The Yorkshire Echo.
By Michael Lyndon
PAC founder and eighteen children murdered in school firebomb
EIGHTEEN children and four adults burned to death in an East Sussex school yesterday. The shocking news erupted shortly before lunch as firefighters battled for an hour to bring the blaze under control. The Chantry House School and nearby houses in Blackstone were evacuated.
Among those thought to have perished in the blaze is Josephine Tower (38), one of the co-founders of the People Against Crime (PAC) movement, and her six-year-old son, Ben.
A Sussex Police spokesperson said that a preliminary examination of the scene suggests arson, and if that is the case, then a full murder investigation will be launched. The spokesperson went on to say that enquiries are still in their early stages but it seems the classroom was engulfed in a fire ball strong enough to blow out the windows. Police are refusing to speculate whether the attack was meant personally for Mrs Tower, or was an act of sabotage against the school. Terrorism has been ruled out.
The school is not expected to reopen for a month to give investigators time to gather evidence, and to allow for rebuilding. The funerals of those killed will be announced by the coroner later next week. A full service will be held at St Mark’s in Blackstone this coming Sunday, with a contribution from Sir George Deacon. Police are still urging any witnesses to come forward in what surely ranks as one of the most horrific crimes on English soil this century.
Mrs Tower’s co-founder, Emily Cooper, was unavailable for comment today, but PAC issued a statement expressing sorrow to those killed and expressing disgust at the perpetrator. PAC’s statement continues: “This is precisely the kind of crime we have campaigned against for so long and we greatly regret that The Rules were not put in place earlier.” There is no shortage of objectors to the legislation and speculation will surround this crime until the offender is brought to justice.
The deputy head of The Chantry House School Janet Nugent said the local community was extremely distressed by the tragedy. She added that her staff are utterly distraught. Josephine Tower’s father, the Right Reverend Clive Chapman, Bishop of Chichester, was not available for comment.
6
Friday 5th June
– One –
For an hour or so, Eddie and Jilly had spoken about the arrangements and decided it was best to bury Sam on his birthday. The funeral director had managed to get them together, and it was he who had suggested it.
To an outsider, that might have appeared a little strange, even dipping its toes in the fringes of morbidity. But there was logic behind it.
Sam was born 5th June; he died 29th May. They were two dates to add to the diary; black dates with red circles scribbled around them, dates that would hurt for years to come. Eddie and Jilly decided not to create a third.
Ros had bought Eddie a black suit. And she’d bought him patent shoes, a smart white shirt and a thin black tie. She told him he looked good, but Eddie wasn’t even there. That morning he had stood before the bathroom mirror and just stared at himself, feeling nothing, no pain, no inebriation, nothing. He was just a block of wax crafted into a face by some art student who hadn’t really got the hang of human anatomy, it looked wrong. It looked twisted, not human.
Catatonic feels like this, he told himself.
An hour later, he was back in front of the mirror, shaved, a shirt collar and black tie visible. His eyes were red. His face pale. And some time after that, he was aroused from his catatonic state by a knock at the door. And here he was in the kitchen. The cutlery drawer was open and he was looking at the paring knife.
He answered the door to Ros who wore the dark grey suit she used for court. She had pity in her eyes – as everyone these days seemed to – and then she moved forward and threw her arms around him. He cried the first tears of the day.
It had been more or less the same for Jilly. Except that she had her parents there to field any phone calls, to accept the flowers at the door, and to pick up the cards that dropped like tears through the letterbox. She sat before her dressing table mirror in bra and pants and let time drip away, watching a face she didn’t recognise and feeling raw emotions eat away at the drugs she’d taken.
– Two –
A breeze skittered across the car park, pushing sweet wrappers and discarded cellophane sheets from bunches of flowers along towards the fence where a congregation of rubbish gathered. The sky was clear and warm, and Eddie suddenly realised she was talking to him.
“Sorry?”
“You still okay to make your own way home? I have to get to work.”
Eddie nodded, and on autopilot, said, “Thanks, Ros.”
“It was a lovely service,” she whispered.
Together at the stone narthex of St Mary Magdalen, they watched as Jilly and her entourage gathered in the central aisle of the nave. He was her husband but didn’t feel part of the family anymore. Ros discreetly squeezed his hand, and when Eddie eventually turned to look, she had gone. He stepped outside and saw her leaving through the lych-gate. From there a man watched him.
“Eddie,” someone inside the church called.
It was time to carry his boy into the churchyard. Eddie trembled.
– Three –
Eventually, the sextons stopped their work and just looked at him. He was sitting on the highest part of the backfill; they had practically scraped the earth from around him. “Sorry,” he said and stood, scooping up the bottle of brandy as he went.
One last time he glanced at a photograph of Sammy that was paper-clipped to a floral tribute just out of his finger’s reach, and then he ambled towards the gate, slipping the bottle inside his pocket for later. His face felt sore where she’d punched him, and his ribs did too. He had a hunch there were one or two scratches on his body waiting to be discovered once he got out of his not-so crisp new suit. There was a hole in the knee, and mud on the jacket.
