Skipper! Chapter 24

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Skipper! by Beverly Taff

 

This chapter is (connection device that leads to another theme within the story. There is little or no TG element but quite a bit of intrigue and some violence. (Honour Killing.)

 


Chapter Twenty-Four

 

We stood watching the Birmingham Children walking slowly out of the training ring into the large open paddock. The horses had become so used to the routine that they chose their positions in the line up with the children hardly having to do anything.

As Judge Evans watched he was quietly impressed.

“It’s like watching performing horses from a circus ring. Those children hardly have to do a thing.”

“That’s how Sian sets it up.” I explained. “She uses certain command words and the horses do her bidding regardless of the rider’s wishes.” It’s later on that the kids actually get to control their own mounts.”

“Good God. How does she do that?”

“Apparently when she was thrown out by her parents she met some Native American guy who taught her how to really communicate with horses. Later on he was on television, something to do with a thing called ‘horse whispering’, I think it was. Anyway, whatever it was, Sian’s got all those horses eating out of her hand. You should see them following her around like adoring children. It’s uncanny. Her main message to the kids is that if you show the horses love, then you’ll get much better results than beatings and cruelty. And she’s absolutely right of course.”

“Yes, of course!” Judge Evans agreed.”

“Same goes for Children,” Elizabeth added.

“In Spades,” I replied. “Sian introduces the children to the horses by asking the children to stand quietly in the ring and then inviting all the unbridled, unsaddled horses to come up to her for a treat. The horses are trained to walk slowly up to Sian and each nibbles a little treat in turn. Then they form a circle around Sian and gently nuzzle her. Next Sian invites each kid to come and touch the horses and before you know it the kids have got over their fear.

I doubt if any of those kids have ever touched a horse before today. She’s gentle with her horses and gentle with the kids. Sian’s a natural.

“Indeed,” Judge Evans agreed. “It’s a remarkable system.”

“Now the kids are mounted, she’ll walk them around the paddock for a few laps and then trek off across the farm.” By tomorrow, they’ll be ready for a short trek up the Dumplin. That’s that hill at the back of the farm.”

And thus it was. The judge stayed briefly to watch the children file out into the fields then he reluctantly made his farewells. As we bid him and Elizabeth farewell Chrissie turned to me and inveigled herself into my one-armed embrace.

“When do we go back to court?” She asked.

“It’ll be Wednesday.” I replied.

She twisted around and extended her lips hopefully towards mine. I bent down, gave her a brief kiss and we returned to the cottage. Angie was serving out lunch to the girls. They were chattering about the Birmingham children.

“Did you see that Arab girl, the one with the black head-scarf?” Chenille observed

“Yeah. She’s ridden horses before, and her brother has.” Jenny agreed.

“She was trying to get Buster to obey her but he’s programmed to obey Sian for now. He won’t do as she wants until Sian gives the word.”

All our girls, including Chrissie were familiar with Sian’s uncanny form of what seemed to resemble some sort of equine hypnosis. None of the horses would disobey Sian until she somehow released them. Don’t ask me how Sian did it, but she did.

Chenille continued. “She and her brother didn’t seem very happy that they couldn’t get their horses to do as they wished.”

“They’ll have to wait,” I added. “They may be able to ride but the other kids haven’t a clue.”

We continued eating our meal as the five girls speculated about the Arabian siblings. I listened as various ideas crossed the table. Then I decided to discreetly ask Dot or Andrew about them.

Dot was talking to Andrew in the little office attached to one of the warden’s flats. I knocked discreetly and they invited me in. Dot’s smile broadened.

“I think you’ve won Judge Evans over. He was laughing as he and Judge Porter drove away.)

“Well, I’ll wait and see,” I cautioned.

I had had too many disappointments throughout my life ever to count my chickens.

“Oh I’m pretty sure he’ll let Chrissie stay. I’ve known him a long time. He’s very impressed with what you’ve done here.”

“It’s mainly Sian’s doing,” I replied effacingly.

“Oh come off it Bev!” laughed Andrew, “who coughed up the bunce?”

“Well, yes, maybe I’ve got a better line of credit.”

“That’s not what your accountant Margaret intimated to me,” countered Dot.

“She shouldn’t tell tales!”

“She had to Beverly. The council has to know that enterprises like these are on a firm financial footing. The funding sources have to be checked to see that it’s all legal, above board and safe. It would be a calamity if bookings were made and then cancelled. Most of these kids have known little else but disappointment before they came to us. We strive to make sure that their lives have some certainty in them. Part of that certainty is knowing that places like yours are on a firm footing.

Already the older kids are clamouring to come here. Word gets around between each of our care homes. It would be catastrophic to have to disappoint them.”

“Well I’ll check with Margaret before I pass comment. I’m a bit surprised that you had to dig that deep.”

