A killing sin, p.4
A Killing Sin, page 4
Thompson blushes slightly. Only last week he had faced a slow hand clap and booing when he had been guest speaker at a debate at the LSE. A group calling themselves ‘Nous Sommes Voltaire’ had challenged him for his lack of integrity and weakness in dealing with the Sharia councils. The group fashioned themselves around Voltaire’s famous line, ‘I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.’ Thompson had not handled it well, managing to sound both defensive and deeply patronising at the same time. Claiming ‘much was happening for the good behind the scenes.’
The pressure has been growing on Thompson and Norton in recent months to stem what the media called ‘the Islamist ghettos’. There are now about sixty Sharia-led communities across England. In theory, they have no legislative jurisdiction, but in reality they are a law unto themselves.
No wonder he has lost his shiny tennis tan. Last year had been the worst for attacks including the horrific suicide bombers who had wreaked havoc at Glastonbury. It had been the highest casualty rate on British soil since the long war on terror began.
Last summer had been plagued by violent riots and what the press labelled the ‘toxic soup’ of immigration, integration and freedom from speech.
Despite all the talk of border control, there was still an endless focus on the influx of genuine refugees from war-torn Middle Eastern and North African countries into communities that are less and less integrated into the mainstream. Added to that was the fear of causing offence, or provoking anger, which meant any kind of sensible narrative was nigh on impossible.
I carry on, ignoring Norton’s scowl. ‘After my doctorate, I received a scholarship to the Global Think Tank, Pax, based in New York. The whole caliphette issue was really starting to take off when I began my research into the radicalisation of young women to become so-called jihadi brides, and the formation of all-female jihadist groups. My particular focus was the US and UK. Most recently I have focused on the psychological profiling of those susceptible to radicalisation, particularly those targeted by, or attracted to, Umm Umarah, the women-only fighting arm of British-based Islamic State groups which form part of Har majiddoon.’
Norton shifts in her seat. Har majiddoon is the most effective and well-disciplined of the Islamic state fighting groups. Norton had been involved in wiping out a key leader just before Christmas but had lost a police officer in the raid and an innocent bystander had been seriously injured. It is a name that conjures the deepest fears of most people in the West. That is, of course, its intention. Har majiddoon is the Arabic transliteration for Armageddon and that seems to be their sole focus. To wipe out anyone and anything that comes into their path. Glastonbury was a prime examples. All designed to target everything and nothing.
I glance at Norton. She is an impressive operator. Seen by many as a bit aloof and rarely found in the bars of Westminster, her barrister brain misses very little. A committed Christian she had attended the funeral of the police officer killed in the Christmas raid. She had read a prayer that was both powerful and deeply moving in its sincerity. She may not be quite as charismatic as her boss, but you could probably trust her more with your wallet and your secrets. I wonder if there is any truth in the rumour she is after Thompson’s job.
I carry on. ‘In the past Umm Umarah have typically focused on high-profile targets. They are well equipped, trained in hand-to-hand combat and guerrilla warfare and to a woman are willing to die for the cause. Many have had past experience in Women’s Islamic Enforcement Units, the internal police force dedicated to enforcing Sharia law on other women. They are ruthless, cold-hearted thugs. Their role now is seeking to convert influential Western women to the ways of radical Islam. They have a strong East London base, mainly around the Mulberry Estate in Tower Hamlets. They use sophisticated psychological techniques to find and convert individuals. Educated and wealthy girls are their key target.’
Never able to resist an audience I am beginning to enjoy the impact. You could hear a pin drop.
‘In the early years, they favoured kidnapping, but recent conversions of some high-profile celebrities have fuelled an incredibly effective recruitment drive. The singer MX Jax is a prime example. She was seen as the epitome of Western liberalism and has now taken the name Khadijah, the first wife of the Prophet, and joined Umm Umarah. That has had more news headlines than any number of academic papers pointing out the risks.’
I say this with the frustration of being the author of such papers and only ever being asked for a view when it is much too late.
‘Their need to kidnap and take hostages has fallen as their targeting and conversion techniques have improved. Although, of course, they still ensure they have a steady supply of willing, or not so willing, suicide bombers. What was unheard of a few years ago is becoming the norm. We are seeing more and more women running terrorist cells. The whole thing has snowballed out of all recognition.’
I am now in full flow, forgetting Ella’s advice that this is not an undergraduate lecture but supposed to be a conversation, when there is a knock on the door and a young woman beckons to one of the grey suits. I pause as we watch him follow her out.
Tuesday 25th May 09.12
I come to with a jolt. Someone is beside me. They’re pulling at my burqa. I try to grab it. Clutching it hard, grasping for any kind of protection.
She reaches under my veil and pushes her hand around my throat. My head whips back. I feel a searing pain as it cracks against the wall. Tears sting my eyes but I can’t cry out. She has slapped a piece of thick tape across my mouth. The glue sticky on my lips and cheek. The smell and taste of cheap rubber is acrid and intense. I can taste the iron viscose of blood in my mouth where I have bitten my tongue. She pulls the veil back in place.
She is dressed completely in black, I can feel the sweat on her. I can smell it. Even her eyes are hidden; tiny slits behind the cloth.
