. . . . of Hope and Glory

  "Look here lads," He snarled with a bravado he didn't feel. "if you're from those UA-F wankers you can fuck off right now!"

  The man who had spoken actually stepped back genuinely startled, his companions swapping baffled looks tinged with amusement. He held up a placating hand.

  "You can rest easy there pal, we are friends of Sydique Sahni, haven’t seen or heard from him in a while. We're getting kind of concerned for him and understand that you've reported him missing."

  Chris blinked in confusion. "I pushed the old bat who did into it yes. But Sid didn't have any other friends that I know, of apart from me and a few other local lads. None of them here." He eyed them accusingly.

  Their spokesman smiled thinly. "Oh he does you know. We served with him for a number of years. Soldiers form their own bonds that you just couldn't imagine Chris." On an impulse he pulled a dog-eared and cracked photograph from an inside pocket, held it out for Chris to inspect. "There's my 'ID'. I'm Russ by the way."

  Chris peered closely at the picture of this man with his arm slung around Sid's shoulders, laughing into the camera. Fit young men without a care in the world. Others stood around them, some of those on his pathway now. All were in battledress and green berets on the side of a grassy, windswept slope.

  "Salisbury Plain." Russ informed him. We were on manoeuvres. This was taken just days before we were posted out to Afghanistan and Sydique took a stroll onto that IED." His chuckle was a mirthless, dry rasp, a black humour safety barrier.

  Chris stepped back into the hallway. "Well you'd best come in gents, we can compare notes."

  He shepherded them into the small lounge where quick eyes took in grandpa's own collection of photographs, taken decades before in different theatres of war. There was interest there, not a 'oh gosh' reaction. Been there themselves.

  "I got accepted into your lot before I … "

  "Yeah, we know." Russ answered quickly. "Sydique told us all about it - you. Entertainment is thin on the ground in Camp Bastion. We talk a lot, tell each other all sorts of things, like a load of old washerwomen. You were a bit of a celebrity in our mess for a while.

  "Your old man was in the Marines too, tragedy what happened to you all."

  Chris grimaced, not sure whether to take umbrage at the intimate knowledge of him and his family they had. For him the subject was too painful to talk freely about.

  "So the Navy has a use for me after all." He replied acidly.

  "Actually we ain't soldiers, not any more. One week the PM was cuddling up to us in Bastion for the cameras, spouting how he values us and what we are doing there, the next we know we are out on our ears with our cards in hand. Surplus to requirements, a drain on the public purse. 'Thanks lads, now piss off!'"

  The bitterness, a sense of betrayal, poured from him through a fissure in his composure. "I hate politicians."

  Chris eased himself down into grandpa's chair, motioned to his visitors to help themselves to the other seats. "So Sid, is he - you know, jobless too?"

  Ross sat on the sofa's arm, not enough for them all on there. "Technically no. The party spin-doctors are no doubt working on that hot chestnut. How to dump the wounded too without stirring up the public and care organisations like the Queen Elizabeth in Birmingham. Give it a couple of years and they'll all be history too I suspect."

  "Is that where you learnt that I've been asking after Sid?"

  "What?"

  "The hospital. Spoke to a doctor there a few days ago. Quite concerned himself."

  "Sorry yeah. Went up there to visit the blighter and were told he'd checked out months ago. Never even went back for proper physio'. Then you set alarm bells ringing, man gone AWOL! Do the police have any ideas?"

  Chris shook his head in disgust. "Won't take me seriously. They'd rather lock me up again and throw the key away."

  "Any ideas of your own then Chris? You've seen him recently, any clue as to where he may have gone? If he's in any trouble we'd like to know."

  Was there a veiled threat there? Chris Carter shifted uncomfortably in his chair. It was not just the prominent springs pushing up through the moth-eaten cushions prodding at him. Habitually he treated everybody with caution. Everyone in prison was on the make, he found it best not to take some at face value.

  He stared searchingly at the five pairs of eyes scrutinising him in return. He had met quite a few ex-servicemen inside, there for a variety of reasons, not necessarily dishonesty or greed. For many, the rocky journey back along civvy street led straight to those prison doors. Re-adjustment was not always so easy for fighting men.

