in their war for them. I guess he thought there’d be some glory to be had or that the white man might accept him if he fought. You know what they had him doing for three years? Digging trenches. He nearly lost a foot out there and was half-deaf by the time he arrived in Britain. And guess what? They still didn’t want a thing to do with him. He lasted nine months here in Britain before he decided to move back to Jamaica.”

Errol cleared his throat a little to mask the fact he was choking up. Opposite him Keenan’s eyes were locked on him. It was the first time Errol had spoken to anyone about his father since leaving Jamaica. He’d never even told his own daughter about any of this. Honor was long gone. They hadn’t spoken in years and rumour had it she’d left London years ago. Chances are that even if she was here she wouldn’t want to hear it. Perhaps one day Keenan might pass on Errol’s account of his last conversation with his father to Honor. Perhaps she could learn from the folly of it as Errol intended for Keenan to.

"After the British started the guest worker program I told him I was going to move to London to find work. Even after the way they treated him he still couldn’t bring himself to speak a bad word about the place. Can you believe that? Listen, Keenan, you need to understand that they’ll never accept you as you are. All you can do is keep your head down, work hard, and try to save what you can for you and yours. I have a feeling the coming months are going to be bad.”

Errol’s old eyes caught movement in his periphery and he turned to see Keenan’s nine-year old daughter Simone stood in the doorway of the kitchen. She was wearing pink and purple pyjamas bearing small pictures of puppies and kittens over them.

She rubbed her tiny eyes as she looked up at the man she knew as Uncle Errol. “What’s going to be bad?”

Keenan placed the newspaper down on the table and walked over to his daughter with a smile. He bent down, picked her up, and carried her over towards the window by the sink. Errol smiled as he watched Keenan playfully pretend to dunk Simone into the sink and then sat her atop one of the cleaner portions of the counter beside it.

“Why don’t we get you ready for school?”

Simone frowned. “I don’t want toast this morning.”

“You don’t have to have toast. You can have something else,” Keenan said as he made his way over towards the fridge and scanned its contents. “As long as “something else” doesn’t include milk because someone used the last of it in their tea this morning.”

Errol stared down at the cup of tea in front of him with a guilty smile. It was his third cup of tea this morning and it wasn’t even seven. The elderly Jamaican man didn’t have many vices but milky, sugary tea was one of them. He made a mental note to pick up some more milk next time he was out of the house and then watched on as Keenan flicked through the cupboards for something.

Simone pointed up at one of the boxes in the cupboard. “Can I have porridge?”

“Sure,” Keenan said as he pulled the box down. “You can have as much porridge as you want.”

Errol smiled at the scene as Keenan began to make a bowl of porridge for Simone. He made it ten seconds in before Simone decided she wanted to be involved in the process. The transformation Keenan made when his daughter was around was extraordinary to watch. Errol was almost certain Simone read at a higher level than Keenan. Yet there, his daughter in his arms, it didn’t make the slightest bit of difference. For a second Errol wondered whether he’d been wrong to worry and then his eyes met with the headline on the front page of the Guardian.

“PM PLOTS TO REPATRIATE MIGRANTS.”

*****

Chelmsley Wood, Birmingham

Chelmsley Wood High School was one of the worst performing schools in all of Birmingham. It was the kind of school that had to offer a salary several thousand pounds above market rate just to get teachers to walk through its doors. The Troubles had hit Birmingham hard and even with the money the government had poured into the city it was still having a hard time finding its way back onto its feet. It hadn’t taken long for the knife crime that was rife on the city’s council estates to bled into its schools. That was why it was such a shock when Conrad Murray had applied there. Murray had graduated from University College London with a first class degree in Politics and followed that with a Masters at LSE. He was exactly the kind of teacher that Chelmsley Wood High School needed, though nothing like the teachers they usually employed.

