11-15 the next morning, a somber faced Prime Minister addressed the nation over the radio. ’This morning, the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final Note stating, that unless we heard from them by 11 o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us. I have to tell you now, that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently, Britain is at war with Germany.’ 

Whilst the rest of the British public was in total shock, inside a grand house in the borough of Kensington, a young man called Jonathon would remember the day for an entirely different reason. For it was the day his angry mother picked up a kitchen knife and thrust it towards him, threatening to end his life on the spot. 

But Jonathon moved swiftly and grabbed her by the wrist, wrestled the knife from her grasp and pinned her to the floor. Now as he sat astride her, and thrust his chest forward, there was madness in his eyes, and a snigger engulfed his entire face. Now he was in control, not her. 

His mother tried desperately to wriggle free from his firm grip, but her feeble efforts were useless, no match for his superior weight, strength and newfound determination. 

’Why did you stand and watch my father bully and ridicule me, that’s when the vile cretin was not tending to his vast fortune and business interests’? His mind drifted back to the day when the bullying had stopped. 

The day his father had mysteriously disappeared was shortly after the worst Wall Street Stock exchange crash in history, which plunged America and eventually, the World, into economic depression. What had happened to his father was a mystery to most people. But the loss of a man described by some as a ruthless moral waste of space, was no loss at all to the masses of people who were living in a poverty ravaged Britain, where work was impossible to find, and the next meal was never certain. 

 The loss of his father had not bothered Jonathon in the slightest. In fact, he had celebrated the event with a glass of Champagne, for he was one step closer to inheriting the vast fortune his father had accumulated. 

 Jonathon continued his rant. ’But you mother, you were different. You were well thought of, and mixed with the highest of London’s social circles. We were close then. But after father disappeared you changed. You turned to alcohol and started drinking at the break of dawn. You sank to greater and greater depths. People began to avoid you like the dreaded plague. Then you started mixing with the dregs of society.’ He looked her straight in the eyes. ’Now you don’t have any time for me. You don’t give a hoot about me. I’m nothing but a burden to you now. Well not any more.’ In an instant, he took hold of her blouse with one hand and ripped it free. The sight of her soft breasts sent his pulse soaring. The feel of her tender skin as it touched his muscled torso took him past the point of no return. He did not see his mother’s eyes jerk wide open or her face grimacing. He was oblivious to her voice croaking and whimpering as years of pent-up feelings poured out of him. His actions were like those of a man possessed by the devil. 

There had been no sun that day. Dusk was approaching fast when he collapsed utterly exhausted on the cold hard floor and looked vacantly up at the ceiling. After a while, his eyes lost the crazed look they had had earlier. He was relatively calm now as he turned his head to one side. There was sufficient light for him to see the room was a mess. The table was on its side. The lamp was broken, and the carpet was covered in scuff marks. He looked at his mother. She was lying motionless. Her blouse was torn. Her skirt was some distance away from her lifeless body. Her hair was ruffled. Blood was dripping from her nose onto the floor. Something was stuffed in her mouth. He moved closer to her and removed a piece of her blouse from her mouth. He raised her bruised limp body from the floor and held her in his arms. Not a flicker was in her bloodshot eyes. He shook her. ’Mother. Wake up.’ But she would not wake up. A look of annoyance and confusion appeared on his face, for what had happened to her was just a blur and not making any sense to him. He pinched his lip and struck her. ’To hell with you. Why did you have to die’? He carelessly tossed her aside, stood, and left the room. 

 He retreated to his room and whilst listening to the news on the radio, he formulated a plan. There was a family stone burial chamber in a wooded area at the bottom of the garden, where he had often played and hid from his father. He would bury his mother there. He took comfort knowing nobody would ever find her there. He smiled. Afterwards, he would enlist in the army.  

