The End of the Rainbow

By Elle Fran Williams

Joe, a disciplined and compassionate paramedic with a military background, had always followed orders. He witnessed the trials and horrors of civilian life daily, sometimes watching people die before his eyes or experiencing the miracle of bringing someone back from the brink of death. However, nothing could have prepared him for the carnage that would ensue when he was forced to turn his attention to the deadly world of 21st-century politics.

Joe had survived life on the front lines as a soldier and understood that people were rarely entirely good or bad. He realized that personal biases and prejudices often colored one’s perspective. Content to go with the flow and live a quiet life, everything changed when he met the love of his life, Emma Lomax. Her vibrant spirit and sense of purpose compelled him to become more involved and question the decisions made by those in power that so adversely affected the lives of ordinary people.

In turbulent times, with London on the brink of a dictatorship, Joe found himself caught in the middle of a political upheaval. As people died, he took on the roles of victim, chronicler, and detective, trying to unravel whether the violence was orchestrated by someone in a position of power who saw him as a threat or the work of a madman on a vendetta mission. Thrust into the heart of a deadly political game, Joe must navigate a treacherous landscape where the line between sanity and lunacy is increasingly blurred.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jun 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035837632

Elle Fran Williams

Elle Fran lives in England, but has an equally strong Irish background, making her at one and the same time romantic and cynical!   She was trained as a Social Worker, working over the years with a vast variety of people, problems and needs - from pre-school infants to recidivist prisoners, from people with Alzheimers to immigrants,  from alcohol and drug addicts to teenagers with problems caused by both nature and nurture … and much in between.  For an essential balance in life, she also ran The Performing Arts Medicine Trust, a charity set up to link struggling and injured dancers, actors, singers, musicians, acrobats … et al  … with the right medical help and advice.    She also worked for a lot of years in a unit of Cranfield University offering practical and inspirational advice to businesses and individuals by linking them with appropriate expertise.  In addition, for light relief and out of interest in the Press, the media, and the dissemination of information around the world, she spent an eventful, informative and interesting 12 months minuting meetings for the National Union of Journalists! She is a graduate of both the University of North London and Loughborough University, having a Diploma in Social Policy and latterly as a very mature student embarked on a Master's Degree in Social Policy at Loughborough University.  But far more than all of that, she has learned more from life itself and despite everything most fortuitously, Elle Fran still  just likes people .... warts and all!

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About the Author

Elle Fran lives in England, but has an equally strong Irish background, making her at one and the same time romantic and cynical!   She was trained as a Social Worker, working over the years with a vast variety of people, problems and needs - from pre-school infants to recidivist prisoners, from people with Alzheimers to immigrants,  from alcohol and drug addicts to teenagers with problems caused by both nature and nurture … and much in between.

For an essential balance in life, she also ran The Performing Arts Medicine Trust, a charity set up to link struggling and injured dancers, actors, singers, musicians, acrobats … et al  … with the right medical help and advice.

She also worked for a lot of years in a unit of Cranfield University offering practical and inspirational advice to businesses and individuals by linking them with appropriate expertise.  In addition, for light relief and out of interest in the Press, the media, and the dissemination of information around the world, she spent an eventful, informative and interesting 12 months minuting meetings for the National Union of Journalists!

She is a graduate of both the University of North London and Loughborough University, having a Diploma in Social Policy and latterly as a very mature student embarked on a Master's Degree in Social Policy at Loughborough University.

But far more than all of that, she has learned more from life itself and despite everything most fortuitously, Elle Fran still  just likes people .… warts and all! 

Copyright Information ©

Elle Fran Williams 2024

The right of Elle Fran Williams to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035837625 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035837632 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

With my deep gratitude to Jill Hailey for her patience and efficiency when she may well have wanted to scream .…. not more changes!

Prologue

A rainbow is a joyous thing since it points the way to something better. Everybody knows that there is no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, but symbolically it still holds that magic and excitement that… it just might.

We know—as educated by learning and experience—that there is never an end to any rainbow. It simply dissipates and dissolves into the ether. Into the ordinary. Despite that, somehow the human mind seems to be able to dismiss the fact and hold on to the…I should say fiction…but is it?

Maybe the rainbow itself is the miracle. The portent of hope, a symbol that things can get better and life still has something to offer. Though we are assured that the rainbow is merely a consequence of light refracting through the droplets of water…surely whatever its birth, the miracle is its consequence and its effect on the psyche.

