The Boy in the Storm

By Nick Peel

'The Boy In The Storm' chronicles three days in the lives of a family and a government agent in Nazi-occupied Britain in 1957. This moving and personal tale of human survival under totalitarianism is intertwined with the historical events, starting in 1941, that led to the current situation. Past and present come together to weave a powerful new story from Sea Lion Press.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sea Lion Press
• Release date: Jul 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393305477

Book preview

Chapter 1

John

S hut up , you little bastard!

John looked up at the bedroom window in alarm, expecting the angry shout from Brian to be accompanied by an equally angry face. Luckily – luckily for him – there was no face, just the flutter of the dark brown curtain moving across the open window. His older brother, Brian, would be in their shared bedroom doing his homework, and as usual tolerating no interruption whatsoever. He'd even sworn at their mother once! Just once; he'd not do it again. His dad, William, said you'll not do it again! all the while their mother tried to pull his dad away. William was John’s dad, but not Brian's. That was a different story, but to cut that long story short, Brian's dad had been killed when Brian was just a baby in the war. Somewhere in France, but as John didn't know what or where France was he didn't ask, and no one seemed too bothered to talk about it. But there it was: step-brothers, with a seven-year difference and no love lost between them.

He hadn't been doing anything wrong, anyway. He considered throwing one more stone, just to annoy Brian, but decided against it.

Bored, Bored, Bored!

If people cared about such things, John would have been considered tall for his age, but in truth no-one noticed or cared. His mop of unruly light brown hair and shabby clothes, with the obligatory knee-length trousers and clogs, as well as the jacket that in previous years had been worn by his brother, would have not made him stand out from a crowd of any average nine-year-old living in the town at that time. The only thing that made John stand out – and it was a great feature, his mother told him – was his blue eyes. Extraordinary blue eyes, in fact.

But he was bored. He wished Ben was here! He missed Ben. He didn't know what a best mate really was, but Ben would have been it. But it was so long ago, he had trouble remembering what his mate had even looked like. He just knew that a few years ago (was it two or three?), they had been inseparable at the church school. Memories of the nuns and that old priest teaching them sums and bible class were still vague in his head, but he knew – he did at least know this – that he was happier! Why had they closed the school down? He knew something bad had gone on, but as usual he was kept out of it. Just the memory of the nuns crying and Father Whatshisface being loaded into the truck. A soldier shouting marksy or something like that.

You!

Oh, shite! A pig, John thought.

Were you just throwing stones at that house over the street? said the young man.

Hell, thought John. The pig had a local accent; he was from around here. They were the worst ones. He knew this without even having to listen to the conversations of his parents and other adults. The others, the taller ones who wore proper soldiers’ uniforms, weren't just smarter-looking and kind of cleaner-looking, but they just seemed a bit, well, more nice. At least they smiled at you before (or after) slapping you.

Me, sir? No, sir.

He adopted the stance he'd been taught since for as long as he could remember. Hands behind the back, feet together, head bowed forward. Always avoid eye contact with a pig, John, his mum had repeatedly told him.

Why are you not at school? You look old enough.

No, sir; I'm only nine. I don't start school for another five years.

Are you sure you aren't older? You look to be around fourteen to me, he said.

This was what Brian called 'scar-tastic' or something. John liked those sorts of games, and he was good at them! Quick as a flash: thank you, sir! I am told I am quite tall for my age.

The problem with the local pigs was that they had no sense of humour. If it had been one of the others, he was sure he would had laughed and ruffled his hair. But no, not with the locals. A slap in the face would be the order of the day, and that's exactly what John received.

Now you scum, stand up!

He stood.

Thank me.

Remember the words, John! Thank you sir for teaching me to respect my country.

Salute me!

Jesus, this one thinks he's the bees knees! He saluted in the way he had been taught.

Who do you love?

His mum, for sure. His dad (not a lot). Even Brian? Hmmmm? A word came into his head that sounded a bit like 'winstant' then he remembered the other word he knew – 'the king'.

John wasn't daft, though. He knew the procedure well enough. He’d seen the posters on the billboards often enough.

He clicked his clogs together, raised his arm at the spotty pig who thought he was a real copper, and stated with no hesitation:

Mine fu-ru. Long live the fu-ru, Hermon Goosering.

Shit! Run!

Brian

His older brother stood at the bedroom window watching John sprint off with lightning speed. Brian's eyes moved between the policeman and John for several seconds, and he was beginning to wonder if the pig would even react, let alone give chase. It seemed an eternity to Brian, but the gangling uniformed overgrown Boy Scout did at last rush forward, as if woken from a trance.

