Desert England

David Williams

Description

A terrifying tidal wave was sweeping across Europe, leaving widespread devastation in its wake. But this was no natural phenomenon; this was a wholly manmade weapon of terror, dubbed by the foreign media as 'the English disease': football hooliganism. In the months leading up to FIFA's decision as to which country would have the prestigious honour of hosting the 2006 World Cup - England or arch-enemies Germany - the level of wanton, indiscriminate violence being perpetrated at overseas match locations in the name of British patriotism was escalating out of control ... but why? Detective Inspector John Milton of the Metropolitan Police and his specially formed anti-hooliganism task force were facing a brick wall. The incidents smacked of highly organised, mafia-style operations carried out with military precision. Something sinister was at play and time was running out to crack the case. England's honour was on the line, and so were their careers.

Sujets

• Adventure (Guyana)
• Inglaterra
• Adventure
• England
• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 30 juin 2011
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781908382122
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page





DESERT ENGLAND





David Williams




Publisher Information

First published in 2008 by
Apex Publishing Ltd
PO Box 7086, Clacton on Sea, Essex, CO15 5WN, United Kingdom
www.apexpublishing.co.uk

Digital Edition converted and distributed in 2011 by
Andr ews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com

Copyright © 2008 by David Williams
The author has asserted his moral rights

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition, that no part of this book is to be reproduced, in any shape or form. Or by way of trade, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser, without prior permission of the copyright holder.

Production Manager: Chris Cowlin
Cover Design: Siobhan Smith




Dedication







To Emlyn Williams
I miss you dad.




Foreword

A few years back I had a chance meeting with David Williams during which he asked me how I personally went about writing the books I have written. The answer was simple; we all have at least one good story to tell but it is having the dedication to sit down and put pen to paper or thump your fingertips upon a keyboard in order to tell it, that is the hard bit. That dedication comes from having a belief in your work, a belief that the story is worth telling and that others will enjoy reading it.
Over the past decade some of the world’s foremost publishers finally had their eyes opened to the fact that a whole new market, a whole movement if you like were not being catered for. Nowadays the boom in books relating to football fans and in particular football hooliganism culture, both factual and fiction, has grown to such an extent that all the leading bookshops have dedicated shelving space allocated to that movement; something that when looking back would have been unthinkable in the late eighties to mid-nineties when the game’s supporters were seen by society as being the scum of the earth. Oh how times and football have changed!
Thankfully David Williams had the dedication and belief to sit down and write his story and so his book Desert England is now added to those shelves. Mills and Boon it most definitely is not. I hope you enjoy it, I certainly did and I feel privileged to have been one of the first to have read it.
Keep the faith.