He stood outside the school gates with a cigarette in his hand and a newspaper beneath his armpit. Conrad had a well-kept reddish-brown beard that was longer than the neatly parted brown hair atop his head. He wore a brown tweed suit with dark leather elbow patches and a pair of well-worn light brown brogues. Beneath his beard was a boyishly good looking face. He’d grown the beard on the advice of one of his colleagues to disguise his youth. To the students youth meant weakness. At Chelmsley Wood High School you couldn’t afford to show weakness.

It was Neil Durham that had taught him that. Neil taught business studies. He’d been at the school for decades and had long since stopped caring. He had dirty blonde hair with flecks of grey in it and his round stomach folded over the waistband of his beige trousers. Conrad reached into the inside pocket of his suit and pulled out a cigarette and passed it to his colleague. Durham nodded silently and patted his trousers down in search of a lighter before remembering he’d placed it in the pocket of his short-sleeved yellow shirt. He lit up and watched as Murray read the front of the newspaper with a pained expression. Once Conrad had finished he met Neil’s gaze and patted the front page with the side of his hand.

“What does this mean for the kids?”

“We’re not sure at the moment,” Durham said as he took a long drag of his cigarette. “The head’s talking about maybe suggesting to some of the parents that they ought to take them out of school ahead of time. You know, to ease the transition.”

The headteacher of Chelmsley Wood was fifteen years younger than Durham and spoke like a man that had never taught in an actual classroom before. It was because he hadn’t. Ten years ago Durham might have kicked up a stink at the prospect of taking the kids out of school, five years ago he might even have had a quiet word with him, but this was all happening too late. There was no fight left in him.

Murray sighed. “They’re children, for Christ’s sake, they need to go to school.”

“The head takes the view that the coloured children might… act out if they know they’re going to be leaving and won’t have to face any punishment for their actions. He’s just trying to protect the staff.”

Conrad shook his head in disbelief at the words leaving Durham’s mouth. “I’m going to take it up with him.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. I’d watch that kind of talk too. There are a lot of very anxious teachers around here. You’re new at this teaching malarkey, Conrad, and you’re new to this school. Trust me when I say that he won’t take kindly to being lectured by someone that’s been on the job for five minutes. Especially not someone with a...”

“You can say it,” Conrad said with a smile. “A coloured girlfriend.”

It had taken a few weeks for the news to make its way around the school. Murray was shacked up with Honor Clarke. Clarke was the closest thing to famous as one could be in a place like Chelmsley Wood. She was an academic, one of only a few hundred university-educated coloured in the country, and she had made news in Birmingham by calling on the government to provide “reparations” for the slave trade. Durham had read about it at the time and hadn’t thought much of the woman. He bore no ill feelings towards coloureds, he’d spent long enough teaching them in school to know they were no different than whites, but talk of reparations was several steps too far for him. He was shocked when he’d found out the young white History teacher that had just joined the staff was her boyfriend. So were a fair few of the parents.

“I know this isn’t perfect but it’s a damn sight better than how things were before,” Durham said as he scratched the back of his neck. “You feel for those kids. I understand that, especially given your own… circumstances, but the work has to come first. The work always comes first. You’d do good to remember that.”

Durham watched Conrad go through a range of emotions as he lifted his hand to his mouth to take a drag of his cigarette. As he did so his muddy green eyes met with the face of the cheap watch he was wearing and widened in shock.

Conrad threw his cigarette to the ground. “Shit, I’m meant to be meeting a friend for a drink in fifteen minutes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

One of Murray’s light brown brogue crushed the butt of his cigarette into the ground and he shoved the newspaper into his shoulder bag. Durham watched as the young teacher paced off in the other direction. He envied the passion the young teacher had for their profession and the naiveté that came with not having been at life or teaching long enough to know better. He’d been like Murray once, though without the beard and the coloured girlfriend, and stood there beneath the dreary Birmingham sky he couldn’t help but wonder what young Neil Durham would have made of the man he’d become.