  He made a decision. "Actually I have more that ideas. Fella' came knocking here yesterday, an Arab lad, claimed that Sid had been abducted a week ago by some so called radical Islamic group here in Holtingham. Led us all the way up to the North Yorkshire Moors where they had been in training for Jihad, running around the countryside like a bunch of Ninjas'. But he or they, were no longer there."

  "Us?" One of the other men squashed in at the end of the sofa queried.

  "Yeah." Chris felt foolish talking about it now to these people. "Myself and a few old mates got peeved over the shite those cut-price mujahideen were creating all over town. Threatening us 'Kafurs' outside their Mosque, then graduating to attacking churches, the War Memorial and even the Remembrance Sunday Parade. Even put up posters calling for the instatement of Sharia Law here.

  "Anyhow we formed our own little bit of nonsense to oppose them, the English Front Line. We patrolled the streets at night trying to catch them up to their mischief. We even organised a protest march on the Town Hall to try and get the police motivated enough to clamp down on them, but that got well out of hand."

  Russ clicked his fingers. "Saw the riot on the TV news, made you out to be a bunch of Brownshirts. So you were involved in that too. You've only been out of prison for two weeks, that right? Don't let the grass grow under your boots do you?"

  "Got some catching up to do." Chris grinned ruefully. "Anyway, someone has to do something. The police don't seem too keen on clamping down on them. Everybody is afraid of upsetting Muslims these days"

  "The Arab boy you mentioned, seems to know what the score is?"

  "Yeah, Abu Sharif. Almost certainly an illegal."

  "what's one more amongst ten million?"

  "True. Apparently he got press-ganged into this mob who call themselves 'The Invaders', when he went to the mosque for shelter. He says that when they went off on this 'Jolly Boys Outing' they took Sid with them after he'd been found guilty of treason to Islam by a Shariah court. Claims that they have made demands on the government using Sid as a bargaining tool.

  "Six of us 'EFL' Took Abu up there with us to get Sid back after the local law gave me the bum's rush. We found their lair in old farm buildings , missed them by a few hours."

  "So we are no wiser as to Sydique's whereabouts?" Russ looked deflated.

  "Yes and no." Chris leaned over closer to the other man. "Here it starts to get a bit strange. Seems that they'd acquired a fishing boat, a small trawler from over in Whitby. Been mouthing off as to how they were going on a great mission to strike at England's heart, wherever they think that may be. Cut a long story short, they've taken off in a boat for Hunstanton of all places. Scraped out of the harbour before high tide against all the advice."

  "Hunstanton?"

  "They bought tide tables for there and the Wash. But The Harbour master doesn't rate their chances of survival, none of them had a clue how to sail a boat."

  "So you went chasing after this armed band of desperados bare handed?" One of the others in the opposite armchair teased with a wry grin.

  Chris coloured a little, feeling more daft by the minute. "One of my lads brought his shotgun. Said if we got a pull by the law he'd claim we were going up there to pot a few pheasants."

  "Six of you and one gun, that'll … " A flare of inspiration lit Russ's eyes. "Hunstanton you say? Pheasant? Now that paints a certain picture my friend!"


  "Does it?" Chris's enquiry was brushed to one side.

  "This Abu the Sherriff … "

  "Abu Sharif."

  " … where is he now?"

  "Dunno'. We rounded off a shit day with a few drinks before any of us noticed he was missing. Probably run off back into the arms of the ranting Imam. He'll have a bit of explaining to do though, going AWOL for twenty-four hours."

  "So why did he come to you in the first place with all this info'? Concerned citizen?" Russ's demeanour had subtly shifted from casual enquiry to polite interrogation.

  A slight concern built an arched frown on Chris's forehead. "He claimed that Sid asked him to come and see me when he left there, explain what had happened to him."

  "Wasn't he supposed to be on the boat then?"

  "Nope, failed the warrior test. Relegated to courier. On his way back down he stopped off in Peterborough to deliver a letter to some girl reporter on the Anglian Chronical, Lucy Lever, a right pain in the Adam's rib."

  "A letter?"

  "Demands on the government using Sid as a bargaining chip like I said."

