The Rise of Cromwell Jones

by Roy Clews

Genres: Suspense

Synopsis

You're mugged on the street. Your sister is attacked in her home. The police are powerless. What would you do? This is England. Gang violence is on the rise and people live in fear. After ex-solder-turned-preacher Ivor Jones is attacked, he decides to take matters into his own hands. Gathering together a group of like-minded citizens, Ivor forms the Cromwell Movement, inspired by his rebel hero Oliver Cromwell. Ivor and the Movement start to hit back at the gangs that have ruled their streets for too long, but, as with Cromwell, sometimes the best intentions lead to shocking results. After all, absolute power corrupts absolutely . . .

Release date: February 4, 2016

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 360

Sample

The gang of youths roamed the streets of the city seeking prey. They were a hunting pack of feral beasts, arrogantly secure in their numbers, enjoying the fearful reactions of those individuals they pushed and jostled as they swaggered through the echoing concrete and glass shopping malls. Some of the youths were white, others black, but they were uniform in their brightly coloured shell-suits, expensive trainers and the baseball caps they wore with peaks turned to the rear. In a noisy menacing phalanx they swarmed through the aisles of the big department stores, pilfering goods from counters, acting without any attempt at concealment, contemptuously defying the frightened shop assistants to challenge their actions.

In the central mall a cashpoint machine had a small queue of customers waiting their turn to use it. As the swaggering gang neared the machine, the people waiting fearfully abandoned their patient queue and moved quickly away. Only one stockily built, middle-aged man remained. Ivor Jones was intent on sorting out his credit cards and was unaware of the youths’ approach as he stepped up to the cashpoint screen and inserted his card. The gang of youths suddenly crowded around him, their bodies crushing hard to trap him, and he felt the point of a knife-blade pressing painfully into the side of his throat.

He cried out in mingled shock and fear and the black youth holding the knife hissed warningly, ‘Don’t look at us. Just keep your fuckin’ mouth shut and do what I tell you.’

Jones stood motionless, afraid to move, and the sharp pointed steel increased its menacing pressure.

‘Take out the maximum,’ the black youth instructed, and the man obeyed, his trembling fingers tapping the keys and his fear causing him to make an error in the code.

‘Don’t try coming the cunt,’ the youth warned angrily, and the knife-point jabbed painfully.

Breathing in short shallow gasps Ivor Jones again tapped out codes, and this time to his relief he got it right.

‘Please remove your card and wait for your cash … Your cash is being counted … Please wait … Please remove your cash promptly …’

The green-lettered messages flashed in sequence and the inner workings of the machine whirred metallically as first his credit card reappeared and then the slender sheaf of new banknotes.

The youth snatched the card and banknotes, while others rifled through Jones’ jacket and trouser pockets, taking his wallet, keys, and the small amount of loose change that they found. The black youth took the watch from Jones’ wrist and jeeringly told his companions, ‘This cunt only buys cheap stuff,’ he held the watch high for them to see. ‘It’s crap, this is.’

The knife-blade slashed down Ivor Jones’ cheek, leaving a streak of hot agony, and he shouted in pain as jeering and whooping the gang surged on.

Jones sagged forward against the ledge of the machine, his hands pressing against the bleeding flesh, blood dripping between his fingers. Sick and faint, he fought to steady his reeling senses. Then he turned to find a semi-circle of faces staring at him, some with horror, some with curiosity, some with disbelief.

‘Help me!’ he pleaded. ‘Please help me!’

The faces became guarded and hostile, and some turned away. The pain in his cheek was now excruciating and he felt near to vomiting.

‘What’s all this?’ A helmeted policeman pushed through the semi-circle, his fresh young face excited as he studied the bleeding man. ‘What happened to you?’

‘I’ve been robbed.’ Jones could only speak with difficulty. ‘A gang robbed me!’

The young policeman spoke hurriedly into his chest radio, then attempted to examine the bleeding wound in Jones’ face.

