The Manchester Vendetta

By Charles Tyrie

The Manchester Vendetta is set in Manchester, following Britains political and economic decline. The electoral success of the far right National Party under President Hartmann and the establishment of a totalitarian regime provoke an uprising against the new governments oppressive policies, resulting in the destruction of the city centre and violent retribution against the local population.

A battle of wits is fought between the head of the internal security Max Boyston and the divisional engineer for the city centre Guy Manners, who ruthlessly seeks retribution for the death of his wife and family.

A dangerous cat and mouse game is played against the background of the citys highways and underground network of sewers, an escape to the island of Anglesey and nail biting helicopter chase of Guy and his girlfriend Julie.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Feb 14, 2008
• ISBN: 9781467020596

Charles Tyrie

Charles Tyrie lives in Nottinghamshire with his wife Hilary. He is a chartered civil engineer and has spent most of his career in local government, where he worked in Manchester, Swansea and Rushcliffe. He is now retired and has written, The Manchester Vendetta a work of fiction, inspired by his work in Manchester and the summer holidays spent on the island of Anglesey. His first publication is The Langley Boy, part one of a trilogy, which covers his childhood years in Langley, Buckinghamshire, and captures the life of a small community in wartime Britain and growing up during the post war years of austerity.

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© 2009 Charles Tyrie. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 9/8/2009

ISBN: 978-1-4343-4545-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-2059-6 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Contents

DEDICATION

THE DEATH OF DEMOCRACY

MOSS SIDE UNDER SIEGE

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY

THE AVENGING ANGEL

A DANGEROUS GAME

SUSPICIONS AROUSED

A HAZARDOUS UNDERTAKING

THE BREAK-OUT

CROESO Y CYMRU

SPRINGING THE TRAP

YNYS MON

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DEDICATION 

This book is dedicated to my wife Hilary

and our friends in Manchester

THE DEATH OF DEMOCRACY 

Guy Manners heaved a sigh of relief as he approached the security of the highways depot. The grey, damp Manchester morning clung oppressively to the derelict buildings and he felt demeaned at having been stopped and searched, yet again, by the regime’s, arrogant, sour-faced militiamen at the barricade of barbed wire and poles, stretched across Great Ancoats Street. He swung his battered Honda 4x4 through the towering and crumbling brick gateway of the depot and sighed despairingly at the rotting timber gates and the faded, peeling sign that bore the name of a long forgotten city engineer. He drove cautiously into the sett-paved yard and surveyed the neatly stacked kerbs, paving slabs, and drainpipes stockpiled on the loading bays and looked thoughtfully at the unique collection of obsolete, rusting wagons and road rollers parked at the centre of the yard. It was a sad contrast to his arrival ten years earlier, when as a newly appointed divisional engineer, he had been met by a sea of workmen, loading their smartly painted, yellow vehicles, in readiness to repair the city’s network of roads and sewers. That period had marked the halcyon days of municipal engineering, when scheming politicians had pumped vast sums of money into the decaying inner-city areas, in a futile attempt to save their necks from electoral disaster. Their belated attempt to stave off defeat failed and they were unable to stop Russell Hartmann’s National Party from winning a landslide victory at the General Election.

Guy reversed the Honda into his garage and as he did so, his employees emerged unenthusiastically from the yard messroom, to await their daily instructions from the works manager, Jack Reagan. Strenuous efforts had been made to recruit younger employees but the majority of the labour force was well over fifty years old, because the military establishment had first call on young, able-bodied workers. Despite this setback, most of his employees were loyal servants of the city council and proudly wore their blue or khaki overalls, to signify their traditional occupations of highwaymen or sewermen. Guy mimed a cheerful good morning through his windscreen, as his gaze met their tired, lined faces and occasionally he received a smiling acknowledgement in return. He leaned forward to turn off the ignition and as he did so, he caught sight of the pepper-pot pattern of bullet holes in the warped, timber weatherboarding of the canteen, which reignited the painful memories he fought so desperately to suppress.

The new masters had ruthlessly seized the levers of power and it was difficult to conceive that such a stable and democratic nation as the United Kingdom could ever have fallen for their crude nationalistic election manifesto. He recalled how Russell Hartmann, whose face glared imperiously at him from every hoarding and street corner, used to harangue passers-by from his soapbox at the rear of Alfred Waterhouse’s splendid, neo-gothic Town Hall, where the crowd laughed at him, argued with him, and scoffed at his cleverly constructed ravings about the influx of immigrants and their adverse impact on British life and culture. He remembered how the police used to break up the fracas that erupted, utilising the traditional British Bobby’s approach, which was so civilised, compared to that of the current generation of swaggering, professional bullyboys, thugs and murderers, who had been released from jail to join the militia and provide protection to the new political establishment.

The decline in society started in the Thatcher years, with its overt attack on the trades unions and working people, followed by the privatisation of the gas, water, and electricity companies and their take-over by international corporations, which had no interest in the well-being of the communities they served and were merely a device for feeding the insatiable financial demands of their shareholders and the City.