  "Doesn't sound too good. What were the demands?"

  "Who knows, apart from the government I presume. There was nothing in the papers yesterday, no announcement by the authorities." Chris looked closely at Russ's tight expression. "You look worried, so I am too. What's you're take on this? Oh, by the way." He reached down beside his chair and hoisted Abu's satchel into view. "Here we go, his 'Postman Pat' kit."

  Russ took it from him, inspecting it curiously. "A bag like this to carry just one letter?" He undid the metal clasp and flicked it open, peeping inside. "Have you seen this?" He withdrew a buff, square, reinforced envelope, one of two in there, angling it so Chris could see Lucy Lever's name scrawled in thick marker pen across it.

  Chris shook his head. "No. I was too knackered when I got home. Just dropped it here and went to my bed, crashed out big time. Thought he'd already delivered her letter."

  Russ pressed it between strong fingers. "This is no letter." He quickly checked the other envelope that had a London address on it. "And the dates on the backs are for tomorrow. This was meant to be delivered three days later, Friday." He muttered sliding a finger under the flap and ripping it open.

  Delving inside he withdrew a blank DVD disc. Creased eyes did a quick circuit of the room connecting with each of his fellow soldiers in turn. Chris sensing the dramatic shift of mood in the room nodded dumbly when Russ asked in harsh tones if there was a DVD player.

  Wordlessly he took the disc and knelt before a modern forty inch TV and player he had bought that week, a present for grandpa, slotted it in. He returned to his seat with a knot of worry in his gut.

  The filming was a hand held camera, amateur production, jerky and badly focussed. It began with a loud mujahideen battle song in high pitched Arabic wailing, and centred on a familiar black banner with the crescent moon and star over crossed Kalashnikovs, in close up.

  The shot panned back to take in the whole wall of the dark, wet little barn in which Chris had stood only the day before. With shock he recognised the cowed, ragged figure of Sydique Sahni, bound securely to that kitchen chair with the tightly wound rope they had found still there, despite his missing leg and lower arm. He was positioned behind the rickety old table they had found overturned in dark puddles.

  Two tall fearsome figures in full Afghanistani robes stood one to either side of Sid, both displaying hand guns held flat against their chests like a ceremonial guard. Against the background of reedy music, a disembodied voice began to rant in a distinctive midlands accent, but with an underlay of natural or effected Pakistani lilt.

  "British government, we warned you that this criminal soldier who chose to serve the Infidel army killing our Brothers in Afghanistan has been sentenced to death.

  If you wish to avoid greater punishment under the bloodied hands of The Invaders then release all our Brothers held as political prisoners in your concentration camps.

  Your despicable courts are illegal. Bow to Sharia Law and Allah.

  There is now no hope for this puppet of the Kaffur. And tomorrow the thunderbolt of Islam will strike at your heart and head. Then you will surely heed our demands.

  Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, ALLAHU AKBAR!"

  The exultation rocketed to a screaming decibel before the audio track ceased entirely to a deadly silence, the camera lens zoomed in to a close up shot of Sid's face as he peered desperately about him like a terrified tortoise pulled from its shell. Simultaneously the men to either side of him stepped forward and gripped his arms, forced him forward still bound in his chair. His head was slammed down onto the table top turned to one side, one eye staring beseechingly into the camera as he gabbled silently for mercy from what was to come.

  A masked figure in dark robes stepped swiftly into camera shot wielding a long, broad bladed machete. With a two handed grip he raised it high above, then swung it down hard, grunting with the effort, severing Sydique Sahni's young head at the neck in one clean, practised stroke.

  The grotesque reality of what had just happened, a gory rush of blood as his friend's head rolled off of the table onto the blood wet barn floor, lifeless eyes still locked it seemed onto the camera's lens, spun Chris around in his chair and he vomited onto the carpet. Repeatedly he retched until he heaved on a dry stomach, hot tears coursing from sore eyes.

  The film had ceased, the screen a dark, blank square, the final curtain down on a tale of horror, when Chris erupted to his feet. Weak at the knees and so light headed he almost slumped back down, but grabbed at the chair arm, wiped his mouth on the back of a shaking hand. He glared wildly at the group of silent young men who returned expressionless stares.