‘Are you hurt anywhere else?’

‘No.’

‘The ambulance will be here shortly. Try to keep calm.’

Another policeman, accompanied by a uniformed store security guard, came pushing through the crowd. The newcomers spoke briefly with the first officer, then the second policeman turned to the onlookers.

‘Did anyone see what happened?’

Heads shook in negation, and when he pressed individuals voices were raised in angry denials.

‘I didn’t see anything.’

‘He was already like this when I got here.’

‘I’ve only just come.’

The disbelief showed clearly in the policeman’s expression, and he growled aggressively.

‘Somebody must have seen something?’

Some of the crowd walked away, others continued to shake their heads, and one man stated flatly, ‘Anybody who gets involved in this needs their heads seeing to.’

Green-smocked para-medics arrived and helped Ivor Jones through the shopping mall, their progress creating curious comments and attracting staring eyes. The youngest policeman went with them, leaving his colleague to continue his fruitless attempts to find someone prepared to admit that they had witnessed the robbery and assault.

In the hospital casualty department a tired-eyed Asian doctor cleansed and stitched Ivor Jones’ wound, and clucked his tongue sympathetically when told that his patient was a victim of muggers.

‘So many people are being attacked these days. The streets are no longer safe to walk upon at any hour of the day or night. I myself was attacked and robbed two weeks since when I was on my way home.’ He shook his head in despair. ‘The young people of today have no respect for anything or anyone.’

He finished dressing Jones’ face and then went to attend to another casualty.

‘Do you feel up to telling me exactly what happened, Mr Jones?’ the young policeman asked.

Although it pained him to speak, Ivor Jones related the facts as he could remember them.

‘What chance is there that they’ll be caught?’ he asked when he had finished.

The constable pursed his lips. ‘Well, you’ll need to come to the station when you feel up to it, and look through some pictures to see if you can identify your attackers.’

Detective Sergeant Denis Matthews sighed wearily when the young constable reported to him.

‘Where have you put him?’

‘In number two interview room, sergeant.’

The sergeant’s heavily lined features frowned doubtfully and he ran his hand through his grizzled hair. ‘Is he in a fit state to help us?’

The younger man grinned admiringly. ‘He’s a tough bugger. I offered to get him home so he could have a rest before he came down here, but he wouldn’t have it. He says he wants to have the ones who robbed him put away as soon as possible.’

The sergeant chuckled cynically. ‘And pigs might fly!’ He rose from his desk. ‘Ah, well, I suppose I’d better get on with it. Any details about him?’

The constable scanned his notebook, and recited from it. ‘He’s a preacher, named Ivor Jones, aged fifty, widower, address Tabernacle Cottage, Meadowpark Gospel Chapel, Meadowpark Road.’

The older man grinned sardonically. ‘A bloody parson getting mugged. What’s the world coming to?’

The constable shook his head. ‘I don’t think he’s a proper parson, Sarge. I reckon he’s one of them cult preachers by the look on him.’

Matthews pursed his lips and said reflectively, ‘Wait a minute … Ivor Jones … that name rings a bell with me. Have we got anything on him?’

The younger man shrugged. ‘I don’t think so, Sarge. I can check it out if you like.’

‘Never mind.’ The detective casually dismissed the matter. ‘It’ll come to me, it always does.’

*   *   *

Ivor Jones presented a sorry sight: his dark ill-fitting suit and roll-necked sweater covered with blood, his face half hidden by the thickly plastered dressing upon his slashed cheek. He was hatless, and his sandy, greying hair was sparse upon his shiny scalp. But the detective’s shrewd eyes noted the thick muscularity of the shoulders beneath the cheap cloth of the jacket, and the fiery piercing quality of the blue eyes, and could not help but think that this was an unusual type of preacher man. Jones had more the look of a soldier than a cleric.

