For five months I desperately tried to persuade George Shaw not to continue with his callous policy of mass prisoner executions, even though Field Marshal Bullit had already sanctioned the operation. But with George Shaw it was useless. I might just as well have been banging my head against a wall. The bloke wouldn't listen to anyone. Bullit back-dated referenda law, reinstalled capital punishment, and offered George Shaw legal authority to carry out his heinous crime. My opinion was ignored.

It wasn't the first time I had managed to find myself involved with such a brutal idea, but it was the culmination of a sequence of vicious events, that began as in innocent suggestion. At a previous meeting, some six months earlier, the problem of prisoners was raised by The Angel of Death himself, in a prosaic way. George Shaw, put the policy of prisoner execution on the agenda, and suggested to the Field Marshal that he might like to consider the victims' families, and offer them a real sense of justice.

George Shaw's idea started off with a conciliatory note; he floated the idea prisoners should be released, given a general amnesty and an opportunity to rehabilitate themselves back into society. I thought that was fair, and so I backed his idea in a flash: who wouldn't? But little did I know what was to follow, as I encouraged Bullit to take notice of Shaw's malicious plan.

As we sat around a large, polished table in Downing Street, the top littered with official papers and the obligatory cups of tea, George elaborated.

George Shaw said: Although we can easily justify to the public the release of petty criminals, such as car thieves and shoplifters, debtors and housebreakers, we might find it difficult to open the prison doors to those criminals convicted of a more spurious nature.

And so he proposed the Field Marshal back-date the peoples' plebiscite, and enact policy to execute those convicted of murder or terrorism, drug trafficking, rape and acts against the State. He said, we needed to stamp our authority quickly and show the revolution's strength.

My position quickly changed, as I gained my first real insight to George Shaw's duplicitous behaviour: for the first time I saw the man in his true colours. I saw him for what he really was, as the beast inside him seeped to the surface, and much to Shaw's consternation, Field Marshal Bullit sought my advice. He asked me in front of The Angel of Death what I really thought of the idea of executing the prisoners, and so I told him honestly. I told him I didn't see any point in revisiting the past, purely for acts of revenge; and that's what I believed The Angel of Death wanted, nothing else. He wanted a kind of surrogate revenge, endorsed by the people, against those who murdered his brother many years before, those he assumed cost him his job, his pension, and his family. George, knew that Bullit's mother had been brutally murdered, and so sought to play the Field Marshal from a more lateral direction. He never came out and directly linked Bullit's mother's death with the policy document, but he offered a guilt trip instead. One Bullit simply couldn't resist.

"Think how the victims will feel if we open the cell doors to murderers and rapists. How will it look, a government 'tough on crime, tough on the causes of crime', gone weak? What will happen, if those we release go out and commit more murders? Do we have a right to put the relatives of more victims through the same hurt, the same pain as we've experienced? We should make a brave decision; and get it over and done with." He urged.

"He's got a point, Michael," contemplated Bullit.

"But what if it backfires." I argued. "If our people believe we act in a way which usurps their choice, they might not offer us the credibility we need in future to run the country," I added, and continued: "We could end-up like previous administrations, accusations that we never listen to public opinion levelled against us. It might cause the whole revolutionary ideal too collapse, and all your good work will amount to nothing, Sir." I concluded.

"Nonsense!" Scolded Shaw, disgusted by my interjection. "We need to demonstrate our resolve before everyone starts to treat us like liberals. Previous governments failed because of their weakness, not their strength, and if we go soft now, the Field Marshal will be made to look a laughing stock," incited George, as he talked to me, but aimed his words at Bullit.

"George is right," decided Bullit, almost instantly, without further debate or conversation on the matter. And Bullit's word was final, not open for further discussion. If Bullit decreed prisoners were too die, then that was it. But never in a million years did I think I might have to witness the event, watch helplessly as hundreds of people were rounded into ditches, and then machine gunned to death by George Shaw's Secretariat division. And maybe I wouldn't have had to, if I hadn't angered George Shaw at a later briefing. My presence was just another enactment of his petty nature. (He just couldn't help himself.)

I arrived at the Home Office on a cold March morning, just after 7am, as The Angel of Death wanted an early start. Devon was a long drive, and I think he chose to take the car, rather than use a helicopter or take the train, so he could deliberately upset me.

