Chapter 1

There are many paths not chosen, one leads to a different world, a darker England, one steeped in blood and terror. Ten years have passed since the atrocity that was Bewl Water. There is no United Kingdom; Scotland and Wales went their own way, Northern Ireland reunited with Eire and gave that country a headache in the way of terrorism verging on a guerrilla war. The English Parliament remains dominated by a coalition of candidates selected from the Army Councils and is brutally authoritarian in nature, if you aren’t a patriot ... for given values of patriotism naturally.

People were poorer and old skills of make do and mend had emerged, fewer cars, no new TV’s or computers as modern tech was far too expensive for your average citizen, though there were ways and means if you had certain contacts. The NHS still exists, though there are no fat cat middle managers, it’s still inefficient and underfunded and the waiting times for attention stretch credulity, again though, if you have the means, the waiting times don’t exist.

Still at least the mass denunciations have finished, though a network of informers remains policed by enforcers, often ex-army NCO’s who are slowly bringing sanity back to a land that went mad with anger, horror and grief by enforcing the new compact between the people and the Parliament, a sort of new Magna Carta.

England had almost become a pariah state when it started hunting down its Muslim citizens and driving those it did not hang or execute out of hand into exile, save only there were few civilised states that wanted so many suspect new citizens thrust upon them. Muslim children were seized and re-educated under the Coalition Party Youth Faction before the young men became janissaries or slave soldiers in the new Patriot Brigades who were perhaps the finest light infantry on the planet led by officers of the once proud British Army. For the girls ... well there was always a need for new janissaries.

Desperate for foreign currency to buy new technology, fuel and food to keep the country running, the Army Council hired out their Brigades to any who could use them against the various Islamic terrorist groups around the world. Keeping to the most brutal adaptation of the laws of war, the Brigades cut a swath through the likes of Boko Haram, Hezbollah and Isis, often hiring out to Muslim countries to deal with their insurgents. Some ended up being used against Argentina during the second Falkland’s conflict; invading the Argentine mainland and ensuring that during the peace negotiations the Argentinians waived any right of sovereignty to those small islands ‘In Perpetuity’ Their country was wrecked with rebellion and ruin.

The Taliban in Afghanistan were next, nor did the Brigades stop at the border with Pakistan or Iran. Unlike the civilised powers, the insurgents were pursued unto death in their mountain fastnesses and despite attempts by the Pakistani and Iranian armed forces to intervene, the Taliban were almost extirpated root and branch and were now a shadow of their former selves. The English threat to remain on their soil after decimating their armed forces and forcibly depopulating the areas they held allowed the Brigades to withdraw unmolested from Iran and Pakistan. A wave of fear washed over any Islamic countries that supported terrorism when the English government pointed the finger and told them to cease and desist or you’re next. Even the proud and manipulative Saudis pulled their neck in and stopped the spread of Wahhabism via mosque building when Riyadh was threatened despite their treaty with the USA who were secretly pleased that the English were prepared to bleed rather than their troops. Discrimination against non-Muslims living in Muslim countries also receded to next to nothing as the natives knew that their victims could (and had) called in the Brigades and their special forces adjuncts to assist them; the assassination of the Muslim Brotherhood leadership in Egypt after attacks on the Christian Copts being a case in point.

Many in the civilised world decried the use of such brutal means of fighting, yet were unwilling to either put feet on the ground themselves or afford to pay their own armies to do it. Then again, the ever pragmatic ‘civilised’ French had no problem with hiring the Lepanto and Cerami Brigades to rid themselves of the population of the Banlieue of Clichy sous Bois when Islamic extremists took it over and threatened insurrection. This also opened the gates for other European countries to do the same for their troublesome Islamic populations and their enablers.

So the years turned and eventually new problems emerged as those who led and fought with the Brigades reached retirement age and came once again to England to see what they had been fighting for...

The day started with the dream again. I can’t for the life of me remember the name of the village in Nigeria anymore. I can only reason that it was early in the campaign. We had been tracking an incursion of Boko Haram via drones and human resources in our scout troop. Somehow they’d gotten wind of our approach and had melted into a small village cum town, hiding amongst the populace and thinking that we’d be constrained by normal civilised rules. I had two companies under my command and we’d gone in as taught, moving swiftly in jumps and starts as one section overtook the other and started dragging out anyone in the various huts and shacks to a guarded area. Anyone who resisted was shot, any armed were shot, in short we were smoking out any enemy, not just Boko Haram. The drones had also managed to get some pretty good photos of the insurgents and yes, any identified were given a quick trial and shot. Soon the commander of the insurgents gathered hostages and holed up in the village mosque. I believe he thought it was like a hospital and we’d treat it with respect. His men opened fire at our approach and we took cover. We were told that if we allowed them to escape, they would release the hostages after they thought they were clear.

