‘Look around you! And what do you see? What is the result of this so-called democracy, this so-called freedom, this so-called liberty? Oppression, persecution, slaughter. Brothers, you can see it on national television every day, every evening, every night! Chaos, disorder, confusion. They are not ashamed or embarrassed or self-conscious! They don’t try to hide, to conceal, to disguise! They know as we know: the entire world is in a turmoil! Everywhere men indulge in prurience, promiscuity, profligacy, vice, corruption and indulgence. The entire world is affected by a disease known as Kufr – the state of rejection of the oneness of the Creator – refusing to acknowledge the infinite blessings of the Creator. And on this day, 1 December 1992, I bear witness that there is nothing worthy of worship besides the sole Creator, no partner unto Him. On this day we should know that whosoever the Creator has guided cannot be misguided, and whosoever he has misguided from the straight path shall not return to the straight path until the Creator puts guidance in his heart and brings him to the light. I will now begin my third lecture, which I call “Ideological Warfare”, and that means – I will explain for those that don’t understand – the war of these things… these ideologies, against the Brothers of KEVIN… ideology means a kind of brainwashing… and we are being indoctrinated, fooled and brainwashed, my Brothers! So I will try to elucidate, explain and expound.. .’
No one in the hall was going to admit it, but Brother Ibrāhīm ad-Din Shukrallah was no great speaker, when you got down to it. Even if you overlooked his habit of using three words where one would do, of emphasizing the last word of such triplets with his see-saw Caribbean inflections, even if you ignored these as everybody tried to, he was still physically disappointing. He had a small sketchy beard, a hunched demeanour, a repertoire of tense, inept gesticulations and a vague look of Sidney Poitier about him which did not achieve quite the similitude to command any serious respect. And he was short. On this point, Millat felt most let down. There was a tangible dissatisfaction in the hall when Brother Hifan finished his fulsome introductory speech and the famous but diminutive Brother Ibrāhīm ad-Din Shukrallah crossed the room to the podium. Not that anyone would require an alim of Islam to be a towering height, or indeed for a moment dare to suggest that the Creator had not made Brother Ibrāhīm ad-Din Shukrallah precisely the height that He, in all his holy omnipotence, had selected. Still, one couldn’t help thinking, as Hifan awkwardly lowered the microphone and the Brother Ibrāhīm awkwardly stretched to meet it, you couldn’t help thinking, in the Brother’s very own style of third-word emphasis: five foot five.
The other problem with Brother Ibrāhām ad-Din Shukrallah, the biggest problem perhaps, was his great affection for tautology. Though he promised explanation, elucidation and exposition, linguistically he put one in mind of a dog chasing its own tail: ‘Now there are many types of warfare… I will name a few. Chemical warfare is the warfare where them men kill each other chemically with warfare. This can be a terrible warfare. Physical warfare! That is the warfare with physical weapons in which people kill each other physically. Then there is germ warfare in which a man, he knows that he’s carrying the virus of HIV and he goes to the country and spreads his germ on the loose women of that country and creates germ warfare. Psychological warfare, that is one of the most evil, the war where they try to psychologically defeat you. This is called psychological warfare. But ideological warfare! That is the sixth warfare which is the worst warfare…’
And yet Brother Ibrāhām ad-Din Shukrallah was no less than the founder of KEVIN, an impressive man with a formidable reputation. Born Monty Clyde Benjamin in Barbados in 1960, the son of two poverty-stricken barefoot Presbyterian dipsomaniacs, he converted to Islam after a ‘vision’ at the age of fourteen. Aged eighteen he fled the lush green of his homeland for the desert surrounding Riyadh and the books that line the walls of Al-Imam Muhammad ibn Saud Islamic University. There he studied Arabic for five years, became disillusioned with much of the Islamic clerical establishment, and first expressed his contempt for what he called ‘religious secularists’, those foolish ulama who attempt to separate politics from religion. It was his belief that many radical modern political movements were relevant to Islam and moreover were to be found in the Qur’ān if one looked closely enough. He wrote several pamphlets on this matter, only to find that his own radical opinions were not welcome in Riyadh. He was considered a troublemaker and his life threatened ‘numerous, countless, innumerable times’. So in 1984, wishing to continue his study, Brother Ibrāhīm came to England, locked himself in his aunt’s Birmingham garage and spent five more years in there, with only the Qur’ān and the fascicles of Endless Bliss for company. He took his food in through the cat-flap, deposited his shit and piss in a Coronation biscuit tin and passed it back out the same way, and did a thorough routine of press-ups and sit-ups to prevent muscular atrophy. The Selly Oak Reporter wrote regular bylines on him during this period, nicknaming him ‘The Guru in the Garage’ (in view of the large Birmingham Muslim population, this was thought preferable to the press-desk favoured suggestion, ‘The Loony in the Lock-Up’) and had their fun interviewing his bemused aunt, one Carlene Benjamin, a devoted member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.
