1985 (30 page)

‘The building of the mosque must proceed. It is not a supermarket or a high-rise apartment block. It is a temple dedicated to God. To God, the God of the Jews and Christians and Muslims alike, the one true God of whom Abraham and Jesus and Mohammed were the prophets. I say again, the work must proceed. The wage offered is twenty pounds above the new rate sought by the Builders' Union. Be free, be free Britons, do the work you can do. We need your skill, your energy, your devotion.' A television team drank in the strikers' response: fists of anger, stroked bristled chins of indecision. The voice of Jack Burlap countered. Jack Burlap himself was there, on top of a truck, a loud-hailer to his face like an oxygen mask.

‘Don't listen to the swine, brothers. It's the old capitalist trick. No guarantee, no contract, no security, no right to withdraw labour. You blackleg bastards up there, listen to the voice of reason. Get off that filthy job, you're playing into the bastards' hands. You're done for, you've given up your freedom, they can kick you off the job when they want to. It's wog money, it's dirty Arab oil. You're finished, brothers, you stupid swine, you've given up your buggering birthright.'

‘You hear the voice of reason?' cried the loudspeaker van. ‘The voice of intolerance, rather, of racism and chauvinism. You Muslims, you hear yourselves called dirty wogs. You Jews and Christians, will you allow your brothers in God to be reviled and spat upon? Be free, throw off your chains, honest godly work awaits you.'

A huddle of strikers tried to overturn the loudspeaker van. The police held them off. Jack Burlap addressed them:

‘Now then, you police, do your duty. Don't turn against your comrades. You know the law, and I don't mean the law of the courts and the statutes. I mean the law of labour. You're workers too. Join your brothers. What's happening here is fragrant infringement. Don't let it happen –'

He was drowned by an unearthly blast of music. Eyes and open mouths sought its source. Loudspeakers, but where? A thousand mixed voices, a Berliozian orchestra, brass bands added:

I vow to thee, my country,

All earthly things above –

Entire and whole and perfect,

The service of my love. . . .

A police sergeant on a prancing mare reined in the better to hear what was coming through on his walkie-talkie. He put down the instrument and nodded at a waiting constable. The constable blew a whistle thrice shrilly. Everybody out. The police were on strike. Jack Burlap seemed to halleluiah against the music, as though at a personal triumph. Perhaps union leaders were now interchangeable, inevitable result of holistic syndicalism. The cordons broke. Odd policemen removed helmets to wipe brows. The mounted cantered off.

The love that asks no questions,

The love that stands the test,

That lays on the altar

The dearest and the best. . . .

The strikers howled or deeply moaned. They moved in on the holy building site. The music stopped in mid-minim. And then –

A platoon of men in green suits, lieutenant and leader of thirty ahead, marched down Great Smith Street at a light infantry pace. A brace of outriding motor-cycles grunted and spluttered. Another platoon followed. The police, shambling off, did not interfere. The green men carried no arms. In files they fought their way through to the making of new cordons. They were, Bev now noticed, all green-gauntleted. The right hand that had to strike out at occasional strikers seemed unusually heavy. It cracked dully on jaws. One hit a skull whose owner dithered and went clumsily down to be trampled on. Knuckledusters, of course. Bev felt sick. Another green platoon came from round the corner, this time doubling. The two cranes kept gravely to their lifting, one, setting down the other. Concrete heaved like simmering porridge. The builders went on building.

‘
NOT
armed,' said Colonel Lawrence. ‘That is important.'

‘I say armed,' said Bev. ‘Arms aren't necessarily guns. Your troops used violence.'

‘A hard word,' said Colonel Lawrence. ‘Try and see this thing in proportion. Ah.' His telephone rang.

‘Impossible,' Bev said. The colonel widened his nostrils in a sort of triumph. He picked up the receiver. He listened. He smiled. He said:

‘Your shorthand man? Good. Mr Jones will dictate.' To Bev he said: ‘We've certain lines open. They will stay open. Our newspaper is to have eight pages tomorrow. Come, to work.' Bev improvised fluently from his notes. He had never expected to be a pressman. It was easy, money for jam.