Probably shocked silly, thought Brian, with a slight smile. What had John sad to the idiot? One of those secret jokes they all made? What the hell was he thinking? Not thinking at all, as usual. He didn't worry about his brother, he'd seen him run before – and boy could he run! Only good thing he had going for him! – but John would be the death of him one of these days. The last thing he needed was those lot sniffing around here. Theirs was a tucked away, end-of-terrace semi at the end of a cul-de-sac, where not many people who didn't need to be around here would come. Just as Brian liked it. Just secluded and quiet enough to get on with his 'homework'. His mother probably knew what he was up to. Of course she would. She knows everything! His stepdad was none the wiser, though; a bit too thick, a bit too drunk – most times. As for his brother, the least said, the better. He didn't hate him, of course, it was just that he found him annoying, a hindrance. A hindrance to his work and to the people he worked with.

It won't be long now, thought Brian. Not too long now before they came.

He turned from the window and frowned at his wireless radio set, cursing himself, and John, for distracting him enough to make him forget to hide it in its usual place. The radio was duly placed back in its rightful place, with the cricket bat leaning against it. He studied the bat for moment, deep in thought. A possession of his dad’s, he'd been told. Killed in the Second World War, he'd been told. Now just a symbol of a banned sport.

Ha! Balls to that!

It won’t be long now! he said out loud. Won’t be long until those bastards pay for what they did to us!

Sheila

’E y up, Sheila. How 's your William going on, then?

Sheila Morris had been lost in a world of her own as she had made her way along the street, only partway through her two-mile walk back home, after a long shift at the mill. She was tired; the usual thrill of excitement of seeing her two boys – even though she worried incessantly about them both – only tempered by the dread of confronting whatever state of drunkenness William would be in.

She stopped walking and turned to greet Alma. Oh, you know what he's like, love. Either drinking in the pub or drinking at home; it makes no difference to him, you know.

They'll close them pubs down, you mark my words, said Alma. Surprised they haven't done it already, to be honest.

I expect they would if it wasn't for half of them bloody pigs going in there!

Too true, Alma laughed. But Willy needs to be careful you know, consorting with them – the pigs. People are beginning to talk!

Well you try telling him, Alma love! He won’t listen to anything I say to him!

Alma smiled and placed her hand protectively on her friend’s shoulders. Why don’t you just leave him, Sheila? You know you don’t love him, and besides he’s nowt but a bleeding brute!

You don’t have to tell me, dear, replied Sheila, but I can’t bloody leave him, can I? Where would I go? What would the boys do? Besides, the authorities wouldn’t let me. You know as well as I do that they don’t like people separating, ‘cos of the housing shortage, or whatever other reason they can think up.

Oh well, you know I’m here for you, love. You and the boys can come and stay with me, as you know full well! The authorities don’t seem to mind me living all on my own, she said with a coy chuckle.

Yes, well, replied Sheila, with raised eyebrows, we’ll not go into your friendships with the pigs, shall we?

Now now, Sheila Morris, don’t you start getting all high and mighty with me! she mock-scolded, with a laugh.

Nowt to do with me, my dear, replied Sheila through her own laugh. Anyway, William’s not all bad. It’s mainly the drink to be honest, and he’s never raised his hand to me, thank God, even though I do seem to spend half my time stopping him raising his hand to Brian and John.

Alma again placed a sympathetic hand on Sheila’s arm. I do feel sorry for your Brian. He’s just a bit too tensed up, if you ask me. Clashing with Willy all the time. Always arguing about the old bloody war and all that nonsense.

Sheila looked skyward, half expecting to hear the familiar drum of a plane overhead, almost still hearing the sounds of the bombs, many of them crashing to earth just yards away from where they stood, destroying large areas of the town centre, around ten years ago. Now the so called ceasefire was on, but things hadn’t got better; things had got worse, a lot worse. The restrictions had been tightened, and even the most innocent things had been banned. Why had they imposed their harsh rule? Why did they treat us like dirt? They said they were our friends! It was a question she'd asked herself so many times, and not really understood any answer she could come up with. Politics, she supposed. But what they did down south... that was unexpected, let alone evil. It had taken her a few years of confusion before she had come to that conclusion, but there was no doubt about it, it was evil. And what about Winston? No-one really knew that answer either. Some said he was dead; some – most – didn't really care. Black was white and white was black, it seemed.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soldier walking the opposite way.

Evening ladies, he said, with the usual smile and wave, totally unconscious of the gun he carried.

Well at least he wasn't a pig – or, to give them the proper name, Police Infantry Guard; someone had a sense of humour. Any fears that the women may have harboured that they may be in for some verbal harassment, on account of so-called loitering in the street, were somewhat lessened by the smart military uniform, rather than the shabby baggy cloth that the pigs wore. This one was a true solider, with rosy cheeks and seemingly well-fed stomach to prove it.

