TWENTY-SEVEN

 

Friday's midday news report on BBC Radio, led with the usual lies released by government on the economy and the plainly failing euro zone. But tucked in amongst all the brain anaesthetic was a brief item on how a party of young Asian men had perished on the sandbanks of the Wash, apparently caught out by the rapidly incoming tide whilst they were presumably engaged in harvesting cockles by hand.

'The Eastern Inshore Fisheries and Conservation Authority have no record of these unfortunate young men being licensed cocklers. That may explain their presence there in the early hours of the morning as opposed to the more logical afternoon low tide.

'A spokesperson added, "We wish to emphasise to anybody contemplating illegal poaching of Molluscan Shellfish, of the extreme danger faced, even by experienced local fishermen, of being entrapped out on the exposed sea-bed by the rising tides"

'Police are trying to identify the victims so that their families may be informed as soon as possible.'

No mention was made of an abandoned trawler in the area, and the few phone calls from Whitby offering information were fielded as not relevant to this tragedy.

***

Like a stalwart Man O' War, Henry Carter ploughed a course through the Friday afternoon shoppers stocking up for the weekend. Medals, newly polished that morning glinted brightly against the blue serge of his blazer bearing the pocket insignia of the Legion. One hand swung stiffly to a marching beat in his head, the other carried a Tesco shopping bag that hung heavily from gnarled, curled fingers.

Most of the pedestrians on the High Street, stood aside to grant passage for this grand, erect pensioner who clearly knew where he was headed, a mix of amusement, respect or plain annoyance on their busy faces.

As if on the command, 'Squad halt!', he came to an abrupt stop immediately outside the Holtingham mosque; always the Countryman hotel in his cherished memories. His wedding day ad hoc reception in the lounge bar, a one nights stay there in lieu of a honeymoon, no money, no time, an Empire to defend.

Performing a smart parade ground, 'Left turn!', he pivoted on his polished heel and mounted the three wide stone steps to the entrance. Pushing through the big oak door, he re-entered a grandeur of the long past and marched into an environment now entirely and hostile. The sing-song prayer response rose and fell in orchestrated rhythm beyond doors he remembered led to the big ballroom. The very place he had met his young bride to be, on a rare excursion into pleasurable leisure time; remembered the band in shiny jackets, rolling out the Glen Miller sound, the Andrews Sisters, a short thrash at the new Bill Hailey rock and roll, that for him was a bit too raucous.

Rows of shoes had been placed to one side of the entrance, as many as fifty pairs, some new and expensive, some old and worn. Removed as a sign of respect in this place of worship that preached treachery and death.

Thrusting the door back so violently that it smacked hard against the wall behind it, Henry Carter marched into the large, lofty room to be confronted by ranks of worshippers on their knees, facing the tall, fierce Imam who towered above them on the low stage. The same tired, stained old safety curtain from all those years ago hung down in place behind him. The congregation turned shocked faces in his direction as this big impertinent Infidel strode purposefully down the centre aisle, street shoes clacking sharply on the parquet flooring, bright eyes fixed firmly on the rogue Islamic cleric who called himself Kamal Khan.

Four thuggish characters dotted along the flank walls, a stern, threatening Praetorian Guard, jerked forward from their relaxed stance, moving forward in unison, intent on waylaying this intruder with whatever force and pain that would entail. Kamal Khan waved them back with angry and contemptuous gestures as the congregation watched with fear filled eyes, rising up on their knees to view what was to come like badly dressed Meerkats.

Henry mounted the single step up onto the stage, his shopping bag banging gently against his thigh, panting for breath now, his pallor wan, unhealthy. He stopped an arm's length from the Imam, matching him in height and fearlessness, eyes bright with harsh purpose as memory replayed the obscenity he had witnessed that morning; the hacking, slicing swing of that wicked machete, gripped with maniacal fervour by hands crippled with half of the fingers missing. An evil man beheading his only son in the name of hate. Not Allah, not Mohammed, but pure and simple hate.

"You disrupt our prayers Christian?" Khan snarled loudly for the benefit of those who cowed before him for five prayer sessions every day.

"Your worshipping is a farce!" Henry spat back, his strong voice echoing around the old ballroom. "You neither believe in prayer, religion or your Allah. You and all the other psychotic scum calling yourselves Jihadists are nothing but cold-blooded murdering Wops! I have come to make you confront your sins. There is no room for people like you in England."

Kamal Khan's black eyes blazed with ferocious emotion, three fingered hands slashed at the air space between them like a Bengali Tiger's killing stroke.

"This country, this land is our land. Our Brotherhood breed within you, consume you from the inside out and will emerge like an eagle from the broken shell. Islam conquers all Crusader!"

Some colour returned to Henry's lined face now as he twitched with a deep flaring of spirit; just briefly looking young and vital again.

"In 1805 at the Battle of Trafalgar, Lord Horatio Nelson held this nation's very survival in his hands. He knew that the consequences of failure were unthinkable. To rally his forces to the task at hand he sent a simple message to the fleet. 'England expects that every man will do his duty'.

"Well Mr. Khan, I have obeyed that call to arms all of my life and I have no intention of failing my country now."

The Imam snorted like a bull jabbed with a Picador's spear, thick lips drawing back from yellowed teeth in a sneer, his foul breath exhaling into Henry's unflinching face.

"You are a pathetic old man. Your teeth are all drawn and your claws are blunt. You are no threat to me. The days of the British Raj are over. Go home and wait for your grave to call you."

Henry Carter nodded reflectively, as if to ponder the truth of that cutting statement. Then with a tired sigh he pulled his Webley .455 service revolver from the Tesco shopping bag, calmly aimed it directly at the centre of Khan's enraged face with both liver spotted hands, and pulled the trigger. He didn't flinch as the mashed contents of the Imam's head splattered across the safety curtain behind him.

The hammering recoil of the big military gun reverberated up his stiffened arms and hit his chest like a boxer's punch. As manic turmoil exploded all around the room, dozens of wailing worshippers fled for the exit door bottleneck, and the dead cleric's bodyguards grabbed for him, Henry felt the fire of tearing pain in his chest. It flared up like an artillery barrage, consuming and destroying his heart, his being, his life.

Henry Carter was dead before he hit the floor, impervious to the ferocious onslaught of kicking and punching that rained down onto his lifeless body. His duty done.

 

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