1985

by Anthony Burgess

  '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 b
ought 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.'

  'The American Bar here has been long abolished, Mr Jones. Alcohol, in our faith, is haram. On the other hand, I have an adequately stocked drinks cabinet in my suite downstairs. If you would care to -'

  'Thank you,' said Bev. 'On second thoughts, no. I have work to do. In the name of Allah and a Free Britain.'

  'We will meet at breakfast, then. Your delightful daughter is looking forward to breakfast, she tells us. She has a great fondness for the naknik - no, that is the Hebrew name. Sougou is the right word.'

  'Sou -?'

  'Sausage. It is common among Western children. She will not be allowed to have pork ones, of course, but she will hardly notice the difference. She did not notice it tonight.'

  16 Strike diary

  G1

  Near the Cherry Blossom Boot Polish Factory, Chiswick, I got the first physical impact of strikers' enmity towards Islam. Three Bentleys going to Heathrow, flying Muslim flag. Sheikh in middle one, me and Bessie in third, father and daughter saying farewell. We stopped to let two loudspeaker vans go down Devonshire Road. Ten or so strikers threw stones at us, shouting wog bastards, up Allah's arse and so on. Our off-side rear window starred and, from the noise, bodywork dented. Bessie open-mouthed with joy as though seized by scruff and thrust bodily into TV scene of violence. I expected we'd shrug it off, go on to Heathrow, but HH did not shrug it off. He was out of the car, giving Arabic orders. Two chauffeurs, Pakistanis probably victims of East End paki-bashers, dragged two Nimr automatic repeaters from trunk of Car 2. Clicked their weapons to ready and waited for signal to fire. I tumbled out of car yelling No no no no for God's sake, got into fireline. Stonethrowers ran like bloody hell, one Paki ran a few yards and spluttered shot at them, got one in leg, other in chest. One dead certainly. HH shrugged, dark glasses on, cigarette in Dunhill holder. Guns stowed, continued to Heathrow, leaving 1 dead 1 wounded. Bessie said it was like Grimm's Law or some such bloody TV nonsense, then wondered if she'd be in time to see Pornman that night, very vague indeed as to where she was going.

  Heathrow Terminal 3, Islamic corner where nobody on strike. We whizzed straight on to tarmac. Sheikh's Nisr jet waiting, fuel nozzle to breast. Giant jets everywhere becalmed, no control tower staff, no customs, passport formalities. Whole airborne army could land here without opposition. Felt tremor of fear. Two Arab Wizzahs were there, mechanics peering into their innards, wooden crates being unloaded. Major Latimer, man met at Turnham Green, posting to Preston cancelled, was there with swagger stick and two trucks. Weapons he said - Okottas, Ghadibs, Vihainens, also British Mark IV Angries. Real army now, he said. If bastards want trouble bastards can have bloody trouble. Wind whipped up Bessie's skirt to arse level. Latimer went click click in soldier's vulgarity. My daughter, I said. Sorry old boy, nice piece of goods, daughter or not. I said ila allaqaa to HH, my prospective son-in-law, kissed poor or lucky Bessie. She said: I'm hungry, dad. They'll serve elevenses when you're aboard, Bessie. But I'm hungry NOOOOOOW! Last words Bessie spoke to me. Went back townwards in Bentley No. 3, starred and dented.

  Strike absolutely and totally bloody general. Went round getting news. Rain, mud, piled refuse, squalor of streets growing. Women crowding and scratching to get into supermarket, Free Britons trying to control. Strangely, some of the strikers help. Hope there. Bloody ideological nonsense from top of unions must fail sometime, workers basically decent, must see sense. Later saw windows smashed of liquor store not by strikers but by Free Britons, coming out loaded with booze. Free Briton NCOs tried to make them see sense, barked orders, got the usual Up yours Jack and so on, then put on knuckledusters, waded in. Very nasty, very necessary. At Great Smith Street work on mosque goes on, but workers on mosque obviously unhappy at being marched to and from shifts by platoons protecting them from angry mobs. How long can this go on? File news, write editorial, cautious, no word about being armed or the necessity of violence. I have wads of cash in pocket worth little at moment. Loaf of bread PS5. Bit of chuck steak PS9.50. A Free British bakery is being set up in, appropriately, Bread Street. Have own bedroom Al-Dorchester.

  G2

  Ill-printed bulletin going the rounds with facsimile signatures of appropriate ministers of the crown, saying that builders' demands have been met - 20 hour week, PS20 rise. That is to get that particular bit of unrest out of the way. Great Mr Pettigrew himself turns up at Gt S. Street to harangue from loudspeaker van mosque workers. Join your brothers, leave this illegal workforce, back into union, your action paralysing whole country. Some of mosque workers scratch heads, doubtful, unhappy, but NCO foremen shout and prod them back to labour. Which is worse - obeying NCOs, WOs, officers or jumping at shop-steward's whistle? Pay better in Free Britons? Yes, notice posted on worksite of PS25 rise in soldier's pay. Half-hearted cheers.

