Driving the last leg home, he felt utterly drained; it had been a long, hard day. The woman he had been protecting had whined his whole shift long. Her every pronouncement beginning with ‘Het, I want…’ or ‘Hey, I need…’ or ‘Hey, go get me…’ with never a please or a thank you. No wonder she’s a rap star, he thought, she never shuts her damned mouth.

The powerful Merc ate up the miles. Another twenty minutes and he’d be home. Dawson switched on cruise control now that he was on the long empty stretch of moorland road. He hit the Jazz FM button and reclined his seat a little more. The car filled with soft Blues notes as a decadent saxophone wailed and a muted trumpet wept softly in the background. A woman with a velvet voice joined in with a blues-in-the-night number. He felt the tension of the last fourteen hours start to drain away, yeah, he thought, that’s better.

A momentary flash of white on the furthest reach of his headlights brought Dawson to full alertness. So fleeting was the movement that, at first, he doubted himself. A small white foot rolling into the ditch, surely not? He switched his headlights to main beam. Nothing. He slowed down and was about to dismiss it as a trick of his tired brain when from behind a tuft half of a small pale face appeared then ducked instantly. In that split-second he recognised terror.

He stopped ten metres short of where he believed he’d seen the apparition. Leaving the headlights on, he walked slowly along the edge of the road ‘hey’ he called down into the ditch ‘whoever you are come out. I won’t harm you.’ There was no response from the deep darkness. He returned to his car and retrieved a torch from the glove box, his curiosity aroused. Walking slowly back he illuminated the ditch with the bright, narrow beam. There came a frightened yelp and scabbling sound as she scurried up onto the road turning to face him. She was very young, a mere child. He gasped with shock; she was stark naked.

‘Please mister, please’ she pleaded, her eyes wide and her voice trembling, ‘please don’t let them get me, they’re going to kill me.’

Dawson’s face tightened. Shock, pity and anger surged through him, each fighting for precedence. His knees felt weak, and a sick feeling kicked into his guts. He turned the torch off not wanting to see the pitiful sight she presented. The girl’s age he could only guess was somewhere between twelve and fourteen. She made no attempt to cover her nakedness as she trembled before him, smeared with filth from head to toe. Her tiny breasts heaved as she sobbed, her large tear-brimmed eyes pleading with him. It was a moment before he could gather his wits, his mind was reeling, struggling to comprehend what he was seeing. Dawson looked around, mystified, there was no sign of anyone else. ‘What the hell?’ He managed at last ‘Jesus, girl, what’s happened to you?’ She didn’t answer, just crossed an arm over her chest and placed the other between her legs, shivering uncontrollably in the chill night air.

The A635, known locally as the Isle of Skye Road crosses bleak high moorland between Oldham and Holmfirth. It is a lonely place at four a.m. Often lashed by wind and rain or shrouded in fog, on this early March morning, it was cold, clear and still. The stars looked huge and bright away from the light pollution of big towns.

Dawson’s head began to clear. First things first he thought, he went to his car and collected his puffer jacket ‘here, kid, put this on.’ The girl took the coat hesitantly, her shaking hand brushing his, it was icily cold. She held the coat beneath her chin seeming uncertain as to what she should do with it. ‘Let me help’ he said gruffly. She whimpered and stepped back, her eyes once again wide and terror-filled. ‘I’m not going to hurt you, girl, I promise.’

She seemed to sag then looking utterly forlorn and the tears came, gushing in silent rivulets, cutting clear paths down her grimy cheeks. He took the coat and draped it around her shoulders, zipping it up before guiding her gently to the car. He opened the rear passenger door and she slid across the seat to cower on the far side shivering violently, now sobbing quietly. He got behind the wheel, killed the music, turned up the heating then took out his phone.

‘Please mister, please, don’t ring the cops, they’ll put me back into the care home then they’ll get me again, please,’

Her accent was broad and local, Bury, Rochdale or Oldham he guessed but what was she doing out here, alone and naked at four in the morning?

‘Isn’t care the safest place for you?’ The stricken look on her face in the rear-view mirror told him it wasn’t. He rubbed his chin uncertainly. What the hell was he to do with her?

Headlights behind him illuminated the car’s interior shooting javelins of light from his mirrors. The girl flung herself on the floor between the seats whimpering in terror.

The lights slowed as they approached, the black Toyota four by four drew alongside and stopped. The window went down, and a swarthy face leaned out. He was in his mid-forties, unshaven with dark narrow eyes under black, unkempt hair. Dawson didn’t like the look of the guy. He lowered his window ‘Can I help you?’

The accent was Eastern European ‘you broke down?’

‘Nope, just stopped for a piss, waiting for you to pass, I hate headlights in my mirror.’

The guy seemed to consider this for a second then nodded ‘you see anybody walking up here?’

Dawson feigned surprise ‘Walking? At this hour?’

The man hesitated ‘It’s embarrassing’ he said, ‘my niece, she runs away, no clothes, she not good up here’ he tapped his temple ‘we look for her, she needs her medicine, urgent.’

Dawson had had plenty of experience with liars and this guy was lying through his teeth. ‘Sorry, can’t help you, mate.’ He put his seatbelt on and put the Merc in gear to pull away. The guy spoke to his driver and the Toyota pulled sharply forward blocking his way. The man jumped out. Dawson released his seat belt; his hand going to the door catch. The man was big and burly but running to fat around his middle. He swaggered up to Dawson’s window chest out, his jaw jutting aggressively ‘We check your car, mister, so many perverts about.’

Dawson flung the car door open with lightning speed hitting the man even as he desperately tried to leap back. Then he was out of the car his fists clenched, his anger cold. The guy gave a growl and launched himself swinging a haymaker. Dawson sidestepped with the agility of a fox. He grabbed the back of the man’s neck, and, using his momentum, slammed his head into the edge of the car roof. The guy dropped to his knees with a groan and Dawson brought his right fist crashing into his temple with a force that felled him.

The beeping of a headlight warning sounded behind him telling him the Toyota’s door had opened. The driver was out and holding a baseball bat. He looked nervously from Dawson to his felled comrade then he slowly advanced raising the bat.

Faced with this new threat, Dawson’s anger changed instantly into focused calm. His voice was quiet and emotionless ‘you come at me with that, mister, and I’ll break your legs with it.’ it was more a statement of fact than a threat. He stepped back away from the fallen man, his hands clasped lightly over his crotch, eyes of steel, shoulders relaxed.

The driver had seen how easily his mate had been dealt with and hesitated, then he lowered the bat. He was in his mid-fifties, pot-bellied, with a deeply lined angular face and the same narrow eyes as the first man. A lifetime of cigarettes and cheap vodka had taken their toll.

He pointed at his companion ‘I just take my friend’ he said, his voice uncertain ‘we go, we leave you alone, OK?’

Dawson nodded ‘drop the tool and take him’ he retreated a further pace allowing the man to help his groaning friend stagger back to their vehicle. Once aboard, they drove rapidly off until they disappeared over the horizon towards Holmfirth.

Back in his car, the girl was now weeping with relief ‘Oh, thank you, Mister, thanks, you’ve saved my life.’

Dawson grunted, whatever her problem was it wouldn’t be resolved by sitting at the roadside asking questions and the men might return with reinforcements Christ, he thought, I really don’t need this shit, but I can’t just dump her up here or she’ll die of exposure.

He put the car in gear and drove off. But what the hell was he to do with her?

Agnar son of Cynebald, known as Agnar the merciless, glowered at the three captured chieftains kneeling before him, their hands bound behind their backs.

‘You chose to defy me, now your men lay dead or captured. I will put you to death, of course, but how quickly or slowly depends on you.’

The three prisoners looked from one to another baffled, none were afraid to die but this was against custom. Among the tribes if a defeated leader surrendered, he was executed, his men were then spared. If he refused to surrender, he and his army would be butchered to a man. The manner of death for a chieftain was always a sword to the heart or a beheading as befitted their rank.

‘You can command your men to join my army and march to glory or, if you refuse, you will be thrown to starving boars to be eaten alive. The choice is yours.’

Ceolmund son of Leofwine the bravest of the three captives spoke up. ‘My men will make their own choice; I will give no order.’

Agnar’s lips curled beneath his broken nose and his dark eyes glinted. He had lost many men and needed more for the coming battle. Ceolmund’s men were the best of them. All captive warriors were given the choice to join him or to be sold as slaves. They always chose to join him then a great number deserted at the first opportunity. A chieftain’s order bound them to allegiance.