I wasn’t saying much. I gabbed quite openly about many things these days, even my transsexualism, but I still remained tight-lipped about money. Dot seemed to sense this and changed the subject.

“Have you thought about expanding this place?”

“Uuhhm–no. Funds just don’t run to it. There’s a big project afoot with my ship expanding the trade to Morocco and money’ll be tight.”

“Oh, that’s a pity. You could get a grant you know and some charities would be keen to get involved.” Dot Persisted.

I shuddered with uncertainty. The idea of other organisations somehow ‘taking over’ my retirement home and turning it into some

sort of institutionalised, national, riding centre for the ‘whatever’ left me cold. If that happened, I’d probably sell up, move

on and find another secret little place far away in deepest Wales.

Then I had second thoughts. My kids might hate me for that unless the horses came too and that would hobble Sian’s enterprise, in addition to separating Jenny and Bea from Chenille and Martina. The four of them had become virtually one family. I reflected philosophically that I had become a prisoner to fortune. My acquision of a family had removed my freedom to do entirely as I wished. And now of course there was probably Chrissie to think of. As a teen-ager she would be mortified to be stuck out in the wilds somewhere. She had become a ‘shopaholic city girl’ and relished the easy rail access to Southampton, Bournemouth and London even if it was on chaperoned visits. I reflected ruefully that I was ‘stuck with Rosy Cottage and deepest Dorset.’

Then I remembered my reason for visiting Dot.

“Can you tell me Dot, how the two Arab Children came to be in care?”

“They’re not Arab, Bev, they’re Kurds.”

“Oh. Sorry; but they’re still Muslims?”

“Yes. Why, is that an issue for you?”

“No. It’s just that Muslim families are pretty tight-nit affairs. I mean you don’t really get to see inside the Muslim community.”

“That’s true but this was a ghastly case.”

“Am I allowed to know?”

“Not really but it’s quite well known in South Yorkshire. It hit the headlines up north in Bradford because of this ‘Honour killing’ business that many of the more primitive Muslims have.”

“Oh.”

I was prepared to leave it at that. I knew about the Asian obsessions with family honour that transcended several religions including, Islam, Hinduism and Sikhism. I’d travelled extensively enough all over the world to be aware of it. I’d even encountered it on a ship once where I was second mate, way back in my early career.

Two of the able seamen came from the same village and there was some sort of blood feud that had spilled over onto the ship.

They started fighting and one got killed. It had shattered the peace on the ship and the whole crew had to be paid off in Singapore. Through absolutely no fault of mine, I had lost a good, well paid job that day but I soon moved on to another one.

There were plenty of jobs out there for properly qualified ship’s officers in those days. In fact I was offered a first mate’s position the very next day. It’s an ill wind.

I turned to leave, having satisfied my curiosity but Andrew called me back.

“Wait, Bev. Don’t you want to hear the rest of the story?”

I half turned still poised to exit the door.

“What? About an honour killing? There’s no story there. They occur almost every hour or even minute, all over Asia.”

Dot smiled indulgently.

“That reflects your perspective Beverly. That’s what I like about you. You’ve got a very broad mind and you’re not judgemental.”

I smiled wryly before replying.

“I’m a tranny, Dot, who am I to judge?”

“So you don’t want to know then.”

“Not really, but I suspect I’m going to be told.”

“It might give you an insight into the sorts of cases that are dumped in our laps. This one happened in Yorkshire and Cumbria.”

I sighed. ‘Did I really want to hear another distressing story?’ I asked myself.

“Okay then, tell me if you must. It’s not too distressing is it?”

“Make your own mind up about that but these are the facts.

The girl and the boy are twins, Maha and Emir. They are just turned eleven and they were born in Bradford to a wealthy local family of some considerable public standing in the Bradford Muslim community. Those two children were forced to watch their own mother being killed by her father and grandfather; that is their grandfather and great great-grandfather in an honour killing in a remote corrie in the Lake District. Apparently, their mother had tried to escape from an abusive arranged marriage to her first cousin; it’s very common amongst Muslims in Bradford apparently; after years of violent abuse.

The husband, that is the children’s father and the first cousin to their mother turned to his father and demanded that his father make the mother’s father, namely his uncle, punish the mother his daughter for adultery. All the woman had done was try to escape from an abusive marriage. Believe it or not, the grandfather to both husband and wife, that is Maha and Emir’s great grandfather decided if there was to be any honour killing, it was to be his privilege and he actually organised his grand-daughter’s murder.

They organised a brutal ritual killing late one evening in front of the children and all the rest of the family to teach everybody about family honour. The woman was dragged screaming from her refuge in front of hundreds of witnesses and carted off by the family to the Lake District where they smashed her to death with stones. Then they buried the body in a shallow grave. Both Maha and Emir were forced to watch this ritual slaughter but it naturally caused them unimaginable distress.