Eddie took out his cigarettes and sighed in despair at the crushed packet.
“Here you are, mate, have one of these.”
Eddie looked up as he approached the lych-gate. It was Mick Lyndon. Eddie walked right by him. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
“Eddie, come on.”
Eddie stopped and turned. “Thought I told you to piss off and leave me alone.”
“I thought I’d said sorry.”
“Whoopee doo.”
“What do you want me to do, print a retraction?”
Eddie swung a fist towards Mick’s face. Mick screwed his eyes shut, and braced himself. Eddie’s fist stopped an inch before Mick’s nose, and then his arm fell to his side.
Mick opened an eye, then both. “Look,” he said, “I am sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing; people don’t have enough good news, and they love a hero–”
“I am not their fucking entertainment. And I am not a fucking hero! Given the choice, a hero would do exactly the same again. I wouldn’t. Okay?”
Mick held out his hands.
“That shit you came out with was four months ago. A lifetime ago. We argued about the hero stuff back then, and you said you’d never pull a stunt like it again.”
“I am so–”
“‘Hero’s son dies’, I think you said.”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, Eddie.” He offered the cigarette packet again.
Eddie looked at Mick, and then took a cigarette.
“Drink?” asked Mick.
The Yorkshire Echo.
By Michael Lyndon
17th June
School murderer caught
IT WAS the worst act of murder seen in England this century, and the public outcry was unprecedented. On Thursday (4th June), eighteen children and four adults burned to death in Chantry House Church of England Primary School in East Sussex.
In a planned operation, police arrested a lone female from a nearby housing estate. She is being held in custody and questioned about the incident. The police caught the perpetrator after find
ing the remains of fingerprints in blood – not believed to be human – on the petrol container in the false ceiling above the classroom.
But only chance ensured her capture. Mrs Margaret Bolton, 28, works for an East Sussex fireworks factory – for which employees routinely have their fingerprints taken. Police confirmed that the crime scene fingerprints did not match any of the 200,000 sets of fingerprints on their computer system. But an internal audit at the company showed several ignition items missing – the same items used in the school fire.
A source revealed that the arsonist, Mrs Bolton, a single mother, allegedly felt aggrieved at the treatment of her son by the headmaster and local education authority.
An unnamed source suggests that he was a disruptive and often violent pupil who terrorised his classmates to such an extent that the LEA expelled him pending the results of an assessment.
Parents of those children who remain at the school, and the families of those who have lost loved ones in the disaster, are calling for more stringent checks on disruptive children and their parents.
Startlingly, Mrs Bolton left a message for the world with a neighbour prior to her arrest: “I would not have done this had The Rules been in force; I didn’t want to die, just wanted to be out of the rat race and have my boy properly looked after”.
That might be of no consolation, but it is vindication that The Rules will be seen by would-be criminals as a deterrent.
Ironically, had Mrs Bolton been caught or had confessed before the 15th June to her crime, she would have spent life behind bars as she’d wanted. Her death is scheduled for some time in the week ahead.
7
Thursday 18th June
“Mr…?”
The old man looked up. The cap he fidgeted with lay crumpled in his lap. “My name is Lincoln Farrier.”
The clerk examined the register and said, “Ah yes, Mr Farrier. Sir George will see you now. Please go through.”
A large suited man to the side of the clerk got up out of his chair, but the clerk shook his head, “Look at him,” he whispered as the old guy struggled to his feet, “I don’t think he’ll cause any trouble.” The man shrugged and retook his seat.
Mr Farrier knocked on the door. This was the first time he had ever wanted to see his MP; this was the first time he ever needed to see his MP. And the fact that his MP was Sir George Deacon, the new Justice Secretary, wasn’t lost on Lincoln Farrier. Old he may have been, stupid he was not.
The rich mahogany door swung open before him, but the butterflies he anticipated never came; he only ever looked the world in the eye when that eye needed a good prodding. Today was such a day.
He held on to his cap and stood on the varnished wooden floor in front of a grand-looking desk where a grey-haired man made notes with a fountain pen. This was the great Sir George Deacon.
“Sit.”
Lincoln blinked at the man’s abruptness. He closed the door and sat in the chair opposite the crown of Deacon’s head, waiting until the great man spoke. He wondered where to begin.
“Mr Farrier.” At last he put down the pen, took off his half-rimmed glasses. “What may I do for you today?”
Lincoln shifted in the chair. “I want manners to return to England.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Everywhere where you go, everything you want to do is governed by fear. Dare I go into the post office anymore? It was robbed only a week ago. The local pub was burgled, and two holiday cottages was burgled and another set alight.” He put down the cap. “Things are getting too bad for normal folks to cope with anymore.”
“Is that all you came–”
“The police – armed because being a bobby is dangerous now – the police catch them and sometimes,” he pointed a shaking finger at Deacon, “the little buggers get sent to jail. But when they get there, it’s like a holiday camp for them! Did you know that in each room – not cell, mind – room, there is a television, and they get to select what DVD they’d like to watch each evening?”
