by R. Jay
Chris grimaced. "If you remember, when I first went down I was only eighteen. Norwich had a Young Offenders Institution. When I got to be twenty-one they simply transferred me to the main adult block.
"The authorities don't make it their priority to cater for the convenience of visitors. Besides, this place is 'Category A' and I'm one of the really bad boys apparently."
Barry snorted in protest. "But you're only on remand mate, haven't even had a trial yet. Besides being innocent, any prat can work that one out."
Chris shook his head. "Barry I'm in here primarily for my original conviction, murder of a police officer. As I was a juvenile my sentence was custody for life that normally demands a thirty years minimum. But I was released on licence in line with universal relaxation of parole board recommendations, not given any special consideration. In fact I was made well aware that my release didn't go down too well in certain quarters and the first opportunity to yank my chain and drag me back for the remaining fifteen years was on the cards.
"Going on trial for a second murder of poor little Abu was a godsend, particularly if I cop a guilty verdict. So hey presto, here I am!"
Barry thumped the table between them, drawing sharp glances from the attendant staff. "But you didn't kill Abu." He hissed. "His bastard mates in that mosque did for him. That's obvious."
Chris shrugged. "There are photographs and DNA 'evidence', sweat from my hands when I grabbed hold of him on one occasion. There's even traces of him at grandpa's house. Hours later he is dead. So they are not looking at anybody else, I'll do nicely thank you very much. Not to mention that grandpa went and shot their chief cleric halfway through his act.
"'The family from hell' the papers called us." His faced screwed up with sad thoughts. "Tell me Barry, how did grandpa's funeral go?" There was a slight catch in his voice and he lowered his face to table top.
"Out of order not letting you attend." Barry growled. "But you'd have been proud of the old boy all over again Chris. The Legion, current members of his old regiment, friends from all over; half the town turned out to say their goodbyes I reckon. A right royal burial he had. Apparently he'd bought a double plot next to your parents and grandma, they put him in there."
"Double plot?"
Barry coloured slightly, looked pointedly back at Chris. "Well none of us are going to live for ever are we?"
For an uncomfortable moment, Chris Carter stared wordlessly into the void, despair bleeding from hollow eyes. "No mate, we won't. Me, I'm on my last lap, won't even make it to my trial probably. So it's nice to know that I have somewhere welcoming to wind up in."
"Leave it out Chris. I know things couldn't get much worse for you right now, but don't go doing anything stupid!"
Barry's mini tirade was both desperate and exasperated. Beside him Alison stiffened with sudden distress, eyes wide with fear.
Chris leaned forward on his elbows, whispering slowly, conspiratorially. "It's no accident that I've been put here in Belmarsh Barry. Dozens of convicted terrorists are in here. The muslim gangs run this place. The screws are afraid to touch them for fear of their jobs.
"A young white lad converted to their religion, got too involved. When they discovered he was gay they tossed boiling water laced with sugar straight into his face while he slept. No amount of plastic surgery will ever make him pretty again. The whole thing has been hushed up, put down as an accident on the kitchen detail."
"Sugar?"
"Yeah. Melts in the hot water and sticks to the skin, burns right into it. Like home-brewed napalm."
Alison sobbed out loud, turned away quickly ushering her little girl towards a play area provided, watched over by a stern attendant.
"Not for you though, getting into all that kind of trouble Chris." Barry pleaded. "You've been in prison long enough to take care of yourself ain't you?"
"Not in here Barry. Got no buddies or allies. There's an open season on my head. I'm held responsible for their Brothers being washed up on that Norfolk beach, not to mention killing Abu. I've already been made aware that I'm on their hit-list. They're boasting that before the New Year comes around, guarantee it even, they will have killed me."
Alison let out a horrified scream that rattled the bars on all the windows at Belmarsh Prison.
***
On the second of January, the law firm of Messrs. Cardew, Pope and Bond, effected a substantial money transfer representing the entire estate of the late Christopher Phillip Carter, into the joint account of Mr. and Mrs. Barry Wells, days before they boarded a BA flight for Sydney, Australia.
A short explanatory note was passed on to the shocked couple inside a white envelope on the occasion of his 'accidental' death in the prison workshop.
'Barry, Alison, I have gone to join grandpa and my parents like I said I would soon enough. Please accept this money as I have left nobody behind who is more entitled or deserving.
Remember England as she once was, but don't ever come back. God bless Australia.'
***
A bitterly cold January wind tugged at the window frames, squeezing through any available gaps and crevices of the old building with triumphant squeals and sighs.
But Prime Minister Dennis Campbell felt rather warm around his starched collar thank you very much. He sat at the long trestle table positioned on the stage of the former ballroom in Holtingham mosque, trying hard not to glance down again at the shabby rug he had been assured covered the irremovable blood stains of The Blessed Martyr, Kamal Khan.
Outwardly, as ever, he appeared as sleek and polished as only a Public School upbringing could laminate over a mediocre but greatly expectant son of the very well heeled.
