Prologue: 2022
The copse was nothing like home, the ground sodden beneath Didar’s back. There was so much rain in this country. He shifted his head on the roots of the tree, peered down at his leg and tried to assess the blood loss. Perhaps it was not so bad. Overhead the trees rustled and blanketed the late evening light, turning the world tonal. He thought of the bright sun, the dusty heat, the vibrant sounds of Kabul and felt himself drifting, floating. It would be so pleasant to fall asleep and dream. Of home. Of Amina.
He opened his eyes with a start, the man’s face looming out of nowhere. ‘Hey! Paki!’ But there was no-one. Just some wild creature or a trick of the breeze.
‘Focus, Sar’e,’ he chided himself, and renewed his grip on the belt around his thigh. ‘Stay awake. Control the bleeding. He won’t be back.’
He’d encountered men like that before, in the streets of Crediton, as he’d walked from the hospital or waited for a bus. Keen to remind him that this was not his country; that he did not belong. As if he could forget. But not here, not in this quiet wood. And not with a face concealed by a mask.
‘Hey! Paki!’ Useless to tell him that he was from Afghanistan; that he had worked for the British Army; that he had no choice but to leave. The man had a knife and his own rationale.
A sound caught his attention and he squinted into the woods, hoping to see a walker with a dog. How British people loved their dogs! It was not yet dark. Still time. But he saw no-one; just the trees as he lay weakening in this place called Burlow Copse. What a strange language English was. Only this week he’d heard the same word, ‘copse’ used at Crediton hospital where he did night shifts as a porter. ‘Stabbing coming in,’ said an A and E nurse, ‘and the cops’ll be here too.’ She meant police officers, as he soon learned, but for a moment he thought of large trees stomping along behind the ambulance.
But where were the cops now?
He swallowed, changed hands and pulled on the make-shift tourniquet, but he was losing strength: it was seeping out of him and into the earth.
‘Help will come,’ he told himself again. ‘This is not your time. You have an exam to pass.’ He made himself think about that; about the final step towards registration. When he could, once more, do the work he was trained for – mending broken bodies – only here, thanks to god, he would be doing appendectomies or fixing hernias, not battling to put back together the bomb blasted abdomens of children that had dominated his surgical internship. The challenge now for his colleagues back home was malnutrition. That, and the mishandled births of women prevented from attending hospital. ‘Amina,’ he thought again and didn’t even try to stop the tears that gathered, slipped over his temples and into his hair.
‘Do you know who I am?’ the man had asked him but, of course, Didar did not.
‘Please. I have no fight with you. Tell me what you want.’
‘My country back, Paki. That’s what I want. Understand?’
Did he? He had lived in a country that had been contested for centuries: invaded, claimed, fought over. He himself had seen the results, bloody and mangled on the operating table, forced to wear an unsterile beard, forced to pray while people died. What did this man know about invasion, oppression? About the loss of a country?
‘I have great respect for this country,’ was all he could say, as the nausea rose and he tried to still his hands. The man just laughed.
Desperate now, he turned his head towards the dim light that signalled the end of the tree line. How much longer did he have? He had been so close. Just a walk across the field, along the lane and back to his little English house made of rubble and mud, just like those at home. ‘Cob’ it was called here in Devon, but it was still mud and a very unsuitable material, in his opinion, for such a climate as this.
Cob. A loaf of bread; a piece corn. Didar closed his eyes and let himself drift. He was so very tired.
‘Do you know who I am?’ The man had moved closer and looked right into Didar’s face. And, for a brief moment, Didar wondered if he did know him. And then the pain of the knife as it plunged into his thigh took away all further thought.
He cried out as he fell to his knees, as a boot in his chest sent him toppling to the ground. ‘Pray to your Allah,’ the man said, quietly, ‘Because I am the saviour, Paki. The saviour of my race.’
2023
Chapter 1:
Erin Truman turned away from her screen, took a gulp of lukewarm tea and checked her phone. Two missed calls since lunchtime. It suggested something urgent but she knew it wouldn’t be. Her sister, Christin, had an infinite number of issues, mostly to do with their mother and most of which she tried to ignore. But Christin was persistent, especially after five, by which time she could easily have drunk her way through the best part of a bottle of Merlot. Phone back now while she was relatively sober? Or postpone until later when her drunken logic could be more easily dismissed? It was a toss-up. Erin tapped out a few bars of Bach on her desk and decided to do neither.