Long after his colleague had disappeared from sight Durham mumbled to himself with a sigh. “See you tomorrow, Conrad.”

*****

Whitehall, London

John Coltrane’s Naima echoed through the halls of Joyce and Fraser Campbell’s Downing Street residence. Not a night went by in the Campbell residence that Coltrane, Davis, Monk, or Coleman wasn’t played, especially now that the children had been sent away to boarding school. It was a promise the Campbells had made to themselves. Even on the most tumultuous nights they would still make time for them. Jazz music had been part of what brought the pair together whilst studying at Oxford and on some nights it was what kept them together. When Fraser had met Joyce Campbell he had thought her an unattainable beauty, at least for someone like him, and was so taken with her that he would stare at during lectures. Joyce had thought the boy simple, he was so nervous he could barely string a sentence together, but she soon learned there was a steely determination beneath it.

Fraser had wanted to be a musician. At the time he had been prodigiously talented with a saxophone and spent more time practicing than he did studying. Joyce had tried to explain then that he could do anything armed with a Philosophy, Politics, and Economics degree from Oxford but music had been Fraser’s passion. Yet somehow today Fraser Campbell sat in Downing Street as Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. He couldn’t quite recall how he had fallen into politics but through no design of his own he found himself the second most powerful man in Britain. Joyce had been the political one whilst at Oxford and to this day she remained cleverer than him. In truth, it ought to have been her that stood in front of that dispatch box every week. Sometimes Fraser suspected she would have been better at it than he was.

Joyce had been his rock. Through good times and bad his wife had stood by him and challenged him to become more than he was. She was tall, thin, with blonde hair and legs that went to her chest. Sometimes Fraser kidded that her eyes were so piercing they could see into a man’s soul. Joyce had towered over him at Oxford and did so even more now she was expected to wear high heels at all times. In contrast, Fraser was a stout, unattractive man who had lost most of his hair quite early and wore thick-lensed glasses that made him look like an accountant. He was certainly not the type of man one would expect a woman like Joyce Campbell to marry. Neither was he what anyone would have described as “Prime Ministerial” yet he was her husband and the Prime Minister all the same.

It was on night’s like these though that the responsibility of leading an entire nation weighed heavily on his mind. The Prime Minister was sat in his shirtsleeves in a spotless kitchen. On the large white table in front of him were reams of documents and folders. Beside the documents was a large glass of red wine and an empty bottle on the kitchen counter signified it had been a very long day for Fraser Campbell.

“This is a fucking shambles.”

The sound of high heels clicking their way towards Fraser caught his attention and he spotted his wife in the doorway to the kitchen. She smiled at him and the Prime Minister felt his heart flutter in his chest like it was the first time. He smiled back at her and stretched out a waiting hand in her direction. Joyce floated towards him slowly and took her husband’s hand, rubbing her thumb against his, whilst resting her head against his shoulder and placing a soft kiss against his cheek.

Fraser could feel her gentle breath against his neck when she spoke. “What’s the matter, dear?”

“It’s this repatriation thing,” Fraser said as he gestured to the draft legislation in front of him. “This isn’t why I went into politics. In fact if I remember correctly, this is exactly the kind of thing I went into politics to oppose.”

“I thought the papers looked good this morning?”

“Of course the papers looked good,” Fraser sighed. “They always look good. They don’t have any choice but to look good.”

“Well, they certainly didn’t have to be as effusive as they were,” Joyce said as she reached down to one of the documents on the table and scanned over it. “That was by choice.”

It was clear from the look on Fraser’s face he was unconvinced. The invasion of South Africa had slowed considerably after the early successes the British had in Cape Town. Fraser was beginning to worry that it had been a mistake agreeing to it. Britain couldn’t afford a long, protracted struggle on a front so far away from its supply lines. If it turned into that, he’d have to give serious thought about withdrawing from South Africa altogether and that could make his position very uncertain. Especially given King William's public support for the conflict. Campbell's Home Secretary Thomas Moore was already on manoeuvres and seeing as the Palace hadn’t shut him down it meant they weren’t completely anathema to the idea of Moore in Downing Street.