Since nobody has ever found the end of the rainbow and achieved that pot of gold, it could still be there! Time after time, as we walk, drive, sail, sit, the sight of a rainbow makes us smile and point, and get excited. Truth, reality, do not dismiss its wonder. Explaining it does not ever diminish, let alone eradicate, the feeling of hope and the possibility of new beginnings. Somehow the hope still lingers. It is still there for everybody, everywhere, every time

So, hope is an eternal spring…unless it is snuffed out by those who have a distorted view of status and privilege. Too many are not so much intent on reaching the end of the rainbow as stopping others from doing so.

There are, as with most beautiful things in life, those who will try to destroy them by explaining the science the reality—like an adult envious of childhood denying Father Christmas or the Tooth Fairy. Some are not wicked so much as believing that somehow knowledge is the key to everything. Mostly, it is a good thing to have knowledge. But surely there are exceptions? Some things can be destroyed by explanations—like a spectacular magician’s trick. Some people spoil a dream simply because it might in some way, at some time, diminish the differential between those who have and those who have not.

Pull up the ladder, there’s no more room in this super yacht! If you have to ask how much the fare is, then you cannot afford it!

Chapter One

Death By a Thousand Lies

For early January, the weather was relatively mild, but it was drizzly and the streetlights outside on the road did little to illuminate the now rarely used cemetery which surrounded the equally seldom used church of St Jude (ironically the patron saint of hopeless causes!) Though at the time that didn’t seem particularly relevant or useful, subsequently, it did appeal to Jolyon’s somewhat skewed sense of humour. The body was certainly not hidden…indeed it was positively displayed. Face up, arms crossed, a battery-operated lantern had been angled to illuminate it, and it was lying on top of an existing grave — the grave of one Thomas Moore, born on the eighth day of August 1826—died the twelfth day of September 1991. There was an inscription on the headstone

Honour is its own reward.

All the worse for those who fail to recognise it.

Joe was very familiar with the grave and the inscription but had never really managed or even bothered to investigate the meaning behind the inscription. He knew nothing more about Thomas Moore than the dates given. However, he had long since speculated on the irony of the name. Thomas More, or Sir Thomas More, or even Saint Thomas More according to the Vatican, had had his head chopped off for sticking to his principles and falling out with Henry VIII. The sentiment on this grave, however, left one in confusion as to whether Thomas Moore—with the extra o—had died for his honour or died because he had misused/abused/underestimated somebody else’s honour. None of that, of course, was on Jolyon’s mind today. His eyes and his mind were firmly fixed on the apparition lying before him. This was no coincidence. This was no accident. Jolyon was meant to find this.

The figure looked serene—almost…well…almost happy. Exactly as though it had chosen to go to sleep there…on Thomas Moore’s grave—fully dressed, in casual trousers, check shirt, Fair Isle knitted pullover and corduroy jacket. The feet were not visible since they were anchored under the end stone of the grave, but Jolyon assumed they would be encased in knitted socks and either casual slip-on shoes, or sandals. Not an exact copy of the clothes Jolyon found himself in right now, but a very close match. In case the outfit still failed to be an adequate identification, there was a red rose clenched in the body’s teeth and what looked like a copy of the discarded manifesto tucked securely under the folded arms as though clutched to his heart. The symbolism was impossible to ignore.

That paper had been for Jolyon Cartwright, nowadays better known as Joe, and many thousands more a call to arms. It was conceived by what quickly became his guru, Jerome Christie, and it was not just Joe who had been enthused and captivated by it. There had been a surge of people coming out of their apathy and believing that in it they saw a new political path and a better future—a reason for them to take an interest. To many, who had done little more before than put a cross on a voting paper (or had never bothered); or who had put a cross on a voting paper because their parents had voted thus; or … perhaps worse…because they had a nice smile or wore Gucci shoes; or even worse than worse they’d seen him/her in Big Brother, or the Jungle…the manifesto had represented a new understanding that what those people up there in Westminster decided, had a direct effect on them…affected their very health, wealth and welfare. They really needed to take an interest. Ordinary people had got interested and politicised, which was really bad news for those other people who had had a free hand up until then.

