I Vow to Thee: Revolution

Day 1

‘When hatred judges, the verdict is just guilty.’

—Toba Beta

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03:46

The Man crouched in the long grass, his military-issue trousers repelling the dew. Pulling open the doors of the electronic components of the cellular base station, he attached explosive glass vials to each bundle of wiring and circuit board.

Thirty seconds.

He glanced around him, eyes searching the darkness for signs that he was discovered, but the night was still. So still, his steady breathing sounded deafening in his ears. Above him countless stars swam in the immeasurable blackness. So many stars, so much creation. It warmed his heart. Even with the reduction of street lighting in recent years, the city’s foul sky remained a ruin by comparison. Adjusting the balaclava, the Man itched his nose before fixing cold eyes on the soft glow of his watch.

Fifteen seconds.

He pulled the trigger from his pocket, connected it to the explosives and held it out over the mass of wires and cables.

Five seconds.

He was so still, so silent, so calm. His training had made him sure. It had made him ready.

Three, two, one…

He pulled the trigger and watched the small pops blow apart the vials and electrical components. The acid stripping away metal and plastic as it ate its way through the system.

He rose, stepping back as the small explosions spread, causing sparks and smoke as they went off. The Man took the phone from his pocket and checked its screen: full signal. As the caustic substance continued to eat its way down the wires and through the circuit boards, the Man kept his eyes focused on the slowly rotating readout on his phone. No signal. And no quick fix for that mess. Replacing the phone, the Man took a torch from his jacket and pointed it downhill where the road lay hidden in the gloom. Three quick flashes, three in return.

Returning to his bag, he lifted the silenced FNX 45 Tactical and placed it in its holster before lifting the bag onto his back and setting off down the hill, his eyes watching the ground as he picked his way over the rough terrain toward the old broken gate in the thick hedge.

He nodded to the man in the police uniform and stepped up to the open boot of the waiting car, placing the bag next to the others before getting in the passenger’s side. The three other occupants were silent as he gently closed the door. Everyone remained mute as they pulled off down the narrow country lane. They only had a minute to drive and there was no need to speak, each having carried out their task successfully.

He had cut the phone signal while his colleagues in the back had stood watch. His driver had visited the quaint cottage on the edge of the village where the old lady lived with her cats and chickens.

Not a word, that was the rule. Not a word until the job was done. Tonight, they were changing the world. That had been His message before they left that morning.

‘Tonight, we will create a new Britain. What happens tonight will resonate in history. What happens tonight will reverberate for decades. What happens tonight will scare them more than they ever thought possible.’

The Man watched the hedgerow pass as the words ran through his head. ‘…tonight won’t be compared to Nine Eleven, it will succeed Nine Eleven as the ultimate wake-up call. You’re trained well. You are experts at what you do. You are ready. And you will change the world.’

They pulled up in the middle of a narrow street and silently climbed out. The driver and front passenger crossed the road to the left, while the Man and his fellow passenger moved to the right. Surveying the scene, the Man could see other cars spread evenly down the road. One car for every six houses, 96 houses in all. He remembered the layout of the village from their training. A large T-shape with a council estate bolted onto one end. A small village green complete with manor house, memorial trees and a track that led to the primary school. Opposite was the church behind which sat the remains of an Iron Age castle. It was a typical Oxfordshire village. A mix of stone and brick houses ranging from the absurdly large to the tiny post-war emergency dwellings like those currently to his left. This could be anywhere, but it had to be here.

He checked his watch: three minutes to get ready. His partner tapped his back and pointed to the small card held under the shielded XED light. They knew these instructions by heart, but it was part of the plan. Review and confirm, always check twice.

1. No. 2 Railway Cottages 3-2A-1C-0D-Mortice – 1st-2AR-1CL

2. No. 1 Railway Cottages 4-2A-2C-0D-Electronic – 1st-2AR-2CL

3. The Old Police Cottage 1-1A-0C-1D-RE-Cylinder – 1st-1AL

4. Bluebird House 4-1A-3C-0D-MP & Latch – 1st-1AL, 1CLR, 2CMR

5. No. 2 Farm View 2-2A-0C-1D-Mortice – 1st 2AL-LLO

6. No. 1 Farm View 3-2A-1C-0D-MP-1st 2AL-1CL – *RSL*

The Man tapped his partner twice on the shoulder and they ran quietly toward the small redbrick semi with a copper number two on the door. The other occupants of the car crossed the street where the driver jumped expertly over a gate and disappeared from view.

