An Act of Sedition

By Mike Gill

"In a matter of just a few years from today and as an authoritarian

government tightens its grip on the UK, Ambrose Jackson gets

caught up in the pro-democracy fight against creeping totalitarianism.

As he falls from his cosy world of success as a journalist achieved

through ticking all the work hard, play hard boxes, he

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ukiyoto Publishing
• Release date: Jul 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9789361728389

Book preview

Chapter 1

A

mbrose was waking up; he knew that much. He didn’t know what sort of place he was in, but it stank; he had no idea where he was but it sure as hell wasn’t Castlefield. Keeping his eyes closed at first thinking, hoping, that all this unfamiliarity would disappear as a dream vanishes or a nightmare fades once one escapes from its clutches; but it didn’t; it wouldn’t.

The smell of people, their sweat, breath and bodily fluids got stronger, and the noise got louder while the pain began to become pains and segregate itself into a stab here and a dull throbbing there. His fingers began to gently feel his environment and tell him that he was definitely not at home. First came the thin plastic covered mattress with wet, sticky, patches formed from his blood, sweat and God knows what else, and then the smooth, solid, cold bed made from some sort of stone or cement.

Breathing was difficult. Partly because of the agony it caused to his ribs but mainly because the air was running short on oxygen and long on the carbon dioxide of so many other lungs breathing out their stale contribution to the atmosphere. He was gasping, coughing, struggling while the sweat ran from his forehead to his nostrils mixing with a trickle of blood, causing an irrational sense of drowning.

He began to breath though his mouth but that just made his increasingly dry tongue get a taste of the smell of the room. At some point he was going to have to face his situation and open his eyes but not yet, not for another moment, not until he was forced to end his denial of whatever this predicament was.

As the pain identified itself in a multiplicity of locations and intensity with each pain competing to be more significant than the others, so too the smell multiplied and became smells that began as individuals and then merged into an anonymity of smells among smells. Each smell of human origin and all without the masking of perfume other than some cheap and nasty aftershaves of some description.

Pure, raw, and intimate smells of men; their body odour, their lack of dental hygiene, musty damp on their clothes, and their toilet.

He began to choke on the stench but still refused to open his eyes to the truth opting to hang on to the nightmare he preferred to be in and believing, hoping, that he was going to wake up from this bizarre world and find himself beginning the day again. Beginning the day in his warm bed with its pure cotton sheet and down filled pillows.

As a small piece of vomit moved into his throat and stopped for a moment halfway up, he began to cough and convulse but still clung to the hope that this was a dream. He felt a hand on his shoulder shaking him gently while its owner whispered, Ambrose, Ambrose, you need to sit up before you choke. C’mon buddy, sit up.

Ambrose began to stir but a lightning and thunder of a pain shot through his head making his eyes close tighter and his mouth cough, vomit and scream in such quick sequence that the noises were almost seamlessly joined. Spasm took over as he instinctively jerked upwards and on to his elbow to prevent the phlegm and vomit from ending him there and then. He heard the voice again, a light but manly voice with a gentle Irish accent, C’mon Ambrose, it’s OK now.

The hands of the voice softly held him by his shoulders slowly pulling him into a sitting position and he began to open his eyes with a reluctance bordering on resistance. One of them refused the command to open fully and the attempt simply informed him of yet another pain with this one being a combination of a sting and a throb at the front pushing a knife backwards into his head. With his left eye he was able to begin to scan the new world and take in the confusion it presented.

He felt fear of the unknowing and the unknown. In a moment he worked out that he was in a cell of some kind and there were at least a dozen companions of whom he knew none. The embarrassment of the vomit dribbling from his chin onto a torn and blooded shirt disappeared when he saw the stainless-steel toilet without a seat but with paper hanging in and out of the bowl, with an unconscious man of many tattoos lying so close to it that the splashes from the previous user were visible pools not six inches away from his head.

Images of Dante’s Divine Comedy came into his mind and now that he had worked out that he was somewhere not far from Hell, he began to search for knowledge. To start with, how on earth did he end up in this hellhole with all these animals?

Ambrose, look at me Ambrose.