These articles, cruel, mocking and offensive, had been written by one Norman Henshall and were now classics of their kind, distributed amongst KEVIN members throughout England as an example (if example were needed) of the virulent, anti-KEVIN element that bred in the press from even this foetal stage of their movement. Note – KEVIN members were advised – note how Henshall’s articles end halfway through May ’87, the very month that Brother Ibrāhīm ad-Din Shukrallah succeeded in converting his aunt Carlene through the cat-flap using nothing else but the pure truth as it was delivered by the final prophet Muhammad (peace be upon Him!). Note how Henshall fails to document the queues of people who came to speak with Brother Ibrāhīm ad-Din Shukrallah, so many they stretched three blocks round the centre of Selly Oak, from the cat-flap to the bingo hall! Note the failure of this same Mr Henshall to publish the 637 separate rules and laws that the Brother had spent five years gleaning from the Qur’ān (listing them in order of severity, and then in subgroups according to their nature, i.e., Regarding Cleanliness and Specific Genital and Oral Hygiene). Note all this, brothers and sisters, and then marvel at the power of word of mouth. Marvel at the dedication and commitment of the young people of Birmingham!
Their eagerness and enthusiasm was so remarkable (extraordinary, outstanding, unprecedented) that almost before the Brother emerged from his confinement and announced it himself, the idea of KEVIN had been born within the black and Asian community. A radical new movement where politics and religion were two sides of the same coin. A group that took freely from Garveyism, the American Civil Rights movement and the thought of Elijah Muhammed, yet remained within the letter of the Qur’ān. The Keepers of the Eternal and Victorious Islamic Nation. By 1992 they were a small but widespread body, with limbs as far-flung as Edinburgh and Land’s End, a heart in Selly Oak and a soul in the Kilburn High Road. KEVIN: an extremist faction dedicated to direct, often violent action, a splinter group frowned on by the rest of the Islamic community; popular with the sixteen to twenty-five age group; feared and ridiculed in the press; and gathered tonight in the Kilburn Hall, standing on chairs and packed to the rafters, listening to the speech of their founder.
‘There are three things,’ continued Brother Ibrāhīm, looking briefly at his notes, ‘that the colonial powers wish to do to you, brothers of KEVIN. Firstly, they wish to kill you spiritually… oh yes, they value nothing higher than your mental slavery. There are too many of you to fight hand-to-hand! But if they have your minds, then-’
‘Hey,’ went a fat man’s attempt at a whisper. ‘Brother Millat.’
It was Mohammed Hussein-Ishmael, the butcher. He was sweating profusely as ever, and had forced his way through a long line of people apparently to sit next to Millat. They were distantly related, and these past few months Mo had been rapidly nearing the inner circle of KEVIN (Hifan, Millat, Tyrone, Shiva, Abdul-Colin and others) by virtue of the money he had put forward and his stated interest in the more ‘active’ sides of the group. Personally, Millat was still a little suspicious of him and objected to his big slobbery face, the great quiff emerging from his toki and his chicken-breath.
‘Late. I have to close up shop. But I been standing at the back for while. Listening. Brother Ibrāhām is a very impressive man, hmm?’
‘Hmm.’
‘Very impressive,’ repeated Mo, patting Millat’s knee conspiratorially, ‘a very impressive Brother.’ Mo Hussein was partly funding Brother Ibrāhām’s tour around England, so it was in his interest (or at least it made him feel better about donating two thousand quid) to find the Brother impressive. Mo was a recent convert to KEVIN (he had been a reasonably good Muslim for twenty years), and his enthusiasm for the group was two-pronged. Firstly, he was just flattered, downright flattered, that he should be considered sufficiently successful a Muslim businessman to ponce money off. In normal circumstances he would have shown them the door and where they could stuff a freshly bled chicken, but the truth was, Mo was feeling a bit vulnerable at the time, his stringy-legged Irish wife, Sheila, having just left him for a publican; he was feeling a little emasculated, so when KEVIN asked Ardashir for five grand and got it, and Nadir from the rival halal place put up three, Mo came over all macho and put up his own stake.