Two minutes, six seconds to go.

His partner tapped him once on the back before twisting away and vanishing around the back of the house. The Man waited as he recalled, ‘…you were chosen not because of your training. Many of you had none before joining us. You were chosen not because of who you are, for you are from all different walks of life, different backgrounds and circumstances. You were chosen because of who you could be. Because you are special. And that is who you are today. The Chosen few. Today, you fulfil your destiny.’

Forty-five seconds.

He took the Prolox D27 automatic lock pick from his pocket. Glancing about him, he could see one of his partners crouching in a doorway. The lonely streetlight picking his visage out from the darkness.

The street was so still it might have been painted. The village serene as its occupants slept on. The arrival of the visitors had gone unseen. A slight breeze rustled the leaves of a stately oak tree, bats flitted deftly between the houses and the old iron gate on the path next to the church creaked softly on its hinge. The war memorial stood resolute before a Tudor cottage with roses in the garden. Postcard England incarnate.

Here, everyone still said hello to each other as they passed in the street, popped round for tea before the village fete and checked up on their elderly neighbours.

Even in today’s world, where politics was played out at knifepoint and wars fought for the benefit of corporations, their doors would be left unlocked for visitors. Kids could still ride their bikes on the road and talk to strangers without fear. This was not one of those villages near a motorway taken over by commuters who spent less time there than they did in London. This was a community, a family, a message.

You’re going to change the world.

A fox shrieked in the darkness. The Man breathed in deeply and held it. Three, two, one, go.

He pushed the pick into the lock and it clicked open in a second. No waiting, he had practiced this many times on the replicas. Open the door just far enough for him to slip inside. He thought, Hallway, stairs directly ahead, no furniture, coats often hung on the banister.

He moved quickly and silently to the stairs, avoiding the raincoat slung over the banister, his gun out before him moving with his eyes.

2A right, he thought and turned there first. Bedroom door slightly ajar, the floor creaking softly as he moved across the landing and into the room.

Isabelle Jacklyn had moved to Lesser Worburston five years previously with her new husband Tim. At just 24 she had been fortunate to receive a gift from her parents for a deposit. Along with Tim’s steady income from managing a warehouse in Banbury, they had been able to buy the little train workers terrace so Isabelle could pursue her dream of becoming an ostler in the village stables.

Symone was born 13 months later. A beautiful child – everyone said so – she was quiet and fey with auburn hair and quizzical eyes. She had recently started at the local primary school, allowing Isabelle more time with the horses and to dream of owning her own stable and of taking her daughter riding one day. She had the picture clear in her head. They would trot across the fields every weekend before coming home, wet and grinning, to find Tim had cooked a huge roast dinner with steaming mugs of tea. A simple life. No stress, no worries, just a happy, joyful life.

Isabelle had it all planned out. Symone would go to the private school at Stowe, which they had been saving for ever since she was born. She would win awards, write poems and star in school plays. She would make many friends and be the most popular girl in her class, always getting the highest grades with humility and pride. They would all move to one of the larger houses in the centre of the village with their new little boy, currently six weeks old within her. There they would have one more child, hopefully another girl, and grow old together in their peaceful little world. Isabelle smiled in her sleep, dreams of her wonderful life playing through her mind.

The bullet went through her left eye, taking out the back of her head and spraying skull, blood and brains over her pillow. Tim’s eyes instantly opened but the .45 ACP bullet hit him in the middle of his forehead. He was dead before he knew what was happening.

The Man moved quickly back out of the room and across the landing, his heart rate raised as he took the first victims of the night. The child’s door was open and he slipped inside. The silenced muzzle was an inch from the side of her face when he pulled the trigger, all but removing the top half of Symone’s skull before he left the room and went down the stairs.

Back in the hall, he turned left into the living room and through to the kitchen. Two light taps on the back door, one in return, and the shadow outside moved away and over the fence.