Deacon said, “I didn’t know that.”
“Oh aye. And they get cash donations so they can buy tobacco or drugs. Them outside send it in to them, cause them outside are still burgling!” Lincoln paused for breath. “Them law-breakers are laughing at me. Well, they’re laughing at you too, but I couldn’t care less if they laugh at you or the courts or the police, really. But I do care if they laugh at me. They are wiping our noses in the shit!” Lincoln covered his mouth.
Deacon waved him on.
“The prisons are filling up with young people who don’t care for others’ rights. They care about themselves more’n anything else in the world, and that’s not what life is about. So long as they’re getting their drug money they’re happy. These days, no one believes in working to get the money to buy what they want. They believe in getting things for nothing. And that is wrong.”
Deacon nodded.
“Once they’re in prison, they get Legal Aid to fight things they should not be entitled to fight, and that makes the system a sham. Far as I know, Legal Aid was invented to help poor people fight wrongs. It’s not there to line the pockets of the judiciary, or set the criminals free.”
Lincoln fidgeted again with his cap. “Is this makin’ any sense, or should I just bugger off and leave you alone?”
Deacon considered it. “I’m grateful you’re being so candid, and I welcome–”
“Bollocks,” Lincoln said. “What are you doing about it? What are you really doing?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss in-depth policy revision, Mr Farrier, but one titbit I can offer is vasectomy.”
“Come again.”
Deacon laughed, and played with the fountain pen – definitely not made in China. “We commissioned a study to look at the last fifty years of incarceration in Britain. Its findings are eye-opening. I don’t suppose we’ll get it through Parliament, but I’ll tell you about it anyway.”
“I’m listening.”
“People who go to jail breed people who go to jail. If you are a convicted felon, you are three times more likely to produce children who themselves will be jailed later in life. So I’d like criminals to be sterilised.”
“Really?”
“And the Sentencing Guidelines Council is looking into banning early release for good behaviour. If you’re sentenced to four years, you serve four years – if you behave. If you don’t, you serve longer; we’re switching the way it works away from favouring the criminal. That’s why we’re building more jails. These are the things we’re doing about it.”
“Impressive.”
“It is.”
“But do you think more could be done quicker if a cabinet minister was shot dead by a lunatic?”
Deacon slowly nodded. “It was a very sad day for the country and the Great British Independence Party when Roger King–”
“Sod Roger King.” Lincoln threw his cap on Deacon’s desk and brought out a gun.
Deacon dropped the pen. His mouth fell open and he stared at Lincoln, horrified that he was about to leave office the same way as the previous Justice Secretary. Violently. “They didn’t search you?”
“They said it would be okay to bring it in.” Lincoln squinted. “Why would they search an honest pensioner? Trouble is, this pensioner is sick to fucking death of being trampled on by the scrotes and then by the state. I want something done about it.” Lincoln brought the gun up with such powerful resolve that Deacon recoiled and raised his hands. “If you shout, I will shoot you immediately. If you don’t,” he smiled coldly, “you may be able to talk your way out of it. That’s what you politicians are supposed to be good at, isn’t it?”
Deacon’s heart leapt to 120 without changing gear. “Why are you doing this, Mr Farrier? I have nothing here of any value–”
“Don’t ever put in me in the same league as those law-breaking youths we’ve been discussing.” Lincoln’s manner changed as though he’d pulled off the mask and the real nutcase was out and runnin
g free with his axe.
8
Thursday 18th June
– One –
He could feel his legs trembling, and he thought of shouting. Sirius, the man outside who formed part of his armed close protection squad, would monitor, contain and then… what did they call it? Defuse, disarm, something like that. But he could be dead before Sirius even put down his coffee.
“Then what do you want?”
Lincoln Farrier was a brave man, Deacon decided. But greater still was his foolishness. There was a level of persuasiveness that Farrier had exceeded; he had made Deacon truly afraid for the first time in his life. And that was unforgivable. Utterly punishable.
No one threatens me, old man. No one. With his left foot he searched the floor for the panic button.
He stared into the politician’s frightened eyes and chose not to show his regret, but to keep it repressed until the bravado he hid behind had served its purpose.
Deacon tried to smile. “Then what do you want?”
“I want my son back.”
“I’m not with you.”
“If you promise not to try any funny business I’ll let you put your arms down.”
“Where’s your son?”
“Prison. And he’s there because the parole board won’t give him early release.” Lincoln saw Deacon’s eye twitch as he mentioned prison. “And before you leap to one of your conclusions, let me tell you that I ain’t never been in trouble with the law, let alone been sent to jail.”
“I would never presume–”
“My boy was home watching the footy one night. He went to get a beer, and finds this fellow in his kitchen, just climbed in through the open window. And in his hand is my boy’s wallet, mobile phone, and car keys!”
[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule Page 4