Good evening sir, they both said in unison. Alma even added nice night for it, with a bashful smile. The soldier grinned back at her and flashed her a wink of the eye.

They watched the man walk on by, giving cursory waves and greetings to others as he passed. He almost looked handsome, silhouetted against the backdrop of the shattered wreck of the old post office building, like one of those posters that were displayed around the town. Rosy cheeks and all grins of grim determination.

What is it with them lot? whispered Alma. It’s almost as if they think we owe them or something. That we should be grateful.

Well I’ll never trust them again, Alma, Sheila replied, careful to keep her voice low, not after what they’ve done to us. True, things do seem a little better of late, but there’s no forgiveness for them. We should never trust them again.

No, too true, my dear, too true! Come on, we best start walking back.

The friends linked arms as they made their way to the main thoroughfare that led to the north side of the town, where both women lived, just fifteen minutes walking distance from each other.

How’s your John getting on, anyway, love? Still keeping his head down I hope? Keeping out of trouble! continued Alma.

Yeah, he’s a good lad, but he is a worry to me though. Since they shut the church school, he's not had much to do. Obviously he's supposed to be officially working on the allotments, and I try to keep him busy with reading books and such, but you know John! I can’t get him to do what he don't want to do!

And do you think he knows? I mean, about Willy not being his... you know... his dad?

Sheila stopped, and pulled at her friend’s arm. No he does not! And you won’t be saying a word either, Alma Robinson!

Alma smiled and gently pulled her friend by the hand as they continued their journey. Sheila Morris! Don’t you know me at all? Of course I won’t say anything, you daft mare! But, do you think you'll ever tell him, well... that his dad was a, you know... a kraut?

Oh love, how could I? replied the tired mother.

Well, Sheila, take a bow! I think you've done a marvellous job with those lads. Now, let’s get you home.

John

John learned two things that day. Firstly, he wasn't as fast a runner as he thought he was. And secondly, he must be more stupid than even his brother had told him. Why did he say that to the pig? It was a joke he’d seen some of the older boys do to each other, but it was never supposed to be repeated in front of a pig!

Now he weighed up his options. The pig had him pinned against the wall with one elbow under his chin, and the other arm formed into a fist facing his face. His options were: kick him in the balls and take a chance to get away; or do as he was told, the way he had been taught. He'd been taught a few things though: don't listen to the radio; don't back chat your mum or dad; don't listen to anything crazy old priests told you; don't play cricket (not that he ever did anyway!); and make sure you get the salute and the answers to the questions right.

You little traitor, said the sweating pig, all pimples, bulging eyes, and loose fitting uniform.

Sorry sir! Sorry! I wasn't thinking! I was... confused. I got mixed up!

I'll mix you up in a minute, you insolent pig!

He thought of asking what insolent was, but decided not to.

Did your traitor mum and dad not teach you right? Obviously not, shouted the young policeman, Or were you making some kind of joke? Thought it would be funny, eh?

I said, sir, I got mixed up. I didn't say it on purpose. I was confused. Years of practice had taught John to turn on the tears at will. It sometimes worked.

I'll teach you to speak to me like that, to use those words to me... tears, is it? I'll give you something to cry about. I'll show you.

The pig was now removing his belt. Oh shite, thought John, I'm in for a beating now.

When John saw the man unbuttoning his trousers, his tears stopped immediately.

No! he screamed.

William

He sat in his usual armchair with his usual bottle (and empty bottles scattered around) of his favourite pale ale and his cigarettes, bleary-eyed, with his own thoughts and his own memories and his own shortcomings as his only friend. Sure, he had some – so-called – friends, but even he knew that they laughed behind his back. Not good enough for them; a bit of a joke; talked too much; bored them all. He knew that’s what they thought of him, and he didn’t really care. He was happy enough to stand his pals a pint or two if they would listen to his talk. The pigs listened too, sometimes telling him to shut his mouth, but now, more and more engaging with him, asking him questions. That was when he felt really special, when he knew he was being respected by them. And, contrary to what some – most – said, they were our friends! They were here to help us. OK, so they made some mistakes – well, who doesn’t? What mattered was strong leadership, and that’s what half of these lazy buggers needed. They were better than the last lot anyway, because the last lot had actually tried to make him work. These ones didn’t seem to care that much if he avoided work like the plague, so that was an improvement at least!

His eyes turned to the framed picture, on the mantelpiece, of him and Sheila. Happier times.

He remembered to this day when the photograph had been taken. Ten years ago in Slough, Berkshire. He, the cocky cockney lad from the East End of London; she the confident but shy lass from Lancashire. He’d been interned in a camp nearby, before being demobbed a few years after the first ceasefire (Ha! More like surrender!). He’d considered returning back to London and seeing if he could pick up from where he left off, dabbling in the selling of stolen goods, but after considering the real danger that that would now pose, he decided this was as good a place as any to stay put. When he heard about the Joint Agricultural Programme that had been set up, operating in the nearby abandoned farms, he decided to put his name down. We needed food, was his view, so why not help out? His Occupied Territories Restricted Permit allowed him to do the work and he was duly allocated.

