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170 pages

English

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This novel is the first in a projected five-part series called The Second British Protectorate - a series of high-concept, story-driven commercial fictions from the viewpoint of alternate history, supposing a sovietised post-war Britain formally modelled on Cromwell's 17th century Protectorate. The themes are both historical and modern. For instance - what shape would a popular rising against such a state have taken? Who would have collaborated with the regime - who might have resisted - and who might have loafed on the leathered benches of least resistance? What would the state's religious policy have been? Might that policy have forced the merger of the churches of Scotland and England? Might the religious and messianic mania of the 17th century have returned? Might it have been believed that Jesus had come (back) to England? Might George VI have gone to the scaffold as Charles I had - dead by winter axe in London's Whitehall? What role would the great lawyers of the land and their sacred notions of constitutionality and amour-propre (not to mention the school-fees) have had in all of this? What about civil liberties, and clear and present dangers to the state? What about the asymmetric distribution of lethal capacities for oppression and resistance? What about the nature of religious identity as the ideology of that resistance? What role might cocaine have played in a ruined command-economy with a worthless currency? Might the Americans have smuggled it into Britain in huge quantities as a way of funding democratic terrorism? The Trial and Execution of George VI - as a popular rising is savagely crushed and the Messiah comes (back?) to Britain, a shipment of best American cocaine is swapped in the ruins of Perth for the lives of the King, his Queen and their kids. But what happened next - to the coke?

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Historical fiction

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	17 juin 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781849890465
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Title Page

THE TRIAL AND EXECUTION OF GEORGE VI

Iain Fraser Grigor

Publisher Information

Copyright © Iain Fraser Grigor 2011

Published in 2010 by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

The right of Iain Fraser Grigor to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Premise

In the darkest days of the post-war Britain’s Second Protectorate .....

...as a popular rising is savagely crushed and the Messiah comes (back?) to Glastonbury, a shipment of American cocaine is swapped in the ruins of Perth for the lives of Britain’s Royal Family.

But what happened next - to the coke ?

Quote

As he said of the Law, that without
this Sword it is but Paper; so he might
have thought of this Sword, that
without a hand it is but cold Iron.
The Hand which holds this Sword is
the Militia of a Nation; and the Militia
of a Nation is either an Army in the field,
or ready for the field upon occasion.
But an Army is a Beast that has a great
belly, and must be fed; wherfore this
will com to what Pastures you have,
and what Pastures you have will com
to the balance of Property, without
which the public Sword is but a name
or mere spitfrog.

