Authors: Phil Rowan
I’m thinking of virgins waiting on clouds. But there are tears in the eyes of the audience, who shout out that ‘
god is good!
’ I’m clapping along with everyone else while exchanging fraternal grins with Assad. It is a little worrying though, for the honourable Mustapha is quite provocative, and a judge might argue that he was inciting criminal behaviour. But the audience loves him and they want more.
‘You must express your feelings on the streets here when there are injustices,’ he cries. ‘And this applies particularly when our brothers and sisters are the victims.’
‘I think he means the Muslims in Oldham,’ Assad explains after a burst of clapping. ‘Many of these people were arrested last week after clashes with British Nationalists.’
There is no direct reference to Osama or al-Qaeda, but the message from Mustapha is pretty clear. ‘
We’re relying on you guys to go out there and engage with the infidel
,’ he’s saying. ‘
In particular, we want you to destabilise those tyrants and puppets who are doing the devil’s work in the Middle East and Africa, and in those parts of Asia where Allah is worshipped by the people.
’ There isn’t anything specifically about blowing up the Brits or nuking the White House, but it’s all there by implication. We’re the bad guys and the prophet requires that we should be punished, and some.
The honourable Mustapha gets a standing ovation when he’s finished, and after I’ve shaken hands with Assad, I edge over towards my target.
‘Doctor Wagstaff …’
‘Yes?’
‘You’ve kindly agreed to see me, sir – ’
‘Flynn – is it?’
‘That’s right … Rudi – ’
‘I’m busy now,’ he says dismissively. ‘I need to speak with the Imam.’
‘But – ’
‘Perhaps you could find your way up to the third floor and wait outside my office.’
Fuck you, professor. You’re an arrogant bastard. In other circumstances, I’d be baiting honey traps and luring you into an ignominious descent. Now, however, I’ve got Carla Hirsch waiting off stage. ‘I want you to check this out, Rudi,’ she’s saying. ‘And whatever happens, don’t antagonise him.’
‘Very good, sir … I’ll see you when you’re ready.’
The lifts are out of action, but when I get to the third floor, I can hear what assume are Islamic prayer chants. The door is open outside a large lecture theatre and there are neat rows of male shoes in the corridor. I pass by respectfully as Muslim students bow towards the floor to follow the spiritual invocations of a bearded elder.
Outside Wagstaff’s office, a large window overlooks waste ground that was to have been the site for some luxury hotels. According to Julia, the developers pulled out as the UK economy faltered, and there are now travellers’ caravans clustered around rusting gas storage tanks. I’m clicking my heels impatiently on the shiny floor covering when my target appears.
‘Ah – Flynn … sorry about the delay,’ he says with an annoying leer.
His office door is secured with two locks, but once we’re inside I’m aware of large photographs of Thailand all around the walls. In a couple of them, there’s a rather knowing Thai boy, who seems to be challenging the photographer.
‘So … you’re interested in our institution,’ my guy says. He’s sitting behind a cluttered
desk and he rolls his thumbs around each other as I pull up a chair opposite him.
‘Yes, sir – you seem to have a very cosmopolitan group of students.’
‘You mean, I take it, that many come from foreign countries and that they’re mostly Muslims.’
‘Eh, yes – ’
‘And I suppose your newspaper thinks that we are a hotbed for Islamic activists.’
‘Well … ‘
He’s looking out on the travellers’ campsite, where scruffy boys and a few girls are kicking a ball around sacks of garbage.
‘I don’t know how close you are to the realities of life in Britain just now, Flynn.’
I suppose that Crowndale Square in Islington isn’t exactly at the sharp end of life in the UK, and most of my neighbours seem to be quite well protected from economic hardship.
‘You are, I assume, a wine-drinking member of the privileged class?’
I’m half expecting him to pull out a picture of Lenin or Stalin, but he just smiles and reveals several blackened teeth.
‘Our society is disintegrating,’ he tells me and I’d appreciate it if you would please switch off your tape recorder.’
I’ve got a microphone strapped to my chest, but a part of the wire has edged out through a gap between my shirt buttons. It’s embarrassing to be fingered so early on in an interview. I’m flushing with embarrassment while disconnecting my covert tool.
‘I’d just like to see where you’re coming from, sir,’ I say apologetically. ‘And maybe you could give me some indication about where you think it’s all going.’