Sheila came from what he laughingly called England, with a work visa. She said she hadn’t been allocated, but had volunteered, and had duly acquired the necessary papers that allowed her to travel south. He wasn’t sure that was true, but he didn’t care. He was besotted. They had hit it off from the start. She liked the cheeky chappy in him. He knew she would. They all did. But he knew this was different. This was love! For the first time in his life, he felt it, and he was happy.

She had a child already, Brian. Seven years old, and a moody little thing he was, but William got along as best he could. Brian’s father had been killed in the fighting just after he had been born. She confided in him, shared things. It truly made him feel wanted.

Why did it have to change? What had happened to create the rift between them? Why did those interfering buggers have to invade?

That’s when the arguments started. The first sign that they were not as blissful as they had thought. She steeled away for unexplained reasons. He was suspicious, but never followed it through. Finally, that fateful night, a week after the second invasion, she had decided, not him, that she would go north, back to her home town. It was where she wanted to be, and despite the danger, she would not change her mind. He tried; God knows how he tried to persuade her to stay there, or better still, go with him back to London.

It’s bloody safer in London, for Christ’s sake. The whole bloomin’ German army will protect us!

He always felt he would have remained firm, could have talked her round, but then the bombshell:

I’m pregnant, William.

Are you sure? I mean, my God... Sheila.

Are you mad at me?

A laugh. A blubber. A flowing of tears.

Mad at you? Mad at you? Oh love, oh Sheila, no, no, how could I be. Whatever you want... if you want to go back to Bolton, then let’s go. I don’t care. I’m with you.

He hugged her so tightly, and so closely. He felt so close to her then.

I’m going to be a daddy! He laughed, and cried the sentence out.

Sheila hugged him tight, tears streaming down her face. Her eyes were drawn through the crack in the curtains and she looked upon the symbol they had all grown to be accustomed to: the crooked cross of the swastika. Tears came afresh. It’ll be alright, my William. It’s a new start. I... we need it.

He came back from his thoughts to the house they shared with her Brian and his own son, John. How it had all gone so sour didn’t interest him so much now. Why he had little, if any, relationship with John interested him less. He was only interested in the ale, and he didn’t care what anyone thought. He only cared about his ‘politics’, as he called it. He was gathering interest from more and more pigs, and he loved it. Maybe this was the start of some kind of new career? He chuckled at the prospect of him joining them!

He thought of the bomb on London, and the magnitude of the decision they had made was not lost upon him. By deciding not to go back to London all those years ago, she had probably saved his life, her life and the life of their unborn child.

Brian

B rian, come downstairs ! Now!

He walked into the sitting room and stared at his step-father. What is it?

Sit down lad, I want to talk to you.

He could see William was drunk. He was in no mood for this.

Oh for God’s sake, I've got stuff to do, and you've had a skinful again...

Stuff to do? Skinful? It’s about time you started showing me some respect, you know, Brian!

Brain looked at his step-dad-slumped in the chair, eyes red. Respect that? he thought. No chance.

You always were a stubborn spoilt brat, Brian, continued his step father. When I met your mum, I took you in. I looked after you and she had nothing, and I made her what she is today. It’s because of me that-

What she is today?! interrupted Brian. You mean the wife of a drunkard? a woman who works all hours whilst you go and get pissed with your pig mates!

Brain reddened. He knew he had gone too far, but he wasn't for backing down.

Pig mates? Don't you speak to me like-

And you don't ever speak about my mum like that again... William!

You call me dad! You shit! I'm sick of telling you! You'd all be nothing without me!

He was getting up now, swaying and glaring at Brian.

I'll not call you dad... William. You can never be anything like him, you're a washout. A nobody. You're a bastard!!

William, now standing unsteadily, took a swing at his step-son and missed, of course. His body swivelled around following the momentum of his arm, leading to his head making its sudden peace with the mantelpiece before his inebriated body hit the floor.

Brain stood his ground, arms clenched by his sides ready to defend himself if he had to.

Your dad! Your dad! Don't give me that bollocks, you stupid little shit, shouted William, almost incoherently from his collapsed position on the floor, head jutted forward at Brian, whilst he rubbed at the growing lump on his forehead. Your dad was a fool. Got his guts blown out at Dunkirk, that's what he did. And for what? Eh? For what! I had the bloody common sense to surrender. Yes, don't look at me like that, I survived! I'm a survivor. What did your dad do but die with his blood all over the beach?