The repetition of a name brought a new concern into his head. His thoughts so far were about where he was and now and he began to wonder who he was. Not just who he was, but what he was. He could see his colouring was a light brown, his fingernails immaculately groomed and his torn clothing expensive, but what was his role on this earth? Good? Bad? Indifferent? Family? Friends? Why was he being punished? Questions rushed through his head finding no answers.

He assumed and accepted he was called Ambrose, whoever that was, after all the name felt comfortable. That was the only thing he knew of any truth but who was this stranger who obviously knew him? Maybe he could tell him about who this Ambrose character was.

Looking, with his remaining functioning eye he was learning, he weighed up his companion. Blue eyes, clear and compassionate blue eyes that contrasted with the near black and shabby hair just short enough to allow the glimpse of a single gold earring. A three or so-day growth of beard with the edges shaved to create the illusion of effort at style which contradicted the scruffy hair and grungy clothes.

As if the stranger with the dubious dress code could read minds the answer came, Ambrose, my name’s Malachi and you’re in a police cell. I think we’re in Collyhurst but I’m not sure.

A police cell? A fucking police cell? What the fuck am I doing here? The language was both natural and yet he knew not his norm in unfamiliar company, but this situation was beyond all comprehension.

Whatever he didn’t know about himself, he knew this was not a place of any familiarity to him. His growing anger was suddenly distracted as a new pain came as a result of him opening his mouth and his jaw sent an electric shock behind his ear and into the brain somewhere in the back half where it pulsated for a while. This was a pain that diminished to a thump when still and morphed with the slightest movement into a hammer blow of intensity.

The background noise of groans and clandestine chatter were occasionally interrupted by one of more of his unknown companions banging on the door and shouting a list of demands for water, food and his, indeed, everyone’s rights to be acknowledged. As one man called from this cell, others, some women in another cell shouted back and then a chant or song would ensue to be met by what could only be assumed to be a police officer shouting something like Shut the fuck up you commie bastards.

The police request was never met by obedience and only served to elicit a chant of Fascist scum, fascist scum, accompanied by a beat hammered out on iron doors by as many fists as could reach.

As one chant died down another began, The people united will never be defeated, the people united will never be defeated. And so it went on until a natural end came through the possible boredom or repetition meeting the response that only a metal door and thick brick wall could provide.

Malachi ignored the chanting and moved closer to Ambrose. You were on the demonstration and…

I was on the what? What demonstration?" Ambrose had only sparse memories of anything at the moment and he was gathering them together as quickly as he could to try and make himself into a person with history, but he just knew that he would not be the demonstrating kind.

You know? The pro-democracy and anti-authoritarianism demo. He paused for a moment to let it sink in, but Ambrose just looked blank, We held it on the anniversary of the Peterloo massacre and the VFUK, White Power and assorted racist bastards got stuck into us. Within no time at all there were police on horses and others with shields and batons all beating the living daylights out of everyone. Only demonstrators got battered or arrested. Not one fecking Nazi, white power shit picked up.

As Malachi spoke, he winced. Ambrose looked more closely at his companion noticing blood, lots of blood, some dry, some still shiny and wet on the side of his face, under his nostrils, matting his hair, soaked into his tee-shirt and green canvass jacket.

Ambrose slowly looked around the cell and saw what he would expect demonstrators to look like, or at least dress like. Jeans, combat trousers, boots, tee-shirts with slogans, some wild hair of many colours, some spiked others in dread locks. He looked at Malachi with his unkempt hair, three-day beard and fiery blue eyes and then glanced down past his own torn Armani denim shirt towards his Gucci shoes and knew for sure he didn’t belong. Malachi followed Ambrose’s eyes and silently agreed.

The memories that had been hidden began to emerge. First as a trickle that became a stream and then in the end a river, a thundering torrent of thoughts that made his present nightmare into a paradise.

Ambrose began to talk in quiet tones directly to the ear of Malachi. There was no reason for this since not one person in that cell was interested in the slightest.

He remembered that the day had begun quite well. A nice warm August Saturday with the promise of good company and relaxation to come.