He’s sitting back with his legs apart and he pushes out each cheek with his tongue before running it along the top of his lower lip.
‘I suppose your intention in coming here today is to concoct some sort of exposé for your paymasters in the United States.’
Not quite – but close, sir. I’m checking you out for my President.
‘I would rather like to get your view on our current situation, Mr Wagstaff.’
‘And why not? I’m a socialist, Flynn, and proud of it. I think our society here is decadent and destined to collapse.
Right – so what I want to know is the purpose of the King’s Cross Academy. And why does it have so many Muslim students?
‘Guilt and greed,’ he tells me. ‘The Academy provides cheap education. We’re technically a university, but we don’t get the same funding as some of the more established institutions. Also, we provide more vocational qualifications.’
‘And the students?’
He’s scratching his crotch and grinning.
‘That’s down to greed,’ he says. ‘We needed immigrant labour for our cotton mills after the war. Most of the workers came from Pakistan and Bangladesh. They were docile and obedient slaves. Their children and grandchildren, however, were not quite so malleable. The first generation born here had an education of sorts, but their youngsters have for the most part been drawn to places like our Academy, where they feel secure with the company of their co-religionists.’
‘And the future, sir?’ Where is it all going, I’m wondering?
‘Revolution,’ he says, rubbing his tongue under his upper lip. ‘What happened in New York and Washington on 9/11 was the beginning. It radicalised young Muslims. I don’t think they’ll stop now until they’ve won.’
There’s a bit more crotch scratching until he gets up and goes to switch on a kettle.
‘Tea?’
‘Yes – please … but you see a conflict developing here in England?’
‘Absolutely. It’s already under way. You’ve got plenty of fascists out there on the streets, but the young Islamists are more driven. They feel they have a god on their side and they will do whatever it takes to win … sugar?’
‘No thanks – and just a little milk … but when you say whatever it takes?’
The mug’s chipped and I’m not sure if it’s been washed, or even rinsed. I’m also disconcerted by the way Wagstaff rests his hand on my shoulder. It lingers and brushes down along my arm as he returns to the battered chair behind his desk.
‘I suppose you were pretty shaken by what happened on 9/11,’ he says and I agree. I still choke occasionally on the dust that seeped in through my apartment windows on the Lower East Side in New York. It’s the stuff of nightmares and madness.
‘If I were a younger man now,’ he says, ‘in North Africa or the Middle East. Or indeed if I were a Muslim anywhere, I’d be watching out for cracks in the West’s edifice.’
‘Really – ’
‘Yes – and as the splits get bigger, I’d become very excited.’
Holy Jesus! Maybe I should just hit him over the head with his corroded kettle. I could then call Earl Connors and tell him I was making a citizen’s arrest, initially for Her Majesty, but ultimately for my President.
‘Do you see a repeat of 9/11 in other parts of the world?’ I ask when I’ve sipped the tea and brushed away some powdered milk from my chin.
‘Of course, Rudi … that is your forename?’
‘Yes … and I guess London could be a target?’
He’s confident, but he’s not going to implicate himself unnecessarily. There’s a message in the crotch scratching however, and I’m sensing a cruder sexual advance with maybe a stained member when there’s a tentative knock on the office door.
‘Who is it?’ my target asks.
There’s silence as the door opens. A bald-headed guy in his late twenties appears. He’s got studs in his lips, ears and nose and I can see a tattooed image of another bald guy on his neck.
‘Marvin’s dead, sir,’ he tells Wagstaff.
‘Ah – ’
‘Yeah, it’s just bin announced on the BBC, an’ they reckon tha’ it’ll be mayhem an’ murder down in Brixton an’ beyond.’
‘Excellent, Hugh. Thank you,’ the tutor answers formally. The bald-headed apparition grins and then withdraws. It’s like he’s just delivered a crucial message about how the good guys have had a breakthrough.
‘This will be an important battle against the establishment,’ Wagstaff tells me. ‘And in answer to your earlier point, I think London could indeed be a target for a bigger bang in the ongoing hostilities.’
I’m holding back on the N word while banking on my target’s hubris to all but incriminate him, albeit without any record of evidence.
‘What the revolutionaries need,’ he says confidently, ‘is a powerful blow: Something that will completely knock out the jaded oppressors. And once they’re down, there will be spontaneous uprisings around the world.’