John Harrington, 1656

Lemons for Shrove Tuesday

Daniel vagrants swarmed to the Embankment as the last weeks of autumn rolled into an early winter. Already some outlaw cripples were begging at the junction of Parliament Street and the Stalingrad Bridge. They dived barefoot into the thin traffic, demanding alms and brandishing stump and crutch with insolent ease. One wild-eyed girl had lost her ears: to heresy, perhaps, in the early days of the Protectorate, before the state had put an end to orthodox excess. Branded and amputee lookouts watched from the ruins of the Abbey and the corner of Westminster Hall; for religious-police squads still prowled the city-centre during the hours of daylight.
Charlie Marr and his assistant watched the Daniels from behind the windows of their black Riley. For some moments, the wild-eyed girl hammered on the windscreen and screamed silently at them. Then the Riley eased forward as the traffic began to move, and Charlie returned to his newspapers. The Mail had splashed with an exclusive on terrorist networks financed by smuggled American cocaine. The drug, described as deadly, was thought to be coming in through Scotland. But a crackdown - merciless, of course - could be expected at any moment.
Charlie said, “Who let them print this? This is supposed to be top-secret.”
The Telegraph’s first leader took as its subject a religious policy in full consonance with modern conditions. As a consequence of this policy, the campaign to outlaw the ringing of church-bells was gathering pace. But the matter of an archbishop for the Established church north of the Border, in the company of the Thirty Nine Articles, the English Prayer Book and a consistory court of Star Chamber, had been temporarily shelved, pending further discussion with those of Scotland’s Presbyterian leaders who were prepared to discuss the matter in a responsible fashion. The Telegraph recalled that when the consolidation of the churches of England and Scotland had first been essayed a matter of months earlier, the Scots had rioted and tried to destroy a cathedral in Edinburgh. But the consolidation would be attempted again at an early date: and it was widely expected that by that date the Scots would have come to their senses. And rumour-mongering about a Messiah, except by registered organisations and within responsible limits, would henceforth be punishable by five years at hard labour, or ten for a second offence.
The Express gave most of its front page to the voluntary surrender of the fugitives associated with the Pollitt Plot, so lately hunted by the forces of the law. It was likely that Pollitt would not be charged until early in the new year, when the full nature of his crimes, and the full extent of his accomplice-network, would be better known. The distinguished barrister and liberal jurist Pritt had offered to represent his interests on a pro bono basis, in the event of such criminal proceedings. An editorial signed in the name of Lord Beaverbrook called on the plotters to accept Pritt’s kind offer, and also called on any others who might be associated with the plot to give themselves up at once.
Fiona said, “They have discovered how to make anti-tank guns”.
“Who?”
“The partisans”.
“You mean terrorists”.
“They attacked Paramilitary stations last night in Lambeth and Southwark. They come up from the sewers”.
Charlie asked, “How do you know?”
“One of the radio-operators told me in the canteen”, Fiona said, in cool tones.
At the command bunker, their driver parked the Riley in an enclosure railed with coils of barbed-wire. Two Militia armoured cars, heroically strapped with shovels and crowbars and spare all-terrain wheels, were on duty. A unit of penal-duty Paramilitaries, already in winter-camouflage uniforms, guarded all the above-ground entrances.
Fiona said, “How long do we have to stay for?”
“An hour, maybe two”.
They went down into the depths of the building. The bunker had four increasingly bomb-proof underground levels. The lights seemed startlingly yellow after the damp grey of the city’s skies. The girl’s heels went click-click-click on the steel stairs and timber flooring, the pitch decreasing as they went deeper into the bunker. Each electric bulb was protected by a steel grille, bolted into the bare brickwork.
In the auditorium the meeting was almost ready to start. The Home Secretary arrived, in the company of an elderly man with a pronounced limp and a military bearing. The Home Secretary was wearing an extremely expensive suit with an extremely white shirt below it. He seemed to be sweating very heavily indeed. Perhaps it was the heat. Then the Home Secretary was in discussion with Johnson, head of drugs intelligence for the Home Counties. Johnson was dressed for the golf course, as if he had managed a round or two in the morning. An elderly lady with a trolley offered tea and coffee to such as might require it. There were also generous bowls of startlingly white sugar, and plate-silver jugs of fresh cream straight in from the starving countryside. Johnson introduced the Home Secretary to Charlie as the senior liaison man between the national drug-detection service and the national security agencies.
“Jolly nice to meet you”, the Home Secretary said with warmth and sincerity. “You’re based in Victoria, aren’t you?”
The Home Secretary leered at Fiona, and moved on to some other senior chaps. He was still sweating very heavily indeed. Then he sat down. Everybody else took a seat too, and the meeting began.
It was chaired by one of the Assistant Chiefs. He took off his uniform jacket and carefully patted its pockets for fear, perhaps, that they had been picked. He removed his cap with great care, smoothed his silver scalp and replaced the cap. Then he removed it again, and laid it on the table, cap-badge facing outwards. Perhaps it was no more than a nervous gesture; or a Masonic one. The end of his nose was very red; either from the heat of the auditorium, or a lifetime’s drinking. Or perhaps it was no more than evidence of a hereditary disorder. He wore half-moon spectacles, and sipped cautiously from a small glass of water. Without his cap and jacket, he might have been a sorrowing country solicitor forging a family will. And ensuring that all skeletons stayed firmly in the cupboards to which they had been allocated.
“Right”, he said, “this won’t take long. Everyone knows that the Americans are smuggling cocaine into the country and funding terrorist networks with it. It’s even in the Mail this morning. But now we have the proof. This is top-secret, by the way. That’s why we have brought you here today. Top-secret. And it has to stay that way. Two nights ago in Edinburgh, we seized half a ton of cocaine, in a district called Gorgie. We got a radio transceiver too”.
The Home Secretary adopted an expression of extreme horror. The horror, mingled with tones of moral outrage, could be heard in his well-educated voice.
“Did we get any of their people?, he wondered.
“Two”, the Assistant Chief said. “But they are dead now. They were shot in the raid, sadly”.
“But there must have been more terrorists involved than that?”
“The two we shot were drivers”, the Assistant Chief said. “They bought shellfish at ports all round the Scottish coast and sold it into the good hotels in Edinburgh. We think they were from some island called Luing. Near somewhere called Easdale. I think that’s another island. Anyway, it’s on the west coast somewhere. Of course there were others involved. And much more important ones. There must be a courier somewhere, who links the Americans with the traffickers. But we missed him. Or maybe her, come to think of it. Not next time, though. Next time, we will be waiting for them”.
The Assistant Chief looked round the meeting, inviting any further questions.
“How do we know it was the Americans?”, Charlie suddenly asked.
“E