He’d gone for his usual morning run from his Castlefield apartment down to the canal basin where the Rochdale and Bridgwater Canals meet, up through the city and past the Gay Village which was now a discouraged area of congregation as specified in the recent Sedition and Diversity Act.

He increased his pace as he ran under the railway station at Piccadilly holding his breath to avoid breathing in the vile stench of the vagrants who lived in the shadows and their bodily waste which had infused within the walls and towpath. Emerging into the sunlight he continued through the urban canal-scape where all the social housing people lived in their box like dwellings at the expense of contributing citizens.

He ran and ran for something like six miles and as far as Newton Heath before turning back to travel the same urban gauntlet as its denizens awoke from their drunken stupors to face yet another day of their dismal existence. The imperative now was to get back to civilisation before the muggers, beggars and assorted feral youths began to emerge from their pits to spoil his morning.

After a long relaxing shower, minimalist breakfast of yogurt followed by honey with a single piece of dry toast it was time to stroll over to the piano bar on Deansgate where all the Manchester emergent elite pay twice as much for a continental beer, brewed in Leeds, as they would anywhere else. There he would meet with his fellow aristocrats of the meritocracy. This was where he would be in the company of the Cheshire set transplanted to their well to do colony in up market inner Manchester.

No one commented, of course, about the mixed race Scouser with the Oxbridge accent; at least not within earshot. After all, he had worked his way up that ladder and demonstrated an extraordinary ability to be in touch with his white roots in all ways possible. Bach, Beethoven, and Beatles; a bit of prog rock mixed with Ibizan club beats for fun nights out and in with friends who could party all night after spending all day making lots of money.

But this day he didn’t get to his destination. He remembered the radio broadcast by that irksome police inspector. Flynn, he thought his name was and he was warning people to stay at home and not to go near the planned riot organised by a seditious left-wing coalition of agitators and social misfits which was to be attended by the ever present ‘rent a mob’ thugs. Ambrose had no intention of going anywhere near this unnecessary gathering of ne’er- do-wells and so set off to live his day as he would normally do.

Then he remembered something else and began to get agitated. He could hear music in his head, brass bands and drums in the distance. Whistles and chanting drifted through the air. He was walking towards the sound and the sound was marching towards him, but the road ahead was cut off.

There was a wooden barrier with yellow and black painted zigzags on the horizontal bar, stretched across the tarmac with police officers swinging batons and wearing crash helmets guarding it. Then he noticed that there was no one else on the street between him, the barrier and Deansgate but there were people gathering behind him.

He looked over his shoulder and saw rows of men, maybe some women, in dark blue uniforms. Each had a clear plastic circular shield; each beat the shield with a black baton, and each wore a dark blue protective helmet with a shaded visor and white numbers on the front.

They all looked tall and broad and although he couldn’t see their faces, he knew they were grim and determined. Fear began to stir but his feet would not move. Fight or flight were hardly options as he remained transfixed.

The rhythm from the shields competed with the beat of the drums coming from in front of him and he felt a sickness in his stomach as the sound became louder and louder to carry its message of impending violence to the unseen marchers.

As the noise from Deansgate got closer, he saw the police move the barrier and then a line of horses move from the right of them to block the main road to the marchers. With nowhere to go they began to walk towards him still playing and chanting away until they noticed the ranks of blue in front. It was a trap, and in that moment the marchers at the front knew it.

Ambrose saw the fear in the eyes and faces of the marchers. The fear became terror and confusion within an instant as the ranks at the front began to change from unified into chaotic. Each knew what was about to happen; some changed shape too ready themselves for the fight, some stopped marching and tried to hold back those who came behind, others tried to run away only to find there was nowhere to go.

Then came the screaming but it sounded far away. It was coming from the back of the demonstration and unknown to Ambrose at the time resulted from an attack from the rear by skinheads, bikers and Volksfront UK patriots looking like very ordinary people but with faces distorted by pure hate and carrying baseball bats, pickaxe handles and carpet knives.

The back of the march forced the middle to push the front forward as they fled in panic into a wall of people. The middle pushed into the front and some broke though the brass band into the empty street at which point the alleyways and side streets spewed out large men wearing dark clothes and military style boots with clubs in their hands and black armbands on their sleeves.