The second reason for Mo’s conversion was more personal. Violence. Violence and theft. For eighteen years Mo had owned the most famous halal butchers in North London, so famous that he had been able to buy the next door property and expand into a sweetshop/butchers. And in this period in which he ran the two establishments, he had been a victim of serious physical attacks and robbery, without fail, three times a year. Now, that figure doesn’t include the numerous punches to the head, quick smacks with a crowbar, shifty kicks in the groin or anything else that failed to draw blood. Mo didn’t even phone his wife, no matter the police, to report those. No: serious violence. Mo had been knifed a total of five times (Ah), lost the tips of three fingers (Eeeesh), had both legs and arms broken (Oaooow), his feet set on fire (jiii), his teeth kicked out (ka-tooof) and an air-gun bullet (ping) embedded in his thankfully fleshy posterior. Boof. And Mo was a big man. A big man with attitude. The beatings had in no way humbled him, made him watch his mouth or walk with a stoop. He gave as good as he got. But this was one man against an army. There was nobody who could help. The very first time, when he received a hammer blow to his ribs in January 1970, he naively reported it to the local constabulary and was rewarded by a late-night visit from five policemen who gave him a thorough kicking. Since then, violence and theft had become a regular part of his existence, a sad spectator sport watched by the old Muslim men and young Muslim mothers who came in to buy their chicken, and hurried out shortly afterwards, scared they might be next. Violence and theft. The culprits ranged from secondary-school children coming in the cornershop side to buy sweets (which is why Mo only allowed one child from Glenard Oak in at a time. Of course it made no difference, they just took turns beating the shit out of him solo), decrepit drunks, teenage thugs, the parents of teenage thugs, general fascists, specific neo-Nazis, the local snooker team, the darts team, the football team and huge posses of mouthy, white-skirted secretaries in deadly heels. These various people had various objections to him: he was a Paki (try telling a huge drunk Office Superworld check-out boy that you’re Bangladeshi); he gave half his cornershop up to selling weird Paki meat; he had a quiff; he liked Elvis (‘You like Elvis, then? Do yer? Eh, Paki? Do yer?’); the price of his cigarettes; his distance from home (‘Why don’t you go back to your own country?’ ‘But then how will I serve you cigarettes?’ Boof); or just the look on his face. But they all had one thing in common, these people. They were all white. And this simple fact had done more to politicize Mo over the years than all the party broadcasts, rallies and petitions the world could offer. It had brought him more securely within the fold of his faith than even a visitation from the angel Jabrail could have achieved. The last straw, if it could be called that, came a month before joining KEVIN, when three white ‘youths’ tied him up, kicked him down the cellar steps, stole all his money and set fire to his shop. Double-jointed hands (the result of many broken wrists) got him out of that one. But he was tired of almost dying. When KEVIN gave Mo a leaflet that explained there was a war going on, he thought: no shit. At last someone was speaking his language. Mo had been in the frontline of that war for eighteen years. And KEVIN seemed to understand that it wasn’t enough – his kids doing well, going to a nice school, having tennis lessons, too pale skinned to ever have a hand laid on them in their lives. Good. But not good enough. He wanted a little payback. For himself. He wanted Brother Ibrāhīm to stand on that podium and dissect Christian culture and Western morals until it was dust in his hands. He wanted the degenerate nature of these people explained to him. He wanted to know the history of it and the politics of it and the root cause. He wanted to see their art exposed and their science exposed, and their tastes exposed and their distastes. But words would never be enough; he’d heard so many words (If you could just file a report… If you wouldn’t mind telling us precisely what the attacker looked like), and they were never as good as action. He wanted to know why these people kept on beating the shit out of him. And then he wanted to go and beat the shit out of some of these people.
‘Very impressive, Millat, hey? Everything we hope for.’
‘Yeah,’ said Millat, despondent. ‘I s’pose. Less talk, more action, though, if you ask me. The infidel are everywhere.’
Mo nodded vigorously. ‘Oh definitely, Brother. We are two birds from the same bush on that matter. I hear there are some others,’ said Mo, lowering his voice and putting his fat, sweaty lips by Millat’s ear, ‘who are very keen on action. Immediate action. Brother Hifan spoke to me. About the 31st of December. And Brother Shiva and Brother Tyrone…’
‘Yes, yes. I know who they are. They are the beating heart of KEVIN.’
‘And they say you know the man himself – this scientist. You in good position. I hear you are his friend.’
‘Was. Was.’
‘Brother Hifan says you have the tickets to get in, that you are organizing-’
‘Shhh,’ said Millat irritably. ‘Not everyone can know. If you want to get near the centre, you’ve got to keep shtoom.’
Millat looked Mo up and down. The kurta-pyjamas that he somehow managed to make look like a late seventies Elvis flared jumpsuit. The huge stomach he rested on his knee like a friend.
Sharply, he asked, ‘You’re a bit old aren’t you?’
‘You rude little bastard. I’m strong as a bloody bull.’
‘Yeah, well, we don’t need strength,’ said Millat tapping his temple, ‘we need a little of the stuff upstairs. We’ve got to get in the place discreetly first, innit? The first evening. It’ll be crawling.’
Mo blew his nose in his hand. ‘I can be discreet.’
‘Yeah, but that means keeping shtoom.’
‘And the third thing,’ said Brother Ibrāhīm ad-Din Shukrallah, interrupting them, suddenly louder and buzzing the PA system, ‘the third thing they will try to do, is to convince you that it is human intellect and not Allah that is omnipotent, unlimited, all-powerful. They will try to convince you that your minds are not to be used to pronounce the greater glory of the Creator but to raise yourselves up equal to or beyond the Creator! And now we approach the most serious business of this evening. The greatest evil of the infidel is here, in this very borough of Brent. I will tell you, and you will not believe it, Brothers, but there is a man in this very community who believes that he can improve upon the creation of Allah. There is a man who presumes to change, adjust, modify what has been decreed. He will take an animal – an animal that Allah has created – and presume to change that creation. To create a new animal that has no name but is simply an abomination. And when he has finished with that small animal, a mouse, Brothers, when he has finished he will move to sheep, and cats and dogs. And who in this lawless society will stop him from one day creating a man? A man born not of woman but from a man’s intellect alone! And he will tell you that it is medicine… but KEVIN makes no complaint against medicine. We are a sophisticated community who count many doctors amongst us, my Brothers. Don’t be misled, deluded, fooled. This is not medicine. And my question to you, Brothers of KEVIN, is who will make the sacrifice and stop this man? Who will stand up alone in the name of the Creator, and show the modernists that the Creator’s laws still exist and are eternal? Because they will try and tell you, the modernists, the cynics, the Orientalists, that there are no more beliefs, that our history, our culture, our world is over. So thinks this scientist. That is why he so confidently presumes. But he will soon understand what is truly meant by last days. So who will show him-’
‘Yes, shtoom, yes, I understand,’ said Mo, speaking to Millat, but looking straight ahead as in a spy movie.
