The Dictator of Britain Book One - The Rise to Power: Dictator of Britain, #1

By Paul Michael Dubal

Great Britain is on the verge of social collapse. After eight years of disastrous rule under the Labour Government, the country is ready for change. The far right administration of Lawrence Pelham is swept to power on a tide of hope and expectation that his Party can rejuvenate Britain. But Pelham’s remedies are radical and things are about to get worse. Much worse. When disgraced former political correspondent Harry Clarke acquires a disc containing the Government’s five year plan, he realizes that the content is so explosive the Government will stop at nothing to prevent the revelations of what his old adversary Pelham really intends for the nation. Framed for the high profile murder of a former Cabinet Minister, and his family sent to a deportation camp, he is ruthlessly hunted and then abducted into a combative resistance cell led by Julianne, his former lover.

Harry finds himself part of an audacious plot to overthrow the dictatorial regime, but Pelham is willing to go to any lengths to consolidate his power. In this intriguing thriller set in a dystopian U.K. of the near future, the author creates an atmospheric and plausible portrayal of a nation on the brink. This compelling novel considers how circumstances can align to create conditions that give rise to a right wing dictatorship headed by a charismatic, powerful and genocidal leader prepared to sacrifice millions of innocent people to suit his own twisted vision for the nation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Michael Dubal
• Release date: Jan 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781301248339

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Great Britain was on the verge of social collapse, or so Uncle Gurinder claimed. Rajesh had to agree with his beloved uncle, an old man of ninety-four, his skin as dry and rough as papyrus. Uncle Gurinder was so frail that his bones appeared to protrude at odd angles from his emaciated looking frame, and his clothes hung loosely off him, particularly when he wore the traditional Punjabi kurta, a long, straight cut, loose shirt with pyjamas. Under his straggly white beard, wispy as cotton thread, his voice was barely a croak, but Rajesh leaned in close to make sure he heard everything the family patriarch had to say. Despite his fragility, his uncle's hooded eyes remained bright and surveyed everything around him with a shrewd and inquisitive mind.

While the body had deteriorated through the rigours of age, his mind had stayed active, and when Uncle G (as his family affectionately called him) spoke, they listened. Those eyes had seen more than their fair share of suffering and pain, more than any man should have to bear in a lifetime. His wife of forty-one years had died many years ago, and the love of his life could now only be conjured up as a distant memory, as if it was hard to imagine she had ever been real, or that those eventful decades belonged to someone else. The day of her passing had been a hammer blow to his uncle. Rajesh still remembered his aunt's funeral and the haunting image of his uncle standing over her open casket, a seventy-two year old wailing like a child.

Even more tragic, however, was that he had buried two cherished sons, men he had been proud of, but with the curse of old age, he had outlived them. No parent should have to bury their child, reflected Rajesh ruefully. It was not the natural order of things.

His uncle had toiled and struggled to establish a life in England after the family had escaped from Uganda in the mid-seventies. It was nearly fifty years ago, but even Rajesh remembered it vividly as if it had happened yesterday. He was a bewildered nine year-old, knowing things were desperately wrong but not quite comprehending why they had to pack up and leave everything in the middle of the night. He could still picture the look of fear on his own father's face as the family raced to the airport in the back of the pick-up truck in the steamy tropical night, as Amin's army thugs chased them in their military jeep, laughing and waving their machetes. The family just made the mercy flight out of Kampala airport, and Rajesh had run with them, petrified of being left behind, never to return to the country of his birth again. They had lost everything, their home and business, their land and life savings, but also their friends. Many of their compatriots had been captured by Amin's death squads and never seen again, and the survivors had been scattered like poppy seeds in the wind throughout the globe.

They had arrived in England homeless and penniless, but this great nation was a land of opportunity. It represented a chance to build a new life in a democracy where all their hard-earned assets would not be sequestered by the government under some obscure law that targeted their ethnic group and nobody else. The early years had been tough, and they’d lived hand to mouth, but the welfare state in England was generous and they’d been able to survive and then to prosper.