Ceolmund said ‘you intend to take the Queendom of Salis from the Durotriges when spring comes, yet we have a kinship with Queen Hirtha, who lives in peace with all. I’ll not bind my men to such treachery.’

‘Then your fate is sealed Ceolmund,’ he turned to his guards ‘send for the cart of pigs, make ready the enclosure.’

Ceolmund spoke calmly. ‘Hirtha is a powerful sorceress. None who live under her rule carry arms, they say they have no need of them. All who go against her die. Twenty years ago, an invading army perished in a wall of fire sent by the gods before they got within spear throw.’

Agnar laughed ‘She has no powers other than those of a crafty she-wolf. My last soothsayer revealed her secret to me. Oil was hidden in trenches fifty paces apart and the land between soaked in it. When the army reached the second trench the oil was lit, as they turned to retreat the second was also lit. They died like the fools they were.’

And so Ceolmund was put to his horrendous death and his men ordered to be sold into slavery as they couldn’t be trusted. Agnar the merciless had not permitted his enemies wounded to be swiftly dispatched as was the mercy granted to defeated warriors. ‘They shall be left to die slowly and lie as carrion’ he had decreed, ‘an example for all who may wish to oppose me.’

Oswald, the son of Ceolmund, lay on the battlefield for two days where he had been left for dead. Slowly, he returned to consciousness. The axe that had clubbed him down had glanced off his helmet, failing to penetrate it. Slowly at first, though a curtain of fog and pain, the light of dawn filtered. He lay for several minutes before realising he was still alive. Nearby, crows were pecking the eyes and tongues of the dead, squabbling noisily over the choicest morsels. Oswald groaned and sat up, looking about him. His memory began returning. They had fought bravely but had been defeated. Cynebald’s men were just too numerous. He knew then his father was dead.

Oswald heard a few moans of wounded men barely alive. Why had not Agnar dispatched them? Truly the man had earned his title as merciless. He found a sword then staggered about ending the agony of the few remaining wounded.

Finding a nearby stream, he drank deeply. Then washed the dried blood from his face. Sitting on the bank he wondered what to do, where to go for sanctuary. He tried to stand but fell back growing dizzy. His vision blurred as a fog surrounded him and an ethereal outline appeared. A woman’s voice inside his head spoke calm and reassuring. ‘Arise Oswald son of Ceolmund and go to your kin the Durotriges. Dress as a common warrior, take no weapons or regalia’ the voice said ‘if you meet with any on the way be humble. Go now.’

The voice was clear and compelling. He took clothing from a dead warrior and cast away his weapons though he felt naked he knew he must obey the voice.

Oswald hoisted the old woman on his back. She was much heavier than he expected and stank like a pigpen, but he ploughed into the stream. They were halfway across; the rushing water rising to his waist. The old woman’s long fingernails dug deep in his flesh as she shrieked her terror in his ear.

‘Be calm mother, for I am strong, and you are safe.’

‘Oh, oh dear, my cat, I have forgotten my cat, please, you must turn back.’ She began kicking his thighs with her bony heels, the power she had amazed him.

His anger rose ‘stop that at once or I’ll throw you in. Be damned to your cat and be damned to you.’ He rushed across the rest of the water and dumped her on the bank where she lay lamenting.

‘And now I must take my leave, be off to your husband, crone.’

She looked into his eyes her face a mask of misery ’do you not have a grandmother, young sir? If she were me, would you treat her thus? Sir, I beg, my cat is ancient and without my care, she will perish this day

*

In her large roundhouse at the centre of the village, Queen Hirtha sat cross-legged on a bearskin atop the reed strewn floor. Her eyes were closed, her back erect her ageless features tranquil. Next to her sat her daughter Joscelyn in a similar pose.

For an hour they sat whilst the fire burned down in the central hearth bathing them in an eery red glow. Both stirred simultaneously, blinking as their eyes opened. Hirtha clapped her hands and a servant appeared with a pot of warm mead. Both drank a single goblet then Hirtha asked ‘You saw what I saw Joscelyn, Agnar Cynebald will come next year, and he is extremely powerful.’

‘The spring will be wet, mother, his oxcarts will sink, he will be delayed.’

‘Even so, if we are to thwart him there is no time to be lost.’

‘What are we to do mother?’ Joscelyn asked, her dark brown eyes reflecting her worry.

Hirtha brushed her long black locks from around her pale face ‘I shall sleep, Jocelyn, when I awake I shall have the answer.’

Hirtha awoke the next morning her face serene. She dressed, and went across to where her daughter lay, touching her face tenderly ‘arise daughter, I have news.’

Joscelyn looked into her mother’s eyes which this morning were the colour of the summer sky, a sign that she was ready to make a prophecy. She trembled in anticipation, ‘what is it, mother? What have you seen?’

‘First, good news. A young prince comes dressed as a common warrior, he will be your husband, if you will have him.’

Jocelyn’s joy at this news was tinged with worry ‘And what of Agnar, mother?’

‘We are in great danger for he is powerful and has a seer who can render him much service. This man is sly and evil.’

Are his powers greater than yours, mother?’

‘Alone, no, but with his powers and Agnar’s great army, I alone am not enough. I have to use my powers to build a great temple to focus the energy of the whole tribe if we are not to be slaughtered.’

‘But that will be impossible in the time we have, surely?’

‘Nothing is impossible if the power of the ages is employed correctly, my child.’

Joscelyn looked at her mother adoringly, her own powers were growing by the day but not yet fully developed. ‘About my husband?’ she asked, excitement coursing through her, ‘the next solstice will be my fifteenth, most women of my age are already married.’

‘Most women your age are not future queens, Joscelyn. The right spirit is being sought. Be patient my child.’

*

Oswald’s head ached abominably, every stride of the way seemed fraught with obstacles, a rocky outcrop to be climbed here, a bog to be bypassed there. He was ravenously hungry and now a swollen stream was flowing fiercely across his path.

The old woman sat in the pouring rain dressed in rags her scrawny arms outstretched in supplication ‘Oh, sir, fine young warrior, please, I beg of you, help me to the other side.’

He looked the wizened crone, one dark eye glinted brightly in the rain the other opaque and useless.

‘I am in a hurry old mother I have no time.’

‘Noble sir, my husband of these forty summers past lies dying, I must be at his side. Will you not aid a helpless old woman?’

Oswald looked at the pitiful crone and relented ‘Very well, but that is all I can do, I can give no alms.’

‘That is all I desire, brave warrior, for my time is also near, I have no need of alms.’

.’

Oswald took a deep breath as a picture of his late beloved grandmother came to mind, she, too, had loved cats. ‘Very well, I will go back and look for it.’

‘That will avail nought, sir, she will not come to strangers.’

Oswald grimaced as a sense of great urgency engulfed him. He needed to be off before he was discovered by one of Agnar’s patrols. He rolled his eyes to the heavens ‘what have I done that the gods punish me so cruelly this day’ he said bitterly and hoisted the crone once more. Back they went, the old woman again emitting ear-piercing shrieks of terror. Oswald felt like weeping. ’Why me? Why me? he called to the sky, ‘is the death of my father not sacrifice enough?’

They reached the other side, and the old woman made her way to a clump of shrubs calling her cat. After ten long minutes with thunder and lightning crashing and flashing from the deluge, a scrawny black cat crept timidly from its hiding place to be scooped up by the woman. She returned to him her one good eye glowing with gratitude. ‘May the gods reward you, young sir.’

‘The reward I crave, woman, is to have you silent as we cross back and not to have your dagger nails in my flesh.’

‘It shall be so, sir.’

And silent she was, but her cat climbed onto his head digging its claws deep into his scalp and howling its terror of the raging waters. This time Oswald wept.

Reaching the far bank once more, the cat jumped off his head and scurried away. Oswald placed the old lady down gently. She clung to him smiling and kissed his cheek, her few remaining teeth grotesque yellow stumps, her breath that of a dung pile. If he’d had anything in his stomach, he would have lost it then and there. ‘I have a reward for you, young warrior’ she said and took an amulet from around her neck, dangling it before him. ‘It is made from the metal that falls from the heavens. With this, you will never be lost for the longest part always points to the north. It would please me greatly if you wore it.’