A sharp eyed teacher spotted their deterioration and somehow managed to eviscerate the truth from them after days of patient, careful, and very supportive attention. That teacher was a very wise and experienced woman who had learned an awful lot about the ways of the Islamic community in Bradford. Her class is virtually ninety five percent Muslim. When she finally managed to get enough of the facts from one or the other of the children, she managed to put together a workable scenario with enough facts for the police to work on.

She didn’t even bother with social services. She went secretly, straight to the Cumbrian Police. The police had to be extremely careful in dealing with the case and they had to technically arrest the children whilst they were at school and then quickly take them and the duty social worker and the teacher, because she was the only person the children trusted, directly to the lake district to try and find the scene of the crime. Fortunately there were some very prominent features nearby and the children eventually located their mother’s grave. They finally described the events of that evening and all hell was let loose.

It was one of the first cases with definitive evidence of the culture of honour killings being committed by Asians in Britain.

Several family members were immediately arrested and the case has yet to come to court. They are a very wealthy, extended family throughout South Yorkshire and they employed some very good lawyers; all of them Muslims.

Sadly for them, the police have mountains of hard forensic evidence, a fully identified body displaying multiple, fatal traumas, a grave and at least two valid, plausible witnesses. Not to mention a court system that these monsters have found impossible to corrupt or bribe, as they would easily have done in Kurdistan or many other Asian counties.

There were screams of protest from all over the Muslim community in Bradford demanding to know why the children had been spirited away but the courts and the police have at last realised that the children are now in as much danger as their mother was. They talked and that is a virtual death sentence in the eyes of the brutes that were their hugely extended family. There is no way these children can ever go back to Bradford and they’re only eleven for God’s sake! We’ve even had to give them false identities, look; the files have them listed as Jason and Pauline.”

“I see,” I nodded regretfully, “if fact it’s likely not safe for them even to return to their faith.”

“Crickey Beverly! You’re astute!” Andrew gasped “That’s one of the biggest issues for the children. The police are adamant that if their whereabouts become known to the Muslim community, the word will quickly get back to Bradford and a hit squad will be sent. This honour killing thing is one of the biggest manifestations of the gulf that separates western culture from the Asiatic one. And yet the children still want to go to the mosque to study Islam.”

“Shit! That’s a hard one.” I agreed. “So how do you reconcile their loyalty to Islam with the probability of their murder?”

“There’s an imam who runs a very westernised mosque near Warwick. He meets the children once a fortnight at a different venue and takes them through Islamic studies.”

“How can you trust him? If what you say about the Muslim community is true?”

“Oh come on, Beverly!” protested Dot. “Don’t be so blinkered. Not every Muslim is a fanatical terrorist you know.”

“No; I know that, only the Wahabist fanatics who are products of the Wahabist Madrassars financed by Saudi Arabia.”

“How do you know about–oh, of course, you’ve travelled in those parts haven’t you.” Dot concluded.

“And some,” I replied. “I’ve also met a thousand times as many perfectly reasonable and tolerant Muslims who would never dream of hurting a child. The problem is, their protests are drowned out by the Wahabist fanatics and threatened by the Wahhabist violence.”

“Yes, but it’s impossible to sort out the good from the bad, - the very bad, that is.”

“So this imam in Warwick, how come he can be trusted?” I asked.

“Well he’s trying to drag Islam into this century; at least here in Britain. He’s got some very modern views about interpreting the Koran and they don't sit well with traditionalist Sunnis or Shias.”

“Crickey! He can pick his enemies, cant he,” I grinned.

“Well there are several ‘fatwas’ out on his head but the extremists have so far been prevented from succeeding in killing him by the strength of his arguments that brings moderates to his side. His mosque in Warwick is full to overflowing. Any newcomer to the mosque is well vetted by several hundreds of dedicated protectors and new visitors are physically searched.”

“Huh, that seems a total contradiction to me,” I replied. “I mean, how can his mosque be deemed liberal when all newcomers have to be vetted and checked?”

“It’s sign of the times I’m afraid. There’s a very real risk of a suicide bomber being sent right into his Mosque. Islam is riven by divisions every bit as passionate and violent as the fissures in the Christian churches down through the same ages. He’s trying to engender a culture of tolerance amongst British Muslims as some sort of beacon.”

“Hah!” I scorned. “Whoever said the British were tolerant. You’re telling this to a transvestite-cum-almost transsexual don’t forget.

“Well the British are more tolerant than many other races,” countered Dot.”

I reflected silently on the patience and compassion of the Iranian judge who had worked so hard to get Jenny and Bea back to Britain. ‘Now there was a man who had demonstrated supreme tolerance,’ I thought ‘and in the face of some pretty dangerous threats.’ I didn’t contradict Dot’s statement but moved the conversation on. I was curious about this westernised, liberal Imam.

