Just after the Christmas break, all senior members of the revolutionary council were summoned to Chequers for an internal policy meeting, to decide the future of our country, the implementation of referenda law and how to enact those choices made by the people, in a user-friendly way that suited our belief.

From the moment Field Marshal Bullit entered Downing Street after the revolution, he started to act like a dictator. He threw his weight around in an arrogant way, and I suppose, that really didn't make him any different than any of the other Prime Ministers down throughout time; although his impervious nature was conveyed in a much more violent manner.

Whereas most politicians act dictatorial, demonstrate tantrums with petty legislation, the occasional dismissal and a bit of political infighting, Bullit hit people. He would often punch someone, drag them round the room or down the street, as he displayed with Staughton. Or simply humiliate them in public. It would just depend on his mood. He was like the proverbial school or office bully that had no respect for other people, their wishes or feelings, and to be on the receiving end of his temper was an intimidating feeling. Over the coming years I would witness strong men cower at Bullit's omnipotence, including the King.

Field Marshal Bullit decided to retain the monarchy, as it always provided a good arse to kick in times of trouble, although he did make the King choose where he wanted to live. Bullit, offered him the choice. He could either have Buckingham Palace or Windsor castle, but Bullit insisted he most certainly couldn't have both. The King, eventually capitulated, when Bullit mooted the possibility of turning Britain into a republic. The King chose Windsor Castle. Bullit, then located himself, and his minions in Buckingham Palace and retained Chequers as his country residence for weekends, and official party meetings.

I arrived at Chequers on a Monday morning in January, just before 9am, in my official limousine, accompanied by my bodyguard and driver. My car, once through the police security check, scrunched its way along the gravel drive towards the freshly refurbished country mansion of Victorian splendour. We pulled in alongside at least ten other official party limousines, where I alighted, straightened my uniform and placed on my cap.

Over by the main entrance, stood, milling around, in the cold, on a crisp frosty winter's morning, was perhaps thirty party bigwigs, among them Harry Chambers and Emma Preston. I approached the group in preparation for the obligatory picture which accompanied those occasions, whilst The Angel of Death hovered menacingly in the background, at the top of a flight of steps, high enough to elevate his position superiorly above us all.

The military arrived at Chequers on the Friday night, and spent the weekend with Field Marshal Bullit, discussing how to push through the people's choice of the militarization of our armed forces. But little did the people realise when they endorsed that choice, militarization in any form cost huge amounts of money, but with the prudent help of our new Chancellor, Judith Pearce, cuts were to be made elsewhere to raise funds - and facilitate the policy.

Bullit bounded out of the main hall, hesitated at the top of the steps next to George Shaw, and shouted fatherly: "Come on everyone, places, we haven't got all day."

We gathered in three rows; twelve at the top, on the top step, eight below on the second step, and four at the bottom, on the lowest step: I was on the second step, positioned at the end, and stood there trying to hide my eyes, as Bullit ventured down to stand proudly dominant in front of us all, as The Angel of Death merged invisibly into the shadows, and discretely hid himself from our pictorial record.

Once the photograph was taken, the group broke-up. They dissipated, and formed into little cellular groups. Most saw it as an opportunity to hatch dastardly plots on how to bring down other groups, how to fiddle their expenses or steal what art treasures they could from museums, art galleries and public buildings to furnish their own new state apartments. And I was no different in that respect, so I won't criticize them too loudly.

We entered from the freezing wind outside, to a warm entrance hall, and our voices, even in whispers, carried along the main hall towards a huge drawing room that Bullit had converted to conduct his business in. His butler, Menson, whom Bullit humiliated more than most, threw open double doors, and inside, already seated around a huge oblong table was fifteen high ranking members of the United Kingdom's armed forces.

"Come on, hurry up!" Shouted Bullit, as though inconvenienced by a meeting he personally called. He pushed past us, seated himself at the far end of the table and shouted, as I entered the room; "down here, Michael, next to me. You should know your place by now."