Oswald took the amulet it was indeed a strange object being heavy and of silver-grey colour. It had jagged but not sharp edges roughly in the shape of a star. Touched, he realised this must be the only thing of value she possessed. He felt humbled by her generosity and bowed deeply. ‘Thank you, old mother, you are most kind’ he said ‘now, I must be gone, for it is late and I have far to go.’

Hurrying away, he had barely gone ten paces when he heard her say ‘Go in peace Oswald son of Ceolmund.’ He had not told her his name. Shocked, he turned abruptly. The old woman had vanished.

‘Call the council of the six Joscelyn, have them attend the chamber at once.’

When the three men and three women were assembled The Queen addressed them. She described the temple they were to build, the type of stone required and the date for completion.

There was a stunned silence then Willa the healer stood and bowed before she spoke ‘Noble Queen, great are your powers and great our trust in you but the stone you speak of is more than four leagues away. It would need to be cut and drawn here over the mountain, through a steep valley and across two rivers. We have not enough men. It would take years, not weeks.’

Queen Hirtha smiled and held her hands before her. Slowly she raised them, and the council rose from their places and floated in mid-air. ‘Have faith in me, Willa, for the stones will cut like butter and they will weigh nothing.’ She lowered the startled council back to their places.

‘There is a young warrior coming, he will be here tomorrow. If she is willing, my daughter will take him as her husband. After they are joined there will be three days of feasting then shall our sacred work commence.’ She dismissed the council.

The sun was setting as Oswald approached the village of the Durotriges He was surprised there were no sentries, nor did the dogs bark at him. The people he passed smiled and greeted him. Although the tribes were related through marriage he had never been here before and had expected to be challenged.

Queen Hirtha welcomed him into her house and when she introduced him to Joscelyn, the very air seemed to crackle between them. Oswald was smitten by her beauty, and it took him a great effort to tear his eyes from her when the queen spoke to offer him food. After they had eaten, Oswald was shown to the bachelor quarters.

‘Well, daughter?’ said the Queen ‘do you not think him handsome?’

‘No mother, not handsome, he is beautiful beyond words.’

‘I set him a test on his way here. He is strong, patient and compassionate. After my time he will help you rule wisely.’

Oswald arose in the morning and got his first surprise of many. The people sat in family circles holding hands and chanting. He felt a warm vibration running through his body like the current of life itself. It filled him with joy.

Over breakfast with the bachelors, they explained their way of life. They told him they lived with nature and had respect for all things. ‘Our women are our equals’ one said, it would serve you ill to treat them otherwise.’

'for the most part, the women are our betters’ one shouted and the whole hut bust out laughing. Their only law was simple. If it harms no other, then do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.

Oswald felt uncomfortable with this philosophy. ‘Where are your swords?’ he asked ‘Where are your spears, your shields? How do you defend yourselves?’

A frail young man about his own age stepped forward ‘My name is Bloewald’ he said, ‘strike me.’ When the horrified Oswald refused, Bloewald said ‘please, then try to strike me, I will not hurt you, Oswald, I promise.’ The others laughed and Oswald’s face burned, how dare these non-warriors laugh at him.

He threw a sudden punch. the blow stopped six inches from Bloewald’s face as if it had hit a solid pillow. He struck again with the same result. Frustrated, he kicked out. Bloewald smiled and jerked his hand forward. Oswald was propelled backwards by an unseen force. He sat down sharply, bemused.

‘What sorcery is this?’ What evil do you practice here?’

Bloewald extended a hand and helped him up. ‘No sorcery, Oswald, you, too, can do this with the right training. Not all our people can do it, just the elected defenders. The Queen herself is our teacher.’

Oswald scratched his head realising he had much to learn. Later, he was summoned before the Queen and Joscelyn who took his hand. He felt a surge of power run through him tinging every fibre of his being as he looked into her eyes.

‘My Lord Oswald Leofwine, will you be my husband? Will you plant your noble seed deep in my yoni? Will you take me this day before my tribe and prove me a worthy successor to my mother?’

Oswald knew then that the love consuming him was pure and free of lust. His voice trembled with passion. ‘I will, my noble lady.’

Among the other tribes, it was always the bride’s father who made the marriage match, this was completely alien to him, yet it felt so right as the Queen beamed her approval.

That night at sunset they took their vows before the altar stone which was spread with a white sheet. The Queen officiated in the ceremony. Then she stripped them both naked to the gasps of appreciation from the tribe.

‘You must lay her on the alter and consummate the marriage before the whole tribe. All must witness the match is pure.’

Joscelyn whispered in his ear ‘do not be embarrassed, husband, all here love you.’

And when it was done, the Queen raised the sheet for all to see. ‘Behold, the virgin blood’ she cried.

The tribe responded shouting ‘the union is pure, long live this sacred union.’

There followed three days of feasting, dancing and merriment, a great amount of mead was consumed yet no one got drunk. Oswald was amazed that no one seemed to be concerned that war clouds were gathering.

Agnar The Merciless had long coveted Queen Hirtha’s lands and it was rumoured she had a great hoard of silver. Her people were valuable for they were strong and good looking. They would fetch premium prices as slaves. But the season grew late, and the weather was foul. He sent for Mungus, his seer.

Mungus drew his highly polished silver scrying bowl from his robes along with a silver flask of sacred water. He had to get this right. His predecessor had met a gruesome end roasting slowly over a pit of charcoal. Mungus's hand trembled slightly as he poured the water into the bowl and waited until it was still.

Agnar sat watching impatiently. Mungus had predicted his recent victory and had even forewarned of an ambush his enemies had set allowing him to avoid it. ‘Speak only of what you see, Mungus, and speak truly’ he intoned.

The seer put a silver rod into the water and slowly stirred it in one full circle. From a flask of black dye, Mungus let one drop fall into the scrying dish and watched as it billowed gently until the water became dark. His expression became fixed as he mumbled an incantation.

‘Well, seer?’

Mungus held up his hands in a pleading gesture, he had no desire to be rushed. With his arms extended, his palms turned upward he mumbled yet more incantations. Bowing his head low over the bowl Mungus stared in silence. Finally, he spoke. ‘The autumn will be wet, the harvest poor, the ground unfit for your carts. The spring, too, will be wet, my Lord.’

Agnar spat on the ground, his lips curling, ‘by the Gods, have you no good tidings, seer?’

‘Yes, my lord. The ground will dry, food will be abundant, and an auspicious time will occur around the solstice.’

Agnar cursed. It would mean living in the conquered villages throughout the long winter. Well, better that than being bogged down and easy prey to his enemies.

‘And do you foresee a great victory, Mungus?’

The seer returned his gaze to his bowl ‘with proper preparation and care my Lord, yes.’

‘Proper preparation and care! Agnar roared ‘she is a woman, what does she know of warfare?’

‘She is a powerful sorceress my lord and it is rumoured she has lain with wolves and begat her daughter through sorcery.’

‘Tales for scaring children,’ Agnar scoffed ‘I believe none of it. My spies tell me her earthworks are weak and her people carry weapons only when hunting. Were it not for this rain I would march and take her this month.’

‘There is a warning here, my Lord but the dish grows unclear. I beg leave to retire now and attend you tomorrow when I shall scry again on the matter.’

Agnar nodded and Mungus departed, a dark foreboding in his breast, displeasing Agnar was highly dangerous.

‘I have consulted the spirits of the Earth; we are to build a temple of stone to focus our power.’ Hirtha announced to her people. ‘We shall be guided in this mighty endeavour.’ Her people muttered among themselves until she held up her hands for silence. ’Do not be afraid, do not be faint-hearted, we can accomplish great things together.’ She nodded at Joycelene who unfurled a calfskin with a plan drawn on it. She explained her plan to her silent tribe. ‘One hundred and thirty of us depart at dawn the rest will dig the pits according to my plan under the guidance of Jocelyn.’ No one questioned her, no one cast doubt, all had faith in Hirtha.

At the site of the stones, Hirtha lit pungent herbs in her tent and sat in a trance listening to the silence of the Universe.

The next day Hirtha selected the stones she needed and drew the shape upon them with charcoal. She traced her finger along the lines and had her people cut there. The stone parted like butter, so the work of twelve months took only twelve days.

‘Tie your ropes to the stones’ Hirtha ordered then she raised her hands and the stones rose and floated. ‘Take them home’ she commanded. Her face remained serene for the people must not see the terrible strain she was under. Performing powerful magik had to be paid for and the price was high.

At the village the work on the pits went slowly, water had to be removed each day before work could commence. Jocelyn used her powers, but the rain was relentless they had barely completed the task when the stones arrived marvelled at by all the tribe.

