Kind Hearts And Martinets Collection

Prologue

Clashes of steel and screams pierced the normally tranquil night air of the leafy, salubrious Portsmouth suburb of East Cosham. The locals had long been concerned about the dodgy Christians in 33 Acacia Avenue, but, in true British middle-class reserve, complaints to the authorities had mainly been tutts and an occasional polite letter or two; suggestion of a working group, maybe? Reports to police, largely ignored, “With the Government cutbacks, resources are tight and getting tighter.”

dodgyNow, their worst fears are come to pass, ruffians with large bladed poles, defending number 33, clash with men armed with scimitars. By the time the police arrived, the skirmish was over. Four youths seriously injured, taken away by ambulance, the remaining protagonists melted into the borders and shrubberies. Streetlights, out for months, replaced by a strobing blue, faces of residents looking out windows; most cowered.

As it became clear the area was safe, peace, if not tranquillity restored, so it was disturbed again by harrumphing and other such expressions of indignation, mention of letters, values of property and self-interest. “Hadn’t they warned the authorities?” “Didn’t you write a letter?” “No, I thought you did?”

* * *

‘Hallo, Chas.’

Chas jumped.

‘Blimey, Mr Masters, you scared me.’

‘Working late?’

‘Finishing these bikes, they’re going out tomorrow,’ Chas explained.

‘Not till late, but thanks,’ Brian Masters, owner of Bazaar Bikes, said, turning to leave. "See you tomorrow.’

Jeez, that was close, Chas thought, scared. How did he get in so deep?

* * *

Osama held his sobbing wife, a peculiar sight, this mammoth wobbly woman being cuddled and comforted by a diminutive matchstick man who, despite being of distant Pakistani origins, presented his British stiff upper lip. His son is missing, but what can he do about it?

* * *

The elfin-like girl could not remember when she had last worn clothes or felt safe. She was afraid now as her mother lifted her to hide behind some boxes. ‘Be very still, Meesh, and not a peep,’ her mother whispered. Meesh nodded, couldn’t remember the last time she had spoken. The light went out, the door remained open. She had no sense of time, heard a shot, her mother scream. Mesh"s scream stayed inside of her, where it remained as she saw the man put the knife into her mother, felt her bowels open, and worried about the noise.