Millat looked around the room and saw that Hifan was giving him the eye, so he gave it to Shiva, who gave it to Abdul-Jimmy and Abdul-Colin, to Tyrone and the rest of the Kilburn crew, who were stationed by the walls as stewards at particular points in the room. Hifan gave Millat the eye once more, then he looked at the back room. Discreet movement began.
‘Something is happening?’ whispered Mo, spotting the men with the green steward sashes, making their way through the crowds.
‘Come into the office,’ said Millat.
‘OK, so, I think the key thing here is to come at the issue from two sides. Because it is a matter of straight laboratory torture and we can certainly play that to the gallery, but the central emphasis has to go to the anti-patent argument. Because that’s really an angle we can work. And if we lay our emphasis there, then there are a number of other groups we can call upon – the NCGA, the OHNO, etc., and Crispin’s been in touch with them. Because, you know, we haven’t really dealt in this area extensively before, but it’s clearly a key issue – I think Crispin’s going to talk to us about that in more depth in a minute – but for now, I just want to talk about the public support we have here. I mean, particularly the recent press, even the tabloid element have really come up trumps on this… there’s a lot of bad feeling regarding the patenting of living organisms… I think people feel very uncomfortable, rightly, with that concept, and it’s really up to FATE to play on that, and really get a comprehensive campaign together, so if…’
Ah, Joely. Joely, Joely, Joely. Joshua knew he should be listening, but looking was so good. Looking at Joely was great. The way she sat (on a table, knees pulled up to chest), the way she looked up from her notes (kittenishly!), the way the air whistled between her gappy front teeth, the way she continuously tucked her straggly blonde hair behind her ear with one hand and tapped out a rhythm on her huge Doc Martens with the other. Blonde hair aside, she looked a lot like his mother when young: those fulsome English lips, ski-jump nose, big hazel eyes. But the face, spectacular as it might be, was mere decoration to top off the most luxurious body in the world. Long in all its lines, muscular in the thigh and soft in the stomach, with breasts that had never known a bra but were an utter delight, and a bottom which was the platonic ideal of all English bottomrey, flat yet peachy, wide but welcoming. Plus she was intelligent. Plus she was devoted to her cause. Plus she despised his father. Plus she was ten years older (which suggested to Joshua all kinds of sexual expertise he couldn’t even imagine without getting an enormous hard-on right now right here in the middle of the meeting). Plus she was the most wonderful woman Joshua had ever met. Oh, Joely!
‘As I see it, what we have to impress upon people is this idea of setting a precedent. You know, the “What next?” kind of argument – and I understand Kenny’s POV, that that’s way too simplistic a take on it – but I have to argue, I think it’s necessary, and we’ll put it to a vote in a minute. Is that all right, Kenny? If I can just get on… right? Right. Where was I… precedent. Because, if it can be argued that the animal under experimentation is owned by any group of people, i.e., it is not a cat but effectively an invention with-cat-like-qualities, then that very cleverly and very dangerously short-circuits the work of animal rights groups and that leads to a pretty fucking scary vision of the future. Umm… I want to bring Crispin in here, to talk a little more about that.’
Of course the cunt of it was, Joely was married to Crispin. And the double-cunt of it was, theirs was a marriage of true love, total spiritual bonding and dedicated political union. Fan-fucking-tastic. Even worse, amongst the members of FATE, Joely’s and Crispin’s marriage served as a kind of cosmogony, an originating myth that explained succinctly what people could and should be, how the group began and how it should proceed in the future. Though Joely and Crispin didn’t encourage ideas of leadership or any kind of icon worship, it had happened anyway, they were worshipped. And they were indivisible. When Joshua first joined the group, he had tried to sniff out a little information on the couple, get the low-down on his chances. Were they wobbly? Had the harsh nature of their business driven them apart? Fat chance. He was told the whole depressing fable by two seasoned FATE activists over some pints in the Spotted Dog: a psychotic ex-postal worker called Kenny who as a child had witnessed his father kill his puppy, and Paddy, a sensitive life-time dole collector and pigeon-fancier.