“So what sort of things is he saying that upsets the Wahabists?” I asked.

“Well he declares that the hijab and the burkah are not how women should be expected to dress in Western society. They are historical remnants of ancient Arab culture that always treated women folk as nothing more than reproductive devices to be traded like chattels. He says that the Koran only advises women to be modest and modesty in dress is a matter of culture, not absolutetism. A woman in a bikini on a western beach might consider herself totally modest even if she goes into the town to shop, she might even feel overdressed on a topless beach. It’s all a matter of culture and men should not tell women how to dress. He says that women are far better able to adjudge what is modest because they always have to be alert to male threat.

That makes the men the ungodly ones, not the women. It’s up to the men to follow the other instruction in the Koran that is to avert their gaze and resist temptation. There’s too much onus put on the woman and that is unfair and if it’s unfair then it’s ungodly. He says that Muslim men should drag themselves into the twenty-first century.

He also says that men and women should be allowed to worship together and that if men are distracted by a woman’s presence at prayers then they should address their thoughts; consider where they are, namely God’s house and to try and be more godly.”

“Crikey! No wonder the traditionalists don’t like him. With nearly all the imams in British mosques coming from the tribal areas and Wahhabist Madrassars of Pakistan, I’ll bet they hate him.”

“Let’s just say it’s brought him a certain notoriety amongst the traditionalists,” Dot added, “but he’s gaining a large following amongst the younger ‘home-grown’ Muslims, especially the more educated young women. Anyway this man, and I shan’t name him, gives Maha and Emir a Koranic lesson each fortnight because he has to spread himself very thinly. I’ve listened in on the lessons and they seem OK. He’s got very modernist ideas. If any other Imams tried to object, we in Birmingham Social services could rightfully say that we were taking legitimate steps to continue the children’s cultural and religious heritage within the constraints of the threats to the children’s lives and the funds available; although I must say that the imam gives of his lessons freely and that says a lot. We only pay his travelling expenses. He’s a very philanthropic man.”

“Seems perfectly fair to me,” I concluded’ “just one other thing though. Where did they learn to ride? My girls say that they obviously know their way around horses.”

“As I said earlier. They come from a wealthy family. They had riding lessons and they owned their own ponies. Anyway, riding comes naturally to an Arab. Haven’t you ever heard of an Arab horse?”

I reflected silently that a Kurd would probably object to being called an Arab just as a Welshman or Scotsman would object to being called English and I grinned philosophically. Dot was gently teasing me. Andrew smiled and I could see that they had a lot of paperwork to complete. Having satisfied my curiosity and now able to enlighten my girls I returned to the cottage. They were getting ready to go into town shopping with Angie and Chrissie. I told my children the story and it was a damned good thing that I did. They left to go shopping and I didn’t go with them; I had some work to catch up on with the Morocco File. It was coming to fruition slowly and occupying a lot of my time.

The following day, Sunday dawned warm and sunny. Sian had told the riders that because the weather was so fine she was taking them up the Dumplin a day earlier than she intended to and if the Social workers wished to accompany their wards they were welcome to. This would empty the trekking centre of all its horses. It also meant that sometime that day, Sian would give the message to the horses and the horses would be under each rider’s individual control. Apparently she started doing this as each child began to gain confidence.

Naturally, the moment they felt free, Maha and Emir decided to show off and started galloping away from the party. Sian had long realised that the twins were excellent riders but she felt obliged to keep tabs on them. Despite Sian calling to them, the twins continued along the bridal path and were soon out of Earshot. Sian had to chase them on her hunter while Sylvia kept an eye on the others. They came back looking very sheepish for it was the first time they had experienced discipline whilst out riding.

Previously, before their mother had been murdered, they had enjoyed the freedom of the Yorkshire moors when out riding. They had been indulged and spoilt by the same men who had killed their mother for when out riding previously one of those same men had always accompanied them and chaperoned them.

It had been a ghastly shock for them to have endured such a wicked betrayal. Horses and riding had become synonymous with their trauma when those same men their great-grandfather and grandfather had murdered their mother. Consequently they were somewhat unsettled by the return to riding and when Sian had berated them for riding off, they both burst into tears. Sian was nonplussed by the sudden change in the twin’s demeanour and it was her first real insight into the extent of the damage some of the children had suffered. She suddenly found herself with two distraught eleven-year-olds crying hysterically until Andrew quickly came forward and restored some calm. It was a salutary lesson and an epiphany for both Sian and Sylvia. Despite their own hard roads from childhood, they now realised that some of these children had walked, and were still walking, a far rockier
road.

While the trekkers were up on the Dumplin and my girls were shopping and James and Belinda had gone to a birthday party with Margaret, I found myself alone at the cottage. It was nice to stand in the yard that was normally so busy and savour the silence of that warm Sunday afternoon. I had never found the place so silent since the first days I had bought the place. It brought back memories of those early peaceful weeks and I sighed as I looked around.