He died defending our country, that's what! shouted back Brian, tears rolling down his face, fists clenched.

Ha! Country? Ha! What’s that then? England? You're living in a dream world kid. It’s all gone and it’s not coming back!

No, and it won’t come back whilst we have bastard traitors like you siding with the pigs.

I don't side with... how dare... you fucking...

Shut up William, you're a mess; always have been.

I'll belt your face off you! Accuse me of siding with-

Yes, I do! And you sided with the others as well!

Others?

Them Nazi German lot!

I bloody did not! That's a lie. Bring whoever said that to me, and I'll tell them it’s a bloody lie!

You just don't care do you? You can’t be bothered. You're the big 'I am' and you think we’re all interested in your accounts of the bloody war, but we're bloody well not. We're all sick of you. Your so called mates take the piss out of you. Haven't you noticed, you pathetic piece of shit!

Trying to get up on one elbow and failing, William hissed I'm gonna kill you. Just you watch. I'm gonna kill you...

Oh piss off! What can you do? Look at you, sat there in your pool of ale – and your own piss as well! Oh God, you are disgusting! God, I hate you!

William laughed. Brain didn't expect that. He was raging, ready to beat the drunk to the ground if he had to.

I know what you've been doing, Brian, he slurred, looking at the floor.

You know balls all.

William, still smiling, lifted his head and looked at Brian, Oh OK, let’s go see the pigs, shall we? Triumphant now, let’s go and show them the radio, shall we? Let’s show them the maps, shall we?

Brain was stunned. This guy was too drunk to understand the time of day, let alone know what he was up to. Calmer now, he replied, Do you know – William – we're going to bring them down. I don't care what you think you know. We're going to bring them down.

You can’t bring them down, stupid Brian! They are too strong. You can’t beat them!

Well I've heard... know... that they can be beaten, so... screw you, William.

Beaten? a laughing cough prevented William from speaking for the next few seconds. Finally, Beaten? Only they have the bomb. You can’t beat the bomb, he said with an air of satisfaction.

Brain stood back a pace then approached the drunken wreck, shaking his head. These people were so naive, so gullible; they needed to know the truth.

Are you so thick- no forget that, I know the answer. Don't you understand, you ignoramus? The bomb was dropped on them as well. Rumour is they had three of them.

The door to the house opened.

Sheila called out Hello, I'm home.

John

The pig was now removing his belt. Oh shite, thought John, I'm in for a beating now.

When John saw the man unbuttoning his trousers, his tears stopped immediately.

No! he screamed.

Stop right there.

There was no shout. The voice was calm and soft and came from behind the pig. John tried to look around the frame of the man holding him, but could see nothing.

The policeman spun around, trousers falling around his ankles, and instinctively grabbed for his rifle and held it, bayonet charge stance, in front of the stranger who had the audacity to interfere. He faced a 40-ish looking man, smartly dressed in a suit, clean shaven, with wavy brown hair parted at one side. The stranger said nothing, just stood there looking at him.

What the hell has it got to do with you? shouted the officer. Piss off before I do you one!

As if to emphasise the point, he lurched a few inches forward in the same charging stance, muzzle of the rifle aimed at the other man’s head.

Just what in the hell do you think you're doing, boy?

And I said, piss off, it’s nowt to do with you. Unless you want a head full of...

His words were cut off in his throat. He stopped, dead in his tracks as he belatedly recognised the accent.

How do I know you are-

A flick of the wrist. Credentials presented.

Immediately standing to attention and saluting, the pig shouted Sir!

The stranger appraised the young policeman, a flicker of a smile touching his lips as he continued, So, where were we? What in God’s name are you doing to that poor little boy there?

Discipline, sir! He disrespected me... us, I mean, sir! Did the Nazi salute to me, and made some kind of Joke about the Germans. He paused. Tried to stab me, sir! Had a knife, sir!

No I didn’t! John protested, causing the pig to immediately round on him and snarl I told you once, you little bastard, one more word-

Shut your mouth, son. It was a calm and cold warning that came from the stranger, immediately causing the pig to indeed shut his mouth. The man walked forward a few paces and appraised the scene in front of him. He looked studied John with curious interest:

You OK, son?

Yes, sir, said John, and then as if an afterthought, straightened up and placed his fingers against his brow, as he saluted the man.

No need for you to salute me, son, laughed the stranger, you're a civilian as far as I can tell!

John knew from the accent and now the smile that this must be one of the soldiers, just not in a uniform.

The man now turned his attention back to the young police officer. So, you thought you'd discipline this boy by waving your privates at him, did you?

The pig reddened, No, sir!

Then why are your trousers around your feet, eh?

Sir, I... sir... said the pig, as he reached down and quickly began to pull his trousers back up his legs.