  "Stay here if you want." He rasped through an acid burnt throat. "But I'm going out now. I'm going to burn down that fucking mosque and all those murdering cunts in it!"

  As he moved purposefully, unsteadily towards the door, burning face set with hate, that black rage spitting into life, Russ quickly reached forward and gripped his forearm.

  "No mate! Sit down and think this through."

  Chris looked down on him with disbelieving eyes. "Think! You want to sit here and just think? It's time to get up off our arses and go and punish those evil fucks. If the law won't, we can."

  Russ pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut a moment, his own reaction to sorrow and shock.

  "Chris, the guilty bastards are on a boat right now that left Whitby, what, fifteen hours ago? Attacking innocent worshippers is not the way. It's you who'll get punished not that scum who are out of our reach for now.

  "Listen, that old tub they've bought probably can only manage five or six knots an hour. If they are heading directly for the North Norfolk coast, and I have a hunch exactly where, dodging in and out of all the offshore installations and other shipping, that's over a hundred and thirty miles. That will take in excess of twenty four hours, if they do not detour in any way, or get lost, what ever.

  "You see what I am saying Chris? We have until tonight to find them. And you won't do that by standing on some God-forsaken beach waving a Tilley lamp. There is quite a sophisticated monitoring system in place on our borders, tracking every boat out in the North Sea. It's possible that I can access that facility on the quiet. We'd rather keep this a private affair wouldn't we?

  "If you want to post that other DVD to the authorities I cannot stop you. But if they act on it and collar this lot, what justice will they really get? A few years inside kept fed and warm. So at least, please do not reveal what you know of the identities or whereabouts of these bastards. But if you can be patient, wait until after midnight at least, before you do anything rash yourself to exact revenge or whatever, myself and the lads here, all Sydique's pals too, soldiers of the Queen as were, can sort this satisfactorily.

  "They will suffer real consequences, believe me."

  ******

  Twenty-three

  They met on Millbank, a curt n
od sufficient greeting, exchange of pleasantries inappropriate. Their official cars with drivers and close protection officers, stood idling at the kerb, annoying the busy lunchtime traffic.

  Willard Stafford, Director General MI5, stood alongside Roger Palmer, elbows resting on the stone capping of the riverside wall, gazing pensively across the dirty, grey waters of the turgid Thames, to the opposite Albert Embankment.

  "Thank you for agreeing to this rather irregular venue Home Secretary."

  Palmer worked a tongue around the inside of one cheek, half turned towards the security chief, his attention diverted over his shoulder to an overweight fifty-something in unseasonal lycra shorts and new trainers, pounding the pavements and puffing like a locomotive on a full head of steam. He lumbered heavily past them, on a quest to discard a life-time of self abuse.

  "We try to keep them safe and all they do is to go all out to kill themselves." He observed drily. "No problem meeting here Willard, out in the bracing winter air, away from the prying ears of Private Secretaries and their support staff.

  "We are in the realm of the 'unofficial' so do blather on won't you?"

  "Unofficial is good. I rather suspect that the drift of this conversation would rather fly in the prim face of our hoody-hugging, esteemed Prime Minister's principles."

  "I serve the people of this country first and foremost, as I hope and expect you do Director-General."

  Stafford flicked a dry nugget of pigeon shit off of the stonework down into the cold waters below. "We received by express courier service an hour ago, a DVD sent from Cambridge, which incidentally is not a million miles from Holtingham. Stranger still, tomorrow's date was pencilled on the back. Seems that someone has jumped the gun."

  "Ah, I suspect that this would not be recommended viewing for the general public?" Palmer's face clouded over with grave concern.

  "Not advisable Roger." Stafford's mouth set in a tight, grim line.

  "The girl reporter?"

  "First thing we checked. Swooped all over her. Still smarting over our close encounter of yesterday. She doesn't appear to have received any such thing unless she is an Oscar nominee with a death wish."

  "Hmm. Any other possible leaks?"

  "Hopefully not, difficult to say. Whoever sent this was not in the loop but thought we deserved a preview before U-Tube presented a world premier."