`Crickey, Bev,’ I thought with an uncertain smile, `things have certainly moved on around here. Whatever happened to that secret little bolt-hole with roses around the door? You’ve come a long way, girl.’

I decided to pour myself a long cool white wine and soda, and a jug of cold lemonade then take my laptop with me to the patio and get on with some more work on Morocco. The business plan in response to the Tangier Port Authority’s offer was all but complete; just a few loose ends to tie up before I flew out on the Tuesday. I could hear the soft, distant growl Mr Turpin’s tractor in the fields across the vale and that was the only sound to disturb the afternoon’s silence. It was a comforting sound, not too intrusive but somehow reassuring and even neighbourly. I settled down to a warm, comfortable afternoon’s summarisation of the business plan.

It was about three-ish I suppose when I heard the sound of a vehicle coming up the lane. I stirred reluctantly and peered around the corner of the patio to see an unfamiliar 4x4 picking its way between the high dense hedges of the lane to finally arrive in the yard. At first I intended to go and meet it but its approach speed told me that this wasn’t some casual horse owner or equestrian participant looking for some equestrian activity.

The vehicle bounced into the yard and slewed to a stop as four individuals of apparently Asian origin scrambled out and started immediately searching. This was not a friendly visit and I immediately remembered Dot’s words about the hunt for Maha and Emir. They meant business as they shouted to each other in some foreign language. It was not Arabic, for I knew quite a bit of that important Semitic language so I presumed it was some other tongue like Farsi or Urdu or Kurdish. Whatever language it was they were definitely not friendly. I hid down in the small ha-ha that separated the patio from the orchard and quickly dialled my mobile phone. I knew I could not get hold of Sian or anybody riding on the Dumplin so I decided to call Baroness Wemite who’s large house lay on the opposite side of the hill. More importantly, if she was in, she would be able to saddle one of their horses and get a message to Dot, Andrew and Sian. My next call was to be an emergency one to the police but I never had time to make it.

My heart gave a leap of joyous relief when the Baroness answered almost immediately.

“Hello. Sally Wemite?”

I whispered urgently into the phone.

“Sally! It’s Beverly! This is urgent. Sian has a riding party of Children out on the Dumplin. You must get a message to her urgently. I’m in danger making this call. I’m down at the house and some thugs have arrived looking for two Children. Just tell Sian and the Social worker that four Asian thugs have arrived looking for the children and they seem to mean business. Then tell the police about me. They are trespassing on the farm and I can’t hide much longer. They are searching the whole farm for the kids.”

“What the hell’s happening, Bev,” Sally gasped.

“I’m in danger. Just get that bloody message to Sian. She’s trekking on the Dumplin! Hurry!

Sally was nothing if not sharp and she immediately despatched her son Peter with the message. I had great cause to be thankful that Sally was such a proactive quick thinking individual. She immediately advised me to act as though I didn’t know anything and to continue talking to her as though it was a perfectly normal social call.

“Pretend we’re exchanging recipes,” she suggested.

I grasped her reasoning and decided to let the thugs find me as though I was innocently talking to Sally on a typical tete-a-tete between friends on a Sunday afternoon. I stood up from the ha-ha and walked towards the fruit trees chattering idly as I went.

As soon as one of the thugs emerged onto the Patio he saw me and shouted at me in English. “Hey, you!”

I turned and regarded him civilly as I tried to keep calm.

“Are you speaking to me, sir?”

“Yes, you!”

“Do you realise that you are on my property and it would be good manners to address me as Ma’am or Miss! What do you want?”

“Where are the children?”

“What children?”

“The children! The children! Where are they?”

“Which children. There are dozens of children!”

“Don’t mess with me, you bitch! Where are the children?”

I repeated my earlier declaration with a bit more confusion and anger. The longer I could sow confusion, the better the chances of the children escaping.

“What children, which children? D’you mean my children, the council children, the other children, which bloody children. There’s dozen’s of them around.”

He looked fit to explode but as they had so far found nothing but some clothes and footwear obviously belonging to numerous children the gang had nothing to go on. The leader then appeared and stamped towards me.

“Listen, you stupid bitch. We’re looking for two children, two Muslim children who have been kidnapped by the infidels.”

“Infidels. Where the fuck do you think you are? This isn’t some stupid tribalist cesspit full of Wahhabist idiots. This is Britain. There are no infidels here.”

“Yes you are. You are the infidel!”

“No I’m not! I’m Christian; I have a Gospel and a scripture. Even The Prophet’s own teachings in the Koran, (Peace be upon him.) declare Christians and Jews to be ‘children of the book’. A Christian is not an infidel!”