‘Everyone begins wanting to shag Joely,’ Kenny had explained, sympathetically, ‘but you get over it. You realize the best thing you can do for her is dedicate yourself to the struggle. And then the second thing you realize, is that Crispin’s just this incredible dude-’
‘Yeah, yeah, get on with it.’
Kenny got on with it.
It seemed Joely and Crispin met and fell in love at the University of Leeds the winter of 1982, two young student radicals, with Che Guevara on their walls, idealism in their hearts and a mutual passion for all the creatures that fly, trot, crawl and slime across the earth. At the time, they were both active members of a great variety of far-left groups, but political in-fighting, back-stabbing and endless factionalizing soon disillusioned them as far as the fate of homo erectus was concerned. At some point they grew tired of speaking up for this species of ours who will so often organize a coup, bitch behind your back, choose another representative and throw it all back in your face. Instead they turned their attention to our mute animal friends. Joely and Crispin upgraded their vegetarianism to veganism, dropped out of college, got married and formed Fighting Animal Torture and Exploitation in 1985. Crispin’s magnetic personality and Joely’s natural charm attracted other political drifters, and soon they had become a commune of twenty-five (plus ten cats, fourteen dogs, a garden full of wild rabbits, a sheep, two pigs and a family of foxes) living and working from a Brixton bedsit which backed on to a large expanse of unused allotment. They were pioneers in many senses. Recycling before it became the fashion, making a tropical biosphere of their sweaty bathroom, and dedicating themselves to organic food production. Politically they were equally circumspect. From the very beginning their extremist credentials were impeccable, FATE being to the RSPCA what Stalinism is to the Liberal Democrats. For three years FATE conducted a terror campaign against animal testers, torturers and exploiters, sending death threats to personnel at make-up firms, breaking into labs, kidnapping technicians and chaining themselves to hospital gates. They also ruined fox-hunts, filmed battery chickens, burnt down farms, fire-bombed food outlets and smashed up circus tents. Their brief being so broad and so fanatical (any animal in any level of discomfort), they were kept seriously busy, and life for FATE members was difficult, dangerous and punctuated by frequent imprisonment. Through all of this, Joely’s and Crispin’s relationship grew stronger and served as an example to them all, a beacon in the storm, the ideal example of love between activists (‘Yada yada yada. Get on with it’). Then in 1987 Crispin went to jail for three years for his part in fire-bombing a Welsh laboratory and releasing 40 cats, 350 rabbits and 1,000 rats from their captivity. Before being taken down to Wormwood Scrubs, Crispin generously informed Joely that she had his permission to go to other FATE members if she was in need of sexual satisfaction while he was gone (‘And did she?’ asked Joshua. ‘Did she fuck,’ replied Kenny sadly).
During Crispin’s captivity, Joely devoted herself to transforming FATE from a small gang of highly strung friends to a viable underground political force. She began to put less emphasis on terror tactics and, after reading Guy Debord, grew interested in situationism as a political tactic, which she understood to mean the increased use of large banners, costumes, videos and gruesome re-enactments. By the time Crispin emerged from jail, FATE had grown four-fold, and Crispin’s legend (lover, fighter, rebel, hero) had grown with it, fuelled by Joely’s passionate interpretation of his life and works and a carefully chosen photo of him circa 1980 in which he looked a bit like Nick Drake. But though his image had been airbrushed, Crispin appeared to have lost none of his radicalism. His first act as a free citizen was to mastermind the release of several hundred voles, an event that received widespread newspaper coverage, though Crispin delegated responsibility for the actual act to Kenny, who was sent down for four months of high security (‘Greatest moment of my life’). And then last summer, ’91, Joely persuaded Crispin to go to California with her to join the other groups fighting the patent on transgenic animals. Though courtrooms weren’t Crispin’s scene (‘Crispin’s a front-line dude’), he succeeded in sufficiently disrupting proceedings to officially warrant a mistrial. The couple flew back to England, elated but with funds perilously low, to find they had been turfed out of their Brixton pad and-
Well, Joshua could take the narrative from here. He met them a week later, wandering up and down the Willesden High Road, looking for a suitable squat. They looked lost, and Joshua, emboldened by the summer vibe and Joely’s beauty, went up to talk to them. They ended up going for a pint. They drank, as everybody in Willesden drank, in the aforementioned Spotted Dog, a famous Willesden landmark, described in 1792 as ‘being a well accostomed Publick house’ (Willesden Past, by Len Snow), which became a favourite resort for mid-Victorian Londoners wishing a day out ‘in the country’, then the meeting point for the horse-buses; later still, a watering hole for local Irish builders. By 1992 it had transformed again, this time into the focal point of the huge Australian immigrant population of Willesden, who, for the last five years, had been leaving their silky beaches and emerald seas and inexplicably arriving in NW2. The afternoon Joshua walked in with Joely and Crispin, this community was in a state of high excitement. After a complaint of a terrible smell above Sister Mary’s Palm Readers on the high road, the upper flat had been raided by Health Officers and found to be sheltering sixteen squatting Aussies who had dug a huge hole in the floor and roasted a pig in there, apparently trying to re-create the effect of a South Seas underground kiln. Thrown out on the street, they were presently bemoaning their fate to the publican, a huge bearded Scotsman who had little sympathy for his Antipodean clientele (‘Is there some fuckin’ sign in fuckin’ Sydney that says come to fuckin’ Willesden?’). Overhearing the story, Joshua surmised the flat must now be empty and took Joely and Crispin to look at it, his mind already ticking over… if I can get her to live near by…