‘That,' said Colonel Lawrence, ‘is contrary to my instructions. He had listened keenly to Bev's dictation. ‘
Not
armed. Never mind. Major Campion will know what to do.' He said thanks into the handset and then replaced it.

‘Censorship, eh?' Bev said. ‘The not so
Free Briton
.'

‘Mr Jones,' said Colonel Lawrence, ‘we will discuss later the true nature of freedom. And, in respect of yourself, the freely assumed constraints of army discipline. The
Mr
, by the way, means acting full lieutenant. For the moment, can you be trusted to write the editorial? Phone it through, Major Campion will make such adjustments as are needed. He knows my style. I must go out now.' He shook his aide Redzwan, dozing in a chair. Redzwan came up fighting. ‘I must inspect the stricken city.' He went over to the window and looked out on a black London. There was light here in Al-Dorchester, though. It was dim and fluctuating, but it would get better: they were at work in the cellar adjusting the generators. ‘The situation you know – before dawn the strike will be general. The first British General Strike since 1926. Point out the great difference between then and now. Now there are no communications, no law and order. In 1926 there was at least an army that kept its oath of loyalty and a nonsyndicalized police force. Ours is now the only organization capable of maintaining minimal services. Say that when the
TUC
leaders see sense they will be more than welcome to the hospitality of these columns –'

‘You mean that, Colonel? Your organization thrives on a
TUC
that
doesn't see sense. You want this strike to end? Remember, you or your Islamic masters started it.'

‘
Your
organization,
your
masters. Tomorrow we must see about your formally taking the oath of obedience.' The telephone rang. Redzwan picked up the receiver. His jaw dropped. He handed it to Colonel Lawrence with great staring eyes on him. Colonel Lawrence said: ‘Yes?' His face too lengthened. ‘
Allah ta'ala
,' he prayed. ‘Yes. Yes. I agree.' He hung up and looked tragically at Bev. ‘Tungku Nik Hassan has been assassinated,' he announced.

‘Tungku –?'

‘Malay. From Brunei. Head of the Pan-Islamic Commission in the Haymarket. There are mobs of striking workers with nothing to do but attack various buildings flying the flag of the star and the crescent. This was inevitable, I suppose. I just did not think it would start so soon. Say something in the editorial about the deplorable racism and bigotry and, indeed, atheism that have become associated with –'

‘Wait,' Bev said. ‘How was he killed?'

‘He was struck on the head with a length of lead piping. The Tungku courageously ventured into the mob, trying to make them see reason. He was an eloquent man, his English always of the most persuasive. Put it in about his virtues –' The Colonel's nostrils were wide.

‘You smell a special danger, don't you?' Bev said. ‘Britain is now wide open to the punitive invader. The services are on strike,
NATO
will dither, the constituent countries worrying about their oil supplies. Are the Arabs coming?'

‘The Arabs are here, Mr Jones.' Colonel Lawrence made his eyes project something fearsome on to the map of Greater London on the wall. ‘Retaliation, Mr Jones. Do you think the Holy War ended in the Middle Ages?'

‘Look, Colonel sir. What exactly are you after? A free Britain or an Islamic Britain? I have to know. You've appointed me as your provisional mouthpiece.'

‘The only way out of Britain's troubles, Mr Jones, is a return to responsibility, loyalty, religion. A return to Gqd. And who will show us God now? The Christians? Christianity was abolished by the Second Vatican Council. The Jews? They worship a bloody tribal deity. I was slow in coming to Islam, Mr Jones. Twenty years as one of His Majesty of Saudi Arabia's military advisers, and all the time I kept, as was my right,
to my father's Presbyterianism. Then I saw how Islam contained everything and yet was as simple and sharp and bright as a sword. I had dreamt of no Islamic revolution in Britain but rather of a slow conversion, helped by an Islamic infiltration expressed in terms of Islamic wealth and moral influence. Slow, slow. The working man's beer grows weaker, since so many of the breweries are in pseudonymous Arab hands. One cannot impose prohibition with a sudden stupid Volstead Act. Pork is swiftly pricing itself out of the market. But sometimes the North African blood that is my dear dead mother's cries out for fast action, while the Scottish side of me counsels care,
festina lente
. We will talk more of these matters tomorrow. But for now I fear the swooping of the sword.' He turned his eyes, alive with rivet-sparks, away from Bev and on to Redzwan. ‘The striken city,' he said. ‘Come.'