“My knowledge and my use of the respectful form of address for The Prophet flummoxed him. Obviously here was somebody who knew something of the Koran and I knew I was on fairly safe Muslim theological ground. The Koran clearly stated that Christians were children of the book and not to be considered as Infidels. Infidels were ‘unbelievers’.

I made him hesitate for a few seconds and seconds counted. Then the first one stepped forward.

“Who were you talking to just then?”

“What, on the phone? I was speaking to my friend Sally.”

“What about?”

“Bloody hell! Everything! What d’you think women talk about; recipes, the children, the weather, holidays, husbands, sex, money; everything! You bloody name it! I’ve been chatting to Sally for nearly an hour.”

I threw the phone at him and he checked the last number dialled. Fortunately on my older type mobile, it only listed the name and number, it didn’t show how long I’d been talking. The name ‘Sally’ tallied with the phone and he was forced to take my word.

“Who’s this Sally?”

“My friend! Ring the bloody number and ask her? What the hell are you doing here anyway?”

“We’re looking for two children–two children of the faith.”

“Which faith?”

“Don’t mess with me, woman. The two Kurdish children.”

I pretended total ignorance and wagged my head incomprehensibly.

“Kurdish children? What Kurdish children. They’re all from Birmingham, that is apart from my own and my friend’s children.”

“There are two Kurdish children; a girl and a boy–twins!”

I shrugged again and lied. The more time I could delay these thugs the better.

“I’m sorry. I don’t recollect any Kurdish children. There were four black kids.”

The leader cursed with impotence for they had expected to find all the children on and around the farm. It was a pure accident that Sian had taken them out on the Dumplin because of the fine weather. The whole trekking centre was empty but for me. He grabbed my wrist and dragged me across the yard to where one of the others had found the Social services paper work.

“What’s this?”

I peered at it thoughtfully then shrugged again.

“It looks like the paperwork. The details and the plans for the kid’s holiday. Look there’s a list of names.”

He snatched it from my hands and studied it feverishly. There were no Kurdish names or any other Islamic names. Finding nothing he gave an oath and started shouting in Urdu into his mobile phone. I noticed the mood of his associates begin to change. They were getting nervous. This in turn made me nervous. Whenever criminals get nervous because things are going wrong, they start to act out of fear first then panic. Panic often causes the bad things to happen.

To add to the tension my mobile phone started to ring. The thug holding it started nervously then stared at his boss looking for guidance.

“Give it to her. It may be that Sally woman calling back.”

“The second thug stared at the call identity but didn’t acknowledge the identification to his boss. I realised that he probably couldn’t read English. He offered the phone to the boss who cursed and passed it to me.

“It’s Sally. What shall I do?”

“Answer it, put it on voice!”

Sally’s voice came over and I realised she had already garnished from Sian the nature of the situation. She would never have called otherwise and she must therefore have something important to impart.

“Hello? Is that you Bev? We got cut off.”

I looked towards the leader and he nodded nervously while motioning with his hand to ‘wind the call up’.

“Yes.” I replied. “I dropped the phone by the ha-ha.”

“Oh. Good. This area’s just so bad for reception. Listen, I sent Peter out for those two chickens we were talking about.”

For a moment I was flummoxed then I realised ‘for chicken, - read child’.

“Oh, - yes! Did he get them then?” I stuttered back as I picked up the thread of Sally’s ploy

“Yes.”

“Well I’ll be over to pick them up sometime tomorrow. I’ve got to go now. Bye-ee.”

I hurriedly closed down my mobile and passed it to the gang leader. He snapped it open to check the call history then frowned uncertainly.

“What was that about?”

“We were discussing a chicken recipe before you so rudely invaded my property.”

“Why two chickens?”

“Hello, earth to stupid! There’s me, four youngsters, two toddlers, a teenager and three other adults who feed at my table every day, how far d’you think one bloody chicken would go?”

He ignored my ‘stupid’ remark, which told me he was preoccupied with things going pear-shaped.

“There’s plenty of food in that other building.”

“That’s not mine. It’s for the Birmingham kids and the Social workers. They brought it with them!”

“So where are they now?”

“Somewhere up on those hills.”

“How many of them?”

“All of them. D’you see any kids or social workers around here?”

I was giving him information without it being useful. Yes, the trekkers were on ‘those hills’ but nobody knew where. Yes, all the children had gone with all the social workers but I hadn’t said how many. He cursed and asked again.

“How many!?”

“I don’t know. I don’t run the trekking business. You’ll find it amongst the paper work in that office.”

Again this was my ploy to delay them. I wanted time for Sally Wemite to get the kids to safety. My biggest fear was that if the police failed to arrive in time and the thugs caught up with the trekking party then they would recognise the missing count. There would be two children missing.

The leader was forced to check through the list they had found because his three associates could not read or write English, (Such is the insularity of the Bradford Muslim population.)

So many arranged marriages are conducted to get British Asians to marry Pakistani cousins that the community has almost isolated itself from main stream British life. Even the leader had trouble with some of the British names.