After introducing himself, Denis Matthews began to flash faces upon the computer screen and Ivor Jones frowned in concentration as he studied the images. After three successive re-runs of the tape he sighed in exasperation and shook his head.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t pick out anyone for certain. It all happened so quickly.’ His accents were those of the city and his voice harsh-timbred. ‘Number eight could have been the one who had the knife, but I didn’t really get anything like a good look at him.’ He touched the plaster on his cheek and finished ironically, ‘This was a distraction.’

The detective was not unduly concerned by the admission. ‘Yeah, all right, Mr Jones, it can’t be helped. That’ll be all for the present, thank you. I’ll get in touch with you if there’re any developments.’

The other man’s blue eyes sparked angrily. ‘What do you mean, if there’re any developments?’ he challenged. ‘Surely you can question number eight at least? And there must have been a lot of people who could indentify the gang. The mall was full.’

‘We can bring in the one you’ve pointed out for questioning,’ the detective acknowledged, ‘but whether we’ll be able to bring any charges against him is doubtful.’

‘Why?’ Jones demanded.

The other man shrugged uneasily. ‘We need more than just your possible identification of him to be able to bring any charges. We need impartial witnesses. We’re trying to find some.’

‘And if you find some witnesses, what then?’ Jones asked grimly.

Again the policeman shrugged uneasily. ‘It’s not up to me, Mr Jones. We have to pass on the papers to the Crown Prosecution Service for them to decide whether the case is brought to trial.’ He grimaced dispiritedly. ‘And just between you, me and the gatepost, I sometimes wonder whose side the CPS is on.’

Jones sat frowning as he mulled over what he had been told.

Matthews forced a smile. ‘Anyway, Mr Jones, I’ll do the best I can for you, and of course I’ll let you know what develops.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Now I’ll leave you for a moment while I arrange for one of our cars to take you home.’

Ivor Jones shook his head. ‘No, that won’t be necessary, thank you. I prefer to walk.’

‘Are you sure?’ The other man’s lined features showed concern. ‘You’ve had a nasty shock, you know. It might be best if you were to let us see you safely home.’

‘No, really, I’ll be fine, thank you.’ Jones was adamant.

‘Will there be anyone at home who can look after you, Mr Jones? Delayed shock can sometimes hit you harder than you might expect,’ the detective persisted.

‘Yes, my sister’s there.’ Jones was simultaneously experiencing impatience at the man’s persistence, and appreciation for the obvious concern. ‘She’s recently lost her husband, so she’s come to stay with me for a while.’

The detective accompanied him to the front doors of the police station, and when they parted offered his hand. ‘Go carefully now, Mr Jones.’

He felt the immense strength of Jones’ grip and again was struck by the thought that this was an unusual type of clergyman. As Jones walked away Denis Matthews stood looking after him for a brief while, then shook his head and turned back inside.

‘You ring a bell with me, Ivor Jones. Where have I heard of you before?’

Back in his office he sat for some seconds restlessly toying with the papers on his desk, then on impulse went to the computer and keyed in certain files, searching for any mention of Ivor Jones. He found the reference for which he had been looking and, leaving the office, went down into the cellar where the old records were stored. After another search through the jumble of dusty files he again succeeded in his quest. He blew the thick dust from the blue covers of the slender folder and quickly read its contents, grinning with satisfaction at what he found there.

‘I knew I’d come across Ivor Jones before!’

He replaced the folder and, wiping his grimed hands with his handkerchief, returned to his office.

Ivor Jones traversed the bustling streets of the city centre engrossed in his own bitter thoughts, heedless of the curious stares directed at his bloodstained clothing and plastered face. He was now beginning to experience the reaction to his ordeal, and he was sick at heart and weary in body and mind. He was thankful to leave the city centre behind him and to come to the road leading to the great ramshackle edifice that was Meadowpark Gospel Chapel. Tabernacle Cottage adjoined its western wall, the conjoined building stood in its own grounds, which once had been meticulously maintained shrubbery and lawn but were now a sadly neglected mass of tangled bushes. The grounds were surrounded by streets of terraced houses which had been built to shelter the artisans and workpeople who swarmed to work in the myriad factories and workshops when the entire district throbbed and pulsated with the noisy, grimy vigour of production. Now, the vigour had departed from the district. The factories and workshops were no more, and the streets once vibrant with life now were dull and lifeless, shabby and run down.

