What a Country

by Paul Kirby

  All characters in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Paul Kirby has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act of 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it will not, by trade or otherwise be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition, being imposed on the subsequent publisher

  © Paul Kirby 2021

  ISBN: 978-1-09838-463-0 (Print)

  ISBN: 978-1-09838-464-7 (eBook)

  To my good friend Kevin, who persuaded me to persevere with this story.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 1

  On his release, having served three years of a five-year sentence, Joey Dell was determined he would never spend another day in prison. This one had felt like a ten stretch. What had really got to him this time was the ease with which Islamic extremists seemed able to convert cons to their ideology.

  Dell was fifty-two and about five foot ten. He had dark brown hair with a very slight hint of grey and a scar to the side of his left eye that carried along down the side of his nose. He also had a scar in the middle of his forehead where he had been gashed with a broken bottle. He was well built, not fat, and menacing in appearance.

  Waiting as Dell walked out of the prison gates was his longtime friend and local bookmaker Albert Kinsley, on hand to give Dell a ride home as he had done so many times before. Albert was a good few years older than Dell at sixty-nine, with grey hair. He had a big Chelsea smile of a scar that ran more or less from ear to ear and a big beer belly to match. But most people probably knew him by his distinguishable rough, gruff, booming voice.

  Everyone knew when Albert was in the building. He and Dell had been friends since Dell was a youngster visiting one of Albert’s shops. Albert had a betting shop on the High Street just down the road from the pub the boys now frequented, which was owned by Dell’s old school pal, “Mucky” Mickey Staines. The pub was a favourite with Dell’s villainous mates and Albert’s punters alike, so it sat well with both men. However, for whatever reason, while Dell was inside Mickey had gotten a business partner named Bill Winters and that was going to complicate things in the future.

  Dell had left a large amount of cash with Mickey, which had been kept in the safe. This was not uncommon, as Mickey was “safe as houses” and one of Joey’s most trusted pals. He had been looking after the gang’s money on and off for years.

  After exchanging the usual pleasantries and greetings, Dell explained to Albert about the radicalisation going on in jail and how he had no intention of making any return visits of any kind. He was actually thinking of getting a real job and going completely straight. Albert didn’t believe a word of it and responded by telling Dell all about Mickey’s new partner and how he loved a punt on the nags and how much money he generally lost. Dell’s answer to that was, “Well, let’s drop into Mickey’s and have a couple and catch up with the news.”

  “Also,” replied Albert, “there’s a right pair of idiots just started using the pub, Dick and Bart Durley.”

  “Are they brothers?” asked Dell.

  “No, worse! They’re a father and son double act. A right win double, You’ll spot ‘em quick enough, Joey, my son. You’ll smell the bullshit straight away.”

  “No! No! I’ve had a bellyful of that over the last few years. So just make sure you keep the cunts away from me.”

  “They’ll be all over you,” Albert laughed.

  “Durley, eh? That name rings a bell. Well, are we having a few today, Big Burt?” Albert was commonly referred to as Burt, after his shop, Big Burt the Bookmaker’s (not to be mixed up with Bart).

  “‘Course we are. Got Baz and Tel coming to meet us in the pub about one-ish with my son and whoever else decides to show their face,” said Albert with a big grin on his big scarred-up face.

  “Good, ‘cause I need to go back to my flat and get cleaned up and get the horrible smell of prison off me for the last time,” Dell replied.

  Back at his flat Dell quickly showered and got a fresh change of clothes and then off they headed toward Mickey’s for a meet-up with the “boys” for a beer or two and a quick catch-up— also to arrange a proper business meeting with his partners in crime, Barry Ronald Richards, known as “Ice Cold” and that’s not just because his initials were BRR, and Terry “Torrial” Funnel. Dell also wanted to make sure his money was still safe with Mickey and to start making plans to get it back out earning. Albert informed Dell he was also holding money in his safe at Big Burt’s for the boys, which he understood Dell also had a share of.

  Waiting at the bar when they arrived were Ice Cold and Torrial with a greeting of “Flowery, how are ya?”

  “Flowery” was a slang term for cell, a friendly reminder of Dell’s time spent in one. Handshakes, back slapping, smiles, jokes, stories, and everything else were in abundance that day as the boys were reunited. The whole mob filed in over the course of the afternoon and when he got the chance, “Flowery” mentioned the money in the safe. Mickey assured him that it was safe and well and that he hadn’t laid a finger on it. Happy days!

  The Durleys were standing on their own at the other end of the bar and could see that a bit of a gangland gathering had emerged in their new local. They wanted to be a part of it. They had heard loads of stories from others about this little firm and Dell in particular and were chomping at the bit to get acquainted with him. “Yeah, this could be a life-changer for me and my son,” Dick muttered to himself.

