During our contentious meeting at Chequers, George Shaw decided to administer the poison, as usual, for no other reason than he was a spiteful old bastard who simply couldn't help himself. To George Shaw, back-stabbing colleagues was a way of life. He enjoyed it.

As he sought to instill into Bullit's mind my reluctance to move the pogrom forward, I noticed that look in the Field Marshal's eyes I would come to dread over the ensuing years. It was a wild, vacant look, as though betrayal visited him, and left him nothing more than empty.

When Bullit rose from his seat, he instructed me to follow him to a small ante-room, adjacent to the main cabinet room; and I knew what was to come: lots of shouting, unjustified accusations and perhaps the feel of his fist if the argument degenerated to irretrievable levels. Bullit, was a bully of the worst proportions. He learnt his violent trade with the hardened regiments of the British army, and naturally he scared me. But what could I do.

He burst through the door, and moved quickly over toward the windows, where he stood, and looked out across the country grounds, with his back to me, his hands locked tightly behind his body, and he breathed agitated through his nostrils. Bullit's pace normally determined his anger on them occasions, and his advance, from the cabinet table to where he stood, was of Olympian proportion. I believed I was in trouble myself.

"You enjoy your job, Michael?" He asked, casually, without turning to view me. Bullit's voice even seemed reasonable, as he posed, what was, not a difficult question. Of course I enjoyed my job, the trappings of office, and the power and influence that accompanied it -and the perks of course.

"I'm enjoying my job fine, Sir, thank you." I replied.

Bullit, turned sharply on me, and asked with a low, guttural growl: "Then why this consistent provocation, Michael over everything you believe might stain your conscience? I thought when I asked you to join me, you of all people understood my intentions? Have I ever made a secret of them? Didn't I make representation in a court of law, and go to prison for my conviction?"

"You did, Sir."

"Then why this constant bitching about a few blacks?" Demanded Bullit. He moved to his desk, pulled a leather chair from behind and seated himself, as I stood in front of him, my legs astride, my hands clasped behind my back, as Bullit commanded us to stand in his presence. We were ordered to adopt this military style of posture ever since we received our black uniforms.

"I merely mentioned to the Home Secretary the problems this piece of legislation might run into if not properly thought out. The last thing I wished to see was the Field Marshal humiliated in public through ill-conceived notions, developed by the Home Secretary. I had your interest at heart, Sir."

"Don't talk rubbish, Michael," barked Bullit, chasten. "You don't like the policy; it's etched all over your face, and I assume you're trying to either delay it, or cancel it altogether. Why? You can speak freely."

No one could speak freely with Bullit, regardless of his insistence of it. Any attempt I made to make my case, as to why that enactment should not proceed would be treated first with contempt, and then outright hostility. I would become an outcast if I even attempted to moot such ideas. In the British Independence Party you were expected to offer answers the revolutionary council wanted to hear, not those answers you believed in.

"I feel I might have trouble selling such an act to the media. They will seek to investigate, and at that point, the whole prefabricated story might unravel and leave the revolution bastardised in the eyes of the international community."

"Why would the media print anything other than what you tell them to print?"

"Because a streak of independence still remains at certain newspaper offices, The Guardian in particular. Already Emily Rooker's taking an unhealthy interest in our day-to-day activities, Sir. And I can't see her backing off."

It was true, journalists from The Guardian, were not prepared to just print our version of events, as other newspapers were. Bullit, sat there, stoney faced, silent for a moment or two before he answered in his usual, officious manner.

"You have the power to arrest these people, Michael. The plebiscite on treason covers State policy. You know as well as I do, any interference can be construed as treason. Have her shot if she interferes. Warn her first if you like, but don't let sentiment stand in your way. And if you haven't got the balls for it, call in George and the Secretariat; let them sort it out. But I want this problem resolved, Michael: whatever the cost. Do I make myself clear?"

"I still think it would be easier to abandon such policy, maybe create a scare story that will make those from the ethnic communities flee the country rather than paint us as pariahs in the eyes of the world."