I pushed my way through the main doors, hung my long leather coat in the foyer, registered at the desk and moved directly to George Shaw's complex of offices on the sixth floor. I entered, after first knocking, and found him seated behind his desk, with a white serviette tucked into the top of his tunic, rather than placed across his lap, and in front of George, on his desk was a huge plate of bacon-and-eggs, which he devoured mechanically. George, had the manners of a farmyard animal.

"Come in, Kline," he slobbered, illegible, his mouth full. He didn't even bother emptying the contents before he spoke to me. "Want some?" He inquired further, and pointed at the plate with his knife.

"I'm fine," I replied, and seated myself.

It was all true then, The Angel of Death did indeed consume food like the rest of us, and not as speculation suggested, just feed off blood during the hours of darkness. And just the thought of it made my lips raise.

"Something funny, Kline?" He asked, at my involuntary smile.

"No, Sir."

"Good!" He continued, as he wiped his plate with a piece of bread, and then hurled it into his mouth all in the one continuous action. He snatched the serviette from his collar, wiped his greasy lips and threw it onto his plate, lifted a large mug of tea and emptied the cup in one long swallow. "That's better," he said, belched, and then raised to his feet. I lifted automatic at his action.

"We'll get this over and done with by tonight, Kline, and then you can spend several years appeasing that conscience of yours. God knows why!" He mumbled, as he pulled on his thick leather coat, arranged his peaked cap and snatched-up his leather gloves and cane. I collected my coat as we passed out of the building to where his limousine waited. And the journey began.

"Drive slowly until we're out of London," ordered George Shaw of his driver. "I want to show you something, Michael," he expanded, and used my Christian name, as though we were close friends. George Shaw, seemed almost human when he spoke like that. Almost, but not quite!

Our car pulled out into the busy, manic rush-hour traffic with an escort security car close behind. We drove for a couple of minutes, before Shaw started to lecture me. Not a lecture I was particularly proud to listen too, but his uncompromising words nonetheless.

"What d'you see, Michael?" He said, as he played guessing games.

From the rear seat of his long black limousine, with its State flags elevated on either front wing I scanned the roads, the claustrophobic streets, and tall buildings beyond, and it all seemed normal to me. Just like it always did.

"Count the black faces on that street, Kline." he ordered.

I did as he instructed, as our vehicle slowly glided along the main road. And, I suppose, in the space of a quarter of a mile, I counted possibly a hundred, perhaps missing a few because of the large numbers. Well, it was Brixton we passed through for god sakes, what did Shaw expect.

"One hundred, Sir," I reported, confident.

"One hundred!" He repeated. "Driver, speed up," he instructed, and then continued with his usual racist rant. "It's like a plague out there, Kline. Our streets are invaded by every spick and deadbeat the politically correct lobby could find. 300 different languages are spoken in this city; did you know that?"

"I have read the party reports of cultural diversity, Sir."

"`Cultural diversity`. Reports were the euphemisms we used to use to compile our work, Kline, we use the real term now: forgeries. The corrupt, misleading documents initiated to justify their inclusion have been exposed. I want them vilified, painted for what they are," insisted The Angel of Death, as his lips twisted, and sneered with every utterance he made. "In ten years I don't want to see another black face in this country, Michael. I want it to be our legacy to the next all white, all pure generation. I want my place in the history books."

"Yes, Sir. So you want me to proceed with a smear campaign."

"No, Kline, I want you to proceed with the truth, that precious substance our people have had removed from them by the metro-elite Gestapo who used to run this land. Those that are now unemployed, those that now stick the party logo on their lapel. Have you seen the party application list since we took over," smiled Shaw, pleased with himself, and glimpsed me.

"The Party Chairman mentioned 100,000 applications in the last four months alone. It's good news, Sir." I praised.

"All from the upper-middle classes, Kline. Hypocrites!"

The analogy he drew was strikingly similar to Nazi Germany, when the fascist government of Adolf Hitler came to power; when they took office and stamped their distinctive mark on the country's infrastructure. In Germany, in the mid-thirties, the bourgeoise changed philosophy, and decided it in their own best interest to back Hitler, rather than the politically correct lobby that reside there for nearly twenty years before. And just like in Germany, our own parasitical class structure deserted the sinking liberal ship, and scrambled desperately on board our right wing xenophobic crusade.