Even so, it had never been easy. When they had arrived they’d lived in numerous homeless shelters and it was only the persistence and tenacity of his father and uncle that had kept the family together, fighting the authorities that wanted to put Rajesh and his sisters into a foreign home with a strange white family. They had faced racism and discrimination, but it was usually only words. Compared to the horrors of the regime back in Uganda, it was insignificant and the family learned to turn the other cheek, to remain strong in the face of the suspicion and hurtful comments of their neighbours and blank-faced civil servants looking down upon them as if they were charity cases.

Eventually, with the passage of time, they had become accepted in the community of Southall where they’d settled, and as they gradually built up the corner store they opened through saving every last penny, had become pillars of the community. Rajesh had worked in the store for as long as he could remember, and now effectively owned the store. His sisters had never shown any interest in the family business and had married doctors, and he hardly saw them anymore. The store had been in business for over forty years, and had survived numerous recessions and economic turmoil, the advent of hypermarkets, riots and social unrest, and the constant war of attrition against the bands of criminal youths that seemed to think his shop was their own personal larder.

He was tired, however, and as he looked at his uncle gently dozing in his wheelchair, the wrinkled eyelids shut tight and his shallow breathing wheezing like a death rattle, Rajesh felt as ancient as the old man. He was nearly sixty and the thought of living as long as his uncle filled him with trepidation. It was late now, and nearly time to close up. Business had been slow lately, but then these days’ people had barely enough to spend on necessities, never mind anything else. It was rare to find anyone in this community who was not saddled with debt, and it only made the constant pilfering in his shop worse than ever. It was not just teenage thugs now. It was the ordinary person, the young single mother desperate to feed her crying baby, or the unemployed father with a hungry brood at home. Everybody stole from his store these days.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the bell ringing, and the door to the shop swung lazily open. In walked five teenage boys, their hoodies pulled tight over their heads, and all wearing the baggy jeans and black laced jackboots fashionable amongst the callow youth of today. What was even more sinister, he reflected, was the recent trend for local youths to wear a large Union Jack emblazoned across the right breast and also on each arm, a sign of patriotism in days gone by but now more often regarded in a jingoistic, antagonistic way, especially in this ethnically diverse neighbourhood. Instantly Rajesh felt his throat tighten and his breath quicken. They seemed to be in high spirits, laughing raucously as they marched into the shop, beer bottles in hand. He glanced at his security camera mounted on a tripod so it faced the door. The picture partly showed their faces under the hoods. White boys, probably trouble. He instinctively felt for the baseball bat held conveniently under the counter, and relished the comforting grip as his hands closed round the heavy wooden club. He hoped he wouldn't need it, but these days it was a necessary tool, as vital as his cash register.

He shouted at the boys, trying hard to hide the tremor in his voice. Please, no hoodies. And you’re not allowed to bring drink into the store. Can you not read the sign?

The boys stopped their chattering and one of them turned menacingly toward the counter. He said nothing as he moved ominously up the aisle until he faced Rajesh. He whipped off his hood and his mottled, acne-ridden face regarded the shop owner with a contemptuous scowl. Rajesh's grip tightened on the baseball bat out of sight. In the corner the old man continued his sonorous snoring, oblivious to the unfolding drama. The four other boys moved in close behind their friend, unfriendly eyes burrowing into Rajesh from under their hooded tops.

The lead boy stood only inches from Rajesh across the counter, and his breath stank of cigarettes and stale beer. These days real beer was expensive, and the cheap substitutes that seemed to fill the streets after the last recession were tasteless but potent and had a revolting smell, but to the masses it was their daily release. The country's addiction to alcohol was well documented. It seemed that every kid over fourteen was hooked on booze. He held the dirty brown bottle up like a prize. Are you gonna stop me? he challenged.

Rajesh was desperately trying to stop trembling, and his heartbeat thudded in his ears.

