1985

10.00

The dusty cold street was alarmingly quiet, rain from that morning had left the floor was saturated. The overcast sky washed the colour out of an already drab suburban road. It was brown, dull, tatty and miserable, the houses mediocre but the residents dared not complain. And a better question would be, complain to who?

Through a small garden Mike and Dave approached the front door of a terraced house. In the front window there was a china dog with a bobbing head, it sat before the closed curtains. It smiled at Dave and Mike as they arrived, blissfully nodding. Mike was carrying a battering ram, holding up the red ram with his hands it rested against his belly. He pointed out the dog with a grin, Dave acknoledged but did not smile back.

Dave inspected the front door, he peered into the peephole and at the lock. He signalled to Mike to drop the battering ram. It landed with a dull metallic thud and cracked the crazy stone paving.

Dave reached into his coat and produced his shotgun and Mike copied. Dave pushed the muzzle of the gun into the door which creaked open, the door was on the latch. Dave signalled to a uniform on the opposite roof, who put his mouth to the radio to coordinate entering the building.

Dave and Mike walked into the hallway, remarkably there were no telescreens, the silence was agonising bliss. It was musky and very dark. All the widows had been blocked with curtains or old copies of The Times. The old carpets were rolled up to reveal dusty floorboards. There was a doorway to the front room and one to the kitchen, then stairs leading to the second floor.

Mike went to the door to the front room and Dave to the kitchen. Mike got Dave's attention and mouthed a count down, 'Three, two, one...

Mike smashed open the door with the barrel of his gun. There was man sitting in a comfy chair directly opposite the door pointing a machine gun at him. Mike let loose a round from the shotgun. The blast flipped the chair backwards and put a bin lid sized hole through the man. Mike breathed out, reloaded. The smoke from the shot burned in his nose and eyes, but he stayed aimed at the man.

Mike breathed in and the smell hit him, he put his arm to his face, the smell was of rotting flesh; mouldy milk and human feces. Flies rushed to escape the room, a few flew into Mike's hair, he frantically brushed them out with his hand.

Dave simultaneously opened the door to the kitchen. As he opened the door he smelt bleach. The back door was boarded shut with planks of wood and nails. The basic kitchen had been turned into a laboratory. Bags of compost on the floor, gloves in the sink burnt with chemicals and bottles of colourful liquids stacked on the surfaces. Dave heard the loud bang of Mike's shotgun.

Mike walked up to the chair and turned it back over. It's inhabitant flipped back with the chair, his rotting body had merged with the seat, he'd been there for a while. The rotting man wore the riot police uniform and he had a note hung around his neck, which read, ''Down with Big Brother."

Dave moved back into the corridor. He watched Mike as he read the sign. Mike glanced back at Dave.

'There's a bomb factory in the kitchen.' said Dave.

'That's one way to send a message.' said Mike, holding up the sign.

'Killing a copper would have been enough.' said Dave.

'Where's uniform? They should be in the roof by now.' Said Mike.

Both men looked up, heard a breaking of wood upstairs feet dropping onto floorboards. They then heard panicked voices and steps.

'Get down.' Shouted Mike, reaching for Dave.

Then, boom, a loud explosion came from above. The whole building shook and the detectives fell to the floor. Dust and plaster fell from the ceiling as they protected their heads.