Ivor Jones’ heart sank when he saw the group of youths and girls lounging on the corner of the street which he must cross to reach his home. He felt a tremor of apprehension and for a brief moment he considered turning around and walking in the opposite direction. Then he was suddenly angry and ashamed of his own timidity, and he forced himself to continue on.

Their eyes swung to him, and as he neared the silent group he moved to the outer edge of the pavement. As he passed them one asked, ‘What’s happened to you, Grandad?’

His heart thumped and he was near to panic.

‘I’ve been mugged,’ he blurted, and quickened his pace.

‘What did they get?’ the voice demanded.

‘Everything.’

He kept on walking, and the voice jeered, ‘Don’t worry, then, it aren’t worth us mugging you again, is it?’

Raucous laughter applauded this gibe, and then he was past them.

Not daring to look back, he strained his ears for any sounds of pursuing footsteps, and the pounding of his heart only eased when he had travelled some scores of yards and reached his own home.

Outside the front door he hesitated. Iris, his sister, was much older than him and in frail health, and he was nervous about the sudden shock to her of seeing him like this. He drew a deep breath and knocked on the door, calling out as he did so:

‘It’s only me, Iris. I’ve lost my keys.’

As she opened the door he kept his plastered cheek turned from her, telling her quickly, ‘Now I’ve had a bit of an accident, Iris, but I’m all right. There’s nothing to worry about.’

He moved past her into the sparsely furnished, austere room, trying to soothe her fearful agitation with reiterated assurances that he was perfectly all right and that his injury was very minor.

But despite his words the shock of seeing his plastered face and bloodied clothing triggered a painful thudding of her diseased heart, causing her to gasp for breath.

The grey pallor of her features alarmed Ivor Jones and he seated her in the small armchair flanking the fireplace and hastened to find the tablets which she carried in her handbag for use in such an emergency.

With sips of water she managed to swallow two of the small capsules, and slowly the grey pallor of her complexion became tinged with colour as the thudding of her heart eased and slowed.

‘I’m sorry, Ivor,’ she panted weakly. ‘Sorry to be such a nuisance.’

‘Now don’t be so silly,’ he told her warmly, and patted her shoulder. He sat facing her, leaning forward to hold her thin hands between his own until he was satisfied that she was fully recovered. Then he told her, ‘You just sit quiet now while I get myself cleaned up.’

Jones smiled fondly at her anxious expression. He cared deeply for his elder sister, remembering how she had always loved and protected him when he was a child. Upstairs in the small cottage he changed his bloodied clothing and carefully washed his face and neck. While he did these things he pondered on the possible effects upon his sister if he told her the truth about what had happened to him. The recent death of her husband had all but destroyed her, and it was only now that she was beginning to display some signs of recovery from that bereavement. Ivor Jones knew that the knowledge that he had been brutally assaulted and robbed would cause her immense distress. And so he decided that for the present he would keep it from her. Instead, he would say that he had tripped and hit his cheek against a wall or something.

A fierce anger ignited within him as the vivid recollection of the mugging assailed him, and his big hands clenched into fists as the savage lust for revenge surged through his being.

Then he heard his sister’s voice calling him from the room below.

‘Do you want some tea, Ivor?’

He forced back his anger, and went down to join her.

After a night of fitful sleep and terrifying dreams of blood and violence which had continually jerked him into clammy-sweated wakefulness, Ivor Jones rose late from his bed weary in mind and body. His cheek was stiff and sore and he winced with pain as he flexed his facial muscles in tentative exploration. He took a bath, then very carefully shaved around the plaster dressing and brushed his teeth.

