Savage Moon

The sound of the helicopter had been growing steadily louder and suddenly the courtyard was lit by a brilliant white light. Jon counted fourteen armed officers forming a cordon across the top of the courtyard. 'Jammer, let's just stand up slowly and walk out of here.'

The other man raised his voice to be heard. 'The West always uses the same excuse when it invades a country of dark-skinned people. As it occupies their land and steals their resources you say you're there in a civilising role. Helping the people to shake off cruel rulers, bringing freedom and democracy. Benevolent, kind. But then some of the people you came to save start to resent your presence. They fight back with bombs, ambushes, booby traps. They strike quickly and melt into the crowds. And when your soldiers look to see who attacked them, there are only people in strange clothes looking back. Kukes, gooks, ragheads. So the soldiers vent their anger on them. And what has your civilising army become now? It can't be savage or barbaric. No, because they invaded to eradicate such things. But the evidence is there. Villages ransacked, homes burnt, old men, women and children murdered. The ones who invaded my country ended up massacring the people in their thousands.'

'White settlers died too.'

Jammer thrust a claw into Jon's face. From beyond those curved spikes officers tightened their grips. 'How many white settlers died? Do you know?'

Jon shook his head. 'Hundreds?'

'Thirty-two. More were killed in traffic accidents in Nairobi during the war. How many white members of the security forces died? Sixty-three. Freedom fighters? Eleven thousand, five hundred and sixty-three.' He paused. 'You think the KLFA were terrorists, not freedom fighters? I can see you do. The president of Kenya announced this year that the body of Field Marshal Dedan Kimathi, leader of the KLFA, will be exhumed and given a state funeral. And the number of Kikuyu people who died through internment, starvation and disease? No one knows, because the normally meticulous colonial government didn't keep count.'

Jon lowered his head as he thought of Alice's obsession.

'Kenyans have estimated over one hundred thousand Kikuyu died during the emergency. Some think double that. Once the Pipeline was closed down whole villages remained empty, the inhabitants simply never reappeared. Always the same story. The French in Algiers, the Belgians in the Congo, the Americans in Vietnam. Whites killing in the name of civilisation.' He inclined his head slightly to the side. 'How many of the soldiers pointing rifles at me are black?'

Jon didn't look. 'They're not soldiers, Jammer, they're police officers.'

'They represent the same thing. How many are black?'

Jon glanced beyond Jammer's shoulders. 'I don't know, they're wearing balaclavas.'

'We both know the answer.' He looked down at the claws.

'This thing that I've become. It was invented by the Government's press office in London. I became it to show that any heart of darkness in Kenya was created by the British. If anything threatens your way of life, you hunt it down and destroy it without mercy. Look at the hysteria I've created and think about how you've responded. The cats and dogs that have died, the number of officers sent to deal with me. Now it's time to end this.'

Jon saw the claws were trembling. He looked into Jammer's eyes. Fear shone there. 'Don't do this.'

'It can't end any other way. Just keep low.'

Jon leaned to the side and shouted. 'Don't shoot. Do not open fire!'

Jammer stood and from the line of armed officers a voice barked, 'Drop those weapons, now!'

Jon saw Jammer's eyes were shut as he raised his hands high above his head.

The rifles erupted, multiple flashes still visible even as Jammer's body was thrown against the wall. It connected with a wet thud before sliding down on top of Jon.

Epilogue

Summerby's office was pleasantly cool as Jon sat down. In the seat next to him was McCloughlin, who had moved his chair to the corner of the desk. Just to make sure we all know you're not on my side, thought Jon. Summerby was asking for his calls to be put on hold. 'So Jon,' he said, replacing the phone. 'There's a rumour going round that you're thinking of contacting the Manchester Police Authority.'

Jon nodded and Summerby's eyes instantly connected with McCloughlin's. When his senior officer spoke again his voice was devoid of any warmth. 'What are you thinking of saying?'

'I think you know. It was in my report that went into the log book.'

'DI Spicer, the Independent Police Complaints Commission has conducted a full investigation. It has found that all procedures were correctly followed.'

'That's bollocks, and you know it. For a start, the entire Armed Response Unit was briefed at the scene on what to say before the Assistant Chief Constable arrived. That's not accord- ing to protocol following a firearms incident.'

Summerby sighed. 'As I said, the IPCC is satisfied there is no case to answer. The Director of Public Prosecutions has signed it off.'

'It's a stitch-up. My report clearly stated that I'd instructed the

Armed Response Unit to hold their fire.'

'Your words obviously weren't heard by the officer in command.'

'DS Saville clearly heard them.'

McCloughlin uncrossed his legs. 'Maybe he wasn't standing so close to the helicopter. I gather it was a bit noisy.'

Jon glanced at him, saw the mocking look in his eye. One day, pal, one day I'll fucking have you. He looked back at

Summerby. 'James Field stood up and raised his arms.'

'To strike you with those claws,' Summerby replied.

'How do you know it wasn't to surrender? They just opened fire on him.'

McCloughlin leaned forward and pointed a finger at Jon. 'To protect you, sonny. They were there saving your ungrateful life. I think you need to consider just whose side you're on here. If you contact the MPA over this, count your career as over.'

Jon looked to Summerby for his reaction. His senior officer crossed his arms. 'I think you need to consider your priorities extremely carefully.'

Fuck you all, Jon thought, standing up and walking from the room without another word. Half way down the stairs, his phone went. 'Carmel, what's happening with that story?'

'I'm sorry, Jon, they're not going to print it.'

'What do you mean? You're just leaving it with the young offender turns psycho story?'

'I've been to see my editor. I took the project Field sent me. He said the claims can't be substantiated. It's too inflammatory.'

'What about the colonial government's records? They must back it up.'

'I've looked into that. Everything, and I mean everything, was destroyed before they handed power over. No one even knows how many detention camps were built.'

'The relatives in Kenya then. There are survivors who witnessed everything, it's how James Field got all his information.'

'They could be after compensation. There are several groups still trying to sue the British government.'

'So you're burying the story.'

'It's not being buried, Jon, it's just too sensitive. I don't know. The decision came from the top, the big cheese himself.'

As footsteps started coming down the stairs behind him, a phrase Alice had started to use came to mind. 'It's censorship through silence. You call yourself a journalist?'

Carmel sighed. 'I did once. Jon, what do you think newspapers are? Who do you think owns them? Institutional shareholders, that's who. We have them to consider. Nothing could be achieved by running a story that attacks Britain so forcefully. Sales could go down, advertisers might desert us. The shareholders will call for heads.'

'And I thought it was about reporting the truth.'

'So did I when I started out in this job. Listen, you know when I mentioned who my source was on this story?'