I did know my place; I was subservient, like a beaten puppy who lay at its master's feet. I was expected to obey, without complaint, not think for myself and be grateful for the odd bit of praise. And like most of my colleagues congregated in that enormous cabinet room, I seated myself clumsily and exchanged pleasantries with our military grandee's. Bullit, studied his paper work cautiously, and then decided his military officers could leave. Bullit, didn't want his old army chums to witness him, as he sanctioned crimes against humanity. The caucus was exclusively, a party matter.

I watched them gather together their files, place them inside their military briefcases, and then cleared the room with a certain amount of resentment; although it was stoically applied. Once they left, and the main double doors were sealed tightly shut, with an armed guard on the outside, we, the revolutionary council were able to continue running the country - and impliment policy.

"In order of preference," declared Bullit. "No minutes; does everyone agree?" He searched the table, sweeping his eyes panoramic around the room, and looked to see if any of us objected to his request. There was no objections, there never was on those occasions, just a silent consensus from poodle type acolytes too scared to speak.

"Right then, down to business," barked Bullit. "Law and order. The people of our great nation, have decided, very wisely in my opinion, to return the country to a state that endorses capital punishment. But we now face the difficult choice of determining what crimes should naturally carry a capital sentence."

"Perhaps only murder should?" Said Emma Preston, contributing.

"Shut up! I'm speaking!" Growled Bullit.

Emma Preston flushed, as the Field Marshal chastised her, for her helpful, but ill-advised contribution to party policy. She was Secretary of State for Education and not expected to motion policy on law and order; that was exclusively the job of Bullit, and we were all just the rubber stamp.

"I've decided murder, treason, and acts against the State should carry a capital sentence," decided Bullit. "What d'you think, George?"

"Excellent choice, Sir," agreed Shaw, as he smarmed his way into Bullit's affections with condescending riposte. He knew acts against the State were relative, and could cover all manner of things, from Trade Union membership, to dropping litter in the street, it merely depended on how George Shaw, the embodiment of the State wished to interpret them. It was a licence to kill any activist or dissenter Shaw took a personal dislike to. And he would kill many.

"George, and myself have agreed, some weeks ago now to backdate the plebesite on execution, and bring a sense of justice to the victims. Anyone disagree?" Asked Field Marshal Bullit. And again, scrutinized our faces for disapproval.

"No! Good. Then that's decided," said Bullit, and as he did, Emma Preston raised her hand with a pencil held loosely between her forefinger and thumb. "What is it this time?" rasped Bullit, his voice laboriously frustrated.

"Isn't there an ethical question entailed?" Asked Emma, concerned.

"Ethics entails rights," stated Bullit, as his eyes punished her accusingly. "But our people, in their wisdom have seen fit to remove all rights of those convicted of crimes against the public. So your ethic's question doesn't apply."

"I meant more from our own perspective, that little voice inside us all which questions the validity of even the people's wisdom. As our members of parliament used to say, can we justify such barbarity to our own conscience?"

The way Field Marshal Bullit stared vacantly at Emma Preston, I thought he might shoot her. She committed the ultimate sin in revolutionary circles, when she questioned our great leader's ability to make the decisions that governed us all, and in the process, she made a very powerful enemy.

"Maybe we should tuck them up of a night-time with a story, serve them breakfast in bed," belittled George Shaw, as he saw an opportunity to humiliate Emma Preston in front of his master. But it went deeper than that; Emma, was Harry Chambers' girlfriend, and I got the feeling George Shaw more sniped at Harry Chambers, than Emma Preston.

"We're talking child killers! homicidal maniacs! mass murders!, who commit the most foul acts imaginable, and you want us to search our conscience. How about I let you share a cell with one, find a man who has raped his way through the female population of our country, sexually abused the innocent, maybe slit a few throats and left their lifeless corpses lying destitute in some filth ridden field to be eaten by rats and maggots. You like that?" Ranted, Bullit, as his voice raised with each word, until a crescendi pitch was reached. "Well?"

"No," replied Emma, softly.