It was a beautiful, crumbling Victorian building, with a small balcony, a roof garden and a large hole in the floor. He advised them to lie low for a month and then move in. They did, and Joshua saw more and more of them. A month later he experienced a ‘conversion’ after hours of talk with Joely (hours of examining her breasts underneath those threadbare t-shirts), which felt, at the time, as if somebody had taken his little closed Chalfenist head, stuck two cartoon sticks of dynamite through each ear, and just blown a big mutherfucking hole in his consciousness. It became clear to him in a blinding flash that he loved Joely, that his parents were assholes, that he himself was an asshole, and that the largest community of earth, the animal kingdom, were oppressed, imprisoned and murdered on a daily basis with the full knowledge and support of every government in the world. How much of the last realization was predicated and reliant upon the first was difficult to say, but he had given up Chalfenism and had no interest in taking things apart to see how they fitted together. Instead he gave up all meat, ran off to Glastonbury, got a tattoo, became the kind of guy who could measure an eighth with his eyes closed (so fuck you, Millat) and generally had a ball… until finally his conscience pricked him. He revealed himself to be the son of Marcus Chalfen. This horrified Joely (and, Joshua liked to think, slightly aroused her – sleeping with the enemy and all that). Joshua was sent away, while FATE had a two-day summit meeting along the lines of: But he’s the very thing we’re… Ah, but we could use.. .
It was a protracted process with votes and subclauses and objections and provisos, but in the end it couldn’t really come down to anything more sophisticated than: Whose side are you on? Joshua said yours, and Joely welcomed him with open arms, pressing his head to her exquisite bosom. He was paraded at meetings, given the role of secretary and was generally the jewel in their crown: the convert from the other side.
Since then and for six months, Joshua had indulged his growing contempt for his father, seen plenty of his great love and set about a long-term plan of insinuating himself between the famous couple (he needed somewhere to stay anyway; the Joneses’ hospitality was growing thin). He ingratiated himself with Crispin, deliberately ignoring Crispin’s suspicion of him. Joshua acted like his best mate, did all the shit jobs for him (photocopying, postering, leafleting), kipped on his floor, celebrated his seventh wedding anniversary and presented him with a hand-made guitar plectrum for his birthday; while all the time hating him intensely, coveting his wife as no man’s wife has ever been coveted before, and dreaming up plots for his downfall with a green-eyed jealousy that would make Iago blush.
All this had distracted Joshua from the fact that FATE were busy plotting his own father’s downfall. He had approved it in principle when Magid returned, when his rage was hottest and the idea itself seemed hazy – just some big talk to impress new members. Now the 31st was three weeks away, and Joshua had so far failed to question himself in any coherent way, in any Chalfenist fashion, regarding the consequences of what was about to happen. He wasn’t even clear precisely what was going to happen – there had been no final decision; and now as they argued it, the core members of FATE cross-legged and spaced out around the great hole in the floor, now as he should have been listening to these fundamental decisions, he had lost the thread of his attention down Joely’s t-shirt, down along the athletic dip and curve of her torso, down further to her tie-dyed pants, down-
‘Josh, mate, could you just read me the minutes for a couple of minutes ago, if you get my drift?’
‘Huh?’
Crispin sighed and tutted. Joely reached down from her table-top and kissed Crispin on the ear. Cunt.
‘The minutes, Josh. After the stuff Joely was saying about protest strategy. We’d moved on to the hard part. I want to hear what Paddy was saying a few minutes ago about Punishment versus Release.’
Joshua looked at his blank clipboard and placed it over his detumescent erection.
‘Umm… I guess I missed that.’
‘Er, well that was actually really fucking important, Josh. You’ve got to keep up. I mean, what’s the point of doing all this talking-’
Cunt, cunt, cunt.
‘He’s doing his best,’ Joely interceded, reaching down from her table-top once more, this time to ruffle Joshua’s Jewfro. ‘This is probably quite hard for Joshi, you know? I mean this is quite personal to him.’ She always called him Joshi like that. Joshi and Joely. Joely and Joshi.
Crispin frowned. ‘Well, you know, I’ve said many times if Joshua doesn’t want to be personally involved in this job, because of personal sympathies, if he wants out, then-’
‘I’m in,’ snapped Josh, barely restraining the aggression. ‘I’ve no intention of wimping out.’
‘That’s why Joshi’s our hero,’ said Joely, with an enormous, supportive smile. ‘Mark my words, he’ll be the last man standing.’
Ah, Joely!
‘All right, well, let’s get on. Try to keep minutes from now on, all right? OK. Paddy, can you just repeat what you were saying, so everyone can take it in, because I think what you said perfectly sums up the key decision we have to make now.’