The stranger glared at him, before instructing him Go stand over there. I will need to speak to you, OK?

Sir, yes sir!

He watched for a few moments as the young policeman stalked away, before turning to the boy and giving his best reassuring smile.

What’s your name son?

Sir, John, sir... John, sir... I mean...

Hey, take it easy. Relax. You’re gonna be OK. Now, what did you say to him to get him all riled up like that, eh?

I didn’t mean to, sir, I got mixed up a bit, and said something I shouldn’t have.

You pulled a Nazi salute, did you? He laughed. Not what we do around here! What else?

Sir, he asked me ‘who do you love?’

Hmmm, and you know the routine?

I do, sir, but I got confused, and forgot. I said... I said...

Go on, it’s OK.

I said ‘Mine Fu-ru, Hermon Goosering.

Ha! Holy... It’s a while since heard that one! Plucky little joker, ain’t you, eh? He shook his head as he continued to appraise the boy.

I knew the answer, sir. At first I thought I should say ‘the king’, and then I thought it was Swinton, or-

Swinton? Oh, you mean Winston, said the stranger with raised eyebrows. Yeah, well that's OK, ‘cos your good old boy... he thought for a moment ...is one of the good guys. Now look at me, John. It’s OK, you can look me in the eyes. That's it, we're alright. He adopted a mock serious tone now. You do know the correct response though, don’t you?

Yes, sir, I remember now... It's...

Sir, will you be needing me any more? It’s just that I need to report back in at HQ, as my patrol is- shouted the pig.

Shut up now!

The pig paled and remained silent.

The stranger crouched to a squat position, and held John by both shoulders as he looked into his eyes. See that vehicle over there? Yes? OK, you go climb into the passenger seat, and I'm gonna take you home to your mum, alright?

John sat in the car, as he was instructed. The man had called it something peculiar, but it was just a car. He’d never been inside one before, but he knew it was just a car. He couldn’t see where they had gone, but caught a glimpse of an elbow in the rear-view mirror. Without thinking about it, John leaned forward and adjusted the mirror, so that he could get a better view.

The other two seemed to be speaking; the smartly dressed stranger very calm and smiling, whilst the trembling local pig was looking very agitated, putting his hands to his eyes.

It seemed to John that the next few seconds lasted an eternity, as if time itself had slowed down. He didn’t watch in horror because it happened so fast, but he did watch in rigid shock as the stranger pulled something from his jacket pocket and placed it in one swift movement against the pig’s head. Then a popping noise. A spray of red. The pig slumped to the ground and was still.

He watched, wide-eyed, as the stranger slowly turned his body, a swivel of the heel, and walked back towards the car and towards John.

Raymond – a Police Infantry Guard

The young man lay where he fell, the warm liquid spreading in a pool around his head like some bloody halo, matched by the warm liquid that soaked through his groin and legs. His pupils were fixed and dilated, and in that split second before the blank emptiness of death took him, his life literally did pass before his unseeing eyes.

Ray had only been in the Police Infantry Guards for just over three months. Police Infantry Guards! It was bloody obvious what they would call them! He thought it had been done deliberately for some reason he couldn’t fathom. But three months it was since he’d joined up; ten weeks’ basic training and now he was halfway through his third week of patrol. Basic training seemed to encompass a lot of being shouted at and a lot of early rises and crap food. And of course the lectures, and the never ending sermons about the importance of their role. Basic had also seen the continuation of the physical and verbal abuse from the other recruits that he had become so much accustomed to as a child.

Ray was from Wigan; therefore they didn’t assign him to Wigan, but to the nearby town of Bolton. Too much risk of a reprisal attack, or blackmail, or worse if he had to keep order with the people he grew up with, they had said. He didn’t care. He would rather have bossed around those who had bossed him around all his life.

He had been 14 when the current ceasefire finally became official. He’d keenly followed the war for as long as he could remember – albeit being very young during the first invasion. He still remembered the initial panic, followed by the calm descending as his family and neighbours settled down to the knowledge that the war was still quite a distance away, even if it was on our shores. He remembered no loving farewell as his dad, who was actually in his early sixties, was recruited and sent to the Southern Front, just a cursory ta ra our Raymond. He didn’t return. He remembered the first ceasefire, and he remembered the second invasion, only this time it was different: this time it was our friends – or so they said – and it was a damn sight closer to home as well.

Again, the panic. Again, the families fleeing each and every way they could. But where were they to go – North? Too dangerous. South? Definitely not. Most stayed still and tried to brave it out, hoping the fighting would move around them.

The atomic bomb changed all of that.

