Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your input means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply and I own none of this. Thanks again for reading and reviews would be appreciated.


Chapter Seven: Winters of Discontent

The small office building comes as a pleasant surprise to Ruth. The front is dominated by a large, plate glass window emblazoned with the red, white and blue logo of the English Nationalist Party. The interior is warmly lit, with new soft furnishings in the reception area. Laminated A4 posters carry times and dates of "advice sessions" for the local residents and potential E.N.P voters. There is even a sprawling plant decorously draped over the reception desk. To all intents and purposes, a respectable political outfit; a delicate veneer of class that Ruth could not imagine would withhold any degree of closer scrutiny.

Ruth pushes open the door and, somewhere within the building, a warning buzzer sounds, alerting the receptionist to the arrival of a visitor. As Ruth waits, she takes the room in again. Tasteful, stylish, expensive. She'd been in political party offices that were barely more than shacks; corrugated tin roofs propped up on sticks with scruffy students bearing homemade red rosettes, handing out dog eared leaflets outside in the rain. These people are being seriously bankrolled and she wants to know who by.

There is no actual receptionist, but minutes after she arrives Ruth is greeted by the party leader himself.

"Leanne," Douglas Simpson calls over to her from down a small, narrow corridor; his head jutting from around the door of a private office. He sees it's her and comes striding out. "Welcome aboard; great to see you. I hope you don't mind, but I remember you telling me about your receptionist job. I thought you could do that here, for now?"

Ruth reaches out to shake his hand and smiles brightly. "Sure," she replies, hiding her disappointment at finding him in the office and not, as she hoped, out on the campaign trail. "I have to leave at two; I need to collect Ethan from School at three and before that I want to get his tea in the oven. You know how it is."

The back story is second nature to her now. Naturally, when she leaves it will be to return to Thames House with a handbag full of copied hard drives, phone records and personal party member details. But that knowledge is stored in a small, unacknowledged part of her brain. Right at that moment in time she is Leanne Jenkins and she really is a struggling, single mother with Islamophobia issues.

"It's all right, honestly," he replies, smiling briefly as he considers what she had said to him. She can see judgements being formed behind his knitted brow. "I hope Ethan realises what a great mother he has."

She blushes and hopes he puts it down to her shyness. To bring the conversation to a natural close, she shrugs off her jacket and drapes it over the back of the chair, preparing to start work. However, Simpson is still standing there, looking like a man desperately trying to think of topics of conversation that don't revolve around football or work.

"Well," he finally states, leaning casually against the reception desk. "There's tea and coffee in the kitchen; milk in the fridge. Just help yourself. The mail will be here any minute; just bring it all to me. Other than that, you're just answering the phones, really."

Just answering the phones? Ruth's returning smile was genuine. "Thank you, Mr Simpson."

"Oh, please, call me Doug. Everyone else does."

With that, he is done. Ruth waits until she hears the door of his office close before taking a look behind her. The passageway is empty. Two other doors besides Doug's, but they are both shut and, presumably, locked. Above her desk, a camera films the main entrance. Although primarily focused on who arrives and who leaves, Ruth knows she will be clearly visible in the bottom, right hand corner of any playback. She positions her swivel chair so that the screen is blocked from the camera's view and enters access codes for the relevant security company. A few clicks of a mouse later and the cameras in the office are no longer filming anything, just pointlessly left switched on, just in case there is someone monitoring it.

With the all-seeing eye of CCTV temporarily blinded, she slips a bug into the telephone to begin monitoring calls. While she's doing that, the hard drive of her computer is being copied to a memory stick. Her telephone is connected to all other phones in the Office so calls can be transferred. It's the same in any Office and makes her job that little bit easier – all calls can still be recorded, even after transfer. While she waits for the rest of the hard drive to copy, she sends a coded text message to Malcolm from her own mobile. "Hi, Dad," it states. "Ethan got to school okay; his project's been handed in and he should have his grades by the end of the day. Very exciting!"

The message sent, the delivery notice chimes its arrival. Ruth checks the clock; eleven am. She gets up from her seat and takes a step down the corridor. Simpson's office door is closed. She knocks twice.

"Want a cup of tea, Doug?"

"Would love one, thanks Leanne. You're a star!" comes his muffled reply.


The call to noon prayers went up an hour ago and the service had not long finished. Abdul Khareem rolls up his prayer mat, placing it carefully back in his rucksack. The others were beginning to file out, returning to their daily lives, their jobs and their families. But Khareem hangs back, four other men all doing the same. They busy themselves with their belongings, making their delay seem a natural and unforeseen thing. As soon as they are alone, they drop the pretence. Casting furtive glances at the door, checking the others have gone and their privacy is absolute, they close in on each other.