I don't want any trouble, he said, his voice hoarse.

Well, it looks like you've got it old man, the leader sneered. He flipped the dirty brown bottle in his hand and smashed it hard on the counter, where it shattered into a thousand shards of glass, cheap beer spilling out and splashing Rajesh. The boy held the neck of the bottle, which was now a splintered and lethal weapon, and waved it threateningly at Rajesh. The other boys were baying like wolves, urging their friend on.

Rajesh whipped the baseball bat out from under the counter and waved it in the general direction of the youths. He hoped they would not notice that his grip was loose from the sweat that drenched his palms.

Look, just get what you want and go, he pleaded with them.

The youth turned to his friends and they nodded their approval. The leader, encouraged by this, bared his tobacco stained teeth and jabbed the broken beer bottle at Rajesh. The shop owner stumbled back, glad that a chest high wooden counter separated them, and the gang laughed mockingly.

I'll tell you what we want old man. For a start we want all the money in your till. And after that we want your shop and then you can piss off back to your own country.

This is my country! snapped Rajesh, outraged. I've lived in it longer than you. The baseball bat was raised now, ready to defend himself. His other hand felt desperately for the panic alarm under the counter.

Doesn't make it your country, old man. England belongs to the English and you're just a scummy foreigner. Now give me your money.

Rajesh continued to feel for the alarm and cursed himself. In his panic he remembered he had moved it to the far end of the counter and it was now out of reach. He would have to make a lunge for it and even these Neanderthals would know he had tripped the alarm. It was standard practice to have panic alarms in shops nowadays, with crime at epidemic proportions, and these hoodlums would know that. It would be like a red rag to a bull. He waved his bat wildly in the general direction of the youths and shouted at them. Get out before I call the police!

The youths stood their ground, not intimidated at all by the solid wooden club the shopkeeper wielded. They merely laughed at him, a cruel, mocking laugh like the baying of hyenas moving in for the kill.

The chief antagonist moved forward and leaned over the counter, eyes fixed on the baseball bat in case the old man was foolish enough to take a swing. Rajesh moved back, the fear in his eyes palpable. Do you really live with your head stuck in the sand? he snarled. The police ain't got time for shitheads like you. They're too busy fighting a losing battle. The streets belong to people like us. He noticed for the first time the wizened old man snoring peacefully in the corner. Even that old git probably knows you ain't got a chance. Do you know who we are?

Rajesh, thrown by the question, swallowed hard and replied meekly, No.

The youth pointed proudly to the Union Jack stitched onto the right breast of his hoodie. Rajesh noticed for the first time that underneath the flag was another symbol, a black Celtic cross on a white background. It was an innocuous symbol that had been receiving increasing prominence in the news recently, a symbol stolen from an ancient Pagan religion now used for a perverse form of worship for the disaffected white youth. Underneath the cross was emblazoned the acronym FREE. Rajesh knew enough to be afraid. The cross was the adopted sign for the Fight to Return England to the English, an organization that typified everything that was wrong with the fragmented society of Great Britain. It promoted the forced repatriation of 'foreigners,' those terms loosely defined and condoned violence in the pursuit of its objectives. Hate and race crime were the by-products of all it promoted, yet despite its policies, FREE was gaining increased traction, not just amongst the unemployed working class masses, but amongst middle class suburbia as well.

The youth moved menacingly around the counter, eyes fixed on the bat but still brandishing his broken bottle. On behalf of FREE, I’m taking control of this shop.

Rajesh had heard enough. He swung wildly with his bat, aiming for his tormentor's head, but he was nowhere near and the youth moved easily aside to dodge the blow. The gang leader was quick and agile, and as the bat swung round again he grabbed it and twisted it out of the shopkeeper's hands, jabbing his hand with the broken bottle to release his grip. Rajesh screamed in pain and drew his bloody hand away, grimacing. They had him now, he realized with a sick feeling in his stomach.

