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was to guide without overtly pushing.
    ‘It was obvious. Both nights after September 13th the whole far end of the airfield was full of vans and lights. And then on the Sunday, we heard a plane. No lights, mind, just the antenna mast lights. But a plane came in the small hours, and left straight away. I live on Bloxham Road and I heard it.’
    ‘That’s great. What’s your interest, Joe?’
    He beamed with pride. ‘Me and my friends watch the base. They call it an RAF base, but it’s not. It’s a secret CIA base. We also track the rendition flights. Look.’
    He turned the laptop so I could see the screen. A website called Flightrader24 was running, showing a map of England and Northern Europe, and dozens of little yellow planes.
    ‘That’s really cool, Joe. Can you see what was in the air here on Sunday night?’
    ‘Course.’
    He tapped at the keys and the touchpad. He hit ‘Playback’ and entered ‘2012-09-16’, and then ‘Time-UTC 0200’.
    Just over Abingdon, a yellow plane symbol appeared with the reference N6161K. It was the only thing in the sky. It was heading Southwest. Joe enlarged the symbol, and we could see a box. It read-
    N6161K
    One Leasing
    Altitude : 5225 ft ( 1593 m )
    Track : 51 degrees
    Squawk 5331
    ‘Brilliant, Joe - can I take a snapshot?’
    He shrugged. ‘Sure, buddy.’
    I took a photo with my BlackBerry.
    On the TV above the bar, Channel 4 News had a graph with the new death toll from the Liverpool Street bombing and the Westfield attacks. The total death toll from Black Thursday was now 613. We both turned to look at it, along with the rest of the bar. Someone at the bar said ‘Fucking Muslims. Scum.’
    Time to go.
    I turned to Joe. ‘Coming outside for a fag?’
    He smiled. ‘Sure.’
    We stood outside near the trestle tables and I lit cigarettes for him and myself. Couple of quick drags of this and was heading up to Barford St. John. On my BlackBerry I quickly pulled up a Google map satellite overview of where I was, for backup when I reached the airfield. Beside me Joe spoke. ‘You know all that Black Thursday stuff is false-flag, right?’
    I looked at him. Oh, here we go.
    ‘Yeah, bud. Muslims are being set up as scapegoats by the Government. I talk to some Muslims on the internet all the time. It’s all an inside job, buddy, just like 7/7 and 9/11.’
    He jerked a thumb back towards the bar. ‘That stuff on telly… those people in Westfield weren’t Muslims, they were an undercover army unit. Al-Qaeda? No such thing. The army had a black helicopter on the day. Dropped ‘em in.’
    He took a drag on his fag.
    I really, really felt like telling him who he was standing next to, what I’d been doing on Black Thursday, and why I was in his sleepy village. Oh yeah, Joe insider-knowledge, the truth would really bake your noodle. These people did my head in. They thought they were helping but all they were doing was spreading an infection in popular culture. For a few seconds I entertained what would happen if the real black helicopter pilot from the day, who just happened to be Fuzz Shaheen, encountered this no-mark. He’d never leave his house again.
    I cut away. Time to go. Anyway, hark at me, I’d been entertaining conspiracies about Airey Neave a few days back. I bade my goodbyes, thanked him profusely, reminded him to watch ITN, and went to the car.
    And I thought, as I drove away…Sunshine, buddy , you will never know…
     

 
     
    8
     
    The satnav led me west out of Deddington, through the darkened villages of Barford St Michael and then Barford St John. I couldn’t see anything. The villages looked completely battened down. I’d never seen anything like this. No pubs, no shops, nothing. Maybe I’d driven too far in the dusk? As I drove, I craned my neck over the fields looking for something, anything.
    And then, finally, I saw it. Standing in the field like a gantry was a strangely-shaped antenna with a solitary red light on the top. I braked. Ah. There