"Then why do you wish to subject other innocent people to a system you wouldn't subject yourself too? Eh?"

Emma said she didn't know, and her eyes averted, pointing toward the table.

"I'll tell you why," yelled Bullit. "Because you come from a cosy upper middle class clique, who have never suffered the indignity of these lowlifes. You live in the suburbs detracted from reality, and tell everyone else what they should do, whilst protected by alarms and neighbourhood watch schemes, while other people's lives are cancerously eaten away by evil little bastards who kill for a few pounds: a few pounds!" Shouted Bullit, and made Emma flinch. "I suffered the indignity of it. I watched my mother murdered by those people, and the killers got clean away: clean away. Never seen again. You think that's justice? Well do you?" Screamed Bullit, as he stabbed the papers before him.

"No."

"Then shut up, and let someone dispense it who knows what the they're talking about, and you keep your mouth shut until we decide to discuss education policy. Education's your department, isn't it?"

"Yes," sniffed Emma Preston close to tears.

Emma failed abysmally to comprehend the mentality of the people she involved herself with. She thought them like other political representatives down throughout the age, when in essence the party was dictatorial. Those promises before the revolution, sugar coated for acceptability evaporated the moment we entered Downing Street, and they were quickly replaced with a regime intent on strangling anyone and anything it came into contact with. Emma, needed to watch herself.

"Next referendum pledge?" Growled Bullit, and slapped a sheet of paper on the table, as his temper welled from where Emma Preston up-set him. "Withdrawal from the European Union. I can take that as read?" Said Bullit.

The fact that we fought for our extraction from a Federal Europe, that our troops battled them in sporadic, vicious fighting already determined our position; but the people's plebiscite represented legal authority in case others wanted to challenge Bullit's declaration of secession in future.

"Next on the agenda is the devolvement of power to local government," insisted Bullit, as he traced his way down a list of priorities offered to us under the rainbow referendum. "What d'you think, Michael?" He asked, and turned to me for advice, advice I didn't really have.

"A fantastic idea," I retorted, as I knew full well Bullit designed it. But as to what he actually wanted devolved was anyone's guess; and it didn't do to misrepresent his belief. "I thought you might like to elaborate, Sir." I crawled.

"I believe individuals should have a greater say over the day-to-day running of their own lives, while we, as Hitler suggested should make the State work for them, rather than they work for the State. Therefore, menial tasks could be removed from central office; passed over to local authority. But structured with a parliamentary process to it. We make MPs independent, and work constitutionally at constituency level. The people can elect them every three years to make sure they don't lose touch with the common man and woman in the street. Following on from that, we divide the country's budget into slices, based on a percentage factor of how many people live in each locality. What they do with the damned money is then exclusively down to them. If they screw-up, they get the blame, not us."

"Genius!" congratulated The Angel of Death.

"Thank you, George. Yet simultaneously," continued Bullit, as he established his flow: "We retain fiscal control of all revenue; council tax, income tax, VAT and contributory taxes, and then use a central pooling system to finance each area individually, and grant a sense of autonomy by, what shall we call this unique new idea? 'Central capital investment'," He decided.

I assumed Bullit thought of the name many years ago, but chose to float it during our meeting to magnify his position; and if that pleased him who was I to mention anything different. But I did believe his policy document had merit, although with meretricious intent. It was true to say I supported the peoples' right to choose, but the way Bullit implemented the plan extracted the necessity to punish central government at the ballot box, which meant he cancelled general elections forthwith, and made us a one party State, with enclave constituencies. It would later be termed for official recognition: 'The Federal Commonwealth of the United Kingdom'.

However, as we still retained a central tax structure, before secondary redistribution, it allowed us the opportunity to sequestrate revenue as needed for the militarization of our armed forces. I had to sell the idea over the coming months and years, and defended the policy with zeal, under the basis it made us a truly democratic constitution, and that enabled every individual to receive the exact same amount of funds. It was our 'stakeholder' society based entirely on equality, without class distinction. (I could sell anything.)