And then the ranks of blue that had created the rhythm and the beat of the dance moved forward. The trap had been sprung and there was nowhere to go.

Fear had become terror and now terror became panic. Almost everyone was running, screaming, shouting. Some stood petrified with their faces contorted into silent shrieks while waiting to be struck down by the men in the military boots. Run or stand still, fight or flee; none of it mattered in the end because only one side was going to win.

Ambrose remembered forcing his legs to work and started running for the second time that day but this time it was for his life. Now he was running away from the horses but towards a mass of blue men with colourless shields who beat a frightening, hypnotic tune with their batons. Never had he known this fear before.

His heart was pumping, and his legs felt weak; too weak to carry him he thought but they did the job his dismay demanded. He turned and ran towards a side street without thinking why that direction was the best as he heard the sound of hooves clip clopping towards him. Then there was a silence for just one moment before he felt the full force of horse flesh smash into him.

He remembered the smell of that horse, the leather and polish of the saddle, its sweat, even its breath. He remembered the thud as the solid muscular body hit his shoulder spinning him round, pushing him forwards into the air with his feet still running and his arms flaying before he hit the tarmac chest and face first.

Then there was the smell of the tar oozing from the warm surface. For a moment he was strangely comfortable and felt as if he was beginning to slip into a welcome sleep. The comfort lasted the briefest of moments before the huge man with a bull neck came running towards him and stamped on his head screaming Black bastard.

He felt a thud against his head as the boot landed and then a crack as his head bounced from the road but no pain, and then there was nothing. Nothing until waking up in a new Hell.

I saw it. I saw the horse and I saw the guy who booted you. Big buggers the pair of ‘em.

Uh?

"I was just behind the band and when the marchers at the back began to push forward, I was pushed out. The police on the horses moved forward and forced us into the trap. It was fecking terrifying, I’ll tell ya.

"There were these fascists attacking from behind, police all over the place stopping us moving forward, sideways, any fucking ways, and more police waiting to wade in with their batons down the street they got you on. Then more of the bastards came out of more side streets and laid in with the boots and clubs. I think some were actually coppers because they wore armbands as if to identify themselves to their mates.

You were running, Jesus were you running. It was like watching the bloody Olympics and you were doing the hundred metres like you were after a fecking gold medal. Then you turned into a horse that sent you flying into the direction of one of the guys with an armband on. I thought he’d kill you if he kicked you anymore, so I grabbed you by the ankles and dragged you to the side of street where we were both arrested after they had come down from their blood lust.

You saved my life? How did it come to this? I don’t understand how this could happen.

"Come to this? It’s not just come; it’s been here for a long while. You might have noticed that the police have virtual cart blanche to do as they please and that’s exactly what they do.

It’s been that way since they formed the National Unity Government.

We live in a democratic country where we have rights. Ambrose was indignant at his saviour’s revolutionary assertion.

Malachi sneered a cynical laugh, "Yeah, and for sure we used those democratic rights to vote ourselves out of Europe and to vote for a government that protects us by taking away our rights. We stand by watching Europe and the UK degenerate into nationalistic protectionism while relinquishing everything worth protecting.

Our democracy tracks our every move with cameras mounted on every third lamppost; our borders are controlled to an almost fortress like degree; you can’t fucking move out of a city without an officer of some branch of the police checking who you are and where you are going and then there’s this, he gestured with a sweeping arm, "If you don’t believe anything else, you can believe your own eyes can’t ya?

This country has demonised all who don’t fit their idea of British, or to be more exact, English. We are moving towards Muslim ghettoes; camps are being built as we speak to hold the un-British and the non-patriots. Gays and political critics are held on all sorts of orders that restrict movement. He ended his words with a slap to Ambrose’s head before again gesturing in an arch towards the cell full of the wounded. Where in the Lord’s name have you been not to see what led to this?

Ambrose winced in pain from both his battered body and Malachi’s stinging outburst, but only wanted to believe what he believed. Evidence should be taken in context and not as literally as some would have it. Even if he was literally in the middle of the evidence as it unfurled before his own eyes.