On the table downstairs was a note from his sister to tell him that she had gone to do some shopping. He frowned uneasily; he did not want her to risk overstraining herself by carrying any loads. Yet he was pleased that she was once more beginning to try to lead a normal life after the trauma of her recent bereavement.

While he was sipping a cup of tea he thought about what he must do that day. He had reported the theft of his various credit cards to the bank’s emergency phone number during the previous evening. ‘I’ll need to change all the locks. They might have just chucked my keys away, but it’s better to play safe. I’ll have to go to the bank and draw some more money out as well. And I’ll pop into the police station and explain to that sergeant that I don’t want Iris to find out what happened to me before it’s absolutely necessary.’

Once more his anger flared as he thought about the assault, but after a few moments he realised the futility of dwelling upon the incident and tried to concentrate instead on the day ahead of him.

Before leaving the cottage he wrote a note to his sister to explain his absence and laid it upon the table. He let the lock of the front door spring home as he left, knowing that Iris had her own key.

Detective Sergeant Matthews was not at the police station when Jones called there, so begging a sheet of notepaper from the desk constable he wrote a note of explanation for his call and left it with the constable to be delivered to the detective. The remainder of his errands took much longer to complete than he had anticipated, and the early dusk of the winter day had fallen before he trudged wearily up to the front door of Tabernacle Cottage.

There were no lights shining from any of the windows and Ivor Jones experienced a sudden sense of foreboding. Iris should have been home long since.

The front door was locked and he knocked upon its weathered panels, calling loudly, ‘Iris, are you in there? Iris?’

There was no reply, and his foreboding intensified. He moved to the window, cupping his hands around his eyes to peer into the dark interior. At first he could see nothing, but then as his eyes accustomed to the gloom his breath suddenly caught in his throat. The table had been upended and its top rested against the inner ledge of the window. He stepped back to the door and without any hesitation slammed his shoulder against it, bursting the lock from its screws and sending the door crashing open.

The breath rasped in his throat as he switched on the light and saw the shambles of overturned furniture, books ripped from their shelves, drawers and their contents hurled across the floor.

‘Iris?’ His cry echoed through the silent house. ‘Iris?’

She was lying on her back on the floor of her small bedroom. Her eyes were wide, mouth open, features twisted in a frozen mask of terror; blood congealing on her lips, chin and throat showed black against the white dentures and pallid grey skin.

Ivor Jones groaned in agonised shock and grief and, slumping to his knees beside her, sought desperately for any signs of life remaining in her still warm flesh. But there were no such signs to be found. Iris, his beloved sister, was dead.

During the weeks that followed Iris’s death, Ivor Jones’ initial grief became increasingly overlaid by a sense of bitter frustration. Despite all efforts by the police no one was brought to book for the crime. Indeed, there seemed to be considerable uncertainty amongst officialdom as to exactly what the crime was. The post mortem had found that his sister had died of a massive heart attack. The blood upon her face had resulted from a superficial injury to her mouth, caused by ‘an impact’. What had impacted could not be clearly ascertained – fist, boot, blunt object, or some other thing. Whether that injury had brought on the heart attack also could not be proved. The medical expert stated that such was the condition of the dead woman’s diseased heart that she could have dropped dead at any time. The theory of the investigating police officers was that Iris had disturbed a thief, or thieves, and that one of them had struck her in panic as she tried to prevent his escape. There was no physical evidence of forced entry, but the police were not able to establish if the thieves had used Ivor Jones’ stolen keys to obtain access, or if Iris herself had opened the door to them and let them enter.

The thought that the thieves had used his own keys to get into the cottage, and then subjected his sister to an unknowable period of terror, caused Ivor Jones many, many sleepless nights.

After the funeral he went away from the city to an isolated rented cottage in Wales where no one knew him. The dual shock he had suffered – the brutal assault on him and the terrible death of his sister – had shaken him to his core, and he could not bear to listen to any more condolences from well-meaning people. Above all else he needed to be alone, and in the solitude of the bleak windswept hills he privately grieved, and brooded bitterly on what had happened.