Eddy Brimson



Prelude

It could not have been a more perfect autumn day to be outdoors. The sun, although not at its most powerful, was doing its best to delay the onset of the snow season and many were taking advantage of the extended summer to browse through the high street shops of the pedestrian precinct.
“Mama, mama,” came the bullish request for attention from a small girl as she tugged her young mother’s dress towards the toys staring from out of the shop window and onto the main street.
The mother, more interested in eying up the latest winter fashions, reluctantly surrendered and followed her infant towards the magnetic draw of colourful bears and dolls that filled the shop window.
It was idyllic. Elderly couples linked arms as they leisurely wandered down the paved road, merely filling in some spare midweek hours. Young mothers were everywhere, making the most of the final throws of warm weather with their young children while the men were away at work. School kids - who probably should have been at school - were hanging around anywhere a bench could be found, while tourists mingled with the locals but, like in any city in the world, they still looked like tourists and stuck out amidst the crowd.
But something on the wind sent a shiver down the young mother’s spine and she reacted by rubbing the back of her neck and looking uneasily over her shoulder at the busy street. While her daughter’s attention was firmly fixed on the shop window, she sensed something was not right.
In the distance - no, not that far away - she could hear what sounded like a hundred raised voices. Other bystanders looked at one another in bewilderment as the rumble grew louder. The bell on the nearby cathedral struck out the first of 12 chimes to signal midday had arrived, but it was barely noticed as the mother became increasingly uncomfortable and took a step closer to within touching distance of her daughter.
The shouts intensified. They seemed to have increased in number and were definitely getting nearer. People around her were concerned and turned their collective gaze to the top of the street. Nothing could be seen, which only heightened the tension further.
The mother grabbed her young child’s arm, more to comfort herself than her offspring who was still more interested in the toys rather than the mysterious roars cascading from out of view and down the street.
Some people seemed frozen to the spot, staring up the street, inquisitively waiting. Others feared the worst and started to move in unison in one direction, looking over their shoulders in fear as they shuffled along.
The bell struck two, then three and in a split second the young mother’s life was about to change forever.
A huge smash, which sounded like a large windowpane being obliterated into a thousand pieces, was heard and the noises descended on the street as a terrifying sight burst into view. All around her, shuffling walks turned into sprints for freedom as young and old fled a tidal wave of horror that filled the street from one side to the next. Only it wasn’t water that was about to engulf them, but hundreds of rampaging men with fists and feet flaying in all directions and at anything that stood in their way. The terrified mother picked up her child with all her strength and headed in the opposite direction. The child was hysterical, her mother screaming as the tsunami crushed everything in its path. She dared not look over her shoulder. She saw what had happened to the other stragglers who were now getting battered where they fell, no matter what their age or sex.
But the weight of her offspring was slowing her down as she struggled to keep up with the fleeing hordes. Before she had the chance to duck into a shop, she felt a blow to the back of her head and fell to the floor, still grasping her terrified child whom she shielded as first one, then two kicks connected to the back of her ribcage. She held on to her child for dear life, screaming with terror as she saw hundreds of pairs of legs run past her.
She closed her eyes and pulled her child tightly to her body as all around her windows were smashed and innocent people were thrown to the ground and beaten. Hundreds of, or maybe a thousand, grown men rampaged in one direction and demolished anything in their track. Who and what could have started such a ferocious rage?
Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the tidal wave of terror disappeared out of view. Breathless and bruised, the mother rolled onto her back with her child still cradled in her arms, thankfully unhurt apart from a few scratches on her hands and knees from the initial tumble to the ground in her mother’s arms. The mother gasped for breath. Her ribs were damaged, several probably broken. Blood seeped onto the paved road. It leaked from the wound opened up by the initial blow to the head. It would need stitches for sure.
The street lay silent, stunned as the wounded gingerly got to their feet. The mother remained motionless, still reluctant to let go of her precious child. The bells struck 11, and finally 12. A war had just swept through this sleepy Alpine city. Like any war, it didn’t distinguish between men, women or children; the young or the old. Anyone in its way paid the penalty and many had.
And there were still eight hours left ’til kick off.




Chapter 1

There is something about a high-profile football match that has John Milton on edge. Detective Inspector John Milton, that is. Head of the English anti-soccer hooliganism task force and the man who, more than any other man on the face of the planet on this particular day, probably wished that he had steered well clear of the ‘sensible’ career path he was treading.
“Position camera two onto that group there,” he said with a twinge of agitation in his strong southern voice. Pointing to the screen over the shoulder of a uniformed officer, Milton watched as the shaven heads and weathered faces of a small group of England fans became clearer as the CCTV camera focused in.
“What are they doing there?” pondered Milton while slipping a finger under his pale blue tie to loosen a noose that had pulled ever tighter as the sultry September day dragged on.
Peeling away to no one in particular, he barked his orders: “Okay. Get some boys over there and chuck them back in the away end … and for Christ’s sake get some air con into this room.”
For two hours, Milton and his team of eagle-eyed officers had stared at a wall of TV screens covering just about every member of the 40,000 crowd in the stadium outside. Despite it being Switzerland in the middle of September, the temporary construction lofted high above the halfway line was heating up, but that could have been attributed just as much to the tension inside than to the muggy autumn evening on the exterior.
The calm, almost laid-back atmosphere in the stadium was of stark contrast to the mayhem that had unfolded in the hours building up to the game, and it fanned the f