New Labour’s euphoric election victory under Tony Blair led to a betrayal of its grass root supporters, who were vilified as they sought to rescue the soul of the Labour Party from the new apparatchiks and despite vociferous left wing opposition, the creeping privatisation of parts of the so-called, sacrosanct, National Health Service continued unabated, under the cloak of globalisation.

The war in Iraq and the deception practised on the American and British people by the Bush and Blair administrations, further undermined the electorate’s faith in politicians, and the seeds of disharmony manifested themselves in the former Lancashire cotton town of Burnley, where the British National Party achieved disquieting gains at the local elections. The Brown government promised reforms but the privatisation of the public sector continued apace and failed to address the increasing disparity in wealth, caused by the captains of industry, who siphoned off £millions into their remuneration packages, yet strongly objected to paying a few extra pence to their employees earning the minimum wage. The cost of living rose exorbitantly, as the property market continued its inexorable rise and young families could no longer afford a home of their own.

More sinisterly, the failure of the Brown government and its successors to protect British jobs had a much wider impact on the economy. Companies, which had been international giants, such as Pilkington Glass, ICI, British Steel, and a multitude of other industrial jewels in the crown of Great Britain plc, had been sold off to foreign companies and these demonstrated no loyalty whatsoever to their British employees. The new owners ruthlessly closed their British subsidiaries when the slump in the world economy occurred and sacked their UK workers, who lacked the protection of the EU’s generous redundancy laws. The British Government had boasted to its European neighbours that its flexible labour policy was the basis of the country’s prosperity and recommended that they should follow its lead. Fortunately, this approach was rejected by wiser counsels in Europe and the philosophy of flexible labour was exposed as a sham and a political device to depress workers’ wages.

The downward spiral continued, swathes of British industry were decimated through the government’s failure to control unrestricted imports from China and India and the slump in international trade hit the U.K.’s already weakened economy. The country looked for a scapegoat and the malicious right wing press bombarded its readers with a stream of vicious and unremitting headlines about foreign criminals, illegal immigrants, ethnic minorities, drug-dealers, and Yardie gangs. The steady stream of vituperative comments had a negligible affect on public opinion when the economy had been booming, but with the economy in free-fall, it fell upon the welcome ears of the dispossessed and heralded the rise of Hartmann’s, National Party, with its slogan Put Britons First.

The social fabric of the country continued to crumble, street battles raged between the forces of the left and the right, and the police, decimated by cuts in government expenditure, were unable to contain the violence unleashed by the opposing factions. Similarly, the army was unable to enforce martial law and impose a peaceful solution, because it had been drastically reduced in size and the majority of its servicemen were tied up supporting peacekeeping operations in the Middle East, Asia, and Africa.

Finally, hyperinflation suffocated the residual economy and resulted in more factory closures, longer dole queues, and the country’s demand for a strong man to clear up the mess.

Russell Hartmann became the new Messiah and his demagoguery bewitched the nation. Television crews pursued him endlessly, to capture interviews with the man, who promised work and prosperity for all, and who undertook to end the influx of illegal immigrants and criminals, who allegedly sponged off society and contributed to the country’s ills.

Despite the warnings of historians, who endeavoured to remind people of the monster, who had led the German nation towards Armageddon in the 1930’s, the doubters were swept aside by an irrevocable tide of populist support for change and the Conservative, Labour and Liberal parliamentarians were swept aside by Hartmann’s National Party.

The systematic reign of terror began cautiously, with the formation of militia brigades, loyal only to the regime, whose alleged role was to support the police and army in their peacekeeping duties. Ex-convicts and local thugs were incorporated into those brigades and trained in the use of firearms and other riot control techniques, in preparation for the coercion of the public.

Sadly, the United States and the European Union were far too preoccupied with their own domestic problems, to respond to the cry for help from the remaining democrats, who tried in vain to prevent Hartmann from withdrawing from the European Union and the country becoming a totalitarian state.

Miraculously, through subterfuge and an element of good luck, the King and members of the royal family, managed to escape to Canada before the authorities sealed the ports and airports and his regular messages of optimism to the UK, provided a glimmer of hope to the civilised members of the population that they had not been forgotten.

Guy opened the door of his car, stepped out and called good morning to his works manager, Jack Reagan, who was issuing instructions to the drivers.

I see that you have got some early morning visitors, responded Jack, nodding his head towards the white saloon car, embellished with fluorescent red and yellow stripes that was parked at the end of the yard. Guy paused, his jaw muscles tightened and his eyes narrowed, as the worrying thought crossed his mind that trouble had arrived with a capital T.