He silently moved through the house and out the front door, closing it gently behind him, listening for the click of the pins as it locked. Across the street, his colleague was entering a second house. Staying low, the Man ran quietly to the next door. Two adults, two children, he thought.

The electric lock took longer to overcome than the older mortise or cylinder style, but the pick had it open in under 10 seconds. The Man moved quickly up the stairs. Noisier than the last house, they creaked and moaned under his boots. Movement from the bedroom to the right, but he did not check. Just keep moving, he told himself.

Liam Fennel, a tubby little man in his mid-thirties, worked for the Co-Op funeral service and smelt constantly of cigarettes and a knock-off aftershave called Celvin Kline. He, like almost all of those who worked in such a job, possessed a jovial manner when not working with the recently bereaved, quick to laugh and comfortable with himself. He had sat up in bed when he heard movement on the stairs and was checking the time when the shadow demon entered his room.

A single vowel had escaped his lips before the bullet tore into his forehead. His wife, Elizabeth, who was often described as acting more like the Queen than the Queen herself, didn’t even lift her head before she too died.

The Man turned and crossed the landing. Bedroom one, the petite girl of eight lay with her mouth open and a stuffed dog in her arms. The bullet passed through her mouth and into her brain.

Last room, door firmly shut, tough to open, resistance on the floor, a light on inside. He put his shoulder to it and heard a murmur from within.

‘Dad?’ a drowsy voice asked.

A teenager, the Man knew he was 15 and called Harris. TV left on as he slept, he was sitting up in bed half-asleep. He saw the Man push the door past his pile of clothes and into his room. Harris saw the covered face, the black clothing and the gun in his hand. He opened his mouth to cry out as his head snapped back and his body tipped out of bed onto the pile of clothing on the floor.

Back out of the house and onto the street. Five minutes gone.

He found he was sweating despite the moist spring chill in the air. It was harder than training, the images of the children would stay with him.

This time it was his turn to wait. It had been decided the rear entrance was the best point of entry for this home. He stopped outside the front door and waited, his eyes scanning the street. Over the road he saw the tell-tale flash of two shots fired in an upstairs window, pair seven were bang on schedule.

Standing ready beside a Land Rover a few doors down from his current position, the street watcher was ready to catch runners. No police uniform needed for him, just those positioned on the roads out of the village lest someone try to disturb their mission. Further down the street a dark shape slinked out from the darkness of a doorway and into the next house.

Waiting there, crouching in the darkness, his ears picked out the tiny sounds of his partner moving toward the window. He looked through the small pane of glass in the door in time to see his partner kill the dog and tap twice against the fanlight. He tapped once in reply and crept onto the cottage next door.

He counted as he moved. It would take his partner 16 seconds to exit the house and get to the back door of the cottage; it would take him 12 to reach the front.

He climbed over the small stone garden wall as he knew the gate creaked terribly and he crept up to the front door. He had just placed the pick in the lock when a crash split the night. A front door had been thrown open and a woman stood on the threshold. She was dressed in T-shirt and knickers, her hair wild, face hidden by shadow from the bright hallway light behind her. She had not taken two steps on to the pavement before a bullet took her in the side of the head and she folded to the ground, bathed in the light from her door. Within seconds a figure appeared beside her, another from the door, switching the light off as they passed. They picked her up and carried her now still body quietly back inside, closing the door behind them.

The Man had been side-tracked; he was behind schedule. He cursed himself and placed the pick back in the lock.

Fred and Teresa had grown up in the village. They had known each other since they were four years old and had been a couple for as long as anyone could remember. ‘It must be true love’ had been said to them more times than either could count.

Teresa worked in a local solicitor’s office in town, while Fred taught at the village school. Francis and the twins had all attended and their father had taught them. It was something the other pupils constantly reminded them of.

Francis, a shy, quiet boy, had struggled with the teasing, but since he had joined the academy in Banbury he had come out of his shell and was clearly happy. He was now learning to play the guitar and doing well in class.

The twins were a handful and always up to something. So much so that no one ever called them by their names. They were just known as ‘The Twins’ or, on the rare occasions they were to be found separately, ‘Which of The Twins are you?’

Fred had really struggled to teach them, something Teresa failed to fully understand. When they had left his class, their next teacher had made a point of calling her in to talk about their use of moulding glue in the classroom door and on the teacher’s chair.