Hirtha retired to her home for three days of solitude, drinking herbal infusions and resting uneasily. Her sleep was invaded by dreams of Agnar and his hordes, burning her village, raping and plundering. On the fourth day, she emerged calm of mind with purpose in her stride.

She called the council and issued instructions the purpose of which they didn’t understand but obeyed without question. Mead was gathered in great quantities and boiled, the vapour returned to liquid on copper sheets and collected. Small clay pots of strange shape were made, baked and set aside. She also sent a party with carts to the sea with instructions to buy huge quantities of salt from the people there. Meanwhile, the circle of stones was being erected according to her plan.

‘Jocelyn, my daughter, send for your husband and attend me.’

When he arrived, she told them ‘I grow weak, my children, my powers are fading, I am no longer young, but you can help me.’ She lit incense and lay upon a reed mat. ‘Lie beside me closely, Jocelyn on my right and each take my hand.’

Oswald felt strange as he stared upward. A beam of light shone from the smoke hole in the roof. ‘Look at the light and empty your minds of all thought’ Hirtha said.

As he did so, Oswald felt a great peace sweep through him, and he fell into a deep sleep. When he awoke Jocelyn was holding his hand and smiling at him ‘you are so powerful my prince, my mother is much improved.’ But Oswald sensed an air of uncertainty in her.

The winter passed but the spring was cold and wet as Mungus had predicted. As the solstice approached, the weather began to improve and the ground slowly dried. Agnar was anxious to conquer the Durotriges and sent for Mungus. ‘Read the omens for me Mungus, tell me how great our victory will be.’

Mungus scried. ‘The most auspicious time to attack will be before dawn on the solstice, master, we must complete victory before sunrise.’

‘Ah, yes, the solstice. These superstitious Durotriges will be too busy practising their rituals to keep a proper watch. But you set a time for victory, Mungus? Do you doubt my invincibility, you scoundrel?’

Mungus withered before Agnar’s baleful stare, he was on dangerous ground. ‘No, my Lord, it is only that surprise will reduce our loses leaving your army stronger for your next great conquest.’

Agnar sneered ‘leave the tactics to me, seer, they are none of your concern.’ And so Agnar marched on Hirtha.

‘He comes at the solstice, mother, and his army is huge. too many for our protectors.’

Hirtha nodded solemnly, she knew her daughter was right. ‘There is a magik, daughter, that no one has practised in many lifetimes, but it will take all our combined strength.’

‘What must I do, mother?’

‘You must obey me without question in all things. Oswald, too, must do my bidding even if it seems wrong to him.’

‘We will do so, mother.’

‘When the attack comes, Joscelyn, it will be before dawn. We must hold him until the sun rises or we are doomed.’ She gave instructions for the salt to be laid in the ditch around the village and other instructions that puzzled Joscelyn, but she obeyed her mother.

Agnar halted his army in a valley a league away from Hirtha’s village where they lay all day resting and preparing for battle. At sunset, Agnar gave his commanders their orders. They were to silently surround the village on all sides and await his signal to attack one hour before sunrise. Agnar positioned himself opposite the two pillars of the temple that led to the altar stone. That is where she and her daughter would be he knew it. her. He gave a cold laugh; he would take great pleasure in slaying them both.

In the village, men women and children sat calmly around the temple. Between each ten of them sat a protector. They held hands calmly yet each knew their lives depended on their queen’s instruction.

Agnar’s torch flared, and he waved it above his head. Beside him, Mungus chanted spells. His men charged.

Hirtha sang out in a high-pitched cry and from the salt appeared a wall of blue flame. The protectors threw their arms forward, as the enemy charged howling their war cries. As they ran into the wall of flame their clothes caught fire, desperately they tried to turn but the weight of warriors pressing from the rear forced them through, leaving them to burn. The men at the rear charged on over the bodies of their fallen and ran at the ring of tribespeople. The first were hurled back by the defenders but they were too many. ‘Now, daughter,’ said Hirtha and Joscelyn arose and screamed an order. Every man, woman and child lit the cloth on the clay pots and threw them at the advancing horde. They burst on them blazing in an almost invisible flame. The burning warriors screamed hideously as they burned, The men behind faltered. They had seen nothing like it but all had heard the rumours of Hirtha’s great magik and how she had destroyed an army twenty seasons ago with fire. They started to retreat as the people continued to throw these fireballs at them.

At his place of command, Agnar screamed his rage. He could see Hirtha sitting cross-legged on the altar stone her face placid. She must die. Once he had killed her the magik would die with her and he would be victorious.

‘Mungus,’ he roared, and the trembling seer approached him.

‘I did foretell a warning master…’ he began.

Agnar placed his dagger at the seer’s throat ‘a pox on your warning, break the wall of fire for me now, I must kill the witch.’

Mungus raised his hands and, giving a mighty shout, shot his hands towards the flames. They died down to almost nothing. ‘Hurry my lord for time is short, the sun rises soon.’

Agnar thrust his dagger into Mugnus’s throat ‘so much for your great victory, dog.’ Then he turned and ran towards Hirtha. Oswald, who was sitting beside the queen, rose and drew his sword. ‘Remain seated’ Hirtha said but the young warrior charged at Agnar, closing the distance quickly. Agnar saw him coming and snarled his contempt as he continued his run smashing his shield into the young man’s chest, knocking him over.

Oswald’s sword fell from his hand, and he looked up in horror as Agnar’s spear skewered downwards. But the point hit the amulet around his neck. There was a flash of light and the spear stopped. Agnar had no time to thrust again for he had to kill Hirtha, with her death the magik would die. He threw his spear with all his might, and it flew towards her heart. Hirtha waved her hand as if swatting a fly and the spear flew harmlessly upward but then she seemed to weaken as her head fell forward.

With a cry of triumph Agnar dashed forward, sword raised to strike a death blow.

His sword poised high to strike, Agnar saw Hirtha’s head rise from her chest. The first rays of the solstice dawn sun shone into her face and her eyes blazed with two pillars of flame. Agnar’s eyes were instantly burned out and he screamed his agony, reeling away and clutching his face. The queen continued to stare and Agnar burned slowly, writhing in his death throes and shrieking. Hirtha continued until her enemy was a heap of ashes.

‘Draw near to me Joscelyn and Oswald for my time has come.’ Hirtha lay on her bed, a peaceful smile on her lips. Joscelyn and Oswald hold my hands.’

They did as she bid, tears filling their eyes.

‘Do not weep for me my children for we all have our time, mine is now. I pass my powers to you both that you may reign in peace and wisdom.’

‘Is there nothing we can do for you great queen?’ asked Oswald. ‘There is my son. I beg you burn my body and place my ashes under the temple altar stone. Henceforth I would have it named as the Great Henge of Stone.’

The end.

▲

Whilst stuck in lockdown I had eaten far to much,

My guts were working overtime, I was suffering from the thrutch,

I tushed up to the bathroom and pulled my trousers down,

Relief was instantaneous but then there came a frown,

The paper holder empty, every sheet was gone,

My pockets held no tissues to wipe myself upon.

I saw a drastic answer, it almost made me blush

I reach across unto the sink and used the wife's toothbrush.

I am not a nice man. I’m a mean minded low-life bastard and that’s why I’ll survive. Nice people end up dead in my game.

Belfast 1972

In the target I waited patiently. The shallow curtained alcove behind the counter that concealed me was cramped and claustrophobic. My feet and legs ached from three hours of standing. My nostrils itched from the dust in the air but I resisted the urge to scratch. The curtain was a scant two inches from my chest; I couldn’t risk moving it even slightly. I knew they were watching, waiting, they’d only come once they were certain all was well.

‘Get there an hour or so before their team arrive Jack, that should be time enough. I suggest covert entry from the rear, the back door has only an old mortice lock.’

Frank had briefed me in his laid-back, understated manner, anyone would think this was a run of the mill surveillance job not a mission to kill two people.

‘There’ll be a driver and a minder with the bomber, all will be armed.’ He paused glancing at his notes ‘once inside the minder will stand at the door watching the street whilst the bomber is working if things follow the usual pattern. The driver will disappear until collection time. They don’t like risking anyone being spotted hanging around outside the target. That should give you plenty of time to do the job and get clear. OK so far?’

‘Fine.’

Apparently it doesn’t take long to set the bomb so don’t hang around once they’re inside and the driver has left.’