Khareem walks slowly to the end of the room, where the Imam had conducted the service. He lifts the Koran and shows it to his lingering faith mates. He pauses, glancing down at the crisp, vellum pages of the Holy Book before turning his grey eyes back to his companions.

"Nothing is sacred to these people," he intones, gravely and holds up the Koran again. "Not even this. Nor this place, our temple; our place of worship."

The others are silent, their eyes all follow Khareem as he treads the floor, side to side. He lets the silence swell, letting their imaginations do some of his work for him while he places the book back down. He goes to step away, then stops himself; turning to the skirting board running the width of their mosque. He descends on it and pulls off the panelling, eliciting a shocked gasp from the others.

When he turns back to them, he's holding a small black device high above his head. Their expressions are uncomprehending, but this does not phase Khareem.

"This is a listening device; left here by MI5," he takes great delight in explaining. "They are monitoring us; listening to us. Spying on us."

He steps back and, for just a few moments, he lets the shock of his friends hit home. Disgust, fear and even sadness all register in their faces.

"Man, this place isn't safe anymore," the youngest of them stammers. His worried eyes flit between the faces of his companions, hoping that one of them sees the same dangers as he does. "They could be filming us right now. They could have cameras everywhere."

"Mahdi is right," another interjects. "We need to get out of here."

Khareem holds up a hand for silence, then points towards the back door leading out onto the garden. Silently, they file outside. Out in the open, away from the confines of the Mosque, they all breathe easy again.

But one man is already suspicious.

"How did you know it was there, Khareem?" he demands to know.

"What did you expect to happen?" Khareem counters. "After the murder of Imam Atallah, they're waiting for us to retaliate. You have to understand how their minds work: they don't care about who did it; they only care about how we're going to react."

Mahdi, the youngest of the group, steps closer. "Then aren't we, you know, playing into their hands? Wouldn't it be better if we just walked away?"

Three of his companions glower at him, angry replies threatening to burst at once. But, once again, Khareem holds up a hand for silence.

"Brother Mahdi makes a valid point, don't castigate him," he warns them. "Instead, let me explain why he is misguided." They fall silent, leaving the way for him to win over their doubting friend. "While they're so afraid of us, we have the advantage. We can use their fear as a weapon against them. With this act of martyrdom, you will have the upper hand all over again. Use it."

"And, you're volunteering to turn yourself into a bomb?" another man asks, eyebrow raised. "I know you converts like to over-compensate. But this going a little far, even by your standards!"

His attempt at humour is met with frowns and sighs of dismay. He shrugs, mutters an apology but the inane grin is still on his face. Khareem, however, pretends that he didn't even hear it. His expression is grim, set-jawed determination.

"I am offering myself as sacrifice-"

Another man, Ahmed, steps forwards with a confident stride. "And so am I."

Khareem seems surprised. It had not been agreed and for a moment, he loses his mental footing. He recovers himself swiftly; smiles as though the benefits of a double attack suddenly reveal themselves in a divine mirage sent by the Prophet himself. He gives a slow nod of approval.

"Timing is everything," Khareem says. "We'll meet again to discuss when, as soon as we have everything we need. Mahdi, you can coordinate, and you two can put out feelers among the others. See if anyone would be likely to join and support our crusade."

"What will happen to those who don't?" asks Mahdi.

"They know where the door is, and how to close it on their way out."

"So, they will make it that far?" he presses further.

"What do you take me for?" Khareem retorts, finally the mask slipping just a fraction. "We're Holy Warriors; not murderers."

The impromptu meeting concludes as the clock strikes two o'clock. They disperse out into busy streets, packed with late diners and early rush hour traffic. They melt back into the crowds with ease; unnoticed by anyone. Khareem glances down the main street, waiting impatiently for a break in the traffic. Once safely over the road, he is swallowed in the tidal wave of afternoon shoppers and commuters. Another uneventful day in the life of a British city centre.


Lucas pauses in the door way of the White Boar pub, getting his bearings and marking the exits. This pub is very much like the other. Fading, patched up furnishings and old nicotine stains on the walls. The ceiling is low and ventilation poor. Only a few patrons loiter around the bar, staring listlessly into flat pints of lager and ale, that day's newspapers idle by their elbows. A middle age woman with a tight perm stands behind the bar, one elbow resting on the beer pump as she watches the news on the big screen fixed to the far wall. Reports of more rioting broadcast to the largely indifferent barroom.

"Terrible innit, Bob," she says, briefly turning to the man in front of her.

Lucas approaches the bar, catching her eye as he does so.

"Can I help, Mister?"

No one is listening to them, but he keeps his voice low, anyway. "I'm here for the meeting," he explains. "I was told its tonight?"