The youth arrived at the same conclusion and he gave a twisted grin, moving menacingly toward Rajesh. The shopkeeper was cornered and backed away, knocking over a tray of cigarettes. The other youths began chanting, encouraging their leader as they began to crowd in. The bell rung again and the door opened. Rajesh let out a sigh of relief as he saw a tall Asian man enter the shop. He glanced around and as soon as he saw the commotion at the front counter, he made a hasty exit.

Rajesh groaned and called out desperately, Call the police! The man made no sign that he had even heard before he departed into the night.

The youth's grin was now a snarl like an angry bear about to devour its prey. You can't rely on anyone these days. It seems like you're on your own. I gave you fair warning to give me the money from the till. It’s always the same with you bloody foreigners, you never listen.

Rajesh's last defence was gone, and he had no choice. Please, just take what you want and go, he pleaded. I have a family and an old uncle to look after. He held his right hand, blood dripping lazily from the small gash just below his knuckles.

The youth turned to the ancient man in the wheelchair, still breathing noisily but stirring under his thin blanket. It looks like he’s well past his sell-by date, he sneered. Why don't I do you a favour and put him out of his misery? He moved threateningly toward the wizened figure, the broken glass poised as if to strike. Rajesh lurched forward trying to block the youth, and as he did so he knocked the broken bottle from the youth's hand.

The youth, enraged, struck Rajesh full in the face, knocking him to the floor with a single savage blow. He stood over his victim like a prize fighter waiting for the count. His voice now carried a steely edge. Do you realize who you’re dealing with?

The shopkeeper, dazed and shocked, fixed his gaze on the youth's jackboots, which were level with his head. The scuffed, dirty black boots symbolized everything that was wrong with society today. They were designed to strike fear into the hearts of the enemy, much like the boots worn by the Ugandan army as they marched on their home so many years before, the heavy boots clomping on their stone yard before smashing the door in. The boots formed part of a uniform for a street army fighting an enemy that did not even realize it was an adversary. He was just an ordinary shopkeeper trying to make a living as he had done for decades. He felt his eye swelling already from the blow and watched helplessly as the right boot was lifted up and swung back. The youth landed a hefty kick at the man's midriff and Rajesh, curled up in the foetal position, nearly vomited as the boot thudded into his stomach.

The youth paused over his stricken prey, his anger and hatred diffused into another hefty kick at the shopkeeper. He smiled to himself. Christ, it felt good to let rip in these boots, especially against an immigrant. He shouted down at the man on the floor, who was now whimpering in pain. I told you mate we are from FREE and we’re here to get rid of your sort, and we ain't gonna stop until you're all six feet under. Got it?

He motioned to the other youths and they fanned out around the shop, walking down the aisles and arbitrarily pulling products off the shelves as they walked by. Rajesh's attacker just stood over him, glaring and waiting for him to get up so he could knock him back down again. He finally lost patience and kicked him again, and then bent down so that his face was inches from the old man's swollen, tear stained face. It was the abject, fearful look in the eyes that he enjoyed the most. These immigrants were cowards and deserved everything they got. His mother, the senile old bitch, had taught him that from an early age. At least that was one good lesson she had taught him in her useless, wasted life, he thought wryly.

He pulled out his lighter and flicked it open so that Rajesh could feel the heat as his tormentor waved it close to his face. At first he thought the youth was going to burn him, but he held it steadily an inch from his face. He was mesmerized by the gently flickering yellow flame, unable to predict what would happen next. He prayed to Allah that this ordeal would soon be over. Why didn't they take what they wanted and go?

The youth spoke again, spittle forming around his mouth as his voice rose in excitement. Do you know what we do with people like you? We're going to put you out of business. He stood up and gave an imperceptible nod to the other youths scattered around the store with its wrecked aisles.