Today, most people believe political correctness a new phenomenon, designed in America in the late sixties, and early seventies, and then exported to the rest of the world, ourselves included. Few comprehend politically correct ideology first saw the light of day in Germany after the great 14/18 war and played a direct involvement in bringing the Nazis to power. Most modern day romantics overlook the inextricable link between National Socialism and the tenets of politically correct ideology. But the unmistakable hallmarks litter the history books with incontrovertible evidence.

I was startled the first time I identified them, when I was personally asked By Bullit to study them for the British Independence Party, as he already declared a few months previous that the BIP was prophesied. Bullit's madness led to my discovery, and although I could have mentioned it, I chose not too. I thought it might have upset Bullit's dream, as he believed our path to victory determined by historical events, and as he was busily writing a paper to that effect, me interfering might have caused repercussions.

In Germany, all those years ago, indigenous Germans had their national pride, and national identity sequestrated, just as we did. They had certain parts of their homelands annexed, and offered on a silver platter to other nations to control, just as we did. Schools stopped teaching national history, children were denied physical exercise and a nuance emerged in their description of everything past. (Sound familiar?) Britain, before we came to power employed factional similarities, with a programme either accidently or deliberately similar. And just like the Germans, we received the same awful penalty: man's wanton hatred of his fellow man. And like them, we unleashed a monster too, and like their's, ours would be just as brutal.

"No one will miss them," muttered Shaw.

"Sorry, Sir!" I retorted, momentarily distracted, as I reminisced the past.

"I said, Kline, no one will miss them; the prisoners that is." He delved into his official briefcase, pulled out a manila folder, handed it over and advised me to study its contents. Which I did. It made interesting reading.

"You'll see in there, Kline, a plan to make revolutionary policy more salable to the newspapers. I know it pricks your conscience." He mocked. "From the documentation you can see, in future convicts are to be transported to the Falkland islands to work on naval bases. Once we have shot the hard-core element today, you can brief the press; tell them a ship carrying those listed there were on board, and regrettably all hands were lost at sea. No one will care when they read the names. You can also inform the press, as it was a Royal navy ship, no discussion will be entered into about its journey. Place a D-notice on it afterwards, and arrest anyone who chooses to pry."

The Angel of Death had it all conveniently worked out. He would shoot, from the figures I held trembling in my hands, 1,777 prisoners, cover their bodies; and tell the nation a tragic event took place at sea. Criminals and the insane all became surplus to revolutionary requirements.

"I thought you wanted me to portray the executions to the newspapers, and then send the cost of the bullets to their families," I quipped, as I reminded Shaw of our previous conversation some months ago, the one he was so macho at, the one where he inflated his status, and acted the hard man.

"Change of plan, Kline. The revolutionary council now deems it in the best interest of the country to pursue a more acceptable path. Prisoners lost at sea seems more user-friendly. The Field Marshal's idea."

"We could still avoid the situation altogether," I suggested.

"What is it with you, Kline?" Barked Shaw, as he turned on me in the back of his limousine, as it swept beyond the London boundaries, and headed at just over a hundred miles per hour along the motorway. Shaw, didn't even mind breaking the speed limit to advance his wicked proposal, and as my eyes lifted over the driver's shoulder, I saw the speedometer pushed 103mph. "Do you know what this filth is like?" He asked, his tone sour.

"I know they have committed appalling crimes, Sir. But if we execute them it might create instability. I just wondered if that was a risk worth taking. Why risk the whole revolutionary programme to murder a few convicts?"

George Shaw growled: "It's not murder, Kline, it's justice motivated by the electorate. Our people wish to make an example of these shitbags, and I intend to facilitate that process to the best of my ability: I suggest you do the same."

What The Angel of Death actually meant was, he wanted to go on a killing spree for crimes committed long ago: some of the prisoners he intended to shoot committed their offence nearly thirty years since, and yes, I know their crimes were heinous, but did that really authorise us to commit the same act? Justice was one thing, revenge something entirely different.

"You've never seen the atrocities these sub-species commit, have you, Kline?"

"No. I've been fortunate, Sir."