The new restrictions that followed were unexpected, and then the confirmation that the ceasefire was still in place was even more so. But even he had to admit that it was welcome. Everything seemed to be getting out of control and friends suddenly weren’t friends any more. It seemed like black was white and white was black. But if Ray was truly honest with himself, he would have admitted that he didn’t really care which side he was on, as long as he could no longer be pushed around, and he was the one doing the pushing.

When he heard about the new unit being established – the Police Infantry Guard, under the direct control of the occupying forces, not some tin-pot provisional government nonsense – he knew that this would change his life. This was it; this was the role for him.

It was Ray’s twenty-third birthday when he first went out on patrol. That was sixteen days ago. He’d decided when he’d first seen John that this was a kid he would have some fun with. He won’t be the only one either. He’d done it before, and he could do it again. He had snuffed out the lives of three young children in the past two weeks, once he had satisfied his urges. He hadn’t intended killing them, but he could hardly let them walk away and blab! Besides, the authorities devoted very little effort or resources into cases of missing or murdered children. Nothing could stop him! He had the power now! The world had changed and men like him could do what they wanted.

So he had thought.

Raymond’s last word before the stranger (who should have been an ally, who should have turned a blind eye to his perversion – his curse) pulled the pistol from his pocket and blew his head open was a quiet yes.

The question had been Are you sorry for your sins?

John

The stranger got in the car and nodded to John.

I sent him back to base, son. He'll be disciplined for what he did, don’t you worry. One of the bad ones. Shouldn’t have got through recruitment, but hell, we're OK now, aren’t we?

John was shaking. He’d seen dead bodies before, but he’d never actually seen a person killed before. In truth he was terrified. An hour ago he had been minding his own business in his back garden, now he was in a car (what did the stranger call it? A ‘ve-he-cal’ or something), with a man who’d just killed another man!

Are you OK, son? continued the man. Don’t let that bang upset you. That was just me taking a pot shot at a rat I saw.

John looked at the stranger. Again, he seemed to be inviting eye contact, so it was probably OK to follow his lead and look back at him, as strange and awkward as that felt. He was one of the soldiers, he knew that alright! Tall frame, rosy cheeks, the obligatory grin, but not in uniform. John hadn’t seen many of the soldiers, the occupiers, without a uniform before. He realised he’d been looking too long, and flicked his eyes away quickly, and as he did so, his eyes fell for a second on the lapel pin the man was wearing. It was there alright, the final proof; he didn’t need to see a uniform, the pin said it all.

So how’s things at home, John? OK? How do you get along with your father? Aright is it?

John nodded Yes, sir.

And his name is...?

He looked at John with a questioning look, and a faint smile.

William, sir.

William, sir. William...?

I... Pat... Patterson, sir.

William Patterson, eh? Is that so? So, your last name is Patterson is it then, John?

No ,erm... Sir, Morris... sir.

Morris? Your mum’s name, eh? Why not your dad’s, then?

John’s shaking had now been accompanied by beads of sweat running down his forehead. How did the man know his mum’s last name was Morris? He didn’t want to say anything else; he was sure he would say something that would get him into trouble again.

I... I... don’t know sir, I...

Heck! Look at me giving you the third degree! Where are my manners? Now, let’s get you home!

The man shifted the car into gear, before frowning as he adjusted the rear-view mirror back into position. He seemed to pause a second before giving John another sideways glance, then extended his hand.

I’m McKendry, by the way. James McKendry. Pleased to make your acquaintance.

John looked at the extended hand before reluctantly and nervously taking it. He half-expected it to be crushed, like some of his dad’s mates liked to do to show off (even Brian sometimes did). This time it was a gentle but firm handshake. It reminded him of the old priest from the church school, how he would shake his hand and pat him on the shoulder. A sudden flashback, just a split second: Always remember to be yourself John. They can take everything away from us, but not our hope. Be yourself always!

He blinked away the memory as the man, McKendry, patted him on the shoulder, released the clutch and moved the car off.

Would you like me to direct you to my home, sir?

The man turned and smiled at John. No need son, I know the way.

John averted his eyes once more and decided it was best to say nothing. The image of the lapel pin was still filling his mind’s eye. Everyone around here knew what the symbol on the pin meant. It was flown from the roof of the police building in the centre of town, and a few other buildings he wasn't allowed near. All the pigs had it banded around the tops of their arms. Everyone knew the hated symbol of the ‘stars and stripes’.

1941 – The Year of Assassinations: Part 1

It was a cold and wet March morning when the ship docked at Exeter. None of the major ports on the South Coast were even remotely operational, but this symbolic return needed to be done now and done properly. It was being directed from Berlin and had to go ahead as soon as possible. The brainchild of Hitler and Goebbels, this was a central aspect of the consolidation of the British population, and so the order had been – timing is paramount; no delay. They could have landed at a much smaller port, but the dignitary had objected in the strongest terms that his return should not be on a little tugboat or dinghy, but on a ship capable of docking, and the ceremonial walk down the gangplank.