Paddy’s head shot up and he fumbled through his notes. ‘Umm, well basically… basically, it’s a question of… of what our real aims are. If it’s to punish the perpetrators and educate the public… then, well, that involves one sort of approach – an attack directly on, umm, the person in question,’ said Paddy, flashing a nervous glance at Joshua. ‘But if our interest is the animal itself, as I think it should be, then it’s a question of an anti-campaign, and if that doesn’t succeed, then the forceful release of the animal.’
‘Right,’ said Crispin hesitantly, unsure where the Crispin-role-of-glory would fit into freeing one mouse. ‘But surely the mouse in this case is a symbol, i.e., this guy’s got a lot more of them in his lab – so we have to deal with the bigger picture. We need someone to bust in there-’
‘Well, basically… basically, I think that’s the mistake that OHNO make for example. Because, they take the animal itself as simply a symbol… and to me that’s absolutely the opposite of what FATE is about. If this were a man trapped in a little glass box for six years, he wouldn’t be a symbol, you know? And I don’t know about you, but there’s no difference between mice and men, you know, in my opinion.’
The gathered members of FATE murmured their assent, because this was the kind of sentiment to which they routinely murmured assent.
Crispin was miffed. ‘Right, well, obviously I didn’t mean that, Paddy. I just meant there is a bigger picture here, just like choosing between one man’s life and many men’s lives, right?’
‘Point of order!’ said Josh, putting his hand in the air for a chance to make Crispin look stupid. Crispin glared.
‘Yes, Joshi,’ said Joely sweetly. ‘Go on.’
‘It’s just there aren’t any more mice. I mean, yeah, there are lots of mice, but he hasn’t got any exactly like this one. It’s an incredibly expensive process. He couldn’t afford loads. Plus, the press goaded him that if the FutureMouse died while on display he could just secretly replace it with another – so he got cocky. He wants to prove that his calculations are correct in front of the world. He’s only going to do one and barcode it. There are no others.’
Joely beamed and reached down to massage Josh’s shoulders.
‘Right, yes, well, I guess that makes sense. So Paddy, I see what you’re saying – it is a question of whether we’re going to devote our attentions to Marcus Chalfen or to releasing the actual mouse from its captivity in front of the world’s press.’
‘Point of order!’
‘Yes, Josh, what?’
‘Well, Crispin, this isn’t like the other animals you bust out. It won’t make any difference. The damage is done. The mouse carries around its own torture in its genes. Like a time-bomb. If you release it, it’ll just die in terrible pain somewhere else.’
‘Point of order!’
‘Yes, Paddy, go on.’
‘Well, basically… would you not help a political prisoner to escape from jail just because he had a terminal disease?’
The multiple heads of FATE nodded vigorously.
‘Yes, Paddy, yes, that’s right. I think Joshua’s wrong there and I think Paddy has presented to us the choice we have to make. It’s one we’ve come up against many times before and we’ve made different choices in different circumstances. We have, in the past, as you know, gone for the perpetrators. Lists have been made and punishments dealt out. Now, I know in recent years we have been moving away from some of our previous tactics, but I think even Joely would agree this is really our biggest, most fundamental test of that. We are dealing with seriously disturbed individuals. Now, on the other side of things, we have also staged large-scale peaceful protests and supervised the release of thousands of animals held captive by this state. In this case, we just won’t have the time or opportunity to employ both strategies. It’s a very public place and – well, we’ve been over that. As Paddy said, I think the choice we have on the 31st is quite simple. It’s between the mouse and the man. Has anyone got any problem with taking a vote on that? Joshua?’
Joshua sat on his hands to lift himself up and give Joely better purchase on his upper back massage. ‘No problem at all,’ he said.
On the 20th of December at precisely 00.00 hours, the phone rang in the Jones house. Irie shuffled downstairs in her nightdress and picked up the receiver.
‘Erhummmm. I would like you yourself to make a mental note of both the date and the time when I have chosen to ring you.’
‘What? Er… what? Is that Ryan? Look, Ryan, I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s midnight, yeah? Is there something you wanted or-’
‘Irie? Pickney? You dere?’
‘You granmuvver is on the telephone extension. She wished to talk to you also.’
‘Irie,’ said Hortense excitably. ‘You gwan have to speak up, me kyan hear nuttin’-’
‘Irie, I repeat: have you noted the date and the time of our call?’
‘What? Look, I can’t… I’m really tired… could this wait until…’
‘The 20th, Irie. At O hundred hours. Twos and zeros…’
‘You lissnin’, pickney? Mr Topps tryin’ to explain someting very im-par-tent.’
‘Gran, you’re going to have to talk one at a time… you just hauled me out of bed… I’m, like, totally knackered.’
‘Twos and zeros, Miss Jones. Signifying the year 2000. And do you know the month of my call?’
‘Ryan, it’s December. Is this really-’
‘The twelfth month, Irie. Corresponding to the twelve tribes of the children of Israel. Of which each woz sealed twelve thousand. Of the tribe of Judah woz sealed twelve thousand. Of the tribe of Reuben woz sealed twelve thousand. Of the tribe of Gad-’
‘Ryan, Ryan… I get the picture.’