The context was that all sorts of rabble, malcontents, religious fanatics from the east and so-called socialists, anarchists and other supporters of the no-mark spongers that refused to work for a living, had been undermining our freedoms. This attack on freedom and liberty had to be countered by new laws to protect us and our right to thrive and prosper through our own hard work.

Ambrose had seen the light of the meritocracy and it shone on him; an achiever who had fought adversity to become the success he deserved to be rewarded for. He had simply been caught in a storm caused by the anti-law and order brigade and once the police knew that he had no involvement in that riot, he would be set free with a profound apology. Quite possibly from the Chief Constable herself who he had met at a charity fund raising dinner just a few weeks ago.

He spoke no more with the revolutionary rescuer, and he slipped into a troubled sleep to escape the pain that was exhausting him. When he woke, he was alone in the cell; everyone and everything other than the smell which lingered as if clinging to the walls, his clothes and even his hair and skin, had disappeared.

There was no sense of time in this place. There was no natural light to say if it was day or night, no meals provided to distinguish between breakfast and dinner. But the absence of time only served to make it all the longer.

Ambrose had nothing to do but think. So, he thought about the outrage that was building in him that the police had made a mistake by holding him in this place having already mixed him up with the dregs of society that had got involved in that brawl of a disturbance. He was just thinking of the piece of his mind he was about to give his captors when the sound of a key turning in a lock distracted him.

The door was flung open and a woman officer with large shoulders and a very severe haircut spoke, Ambrose Jackson?

Who else would I be he thought but answered with a simple and subdued Yes. The anger had become somewhat cowed as something inside told him not to make a fuss.

Come with me. She turned on the heel of one of her sensible shoes and simply moved off as if marching, in the expectancy that Ambrose would follow.

She expected correctly but as he felt his feet on the floor, he discovered yet more pain and a limp to go with it. He watched her stride while he shuffled his way towards wherever she was leading feeling embarrassed by his newfound inferiority.

He followed down a grey corridor with even greyer metal doors on each side where he assumed the other shouts and chants had come from when he was last awake. They emerged into a large room with a counter occupying about a third of it. Behind the counter was a uniformed man, a sergeant, a tall man with a close-cut beard and black hair.

Ambrose Jackson? said the tall man without looking up from the keyboard except to make sure that what he’d typed with his two forefingers had been correctly transferred to the screen.

Again, Ambrose thought sarcastic thoughts but answered politely in the affirmative.

Pausing after each sentence to look up and make sure his words were understood the sergeant began in Mancunian monotone, "You are being charged with Subversive Affray under Section 42 of the Sedition and Diversity Act.

"You are to be released on police bail and will report to this station at a frequency described on the charge sheet I am about to give to you.

"Upon further investigation you may be required to attend a court at which, if found guilty, you may receive a sentence of up to seven years’ imprisonment.

Should you breach your bail conditions you may be recalled into custody pending trial or alternatively be tagged with a bracelet on your ankle and subject to a curfew order. I suggest that you read these bail conditions in detail after you fuck off out of my sight.

Chapter 2

A

mbrose walked towards yet another grey door with no handle. No one accompanied him and he was simply told to walk down a corridor that had an odour of bleach to it. The light was artificial and not very bright, in fact just bright enough to make sure he knew where his foot would be placed as he walked, but Ambrose just wanted to get out and into what he hoped would be August sunshine.

When he pushed the door, nothing happened for a moment and he began to become anxious, almost panicked. Then, from above his head came the sound of a rather mechanical buzz followed by a clicking sound from the door. He pushed gently on the door which opened into a glaring mid-day sunlight causing a little blindness for a second before he could adjust his only useful eye. Now both eyes hurt like hell.

He had no idea where he was but remembered his companion of the cell saying it was probably Collyhurst, wherever that was. It turned out that he was in Collyhurst and this was not a place for a nice middle-class boy to be hanging about in torn designer clothes.

What green space there was had packs of stray dogs roaming free, cocking their legs and squatting to do their business. The really was the wild northwest.

At the edge of the green was the grey concrete low rise apartment buildings with some houses that grew rusty cars with bricks replacing wheels in their gardens.