Unfortunately, that was not just the Government, but what was euphemistically referred to as the ‘Opposition’ too. The Opposition—when analysed brutally—represented a view that was only slightly different from the Government itself. One might argue—and some did—that the Opposition was merely playing the bridesmaid but was likely to try very hard not to catch the bride’s bouquet, since it was quite happy in that role. For people only interested in their own best interests, why would they not be? It came with all the perks and none of the responsibilities. So, the huge response to Christie and his proposals came as a shock to a lot of people. Even more alarming was that so many were willing to put their money and their time where their mouth was, and actually join the Party…the Christie Party…in their droves. The energy, the dynamism, was immense and was horrifying. There were several factions who individually and collectively orchestrated the campaign to discredit the man, disband his followers, and dismantle ‘that smoking gun.’ If the proposals in that document were ever to come to fruition, then the financial health of the wealthy would be in serious jeopardy. At the same time, Christie’s Manifesto—like Christie himself—was in every way non-violent, and his aversion to war, to aggression, to injustice, to incursion, posed a threat to many more. The arms trade, those countries hell-bent on land-grab and ethnic cleansing, and those supporting those ideals.

The manifesto—for the non-political—was a shopping list. A list of house renovations, and improvements. It was the future plan of a Government headed up by Christie—that with the number of people buying into the land reform/neighbourhood regeneration scheme had every possibility of becoming fact and not just a pipedream.

Christie understandably was a horrible prospect for the haves who were not at all anxious to share the spoils with the undeserving masses. They set about the task of destroying the man. The proposals in the document were too obviously attractive to the vast majority of the adults entitled to vote, so it was difficult to put them off of the promises themselves. The only way forward was to demonise the man, or failing that, make him ridiculous.

It was a real war of attrition. They pursued their end with determination, money, threats, bribery and promises. Not only Christie himself but many of his vocal (or potentially vocal) supporters were targeted. The individual groups around the country were ‘forbidden’ to talk about, discuss, or have an opinion on things that were proscribed by the ‘Centre’…and failing that people were ‘suspended,’ or ‘expelled.’ Branch members fell out with branch members, and neighbours with neighbours. It was like the night of the long knives! The hope was that Jerome Christie would accept the reality of the situation: He had been divorced by the Party—his Party who were afraid of such radical ideas.

He had given people a new hope, a new focus, a new dream. And now it was worse than dead—it was killed by the very people that should have been delivering it. But the dream remained because the person who conjured up the dream was still there. Not gone away. If the dream was to be resurrected, many thought he should accept the reality. Not the reality that the dream was dead, but that it was dead within the ambit of his current Party. A Party that in any case cut him off.

A lot of people were looking for him to tell them that the dream was not dead, and that he would deliver the dream under a new banner. A new rainbow. A Rainbow Party. He was reluctant to abandon the Party he had worked for diligently for over many decades and hoped—most would say futilely—that sense would prevail and the Party would return to their real purpose, their raison d’etre. Namely to look the best for the ordinary working citizens of the country—the taxpayers, the voters and their own constituents. That was never to be, since by that time, they were in thrall to other people with a different agenda. An agenda that protected their tax status, their wealth, their right to plunder, and their current privileged status.

So, that was the picture on this bleak, January night in a cold bleak dark graveyard in South West London. Like some kind of third-rate horror film. Gone midnight, a forlorn, overgrown, inner-city graveyard now illuminated and one could say desecrated by a grotesque and bizarre spectacle.

Joe Cartwright, standing before his effigy, quite calm, seemingly neither outraged nor frightened, was thoughtful.

He was tempted to go across and retrieve the document from under the figure’s arms since it was almost sacred to him, and it might rain. But he didn’t.

Despite his relatively affluent beginnings, his private schooling, and the likelihood that when his father, also Jolyon, and his mother Catherine died, he would solely own a substantial house in fashionable Chelsea in the heart of a very expensive London, a villa in the Algarve, and a substantial portfolio of shares in both traditional and up and coming companies, Joe Cartwright was very much an advocate for that manifesto. Of course, his background was always being thrown back at him by those that who opposed his stance. He was painted as a hypocrite, or some kind of airy fairy Robin Hood figure, though a pantomime version rather than a Mother Teresa. That kind of financial and class disloyalty was not welcome to everybody—and locally—mirroring what was happening centrally and nationally to Jerome Christie. Joe was the local ‘Christie.’ Joe was being vilified and painted as either a lunatic or a fanatic.