Frank looked slightly ill at ease ’I cannot stress enough the importance of placing your shots accurately, understood Jack?

I nodded ‘Of course, Frank.’

He glanced at his watch ‘Their Estimated Time of Arrival is oh two thirty hours but they are seldom on time so you might have a bit of a wait on your hands.’

He paused, looking slightly uncomfortable. That was another first for Frank ‘now for the bad news: The intel we have says they are very cagey about this job. They’ll scour the whole area before they approach so that means no back up, OK? If they suspect the smallest thing is wrong they’ll abort and god knows if we’ll ever get another chance. So, sorry Jack, but this is a solo mission.’

Frank looked far from sorry, as long as he got the job done I could fry in hell directly afterwards for all he cared. The bastard treated me like I was shit. He was an Eton educated, Brigade of Guards, aristocratic cunt.

I was a Barnardo’s brat, an orphan, an expendable commodity there was no one to weep for me if I got killed.

Frank had never showed even a glimmer of embarrassment in previous briefings. Strange I thought.

‘Anything else I should know, Boss?’

‘That’s all Jack so go and get whatever you need. I’ll leave the rest to you. You know what to do.’

Anyone who didn’t know Frank well would never have noticed his eye contact was not quite the same as it normally was. I couldn’t put my finger on what was different. Was Frank holding something back or was it paranoia on my part? Why would he hold anything back? It didn’t make sense. I pushed the thought out of my mind and concentrated on the floor plan of the target committing it to memory.

I arrived four hours before the ETA. I checked the place and surrounding area out carefully before deciding to enter. The back yard was enclosed by a crumbling seven foot high brick wall, the gate sagged open on broken hinges.

The yard was full of detritus the neighbours had dumped there, forcing me to step gingerly. A dilapidated washing machine, parts of old bicycles plus the heaps of other junk were a real noise hazard. I negotiated this carefully, fearful of alerting others to my presence.

My picks made short work of the old mortice lock. The shop had been empty for months now; the last tenant hadn't even bothered to throw the bolt. There was nothing to steal anyway.

Sliding quietly inside I crouched motionless against the wall smelling the stale damp odour of dereliction. I listened intently for full two minutes. I heard nothing except the faint buzzing of traffic up on the main road. I relocked the door then checked out every inch of the place from attic to cellar moving slowly, quietly, disturbing nothing.

Too many of my predecessors had walked into an ambush trusting duff intelligence. Not this soldier, check and double bloody check.

I found a hand print in the dust on the polished mahogany shop counter. My masked torch showed fresh dust had not yet begun to settle back into it. So, they’d been and checked the place out very recently. A good sign, that.

I thought carefully before choosing my hiding place. The curtained alcove behind the counter had shelves that were only resting on their supports. These I removed and hid under the counter. The odds were they would have looked in here seen the shelves and dismissed it as a possible hiding place, though that was far from certain.

I watched though the small gap at the curtain’s edge where it didn’t quite meet the wall. This allowed me a view of the glass door, half of the shop window and the street beyond. I would have a clear shot at the minder when he took up his position. I settled my mind into meditation mode.

An hour before the ETA a man came into the shop through the front door using a key. He stood in the doorway shining a powerful torch around the walls. I thumbed off the safety catch and held my breath, my heart pounding. The guy went into the back and rattled the back door handle vigorously then he went up the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the empty space.

He came back down quickly and descended into the cellar. He was back again in a moment.

Returning to the front door he turned and shone the torch around the walls again, dwelling on my hiding place for what seemed an eternity. The whole of the alcove was lit as bright as day, the thin curtain offering a scant barrier to the probing light. God I felt exposed, as though the guy must be able to see right through it though logic dictated otherwise.

I held my breath listening for a gun being cocked, poised to rip the curtain aside and start shooting.

The man switched off the torch turned and left, locking the door behind him. I breathed out releasing the tension.

I watched as the guy crossed the street and took up position in a darkened doorway. I couldn’t see the bastard but knew he’d be watching for any unusual activity.

That there would also be someone in the alley behind the shop I didn’t doubt. Stay alert Jack I told myself, they’ll be coming soon.

Yet my mind went back to the briefing running over it again evaluating every nuance, every gesture of Frank’s. My suspicion that Frank had held something back returned like an itch I couldn’t scratch. My instinct said there was definitely something he had not told me, but what? And why? Surely, Frank wouldn’t fuck me about on a job this important?

“Deadly” Declan Dooley was Libyan trained and had set booby- trapped bombs that had so far taken the lives of three highly skilled bomb disposal officers as well as a number of innocent civilians.

Dooley was not a local, he came to The North when sent for, used his expertise and was spirited away again to safety. He was one of the Provisional IRA’s greatest assets and they wouldn’t risk him unduly. If he hadn’t been shagging some IRA commander’s wife I wouldn’t be waiting for him now.

Intelligence knew almost nothing about Dooley, they had no photos, his age and description was also unknown. Only his lethal work bore his unmistakable signature.

Another hour dragged by before I was alerted by a movement across the street. The man emerged from the doorway and moved off.

Ten minutes later a car drew up at the shop and three people got out. It was too late to worry about the briefing now. Taking great care not to move the curtain I slowly drew my pistol.

A massive man got out of the car first, the gun looking tiny in his huge fist. He looked up and down the empty street then opened the car boot. The driver was the watcher I’d seen earlier. He came and unlocked the shop door. All three then started carrying sacks into the shop. No one spoke. After five sacks were carried in the driver jumped in the car and drove off. The smell of diesel on fertilizer reached my nostrils and I almost sneezed. The hairs on my neck were tingling.

The smallest of the trio, a slim silhouetted figure carrying a briefcase, shuffled forward clad in a baggy boiler suit and black beanie hat and knelt down by the sacks out of my sight below the counter level.

I heard the click-clack of locks springing as the brief case was opened. The bomber’s torch cast a faint glow, causing ghost-like shadows on the ceiling. It would be enough light to do my business.

Then the minder, instead of guarding the door, started prowling around the sales floor opening cupboards and kicking at empty cardboard boxes. Christ, I thought, what’s he doing? This was not supposed to be happening. He should be standing at the door watching the street where I could get a clear shot at him not mooching about the shop. I couldn’t risk exposing myself and hoping to place my shots with the precision the job demanded.

Things were rapidly turning shit-shaped. The bomber wouldn’t take long and then the driver would be back. I didn’t want a gunfight. This was supposed to be a double execution not the fuckin’ OK Corral.

Happenings like these are known as the ‘buggeration factor’ in Army-speak. Nearly every job had one when things went off plan. This was buggeration big time.

Then the minder came behind the counter. I checked my breathing. Had I been stitched up? Fuckin’ Frank, have you stitched me up you twat? Where was this guy’s pistol pointing? Was it to pointing to his front ready to fire the instant he saw me? I heard him pulling out the old fashioned cash drawer. What the hell did he expect to find in there for god’s sake? But at least this told me he had no knowledge of my presence. His shoe scraped as he swivelled to the alcove and the curtain was jerked aside.

A huge jowly face stared down at me in shocked disbelief, his weapon pointing ceiling-wards Hollywood style. The guy recovered fast and started to bring his gun to bear but he was way too late. I rammed my pistol into his throat and fired. The plop of the suppressor, though quiet, sounded like a thunderclap to me. The big man’s eyes instantly went blank, his face sagged as he flopped, his weapon clattering on the floor. Quickly stepping over the corpse I leaned over the counter weapon pointing.

‘Don’t shoot. I surrender. You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed woman would you?’ the tiniest of pauses then: ‘I’m pregnant.’ Her voice came with a thick Dublin accent, urgent but not panicky.

Declan was a woman? I was stunned and, momentarily taken aback, I hesitated for a second. Then I read her intentions.

As she rose swiftly to her feet it looked for an instant like she was putting her hands up. Then her torch arced towards my eyes and her right hand flashed into her pocket. I sent a bullet into her throat.

‘Yes, I’m afraid I would lady, pregnant or no.’ I told her corpse.

I knew the ‘pregnant’ claim was an add-on by a quick thinking enemy, an appeal to my humanity in the hope of delaying me for another second. Instead it had betrayed her deceit.

‘Shoot them in the neck’ Frank had told me ‘That way when they’re blown to pieces there will be very little chance of bullet holes being found.’

I saw the sense in that, their limbs and heads would be torn off and mangled almost beyond recognition. However, even after suffering a huge blast, the torso tended to stay fairly intact. Bullet holes found post mortem would make the bombers martyrs and we Brits murderers.