It was then Rajesh smelt it, the bitter smell of paraffin that seemed to catch in the throat. It was followed quickly by the acrid smell of smoke as it curled lightly upwards. Within seconds the flames had taken hold and all around the store separate fires were burning, gathering strength as they devoured anything that was in their path. Rajesh panicked and tried to get up but the youth had anticipated his move and stamped heavily on his thigh. Incapacitated, he shot a terrified glance at his uncle, who was stirring in the intensifying heat. The flames grew in strength with a ferocious intensity, and they were edging closer to his uncle. The heat in the shop was already becoming unbearable, and the bitter, toxic smell of burning plastic assaulted his nostrils as the aisles began to collapse under the ruthless onslaught of the scorching flames. The youth again made a sign to his friends and they decided that now was the time to flee. The youth gave one last kick at his victim and taunted him. Remember us, if you survive – the Fight to Return England to the English.

The flames crackled and the smoke billowed around the shop as the youths quickly fled the store, laughing and chattering excitedly. Rajesh could barely move. He was quite sure his leg was not broken, but it had been deadened by the vicious stamp and he could not put any weight on it. The acrid smoke billowed around him, stinging his eyes until his vision was blurred and useless. He coughed and spluttered as he inhaled the poisonous smoke which raked his lungs so they felt like bursting. Through the grey, choking pall and his own defective vision he glimpsed the outline of his uncle, now fully awake and struggling helplessly in his wheelchair as the flames began to dance around him, ready to consume the old man. He cried out hoarsely but his weak voice was choked by the smoke, the old man wheezing heavily. With a huge effort of will, he rolled out of the wheelchair and fell onto the floor, landing heavily in the path of a barrage of flames that moved in an animated fashion, roasting and blackening all before it.

Rajesh watched his uncle struggle to get up but he was too weak. He made a dry, rasping sound as he choked on the smoke and Rajesh could see that he had only seconds to spare before the conflagration descended upon him. Gritting his teeth, the injured shopkeeper hauled himself upright, gripping the counter tightly, howling in pain as he put all his considerable weight on his useless left leg. He stumbled but managed to keep his balance as he limped over to where his uncle struggled feebly against the oncoming flames. Rajesh felt the flames burn and claw at his skin. He reached down and gripped his uncle's bony shoulders. Fortunately the ancient old devil was mainly skin and bone, and with a huge effort, his dead leg threatening to collapse under the strain, he managed to pull him away from the immediate fire. He glanced over to the doorway. The flames had moved around in a wide arc so that they cut off their only escape route. The whole store was now a raging inferno and they were trapped in the middle of it. He vaguely heard the persistent ringing of a distant alarm, but it was almost drowned by the crackling roar of the flames licking across the ceiling in their destructive path. He looked around wildly, his eyes raw and streaming from the smoke and intense heat and spotted the baseball bat lying close to the flames. His mind racing, trying to block out the pain of his damaged leg, he limped over and grabbed the bat, grimacing from the searing heat of the fire less than two feet away. It was warm to the touch but undamaged. The shop had a long storefront window with shutters, but most of the window was now engulfed in dense flames. There was a section in the far corner however, that had so far escaped the hungry flames and he limped toward it as fast as his useless leg would allow, pushing his way through the searing heat. He shrieked in agony as a nearby flame shot out across his leg, as if the fire was alive and torturing him with a foretaste of the pain to come.

The fire extinguished any moisture in the air and his already damaged lungs protested against the scorching, dry air it was forced to filter. Rasping from the choking black smoke, the sound of plastic cartons popping as they exploded in the heat, Rajesh reached his only hope of salvation. He swung wildly with his bat and slammed it against the window. The bat bounced harmlessly back and he swung again with the same result. Crying with panic and fear, he remembered. He had only installed the reinforced window a few months ago, exasperated with the constant task of having to repair fractured glass from ever more regular attacks, from riots, street fights or burglaries. Even the steel shutters he rolled down religiously every night had failed to act as a deterrent, and the reinforced glass was an extra protective measure. He considered the irony as his last chance of escape receded. His body, released of adrenaline now that any hope of escape had been extinguished, began to sag and his damaged leg gave way. He slumped to the floor, surrounded by piles of burning rubble. The heat and smoke was now so intense that he felt himself convulsing, hardly able to breathe, and the flames now surrounded him, closing in with ruthless ferocity, ready to devour his tissue.