The Field Marshal appeared hurt I should countenance such ideas, that I should stand in his personal office and offer alternatives to his plan. He wanted the policy to move swiftly, and not watch people like myself delay it. But I considered it my moral duty to find a solution to that heinous legislation, for my own sanity, if nothing else. I didn't want millions of people to be gased, nor did I want to see my country branded socially unacceptable in international circles. I believed Bullit accelerated us towards a scenario none of us particularly wished to see. Yet my powers of persuasion were limited.

"You remember when I offered you your position with the Party, Michael, how I promised to double your wages, and give you a parliamentary seat if one became available, and help you establish your career."

"When I visited you in prison, Sir: the offer was a very generous one, and that's why I eagerly accepted."

"You were eager to accept, Michael, because, like most other people around the world you convert the trappings of office, power, and wealth. Have you already abused that position to attain what you desire."

"I don't think so, Sir."

"What about that little blonde girl who helps out at our party offices? Did you use your influence and power to get her into bed after our victory celebrations? Take her to your hotel room, and spend the night with her?" Accused Bullit, his information no doubt supplied and distorted by Shaw.

"A moment of madness, Sir amongst the high spirits which surrounded our heroic victory." (How could I tell him it was her that seduced me?)

"What about your State apartments. From my records I see a mad dash to secure yourself some of the most opulent real-estate in London. I see you've already plundered most of the museums, art galleries and treasure trove in the British museum. More high spirits? Or good-old-fashioned greed?"

Bullit was a bastard too. He could make a man feel an inch tall in front of him as he used, quite unjustifiably, personal insults to win an argument. I did no more than other party members, and to be singled out in that appalling way was despicable. I felt really hurt.

"I don't blame you, Michael, Ministers have conveyed the same action against the State and their people throughout the centuries. You're no different. But what I do expect, no, demand! is a sense of loyalty in return. When you're given an order, Michael, you're expected to carry it out without question. We are no longer a political democracy. I prefer to think of us as an all- encompassing body of the people, who act in the people's interest. And that doesn't just mean the financial advancement of the individual. Take a seat."

I drew a chair close towards the Field Marshal's desk, seated myself, crossed my legs as I did so, and wondered why the usual shouting and screaming hadn't manifested. He seemed in compromising mood as he relaxed back in his seat, laced his fingers, and took the trouble to study me. Field Marshal Bullit seemed somewhat passive, as he sat and observed me, and judged my character before him. The usual fit of temper hadn't emerged, and he appeared conciliatory. Bullit, explained candidly.

"To understand the people of this great land, Michael, you first have to understand our history, and comprehend the compassion which veneers its surface, and then recognise the deep seated resentment that lurks underneath. Our people have been treated like a cheap whore on a cold night, Michael, used and abused by any sycophant or jackanapes who wanted to exploit them. Factory fodder in a time of peace, machine gun fodder in a time of war. That's how they've been treated. They've been systematically prostituted by consecutive governments, and denigrated by those that be. They've been bonded into a psychological slavery: The proverbial arse the rest of the world kicks. And our politicians allowed that to happen. But I have identified a characteristic buried inside them all, even if they won't admit it exists; a national pride, Michael, sequestrated by former administrations. I intend to re-establish that pride and offer our people a nationalism to be proud of. But we won't achieve that, with all this multi-ethnic rubbish, this community of communities clap-trap. We needed a society that identifies with itself and is prepared, where necessary to put other cultures to the sword, Michael: and I want you to sell it through the media, as you did the referendum."

I literally felt the tempo in Bullit's voice raise the moment he mentioned 'national pride', and assumed, anything which might contradict that passion of his, would be laid waste in the most vicious way if needed .

"Therefore, Michael, the ethnic's have to go. There can simply be no compromise on that issue. But I do understand your concerns; we share them concerns, as do our people. Yet, like any other nation around the world, they only manifest in the mind, as long as we allow others to corrupt the psyche with guilt. It's that guilt I want you to stop, Michael, by whatever means. If you have to arrest the politically correct elite, do it! If you have to close down newspapers and bring television stations under State control, do it! But you mustn't shirk your duty to both the revolution and our people. Within ten years, Michael, I don't want to see another black face on the streets, hear that offensive staining of our language by foreigners gibbering away in different dialects. The people don't like it. Get rid of it!" He ordered, his voice raising.