Our reply was simple, every tenth man was a sniper, every third man carried an RPG or a shoulder held SAM, we simply turned them on the mosque and levelled the place and normally followed up with a charge. This time though the building caught fire and we could hear clearly the screams of those inside. Some tried to run, we simply gunned them down, hostages or not. In the end my dream focussed on a young girl, clothing aflame who ran screaming from the ruin directly towards me and I raised my rifle...

I had barely been back in the country a week when I saw them as I returned home from shopping and a beer at the veterans centre – two young girls begging outside the fast food café. They couldn’t have been more than ten or, in the case of the youngest, eight. I’m no stranger to beggars; I’d seen many of them in my ten years of military service in the Patriot Brigades, though it was unusual to see them in England anymore. The authorities could always find something for you to do and no one wanted that. What set them apart was their dark Middle Eastern looks and complexions, also the fact that they were neatly, even prettily, dressed. To my attuned senses, there was simply something wrong with the whole situation.

Things became worse when they were spotted by one of the ‘monitors’ to give them their official title or snitches as they were commonly known. They were mostly young thugs given a small stipend, having failed their school assessment and were fast becoming a major nuisance to any who crossed them. He strutted across from hanging about on the street corner and supposedly keeping order as well as an eye out for trouble, backhanded the eldest with a brutal slap and sent her skidding into the road narrowly missing an ancient passing delivery van. He was just about to follow up with a kick when he found himself flying through the air courtesy of my good self and to the amazement of the rest of the people on the street. Not that I was terrified of the little thug, just that everyone else tended to be very careful in case they were denounced as a ‘muzsymp’, a nasty little word that had entered colloquial English and meant that they harboured Islamic sympathies, or more generally these days were simply not patriotic enough.

“You fuckin’ twat!” the thug screamed at me and drew his extendable baton to attack. He was joined by the rest of his little gang as these bullies never went out alone anymore, for damned good reason.

He swung hard at my head, only for me to block the swing and use a move I’d used time and time again in Nigeria to dislocate his shoulder and disarm him. This gave the rest of his little gang pause as he screamed and passed out.

“What’s all this then?” came a voice used to command.

“We wuz just clearin the street of these muzzie spawn and this gadgie interfered with our rightful pursuit,” yelled someone from the back of the snitches.

“Don’t be stupid! England’s been muzzie free for goin’ on eight years now,” came the voice belonging to an enforcer dressed all in black with the ubiquitous Cross of St George armband on his right sleeve and a machine pistol strapped to his belt in a quick draw holster.

“We has the right to keep the streets safe,” the voice replied no longer sure of itself.

“By abusing kids?” I asked.

“They’s beggars. We has a right,” came the reply.

“No you ain’t. Beggars are my business, not yours. Read the fuckin compact. Now get out of here before I decide you need a spell in a re-education centre and take your trash with you!” came the barked command.

The snitches recoiled in terror at the man’s threat and grabbed their fallen accomplice, making him scream in agony as they dragged him off. Like as not to the local hospital and a very long wait.

“Veteran?” asked the enforcer as I went out and picked up the still stunned and sobbing girl from the road.

“Aye, Lee Rigby Brigade,” I replied.

“Brave lads, really took Boko Haram and the Janjaweed militias apart,” he replied. “Tizona Brigade here.”

“The scourge of Puerto Belgrano,” I replied, mentioning a raid against the naval base during the second Falklands conflict. “You also annihilated the al-Harakat al-Islamiyya. Tough buggers they were,” I replied.

“Aye, we were tougher though,” he chuckled. “Still are.”

“Honoured,” I said and raised my arm to show the tattooed black stars of my campaign resume and the names of the countries and organisations my Brigade had a hand in extirpating ... At least till I retired and the soft civilised world still tried to put a halt on what they called mercenary groups, to no avail. The Patriot Brigades of England were still in demand for dealing ruthlessly with many a nation’s Islamic ‘problem’. Hell, we even hired out to Jordan, the Gulf States and Lebanon to deal with their Islamist infestations.

“They’ll pay in blood,” he replied giving the standard veterans oath.

“Till they exist no more,” I answered.

“You going to deal with these?” he asked, pointing to the subdued but clearly terrified girls.

“Considering the options, I guess I’ll have to,” I sighed.