"The people should elect a DA (district attorney) as well," decreed Bullit, as he pushed the meeting along. "That way, if they're elected they'll jump on the criminals twice as hard. But we must appoint judges from the revolutionary council," decided Bullit, and added forcefully: "There's no point in having tough prosecutors if the judges then go soft on us."

"Quite right!" praised Harry, as he sought to outdo Shaw's previous contribution, and in turn, he received some recognition himself from Bullit.

"You approve, Harry?" Canvassed Bullit, with a big broad smile.

"They should have listened to you years ago, Sir." He smarmed.

Bullit straightened himself, in his tight, high-neck black tunic, shuffled somewhat at the false adulation bestowed, and continued to expand on what else community democracy would mean for the people. "Local authority can control hospitals, schools, unemployment job creation schemes, all local by-laws, with the proviso our country's pride and self-respect is included within their methodology. I don't want any of this multi-cultural teaching bullshit conveyed to the pupil,"

Emma Preston, tentatively raised her hand again, and indicated that she'd like to contribute to the conversation. After all it was education policy.

"What now!?" Barked Bullit, harshly.

"We might find it problematic with the teaching unions if we allow direct public rule to take precedence over normal educational authority control."

Bullit insulted her. "You finished?" He said, coarsely.

"Perhaps, if we structure our policy within a teachers, government framework it might become more acceptable to the big teaching unions; and avoid confrontation on the picket lines, and the disruption of our children's education." Concluded Emma, believing her opinion valued.

What Emma didn't realise was, she only obtained her position at party level because her lover, Harry took advantage of Field Marshal Bullit, Bullit realised that but could never admit anyone took advantage of him, least of all Harry Chambers, and so he quietly accepted Emma's role as long as she didn't upset him. But from the look on his face, I saw him become extremely agitated with her constant interruptions. Emma, needed to be careful.

"You finished now?" Asked Bullit, as he insulted her some more.

"Yes, Sir."

"Then shut up and let me continue. Where was I, George, before I was so rudely interrupted?"

"Instructing policy on local authority control, Sir."

"That's right. Now, with elected representatives," added Bullit. He extracted his .45 Browning pistol, claimed it to be uncomfortable, and then placed it on the table before him. "We can dispense with parliamentary law: we'll decide all policy from a central position. That suit you, Preston?" Said Bullit, sarcastically, and sneered contemptibly at her.

"Yes, Sir." She whispered, in a mouse like way.

"Next policy," motioned Bullit, digressing from his local government reform to something that interested him much more. "The removal of all immigrants along ethnic lines. A tough nut this one, George, what d'you say?"

"Biblical proportions, Sir." Replied Shaw. "The cost would be prohibitive to relocate them back to their country of origin, therefore, I think a much more radical solution is needed to show our resolve with the peoples' wishes. I believe Michael has a solution..."

"What is it, Michael?" Asked Bullit, as he studied his paperwork.

The Angel of Death dropped me in the shit from a great height, and that symbolised what a bastard he really was. I didn't have an idea at all; all I had was what George Shaw raised in my office some months earlier as a pernicious solution to a difficult problem, and he wanted me to moot it further.

"Well?" Demanded Bullit, as he stared expectant at me.

"We could move non-Aryan species to ghettos," I advised, and felt sickened by the thought. "We could create small pockets of individual groups, and remove them from being within close proximity to the indigenous people."

"How does relocating them concur with the peoples' desire, Michael? The plebiscite was quite explicit," said Bullit, and checked his paperwork. "Here we are: the removal of all immigrants. Our people want them removed, not relocated. I thought we had this conversation before Christmas, George. I thought we decided to transfer them to the Isle of Man in preparation for cleansing. Not a perfect desire," continued Bullit. "But it is a practical one."

"We did, Sir."

"Then why's Michael chasing other ideas, eh?" He inquired, confused.

"He suggested relocation might be a better option, Sir. And so I thought I'd offer him the chance to explain it fully to you for your evaluation."