‘Right – ’
‘And if I were you, Rudi, I’d get a copy of the Koran. Because I think we’ll all be expected to support the revolution.’
I want to nail this guy and I suspect his weak spot is probably between the legs of his doubtless soiled pants.
‘These pictures of Thailand,’ I say, pointing up at the enlarged photographs covering his office walls. ‘They’re great … did you take them yourself?’
‘Oh yes, and lots of others,’ Wagstaff says with an unashamed longing in his voice. He’s also clearly pleased that I should be showing appreciation for his artistic side.
‘I particularly like those ones with the kid. He seems a real handful … quite an individual, I’d say.’
‘Oh, he was such a cheeky fellow,’ my target concedes wistfully. ‘They all were … but at the end of the day, we’re human, Rudi. That’s a fact of life, isn’t it?’
I’m pushing dangerously close to the wire here. My man is, I think, getting excited. He’s rubbing his crotch again, and his trousers are bulging out noticeably when he gets up and comes around from behind his desk.
I’m saved from any untoward predatory gropings by another knock on the door. This time, it’s a longhaired white student type with a socialist society banner.
‘It’s Dr Rodwell, the principal, sir. He’s just closed the main lecture theatre. He says it’s not appropriate to have Muslim prayers there.’
Wagstaff’s licking his lips and clenching his fists. There’s clearly a contest in the offing. ‘We should get together again in a more relaxed social setting, Rudi,’ he says, clutching at my hand.
I’m nodding, but getting ready to back out into the corridor.
Chapter 12
Outside, in a regeneration wasteland, students are talking excitedly. ‘
We is goin’ a Brixton, man …whitey’s gonna pay for killin’ Marvin!
’
I’ve got Earl on my mobile and he’s cool. ‘I’m in the foyer at the British Library, Rudi. It’s just around the corner, so it would be good if you could get over here without anyone noticing.’
I make a diversion up Judd Street and then to the right around a national charity for blind persons. There’s a great piece of metal sculpture on the library forecourt and Earl’s looking at a programme for an exhibition of Mayan art. He debriefs me over a latte, and when Robson calls we walk out onto the Euston Road. The M15er is illegally parked in a people carrier with smoked glass windows and there’s perspiration on his face and neck.
‘From what I hear, sir, there are a lot of people heading down towards Brixton,’ he tells Earl.
‘That’s all right. Just drive carefully,’ his boss says.
Earl’s black and Robson’s a Nationalist supporter from Essex. It’s an interesting combination, but they’re both on duty now and Robson’s concentrating on the driving.
‘You’ve got a good eye, Rudi,’ Earl says. ‘We’re looking for ring-leaders … and the emphasis today I think is going to be on Asian and Arab Muslims.’
He’s passing me a Panasonic digital camera. He shows me how it works and then waits patiently while I enter his and Robson’s phone numbers on my mobile.
‘If anyone asks, tell them you work for the
Guardian
,’ he says, producing a counterfeit press card that has my name and photograph, along with a few other bogus ID details.
I’m not a member of Her Majesty’s security service, and I feel I’m being fitted up with a lot of unnecessary baggage. ‘We’re in this together,’ Earl assures me, ‘and we’ll be looking out for you, Rudi.’
There are police directing traffic away from the centre of Brixton and shopkeepers are starting to pull down shutters on the windows of their premises. It’s not looking good, and Earl is describing what’s happening to a superior in Whitehall. I’m thinking of gay rights and feminist demonstrators protesting about chauvinistic behaviour at Berkeley in the late nineties, but this is different. There are a lot of cops in riot gear parked in the side-streets, and the shop keepers are clearly concerned about possible civil disturbance exclusions on their insurance policies.
‘The strategy here today,’ Earl tells me, ‘will more than likely be to get the police to respond to certain provocations. Once that happens, it will become a free-for-all. Success for the rioters will be determined by how much chaos they cause and whether or not people – ideally, innocent bystanders – get hurt.’
Robson’s parked the people carrier in front of a doctor’s surgery. It’s protected by a small wall, but we’ve got a good view of what’s happening in the centre of Brixton. Many shops are now either boarded up or they’re protected by metal shutters. There’s still a lot of vulnerable glass, however, and one or two small supermarkets are staying open for business.