  Age sixty-five, Dick was nearly bald with darkish greying hair that was very thin and wispy. He had a medium build with a proper beer gut and a vacant look about his slightly pockmarked face. He also had a distinct, annoyingly high-pitched voice that had earned him the name “Squeaky” and had contributed to his unpopularity with just about everyone who had ever met him.

  “You what?” Bart asked his dad.

  “Ah, nothing, just thinking to myself. Another drink, son.”

  “‘Another drink, son?’ Thought we were going.”

  “Well, see that lot over there? I think we should hang about a bit and see what happens. ‘Cause if we play our cards right, we could be on a nice little earner,” Dick stated i
n his most irritating voice. He meant well, but just couldn’t put it into effect. In reality, he was a no-good, cheating, lying nonce who had spent his whole life trying to pull the wool over everybody’s eyes!

  Dick and Bart moved along the bar and tried to listen in on what was being said, partly to see if there might be a business opportunity, and partly to see if they might get to find out something incriminating that they could use to their own advantage should such an occasion arise.

  Bart was slimly built with thinning wispy ginger hair very similar to his father’s. He was also slightly pockmarked around his nose, a result of mild acne as a teenager. Along his left eyebrow ran a small scar caused by a friend with a golf club in an innocent accident during secondary school, although Bart liked to brag that he got it in a fight during the football violence years. He was soft-spoken with a face that had thinned due to drug abuse. He was six feet tall.

  As the Durleys manoeuvred themselves into a good position, in walked Gerry Funnel, the twin brother of Terry. He joined the Durleys at the bar. Gerry used to work for Dell and company, but Dell wasn’t keen on him at all and had never trusted him in the slightest. Flowery was a bit of a homophobe, to say the least, and as Gerry was a regular crack cocaine user and a user of every other narcotic for that matter, Dell felt he was neither reliable nor to be trusted in stressful situations. He also talked too much. This was probably why he had gotten friendly with Bart Durley recently as Bart was also a regular user and very convincing with his bullshit stories. They seemed a good match. When Dell spotted Gerry, he was not pleased to see him. He leaned over to whisper into Big Burt’s ear: “What’s that cunt doing here? And who are those smarmy-looking twats with him?”

  Albert looked along the bar and said, “Fucking hell, Joe, that’s them Durley pricks I was telling you about this morning and they were at the other end of the bar twenty minutes ago.”

  “So what are they doing with that batty boy?” asked Dell.

  “Dunno. Didn’t even know they knew each other. Best watch what we say from now on—that’s a win treble there that is of no effing good to us at all.”

  Now seemed a perfect opportunity for Dell to say he was looking to get back into work. Dick Durley’s ears pricked up when he heard Dell say he was looking for a job, although Dick didn’t know at that precise moment the man who had said it was the infamous Joey “Flowery” Dell. Dick paused and thought to himself that when the opportunity arose, he would introduce himself to the man. The Durleys had heard the odd story and rumour here and there, but neither one of them knew who Dell was. That was until Gerry told them. Now both were even more eager to introduce themselves and to offer Dell some work, perhaps cleaning people’s homes, offices, or even windows.

  For the rest of the day, Dell managed to avoid the dreaded Durleys, who eventually both sloped off home, thinking there was always tomorrow. As they exited the pub, in walked a very stressed-looking Bill Winters, Mickey’s new partner. He was a wiry individual with big ears, a long nose, a sallow complexion, and drawn cheekbones. He seemed to have a permanent downtrodden look about him that said, “Nobody loves me.” Bill and Mickey had worked together a few years before in a Soho sex shop, hence the name “Mucky” Mickey.

  Back then Irishman Bill had always had a little bet on the horses and kept it very simple and under control, but his gambling habit had spiralled out of control and he was in well over his head. He’d been placing extremely large bets on a far too regular basis and as the betting shop was just up the road from the pub, the glad recipient of Bill’s huge losses just happened to be Big Burt. Drinking plus gambling is a lethal mixture and as both were Bill’s favourite pastimes, he was now in serious debt.

  When Bill learned Joey Dell was out of prison and drinking at the pub he had a financial stake in, his chin hit the floor and he turned white. What was he going to do now? He knew he was in serious trouble as he’d been helping himself to the money in the safe. He had been replacing it with old newspapers that he’d cut to size so no one would notice.

  Chapter 2

  A couple of miles away at the Islamic Centre, even more trouble was brewing and the man banging the loudest on the war drums was an extremist known only as “The Ayatollah.” He spread hate like most people spread jam. His ideas involved death, destruction, and terror for the unsuspecting British public. He was a great manipulator and had had no trouble, in a very short time, getting together a would-be terror cell, which oddly included a British woman.