If there were prizes for bastardy, George Shaw could have scooped the lot. He deliberately sought to humiliate me in front of The Field Marshal, and diminish my status with a calculated piece of duplicity. The whole policy of removal of peoples along ethnic lines was exclusively down to him, and I wanted nothing to do with it. But suddenly, not only was I involved with the sordid plan, I was also to be punished for interfering with it.

"I thought I instructed the camp to be built," said Bullit.

"I've already begun to move the project forwards, Sir," grovelled Shaw. "Put my man Malley in charge. We can rely on him, unlike others!"

"Is it true, Michael; you have a problem with my idea?"

"I was merely trying to decide how to advance the proposal with the media, Sir. They're bound to take an interest when millions of people are rounded up.'

Bullit sat there, slowly shaking his head, as though disappointed, and then he launched an unprovoked verbal attack on me because of Shaw. "When I placed you on the payroll, Michael, I doubled your salary. We pay you twice as much as you were getting before, and I thought I could trust you of all people to help me solve these difficult conundrums, but now I find you want to dilute them. I'm shocked, Michael. Shocked!"

"He might have a point," said Emma, before I could stop her.

Field Marshal Bullit silenced, his head turned almost inanimate towards her without his body moving, and he demanded: "What did you just say?"

"The point I think Emma's trying to make..."

"Shut up, Michael, she can speak for herself. Continue," ordered Bullit.

"If you try and remove on mass..."

Bullit screamed: "What's this you bit?" He made us all jump. "You! What happened to us, we, am I now on my own?" He yelled, and his face turned fanatically blue as he slated her. Spittle exploded. "You!" He accused, stabbing his chest, "are a hypocrite."

"I don't think I am..."

"Shut up! I'm speaking," yelled Bullit, and accidentally placed his hand on top of his pistol.

"Why do you have a problem with us removing the blacks and the wogs from the country? Well?"

"I'm scared."

"Scared of what? Scared you'll get found out! Scared your upper-middle class friends in suburbia won't come to tea?"

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes I'm scared we'll get found out and made to stand trial in some foreign country for acts against humanity. Everyone will think I'm a racist," cried Emma Preston as she spluttered her excuse. Bullit, didn't like excuses; and he liked weakness even less.

"You're indicative of your class; a parasite, who's prepared to flood the country with the world's filth and waste, inflict it on the masses and expect to cut their services, their benefits, and their pensions to pay for it. And all because it appeases your own conscience. It's people like you, Preston that have got our beautiful country into this God awful mess. It's because of people like you we have to clear up behind you. How much crime is down to your political correctness? My Mother had to die because of your politics; stabbed by muggers stealing her savings..."

"And my brother!" hissed The Angel of Death, as his eyes burnt into Emma. George still wanted to blame someone other than himself for his sibling's loss.

"We lost our families because of your selfishness, Preston. You take any thief or pimp into the country. You turn decent council housing estates into ghettos with your interfering ways, then go home to the suburbs in the evening, and tell anyone who'll listen, what a wonderful person you are. But you're not, Preston. You're selfish: a parasite feeding off the people's goodwill. And you don't know when to halt. And when they asked you, and your stuck-up friends to stop, you hounded them from their homes..."

"And their jobs!" hissed The Angel of Death some more.

"Are you a wog lover, Preston?" Shouted Bullit, viciously in her face, as he leant over the table and allowed Emma to feel his breath.

"No."

"No what? Say the words!"

"No I'm not a wog lover."

"Are you selfish then?"

The rest of us in the room, decorated with scenes from the revolutionary conquest of Britain, sat passive, distant from Bullit's tantrum. We sat with our heads down, and listened, but dared not speak as he flayed Emma alive with hurtful innuendoes. And his behaviour was brutish to say the least. The only person in the room to lift their eyes in Emma's direction was The Angel of Death. He seemed somewhat excited by the whole affair, as if it aroused him.

"You think Adolf Hitler was wrong to rid Germany of a pox-ridden, slow Jewish death that ate away at the heart of a pure society? Well do you?"