As the clocks chimed twice the next morning, he woke, crept out of bed and made his way down the stairs to where he had left his mother, stepped into the room and froze. His eyes darted around the room. His face twitched. His brow creased. The room was empty, apart from the smell of stale air and the aroma of his lingering sweat. He raced back up the stairs and marched straight into her bedroom. His eyes jerked from one side of the room to the other, scouring every possible hiding place. Her bedroom was empty, apart from signs she had left in a hurry. The wardrobe doors were open, clothes had been removed and clothes on shelves had been ruffled. Perhaps it was lucky for her she wasn’t there and how ironic, because the night before she had been totally inebriated and passed out and it was alcohol that had saved her. He tore down the stairs, opened the back door and peered outside. It was pitch black. There was no sign of the moon, hidden behind a layer of angry thick grey cloud. He struggled to see anything clearly. But he could hear the eerie sounds of the wind rustling through the trees, and tugging at the branches. He went back inside to the kitchen and took a torch from a drawer, and ventured out into the garden again. He shone the torch as he walked. But after roughly ten minutes and finding no sign of his mother, he gave up the search, retraced his steps and walked back inside the house, climbed the stairs, entered his bedroom, kicked the bed, fell on it, and lay there restless, his thoughts revolving and clattering around his brain much too fast to make sense of what had happened. 

 He rose with a headache to the sound of the clock chiming seven times, paced down the stairs and entered the kitchen. He saw the unwashed pots and pans in the sink, and he noticed a note on the table. He picked up the note. It was from his mother. Its message was simple. "When I return, do not be here. Otherwise, the police will take you away." The stench of cold sweat coating his brow drifted up his nostrils. His head pounded. There was a look of utter irritation and bewilderment on his screwed up tormented face. He retreated upstairs to the bathroom in search of some headache tablets and after a wash, he went into his bedroom to pack a suitcase. 

 Dressed and finished packing, he left the family home and made his way to the army recruitment center, where he eagerly enlisted in the British Army. 

Later that day his irate mother went to the local police station. ’I’m here to file a complaint against my son. He’s attacked me. Look.’ She stopped short at saying, "he’s raped me too," and pointed to her bruised face instead. 

 She was well known to the officer on duty because of her drinking habit, so was cell two where she had spent many a night sobering up. After she left, the duty officer smiled. She reeked of alcohol. He placed the form with a large pile of other complaints. Already, the war was causing chaos. Two of his officers had gone to enlist, the phone line was down and new and different orders were being placed upon him daily. As far as he was concerned, an inquiry into her son’s alleged behaviour would never happen. 

Those who served with Jonathon in the army would later describe him as "a strange man, and at times, terrifying, definitely not the sort of chap to mess with." 

 After the war Jonathon left the army and returned to London. It was hard for him to grasp how badly Britain had emerged from WWII, bombed out, exhausted and bankrupt. London had become a drab, decaying, decrepit, sagging, rotten disgrace of a city, its once majestic buildings were now filthy, pitted with shrapnel scars and running with pigeon dung. Bus tickets, torn newspapers and rubbish littered the streets. Whole suburbs of private houses were damaged and cracked, their windows broken or unwashed, their steps not swept, their gardens untended. 

 He often walked past what was once his grand family home, but was now like many other buildings in London, damaged and run down. He noticed the house never seemed to be occupied. 

One day, he decided to visit the legal firm his father had used. Whist there, he discovered his mother had been killed during a bombing raid and that the family fortune had been left to him. He was rich, very rich. 

 He left the legal firm, and skipped along the pavement. After a while, he reached the family home in London’s Kensington district. It was his now, but no sooner had he stepped inside the house, he knew he would not settle there. The place was cold and full of memories. Bad memories. 

 He swiftly sold the house and sailed to America where he had a brief affair, after which, he abruptly returned to Britain. 

 Whilst sailing back to Britain, he decided he would make a fresh start. Though at this point in time, he had no idea where he would settle. 

By the time he stepped off the ship, he had chosen.