She pushed back her chair, turning towards the expanse of glass that comprised the external wall of the office. The current drugs case was causing her as much frustration as her family was. Arresting teenagers, coerced into working county lines, was getting them nowhere. They needed to get hold of the real orchestrators and that needed a different approach. She’d said as much to Detective Superintendent Bryan Philips but the man was a total control freak and wasn’t listening. On her feet, she stretched her body, rolled her head, trying to ease the tension that was never far away. It came with the job, as anyone in CID would tell you, but it was worse when she was tied to the office, the downside of promotion. It left her simultaneously restless and drained. And her pact with herself to take up meditation had wilted the minute it was aired. Ed had almost choked on his coffee when she’d mentioned it.
‘Sorry, but I just can’t picture you sitting cross-legged on the floor, emptying your mind.’ He was right of course. She needed action, not inertia. She had thought of joining an orchestra again – playing her cello had helped her through university – but she barely had time to practice let alone attend rehearsals.
She scratched at the short hair on the back of her neck and looked across the vast open space beyond the window, thinking, for the hundredth time, what a shame it was that the view was so uninspiring: a carpark, a stretch of grass, a few young trees and, in the distance, the Middlemoor Roundabout on the A3015. She’d never worked at the old police station, a low-rise red brick building close to the centre of Exeter, but the general consensus was that this modern glass structure was an infinitely better working space. It was light, well serviced, properly ‘fit for purpose’. It also had the distinct advantage, she thought wryly, of being out of the city and comfortably distant from the general public. She just wished it didn’t look quite so much like an alien town plonked down on Mars.
‘Boss?’ There was a light knock and she turned to see Detective Sergeant Harry Lowles framed in the doorway, lean dark features with that impassive expression that gave nothing away. When Erin had first taken up the position of Detective Chief Inspector at the Exeter Headquarters, she had assumed it was something to do with her; that the bland face hid a level of resentment at having a woman in charge. It wouldn’t be the first time. But she had come to realise that what lay below the surface with Harry Lowles was a hyper sensitivity that he struggled to keep a lid on. He’d grown up in North London and had spent his rookie years at the Met. Ostensibly, he’d moved to Exeter for the sake of a promotion but, according to his previous boss, it was the brutal attack on a West Indian friend had been the catalyst.
‘We never found the culprit, you see, and I think he took that as a personal failure. He’s young. He’ll soon learn. Just needs a few edges knocked off. I’m sorry to lose him and he has a gem of a girlfriend here, seemed settled, but he was determined.’
Just short of six feet, he was lean and had a way of standing, of holding himself that was surprisingly intimidating.
She raised her eyebrows in a question.
‘Do you have a minute?’
She hesitated. He should be talking to his next in line but she was curious and bored. ‘A minute, yes. Something urgent?’
‘Well . . . I just wondered if you’ve seen this?’ Harry placed a leaflet on her desk. The front of it was dominated by an AI generated photo of a city in a bird cage above which were the words, in large red letters, “Say NO to fifteen minute cities!”. Erin turned it over and read that the government and the police were together conspiring to pass laws that would restrict the movements of Crediton’s residents by dictating when they could and could not leave their houses and how often they could drive their cars. This, according to the leaflet, was being achieved initially by imposing a twenty mile an hour speed limit around St Marks Primary school on the outskirts of the town. “The thin end of the wedge”, they called it. The authors gave themselves the innocuous sounding name of Patriotic Liberation.
‘I’ve seen similar,’ she said and turned the leaflet back over. ‘It’s conspiracy theory gone mad, of course, but it isn’t against the law. As far as I know, we still have freedom of speech in this country.’ She gave a wry smile. It was the sort of thing that prompted heated discussions with Ed: freedom of speech versus the protection of truth. Easy for him. As an academic he could sit comfortably on the debating fence. It was a different matter when you had to police it. ‘So, why are you showing me this?’
‘The thing is, the woman who sent it in, says she was threatened. She saw the leaflet drop through the door and went after the guy and told him he was wasting the planet’s resources with his stupid leaflets or something along those lines. She says he grinned at her and said, “I know where you live and I know your kids”.’