His mind, released from the concentration of trying to flee, switched back to a time long ago. He had heard that your life flashed before you just before the moment of death, although with curious lucidity he wondered how that could ever be independently verified. As he faced that same defining moment, his life did not flash by but cast back to a similar incident many years ago in Uganda. He pictured Amin's soldiers throwing burning bottles through the windows and doors of his house, the Molotov cocktails for which the troops were so renowned for, while his father loaded the family in the pickup truck and raced away, wheels spinning. He looked back at the house, the flames engulfing the fashionable but simple colonial building, its wooden structure quickly collapsing as the flames spread rapidly, lit like a beacon in the twilight. Everything he possessed had been lost in the fire, and now it was happening all over again, only this time he was not looking at it from afar. He vaguely hoped that the pain would be bearable, but his rational side told him that dying like this would be excruciating. His skin was already starting to blister, and as he inhaled more thick black smoke, rasping and wheezing, he began to slip into unconsciousness.

Amongst the roar of the fire and the crashing of the shelves collapsing in the inferno came the higher pitched screech of glass shattering and just before he drifted away, he saw an alien-like figure emerge through the flames. He was in a heavy suit and rushed through the flames as if they did not exist. The figure bent over Rajesh and placed a device over his mouth. Instantly his lungs were filled with pure, sweet oxygen and he gulped in the beautiful fresh air. The figure guided Rajesh's hand to the breathing mask so he could hold it, and threw a wet, cooling blanket over the shopkeeper. Heaving with effort but with the skill of years of training, the firefighter hauled Rajesh over his shoulder and stumbled toward the door. The flames sizzled as they touched the wet blanket, but the firefighter crashed through the wall of flame and debris. The door into the safety of the night was open but was surrounded by the rushing flames which had now conjoined into one devastating inferno. A fierce cannon of water struck the flames, momentarily extinguishing them in the immediate area, and the firefighter took the opportunity to burst out of the door into the cool night. His colleagues immediately relieved him of the bulk of the victim, and they laid him on the ground, still sucking hungrily on the mask.

Sirens were howling and lights were blazing, and he spotted a group of curious onlookers clustered around the building, the light from the fire reflected on their blank, uncaring faces. Rajesh glanced over and saw the limp, unmoving figure of his uncle. Was he still alive? He could still feel the heat from the burning shop, the flames barely affected by the separate jets of water aimed directly into the orange fireball. Forty years of struggle had gone into the shop, but it had taken less than forty minutes to destroy everything he had worked for. At least he was alive, he thought gratefully as the pain and exhaustion finally overcame him.

CHAPTER 2

Detective Constable Kendrick studied the Asian man lying in the makeshift hospital bed in the crowded ward. His face was swollen and blistered, but there had been no attempt to clean his wounds, and he noticed that some of the blisters on his face were still weeping. He glanced at his partner, and the shock registered in his eyes as he put his hand to the mask that covered his nose and mouth. Donoghue was twenty-five, but his baby face made him look more like a teenager. The boy was an idealist, believing he could really make a difference when he joined the Force. Why the hell had they put the pair together? Maybe they thought that Kendrick could teach the young Irishman something. The boy had seen nothing, yet Kendrick had seen it all, and he was tired, sick of the constant treadmill of investigating crimes that rarely got solved because they no longer had the resources, or, more importantly in the last few years, the support of the public.

The man was stirring, obviously in pain. A couple of harried looking nurses rushed by in the ward corridors, but there were at least forty patients in a ward that looked like it had been designed for only twenty, and no nurses appeared to be available. The sound of bronchial coughs and choking reverberated in the sickly, heavy air, and Kendrick adjusted his mask to make sure it was secure. He had groaned when his tyrannical boss told him they had to visit the hospital to interview the victim. Entering a hospital was a hazardous business. They were a breeding ground for infections. The overcrowded wards and insanitary conditions made them feel like the field army hospitals he had seen in Iraq when he had served in the Gulf War as a young man.