Colonel Kristiansen, head of the Manchester Militia, Ancoats sector, was unmistakable in his immaculately pressed, crisp, navy blue uniform; a peaked cap generously trimmed with decorative gold braid and highly polished patent leather boots. He was a frequent visitor to the depot and reminded Guy of the small, garishly painted, toy soldiers, which his grandfather used to buy him when he was a boy. The colonel was a typical officer of the new order. He was in his late thirties, intelligent, politically astute but noticeably devoid of a sense of humour. He was nevertheless a handsome man, with a square jaw, angular features, a broad forehead, a generous mouth and a ramrod straight back.

Guy did not recognise the colonel’s companion, who was carefully scrutinising him with cold, penetrating, blue eyes but the colonel immediately stepped forward and said with a smile, Guy allow me to present Max Boyston, head of internal security; Mr Boyston, Guy Manners, divisional engineer for the city centre and the man we spoke of earlier. Much to Guy’s surprise, his visitor made no attempt to shake his outstretched hand and merely acknowledged him. The man’s indifferent attitude placed Guy in a dilemma. He strongly objected to the display of arrogance but knowing of the official’s elevated status in security circles, he prudently decided to put the meeting onto a more cordial footing, and ushered the two men into his office.

Guy offered his visitors refreshments, picked up the internal telephone, and asked his secretary to bring in two cups of coffee for his guests and the usual cup of Earl Grey tea for himself. The interlude gave him the opportunity to study the two men from behind his mahogany topped desk, which formed a safe comfort zone, and a physical and psychological barrier between himself and his unwelcome guests. Intuitively he knew that Max Boyston was a dangerous man to deal with. He looked insignificant but when he spoke, he dominated the room and left Guy in no doubt that he expected complete acquiescence to his will.

Guy guessed from his appearance and sagging neck that he was about fifty years old. He had fair receding hair, a gaunt face and his lips were stretched tightly over his small but slightly protruding, nicotine stained teeth. What Guy found most disconcerting, was how the man’s fox-like eyes, darted around the room and scanned the titles of his periodicals, books, and engineering codes of practice, as though looking for any clue that he was an enemy of the state.

Guy was no fool. He had witnessed that as soon as the new and victorious regime had been elected, it had immediately dismissed all senior local government officers, on the pretext that they were carrying out subversive activities. He was determined not to be forced out of his job by false accusations and to protect his position; he decided to take a rather extraordinary and distasteful course of action. The regime’s draconian measures were a blatant misuse of the legislation introduced by the Blair Government in the aftermath of 9/11, the war in Iraq and terrorist attacks in London, when sadly; ministers ignored their supporters’ warnings that society would relinquish the shield of democracy at its peril.

The clean sweep of officials, who might oppose the regime, continued inexorably across the country, and civil servants, city engineers, chief executives, treasurers, and even second and third tier officers were replaced by party members, not always sufficiently qualified to carry out the responsibilities of the posts, to which they had been appointed. The warnings that this would cause serious problems to implement the regime’s policies at a local level, was a minor detail in the eyes of the new masters, such was their determination to establish complete control over the nation’s decision-making processes.

The film and book about Oskar Schindler provided Guy with the solution of how best to keep his job and protect his workforce. He decided that he would become a Party member, despite the fact that he abhorred the organisation’s loathsome policies, and he set out to construct an elaborate charade. He openly declared that he wished to give the regime his full support and resigned his position as a school governor and relinquished his membership of the Rotary Club of Altrincham, Hale, and Bowden. He then joined the Timperley branch of the National Party and received his unique plastic membership card with its embedded computer chip, photograph, and pin number. He attended the annual general meeting, which was predominantly about finance and the election of officers but studiously avoided the weekly political meetings with their overtly racist overtones and expressions of hatred and violence towards his fellow men. He also shunned the vast rallies, protest marches, and other street activities, through the simple expedient of explaining that he had to be on call to deal with emergencies. The ruling elite accepted his explanation with equanimity, because they had often seen him on local television, being interviewed about a major sewer collapse or a bridge struck by a high-sided vehicle. Politically, Guy kept a low profile, his membership card remained hidden in his wallet, and his employees were none the wiser about his dubious pact with the devil. Not surprisingly, Max Boyston and Colonel Kristiansen were fully aware of his status within the party’s hierarchy.

The head of security stood up and walked around the room. He had never visited an engineer’s office before and he was particularly fascinated by the coloured plans on the display panels that decorated the walls. He studied the map of the city centre, the plans of the major highways and local road network, the location of the operational depots, rivers, and streams, and the definitive sewer plan. He was also greatly impressed by the multi-coloured computer-generated graphs and bar charts, showing the performance of the various trades within the division and the costs and progress of the jobs in hand.

Guy often used the CAD package on his desktop computer to produce an engineering drawing or graphs but for a quick sketch, he preferred to use the double elephant drawing board on the plan chest, where he kept his German silver drawing instruments in their maroon, velvet-lined box. Boyston glanced down at them and shuddered involuntarily. They reminded him of the rather obscene, clinical instruments of torture that were used to wring confessions from his victims in the basement of his headquarters, where he had sent hundreds of men and women to their deaths,