In scant weeks the tragedy was all but forgotten by the world at large, and Jones returned to his home, ready to resume his work.

He rose early on the morning of the day after his return, and was sitting at the table drinking a cup of tea when a thunderous knocking pounded his front door. He started in shock, his suddenly nerveless fingers lost grip of the cup and it fell on to the table, and with dismayed eyes he watched the steaming tea spread its brown stain over the clean white cloth.

The knocking thundered again and this time a man’s voice called, ‘Mr Jones? Are you in there, Mr Jones? Can I have a word with you, please?’

His gaze flickered desperately around the small room, and he suddenly realised that he was seeking for a way of escape. Self-disgust surged through him and he slammed down his clenched fists on the table-top.

‘What’s the matter with me? I’m behaving like a frightened child!’

The self-disgust fuelled a self-directed anger, and that emotion served to steady him, and to drive out the unreasoning panic that had so suddenly predominated.

He swallowed hard and called, ‘Just a minute. I’m coming.’

He noted that his hand was still trembling as he unlocked the door and opened it. Then his tension dissolved and he invited, ‘Come on in, Sergeant Matthews.’

As the policeman entered Jones shamefacedly indicated the stained tablecloth. ‘I’ve spilt some tea. I’ll just change it and brew a fresh pot. Will you have a cup?’

‘I’d be glad of one, thanks.’ The policeman smiled and gazed around him, appreciating the cleanliness and order of the austere room, its only bright colours the spines of the hundreds of books ranged on shelves which almost filled all the vacant wall space.

‘I see you’re a book-lover like myself, Mr Jones.’ He moved to examine the titles. ‘Oh, yes, I’ve read that one, and that. They’re very good, aren’t they?’

Knowing what he now knew about Ivor Jones, Denis Matthews was not surprised to see how many of the books were devoted to military history. He stooped to look more closely at one particular shelf, and asked, ‘Are you an English Civil War buff, Mr Jones? You must have nearly everything that’s been published about it in this collection.’

Jones was laying out cups and saucers on the fresh tablecloth. He nodded. ‘Yes, I’m interested in that period. But to tell you the truth, it’s Oliver Cromwell who really interests me. He’s a bit of a hero of mine.’

The policeman nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve always had a soft spot for “Old Noll” myself. What was it they called him …? “God’s Greatest Englishman”, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right,’ Jones confirmed. ‘And he really was a great man, wasn’t he? We could do with him today, couldn’t we? He’d soon put this country to rights.’

Matthews laughed, and joked, ‘I reckon there’s quite a few who’d agree with you there. I’m sure if he came beating his drums down that road right now, I’d be more than a little tempted to trail a pike after him myself.’

‘I’d follow him without any hesitation. This country could do with a taste of fire and sword. It needs purifying.’

Jones was savage in his tone, and the policeman looked at him curiously for a couple of seconds, then said in an attempt to lighten the charged atmosphere so suddenly engendered, ‘Well, you being a distinguished soldier like you are, Mr Jones, I don’t doubt but that Old Noll would give you a warm welcome.’

He saw the questioning stare that this statement brought to the other man’s face, and explained hastily.

‘I’ve been reading the old newspaper reports about you, Mr Jones. One of the Falklands War heroes weren’t you? The only chap from this city to get decorated for bravery in that campaign. Parachute Regiment, wasn’t it, that you were in? Battle of Goose Green and the rest.’

‘It was a long time ago, Sergeant.’ Jones was quick to dismiss the subject. ‘I’ve put that part of my life behind me. I follow another path now.’

Matthews’ curiosity about his companion had been burning for weeks, and now he questioned eagerly, ‘I can’t help but wonder what made you become a preacher after you’d served for such a long time as a combat soldier?’

Jones frowned uneasily. ‘I’m not an ordained minister of any church, Sergeant Matthews. I live here as resident caretaker, for whic. . .