Plot Summary: Shaken by allegations of corruption, sleaze and incompetence, the Government of Great Britain has fallen and a general election looms. With the three main parties rapidly losing their grip, the far-right English Nationalist Party is keen to step into the void and exploit the nation's weakness. But, the extremists have a past and some very dubious links to a shadowy, underground organisation calling itself the English Defence Association. The Spooks team is on the case, working to unearth the truth before the nation is plunged into racial and religious war.

Author's Note: The usual disclaimers apply to this story, I own none of it. Also, the organisations here are fictional, and are in no way based on real organisations that have similar goals. Honest. Also, just to clarify, I know elections take place on the first Thursday of May, but for benefit of this story, and because it's an emergency election, it's taking place later in the summer. Thank you for reading, and please enjoy the story. Reviews would be welcome.


Chapter One: The Beautiful Game

Turnstiles groan on their hinges as the crowds are disgorged from the Den stadium; a human flood that rapidly washes out over the streets of south Bermondsey. Policemen snap to attention, forming a human chain, keeping the two tribes of supporters firmly separated as their mocking, profane chants shatter the stillness of the late evening air. Tonight the Policemen are lucky, the home team, Millwall, are victorious and even the most notorious of their hooligans are off to get even more profoundly drunk than they already are.

The opposition, however, are not so forgiving. A bright pink light suddenly bursts against the darkness beyond the floodlights as dense, black smoke fills the air. A distress flare hurled into the swarms of Millwall supporters that is reciprocated with a volley of stones, beer cans and bottles undoubtedly filled with piss. A split second is all it takes for all hell to break loose and a knot of rival supporters to clash in a frenzy of violence. The Police form a wall of Perspex shields as they prepare to charge the crowds, hemming them into corners to contain the trouble. It's all part of the beautiful game down this end of town.

At first, no one notices the tall, dark haired man deftly sidestepping the melee. His Millwall scarf is pulled up over his face, but he wears no jacket over his team jersey. On his arm is a fine array of amateur tattoos that show under the lights as he takes a can of Carlsberg Special Brew from a similarly attired passer-by. He pauses and studies it intently before looking down the Zampa Road, at the retreating backs of three fleeing youths. He glances left and right rapidly, then sets off at a run.

However, a stray Policeman is quick off the mark. He apprehends the man with a swift baton to the back of his knees that brings him crashing to the ground in a heap.

"For fuck's sake, mate!" the man curses heavily in a broad south London accent as he gets back to his feet again.

The Policeman snorts derisively. "In a hurry, then?" he asks, noting that the man's beer can has been crushed, it appears to have been empty after all. He even appears to be completely sober and smelling of nothing more than cologne.

The man's expression darkens in anger as he pulls down his scarf. "Have you seen it back there? Wouldn't you be a in a fucking hurry?"

He is looking over the Policeman's shoulder, watching after the hooligans who'd already successfully evaded capture. The Policeman takes a leisurely glance over his shoulder, seeing what his quarry is looking at. "Friends of yours?" His tone is mocking, the smile on his face angering the suspect even more.

The Policeman reaches for his cuffs, then the apprehended man strikes. A punch to the jaw that sends the Officer reeling in shock. Now the other man is smiling. "Do us a favour, sweetheart, and get out of my way."

And he's off again. The scarf is back over his face, obscuring most of his features. Down the sweeping sweets, under the sparse orange neon glow of the streetlamps he chases the youths. Every move they make, he mimics. Down every alley, he follows them; shinning walls and jumping fallen bins that block their path. He keeps them always in his line of vision, always just a few steps behind them. If only one of them had paused and looked, they could have seen him.

The chase leads him, and them, to a street lined with terrace houses. Most are boarded up, others occupied by large, impoverished families of asylum seekers and immigrants drawn from places even worse than this. Front gardens are over-grown wildernesses populated by discarded furniture, dens of urban foxes and nocturnal vermin feeding on the waste and refuse that lines the pavements. A stray cat scurries across the road, darting under a nearby car whose wheels seem to have been replaced by breezeblocks. Like the street's unfortunate inhabitants, it is going nowhere.

The youths stop and the man hunkers down behind the breezeblock car. He counts them: one, two, three. All in Millwall jerseys; scarfs obscuring their faces as though anyone who lives here could see them through the grime on their windows. They flit around the smartest building in the street, the local Mosque, like moths around a braziers flame. The man squints out from behind the car, unblinking lest he miss something. One of the youths produces a spray can and graffities the noticeboard just beyond the Mosques railings. Another then scales the railings, wraps his scarf around his fist and punches in a window.

"Pass it over, then. What're you waiting for?" he calls back to one of his colleagues.

