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Tuesday evening

The kitchen layout was the same as in Charlie’s own house. But where the walls of Charlie’s kitchen were covered in Tom’s sketches of the girls, the cat, and also, embarrassingly, of Charlie, these walls were painted a fresh pale yellow with a single canvas: one of those posed family pictures, where the members were all at odd angles to each other. The MP was recognisable, and the others must be his wife and children, all brown-skinned, with dark eyes and black hair; two girls and a boy. Here was another white man who had married a woman of colour, being threatened by a man who thought it was a betrayal of all that he believed was right.

Fuck this noise.

Charlie moved silently through the kitchen door, and towards the front of the house. The pacing and muttering became louder. He put one of the crutches under his arm, eased the phone from his pocket and called Alun Evans. As the ringing started, Charlie moved, dropping the phone and holding the crutch like a club. Burton swung round as Charlie charged towards him, crutch upraised. He almost made it, but Britton was too close to Alun Evans who was tied to a dining chair. Before Charlie could strike, Burton had the knife against the MP’s neck. The phone was still ringing, until it suddenly stopped. In the quiet, Charlie could hear Burton breathing heavily, and Evans whimpering.

He’s going to faint. And then he did. Eyes rolling up, face turning grey, Evans fell backwards, and the knife in Britton’s hand traced a thin line of blood down his neck and onto his chest.

“Drop it,” Charlie said.

“You drop it,” Burton sneered, and poked the tip of the knife into Evans’ skin. A pearl of blood welled up beneath it.

Mindful of his lack of balance, Charlie put the crutches down carefully beside him.

“This is over, Jeff,” Charlie said. “My colleagues are coming, and they will be armed. You can still walk away. I would.”

Burton didn’t move. Blood began to soak into Evans’ T-shirt. “People will have to listen,” he said. “They can’t keep this quiet. You think I care what happens to me? Let them shoot me. They can’t cover that up.”

“I don’t understand,” Charlie said.

“You would, if you could see what was in front of you. The white race being watered down, held back by the Jews and the Blacks. Only no one admits it’s happening.”

“Is that why you killed Josh Pettifor? Because he married a Black woman?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. This man. This so-called MP. This is who I’m going to kill. Because then people will know the truth. ”

“The camper van behind Mo’s Autoparts. You killed a man there and burned the place down.”

“What the fuck? I’m a fireman. I don’t burn things. That takeaway place, though. They deserved it.”

To say that Buron had lost touch with reality was an understatement of epic proportions. But Charlie thought he was telling the truth about Josh Pettifor. Which didn’t help Charlie, or Alun Evans. The blood dripping from the wound on his neck had made a stain the size of Charlie’s hand on Evans’ shirt. His eyes were beginning to flutter open, and he gave a small moan. Burton grabbed him by the hair and yanked. Evans cried out.

“Be quiet,” Burton said. “You’re giving away everything that makes this country great. You have no right to fair treatment. What about those people who will lose their homes so that you can give them to immigrants, hey?” Yank. “Making our people homeless,” Yank.

“It isn’t true,” Evans said weakly. “I keep trying to tell you, but you won’t believe me. There are no plans to house asylum seekers here.”

“You think people won’t believe the British government would do something so outrageous. That’s what you rely on. Don’t keep any records and keep denying it. But look at parliament … Africans, Asians, Arabs, creeping in. Taking over. The country is starting to wake up, brothers …”

Burton’s eyes were glazed as he spoke from his imaginary soapbox about a future where the poor oppressed white people would rise up and reclaim their rightful places.

He saw something move outside the window.

“Whatever you think of Mr Evans’ politics, this isn’t the way,“ he said, wanting Burton’s attention on him. “Blowing up Muslim-owned shops and knifing MPs are short-cuts to prison.”

“I’ll get my day in court,” Brurton spat. “A jury of my peers who will understand the truth when they hear it.”

The movement outside the window was beginning to resolve into a figure.

“Maybe not. Maybe what you’ve done, and the things you’re planning, will be considered terrorism. Terrorists don’t get public trials. You’ll just disappear without trace. Or you could let Mr Evans go, and we will both help you talk to the media.”

“That’s right,” Evans said, trying to shrink his body away from Burton and his knife.

“You want to be heard?” Charlie asked. “Step away from Mr Evans. You’d get more publicity attacking me than him. He’s not going anywhere. You tied him up. I could just walk out and there would be nothing you could do. Then the armed police would come, and you’d never be seen again.”

Burton’s eyes were fixed on Charlie as his brain tried to make sense of the waffle and contradictions Charlie was spouting.

“They’re probably already outside,” Charlie said. “You don’t have long to make up your mind. Trial or disappearance. Publicity or cover-up. All you have to do is step away from Mr Evans.”

Charlie saw the moment Evans realised what was happening, his eyes widening and his body tensing, and Britton saw it, too. Britton whipped round and Charlie dived to the floor,as Eddy stepped through the door and fired the Taser, hitting Britton in the middle of the chest with 50,000 volts.