The usual suspects were being the most verbal; namely the ones who had opposed the application from the outset. Most people were unhappy about the plan, but would have stayed the silent majority had it not been for two or three more vocal members of the community.
 ‘How much Shelford, Shelford how much?’ sung to the tune of Big Ben began to echo round like an angry football crowd.

A roar of disdain filled the hall. Months of waiting were finally over, the final decision on the erection of the phone mast was read aloud by the council leader.
‘It is the decision of the council that planning permission is hereby granted for the building of the new mobile phone mast at Tatley Stokeham.’ David Shelford sat down as the wave of anger washed over him; he sat blinking at the assembled crowd of villagers and press. He wanted to sink down in his seat.

To his right the American Contract Manager, Thomas Grayson, was on his feet trying to sooth the crowd with his normal silky voice; this didn’t seem to be having much effect.
David was lost.
Why was there so much opposition to sixty feet of steel and cabling? It’s not as if it will be in open view, he thought glumly. He remembered the first time Thomas had been to see him to table the planning application.
‘This mast will benefit not just us, but the community as a whole,’ the American promised. ‘The village of Tatley Stokeham will be brought into the twenty first century. Mobile phones are the way forward, don’t you see? This village is one of the last few places in the country where you can’t use a mobile, how backward is that?”
‘Yes,’ replied David, ‘I’m sure the benefits will outweigh the downsides, but it’s not me that you have to convince. Tatley Stokeham will fight you every step of the way.’
‘Surely they’ll see the same advantages as you?’
‘Unfortunately no,’ said David, ‘there has been a lot of bad press in this country about the risks to health that these damn masts bring. Besides this village has been here for over six hundred years and anything that could ruin the look of the place won’t be tolerated.’
‘Ok, ok, I understand, but we are going to apply for and get planning permission for the mast regardless of what the bumpkins of this village say, or do. Here is the planning application. I’m sure you will do your best to make its passage through the petty halls of local government as smooth as possible?’

David had started the wheels in motion; the result was the din of civil unrest erupting before his eyes tonight.

He got to his feet, his face beginning to mirror the purple Hanlon.
‘LISTEN!’ He cried above the ruckus. The crowd became quieter as did his voice. ‘I have not accepted, or been approached to accept any kind of money for getting this contract approved. This mast will be of great benefit to the village and now the application has been approved the mast is going up.’
‘Over my dead body!’ Hanlon shouted, his voice carried over the other dissenters.
David sighed, ‘I’m afraid that this meeting can not continue in this manner and I am therefore closing the proceedings.’ He turned to the council clerk who sat wide-eyed looking up at him. ‘Please show in the records that the meeting was ended – prematurely – at,’ he checked his watch, ‘eight thirty.’

He gathered his papers, stuffed them willy-nilly into his briefcase and stood to make his escape at the rear exit of the hall. He was about to push the door when a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him round slamming him into the wall scattering papers pinned to a notice board.

He was nose to nose with a puce-faced Hanlon; a vein pulsing in his neck and sweat beading on his forehead. The big farmer was shaking with anger but before he had chance to speak was grabbed by three other men and hauled bodily backwards toward the far end of the hall. He was spitting insults all the way.

He was dimly aware of blue flashes and shouting voices as the assembled press recorded the event for posterity; this was no time for talking to the media. He pushed his way through the throng and out into the cool night.

Leaning back in the soft leather he composed himself and was just about to start the engine when a knock on the window almost made him shout in surprise. Thomas Grayson was peering down; he motioned for David to open the window.
‘That went better than I hoped.’ Thomas winked
‘What!’ David spluttered, ‘they almost lynched me!’’
‘Yes, but they didn’t.’ There was no humour in his eyes. ‘Work will start on Monday.’ He nodded curtly and turned and strode towards his own car.
So work was starting Monday David thought as he drove back through the dark. They certainly didn’t hang around once they were had planning permission.

The drive took him past the mast site. It was a clearing on the outskirts of the village surrounded on three sides by tall, ancient oak. The village was located on the other side of the wood so they wouldn’t even see the mast. Besides the trees dwarfed the mast by many meters; he really couldn’t see the issue here. This was just small town pig-headedness for the sake of it.

Turning into his drive the car crunched over gravel and pulled into the garage. The got out, went into the house and poured a large, well deserved scotch.
The house was empty. He could have done with Linda being there. She knew how to handle these kinds of situations and on top this he was feeling lonely; with Linda being away on business he would have to stay lonely.

One scotch, (inevitably), led to two and before long he had fallen into a deep, troubled sleep. The empty glass still held to his chest.