She doesn't react, but she clearly knows what he's talking about. She turns to a woman Lucas hadn't noticed at first. This one younger, and absorbed in a magazine.

"Francine, take this Gentleman up stairs will you?"

She's less than enthusiastic. For a long moment, she simply stares at them both, mechanically chewing at some gum. When she decides it's time to make a move, she tosses her magazine aside like a teenager in a tantrum before begrudging leading Lucas upstairs without so much as a 'hello' by way of greeting. To his relief, though, the meeting is only first floor. Escape, should it be needed, will be easy enough.

They reach a door directly above the barroom, from inside the sounds of voices can already be heard. The meeting has already begun. Out of habit, he discreetly touches the bug concealed in his collar, making certain that it's still in place and ready to go.

"There y'are, mate," says the sullen girl, who promptly pushes past him and trudges back down the carpeted stairs to the public bar.

The occupants of the room number no more than a dozen. They huddle around four or five tables that have been pushed together. They all cease talking as soon as Lucas enters, twenty-four eyes all staring back at him from over their accompanying shoulders. It's a tense moment; the first proper introduction, but he's done it so often now, it's water off the proverbial duck's back.

"Dave Smith," he says, giving his alias. "Peach got me in."

There's a moment of silence in which the man at the head of the table gestures to him to come inside.

"All right, Dave," he says, tilting his chair back so he can reach another one for Lucas to sit in. "Come on in and close the door behind you. Peach did mention you. He should be here soon."

Before he can sit down, a round of introductions are made. Maddeningly, they do so with what are clearly nicknames. They don't trust him yet, and that means they're unlikely to reveal anything major in front of him – at least not for now. However, his foot is well in the door; and he can always fit a camera if he gets a few minutes in there alone.

"So, how's Winters getting on? Is he gracing us with his presence tonight?" one man asks.

The man at the head of the table looks up from a dairy open before him on the table.

"No, but he's sent an important message through," he replies. "There's a few at that Mosque planning a revenge attack and he's got their names. He reckons he can find out the precise times and dates, so we can strike back at the same time."

Lucas's mind flips over. "Do you have this place under surveillance?" he asks. If they did, surely MI5 would know about it.

The man grins. "Something like that," he answers enigmatically. Lucas thinks he won't say anymore, but almost as if it's an act of welcoming for the new boy, the man does go further. "Let's just say Carl Winters knows people, who know people, who know what's going on. There's a chain of command, if you like. We've made sure that the right hand always knows what the left hand is doing."

Lucas sits back and lets the meeting commence without further interruption. He wants to know what makes them tick before he really begins leading them down any paths. Mostly it's ideas for fund raising, spreading their message and recruiting new members safely, without attracting the attention of the State. It's tame, work-a-day stuff for any fledgling organisation, nothing that Lucas can work on, besides the snippet he was thrown earlier.

But then comes the pay-off. An hour into proceedings, the door opens again and in walks Douglas Simpson, leader of the English Nationalist Party. Lucas makes sure his concealed camera gets a good look at him by getting up to shake his hand. With him, is another, smaller man. There's a shaving cut on his left cheek, he has gingery, fine hair and speaks with a South London accent.

"Did ya miss me, fellas?" he asks, plonking himself at the far end of the tables. He flashes a wide grin at them.

"How's it going, Carl? Didn't expect to see you!" they all chorus, with little variation in their greeting.

Lucas breathes a sigh of relief, expectation, exhilaration. He doesn't know what, but he's finally caught the big fish.

Carl Winters leans forward, elbows braced against the table. "It's all falling into place," he says, his tone even and hushed. "I can get everything we need by the end of next week."

Then, Simpson joins the conversation. "You may want to wait," he says, taking a spare place at the table. "Something's come up, and I think you'll all be interested."

Silence. All eyes turn towards him. "There's going to be a special Question Time for the BBC. All the party leaders together in one building. Location not confirmed and I'm invited. I'll leave you all to think about that."

He gets up again, nudges the man next to him. "Come on, Al. Let's get a drink."

Lucas, also, decides it's time to bail. He's got what he came for, got a face shot of Carl Winters, and staying any longer prolongs the risk of his cover being blown. They inform him of the next meeting: same time; same place. Then, he's taking the stairs two at a time, retreating as fast as he can without arousing suspicion.

However, he reaches the main entrance of the bar. There is a second room he had not noticed before: a lounge bar. Soft furnishings and nice carpets – a more genteel place where the drinks are more expensive. Douglas Simpson and his friend Al are ensconced at a table inside a private snug, deep in conversation. Lucas cannot resist, he inches closer so he can hear; his hopes of something huge rising like a swelling in his chest. He drops down to his hunkers and starts retying his shoelaces just in case he's caught listening in. It's old, but it's still better than being caught just standing there, clearly eavesdropping.