Goebbels, in hindsight, actually thought it a good idea. Docking at Exeter would allow a train-ride procession through the southern counties of England, to waves of cheering crowds, maybe stopping off here and there to shake a hand or two or to sample a scone and some scrumpy presented by some smiling pretty girl in a white dress. Oh yes, this would be a masterpiece of propaganda.

Even Lord Halifax was in attendance (although he hadn’t really been given an option) as titular head of the English Government based at York. It wasn’t the same as Vichy France. Vichy France somehow just rolled off the tongue, whereas York England just didn’t have the same ring. So England it was, just plain old England – the so-called self-governing part of mainland Britain, which shared its subservient position alongside so-called self-governing Scotland and self-governing Ulster.

Halifax straightened himself up as the gangplank was set in place. He was cold and he was wet, but he knew that if the culture and prestige of Britain was to have any form of a future, he must play along. He knew, and they knew, that he wasn’t a collaborator, but it wasn’t relevant. It was what worked, and the fact was that the war against Britain was won. They had lost. To prevent any further unnecessary bloodshed, the remainder of the British forces in defence had surrendered, backed up by the armistice at the Treaty of Oxford. Halifax had signed the armistice document, and he wasn’t ashamed of his actions in this. Better to live to fight another day, he told himself.

Halifax made a mental note. He must speak to Reich Minister Goebbels about the status of Scotland and Ulster at the dinner tonight. He knew he had the ear of the Fuhrer; he must make his case for an eventual reunification. He would give Goebbels the finest wines, and...

The band struck up the familiar tune of God Save the King as the dozens of uniformed German dignitaries – some Wehrmacht, some SS, some from the office of the Reich Protectorate of Britain – clicked their heels and saluted the emerging figure. The awaiting English Government officials, standing in a line on the dockside, didn’t quite know what to do; a little embarrassed, they seemed to collectively opt for straightening their backs as best they could, some manfully making an effort to sing along with the words of the anthem.

The SS guards emerged first, and then he came into view, flanked on one side by his wife and on the other by Joseph Goebbels himself, all broad smiles and chatter of encouragement to the returning hero.

He raised his trilby hat to the sky and saluted the awaiting dignitaries, tears in his eyes, with his ever-beaming proud wife beside him. The man looked genuinely proud to be back home, and even those who had little, if any, time for him would admit to being a little misty-eyed at the scene.

The hat never came back onto his head. To those who saw, it looked as if a blackened red blot had suddenly appeared on his forehead. He stood still and rigid for a second, before slowly sinking to the floor. The rictus grin that Goebbels wore seemed to drip from his face, transforming into a look of sheer terror, while the loving smile stayed in place on his wife’s face, as if not accepting what she had just witnessed, even though her eyes were wide with unbelieving shock.

Halifax was mesmerised, trying to process what on earth had taken place in those three seconds, whilst almost subconsciously hearing the shout of Long Live King George to his right before another bang and the sound of a crumpling body, people dashing out of the way, a small spray of blood covering his face.

As he was pushed away by one of his own SS guards, he tried to make sense of the chaos around him. The memory that would stay with him for the rest of his life was of three very different figures: the crouching, whimpering figure of the Minster (was he crying?); the wife wailing and howling to the sky in what seemed an unnatural and disturbing way; and the sprawled, slumped shape of the man who would never be crowned King, his royal blood draining from his head.

Before he was whisked away, Halifax thought it sad that the Duke of Windsor was alone, not one person attending to him as he died.

1941 – The Year of Assassinations: Part 2

The President shuffled his papers and placed his pen on the desk. His head was throbbing again, and he methodically massaged his temples to try to relieve the pain whist he pondered what he was to do.

Inaugurated again, for the third time, two months ago, he knew that this next term of his presidency would be dominated by war. The German occupation of Britain and the subsequent treaty that had followed put to bed the Land Lease project that had always been a major plank of his third-term foreign policy. That was done, and no matter what Churchill said to him in his frequent and long letters and telephone calls, the President could see no way of assisting him now. He was under no illusion, however, that the Nazi threat had ended there.

They would need to speak to Stalin; would need to convince him of the validity of the intelligence they had gathered that showed a real threat of a German invasion, possibly later this summer, or the year after. But then, what would the outcome be? He felt he could trust Stalin, but many of his advisers warned him of the possibility of one dictator on the European continent being replaced by another. No easy solutions to Europe for his administration. Iceland had been secured, much to the objection of the German Reich, which the Americans continually stone-walled. Other than that, North Africa could be the only other option if the US were to keep a presence in that region.

Then there was Japan, and the growing hostility in the Far East; a hostility that was directly affecting US interests in the