Fraser’s chubby face flushed red with frustration as he mulled over his predicament. “Why doesn’t that inbred bastard at the Palace abdicate and run for office if he wants to run the country so badly?”

Joyce smiled and reached for the glass of wine on the table in front of them. “That’s no way to talk about our King.”

“Bollocks to our King,” Campbell muttered. “I’m the Prime Minister and I’m meant to be the one in charge here, not him. Yet here I am shipping millions of coloureds back because he intimated in passing that he would “appreciate it” if the guest worker program came to an end.”

Joyce took a hearty mouthful of wine. Fraser felt his wife tense as she swallowed and the wine made its way down her throat. “Why don’t you do something about it then?”

“There’s nothing I can do.”

“He’s young and childless,” Joyce said as she kissed Fraser’s neck and ran her hand down his throat towards his trousers. He could smell the wine on her breath. It was intoxicating. She was intoxicating. “Rumour has it that pretty wife of his is having trouble conceiving. If something were to happen to our King…”

Fraser grabbed her hand at the wrist and pried it away from his groin. “Never speak those words out loud again.”

“What’s wrong?” Joyce smiled. “Too much wine?”

The Prime Minister shook his head and stood up from his seat. He walked across the kitchen patiently to the stereo in the corner of the room and turned the volume up until Naima was obnoxiously loud. He walked back to his seat and pulled Joyce close to him. Fraser's hands were clamped around her wrists so tight he could feel her pulse. There was fear in his wife’s eyes.

“They’re listening,” Fraser mumbled. “They’re always listening.”

Joyce’s face became equal parts shocked and relieved. Fraser pulled her body into his and his gut pressed against her toned stomach. He slid one of his hands up the side of his wife’s dress and his face, once a picture of crippling indecisiveness, dripped with an easy confidence that Fraser Campbell rarely displayed in public.

“Trust me when I say that I have not forgotten who I am and what I promised you. I will do whatever it takes when the time is right. God knows we’ve worked too hard to get where we are to fall at the last hurdle.”

It was true that jazz music had been part of what brought Joyce and Fraser Campbell together but it had been the lesser of two parts. The other part Joyce and Fraser rarely spoke about, even amongst themselves, in fact they had gone to painful lengths to hide any proof of its existence. Joyce and Fraser Campbell were committed republicans. Once Fraser had consolidated enough power they intended to put their values into practise.

By any means necessary.

*****

Brixton, London

In the middle of the small patch of grass at the centre of Angell Town council estate was the smouldering husk of a vehicle. The smoke from it billowed up into the night’s sky and filled the lungs of PCs James Oldfield and Ray Newman as they watched on. Ray covered his mouth with his forearm to stop himself from inhaling any more smoke. James knelt beside the vehicle with his hands on his knees and inspected it for any signs of evidence. Both men were stationed out of Brixton police station but that was where the similarities ended. Oldfield was six foot three and as skinny as a rake. His features were soft, shapeless, and unassuming. He had the kind of face that was easily forgotten. “Big Ray” was a heavy-set man, built like a fridge, somehow fat but flat-stomached at the same time. His face was not so easily forgotten. In the middle of it laid a thick red rose that dominated his other features.

Newman peered over his nose at Oldfield as he watched the young officer inspect the burnt out vehicle. “I’m telling you, these people are fucking animals.”

James look round at him and frowned. “We don’t know it was them.”

“Oh, pull the other one…” Ray said with a derisive laugh. “A burned out car in the middle of a council estate in Brixton and you’re trying to play Atticus-bloody-Finch. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work this one out, James.”