To his right sat Yasir Davi, smug and relaxed, whose fear of scandalous exposure had soaked away into the wooden boards beneath his feet: the outgoing Member of Parliament for this modest little town bordering the Fenlands; now the newly installed Police and Crime Commissioner for that same region, a new initiative in local political control that totally baffles the majority of the British public. A transition that had invoked this Parliamentary By-election which the Prime Minister would rather not have faced at this time of shrinking support for his government. Every vote now was crucial for his political survival, wherever it came from.
On his left slouched the admittedly transformed figure of Benny Mann. Odious but nevertheless the rising Che Guevara of the politically correct lobby. Though not quite as big a legend. A bizarre choice of candidate, even by local party standards, Mann had scrubbed up remarkably well during the preceding two months. Shaved, neat haircut, manicured finger nails; the trace of dark shadows underneath reptilian, aqueous eyes were the only visible legacy of long term drug and drink abuse; a triumph of intensive therapy.
Secretly he craved the conclusion of this 'bleeding' By-Election, so he could get at his hidden stash of wonder powder in the Angel Islington flat, that his party minders had not detected during his re-settlement programme back into respectable society.
Throughout that day's campaigning, giving top flight support out on the grey, wet streets, the Prime Minister had cursed his Private Secretary for adding this date in hell into his official events diary, had carried an air about him of having wandered onto the wrong side of the tracks and got lost.
A light sheen of nervous perspiration coated his practised, earnest face, as he rose with a greasy smile to address the attentive Brotherhood of potential voters. The raw facts of opportunistic reality had been recited quite firmly to him by the party number-crunchers. 'Get the muslim vote, now and forever if you want to stay in power. Without them, we are lost.'
"Gentlemen," He choked back the 'and ladies' in a last minute realisation of where he was, whom he was addressing. "I do not have need to introduce Mr. Yasir Davi who as your MP and formerly a Barrister, fought tooth and nail for the interests of your community. Now he has moved on to an exciting new role as your Police and Crime Commissioner where his influence and control of local policing will forever be at you
r service.
"Indeed he has already engaged himself in the Chief Constable's fight against the recent disgraceful upsurge in ethnic violence against your number, culminating in the shocking and disgraceful cold-blooded murders of your esteemed cleric Kamal Khan and one of his young flock."
He paused, turned reluctantly to his left, his hand wafting limply in the direction of Benny Mann who sat impassively, and rather glassy eyed as if already halfway through his cherished stash.
"Our friend here, Mr. Benjamin Mann, who has readily stepped up to the mark to stand as your new Member of Parliament, has long been involved in the fight for minority rights. He is a true campaigner who has led the Union of Anti-Fascists for a decade to oppose racism and bigotry."
Choking back acidic bile that flooded the back of his throat he continued with a wan smile. "I can also proudly announce that our valued candidate for your precious votes, has recently converted to the faith of Islam. He is committing his life to the Ummah, to stand as one of your own community, to promote and further your demands, ambitions and interests. So before I invite Mr. Mann to stand before you and say a few words, can I as your Prime Minister, your most humble servant, welcome your efforts to sweep away the tired old order of this country, and to join us in the new beginning of a multi-faith, multi-cultural England.
"Gentleman, you are Legion, the future direction and very character and identity of this country, is now in your blessed hands."
******
THE END
CONTINUED »»»»»
If you have enjoyed reading this book, can I suggest that you consider these other Titles I have produced? Glowing reviews are always welcome! R.J.
***
TRIPLE-TAP
A deranged assassin is on the loose. An ex-DCI with a murky past his first victim. Suspects Edgar Marshall, Private Security Contractor, killing his trade, and 'Mad' Lenny Lester, retired 1960's gangster, revenge will be his, unite to prise free the 'grisly secrets of gruesome old men' from the Fat American. A history best not told. But the Last Tramp is out there, programmed to kill them both
***
STRANGE FRUIT ON TYBURN TREE
2005: Bodmin Moor, Cornwall, Ewan Hurd was raised an orphan. An unknown twin brother has traced their genealogy. A dark family history of pursuit by the Thief-Taker in a campaign to eradicate their bloodline. Hunted himself for murder, an enigmatic American girl reveals an amazing tale of 'Jack' an 18C ancestor who founded a dynasty, a family tree with roots embedded on both sides of the Atlantic.
***
CONTINUED »»»»»»»»»
A BAND BEGINS TO PLAY
An evil spanning 250 years. The 18thC Hellfire Club marries Dionysian Dismemberment to 20thC German Supremist philosophy offering mass sacrifice with World Wars; provoke the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse to invoke prophesies of the Book of Revelations: The End Time. Two brothers, a Great War Veteran and an enigmatic journalist launch a violent confrontation with the ultimate atrocity - HELLFIRE!
***
KILLER-BLOOD
Kristina Keillor is pursued by a killer with big hands. He's killed all the others. Jerry Keller must protect her, as promised. Geoffrey Gerrard is a drunken old hack. Perhaps this story will relaunch his career, but maybe not. Prime Minister Andrew Booth's future is in the blood-stained grasp of fugitive oligarch Stanislav Vasiliev. But he must buy peace with Vladmir Putin - London the price.
***
