THE CHIMING OF THE BELL [Part
4 & Last]
By Richard Banks
While
regretting his unintended enlistment Sebastian was nonetheless heartened when
he was issued with his uniform consisting of a camouflage jacket and a peaked
cap that Mr Dyson insisted he wears the right way around. Learning that the
three stripes on the sleeve indicated that he was Mr Dyson’s second in command
he was still further encouraged by the deference now shown to him by his fellow
residents, even those with better cars than his own.
After several days in which they
practised marching and saluting they moved on to target practice in the woods
where they nearly shot a squirrel and Mr Pry tripped over a tree root and had
to be carried back to his car.
Fully trained, or as trained as they
were ever likely to be, Mr Dyson issued a martial command that ‘Lethal Outcome’
was to begin on the following Friday. Accordingly, Sebastian and the rest of the number one platoon took up their position, under cover of darkness, on Mr
Simpson’s garage. Steeling themselves for the battle to come the gallant
defenders waited for their enemy who duly arrived at 11.30. Aiming the searchlight at the masked men entering their road Mr Dyson gave the order to fire
only to find that Mr Jones, their designated gunner, was on a comfort break.
Urged by their leader to take his place, Sebastian hurried forward and
delivered a rapid burst of gunfire that struck a bush producing an indignant
meow from a cat sheltering beneath it.
The advancing foe armed with nothing
more than a dustbin lid and a stick to beat it with, broke off their war cries
and after a chaotic attempt to find cover were urged by their leader to, “get
the ---- out of here!” While “it” was not defined the invading force responded by
running back the way they had come, surviving another volley of bullets from
Sebastian who somehow manage to shatter two street lights and a satellite aerial.
Fearing a feigned retreat Mr Dyson
ordered his troops to stand fast while peering through night vision binoculars
and muttering darkly about a further attack. On learning of the likely
resumption of hostilities Mr Jones, who had just rejoined his comrades, retreated
once again to the bathroom in order to retrieve his glasses. On his return, a
bright light in the sky heralded the arrival of a helicopter that hovered
overhead while a police van screeched to a halt outside Mr Patel’s shop.
Observing the arrival of twelve armed officers, the Greenacre Action Force
greeted their comrades in arms with a resounding cheer that nonetheless saw the
comrades take cover and point their weapons at the gallant defenders.
Sebastian, fearing that he would be their first target, acknowledged them with
what he hoped would be interpreted as a friendly wave.
Encouraged, if not entirely reassured
by both cheer and wave, a man with a megaphone cautiously emerged from behind a
wheelie bin to demand their unconditional surrender. He was, he assured them,
Superintendent Ernest Nabber, a name he had every intention of living up to, and he
was at the head of a force of elite marksmen, with telescopic sights, who had
been practicing only the week before. The SAS were on their way and the RAF,
not to be outdone, had jet fighters massing over the Thames Estuary. All
resistance was futile. Their only choice was death or incarceration under the
1824, Overthrow of the State Act.
Mr Dyson advanced to the edge of the
garage to assure him that no such thing was intended. They were on the side of
law and order, “just like themselves,” and that the police should be pursuing
the hooligans who had been rampaging up and down their street on a nightly
basis.
The Inspector replied that had they
complained to 101, their call operators, Molly and Eric, would have been only
too pleased to offer them counselling or send them any one of a number of
really useful leaflets. But they, ungrateful citizens of this Sceptred Isle,
had chosen to walk on the dark side and perpetrate the very worse of crimes,
which was to try and enforce the law themselves. This made the police look
really bad and could not be tolerated. He therefore had no hesitation in
bringing down the full force of the law against them, and any law would do. He
only regretted that hanging and quartering had been discontinued. As for the
hooligans of which they complained, they were no more than Mr Watts and his
employees making a rumpus in order to boost sales of their security equipment.
This he had known about for weeks and fully intended doing something about next
week, or possibly the week after that. In the meantime, they had more pressing
priorities, of which the overthrow of the State was now top of their list. If
they did not surrender he would have no option but to unleash the destructive
might at his disposal.
Mr Dyson considered what Churchill
might have said at this moment. Deciding that, “OK Gov, it’s a fair cop,” was
something that would not have passed his lips Mr Dyson frantically searched his
mind for the words that would save him and his confederates from imprisonment
or certain death. Concluding there were none or at least none he could think
of, he turned to his comrades and raised up his arms in a gesture of despair
that unfortunately was not dissimilar to the signal to fire. Sebastian’s finger
tightened on the trigger and as the gun fired, almost without him knowing it, a
volley of bullets came forth the other way striking him, and then the others,
with mortal effect.
In his death throes he heard the
chiming of a bell and hoping that he may have been, ‘saved by the bell’ opened
his eyes to find it so, himself in bed and Margo downstairs in the hall talking
to the man who had come to read the meter. But, when wearily closing them
again, he knew not which was the real world and which was not. Only when he
opened them again would he know. Could he open them? That would indeed be the
test. It would not be easy. He needed to rest a few moments, to gather
strength. All that was required of him was to count up to ten, open his eyes and
all would be well. There was still hope, but on reaching five his counting
stopped.
The End
Copyright Richard Banks
