Sowerbutt's Warning

A couple of blocks away from the butcher's, Panda unbuttoned his leather coat, the inspector wincing as she saw his shotgun. “This is where you scarper, love,” he said. “Tell your guv’nor not to send any more of you lot down here. Your men will go in The River, women will get their heads shaved. I’ll personally track down your guv’nor and pull the trigger on what his wife values dearly.”

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Sowerbutt's Justice

With tempers rising and eyes watching the food inspector, no-one noticed Panda bending over her shopping bag. “She’s on the take,” Panda shouted. Waving the Daily Mirror, he said: “Been a robbery of ration cards at the Food Office in Romford. They've printed the numbers.” Pointing to the inspector’s bag, he said: “Two of them are here. A bent officer of the law, trying to get supplies on the side while us lot go without. The magistrate won’t like that. Prison, I’d say.” An angry murmer spread through the queue.

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Sowerbutt's Butcher

“Don’t you tell me what to do, you little pipsqueak,” snapped the woman. “I’m a food inspector and this woman was going to sell me a quarter of chuck steak without a ration coupon. That’s a criminal offence and she’s going before the magistrate. We’ve got to stamp out the black market, set an example.” “But you begged me,” sobbed the butcher's wife. “You said your kids had not seen meat for weeks and your hubby was in a PoW camp. I was trying to help.”

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Sowerbutt's Revolution

"You have much to tell me, Brendan," Churchill said. "Are we on the verge of revolution? Will the Reds seize the streets of our great city and murder us in our beds? I will call the Army out and shoot them. Or would it be more tactful to send them to the detention camps with the Mosleyites?” His blue eyes twinkled.

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Sowerbutt's Warning

Churchill growled: "We will repay this terrible blood debt one thousand-fold. Our Royal Air Force, refitted and rearmed, will raze the Jerry cities to the ground. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. We will take the war to the Nazi lair, burn out the evil canker and make the world safe once more.”

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Sowerbutt's Chill

“Sir, it is freezing up here. You will give yourself a chill; Britain cannot afford to have her Prime Minister bedridden,” Brendan Bracken said. He was wearing a heavy Donegal tweed overcoat. “Yes, yes, you are as bad as the rest of them,” Churchill snapped. He, too, was well wrapped up. Long black overcoat, homburg, and gloves. “Grant me a moment to gaze upon my poor wounded London.” The two men were standing on a walkway on the roof of No 10 Downing Street. 

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Sowerbutt's Thrashing

Standing by one of the doors was a large man who kept grimacing and rubbing his chest. Nero had last seen him spreadeagled across the floor of a bombed warehouse on the receiving end of a thrashing from One-Line. Several other ex-dockers stood at strategic points around the room.

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Sowerbutt's MP

“The only chance for humanity is that this Government be replaced quickly by a government of the working-class,” thundered D.N. Pritt, MP for Hammersmith North. Months earlier, he had been expelled from the Labour Party over his zeal for the Soviet Union. “The People’s Convention with delegates from across the country will wrest the reins of power from the rich and their Labour Party lackeys.”

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Sowerbutt's Return

“I will return here to Rhodos in three or four days,” Victor Savoia said, pulling his collar up against the cold wind. The winter sunshine, for which Rhodos was famous, was making little difference to the temperature. “You will still be here? Your submarine won’t be returning in a hurry with all the English patrols in the Aegean?”

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Sowerbutt's Letter

“We’ve have gone to much trouble to get here to Rhodos,” the colonnello from the 2^nd Blackshirt Division said. “This letter is of the highest importance. His Majesty trusts you to deliver it in Ankara as soon as possible. Guard it with your life, my friend.” 
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Sowerbutt's Hold-Up

The driver swallowed his shout, “It’s a hold-up”, as a giant, wearing a balaclava with eye-holes, wrenched the prison van door open and pointed a Webley revolver at his head. On the other side, a man, dressed in a long leather coat and a balaclava, aimed a shotgun at his grey-haired companion.

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Sowerbutt's Fireworks

“Blimey, Bonfire Night. What’s going on here?” The grey-haired man stared through the windscreen of the Leyland prison van. It was his second day back in uniform after retiring a couple of years earlier. Bursts of red, gold, silver and orange shot over the street, a stone’s throw from Clapham Common. To the side, bunches of crackers, tied together with rafia, snapped and fizzed as they jumped along the pavement. Bangers, stuck in drainpipes and odd holes, added to the cacophony. 
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Sowerbutt's Dog

The low growl at the back of the Dalmatian’s throat was enough to send shivers up a brave man’s spine. Hackles rising and teeth bared, the dog watched as the latecomers made their way across the cemetery.
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Sowerbutt's Pain

Bloodied and bruised, Tipper groaned in agony, the stray Dalmatian licking his face. The dog whined and lay down beside him as light rain began falling. Small pools of black water formed; Tipper scooping up a handful with his swollen hand and splashing it across his face.

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Sowerbutt's Explosion

Tipper’s world dissolved into an artist’s palette of yellow, orange and black. Wide-eyed, the teacher flew backwards onto a blackened wall, the knife somersaulting away and disappearing behind a pile of bricks which spilt to the ground like a waterfall. The older docker vanished from view in the white and yellow haze, the bushy-haired man stood rigid with blood running down his face and his shirt in shreds. Shockwaves from the bomb blast blurred Tipper’s vision.

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Sowerbutt's Enemy

The hawk-faced teacher, who was wearing a bright blue blazer with yellow stripes, spat in Tipper’s face. “Bourgeois sell-out. Fascist scum. I’ll teach you to cross our path, the proletariat’s path of destiny. You are a capitalist pig, you deserve to die. I’m going to put my mark on you, swastika boy.”

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Sowerbutt's Friend

Two stocky men punched, slapped and kicked the half-naked man in front of them, his badly bruised body hanging down in a crucifixion pose. Blood dripped from his nose and his swollen mouth, his lips split. In moments of consciousness, Tipper was hoping nothing was broken.

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Sowerbutt's Funeral

Lee Gerard stood tall and erect, like the soldier he once was, his hand resting on the Beretta M 1934 in his jacket pocket. “A business friend from long ago, dear. He helped me get started on the farm, that’s all.” His eyes flickered around the old cemetery, a stone’s throw from Mile End Road.
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