None of that was of any consequence to Joe. He had a strong back and with his long-time partner, Emma, now dead, and no children, he found no difficulty in ignoring and using the abuse and lies to fuel his passion and his determination. He saw all the dirty tricks and bad money spent on maligning, traducing and vilifying himself and many others as proof positive that he—and the manifesto—was right, and he had to fight on and expose the hypocrisy which labelled itself Government in the twenty-first century.

He did marvel, though, at the serious local money, energy and clout that were being expended in trying to bring him down. He realised that it was him locally, but a myriad of good and honourable men and women nationwide. People up and down the country to whom it had come as a complete shock that anybody would consider the truths and aspirations contained in Jerome Christie’s brilliant manifesto as anathema and to be destroyed at all costs—along with Jerome and anybody who supported him. National figures were lampooned, goaded, belittled in the media, and their supporters and advocates were receiving the same kind of treatment locally on the basis that if you cannot prove that somebody is a crook, and then make them look like a clown instead.

Just like the picture nationally, in Joe’s local political scene, this schism had dire consequences and had now been going on for too many years. He was no longer welcome at meetings. They tried to ban him from open meetings and rallies, but that proved impossible. They tried to prevent him speaking, even talking on street corners, but he was made of sterner stuff than they—and despite the diktats that were incessantly coming down from the Party leader—in truth a man of little impact or charisma, but a respectable mouthpiece and puppet for those who wanted to control, but could not come out into the light of day themselves, a bit like Dracula having to create acolytes who can do his bidding during daylight hours.

Joe knew that the local activists had been completely out of their depth. They were just people who up until now had been happy meeting every month or so—except during summer when it was difficult to get a quorum because of holidays—to have a moan about the state of the roads, the amount of Council Tax, the latest piece of scandal relating to MP’s expenses. They had been mortified to read that even their own Member of Parliament had been reported for claiming for a gardener on a flat that she owned which was on a fifth floor of a block of flats. She had argued that part of her service charge was for landscaping and that she had a very nice balcony with an attractive all-around window box and house plants which needed taking care of. Her case was being studied by similarly-minded people; she had been exonerated. Exonerated that is until she upset somebody, and they told the newspapers that it was a porky…she didn’t pay any service charges, because the flat belonged to a friend who lived most of the year either in the Cayman Islands or Dubai and who was just pleased to have a presence there when he was away.

Joe had found it amusing that they had been terrified that, though he was Acting Chair, he might write too strong a letter to her. They were insistent that Sheila should visit Martin Shelby, the then Chair—though he was at the time unwell (which was a constant state of affairs interpreted by most as less ‘unwell’ as unfit to drive!) and ask him to write it—politely—just pointing out that ‘they were disappointed and…they’d prefer that…it would be nice if…could she please refrain…please…from doing it again…pretty please…! Best wishes, Yours as ever, etc.’

When Joe tried to put more fire in their bellies, they agreed that it was just terrible and disgraceful but perhaps let sleeping dogs lie, eh? According to Sheila (secretary to the branch), they should just be very thankful she was one of ‘them’… a Government MP, not one of their own. She tried to be bullish by adding that, ‘All of them were all hell-bent on just feathering their own nests, so why would they expect Madeleine Campbell to be any different.’

When Joe wholeheartedly agreed and suggested then that they put that in the letter, Sheila—with the unanimous agreement of those there; namely, four adults and Sheila’s granddaughter, Cassiopeia…who was eight and staying with her because she got tonsillitis on the eve of the family holiday to Tuscany and the family didn’t want to waste the booking…Joe never ceased to marvel at people’s sense of priority…Still…who was he to comment…? So, Cassie was there too, and dutifully raised her hand when her grandmother did. The upshot? No. Madeleine would not be reminded that they were supposed to be working for the public not fleecing them. Sheila was adamant but shook her head in contradictory fashion when she assured them that she would certainly tell her in no uncertain terms if she should run into her. Joe was amused when Miranda, a usually vocal, but otherwise ‘inactive’ member of the group said, She lives a couple of doors down from you, Sheila, doesn’t she? Does Madge Byron still clean for both of you?

(Miranda was a dental nurse who had joined the Branch because she had become incensed when her employer ceased to treat NHS patients and she had to write to so many telling them they now needed to pay up or literally shut up. She was probably the youngest in the group, at 37, who spoke a good rebellion but was reluctant to be seen to step out of line, since her rent depended on her job, and her job depended on not overtly upsetting her employer. She was, like many, on the horns of a dilemma, since her conscience told her one thing, and her security told her