Kendrick turned to Donoghue. Okay partner, let's find out what the guy has to say and get out of here. I don't want to stay in this place any longer than I have to. His voice was muffled by the mask, but he was reluctant to take it off. He had only six years left until retirement and he wanted to live to see at least some of it. Jesus, when he joined the police they had promised him that he’d be able to retire at fifty-five. He was fifty-eight now and would not get any pension until he was sixty-four. At least that was better than most professions. The pensions’ time bomb had exploded in the last five years and the Government had been forced during the Great Recession of 2018-2020 to pass emergency legislation to increase the general pensionable age to seventy-one. With the crime and murder rate having escalated in the last ten years, it was amazing if people reached that age at all. Maybe that was the plan. Work until you drop and pay your taxes and no need to take out of the pot if you’re dead. It all made some form of perverse sense. He feared for guys like Donoghue, just starting out in life and their career. What did the future hold for them?

Donoghue removed his mask as the Asian man opened his eyes and struggled to sit up in his lumpy bed. Kendrick glanced sharply at him but the young officer did not notice as he gently gripped the patient's shoulder and pushed him back down into the bed.

Don't get up sir, it's not necessary.

Sir? Kendrick shook his head, exasperated. Get on with it, he berated the young Irishman.

Mr Kumar, tell us about your attackers.

In faltering tones, punctuated by long pauses, Rajesh told them in vivid detail about the attack and described the youths to the best of his memory. He wept as he recalled his abject terror when he was convinced he would die. Donoghue took copious notes, but Kendrick stood impassively, ignoring the stares of the other people. Jesus, they couldn't even afford curtains around the beds now. He was glad they could not see his bored expression behind his mask.

The injured shopkeeper suddenly grabbed Donoghue's lapel and pulled him closer. They were from FREE, he cried out.

The two police officers exchanged glances.

Rajesh suddenly sat up, and his paper thin gown flapped open, revealing the blistering around his chest. Where is my uncle? He tried to get out of bed but Kendrick pushed him back, looking around for a nurse and finding none. Rajesh was too weak to resist.

I'm sure he's fine, Kendrick lied. I'll get a nurse shortly. Rajesh flopped back in the bed, a little calmer.

What are you going to do detective? They burnt down my business and nearly killed me. They left me and my family with nothing! I want justice! Perspiration formed in beads on his forehead, and ran gently over the angry red welts around his face.

Kendrick let out a bored sigh. He had hardly made any notes, leaving it to his young protégé but he was less sanguine than his idealistic colleague perhaps was. They would make some enquiries, and maybe establish a couple of leads that would come to nothing and the case would eventually be filed in a dusty drawer along with the other unsolved cold cases. That was often the reality of police work, and Kendrick had ceased to be shocked by such savage attacks many years ago. Perhaps when he had joined the Force after his service in Iraq he wanted to make a difference, much like Donoghue. It was so long ago he could scarcely remember, but he would not make any bold promises to the shopkeeper. Donoghue offered some empty platitudes to the effect that they would find and arrest these thugs while Kendrick stood back and wondered who he was kidding?

They promised to be in touch and made a hasty retreat. It was a relief to be out of the stinking hospital, and as Kendrick pulled off his mask and breathed in a long draught of the polluted London air as if they stood on the peak of Kilimanjaro at sunrise, he remembered that he’d forgotten to find a nurse to enquire about the uncle.

The old Victorian hospital, nearly one hundred and fifty years old, had been built to last, its solid foundations excavated deep into the earth. The floors below ground had for many decades been used for supplies and storage. They also housed the huge boilers and sewage machinery that serviced the large building. The floors were home to a multitude of rats and other vermin. In the last five years, this area had served a sinister new purpose, one that was rarely spoken about