‘There are certain days when the Lord wishes us to act – certain pre-warning days, designated days-’
‘Where we mus’ be savin’ de souls of de lost. Warnin’ dem ahead of time.’
‘We are warning you, Irie.’
Hortense began softly weeping. ‘We only tryin’ to warn you, darlin’.’
‘OK. Great. I stand warned. Goodnight, all.’
‘That is not the end of our warning,’ said Ryan solemnly. ‘That is simply the first warning. There are more.’
‘Don’t tell me – eleven more.’
‘Oh!’ cried Hortense, dropping the phone but still distantly audible. ‘She have been visited by de Lord! She know before she be tol’!’
‘Look. Ryan. Could you somehow condense the other eleven warnings into one – or at least, tell me the most important one? Otherwise, I’m afraid I’m going to have to go back to bed.’
There was a silence for a minute. Then: ‘Erhuuummm. Very well. Do not get involved with this man.’
‘Oh, Irie! Please lissen to Mr Topps! Please lissen to ’im!’
‘With what man?’
‘Oh, Miss Jones. Please do not pretend you ’ave no knowledge of your great sin. Open your soul. Let the Lord let myself reach out for yourself, and wash you free of-’
‘Look, I’m really fucking tired. What man?’
‘The scientist, Chalfen. The man you call “friend” when in truth he is an enemy of all humanity.’
‘Marcus? I’m not involved with him. I just answer his phone and do his paperwork.’
‘And thus are you made the secretary of the devil,’ said Ryan, prompting Hortense into more and louder tears, ‘thus is you yourself laid low.’
‘Ryan, listen to me. I haven’t got time for this. Marcus Chalfen is simply trying to come up with some answers to shit like – shit like – cancer. OK? I don’t know where you’ve been getting your information, but I can assure you he ain’t the devil incarnate.’
‘Only one of ’im minions!’ protested Hortense. ‘Only one of ’im frontline troops!’
‘Calm yourself, Mrs B. I am afraid your granddaughter is too far gone for us. As I expected, since leaving us, she ’as joined the dark side.’
‘Fuck you, Ryan, I’m not Darth Vader. Gran…’
‘Don’t tark to me, pickney, don’t tark to me. I and I is bitterly disappointed.’
‘It appears we will be seein’ you on the 31st, then, Miss Jones.’
‘Stop calling me Miss Jones, Ryan. The… what?’
‘The 31st. The event will provide a platform for the Witness message. The world’s press will be there. And so will we. We intend-’
‘We gwan warn all a dem!’ broke in Hortense. ‘And we gat it all plan out nice, see? We gwan sing hymns with Mrs Dobson on de accordion, ’cos you kyan shif a piano all de way dere. An’ we gwan hunger-strike until dat hevil man stop messin’ wid de Lord’s beauteous creation an’-’
‘Hunger-strike? Gran, when you go without elevenses you get nauseous. You’ve never gone without food for more than three hours in your life. You’re eighty-five.’
‘You forget,’ said Hortense with chilling curtness, ‘I was born in strife. Me a survivor. A little no-food don’ frighten me.’
‘And you’re going to let her do that, are you, Ryan? She’s eighty-five, Ryan. Eighty-five. She can’t go on a hunger-strike.’
‘I’m tellin’ you, Irie,’ said Hortense, speaking loudly and clearly into the mouthpiece, ‘I want to do dis. I’m nat boddered by a little lack of food. De Lord giveth wid ’im right hand and taketh away wid ’im left.’
Irie listened to Ryan drop the phone, walk to Hortense’s room and slowly ease the receiver from her, persuading her to go to bed. Irie could hear her grandmother singing as she was led down the hallway, repeating the phrase to no one in particular and setting it to no recognizable tune: De Lord giveth wid ’im right hand and taketh away wid ’im left!
But most of the time, thought Irie, he’s simply a thief in the night. He just taketh away. He just taketh the fuck away.
Magid was proud to say he witnessed every stage. He witnessed the custom design of the genes. He witnessed the germ injection. He witnessed the artificial insemination. And he witnessed the birth, so different from his own. One mouse only. No battle down the birth canal, no first and second, no saved and unsaved. No pot-luck. No random factors. No you have your father’s snout and your mother’s love of cheese. No mysteries lying in wait. No doubt as to when death will arrive. No hiding from illness, no running from pain. No question about who was pulling the strings. No doubtful omnipotence. No shaky fate. No question of a journey, no question of greener grass, for wherever this mouse went, its life would be precisely the same. It would not travel through time (and Time’s a bitch, Magid knew that much now. Time is the bitch), because its future was equal to its present which was equal to its past. A Chinese box of a mouse. No other roads, no missed opportunities, no parallel possibilities. No second-guessing, no what-ifs, no might-have-beens. Just certainty. Just certainty in its purest form. And what more, thought Magid – once the witnessing was over, once the mask and gloves were removed, once the white coat was returned to its hook – what more is God than that?