The
writing has been on the wall for some years, doubtless beginning with the
political correctness that crept into their function, from the top down. The
police have grown further apart from the populace they are supposed to
safeguard, resulting in distrust; they are no longer held in such high esteem. Catch
criminals, prevent crime? No, they’d rather indulge in social engineering. This
is a generalisation, but the effects of so-called modern political policing
seem widespread and insidious.
Broken
Britain? Yet without effective policing anarchy is not too far off. Worse,
still, freedom of speech is already threatened and the concept of the thought
police is no longer science fiction, but with us now.
Broken Britain? If criminals are caught (a muted hurrah!) then don’t rely on the justice system to put them out of circulation… The judiciary are to a large extent living on another planet – or at the very least a protected insular world.
Broken
Britain…? If the police prove incapable of enforcing justice and standing up
for fairness, then it seems almost inevitable that vigilantism, no matter how
undesirable, will rise.
Into
this mess arrives one such vigilante: Sudden
Vengeance.
The e-book is on sale on all Amazon sites until 27 August;
the book has a fair number of good reviews online and inside the covers. Don’t
forget to cheer as the criminals get the justice they so richly deserve!
When justice
fails, a vigilante steps forward
In
the broken Britain of today, faith in the police is faltering. Justice and
fairness are flouted. Victims are not seen as hurt people but simply as
statistics.
Paul’s
family is but one example of those victims of unpunished criminals. In the
English south Hampshire coastal town of Alverbank, many others are damaged and
grieving. It cannot go on. There has to be a response, some way of fighting
back.
A vigilante soon emerges and delivers rough justice, breaking the bones and cracking the heads of those guilty individuals who cause pain without remorse. Who is the vigilante? He – or she – is called the Black Knight. The police warn against taking ‘the law into your own hands’. But the press laud the vigilante’s efforts and respond: ‘What law?’ Will the Black Knight eventually cross the line and kill?
Paul and his family seem involved and they are going to suffer…
***
However,
in mitigation, even now, there are plenty of good coppers about:
Reg
Owen climbed down from the pantechnicon’s cab. He felt the cold breeze on his
unshaven face and was glad of the tam-o’-shanter.
The
truck driver gave him a couple of pound coins and a packet of crisps. “Don’t
spend it all at once, mate.”
“Thanks.
And thanks for the lift.”
“Hope
you have better luck here, mate,” the driver said, and drove off.
This
was a new town for Reg. He could do with a bit of luck.
He
walked alongside an old brick wall set in alternate courses of Flemish bond,
keeping to the shadows, then turned down a narrow passage, which he later
learned the locals had nicknamed “Squeeze-gut Alley”. He was fifty-eight,
slightly stooped, in a grey pinstripe suit that had seen no dry cleaner in many
months.
His
hands were covered in black woollen gloves and he wore a tattered dirty old
school scarf, but he still shivered. Winter was not the best time to lose your
business, family and home.
Suddenly,
he stopped, alarmed by the black shape ahead of him, framed by the end of the
alley. He’d been homeless six months, maybe longer; long enough to learn how to
steer clear of trouble. He glanced back the way he’d come – it was still clear,
so perhaps there weren’t any hoodlums out to beat up an old tramp. He was about
to turn and walk the other way.
The
stranger spoke. “You’re new in town, aren’t you?” The voice was firm and deep,
but there was no threat, only the hint of concern and interest in it.
“Yes.”
Reg relaxed a little. “Hitched a lift on a lorry. I’m hoping my luck might
change for the better – somewhere fresh...”
The
stranger stepped closer and now Reg made out the hat and glint of badges on the
uniform. A police constable on his beat. Still a few of them about, then;
thought they were an endangered species.
Just
my bad luck, he groaned. He had no wish to be moved on for vagrancy. He was
cold and tired.
“Have
you eaten?” the policeman asked.
Reg
patted his pocket gently. “I’ve got a packet of crisps, courtesy of the lorry
driver.”
The
policeman stood about a foot away. Clouds moved and the disclosed moon lit up a
face of strong intelligent features. “I’ll take you round the block, there’s a
good cafe – Ron’s Place, it’s called.”
Moving
to walk alongside the bobby, Reg said, “Er, thanks, er–”
“Paul.
Paul Knight.”
“Reginald
Owen. Building Contractor Brackets Failed.” He grinned. “Much appreciate it.”
“The
recession hit you bad, then?”
“Yes.
That and a crooked partner! Lost the home. Wife and son left me – couldn’t
blame them, I’d failed...”
“I’m
sorry. Do you want to talk about it?”
Reg
chuckled. “Thanks for asking, Paul, but I already bored the pants off the poor
lorry driver. Too many uncomfortable memories, you know.”
“All
right. Where will you stay tonight?”
“Don’t
rightly know.” Reg shrugged. “I suppose your small town doesn’t take too kindly
to vagrants?”
Paul
sighed. “We have more homeless people than we’d like – an overspill from
Pompey.”
They
stopped outside a shop window set in the wall of a half-timber building.
Sacrilege! Reg thought, observing the cracked and dirty clay and brick between
the wooden framework, all in need of renovation – like himself, he supposed. A
sign over the door announced RON’S PLACE.
“Ron
here will take you in for one night till you get the chance to look around.”
Paul put a hand in his pocket, smiled. “If that’s all right?”
“It’s
good of you to suggest it, but I’ve only got a couple of quid. I’ll need that
for food.”
Paul
held up a five-pound note. “Ron’ll take you in for two-fifty – to cover the
laundry. A fry-up’ll cost a pound.” He handed over the note. “Just tell Ron I
sent you.”
Feeling
dampness prick the corners of his eyes, Reg turned to look inside the cafe.
There were no customers. A large black-bearded man waved at him. Presumably
Ron.
Reg
turned, said, “Thank–” and was startled to discover that the policeman called
Paul Knight had gone.
Reg
Owen pushed open the door, the overhead bell tinkling, and entered the
welcoming warmth. Perhaps his luck had changed, after all.
- Sudden Vengeance, (p109-111)
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