  Food supplies remain a problem, though not in well-stocked Al-Dorchester, in front of which now barbed wire and sentries armed with Chanzir 45s. Col. Lawrence says all ammunition blank, but I do not believe. He wants me to take oath of obedience, come properly under military discipline, but I say no time, too much to do. A certain Syed Omar, mufti for Central London, comes into office to deliver statement to be published in Free Briton. Col. L translates for me. Gist: must be clearly understood that mosque erection is holy work not subject to secular laws or covenants, that the site may be British soil in geo or topographical sense but in deeper or spiritual sense this is Islam, holy ground, promise made to the whole Islamic world that Great Mosque of London, chief Muslim temple of all of West, would be opened with great ceremony on first day of Shawwal. Promise must be kept, strikes and industrial disputes generally most frivolous, let British people and their governors clearly understand that Islamic leaders will stand no bloody nonsense or holy words to that effect.

  Car of Syed Omar pelted with stones and rubbish on his way home from Al-Dorchester. Small irregular patrols going the rounds of the town, armed with pistols, staves, coshes, anything, all Muslims, Pakistanis, even Northern Chinese, Anglo-Saxon converts to faith, women too, no Arabs, nothing to do with Free Britons, protecting Muslim shops, residences, mosques of course. An infantry detachment from Lockheed Barracks, against instructions of army shop-stewards, marched round East End, with auto weapons taken from armoury broken into, tried goodheartedly to organize distribution of flour supplies for communal street baking. Candles, when obtainable, cost PS10 each. Much breaking-up of property - furniture, shop fronts etc - to light street fires. Frozen mud everywhere today, people slipping and cursing. Free British sentry slipped outside Al-Dorchester on to arse, gun went off accidentally, mortally wounded woman who turned out to be Lady Belcher, wife of TUC peer. Hell of a row. Tanks reported rumbling through streets of Birmingham. More arms certainly coming in at Heathrow and other airports. Cannot get much news from provinces except of riot, killing, gaspipe leaks, explosions, water supplies frozen. Hot argument with Col. L about his lying about sentry blank ammo. He says: I hate violence but you can see situation. You can see also no compromise possible re mosque. I say end of strike in your hands and those of your bosses, whoever or wherever they are. Call off blackleg Free Briton labour, let unionized labour take over. He says: So this your view, eh? You've changed, by Allah. Not really, I say, have always believed in a minimum of protective unionization, am, after all, a historian, but object to rigidity. He says: once for all, no possibility of compromise, Islamic leaders will not accept unionized labour, the British union leaders must be made to see reason. See reason i
n nozzle of gun, I say. Don't like this situation one bit, I say.

  Curious event in Piccadilly. Devlin's son, model for Bill the Symbolic Worker, turned up by Eros statue dressed as in poster and recognized as such, very very drunk, stripped off naked despite cold and indulged in homosexual cavortings, saying Bugger the Workers, Workers, come and be buggered. Posters of Bill the Symbolic Worker all over town being defaced, great pricks and dirty words spraygunned on. Woman I met in street sobbed at me and said you must help, I have to get to Darlington, have no money, terrible things happening in Darlington they tell me, married daughter there, very worried. I gave her my travel warrant issued at Crawford Manor, blank but signed, and she nearly grovelled in gratitude. How ridiculous really. No northbound trains running beyond Leamington, manned by Free British engineers. Warrant probably useless anyway. But anything with royal coat of arms on, as warrant has, being issued by State Rail Authority, is a talisman of sanity and stability. Some day she may be able to use it, poor woman.

  Remembered Kumina boys - so long ago it seems - telling me of UU or Underground University. Saw one in action today in broken and totally looted supermarket, Latin literature being taught to gang of attentive toughs. Striking sec. school teachers come along to protest at blackleg education, scholastic scabs etc, and UU students show how violence, not gratuit though, necessary to protect human right to be taught Virgil and Horace. Gesta sanguinaria (?).

  G3

  It is quite certain that feeble government no longer in existence. Mr Sheen, Prime Minister, was heard yesterday on Free Brit radio asking both sides to see sense, Islamic authorities to temper fanaticism, TUC for that matter to temp. fan. Today story came through very rapidly that he had resigned and that King had done nothing about asking anybody else to form new government. Makes no difference. Proves conclusively that we have never had a govt in Tucland except for going through motions of delaying enactments demanded by TUC. Constitutional situation interesting, though. Has monarch right to leave country govtless? Traditionally he must ask some member of majority party, usually recommended by retiring PM, to take over Cabinet, reshuffle, form new Cab. Will next stage be deposition of King and promotion of Mr Pettigrew as (Temporary?) Head of State? End of Constitution?