"When I was a policeman, the first real case I ever got called to was a young man, murdered in his bedroom in some squalid little backstreet by his homosexual lover. An older man picked him up in a seedy little bar, and a price was fixed. The young guy acted as a rent-boy, just off Soho. Anyway, they went back to this chap's place, and had sex, then the older guy refused to pay, so a fight broke out. The older man eventually strangled the younger one. We received a call at the station next evening, and investigated the scene. I was a young, green faced constable at the time in my smart new uniform, full of enthusiasm. And when the senior detectives turned up, I was told, as they left, to remain with the body until a mortuary van arrived. It was surreal, Kline, as I just sat there, as that boy, perhaps no more than eighteen lay on the bed, on his back with a sheet covering his nudity. I was sat across the room on a tiny little armchair, when I heard a groan: a groan from the corpse; can you believe that? So I investigated. Cautiously, I walked across the floor inching myself toward him. At touching distance, I heard the same low, but audible groan, so I leant over to see if I could hear him breath. Suddenly he sat up! He sat right up, before falling back to his original position. I ran out; I was gone. I crashed out the room, fell down the stairs and raced outside into the street, my heart pumping. I thought he was a zombie come to get me." Said Shaw. "I was told later, it was just trapped air in the body; when they finally stopped laughing.

"And the moral of the story is, Sir?" I interrupted.

"The moral, Kline, is the man who carried out the act, who conducted the murder was charged with manslaughter by a weak judiciary: he got six years. They let him out in four, and he then went on to murder a further fifteen other young boys. Fifteen. He strangled them, cut them up in the bath, and then melted them down on the stove, before he dispensed with their remains down the drain. Very professional he was, and if it hadn't been for a bit of good luck on our part, we would never have caught him. The body fat blocked the drains. He'll be there today, twenty years on and still wishing to commit more crime. If he's released, no young man in the country will be safe, he'll simply go on another killing spree. So what I'm saying, Kline, is, we have to put societies protection ahead of our own compassion."

The Angel of Death talking compassion; that had to be a first. The Angel of Death wouldn't know what compassion was if it stood there and looked him directly in the eyes. His anecdote was contrived, and designed specifically to justify his action later that day; it had nothing to do with compassion or protecting society, it merely vindicated his own callousness.

"Our conscience is clear then?" I asked, as our car headed out into the English countryside and motored directly towards Devon.

"Exactly, Kline. We are merely public servants who have got the dirty end of the stick. The great British public want these people gone - they just don't have the courage to come out and say it. They couldn't careless if we hang them individually, one at a time, but round a few hundred up together and shoot them, suddenly we're monsters: why?"

"Because one at a time symbolises justice, whereas nearly two thousand together shows a cavalier attitude: indiscriminate killing carries ambiguities."

"In the old days, Michael, murder carried one sentence: death. It wasn't arbitrary, it was mandatory. These people have all been convicted. It's not as if they're waiting trial, and I've fixed the evidence against them: although I used to do a bit of that in the good-old-days. I used to write their confession for them down the pub in the evening, Kline, and then I'd get them to sign it next day. Either that, or beat it out of them." He said, and glimpsed me.

"So, It doesn't bother you then, Sir, pulling the trigger?" I asked.

"I shot a bloke when I was with the Flying Squad, Kline. It made a right mess of him it did. I thought that would bother me, but it didn't. I suppose that's because I knew he was a blagger. Autopsy hardens you to death, and I've seen enough of those in my time. I remember, we all had to attend the autopsy on an old woman murdered by muggers. All part of our training. We lined-up while the mortuary assistant prepared the body. And as he sawed her skull open, I looked at him very distastefully, and I asked him how much he got paid for doing the job. And, you know what the old sod said?"

"No, Sir."

"He said, as he continued sawing away, 'not much, but just think of the job satisfaction'. You get used to things, Kline: even death. It's no big deal once you get under way. That's why serial killers can continue with their crimes. The first murder's difficult, the second a touch easier - and by the third you don't care. You know the Field Marshal's killed hundreds of men, don't you?"

It was all true, Field Marshal Bullit, had, during his adventures around the world with the Paras and the SAS sent many men to meet their maker. He butchered them in the Falklands war, in the Gulf war, and in a dozen other wars throughout the African block, small wars that barely made the news.