Emma cried inconsolably: "I don't know!"

"What d'you mean you don't know?"

"Maybe there was other ways," sobbed Emma.

"What d'you think, Harry?" Asked Bullit, and turned to view him.

"Wise decision, Sir."

"Michael?" Barked Bullit.

"No other choice, Sir," I lied, and cowered as I did so.

Bullit screamed: "See, Preston! you're alone in your opinions."

But Emma was neither alone in her opinions or her fear; we all shared them, with perhaps the exception of George Shaw. But Bullit's tyrannical power made our timidity take precedence. We were all too frightened of the man to speak out, and I don't think that's something any of us are particularly proud of, or anything you'll ever hear me admit to again.

"You're probably a fifth columnist." Accused Bullit, disgusted by her.

"A communist!" Interjected Shaw.

Bullit hated communists even more than he hated the Jews, and the Blacks, and at George Shaw's interjection, Bullit yelled:

"What are you, Preston, because you're certainly not one of us. Are you a traitor?"

"I love my country."

"You prostitute your country," snarled Bullit, only inches from her face. He dragged her with all his strength from her seat, and then pushed her back with as much force as he could muster. Emma, spilled across the floor, collapsed over her chair, and landed upside down, her feet in the air. "Get out!" Screamed Bullit, "you're finished. Go on, get out!"

Emma, scooped up what paperwork she could carry, as she struggled desperately to her feet, and dishevelled, she tried to apologise to the Field Marshal. "Get out!" He barked, and his face looked as though it might explode. As Emma Preston ran from the room, The Angel of Death continued to denigrate her. He suggested to Field Marshal Bullit: that she might have already passed secrets to the Russians, and the Chinese! "Who knows?" said George Shaw, figurative, as though his statement not really aimed at anyone in particular, but in reality it was targeted directly at Bullit and his paranoid mind. George Shaw, wished to plant false ideas, and set a belief of treason germinating lucidly in Bullit's psyche.

"Explain," ordered Bullit, instantly.

"Well," replied George, as though his idea ambiguous, "who knows what the woman's been up to? For all we know she might have links to foreign intelligence agencies, The KGB, The CIA. Maybe, even as you magnificently constructed the party, Sir, and took us from an obscure peripheral faction to the height of political power, she betrayed us."

"What nonsense," retorted Harry Chambers.

"Shut up, Harry. Continue, George," insisted Bullit, his mind alive with fantasy as he watched the shadows begin to move - and I could see Emma was in trouble.

"Suppose she's already leaked plans for Camp 51, us militarizing the armed forces, what then?" Asked George, spitefully, as he spat more venom.

"You're right, George," decided Bullit: "We can't take the chance. Arrest her! Seize all assets, and property, cancel her wages, and her pension, and remove all privileges, and then take back her limo'."

"Should I interrogate her?"

"Whatever's necessary," instructed Bullit, his mind distracted by sinister thoughts of what Emma Preston might have done, even though I could have told him, she'd done nothing, except offer her opinions. But to Bullit, that was never good enough, and with his mental state, he envisaged all sorts of evils portrayed against him and the country, and when George Shaw eventually conducted an interview with Emma Preston, she had my deepest sympathy, because her confession meant public beheading, by the sword!

Back then, George Shaw had only been in charge of law and order for a few short months, when his cruel techniques started to filter through to us all in graphic detail, and his unmitigated brutality became legendary. He was not a pleasant man! George casually opened a small black note pad, made a few discreet notes, closed it, and replaced it in his tunic pocket, while simultaneously eyeing Harry Chambers. And I got the instinctive feeling, the way he slandered Emma Preston was more about Harry, than her, but to get to Harry, George Shaw achieved his evil aim by proxy.

"I can't take this," declared Bullit as he stood, and pushed his chair back with his legs, and rubbed his right temple, as though in pain. "My office, Michael, I want a private word with you." He growled.

Bullit stormed from the room; I gathered my papers, and quickly followed him, my pace urgent.