"Nice girl is she, this Leanne?" Al asks.

Lucas genuinely slips the knot and messes up this simple task. He almost chokes. They're talking about Ruth. A private conversation between two dangerous men about woman he loves as though she were a sister is enough to bring him out in a cold sweat.

"Yeah, she seems lovely," replies Simpson. "I think I might ask her out. Take her down the caff for a spot of lunch. Maybe, an afternoon drink afterwards. I really want to get to know 'er better."

Lucas hastily finishes tying his laces and straightens up before slipping out the front door. Outside, the summer sun is late in setting. He casts a lengthy shadow as he vaults the low wall that marks the perimeter of the pub's grounds. On the pavement of the high street, he looks left and right. There's hardly anyone about and nary a taxi to be seen anywhere. He sighs, fishes in his coat pocket for his own mobile to call a cab instead, a large black Range Rover pulls up beside him. Once they're level, the tinted back window slides down, revealing the face of Harry Pearce.

"You took your time," he grumbles.

Lucas grins. "Spying on your own now?"

He lets himself into the back, next to Harry. He's alone, not even Ruth keeping him company now. Inside, the vehicle is lushly upholstered. The engine barely makes a noise and the in-built air conditioning keeps the mid-summer heat at bay. The driver does his job, leaving the two men to talk – if only the average London cabbie could follow the same example. However, at least Harry Pearce has worked to earn the privileges of his station. The man himself is relaxed, despite the gruffness of his greeting to Lucas. He's reclined in his seat, not bothering with the constraints of his seat-belt and dressed in a full-length black coat in open defiance of the spate of hot weather. Even Harry's hands are still snugly encased in black leather gloves.

Lucas notices the frown on Harry's face, the eyes trained on his knees like he's wrestling some deep, inner demon. There's a struggle going on behind those green eyes.

"Lucas," he states, formal and stiff. "My little outburst the other morning."

He leaves it there and Lucas begins to understand the nature of the struggle going on. In fact, it must be more like out and out war. He cannot help but smile, but successfully suppresses a laugh out of respect for his colleague, his friend even. He keeps his reply to a neutral: "what of it?"

Harry suddenly turns to look at him. "It was most unfortunate, Lucas."

He detects the gentle persuasions of Ruth Evershed smoothing out the path to this rare moment.

"Apology accepted," replies Lucas, knowing full well an apology hadn't been made, but was at least intended. It was kissing and making up the manly way.

"So, we're all right now? Back on an even keel?" Harry asks, making sure everything was clear.

Lucas nods. "It's great. Everything's fine."

Their gaze meets for a brief second before they both turn away and look out of the car windows. Clearing their throats deeply, dispersing the moment before they get stuck in it. It's time to change the subject.

"Speaking of Ruth-"

"I never mentioned Ruth!" Harry protest.

"You didn't have to," Lucas retorts. "But listen, this is serious. She's impressed Simpson a little too much. He wants to take her out for dinner."

Harry makes a sound between a cough and choking deep in his throat. "That bastard!" he spits the words, suddenly agitated. The colour rises high in his face. "He'll be lucky if he ever sees her again, so he needn't get his hopes up."

Lucas frowns. "Harry, you don't seriously think Ruth would consider it?"

The other man calms himself, closes his eyes and takes deep, cleansing breaths. Lucas didn't realise the jealousy monster was so easily aroused in Harry.

"No, of course she wouldn't. I mean, the thought's absurd," he explains. "Leave it with me, I'll call her as soon as I get home. For now, give me what you've got. I want to take a look before the staff meeting tomorrow."

Lucas divests himself of his listening device, tracker and hidden camera. The rest of the journey passing off in amiable chat, Lucas gives him a small briefing of the evening's events. Finally, it seemed as if they were making progress. After half an hour crawling through the London traffic, Lucas is deposited at the end of his street. It is dusk, but the street lights are not yet on. But the place is silent. Cars line the kerb, everyone's at home now, the end of another long day. The muffled sounds of television sets showing sitcoms and game shows. Children make a racket in back gardens the size of a postage stamp. But Lucas ignores it all as his eye alights on his own flat. The living room light is on; switched on by someone other than him. He freezes, phone out already, whether to call Harry back, or call the Police, he doesn't yet know.

He stands, transfixed, until the curtain twitches. The nets are pulled aside, and Ros appears at the window. She sees him right away, her frown melting away as she registers his face, his completeness. No missing limbs, no missing teeth. He has survived. She smiles as she raises her hand, displaying a bottle of wine the way a medieval headsmen would display a severed head to the crowds of onlookers. His step quickens and he's at the door as she swings it open in welcome.