"We need more heroes like him, Sir." I impressed, with a lie. George Shaw, continued to enthral me with his long, boring, monotonous stories, for nearly three-and-a-half hours, until our vehicle finally reached the large prison compound on Dartmoor. The prison had changed dramatically over the previous eight months. More than forty wooden barrack huts were erected to house hundreds of extra prisoners, and with a barbwire perimeter, the outside resembled a prisoner of war camp, and as we slowly approached the main gates, I viewed two huge red signs. They read simply:

"Escapees will be shot on sight!"

The warning was explicit, as a collection of Shaw's Secretariat patrolled the boundary fence with huge rifles and large snarling German Shepherd dogs.

"The Field Marshal's favourite," said George, as he pointed to the animals. I kept my car window closed, as one animal leapt up at us, its huge black and tan paws pressed against the glass, and its jaws snapped, as it tried to bite me. And I wondered what my country had come too. Was it really Britain?

The barrack huts on our right, hurriedly constructed, and assembled on George Shaw's orders, housed, in conjunction with the huge prison behind, some two thousand hard-core prisoners. Most petty criminals over the previous six months were given a general amnesty, and set free on the goodwill of the revolutionary council to re-enter society, offered a second chance, as Shaw promised when we initially discussed the implementation of that barbaric act we were about to commit. At least he kept his word on that.

In front of the huts was an open expanse of land for exercise and early morning roll-call, not that dissimilar to a football pitch in size and shape. And by the time we arrived, two hundred specially selected prisoners already stood outside the huts, dressed in grey uniforms with black stripes, small round caps, and each either held a pick or shovel in preparation for a days work. Or at least that's what they assumed they would undertake.

In readiness for that awful event, The Angel of Death had ordered his Secretariat Division to drive the prisoners deep onto the moors each morning and have them conduct a days manual labour, laying drainpipes. The plan was not to arouse the prisoners' suspicion when he eventually drove them out for the last time. To all intense purposes, it was just another day to them, just like any other day. Only that day, they didn't come back.

Farther beyond the convicts sat twelve, large green covered army trucks, their drivers already at the wheel, their engines, as yet, still dormant. Shaw, liaised with a Colonel, De'ath, and then suggested we have a cup of tea before proceeding. I stepped from the car dresed in my black uniform, my long leather trench coat, my peaked cap, with its frightening skull-and-crossbones emblem and stretched my legs, and looked over at the gathered convicts.

"Get them into the back of the trucks while we have a cup of tea," ordered Shaw of his subordinate. "We'll then follow you out to the moor," he added.

I watched De'ath leave, gather together twenty or so soldiers, and then move across to where the prisoners stood, and shivered in their threadbare clothes. He began to beat them with a long cane. He screamed at them to move themselves. And De'ath's action bacame addictive. His detachment of soldiers did likewise, only they used their rifle butts instead of a cane. Men in short leg irons stumbled and fell in their urgency, and De'ath, as brutal as ever, kicked them where they lay. De'ath, appeared to be a man who enjoyed his work.

I turned away from the sight, and desperately tried to distance myself from the screams as we entered a small hut for refreshments. By the time we left, maybe thirty minutes later, twelve lorries had assembled, and sat in convoy, their engines gently purred, and their exhausts pumped poison fumes into an open expanse of courtyard. I looked at the contents of each military truck. About twenty men sat in each wagon, their faces sombre, their bodies hunched, and huddled together for warmth as they tugged away on self-rolled cigarettes; their one small pleasure in that Dickensian prison. Everything had been returned to the Victorian era: bread and water diet, cold cells, and callous beatings! George Shaw, pulled Colonel De'ath to one side, and said something to him I have no knowledge of. He then called me to the rear car.

The convoy rolled away out of the gate, turned left and travelled along a twisting, double track road, and then continued out towards the English moorland and pre-dug graves beyond. I felt sick as I sat in the rear of Shaw's large Jaguar, as the heaters blew, and Shaw smoked a cigarette, and past the driver I noticed the lorries in front, which housed the condemned.

It must have taken approximately twenty five minutes to reach our final destination, a deserted stretch of road that had been closed to on-coming traffic. The lorries pulled in, their engines died and forty members of Shaw's Secretariat Division alighted. They quickly found formation, and positioned themselves in a huge semi-circle to ensure no prisoners escaped the ruthless retribution about to be unleashed on them.

