The Purple Contract Read Free

not too late, sis. We can call this off if…’
    ‘No!’ Alison wiped a hand across her eyes. ‘These English bastards have stolen my family’s home, stolen my home!’ she stared grimly at the dark house looming over them. ‘If I can’t have it, then neither can they!’ She picked up the nearest petrol container, unscrewed the cap and handed it to her brother. ‘Do it.’
    Les Stewart and John MacKenzie took the other two plastic cans. Con Moloney grabbed a shovel from the half-built conservatory and used it to smash the ground-floor windows. ‘Round the back, Les’. He led the way round to the rear of the house and smashed each lower window there as well.
    Stewart sloshed petrol through each window and doused the wooden back door for good measure. The empty container went in as well, thrown onto an unmade double bed.
    Moloney had unravelled a roll of cloth from his pocket and was winding lengths of it round two short pieces of wood picked up in the garden. His cigarette lighter ignited the primitive torches, and he threw them through windows at opposite end of the building.
    When the two got back to the front garden, they were just in time to see another three similar missiles lobbed into the house. Flames caught immediately with a whoosh . Alison Munro had thrown the last of them, and with the others she stood and watched as the fire spread. There were no tears now. This wasn’t a matter for sadness––this was justice. Clear and final.
    ‘Fuckin’ hell,’ said MacKenzie, awed at the sight.
    ‘We’d better get out of here.’ Moloney advised, ‘this will be visible for miles!’
    There was muttered agreement and everybody moved rapidly back down the road towards the bikes, travelling faster now that they were unencumbered by weighty petrol cans.
    Alison didn’t look back.
     
     

 
 
 
 
2
     
Sabotage
     
    The black bow tie lay discarded and dishevelled on the floor of the spacious apartment, forgotten by it's owner as he sat hunched forward in the armchair, almost speechless with stunned disbelief. The PVR remote control creaked in protest under probing fingers as he savagely spun the hard disk back a short distance. Once again, on the screen, his Royal Highness The Prince Charles spoke calmly and reasonably to the interviewer:
    'Of course one is pleased, delighted, that nearly fifty years of dedication and training, indeed one's whole upbringing will finally come to fruition. Will in fact really mean something, do you understand?' The unseen interviewer wasn’t sure that a reply was actually expected but he made sympathetic noises and the camera drifted in a little closer; the studio director following his instincts to heighten the drama of the scene.
    ‘Her Majesty's illness, and her subsequent decision to name me her successor, has of course been a difficult time for all of us. A time when we must unite as a nation––and move forward as nation. I regret deeply the present uncertainty over the future of the United Kingdom and its constitution. A wholly unnecessary situation brought about by the intransigence of the devolved Scottish Government.
    ‘Surely this is not the time for the people of Scotland to sever links with the United Kingdom and the Crown? At practically the very moment when the Succession is established.' The Prince shifted imperceptibly in his seat, almost as if with embarrassment. 'I have great empathy with the Scots, and a great love for Scotland itself. I have said before on numerous occasions that I understand their wish for independence. And in general I support it. But this is not the time.' The Prince sat back in his chair with an air of finality.
    The playback LED winked out. The handset bounced off the sofa and skidded across the floor, fetching up on its side against the wickerwork cat basket. Peter Barron, ex- miner, ex hard-nosed businessman, politician and Member of the Scottish Parliament stared across the room; through the broad windows filled with the