I realised this would now add to their disadvantages for ignorance would contribute to any delays. Once these thugs were outside their Islamic bubble they were vulnerable.

Additionally I had not counted on Sally and Sian’s fortitude, nor the bravery of Sally’s children Peter and Melanie. They had substituted themselves for Maha and Emir and their false English identities of Jason and Pauline would match up with the names on Dot’s fake list. Everything would tally if the thugs managed to find the trekkers and force themselves upon them. Maha and Emir would simply not be there.

Having got little from me, the thugs decided they would go and search for the trekkers but they no idea where to start. They looked at me but I could not discern what they were saying. Two of them were obviously at odds with the other pair. The leader approached me again.

“Which is the way up onto those hills?”

“Well, you could try the direct approach, that is straight up over the fields but your vehicle might get stuck in the deep gullies at the top. Or, you could go around via the lane and take the Salisbury road when you come to the junction. A couple of miles along there and you take a right that puts you directly onto the bridle path. The main gate is locked to vehicles though. Only the horse and pedestrian gates are open.”

He sneered as he bragged. “A couple of bloody locks won’t stop me.”

I shrugged, hoping that they would fall to their own macho bravado and choose to attack the Dumplin head on and get stuck in the gullies. To a 4x4 the hills looked temptingly close and an approach from my fields looked easy. It wasn’t until one topped the higher ridges that one encountered the impassable gullies that ran parallel to the bridal path on my side. They were old prehistoric cart tracks that had further eroded to impassability with the millennia and later travellers had gradually developed the more modern path on the north side of the crest.

For once the leader showed some sense and decided on taking the normal rout via the road. This however would eat up more of his time. They glared at me for one last time then smashed my mobile on the concrete and left me stranded–or so they thought, in the cottage yard as they screamed off down the lane. They had ripped out all the phones they could find but they had missed the small Trimphone under the mountainous piles of paperwork in my study.

‘The idiot who had searched my cottage must have been plain stupid,’ I thought. ‘A study-cum-office was the obvious place to have a phone. Why hadn’t he searched more diligently?’ I wondered.

I concluded it was fear for they were now in an even greater hurry.

As soon as I deemed it safe, I called the police and enlightened them of the thug’s likely course of action. It was now out of my hands. My next course of action was to enlighten Sally the baroness.

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Comments

Wow, what excitement!

I think it is time Beverly thinks about getting a security team in place. That is twice she has been attacked. She is in such a remote location that it is too easy to be attacked so easily.

I don't want to say much more for spoiling the story but still, wow what a story.

Great job writing. Looking forward to your next chapter.

I have to agree

Some security is certainly in order, at the estate itself, at the ford and at the road branching to her. Because for all her significant financial and legal standing in all matters previously coming to a head, she is awfully vulnerable to brute force.

And I would, after the thugs are captured and the matters come to a close, demand a refund for all the damage done.

Laastly, a question begs answering - how did the thugs learn where the kids were, and what were the kids supposed to be doing. And since they didn't know about identity change, I presume it was some surveillance they sent around giving heads-up and not some inside job.

Somehow, I think Bev can understand the kids more than someone else - after all, she also was a victim of 'honour'-related issues - she was thrown out for 'bringing shame to the family'.

Faraway


On rights of free advertisement:
Big Closet Top Shelf

Where you can fool around like you want to and most you get is some bemused good ribbing!

Faraway


On rights of free advertisement:
Big Closet Top Shelf

Where you can fool around like you want to and most you get is some bemused good ribbing!

I've heard they have long term plans

however, it depends on apathy from all of us to make it work. They plan to be in control a hundred years from now.

Hello Miss Beverly,

This was a tough subject to write. But, we know they are trying to spread their influence around the world. They are counting on time to be the winner. Slowly they infiltrate the governments where they are at so they can be in the majority. Hopefully the good people within will gain the upper hand and put a stop to it.

We just had a similar situation here across the pond. Our president pushed his agenda for health care reform and got it passed. However, sixty to seventy percent of the people don't want it. We know it will bankrupt our nation, if not already. Hopefully our vote will count this November and effect change to have representatives to represent the people. If the package holds, we'll be taxed heavily and not be able to use it four years from now. We know people will be making hard choices to put food on the table and have a roof over the head than paying for health care that is too expensive. Especially me who is still looking for work.

When few people want to boss around the masses, it is like the mafia or some other gang who wants control of the people. It can be through illegal drugs like most countries have with the drug cartels. They want control, they want free money and not work a dime for it.

It would be nice if a new disease came about from the Creator that inflicts these type of people only. (It has happened before. There is a story in the book of Judges, when a group of people took the Ark. Then the women were unable to bear children, until they released the Ark.) These are the sign of the times. The media is not helping, they want a blind eye. Why? If they told the truth, they would be become targets of the bullies.