Alone, for the two girls were snatching sleep on camp beds somewhere, Bev leaned back in his chair and yawned, arms behind his head, trying to think out the opening of his editorial. There was a knock and the door opened. A slim Arab entered, a Savile Row suit of quiet grey on, gold wristwatch, cufflinks, Gucci loafers. ‘Mr Jones?' he said, in a very fair British upper-class accent.

‘I don't think I've had the pleasure –'

The Arab sat down gracefully on a hard chair. ‘My name is Abdul Khadir,' he said. ‘His Highness's personal secretary. Which Highness, you will want to know. The answer is: His Highness Sheikh Jamaluddin Shafar ibn Al-Marhum Al-Hadji Yusuf Ali Saifuddin. You had the honour earlier of taking tea with him, so he tells me. The question I ask now is: does she possess a passport?'

Bev stared. ‘Who? Why? What are you talking about? Oh my God. I'd forgotten clean about her. Where is she now?'

‘Sleeping. Happily, I think. Alone, I must add. She watched the television programmes. The strike did not begin until well after the termination of a particular programme she had expressed much desire to view. She viewed it. She ate much. I think I can say she sleeps happily. His Highness leaves tomorrow – ah, I see it is already tomorrow. As she will be a member of His Highness's entourage, perhaps there will be no need of a passport. Still, His Highness has this democratic concern with the obeying of regulations.'

‘You mean,' Bev said. ‘I just don't,' he said. ‘I don't think I. She has no passport, no. She's never had a passport. Please,' he said, ‘explain.'

‘I must first explain about His Highness. He is at present Chairman of
IOU
. It is a rotating chair, as you will know.'

Bev's brain swam. ‘
IOU
?'

‘The Islamic Oil Union. In Arabic, of course, the initials are different. His Highness's territories, as you will know, comprise –'

‘Spare me. A hot territory, with oil and Allah. Muezzins and yashmaks. No need to tell me precisely where he sits on his revolving chair and watches the mineral fatness gush. Somewhere in Islam let us say.'

‘Somewhere in Islam will do very well. Of course, the chair does not literally rotate.'

‘And what does His Highness require of my daughter? God knows, she has little enough to give.'

‘Concubinage for a probationary period. And then marriage. His Highness already possesses four wives, which number represents the statutory allowance. Probationary concubinage until the marital vacancy is arranged. Do you object to the term?'

‘What does Bessie say about it?'

‘Besi has no objection. She does not know the word. Besi has, anyway, no option but to obey her father. I may say she thinks already very highly of His, ah, Highness. She has never before, she gives us to understand, seen such a capacity for bestowal. She is yet to encounter his library of videotapes in Ghadan. Western television programmes are very popular in His Highness's gynaeceum. His Highness travels widely throughout Islam. Also throughout the infidel world. His tastes are enlightened. But he is mostly in Islam. He pays frequent visits to London.'

‘You seem to regard London as part of Islam.'

‘It is the commercial capital of Islam, Mr Jones. I have a document in preparation for you to sign. It is being engrossed at the moment, in English and in Arabic. We could meet perhaps for breakfast here tomorrow. Here, of course, there is no strike. This is regarded as Islamic territory.'

‘Is there anything for me in all this?' Bev asked coarsely.

‘Satisfaction,' said Abdul Khadir, ‘that your daughter is well provided for. I do not think your England is a good place to bring up a daughter. Unless, that is, the father has much wealth. Money? You require payment? You consider your daughter an object for sale? May I remind you that you have not been asked to provide a dowry.'

‘You said something about concubinage. Aren't concubines bought and sold?'

‘
Probationary
concubinage. It is not uncommon in Britain, and here there is no talk at all of money. But you may take it as certain that there will be marriage. His Highness has a great regard for Englishwomen.'

‘She's only a child.'

‘She is thirteen years old, Mr Jones.'

Bev sighed and then felt a qualified elation cautiously approaching. He was free, by God or Allah. He had now for shouldering only the burden of himself. He said:

‘If the bar were still open we could drink on it.'