Sowerbutt's Magazine

The bookseller rummaged in a desk drawer and pulled out a copy of Der Eigene. On one page was a large photograph of a man about 30, heavily made up. “Bad news, this one, Mr Sorbay. The article talks about drugs, wild parties, nude dancing, wearing women’s clothes, all manner of things."

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Sowerbutt's War

“Jerry's just up the road, Hatter. Been shooting at our lads,” Brendan Bracken said. “Let’s pin this down.” Hatter nodded to the Norfolks major. “Sergeant-major. Men in the MLs at the double, rifles, Brens, grenades. Anyone with their pants down, leave behind,” the major roared in a parade-ground voice. “The Brigadier will lead. Chipperfield, the Brigadier’s car at the double.” The camp broke up into a mass of movement, soldiers grabbing rifles and Brens, NCOs organising boxes of ammunition and grenades, MLs revving.

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Sowerbutt's Bullets

Sowerbutt got off his bicycle. “Thanks for the offer of lunch, Mr Bracken. We deserve a slap-up meal after spending the last hour dodging bullets.” Bracken’s mouth dropped: “You made contact with the Jerry. Dammit, where, man, where?  Did you shoot him?” The slight military man waved a soldier over. “Call Brigadier Hatter, Private. He is in the tent. Mr Bracken wants him urgently. Double, man, double.”

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Sowerbutt's History

Churchill growled. “We are close to a resolution. All details of this operation will be buried in the archives, as you command. As you say, Sire, the pages of history will be wiped clean.”

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Sowerbutt's Plot

The Prime Minister paused, seconds ticked by. “Sire, we have already outlined the extent of this evil conspiracy. The IRA and senior civil servants or politicians will be ruthlessly hunted down. Another member of this conspiracy is a Miss Warfield, whom we believe is a cousin of your sister-in-law. She is dead, gunned down by this Jerry madman.” The King shot to his feet, staring at Churchill. “You know what this means, Winston. T-Treason against the King.”

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Sowerbutt's Gunman

“Sire, I have never doubted the loyalty of the Brecklands," Churchill growled. "Your subjects would turn out in their thousands to welcome a Royal visit. However, a Jerry gunman on the loose is a different matter. He would not hesitate to pull the trigger as you and Her Majesty pass by in your motor car.”

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Sowerbutt's Ghost

The blood drained from Sowerbutt’s face, he had seen a ghost, a ghost from his past. Dropping his copy of the Daily Express, he pushed through the passers-by on the Calle Major, which spears through the medieval heart of Alicante. Checking his Smith & Wesson, he glimpsed the face again a dozen or so yards away and then the man was gone, lost in the sweep of the crowds.
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