‘And what if I can’t manage that boss? It will be pretty dark you know. That’s bloody difficult shooting.’

Frank’s icy blue eyes had glinted their displeasure, his face set hard. Gone the laid back attitude ‘If you fail’ he emphasized the word to indicate I’d better not ‘just get the buggers dead, OK? We’ll sort the flack out later.’ It was clear Frank had not wanted his plan questioned.

‘We picked you because you’re supposed to be the best. Now fuckin’ prove it’ his voice was harsh, the cut glass accent radiating disdain.

Yes, there had definitely been an edge to Frank’s briefing. Now I knew why and I was not happy.

With a great effort I dragged the big man from behind the counter, Christ, the bugger weighed a ton. I dumped him next to the door. Briefly inspecting my handiwork I saw both bodies had large gory exit wounds made by my 9 mm hollow point bullets.

Next I picked up her flashlight and examined the bomber’s equipment. Bloody hell, she’d meant business. There were three trembler switches, a mercury tilt switch, a pressure plate and several detonators as well as an American made timer.

Each device had its own power supply and would work independently but was also to be interconnected so that cutting a wire on one would collapse electro magnets allowing contacts to close. Once armed, these devices needed only a slight nudge to detonate the explosives. After setting the timer and arming it there was no going back. Switching off the timer would also cause detonation.

I grudgingly admired the bomber’s handiwork. By utilizing a clever prewired loom a highly complex bomb could be set in minutes.

On top of the fertilizer was a kilo of the powerful commercial plastic explosive, Semtex1A. That was the booster charge. For some reason I couldn’t explain even to myself I cut the charge in half with my jack knife and wrapped it in my handkerchief before pocketing it along with a detonator and the tilt switch.

I connected a detonator to the timer, switching it on. If there was a fault it would blow the detonator and not the main charge making it a nasty but survivable shock. I pushed the detonator into the plastic.

Now I had to consider the timing. After pondering for a few seconds I thought three minutes would have to do. I had to get clear but if I left it too long the driver might return, discover the bodies and flee. There could be no witnesses.

I took a final look around. The street as far as I could see was empty but there was no way I would risk leaving by the front door.

I lifted the top bag and placed the Semtex beneath it. I flicked the arming switch to set the timer going.

Making my way carefully down the alley at the rear of the shop I kept my pistol out and ready. It was highly unlikely any watcher would still be there but caution was everything in this game.

There was a movement to my front left, slight, yes, but a movement. I froze watching, listening, breathing suspended, my eyes straining to penetrate the inky blackness. I was still too near the target, I had to move soon or risk being killed by the blast. After thirty seconds the movement came again I raised my weapon my finger on the hair trigger. A cat yowled its protest at me for invading its territory, leapt off the waste bin and fled.

Breathing a sigh of relief I moved on as quickly as caution permitted. I had no more time to waste.

Reaching the end of the alley I turned right along the gable end of the terrace of shops and stopped. Peering around the corner into the dimly lit street I was about to cross when the car suddenly returned, its headlights illuminated the gloom all the way down to where I was hiding. It pulled up outside the target; I was a scant fifty metres away, too bloody close for comfort.

The car waited outside the shop its engine idling. A long minute dragged by, I couldn’t move. If the driver saw me he might take off and then there’d be a witness.

The man left the car gun in hand glancing nervously up and down the empty street.

I watched him through the gap between the drainpipe and the wall, he check his watch, then went to the door and knocked. As if in answer the bomb detonated.

The blinding flash lit up the street as bright as the sun, the pressure wave crushing my eardrums. I flattened myself hard against the wall. I knew I was safe from the blast but not from falling debris. A huge brick landed not a foot in front of me, shattering into fragments. A small shard of glass slashed my ear causing me to cry out in pain, blood spilling down my neck and into my collar.

It was another forty seconds before bricks, slates and more shards stopped raining down. Sirens started their electronic hee-hawing in the distance. It was time to go.

*****

In the debriefing I contained my fury. There was no point in showing how pissed off I was, not yet anyway, not until I knew for certain. After going over the briefing yet again I realised that Frank had never once used the name Declan, ‘he’ or ‘him’ always ‘the bomber’ or ‘the targets.’

I slumped sullenly into an armchair as far away from the desk as I could get, staring defiantly, daring Frank to ask me to sit closer.

I was ignored as Frank continued to write in a document folder with studied indifference. Finally he looked up.

‘How did it go, Jack?’ I heard you were injured, nothing serious I hope?

I ignored his questions staring for a full ten seconds before answering, my emotions in turmoil. ‘Deadly Declan turned out to be Deadly Delores’ I said carefully keeping my voice neutral. Frank’s eyes flicked away for just a fraction of a second but it was the final proof that the man had known. ‘But of course you knew that at the briefing’ I added.

Frank started a denial but I cut him off abruptly ‘don’t bullshit me Frank, OK?’ I continued to stare unblinking. Christ, I wanted to punch the devious bastard.

‘They thought you might not do the job if you knew’ he said lamely ‘Declan was killed in a drink driving incident a week ago but the job had already been scheduled. He’d taught his girlfriend all he knew. She simply took his place and the IRA didn’t announce the death to keep his legend alive.’

‘So, that’s why you didn’t give the job to the SAS, eh? Most of ‘em are known to be squeamish about killing women.’

Frank’s face reddened ‘Sorry Jack, it wasn’t my idea, it came from above.’

My temper finally snapped ‘just who the hell are “They” Frank?’ I yelled ‘When you recruited me for the hit team I told you I would only work for you and not for any damned buck-passing committee.’

‘Aw, c’mon Jack, everybody has a boss, you know that. I...’

I got up and crossed rapidly to Frank’s desk, The fist I wanted to slam into his face I slammed onto the desk instead.

‘Those reptiles in Whitehall are too interested in their own fucking careers to give a shit about us blokes in the field Frank, and you know it. You should have told me and bollocks to their orders.’ Normally I control my feeling well but this was a betrayal of trust. The job was dangerous enough without my own side playing me.

I was furious that Frank was playing down the significance of it, siding with the interfering bastards.

‘Again, all I can say is sorry, Jack. Now, can we press on please?’ he said impatiently. He was trying to brush it all aside, like my life didn’t matter. Well it mattered to me.

‘No, we can’t’ I shouted ‘sorry isn’t good enough Frank. I will not be manipulated by a bunch of Whitehall wankers who know three fifths of fuck-all about life in the field.’

I had to fight for control whilst I continued to stare at the bastard. He looked down at his hands unable to meet my gaze.

It was a while before I could speak calmly again ‘well, you can find yourself another man mate, I resign..... as of now.’

‘Be reasonable Jack, it was only a small omission.’

‘Small omission my arse Frank, it was a breach of trust. Surprise damn near got me killed.’

‘Believe me Jack, it’ll never happen again.’

‘You’ve got that bit right Frank’ I said ‘there’s no such thing as ninety nine percent total trust. You’ve blown it.’

I turned and walked swiftly to the door, the anger still seething inside me.

‘Where the hell do you think you’re going Sergeant Major? This meeting isn’t over yet.’

I turned, ‘yes it fuckin’ well is’ I said ‘and don’t pull that rank shit on me Major whatever-the-fuck-your-real-name-is.’ with that I marched out slamming the door.

In our unit we never used rank for practical reasons. If we were working in the field together we didn’t want any slip ups like calling someone sir. Frank had deliberately reintroduced rank in an attempt to control me. He was on a loser there.

In my room I pulled out a bottle of Bushmills and poured myself a stiff one, my thoughts dark.

Resigning from the two man hit team was a big no-no and I knew it. Once in there was no way out until you either stopped a bullet or they released you.

Our unit rarely killed anyone, only those otherwise untouchables who caused hugely disproportionate damage; the ones beyond the reach of law. The other guy on the hit team was still a probationer, fully trained but lacking in field experience. Frank wouldn’t give up.

14th Company (The Detachment) was an off-shoot of the British Army Intelligence Corps that did the dirty, deniable stuff. Most other soldiers didn’t even know we existed. Our main task was gathering intelligence to brief the Special Air Service on covert ops. We also spread half truths, rumours and subtle lies to keep the enemy on the hop.

The IRA and the Provisional IRA were deeply suspicious of each other and we exploited this schism to the full. If they were busy fighting amongst themselves they would have less time to focus on murdering soldiers and policemen.