Only the Creator knows our hearts. It must be filled with love. Our ears must be open to hear the 'whisper of the Creator'. We can learn a lot from Him. We need to do what is right. Sian was taught well how to 'horse whisper'. She respects the creation of the Creator. Don't become close minded, stiff necked, blinded by power and greed, even to the point of killing. That leads to separation from the Creator when you stand before Him in Heaven.

With lots of love
Rachel

This Chapter Makes Me Wonder

This chapter makes me wonder just how much of our 21st century “Society” has been infiltrated by this unacceptable face of Islam. I suppose it is pay-back time for our insensitive forcing of our ways on Eastern civilisations in the days of the, now long defunct, British Empire.

I am no racist, but the whole subject scares me rigid.

In fact it does

They view it as the continued battle since the year 1000 and the Crusaders that came to the Middle East to free Jerusalem. It is not forgotten in their minds. But, if we believe the Bible is true and who will win in the end. Then all of their posturing is for naught. Then they must recognize who is the Creator.

Rachel

The British Raj.

Hi Norma.
This may come as a surprise to you, just as it was a real 'eye-opener' for me.

If you speak to many Indians on the 'Sub-continent' to day they will tell you that for 'have nots' in India in the nineteenth centuary the coming of the British was not a bad thing.
In those early days the Indian cast system was rigidly enforced and everybody was more of less locked into whatever station he was born into. Come the british who viewed all Indians with the same jaundiced perspective,- and the lot of the 'have-nots' improved immensely. For example those who begged on the streets and were not allowed any 'upward mobility' suddenly found themselves able to pick tea in the new plantations because tea was a new arrival imported from China by the British so there were no caste criterion to enforce. Conesequently the street beggars found themselves able to leave their ghastly deprivation and find relatively highly paid work picking tea, not to mention all the other skilled jobs such as tea tasters, tea planters, etc, etc. Furthermore, many tea plantations provided education and medicine for their staff

An even more striking example was the coming of the Indian Railways courtesy of the British.

Some low paid carpenter or metal bashing tin-smith was now able to train as a driver on the railways and earn filmstar wages provided he demonstrated the aptitude to operate a locomotive and learn the necessary knowledge. Thus some low caste metalbasher might be able to leave his family's millenia old circumstance, get a job working for the British and within a few short years, if he proved able enough, return home to his family as a driver of the Bombay to Calcutta limited and as rich as croeseus.

I knew nothing of this until I went to India on Holiday this year and spent a day with some Indian historical scholars being shown around the tea plantations in Kerala, (the only communist state in India and it is elected democratically.)

These scholars demonstrated to my wife (Who is a teacher.) that every child in Kerala state, goes to school and gets a free state education if their family wants it. (And most certainly do!!) Kerala, a state in Southern India has 95% literacy.
These scholars also enlightened me as to the improvement of the lot of the 'have-nots' under the British Raj.

The losers were the 'have's', namely the rajahs and the upper castes who ground the rest of the indian population down into the dirt and abject poverty.

It explains to me why many Indians are still friendly towards the British, especially in India because their parent's and grand-parents tell them that the British weren't so bad and they brought prosperity to all the lower castes. Many millions of Indians were thus able to at least better their lot even if they were not able to raise their cast.

Food for thought eh!

bev_1.jpg

Read your history books

It wasn't just the crusaders who fought the infidels!

LoL
Rita

Age is an issue of mind over matter.
If you don't mind, it doesn't matter!
(Mark Twain)

LoL
Rita

Crusades

A couple of small points often forgotten in this discussion. The latter one is the slave trade. Western Europe and the USA are rightly apologetic about the transatlantic slave trade, and it was largely British sea power that ended it.In the meantime, the bones of countless dead Africans showed the way across the Sahara for the Arab slave trade, nearly as large in scale as the transatlantic one.
Then there are the crusades. The Frankish leader Charles Martel fought a battle against the Moors at a northern French town called Tours, in (if I recall correctly) 748 AD. That's 300 years and more before the Crusades began.
In the seventeenth century the "Moors" were back, this time at the gates of Vienna. They still occupy Turkey, which they finally conquered, after invading from central Asia, in the fifteenth century.
But, under people like Blair,we apologise for the Crusades and the slave trade....
Sorry for being political here.

Blaire!

Blaire is a hyprocrite a liar and a thief. Nothing he ever did as Prime Minister benifited the poor and huddled masses.

bev_1.jpg

Skipper! Chapter 24

Beverly must be an excellent chess master from the way she handled the situation.

    Stanman
May Your Light Forever Shine
    Stanman
May Your Light Forever Shine

A nice quiet retirement HUH.

A nice quiet retirement HUH. Now Bev is being set upon by Muslim thugs. What's next, Russian paratroops ?

Karen