Erin sat down and indicated for Harry to do the same. ‘Did she give you a description?’
‘Yeah. Twenties, short hair, hoodie, stocky. Describes any number of men.’
‘And the woman?’
‘Ordinary, well spoken. She has children at the primary school and approves of the speed limit. She sounded genuinely shocked by the reaction she got, not someone who makes a point of provoking conflict.’
‘An IC1?’ The code for White British.
He looked at her, his eyes a challenge. ‘I didn’t ask.’ And those three words were such a give away. Well, he wouldn’t be the only officer to balk at the force’s ethnic coding system – she was’t a great fan of it herself – but sometimes it was useful.
‘But it’s relevant, don’t you think? This bunch,’ she indicated the leaflet, ‘are explicitly anti-immigration.’
‘Yes, I know that. It’s why I think we should be watching them; why I’m talking to you.’ It came out in a rush of impatience, his dark brow furrowed, and then, instantly, the mask was back in place. ‘The woman gave the name of Tanaya Dhar, so . . .’
Erin nodded. ‘So, send a uniform round to have a chat, get a description, give her a number to call if she has any more trouble. We are watching them, Harry. You’ve seen the national analyses and directives. But our story to the public is that Patriotic Liberation’s presence in Devon is still pretty underwhelming and we have no evidence that they engage in illegal activities. However,’ she waited until he looked up, ‘we have them in our sights and we want to encourage people like this woman to talk to us. OK?’
‘Yes, Boss.’
‘So send a uniform with a sympathetic face.’ She gave Harry a quick smile and handed back the leaflet, her mind already on the report she needed to finish. She’d promised Ed that tonight she’d be back by six thirty. But Harry hesitated before getting to his feet and, reluctantly, she came to a decision. People management did not come naturally to her. She was a good detective, thorough and committed – she got results – but she knew she needed to give more time to younger members of the team, like Harry; give them the chance to air their grievances, so they didn’t fester and infect the others. She leant forward, arms on the desk, trying to look interested, instead of impatient.
‘Before you go, Harry, how are things with the team, the new DCs?’
He looked surprised and just a little guarded. ‘Fine.’ She waited. ‘A bit of friction, maybe, but nothing I can’t handle.’
‘Between you and them?’
‘No, not at all. Liz Anstey, well, she makes her feminist views pretty plain to everyone, but I don’t have a problem with that.’
‘But some of her colleagues do? Is that it?’
‘It’s fine,’ he said, ‘I can handle it.’ Which didn’t really answer the question.
She smiled. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Balancing personalities in a team can be a tricky business.’
He shook his head and said flatly, ‘I don’t have an issue.’
Maybe not, she thought, so what are your issues, Harry Lowles? But all she said was ‘Good.’ and turned back to her screen.
But still he hesitated.
‘Something else, DS Lowles? Come on, let me have it.’
‘It’s just . . . with respect, I’m not sure we’re taking this group quite seriously enough.’
Erin considered him for a moment, deciding how to respond. Was he criticising her decision or was he talking to her because he thought she was more sympathetic than the man he should be reporting to.
‘Have you talked to DI Vanstone about this?’
‘He . . .’ She could see him weighing up his words. ‘His priority right now is the drugs case.’ In other words, he didn’t think Vanstone would listen.
‘So, tell me,’ she said.
‘There was a stabbing last year outside Crediton. It was before your time. Have you . . ?’ He paused.
‘Yes, Harry, I’ve read the report. No-one was charged and there was no evidence that it had anything to do with any organised group. Patriotic Liberation or any other. A one off.’
‘Yeah, I know that’s what the conclusion was.’ He looked at her, expression showing nothing.
‘You have other ideas?’ Her predecessor, DCI Bryan Philips who led on that case, was now Detective Superintendent and she wondered if Harry would actually go so far as to criticise him.
He didn’t. ‘Ever since that stubbing last year, I’ve been hearing reports of more overt abuse towards the Muslim community. To begin with, I thought it was exaggerated, but it’s increasing. It’s like, because no-one was convicted of that stabbing, it’s given certain people confidence to up the anti.’
‘Reports? What do you mean by reports?’
Harry looked at her for a couple of seconds as if deciding what to say next. ‘The people who live next door to me are Bengali and the mother has been . . .’ He broke off . ‘Look I know this doesn’t constitute evidence but that doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.’