Declan Dooley had not only killed three ordnance experts but also a dozen innocent civilians, too. Captured, he would have been a hero, a symbol of resistance inspiring others. Imprisoned, he would have been able to pass on his knowledge.

Now Dooley was just another failed bomber who’d made his last mistake taking two comrades with him. The legend was ended. Bleeding-heart Liberals would not be bleating about the so-called ‘moral’ issues, calling for a public enquiry. No propaganda victory for the IRA, no cloak of victimhood to be paraded in America to raise funds.

Frank would leave me alone tonight of that I was sure. He wouldn’t report my insubordination until his routine visit to Army HQ two days hence. In the meantime he’d try to win me round. They couldn’t afford a loose cannon in their midst. If it ever got out what we were up to the repercussions would echo not only around the Government but the rest of the world, too. It would generate huge sympathy and funds for the enemy.

Receiving duff information at a briefing was a common enough occurrence. Intelligence is far from an exact science and I accepted that but deliberately omitting vital information went beyond the pale. If I allowed the bastards to get away with it this time they’d do it again when they deemed it expedient.

Fuck ’em all I thought. I threw back my drink and poured another one. ‘Fuck ‘em all to hell’ I muttered then I got slowly and grandly pissed.

Frank called me to his office the next day ‘You thought any more about what you threatened last night?’

‘Yes’ I said ‘and my decision stands.’

He let out a long sigh ‘Look man, they aren’t going to let you resign, you must know that, surely?’

We bandied the issue about for a few minutes before he said ‘I’m sorry Jack, but I’ll have to report this. I’ll leave it to the last minute, until I go to HQ tomorrow, but then my hands will be tied.’

‘OK’ I said, ‘I’ll think on it’ knowing full well I wouldn’t. My mind was made up. Sure, they’d find a way to take me out and they had a lot more resources than me however, I had half a plan.

Next day I was waiting by the gate as Frank drove up. He stopped and lowered the window of the Jag ‘You got something to tell me, Jack?’

‘Yeah’ I said ‘will you drop me at the off-licence? I need some stuff.’

He looked surprised ‘Get in.’

We drove the half mile to the shop in silence, he was expecting me to tell him I’d changed my mind and was back on the team. I knew that wasn’t an option now that I’d shown prolonged defiance of authority. They couldn’t live with that, these staff officer types who thought they were so fucking superior.

At best I’d be given the most dangerous of jobs until, inevitably, I got unlucky. At worst, they’d engineer my demise.

‘Thanks’ I told Frank as I opened the car door ‘you go ahead and make that report.’

‘Jack, are you serious? Don’t do this.’

‘Bye Frank’ I said as I closed the door and made my way into the shop.

He drove off. I watched from the shop seeing him stop at the traffic lights a hundred yards away. When the lights changed he turned left up the steep hill towards HQ. I heard the explosion as the mercury in the tilt switch and Semtex did their job. HQ would never get his report now and maybe my next boss wouldn't be a pandering arsehole.

My wife and I live in a modest flat in Brighton, gone our former lives of prosperous, professional respectability. We are outcasts, pariah’s, our very names erased from rolls of honour of our alma maters. That we didn’t deserve it, that we were not the high and mighty intellectual snobs we were portrayed as in the media matters not a jot. We found the Holy Grail and destroyed it. You may have heard about us, we are professors Franklin and Joyce Wendell.

We were meditating when it happened. I felt a presence; it was like nothing I’d ever experienced before. A great sense of the peace “which passeth all understanding” consumed me. ’Who are you?’ I thought.

‘I am you and you are me, we are all one.’

‘Is it possible to see you?’

‘No.’

‘But you are here?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, why don’t you show yourself?’

‘In what you call the past we have been called angels, devils and spirits. None of these names are true. This leads to misunderstanding, confusion and our messages being distorted.’

‘Messages?’

‘Yes, messages for those of you able to understand. We do not seek to tell everyone. Most are unready.’

‘How did you get here, are you a spaceman or from another time?’

There is no such thing as time; it is a false construct of a primitive state of being, useful in its way, but utterly false. There is only the eternal now.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘What can you do in your yesterday?’

‘Nothing, it’s gone.’

‘And what can you do in your tomorrow?’

‘Nothing, it is yet to come.’

‘And when it does come it will be now, the present, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘As for space travel by vehicular means that is next to useless.’

‘So, how did you get here?’

‘I simply transferred my consciousness, that way one can be anywhere one desires to be instantly. We are pure consciousness having dispensed with physical bodies many millennia ago.’

‘We?’

‘We are oneness, names denote separateness.’

‘I see, or believe I do. What’s this message and how do we fit in?’’

‘Some of you are beginning to understand quantum physics, the uses of sub atomic particles. You have discovered that everything is energy, everything that exists is made of energy and that energy can be harnessed.’

‘Yes, that’s my field.’

‘What you are about to discover is a means of harnessing limitless power, clean, free power.’

‘That’s what we’re working on, we have nearly completed our project, but what of it?’

‘There is a great danger that the more primitive among you will use it to destroy others and in doing so destroy all your species.’

‘We already have the capacity to do that with nuclear weapons.’

‘Indeed, if you used those things the destruction would be catastrophic but not absolute.’

‘So, why is that important to you?’

‘Because you are us one thousand five hundred millennia ago in your time terms, we escaped the fate that awaits you because of a message like this.’

‘So, we will survive?’

‘That’s up to you.’

‘My work is solely for peaceful purposes, the world will no longer rely on fossil fuel. We will have the limitless free energy you speak of; surely that is a noble aim?’

‘It is and you are about to invent what should be a great boon to humanity. Unfortunately it also has the capacity to turn your world into another sun.’

‘A chain reaction you mean? Uncontrolled fission? That is only a very tiny risk which we have contained.’

‘Not if the system is weaponised, which it surely will be. The risk will be magnified one thousand fold. There are those among you who seek power over others and will use any means to obtain it.’

‘But if they knew the consequences, the terrible dangers inherent in such a use surely they’d see it was an impossible dream. To conquer all only to end with self destruction, who would commit such an act of lunacy?’

‘There are those among you who believe they could control such risk. They could not.’

So, what am I to do?

‘You know what you should do and you know the consequence to you, personally.’

‘And if we don’t?’

‘That is your choice’

‘I see.’

Then the presence was gone. I came from within myself to look at my wife sitting opposite. She is my joint researcher, a brilliant scientist. We always meditate together. I knew she had shared the same visitation.

‘Ten years’ she said with tears in her eyes, ‘ten years of research, of trial and error. The millions poured into it by the universities. They will end our careers, humiliate us. We are finished my beloved.’

I knew she was right we were finished but we must destroy all our research, remove forever that which we had discovered. We had jointly used our meditation for deeply intuitive insights into this project. The chances of others discovering what we had discovered by straightforward research was extremely remote, possibly taking centuries.

That weekend we went to the research facility and started to systematically delete all our records. We destroyed hard drives and incinerated thousands of documents. Those computer records that were recoverable we altered, laying false trails. We worked for forty eight hours non-stop.

As scientists we were ruined forever, our reputations destroyed by what others saw as moralistic, intellectual arrogance. We were also accused of being bought off by the giant oil companies. That the Military were incandescent with rage is our greatest source of comfort.

'Pay attention Ahmed. This is the phone that will cause the detonation, take it to work and check there is a good signal there.’

‘I’m sure it will be fine, Muszra.’

‘Check it anyway, attention to detail Ahmed, at all times. When you plant the device first switch on the phone, only when it is up and running will you throw this arming switch, OK? Once switched on it cannot be switched off without detonating the explosives.’

‘I understand Muszra, though I am willing to detonate it personally and enter paradise.’

‘Your zeal is commendable Ahmed but we have other work for you. Engineers with your skills can gain entry to many places and we have other targets. Be patient.’

Ahmed examined his toolbox ‘it fits so well Muszra and I still have room for my tool tray on top.’

Muszra Wazir smiled grimly ‘when it is complete there will also be five kilos of ball bearings to increase the effect. The carnage will be immense.’

*****

John Prichard, chief maintenance engineer at Aircol Max PLC regarded his protégé with admiration. Ahmed was quick to learn, an instinctive engineer. His beloved machines would be in good hands after he retired. The gentle older man had learned to accept Ahmed’s peculiarities like his insistence on taking his tools home every night, of sitting on the toolbox to eat at lunch and break times, snubbing the works canteen.