‘They’ll grow out of it,’ she’d assured Fred. ‘They’re just energetic.’

He had sighed and agreed, although he was not convinced, and left for his karate class that evening feeling a bit of a failure. He’d been taking classes for about eight years now and was getting good at it. No competitions past local level, but he had won a few of those and Teresa was always there to support him. She said she liked how toned it made him. He had to admit that he did as well.

He was dreaming of karate as he died. Teresa could never remember her dreams.

Francis died with his eyes open, as the press of the gun’s silencer on his forehead had woken him. His last thought was ‘mum.’ The Twins were awake when the Man entered their room. He shot the first in the head as she stared at him agog. The second was trying to climb over her bed and took two in the back. As she slumped over, he moved forward and put another in the back of her head to be sure.

The Man left the room and slipped back downstairs. A double tap of knuckles on the kitchen window, a single in return.

Two more to go. Seven minutes 24 seconds gone.

When the Man opened the door, he fished a small bone from his breast pocket and dropped it in front of the small Bichon Frisé who had come trotting over to see what the fuss was about. As he entered, he kept the muzzle of his pistol pointing at its head as the dog greedily gnawed at the bone.

Isaiah and Nancy had lived in number 2 Farm View for 47 years. They had planned to die there. The Bichon Frisé’s life ended with a quiet bullet to the head as it ate.

Last one. Nine minutes eight seconds.

Suddenly there was a bright flash – the rear security light had been activated. The Man dropped against the wall, his nerves suddenly alive, his body taut and his gun raised. He kept himself perfectly still and slowed his breathing. Not a sound was heard. Ahead of him a snake-like shape dissolved from the darkness into a man who slivered from a house and moved across the road to a car. He had to move now. He stood quickly and crept to the front door, swapping the pistol’s magazine as he went.

Gerald, Sue and their new-born son were all asleep in the bedroom. The Man killed Gerald first, then Sue and then their infant son. As the six-month-old died he experienced a pang of regret, but he knew it was necessary. There was no other way. People die in war; it was for the cause. The baby would never see the world they were creating, but he had been sacrificed to bring it about. His name would be remembered.

Two taps on the back window and he was away and moving quietly back down the road to the car. The Man climbed into the back and quietly closed the door behind him as his partner got in on the other side. They waited. Seconds later, the other passenger emerged from a house and crossed the road. Glancing to his right, he saw her as she climbed over a small wall from the rear of the houses opposite before jogging across the road to join them. Settling herself into the driver’s seat they pulled silently away, the slight whine of the motor the only sound. The convoy grew as they drove through the village as the other teams returned to their vehicles and followed them.

Turning onto the High Street, they saw one other person had been woken during the raid and was now being carried, motionless, back into their house. As they reached the edge of the village, the Man’s partner leaned forward and handed a list to the passenger in front. He rolled the window down as they approached the dark figure stood by the sign.

Welcome to Lesser Worburston

Please drive carefully

He handed the person the pages and said, ‘Done.’ His voice was flat, emotionless.

‘Take the left,’ came the reply.

They drove off into the night, the car that followed them pausing at the figure to be given their instructions. When they reached the crossroads a mile out of the village, they turned left and accelerated gently off down the winding country lane. Their crimes left for others to discover as they slipped away slowly and sedately as though nothing had happened.

The last car to approach the sign pulled up and stopped. The driver got out and faced the motionless figure.

‘All done?’

‘All done. Seven unaccounted for, only one unexpected; four runners stopped.’

‘All doors closed?’ asked the new arrival.

‘All except one,’ replied their subordinate.

‘Any interference?’

‘None.’

‘Go.’

The subordinate who’d been directing the cars from the village got into the Land Rover and drove away. The other watched them leave before pulling off his balaclava and enjoying the feeling of the cool night prickling against his skin.

They had done it: 397 people in just over 18 minutes. No one would ever forget this. They had struck their first blow. Stage two would be put into motion soon but stage one appeared to be an unequivocal success. A brand-new Jaguar XF-E pulled up quietly beside him and he got in. Time for some sleep. After all, it was nearly 4.00 am and the milkman would be coming soon.

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