Bullit stood, and once again turned to look out of the widow, as he cultivated his dream of an all pure, all white Britain, without any sympathy for who might be on the receiving end of his insidious nature, and I knew, it would be me he expected to promote his ideological belief, to move it rapidly forwards to a natural conclusion, and convince a sceptical public of its benefit.

"Most people don't want them here, Michael." He said, without prompt, as though a quick remark might justify the action. It was almost as though he acted in the peoples' name, without asking their consent. It would be true to say our people offered their permission to repatriate the immigrant population, and I could sponsor that. But liquidation, never.

"They've turned our country into a cesspool, Michael, ruined the inner-cities, created stench ridden societies that resemble downtown Bombay or some South African shanty town, and its the poorest in the land who suffer the indignity of it all," he added, and briefly glimpsed me over his shoulder to strengthen the point. "That's why the people supported us. We can't let them down, no matter how heartbreaking it might be implementing such action. George, was right when he said 'we have a duty'," rambled Bullit, as I watched him, safe in my silence.

And I know I should have argued the point, forcefully if I had too, but just like we cower from the bully at work, or at school, so I cowered in the presence of that man. I truly didn't have either the courage or conviction to stand-up to Bullit, and convince him otherwise.

"You know yourself, Michael, the working classes don't want them. Nobody wants them, except a few members of the thought police, who assume they act on everyone else's behalf. You know they're all on the payroll, don't you?" Retorted Bullit, and once again glimpsed me quickly over his shoulder.

"I know they've cost the country millions, Sir. But "

"Hundreds of millions, possibly billions over the years. Politically correct policies have leached this country dry: sucked the financial life-blood from other services; schools, hospitals, pensions, benefits and more importantly, our armed forces. And they expect us to be grateful. You believe that!"

Then it came! I could tell by the way Bullit used those last few hate filled words his temper was about to overtake him. He turned on me, so he stood simian. He leant on his desk, his knuckles whitened with pressure, and yelled:

"Well no more! This time we'll not surrender our most prized possession to the fatcats and parasitical, class riddled nobility that's not fit to use the name. This time, Michael, we'll do the job properly. I know it won't be popular, but what decisions worth making are? It wasn't popular to send a million British soldiers to their deaths in the first world war, or another million in the second; but it had to be done. This has to be done. We have to do it. As long as the people don't know, Michael, they won't care. You and me together will rid the people of this class orientated, privileged society and its free-loading, money grabbing ways that have preyed on our peoples' wealth. We'll roll back the principles of greed and direct money where it's most needed; into our armed forces, our hospitals and schools, and give our child ren a real chance in the world. We'll create a society of purity, Michael, a master-race of white dominance, and I promise you, when others around the world look at us with big envious eyes, it won't take them long to follow. We will be the standard bearers of a whole new global power: giants amongst men, Michael. Now go back to your office and sell the policy with as much enthusiasm as you can gather."

I looked across his large desk, into his eyes that appeared to have no mercy, and cursed myself for ever accepting his offer. He began to mould and shape me in his image. He began to make me a monster too, and there was nothing I could have done to stop him.

"Doesn't it inspire you, Michael, to know you're creating a nation of super- beings; that you are one of the architects of our children's destiny. It excites me. I dream of it sometimes. I see this place, a land, clean and pure, where we can live happily together, where cities are like they used to be, free from crime, free from killers: they killed my mother, did I tell you that?" He asked.

"You said, Sir."

"Took her from me they did when I was just a little boy. D'you know what that's like? How it feels? The police never even bothered looking for them. They just couldn't careless, because we were poor. I was left to be brought up by my father, a diamond of a man, Michael. Big and strong, until they got him too. I've had years to think about this moment, to savour its uniqueness and watch it manifest. And I won't let any other little boys be left alone like I was, Michael. I'm their protector now, I'm all our children's mummy and daddy," he whispered, airily, more to himself than to me.

"I'll get back to London immediately, Sir." I said, and stood in preparation.

"Go, Michael, go and summon the people of our country," shouted Bullit, as I left his office and his madness to languish in its own depravity. And I recall thinking as I closed the door on him, as I stood stunned by his outburst outside the room, the door closed behind me: What the hell had I involved myself with?

That display of his insanity was my first real insight to Bullit's medical problem, how deep rooted it was, and how it would callously affect his judgement over the years, and encourage him to murder millions.