Seconds later and a glass bottle is produced from a rucksack, the white cotton wick briefly visible as it's thrown to the man at the window. A spark of ignition flares as the petrol bomb takes light. He watches its sulphurous glow as it's thrown through the newly broken window. Then a second, then a third. These boys are serious; this Mosque will soon be an inferno.

"Oi!" the man springs out from his hiding place, "don't run; I'm one of you! Quick, follow me, we need to get out of here fast. The Pigs are on to us."

He has startled them, but they clock the football shirt and instantly follow as it becomes his turn to lead the chase just as the Mosque takes light. As he passes the burning building, he can just make out the letters E.D.A spray painted on the noticeboard, fresh and glittering red in the light of the lapping flames. By the time he reaches the safety of a shop awning three streets away, all he can see is a distant orange glow as the flames take hold, consuming the place of worship at its ease.

"Who are you? Who sent you?"

The oldest of the three youths fires the questions at him.

"Need to know, mate. You know how it goes," the man replies. "Did Dougie give you these orders? He told me to follow you down here, to make sure you'd done it."

The middle of the three youths lowers his scarf and looks up at him with wide eyes, glittering in the streetlamp light. "You know Dougie?" he asks, awestruck.

The man's lip curls into a half-smile, but he holds his silence.

"You can go back to him, tell him it's done. Tell him that Stevie, Gary and Nick have done as he asked and more besides. We're all together in this thing now, right?"

"Oh, you've definitely proved your worth now, lads," the man assures him, the lopsided smile getting a little wider. "Next meeting's at the Rose and Crown, Brixton. You know it?"

The elder one nods. "We'll be there. With bells on, mate."

"Nice one," he replies, preparing to set off down the road.

Before he gets too far, the youngest of the arsonists calls out: "Nice tats, mate. Who did those?"

The grin is back on the dark man's face as he turns back briefly. "My cellmate." He suppresses a laugh at the looks on their faces. They're barely out of the schoolroom; they've faced nothing worse than a grounding from their granny. They're bursting to ask questions, and he cannot resist filling them in. "Eight years in a Moscow prison for aiding and abetting their righteous cause. Plan to do the same here. See ya!" He cannot resist a little joke.

Lucas North turns away with a satisfied smile and taps the switch concealed beneath his scarf, shutting off the microscopic camera hidden in the lapel of his jersey. His evening's work is done. He can return home, run a bath and wash the stench of racial hatred from the pores of his skin.


The screen in the meeting room goes dark as the video file comes to an end. Stepping into the room from the side-lines, Harry zaps the remote, switching it off and turning to Lucas with a rare smile on his face. He's a happy man as he takes his seat at the head of the table, with Ruth Evershed to his right and Ros Myers to his left. His gaze, however, falls on Lucas.

"Excellent work, Lucas," he says, giving his tie a quick straightening. "We've got the names of the arsonists, a good look at their faces and an on-camera admission that they're working for our main target, Douglas Simpson. A great start. And, don't worry about that Policeman; I'm sure he'll understand."

Ros, on the other hand, is not quite so excited. "They seem pretty small fry to me," she says. "Just a group of kids trying to impress a big man-"

"The point is they burned a Mosque on Simpson's orders," Jo interjects, cutting Ros off and eliciting an impatient glower from her. "If this doesn't prove that there is a link between the E.D.A and the English Nationalist Party, then nothing will!"

Ruth clears her throat, unobtrusively trying to make an inroad into the meeting. "It is a big step forward, so well done, Lucas," she says, quickly glancing across the table at him. "But Ros is correct. We need a lot more on the English Defence Association if we're to prove that there is a link between them and Simpson's English Nationalist Party. As it stands, because the Queen has already dissolved Parliament for the election, we can't even rush through some legislation proscribing the E.D.A. We need to keep this investigation moving right up until we get a new Parliament and necessary action can be taken."

"We don't need to rush through legislation banning arson, though," Harry states. "So we have at least taken these three so-called activists off the streets." His hopes of an early victory against the far right seem to be dimming by the minute, and he's scrabbling at the thin rays of hope left to him.

"Ben is there any chance you can accidentally on purpose leak this video footage to your old journo friends?" asks Lucas, anxious lest his evening's work be written off completely.

Ben doesn't take long to think it over. "Definitely," he says. "The tabloids have been pretty sympathetic towards the English Nationalist Party, though. They'll skate over it, but the broadsheets are desperate for an expose on them."

Malcolm, so far silently taking in proceedings, finally wades in. "What are the three main parties doing about all this? Surely they're not sitting back and letting these fascists walk all over them?"

For such a mild-mannered man, it is quite a startling rebuke.

