Jackboot Britain: The Alternate History - Hitler's Victory & The Nazi UK! by Daniel S. Fletcher Page B

mince…”
    Muttering irritably, the Londoner rose smartly and strode through to the public bar, noting Arthur turn at his arrival to shrug helplessly. The man to whom the Geordie accent belonged was clad in a typically buccaneering black leather jacket with fur lining, his hair cut short into a businessman’s neat side parting, as though in conscious irony; the dichotomy of a man stood strained with unreleased tension, green eyes lit by the fire of fury as his voice rose to a scream:
    “You’re fuckin’ pathetic, man! Sitting here drinking yourself into oblivion while there’s a war and killin’ out there – you do realise there’s a war aye?”
    But his red-faced admonitions were for nought. Bill Wilson remained as impassive as ever.
    “I am quite well aware of the hostilities, thank you.” Bill said quietly.
    The tone was a sort of softened cockney; the vague hint of underlying Bow Bells remained, but had been smoothened into the kind of generic delivery that could have come out of any north London suburb. Somehow, the clear and reasoned elocution didn’t seem synergic with his appearance; bloodshot eyes, a heavy overcoat as weathered as Alan’s own jacket, and several days’ worth of stubble on a haggard, drawn face, not to mention the lingering pungency of the strong tobacco odour that relentlessly followed him. Bill was a tired man, whose age was almost impossible to determine, with the vestiges of a rugged, yet still youthful handsomeness visible, but overwhelmed by the wild facial hair and weatherbeaten skin. Yet for a man suspected of all manner of things, from idiocy to outright lunacy, he rarely betrayed emotion, much less emotional immaturity. Faced with an irate Alan, the fatigued, battered-looking Bill betrayed nothing; no fear, resentment, anger, sadness, bemusement… nothing. The calm response only served to further rile Alan up. Bill’s composure was unsettling. Worse, the man’s slovenly state made his reasoned tone seem exaggerated, which his Geordie tormentor seemed to sense as he visibly bristled, railing even louder than before:
    “Then get off your arse and do something constructive you drunken shite ! You didn’t even put your name down for the reserves or the Local Defence volunteers or the fire service or anything , you draft dodging bastard !”
    In the ensuing silence of the pub, Bill sipped his pint again, thoughtfully. In no obvious hurry to answer, nor concerned at all for his own wellbeing, he scratched the stubble on his chin with one overgrown, blackened fingernail, before raising his eyes to Alan, calmly inquisitive.
    “What exactly are you doing?”
    Jack had seen enough. The reply was maddening for Alan, who recognised and quickly bit down on his dangerous anger as it threatened to boil over into violence. He’d began sneering “if only you bleedin’ well kn…” just as Jack grabbed him from behind, and jostled him away to the threshold. “Alan! That’s enough!”
    Steering the incensed Geordie towards the door, Jack looked around at Bill. “Sorry about that,” and to his friend, “let’s go outside and cool off.”
    Alan gently removed Jack’s hand that was still clasped on his shoulder, and they walked out together, the anger instantly quelled. With no sun in the darkening sky, the frosty wind bit as they stepped out into the chilly air, both silently noting that such conditions were ideal to speak in. On this uncommonly windy evening, few informants would be inclined to face the chill, with fewer still potential or tangible enemies in proximity capable of hearing much of what was being said in the silent streets.
    Despite this, Jack suddenly grabbed the Geordie, and dragged him over to the alleyway next to the pub. He didn’t let go until they were several metres into the shadow, finally allowing himself to let loose with a flurry of recriminations.
    “What the hell do you think you’re playing at? Were you really about to tell one of the locals that