‘In my country’ Ahmed had explained ‘if a man lost his tools he would have no means to support his family. It would be a terrible disaster’ he shrugged ‘here in the West you are rich and can replace such losses easily, most of my spanners I inherited from my father.’

‘I wish you were as conscientious at keeping up the service and repair logs Ahmed, you have a whole batch to bring up to date.’

‘I’m sorry John, I will catch up at the weekend, I promise.’

Ahmed drove a dilapidated old car even though he could have afforded a much better one. ‘It’s a good car, only the locks do not work. Who would steal such a car anyway?’ he had said when John had remarked on it one day. He never mentioned the car again, considering it just another of Ahmed’s idiosyncrasies.

John brought him an old cushion from home to put atop the metal toolbox for some added comfort. Ahmed couldn’t understand John’s attitude, such kindnesses were alien to him. Why did the old fool keep doing him favours? He disliked that aspect of him but grudgingly admitted to himself the old boy was a first rate engineer. He never shirked getting down under machines, either, never using his age as an excuse to push work onto him.

‘Right, Ahmed, we’ve been tasked to build a platform and install the speaker system for the opening of the new wing.’

The company had recently made a breakthrough in the fuel systems of jet engines making them run cleaner by almost 10%. Such was the potential that a new extension had been built to accommodate this development. It was to be opened by the Minister of the Environment herself. This was an opportunity Ahmed’s group could not ignore. The chance to assassinate a government minister, a board of directors, several dignitaries and up to two hundred highly skilled engineers could not be passed up.

Abdul Azziz, the group’s leader, gloated as he thought through his plans. The company supplied the civil aviation industry. It had no political or military affiliations. This would be just another routine job for Ms Sally Goldsworthy, the Minister. Nothing about it was controversial; there was no particular security threat and no grounds for anyone to be unduly concerned. The infidel would be off guard.

Goldsworthy had insisted on the minimum of fuss for her visit. She would arrive at eleven forty five, meet the directors and senior staff then proceed to the new department. There she would make a short speech to the assembled workers then uncover the wall plaque, declaring the new wing open. After a light lunch in the boardroom, she would depart no later than twelve thirty. Her aides had called weeks before to discuss such things as security, lunch menus, toilet facilities and other nitty-gritty details that accompanied ministerial visits. Everything had been thrashed out to the satisfaction of her team.

‘We will have to build the platform at least two feet high, John. I’ve checked and the minister is only five foot one inch tall.’

John was impressed ‘that’s great research Ahmed, well done. By the way, have you completed those maintenance logs yet?’

‘Soon, John, I promise.’

‘It will need to be Ahmed, the general manager was asking me about them. I can’t keep putting him off. You really need to give more attention to these things.’

Their work progressed well, two small steps and a hand rail were built and Ahmed brought some blue velvet cloth to skirt three sides of the platform’s base. It looked a very professional job.

At home Ahmed watched Wazir going about his business with a cool efficiency. The bomb consisted of five kilos of Semtex 10, the most powerful of explosives. The toolbox had been lined with half inch ball bearings. The device was designed to cause the greatest destruction possible. In the confines of the foyer of the new workshop this would surely be achieved.

No one would suspect the maintenance engineers going about their business. He would leave the toolbox under the platform at the last minute. The Minister would be standing right above it making her speech.

Ahmed watched with satisfaction as Wazir finished and replaced the tray of tools on top. Once more it looked like an engineer’s toolbox.

Ahmed knew John was very conscientious and would stay with him throughout the installation of the PA system. He had sabotaged a machine in the main workshop by over tightening a bearing. He knew it was a machine John loved working on. Ahmed would be left alone in the new foyer. He needed but a few minutes.

Abdul Azziz, leader and quartermaster, was the man who had supplied the explosives and the false passports they would use afterwards. The flights were booked, all was ready. He gave Ahmed his final briefing. ‘Leave everything until their security people have checked the area before planting the bomb. If you cannot divert your colleague you must kill him.’

‘I understand, brother. I have informed the company that I have a dental appointment tomorrow afternoon and will miss the grand opening.’

John and Ahmed set up the microphone and rigged it to the speakers, tested it and gaffer-taped the wires in place. The Minister’s security woman came around and checked the room. She looked under the platform shining a torch. She then went through the double doors into the new wing, doing more checks. Satisfied, she left, leaving the two engineers tidying up wires.

John couldn’t help noticing Ahmed was very nervous ‘What’s the matter, Ahmed?’

‘Oh, It’s my dental appointment, John’ he answered ‘I really hate going to the dentist, it terrifies me.’

John was sympathetic and made some kind remarks. As the time for the visit drew nearer they gave the sound system one last test. Ahmed’s nervousness was increasing by the minute; surely that bearing should have burnt out by now? He was reluctant to kill John unless it couldn’t be avoided. Their work was almost completed. Both John’s body and the bomb would fit under the platform. He reached in his pocket for a sash cord garrotte and moved behind John.

John’s phone rang ‘yes? Oh, OK, I’ll be right along.’ he turned to Ahmed who had hurriedly stuffed the cord back into his pocket. ‘I have to go, the big milling machine’s playing up again.’

Once alone Ahmed quickly armed the device then pushed it under the platform.

Passing through the factory he bumped into Mark Dutton the general manager. He was carrying a sheaf of maintenance logs Ahmed recognised. ‘I’ll need these signing before you go anywhere Ahmed, my office now please.’

‘I’m sorry Mark, but I have a dental appointment and they’ll be upset if I’m late.’

Dutton was having none of it ‘Not as upset as me, Ahmed, It’ll take only a few minutes and I must insist that in future you pay more attention to these logs.’ Ahmed reluctantly complied he still had a few minutes in hand and could not afford to raise suspicions.

Hurrying to his car Ahmed drove to the rendezvous on a hill a quarter mile away overlooking the factory. The deserted lane led nowhere, the farmhouse it once served having  been long demolished. It was one of those desolate places used by fly tippers and streetwalkers who brought clients there after dark.

Ahmed was first there despite his delay. He checked his watch he was still a minute early. The others arrived on time and drove up behind him. Ahmed went to sit in the back of the BMW driven by Abdul Azziz. ‘All set?’ Azziz asked.

‘Yes’ Ahmed replied ‘I paid full attention to every detail. I did not have to kill the old man.’

Abdul Azziz lit a cigarette and sat silently holding a phone in his left hand he closed his eyes and drew smoke deeply into his lungs then he slowly exhaled. ‘To you Ahmed must go the honour of detonating the device’ he said solemnly ’this is your first operation and you have done well.Obtaining the Minister'a schedule was very useful.'

Azziz looked through powerful binoculars ‘OK’ he hissed, suddenly alert,‘the official cars have arrived.’

He took the Minister’s schedule from his pocket and read it for the tenth time ‘eight minutes to meet and greet’ he said, his voice cold and merciless ‘then one minute to walk to the new building followed by a seven minute speech so that’s twelve minutes to detonation, right in the middle of her speech’ he smirked and drew on the cigarette again. He was enjoying himself.

In the back of the car Ahmed was deep in thought. It was right, he believed, that the infidel should be taught a lesson in blood even so he hoped John would stay with his machine and not attend the opening. Despite his beliefs Ahmed found he had grown fond of the old man.

‘One minute’ the voice of Azziz cut through his thoughts and he was handed the phone. ‘Bring up contacts’ Azziz ordered ‘Select Taxi and await my command.’

Ahmed took the phone, his hands trembling. ‘Wait..wait..’ said Azziz looking at his watch. Time seemed to stand still. In the front passenger seat Wazir sat rocking back and forth, muttering prayers under his breath a fixed stare in his eyes.

‘Now’ barked Azziz and Ahmed brought his thumb down on the dialling button. He heard the phone beep beeping out the number, a tiny pause then the phone made its connection. The bomb detonated with its full lethal effect.

*****

When John rang Ahmed his phone went straight to voice mail. Believing him still at the dentist’s he left a message. ‘Hi Ahmed, I left my glasses on the platform and when I went back for them I saw some tape you used on those microphone cables had come loose. When I bent down to replace it, guess what? You’d left your toolbox under the platform so I took it to the car park. I couldn't find you and that machine needed repairing urgently so I just popped your toolbox in your car trunk, OK?’ John’s voice took on a humorous note ‘That dentist must have got to you really rattled pal, I've never known you overlook a small detail like your toolbox before.’