As I stepped from the rear of our car, my eyes scanned the immediate vicinity, and then extended out past the gathered guards to where a large, yellow JCB sat patiently idle. It's rear bucket had already cut a trench some fifty foot long, and ten foot wide, and the dirt was piled high in a ridge behind the excavator. The first convicts jumped clumsily down from the trucks, and their short ankle chains forced them to stumble as their feet hit the ground. It seemed a bit of a joke to the prisoners, as they jeered each other's awkward landing, and they seemed in genuinely high spirits for the conditions they found themselves in. I suppose over the previous months they accepted a long, pointless day's work digging ditches, and laying pipes.

Colonel De'ath ordered the prisoners forward to the trench. He stood indifferent as each man slowly inverted his body and climbed carefree down into the pit, until the last man disappeared. De'ath then shouted loudly at them, in his powerful Welsh brogue: "Five minutes for a cigarette, you lazy bastards!"

I watched, as The Angel of Death tipped his head in De'ath's general direction, suggesting he commence with the operation. Colonel De'ath didn't speak further, as I guess the detail was arranged earlier. He just waved his men towards the ditch. They drew back the firing mechanisms of their light machine pistols, as I lifted the collar of my long leather coat, hunched my shoulders and stuffed my hands deep into the pockets, hoping to protect my sanity from the carnage which took place. As The Secretariat's troops lined-up in front of the deep trench, elevated seven or eight foot above the prisoners, I heard one man scream:

"No!" And then the shooting started.

The action appeared brief, yet calculated. Once one soldier pulled the trigger, the rest soon followed. All around me the rattle of gunfire reverberated, and made my body continuously flinch, involuntary from the noise. And within two minutes silence manifested. There wasn't anything except a very calm stillness. Then the groans started to appear. Slowly at first. Men began to cough, as though agonised. And I identified the noise immediately: it came from the trench. My God, at that juncture, men were still alive in there.

Before I could lodge a protest, George Shaw had drawn his side arm, loaded the chamber, and let it snap forwards, and then moved to position himself on top of the raised earth. He scanned the trench like a vulture, took careful aim, and then fired directionally into the ditch, at any corpse that displayed signs of life. And I saw the pleasure in his eyes each time he squeezed the trigger.

Maybe it was curiosity that got the better of me that day, maybe it was just a natural callousness buried inside us all that drew me magnetically close to investigate the scene, which until then remained hidden from sight. But attracted by that human beastliness, I dragged myself over. I forced my reluctant legs to carry me the short distance to where that evil act unfurled, and I expected to be repulsed, revolted by the indiscriminate killing conveyed in my name, the name of our people and the revolution. But strangely I wasn't.

It was true what Bullit told me, what Shaw suggested: human life meant very little as I looked deep into the hole at the buckled, twisted corpses which lay distorted, limp and unmoving. Men were heaped on men, bodies on bodies and blood covered them all. Some lay on their backs, their mouth and eyes open as if in shock; while others lay upside down as though they were caught dashing for the ladders, but most were hunched in balls, their prison uniforms riddled in holes. And as I stared down at them, one moaned. The Angel of Death stood by my side, he raised his Glock pistol, squeezed the trigger and shot the dying man through the head. A puff of smoke exploded from his skull as the bullet impacted - and I flinched.

"Told you it's easy, Kline," boasted Shaw, as he housed his weapon.

He was absolutely right, it was easy, it was easy to extinguish life, to kill unarmed prisoners and solve the problem of how to empty our prisons. In one brief action, Shaw had sent two hundred convicts to meet their maker, and set a precedent for the years to come. George Shaw's brutal policy was only the beginning. Over the next few days another fifteen hundred prisoners were despatched in the same, unfeeling manner, and freed-up enough space in our prisons to accommodate those who Shaw loathed with a passion.

He could begin to house the dissidents, the politically correct lobbyists and anyone else who dared challenge the State's absolute authority. Yet the criminal action of mass prisoner execution was nothing, compared with the mass-murder of an entire non-Aryan species which was to follow. That action was merely the calm before the storm.

By the time ten years elapsed, our revolutionary council would preside over the genocide of nearly eight million men, women and children in the name of fascism. The termination of the masses, was only just about to begin, and to my eternal shame, I was ordered to play my part like everyone else.