His slumber was broken by a crash. The glass smashed onto the floor. He automatically covered his face and fell forward. The shattered remains of the glass coffee table were lying strewn across the floor and a cool breeze on his neck indicated that the window had also gone. He lay silently for a few seconds, listening. Crunching footfalls faded away into the night. He looked around warily. The rock had rolled across the floor. He got up to look and was half expecting to see a clichéd note tied around it, but it was just a rock.

Two hours after later the local police had done a very thorough job of looking like they were investigating the incident, searching the premises and taking statements; they left. David was alone again. Not taking any chances this time he set the house and perimeter alarm and went to bed, unsuccessfully trying to sleep the remainder of the night.

Linda came back later the following afternoon suggested they go for a drink at the village pub to show that they were not about to be intimidated by local thugs. The pub was as busy as you would expect on a Saturday night but although things were cordial he was sure he wasn’t getting served as quick as other people. Conversations were muted when he passed and more than once he was jostled at the bar, causing his drink to slosh onto the floor. This soon became too much and they left early. The rest of the weekend passed uneventfully much to his relief.

Monday slipped in without fanfare. Low gray clouds of a typical English February morning greeted him as he left for the mast site. As he drove up to the works entrance there was already a frenetic pace to the work. There were lorries, diggers, low-loaders and, he saw to his disgust, security vans. A dozen or so thickset men sporting luminous jackets and radios were wearing menacing expressions.

A small group of protestors, not locals as far as he could see, were keeping security busy. They were trying to force their way past the hastily setup security barriers and attempting to block the path of a lorry, with little success. They booed and spat insults at the driver as he drove into the site; waved in but a man with a prominent brow ridge and mono-eyebrow.

He’s hired thugs David thought sadly. He hoped that Thomas could keep them under control and no-one got injured. He spotted Thomas in the distance talking to what David presumed was the site foreman. He stopped the car, slipped off his shoes and reached round behind the passenger seat, grabbed his boots and pulled them on.

He left he car and strode across the site, more than once almost losing his footing in what was already a muddy mess. The mast was already quite tall, they didn’t hang around. Thomas saw him approach and acknowledged his presence with a raised hand.
‘I wasn’t expecting things to be this far advanced.’ David admitted, looking back at the skeletal body of the mast.
‘We have this down to a fine art.’ Thomas said proudly. ‘We have done this a thousand times before.
‘When are you expecting to go live, or whatever it is you call it?’
‘Friday at the latest, maybe even Wednesday if all goes to plan.’ replied Thomas.          ‘In fact we are going to hold a little ceremony to celebrate the last mast to go up. You are invited of course. It has been nothing but uphill battles getting this network set up believe me! It will change so many lives in the end.’ Thomas ended with a grin.
‘Thanks for the invitation, I think.’
‘You think?’ asked Thomas
‘The villagers already consider me a Judas and helping to celebrate the very thing they have so much hate for will just put me lower in their esteem.’
‘Look as soon as this goes on air everyone will forget the whole thing.’
Thomas turned and walked back to his car.

The remainder of Monday and the whole of Tuesday passed reasonably quietly with only a few snide comments and a thrown egg to remind him that he still was on the wrong side of this argument. All in all he was feeling a bit more positive come the day of the switch on.

Driving up to the site he was greeted by what appeared to be the whole population of the village complete with placards and banners demanding justice and the removal of the mast. He was booed and jeered when he left his car and a few more eggs rained down, thankfully missing him by a few feet. He turned, gave the crowd his best scowl and made his way to the podium where the American was waiting, hand outstretched in welcome.
‘David!’ Thomas enthused. ‘Good to see you. Please come up.’
‘It looks like we have the entire village here Thomas. I do hope that everything is going to go smoothly?’ David asked worriedly.
‘Don’t worry. We have enough security to hold anything back.’ He smiled. David wasn’t entirely convinced but kept it hidden as he nodded to the press massed in front of the podium.
‘We are going to be well covered then?’ he quipped, but Thomas had already turned to the crowd and was starting his speech. David was only half listening to the predicable words and marketing spiel so didn’t catch the movement of one of the villagers until it was too late. Graeme Hanlon surged forward from the crowd and began to run headlong at the podium. Thomas, whose hand was on the theatrical switch to set the system live stepped back and a guard slid in front of him, drew a pistol from under his jacket and fired twice. Hanlon span on the spot, blood and foam exploding from his mouth to join the spreading crimson stain on his chest.

Time slowed for David. He reached out for Thomas only to be met with a manic grin and a stinging back-hander which knocked him off his feet, sending him crashing into the chairs behind the podium. The chairs owners were screaming and scrambling over each other in an effort to distance themselves from the unexpected violence.

Through the dark spots threatening to strip him of consciousness David could just make out Thomas throwing the switch to complete the circuit, then nothing.

Thomas looked at the now silent and immobile crowd.

Humans, he thought, damn them!

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small object, pressed it to his ear and spoke.
‘Operation completed General. You may commence your invasion.’