Every second bedroom window had a flag of Saint George hanging from it and every flag was a shabby dirty cloth with a faded red cross. He noticed a small group of young men on bicycles too small for their legs riding along walkways on the flats, but no one took any notice of him and for this he was glad for the moment but knew he had to make his way to safety.

Somehow, the police station was a preferred option at this moment, and it occurred to Ambrose that there was an irony in that he was metres from the building of law and order yet felt vulnerable to an apparent community of disorder.

He was among patriots with nothing to be patriotic about, the dispossessed who clung to a love of a country that had done nothing but disparage them. Instinctively he knew that he wasn’t among friends, that there would never be friends in this place, and it was time to limp his way back to the civilisation of Castlefield before anyone decided to be interested in the interloper.

Every step caused pain, the sunlight caused pain and the turning of his head to see if anyone was following him caused even more pain. In fact, there was so much pain he didn’t notice the shabby man on the little wall that separated the green space from the pavement of tarmac with small green tufts of weed and grass popping through the cracks.

How’s it going comrade?

Ambrose looked at the source of the question seeing a set of white teeth grinning through a bloodied face and recognised his rescuer, I’m not sure. I think I’ve been charged with something.

That will be the sedition. Everyone gets charged with the sedition. Then, as if they had known each other for years he said, Fancy a pint in the White Lion? It’s just down the road here and it’s like the gateway to the world of relative normality if you like. Only two steps from the Northern Quarter and a million miles from this Neanderthal place of destitution.

Ambrose checked his wallet having been given it and other personal possessions in a clear plastic bag when he was told to fuck off. All his cash was gone, but his cards were all there.

Don’t worry, they take cards, but I’ll get them in anyway. You look like you need a drink. Anyway, it’s not a bad idea to avoid using your cards from now on; cash is less trackable.

I’m not sure. I mean I don’t know you; do I? Anyway, what do you mean I should avoid using my cards?

Look buddy, I’m just offering a drink and ye aren’t looking like you’ve got a million friends to turn to at the moment. You got hurt and I helped you out so I kind of feel a wee bit responsible for you. As far as the cash and cards are concerned, cash is just less easy to trace.

Well, there’s no need. I’m fine. The answer was dismissive, but the Irishman wasn’t to be fobbed off.

In that case you can buy me a drink for saving your life and making sure you got the bed in that cell. I think that’s worth something isn’t it?

Ambrose smiled, Fair enough. I suppose you’re right and I could do with something to eat. They do food at this pub?

Best pies you’ll find this side of Wigan.

Wigan?

Pie capital of the world my friend, pie capital of the world. Or at least your heathen country anyway.

So, there he was in the company of a stranger who had rescued him twice. Once from those who his brothers back home in Liverpool called Babylon and now from Collyhurst, the place where hope came to die. He liked the man with the unusual name and lively eyes of blue.

As they sat down and sipped at their first pint Ambrose looked around. The place looked like the pubs in pictures placed on the walls of pubs without history that wanted to give the impression of having one. The customers all looked like they were from or heading for the 1970s and as they huddled at their tables, laughing, joking, drinking and talking as if the world was normal but they were either organising a folk concert or a protest against something.

Denim, checks, camouflage and beards abounded. Women had long hair and wore long clothes. Fashion was an alien concept to this clientele, and they were obviously either oblivious or simply happy that it had passed them by. Malachi fitted this group like a dovetail joint, but no one gave either him or Ambrose a second glance despite both still showing traces of blood, bruises and wearing of torn clothes.

It was Ambrose who started the conversation, It’s been nagging me, he began, how do you know my name?

Sure, that’s a tricky one for a little Irish fella, now the accent was exaggerated to emphasise the Irish lilt. Well, what it is my friend is that if you were to look closely at the wrist of the hand you are holding your pint with you will see a little plastic bracelet.

Ambrose looked to see a blue band with a white middle upon which was written Jackson, (Ambrose) – S42.

So not only did I know your name, I knew what you are charged with. We all got them, here’s mine.

Ambrose read the plastic band held by his new friend, Donnelly, (Malachi, Paul) – S42

Malachi laughed, "Don’t worry too much about the Section 42 shit. They do that with everyone but hardly ever move it to court the first time. What they do is put you on police bail and then