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<blockquote data-quote="Eccles" data-source="post: 5747775" data-attributes="member: 5675"><p>Some hours later, and the white security van had pulled away to return to the prison. Shackles had been removed and tea provided. Ramrod straight, CSM Mills stood wearing clothes which might have fitted him five years earlier next to two complete strangers in a darkened room. On his left a tired looking woman with bushy red hair, and on his right a bearded scruffy man in a knitted argyle pullover. </p><p></p><p>There was a sudden flare of light in the dim room as a screen came to life; an old cathode ray television connected to a top-loading VCR on a rolling trolley began to play.</p><p></p><p>A pale hatchet face surrounded by a crash-helmet of blonde hair, pearl earrings and a matching necklace stared out of the screen.</p><p></p><p>“Maggie bleedin’ Thatcher,” breathed CSM Mills as the face on the screen spoke in a stentorian, measured cadence.</p><p></p><p>“You are the agents of her Britannic Majesty’s government. Before you on the desk is a file of papers telling you where to find a cache of equipment necessary for your mission. You have each been trained as members of the Burnplank team, and a situation has arisen which requires your talents. You will also find a file of papers which describes the situation at hand. </p><p></p><p>“As you were told in your basic training, the situation you will encounter is expected to be significant and unusual, and a sterilisation of the area with military force is not yet warranted. Take the information, and act in the best interests of the British government, and the best traditions of the British people. Act with bravery, discretion and compassion. God speed, and good luck.”</p><p></p><p>“Awesome,” grinned Norman, the man in the argyle sweater. “Dudes, we are going to have so much fun! We’ll take the van, dudes. This way!”</p><p></p><p>Jumping from his chair, the bearded man fumbled blindly for the doorhandle in the dark, whilst groping in his pocket for his keys. Mills turned smartly and strode from the door after him before finally Morag Lucas sighed, reached for the lights and picked up the file of paperwork before scurrying after them. </p><p></p><p>Out in the car park, the ‘van’ turned out to be a deep purple Jaguar XJS with cream leather upholstery. For CSM Mills, the drive to Dulwich was an agonising one, as all the discs contained in the CD changer were either peace-pipes or whale music…</p><p></p><p>.oOo.</p><p></p><p>Under a branch of the metropolitan underground line in Dulwich lies a long series of arches which have been converted into lock-up garages. Outside one of these the Jaguar slid to a graceful halt.</p><p></p><p>It took Morag some moments to pick up the papers from the footwell of the car. She had thrown them there in a panic the first time Norman had turned the car into a space she would have sworn wasn’t big enough whilst adjusting the rear-view mirror to be able to see eye to eye with the big man in the back seat to “connect with him on a more intimate and soulful way, you dig?”</p><p></p><p>It wasn’t as if the bearded hippie was even a good driver, she reflected nervously. Behind her Mills marched unflappably to the lock-up and started to remove a series of padlocks with the keys she had found in the folder. Norman, she decided, was clearly the luckiest man alive, and also palpably crazy – at one stage when she was screaming at him on the drive, he had told her to “relax” as it simply “wasn’t his time to die”. Clutching the rest of the paperwork to her chest, she slammed the door in a fury and dashed to join Mills at the lock-up.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Eccles, post: 5747775, member: 5675"] Some hours later, and the white security van had pulled away to return to the prison. Shackles had been removed and tea provided. Ramrod straight, CSM Mills stood wearing clothes which might have fitted him five years earlier next to two complete strangers in a darkened room. On his left a tired looking woman with bushy red hair, and on his right a bearded scruffy man in a knitted argyle pullover. There was a sudden flare of light in the dim room as a screen came to life; an old cathode ray television connected to a top-loading VCR on a rolling trolley began to play. A pale hatchet face surrounded by a crash-helmet of blonde hair, pearl earrings and a matching necklace stared out of the screen. “Maggie bleedin’ Thatcher,” breathed CSM Mills as the face on the screen spoke in a stentorian, measured cadence. “You are the agents of her Britannic Majesty’s government. Before you on the desk is a file of papers telling you where to find a cache of equipment necessary for your mission. You have each been trained as members of the Burnplank team, and a situation has arisen which requires your talents. You will also find a file of papers which describes the situation at hand. “As you were told in your basic training, the situation you will encounter is expected to be significant and unusual, and a sterilisation of the area with military force is not yet warranted. Take the information, and act in the best interests of the British government, and the best traditions of the British people. Act with bravery, discretion and compassion. God speed, and good luck.” “Awesome,” grinned Norman, the man in the argyle sweater. “Dudes, we are going to have so much fun! We’ll take the van, dudes. This way!” Jumping from his chair, the bearded man fumbled blindly for the doorhandle in the dark, whilst groping in his pocket for his keys. Mills turned smartly and strode from the door after him before finally Morag Lucas sighed, reached for the lights and picked up the file of paperwork before scurrying after them. Out in the car park, the ‘van’ turned out to be a deep purple Jaguar XJS with cream leather upholstery. For CSM Mills, the drive to Dulwich was an agonising one, as all the discs contained in the CD changer were either peace-pipes or whale music… .oOo. Under a branch of the metropolitan underground line in Dulwich lies a long series of arches which have been converted into lock-up garages. Outside one of these the Jaguar slid to a graceful halt. It took Morag some moments to pick up the papers from the footwell of the car. She had thrown them there in a panic the first time Norman had turned the car into a space she would have sworn wasn’t big enough whilst adjusting the rear-view mirror to be able to see eye to eye with the big man in the back seat to “connect with him on a more intimate and soulful way, you dig?” It wasn’t as if the bearded hippie was even a good driver, she reflected nervously. Behind her Mills marched unflappably to the lock-up and started to remove a series of padlocks with the keys she had found in the folder. Norman, she decided, was clearly the luckiest man alive, and also palpably crazy – at one stage when she was screaming at him on the drive, he had told her to “relax” as it simply “wasn’t his time to die”. Clutching the rest of the paperwork to her chest, she slammed the door in a fury and dashed to join Mills at the lock-up. [/QUOTE]
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