  Karen White was an unusual recruit, about five foot six, Caucasian and extraordinarily pretty with proud cheekbones, brown eyes, black hair, pronounced lips, firm breasts, and a body to match. She had been married to a British soldier who was killed while fighting the Taliban in Afghanistan. This had had an incredible effect on her, as she and her husband had been planning to start a family on his return. Now at the age of just twenty-eight, she was a widow and her dreams of becoming a mum had shattered. Her anger and bitterness had been vented on the army and instead of feeling contempt and hatred toward the organisation that killed her husband, her hatred had turned toward the establishment and against the British people in general. Karen had turned to Islam for comfort. This was a very mixed-up woman and pure evil and hatred now bubbled in her veins like some kind of witch’s potion.

  For Karen, it wasn’t a religious thing—this would be her revenge. Revenge for the loss of the life she wanted and the life she could have had. But life doesn’t always go as planned and even during her blackest moments, this wasn’t in any way what she had thought her life would become. She now had no doubt about her future path. She even came to despise her name, Karen, as she thought it sounded too much like Koran, the book she was now obsessed with. So she started to call herself Cairo. This was a name The Ayatollah approved of and it put a smile on his face whenever he heard it.

  Not too much was known about The Ayatollah, just that he came from Iran. As he was on a fake passport, nobody even knew his real name. He was tall, a good six feet four, a sinister-looking man with a long oblong head, long grey beard, large pronounced nose, and deep-set cheeks. He spoke with a deep melodious voice. He had penetrating black eyes and those who saw him could easily imagine he had an evil past. But he had a presence and when he spoke, people listened.

  Two other men had started using the Islamic Centre on their recent return from fighting for ISIS in Syria—Imran Badini and Hussain Dasti. They were lifelong friends and had learned many terror-related skills in Syria. They were both London born and bred and in their late twenties. They were known to the British authorities and were suspected of very horrific crimes, including beheadings, although they were not thought to be part of the infamous “Beatles,” as other ISIS fighters had come to call them. This little band of brothers (and sister) had all met originally at the infamous Finsbury Park Mosque and now they all frequented the Islamic Centre, which just happened to be smack bang in the middle of Joey Dell and his little firm’s “Manor.” This was a surefire recipe for disaster.

  The friendly neighbourhood terrorists considered the local Islamic Centre a low-profile venue that was not as well known as Finsbury Park, and therefore the Centre became their headquarters. They didn’t bother to try to recruit any more would-be terrorists for their cell as The Ayatollah wanted to keep well under the radar. Besides, his three new recruits would be more than capable of doing the job he was planning on their own. Now firmly rooted on Joey Dell’s turf, they set about trying to mingle as best as possible without drawing too much attention to themselves. However, they didn’t know they were in fact very much on the radar as they were being closely monitored by MI5 and the Anti-Terror Squad.

  Badini and Dasti were in charge of fundraising for any mission that lay ahead and had gotten friendly with an Asian man by the name of Ifty Khan who happened to be the owner of a local taxi cab company. Ifty was very well known in that part of London as he had been operating in the area for quite some ye
ars. Amongst the local Pakistani community, Khan was a bit of a legend, one of the first and one of the very few Pakistani men to mix in English and Asian circles and to get on equally well with both. The English people he knew all called him “Shifty” Ifty and he loved it. Ifty wasn’t exactly a straight flier and had a reputation for being able to get his hands on both bent and honest gear. What ever you wanted generally Ifty could get it. When he wasn’t driving his cab, he spent a lot of his time drinking down at Mickey’s pub. He got on well with the boys there, including Dell. Dell didn’t mind him as he had known him for years through the pubs and his cab company, but he did throw a few funny glances in his direction sometimes. He didn’t fully trust Ifty and certainly would never do any sort of business with him.

  Gerry Funnel, however, was a low-level drug operator who wasn’t that bothered about who he did business with, and he did trade with Ifty. Gerry was thirty-eight with a fair, curly mop of hair. He had a much thinner face than his twin due to years of drug abuse; it was almost drawn in appearance with a rough and rugged complexion. He was broad shouldered and around six feet tall. Ifty had decided to introduce him to Badini and Dasti, as they had mentioned they were looking for a trustworthy drug supplier who could keep them supplied on a regular basis with whatever narcotics they needed.

  Gerry was not only Terry’s twin, he happened to be homosexual, though you wouldn’t really think that on meeting him. This didn’t sit too well with Terry, who was far too macho to want to even try to understand his twin brother’s sexuality. It was also almost certain that this information would not have been well received by the two Asians Gerry was about to do business with.

  Ifty had done narcotics business with Gerry before, so his introduction to Badini and Dasti was regarded as a safe one for all parties involved. As the ISIS recruits set about their fundraising campaign, The Ayatollah went scouting for a suitable site for what he hoped would be his first act of terror on British soil. He moved swiftly about town from site to site with the evil tenacity of an Arabian falcon, his eyes shifting from side to side, hardly even blinking until he would stop to visualise the destruction he might cause. He didn’t stand out too much either as hundreds dressed like him walked the multicultural streets of London. He wasn’t aware, however, that his every move was being very closely monitored by MI5, as were the actions of all the members of the group. He was a determined man, but to pull off his plan, he was probably going to need some help from above.