‘OK. I’m listening.’
‘The mother asked if she and her friends could to talk to me. They didn’t want a formal meeting in a police station. So I met them. Out of hours, off the record. The long and short is she and her friends think this group, Patriotic Liberation, is behind the abuse, encouraging it. And it’s not just adults, it’s kids too.’
Erin frowned. ‘Harry, I don’t have to tell you there’s no such thing as “off the record”. If they’ve reported an actual incident . . .’
‘They haven’t.’
She suddenly felt tired. ‘We can’t act on hearsay, anecdote. You know that. We deal in evidence, specifics, not in rumours. Otherwise, you start sounding like one of these conspiracists.’
‘They’re worried about reprisals. They don’t trust us on this stuff.’ The mask almost slipped. She stared at him and he looked away.
How to deal with this? She scratched at the back of her neck. Lowles was one of those interesting hybrids: earnest and diligent, obviously intelligent, but there was that sensitivity – maybe a touch of idealism. Hadn’t he taken a degree in something like Sociology or Politics? She couldn’t quite remember. OK, so if he was driven to call out racism, she was onboard with that, but he also needed to stay objective. She sat back in her chair and waited for him to look at her. ‘Alright. Here’s what we do. I’ll have a word with DI Vanstone about putting together a plan for how we engender more trust in minority communities.’ They both knew that this would probably become an exercise in box ticking, but sometimes, to get things done, the boxes had to be ticked. ‘And, meanwhile, if you hear of specific incidents, get your contacts to register complaints officially. Alright? We are listening.’
‘Absolutely.’ Harry stood up, finally satisfied.
‘But, Harry, until you have something concrete, an actual reported incident, I don’t want you ruffling feathers. Tread carefully. The last thing we want is complaints of harassment. Do you understand?’
‘Of course.’
‘And if you do get anything concrete,’ she turned back to her computer, ‘come to me with it.’
* * * *
Jesus had suffered because he was part of a special galactic race. Benjy was convinced of that. He had even talked to the vicar about it. Had a long chat, drinking hot chocolate in the vestry of the church with the wintry sun slanting through the perpendicular window. He knew the style was Perpendicular because he had looked it up. Bengy liked churches. He liked how still and cold and quiet they were. Powerful. Nothing cosy about that sort of architecture and it puzzled him that people who went to church seemed to think their religion was cosy, that it wrapped them up and embraced them like a mother or something. Stupid. People were stupid. They didn’t see what was under their noses.
Like the vicar.
He had looked puzzled when Benjy had said that stuff about the special galactic race. He had paused for a long time, thinking what to say and Benjy had watched him carefully, wondering if he might come up with something he hadn’t expected, something that would change the future, make a difference. Like a revelation or something. But, no, he had just said the same old, same old. “Jesus died for our sins so that we might live in him.” Shit. That was no answer at all. Completely missed the point. But it made Benjy smile too. Knowing the things he’d done; things that some people would call sins. He almost chuckled.
He was thinking about the vicar while he backed the van into the loading bay of the abattoir and had to stop himself; make himself concentrate because he’d almost caught the wing mirror on one of the pillars. It wouldn’t be the first scrape he’d had and there’d been a warning from the boss, Tomasz. He put on the brake and sat for a moment, telling himself to stay with it. He needed this job. He couldn’t afford to let his mind wander. But it was difficult. What went on inside his head was so much more interesting and engaging than what happened outside. Other people’s worlds were dull.
He opened the door and jumped down onto the concrete. ‘Alright, Benjy?’ The man smiled at him, sort of patronising, like he was a bit of an idiot. He was often treated like this, just because he didn’t say much. But he had plenty to say; just not to these morons in the abattoir who had no idea who he really was and couldn’t begin to appreciate his intellect. He was borderline genius. Did they know that? Of course they didn’t. And he wasn’t about to enlighten them. The vicar had recognised it. You could see it in his eyes. It had made him pause and think. The psychologist in the hospital had seen it too. But not these morons with their ‘Alright, Benjy?’ It made him angry but he didn’t lash out. Not like he used to. He’d learned how to control the anger, channel it. He smiled back and said nothing.
To continue reading, click here: Imperium – Chapter 2