“Party Youth Faction if you don’t and probably turned into breeding machines,” he spat out in disgust.

I grimaced in disgust myself, most of the Brigade I’d led had been ‘orphans’ from the Party Youth Faction, in other words children seized from Muslim parents before said parents were ‘deported’, a euphemism for the mystery of what actually happened. No, I didn’t know and asking was singularly unhealthy as one of my mates found out when the Army Council investigators caught him snooping and crucified him after cutting out his tongue at the camp gates.

My Brigade, named after a hero from before the change were fearsome lads, brave as lions and destined to live, fight and die for the cause. The likes of me, good English stock could retire, the lads however were still tainted by the sins of their fathers and the English had never forgotten or forgiven Bewl Water. The biggest tragedy was the girls; they were unpaid washerwomen, servants, cleaners and baby-makers. Turned out the world wanted what we had to sell, conscienceless killing machines ... Well, mostly when it came to Muslim men and adult women, with added rape for the women ... and some of the men, a few of the lads were inclined that way and we had been told not to object ... or else.

As the enforcer strolled away I knelt and looked at the two children.

“Don’t you know how dangerous it is to beg?” I asked in a kindly if gruff tone.

“We’re hungry and mama is ill and needs food too,” the eldest sobbed out.

“Well, let me get you something. Then we’ll see to your mama,” I said taking them both by the hand and leading them to the café.

“I’m Zena, my sister is Tahira,”

“I’m Alec. I’m surprised, you don’t see many of your...” I stopped, clearly floundering.

“Our parents were Iraqi Christians,” Zena said, clearly quoting something drilled into her. “We were left alone during the change as people vouched for us, but now our papa is dead and mama is ill, our landlord threw us out,” she finished.

I bought several pastries and a couple of burgers and handed them to the girls and they devoured them hungrily, if neatly.

“Where’s your mama?” I asked eventually after using a wetted kerchief to clean up the scrapes on Zena.

The girls led me into an alley where a good few household belongings had been tossed carelessly. What I had first thought was a bundle of rags startled me when it moved slightly and I hurried over to find a thin sleeping woman, clearly the children’s mother. Whatever was wrong with her was burning her up and her survival on the street could be measured in hours ... or indeed minutes if the snitches happened by.

Stooping I picked the woman up and told the girls to gather what valuables they could and I set off for my rooms with them trailing in my wake.

I could tell my landlady was spoiling for a fight when she saw who was following me.

“I ain’t havin no muzzie spawn here. This is a respectable house!” she almost screamed at me.

“They aren’t Muslims. They’re Christians and more Christian than you as like,” I said calmly.

“How dare you!”

“Good Samaritan mean anything to you?” I replied. “Or perhaps you’d like the lads from the veterans club to come around and have a chat.”

Paling, as she knew the veterans looked after their own, she simply spun about and slammed her door behind her.

Opening my door with difficulty, I carried the woman into my digs and put her onto the bed. I then went to my lockup, still showing the signs of my landlady’s attempt to pick the lock and took out a standard combat pack. Pulling out a field meditab I searched for a vein in the woman’s arm and injected a full dose of a powerful antibiotic and painkiller into her and prayed to a god I didn’t believe in that she wasn’t allergic to it. Leaving the needle in place I then hooked up an osmotic filtration baggie to a tube and poured some sugar/salt solution into it before filling it with water to act as a drip. All field expedient medicine, but highly effective as my years in the Brigade had taught me.

“Will mama be all right?” the youngest, Tahira, spoke for the first time.

“I don’t know. But what I can do, I have and if I took her to a hospital she would wait a lot longer,” I replied knowing fine well the wait might have killed her.

The girls nodded and simply stood next to the bed holding their mother’s hand and looked lost with haunted expressions in their eyes. I couldn’t imagine that life had been easy for them in England, yet somehow they’d been brought up to be polite, neatly dressed and from their words, well educated.

“What happened to your father?” I asked.

“He went out to the shops and never came back,” Zena replied. “The police found his body the next day. Mama wouldn’t say what happened but she cried a lot.”

I rather suspected that their father had fallen foul of the snitches who were becoming a serious problem in their unrelenting aggression against any who didn’t fit in and had been the primary reason for the Army Council’s acquiescence in the government’s proposals for the new compact.

“And your landlord threw you out?” I asked.

“Yes. Mama said he denied getting the rent despite her having proof and threw us out yesterday when mama got sick,” Zena replied, eyes downcast.

“Where did you live? I’ll go and see him,” I said.