James Oldfield might not have been a rocket scientist but he was the sharpest tool in the box at Brixton police station. He'd arrived armed with a wealth of knowledge about criminal psychology and a had thirst for problem solving unlike anybody in the borough. It wouldn’t be long before Oldfield was CID. As much as a killjoy as James was at times there was no other police officer in London that Newman would want to catch the case if one of his loved ones went down. He took to policing as naturally as Big Ray took to boozing, darts, and forgetting his children's birthdays.

“I’m just saying,” James said as he stood up and started to scribble in his notepad. “Due process and all.”

Ray shook his head. “You’re too soft on them. You think they give a fuck about due process? You think your due process will save you when one of their kind is bearing down on you with a machete?”

Oldfield looked up from his notepad and shrugged. “Nobody said the job was meant to be easy, Ray.”

The sound of a motorbike entering Angell Town estate caught Newman’s attention and he looked round as it made its approach. It pulled up beside the two police officers and Newman made a slow reach towards his baton suspiciously as the motorbike stopped beside them. Oldfield eyed the man and woman on the motorbike curiously as he slipped his notepad into his back pocket. They were black, the man was a wall of muscle and the woman slight and short, but other than that Oldfield couldn’t make much out. He looked towards Newman cautiously and Big Ray placed his hand on his baton.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” Newman said to the man and woman who were staring at the officers silently. “Jog on.”

The woman reached into the back of his trousers and pulled out a weapon. Newman seized up upon seeing it and his eyes had slammed shut. There were two loud bangs in quick succession that he recognised as gunshots. It wasn't until he heard the sound of the motorbike's engine scurrying off into the distance that his eyes opened again and a flash of relief crossed his face upon realising his was unharmed.

It was replaced by dread as he noticed Oldfield sprawled out on the floor with two bullets lodged in his gut. “James?”

Oldfield moved to speak but a mouthful of blood came pouring out in place of words. Newman felt his blood run cold and his hands began to shake as he desperately tried to stem the bleeding. There was blood everywhere. He raised one of his hands to his radio and the blood on his fingers made them slip across the radio’s buttons.

“They’ve shot James," Ray screamed into his radio as a decade of policing experience went out the window. "They’ve fucking shot Oldfield.”

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland

Characters

Government

Fraser Campbell - Prime Minister of the United Kingdom
Joyce Campbell - Spouse of the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom
Thomas Moore - Home Secretary
Samuel Hobbs - Downing Street Director of Communications
Dominic Hewitt - Downing Street Press Officer

Military

General Sir Jonathan Markham-Powell - Chief of the Defence Staff
Roger Black - British Intelligence agent known as "Marine B"
Woolgar Donovan - British Army lieutenant - South Africa

Police

Raymond "Big Ray" Newman - Police Constable - London
James Oldfield - Police Constable - London

Civilians

Alfred "Fred" Lambert - Political Editor of New Jerusalem - London
Sebastian "Seb" Hedland - Political Correspondent of New Jerusalem - London
Conrad Murray - School teacher - Birmingham
Neil Durham - School teacher - Birmingham
Honor Clarke - Academic - Birmingham
Errol Clarke - Jamaican guest worker (retired) - London
Keenan Gayle - British-born Jamaican labourer - London

NPCs

King William IV
Simone Gayle - Primary School aged child - London
Christopher Walsh - Police Chief Superintendent - London
Paul Winters - Police Officer (CID) - London
Zachariah “Zach” Cherney – Closeted homosexual – Birmingham
Richard "Ricky" Short - Sugar Refinery manager - Liverpool
Edgar Francis - Leader of the National Front - London
Alice Oldfield - James Oldfield's mother - London
Nick Marsh - British Army Corporal - South Africa

Post Catalogue:

1. Naima
2. Milk
3. Karma
4. Sunshine
5. Posturing
6. Wankered
7. Mulungu
8. The Fat Man

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Hugs vouched for me when I started so I'll pay it forward and say that MM is a damn good guy who knows his shit and is a total political nerd, more so than I am.

@Byrd Man