"They're in free-fall," Harry eventually answers him. "These allegations of Police corruption, incompetence and sleaze, as well as the economy going tits up again, has rocked them. It's brought down the Government already and the public have completely lost faith in all mainstream politicians. A fact not lost on the English Nationalists and they're milking it for all it's worth."

Ros rolls her eyes. "You're not going to believe this, but," she explains drearily. "I've been keeping an eye on the former Home Secretary, and he's still going to that damn club. The last thing this country needs right now is more Politicians colourful private lives being splashed across the front pages of the damn red tops."

Jo sighs, leaning back in her chair as she thinks it over. "I can have a word, if you like?" she says, looking over at Ros. It is her way of apologising for her earlier interruption and Ros is quick to accept with a nod.

"Thanks, Jo. We need the former Government to hold it together and be on their best behaviour until the vote is done."

Harry gathers his papers up, the first sign that the team meeting is coming to an end. "Ruth, keep digging on Dougie Simpson and anyone else in the upper echelons of the English Nationalist Party and see if you can trace them to the E.D.A. Lucas, keep in with that asset you have in the E.D.A; Ros, work with Lucas. I may need you to go undercover at some point. Jo, kick the old Home Secretary back into shape, but not so much that he enjoys it. Ben, I need you to monitor reaction to the burning of the Mosque last night. And, finally, Malcolm, you keep up with the intel on both of these organisations. We need to squeeze them hard on this."

Malcolm rubs his eyes. "Which is why I've been asking for an assistant on this, Harry. I'm a little over-stretched here."

"An assistant?" Ros repeats, getting out of her seat. "You're not thinking of leaving us, are you?"

"Of course he isn't!" Harry answers before Malcolm can get a word out. "And don't worry, Malcolm. We're on to it."

"You said that the last time," Malcolm mutters as he leaves the meeting room.

Harry does not hear him. Instead, he falls into step with Ruth as they head back towards their respective desks. Lucas, meanwhile, needs air. He drops his file onto his desk, but carries on walking out of the back of the Grid and up the stairs to the roof of Thames House.


Once up there, he breathes deeply and freely. Up there, he can look out over the city and see it as a unified whole. A network of streets, avenues and broad, sweeping boulevards that stretch out into the unfathomable distance under clear blue skies. Is it a hot day, early summer, but up there the air is cool as a light wind sweeps the rooftops of London. He tests his head for heights and looks down into the swarming streets below.

He cannot tell from up there, but down below a battle is being fought. The Government is dissolved, the three party system going into free-fall in a morass of sleaze, corruption and an economic storm that has seen unemployment spiral. The people are desperate, they are seeking scapegoats that the far right are only to happy to provide. It is a cycle repeated through every history in every country, not just Great Britain. It is a well of disaffection and disillusionment on which the far right fascists gorge themselves, bloating their way up the opinion polls and squeezing all opposition out of their way. But, not if he could help it.

"Hey."

Her voice jolts him out of his reverie and he takes an instinctive step back from the railings around the edge of the building. It is Ros. She's standing there wrapped in a three-quarter length black coat tied at the waist, despite the warmth of the day. He looks her up and down, admiring the way it accentuates her slender curves, down to her legs and feet forced into three inch heels. Her head is cocked to one side, a quizzical look in her eyes as she regards him in return.

Ros clicks her tongue disapprovingly. "Eyes back in your head, North." She is smiling, though. She has the look of a woman who'd been standing there for a long time before he noticed her presence.

He wants to reel off some witty rejoinder, but he's not in the mood. "Hey, yourself," is the best he can manage.

"I wasn't running you down in the meeting, Lucas," she says, glancing up at him. "You did well last night. It's just, we still need to do a lot more it wipe them out. That's all I meant."

He raises a shadow of a smile. "I know," he assures her, still sounding dejected. "It's just, I never thought I'd see the day, in this country, where the far right extremists were actually in with a chance of winning a General Election and forming the next Government. We fought bastards like these in the trenches."

"People have short memories," she answers, linking her arm through his. "It's ironic, they claim to support our troops, but they're siding with the very organisations we fought the second world war against. They'll be dressing up in Jesus robes, next."

Lucas sighs. "They're just kids, Ros. They're probably back in school right now."

Ros looks sceptical. "I doubt that very much. The school bit, I mean. They're probably down the docklands looking out for consignments of Muslamic ray guns being shipped into the country."

Lucas snorts with a sudden burst of laughter, making him double up as he chokes. Ros grins, giving him a sharp pat on the back as he continues to choke on his own amusement. Things are bad, but they're still allowed to laugh about it at least. Together, they make their way back downstairs, back onto the Grid, ready to put a stop to the race war before it's even had a chance to begin.