Then a different smell. Gas and paraffin fill my nostrils as I gasp for air, breathing like a race horse, full of panic. And then I see it. A blow torch. She casually grabs my hand and runs the flame across the tips of my fingers.
She hisses, ‘That’s just a taster.’
Tuesday 25th May 09.15
NUSAYABAH
I can see her trying to work out where she is. Trying to work out how it has all gone so wrong so quickly. She freaked out when she saw the blow torch. She has no idea just how bad this day is going to get.
I close my eyes. I pull off my veil and run my fingers through my hair, trying to release the tension at my temples. I see my face in the cracked mirror. Eyes staring back at me. Eyes older than time, etched with loss.
Meticulous planning and preparation. We have lived that mantra for so long. I think back to the day all the pieces fell into place for me. I had lost everything. I feel how I was then. Like a husk. A half person. I see it clearly.
I clicked into the chat room. Faiza was online.
I typed, ‘Hey, how are you?’
Rebelgirl: ‘Bad day. Sad day, babe. You?’
‘Why sad?’
Rebelgirl: ‘Take a look.’
I followed the link.
Drones were flying across what I took to be Iraq. There was a huge explosion then dust and fire everywhere.’
I typed, ‘What’s going on?’
Rebelgirl; ‘It’s a kid’s school. Twelve dead. Hey, take a look at Kardax if you wanna know more.’
I clicked on Kardax.
The first report was an investigation into sweat shops and child labour in Sierra Leone. The second report was an investigation into an arms sale.
That was the beginning.
Tuesday 25th May 09.16
MILLIE
Norton ignores the disruption and says, ‘Please carry on, Dr Stephenson.’
I clear my throat and try not to sound like I am lecturing. ‘Radicalisation is best compared to joining a cult. To understand how someone is recruited we need to ask ourselves three questions. First, what explains the initial interest? Then, how is an individual persuaded that a particular idea is the truth? And finally, what persuades them to engage in risky, illegal or dangerous activity?’
Norton asks, ‘Isn’t it the case that a lot of these people are just unstable? You know, struggling with day-to-day life; a bit lost and falling through the usual safety nets?’
From the corner of my eye I see Thompson look up from doodling on an electronic pad. There is an arrogance in him, a smugness, that despite the smile, the crinkly eyes and the charming manners make him hard to like. It’s a dig and he knows it. Thompson was much maligned for presiding over cut after cut to mental health budgets. His emphasis always being trade over everything else.
I turn to Norton, ‘No, in fact it’s the opposite. Recruitment is now so good that it weeds out most people we might consider unstable or with mental health issues. It might seem counter-intuitive but if you look at the research, it shows us there is a far higher incidence of people with mental health issues in the general population than in these groups.’
She nods. ‘Thank you.’
I glance down at my notes and carry on. ‘Turning to initial interest first. This is typically sparked by what we call a cognitive opening. By that we mean where something happens to shake previously held beliefs, even those we had felt quite certain about. This can happen in many ways. It may be an experience of discrimination, or some sort of crisis. It is often deeply personal. Something that leaves an emotional scar. It may be a series of small openings. Not always one single event.’
‘How come all of this happens under the nose of friends and family?’ Norton asks.
‘That’s a good question. It is often the case that friends and family are involved in the radicalisation process, but you are right, there are many cases where the opposite is true. Often, as individuals begin to question their views and warm to an alternative set of ideas and beliefs, they become increasingly adept at hiding their involvement. They will keep their views to themselves but slowly start to alter their behaviour, eschewing Western ways, perhaps avoiding places they no longer see as appropriate or might be deemed frivolous. They sacrifice friends and family. They will no longer see themselves as able to have friends of the opposite sex. Sometimes those closest to them are slowest to spot the shifts or simply fail to see the pattern at all.’
Before I can go any further, the grey-suited, harried-looking aide comes back in and walks straight towards Thompson.
‘Please excuse me, prime minister, I am sorry to interrupt but this couldn’t wait.’
He bends down to talk to Thompson and Norton leans in. He is whispering urgently, gesticulating towards the door. Both are clearly shocked. The blood seems to have leeched from the prime minister’s face. He stands and Norton follows.
Polite, but without his normal display of excessive courtesy, he says, ‘Excuse us, we will have to cut this meeting short. Dr Stephenson, please accept my sincere apologies. We will be in touch to reconvene. We appreciate your time and we will seek to reschedule as soon as possible.’
Norton leans over to him and says something so quietly it is clear she does not want anyone else to hear. The prime minister nods and looks back at me.
‘Dr Stephenson, there may be a matter where we would appreciate your advice. Please could you wait here for a few minutes and we will be back.
Tuesday 25th May 09.25
The pain is excruciating. I look around, trying to work out where I am. I hear people move in the next room. Are they coming back? I need to stay alert. Focused. I will myself to find a memory. A memory that will be mine…
15 YEARS EARLIER
Boston
‘Who the fuck goes to the aquarium twice in a week?’ Amala wailed, dragging Millie by the arm towards the bar. ‘Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers are playing the Super Bowl half-time show. Come on, I wanna watch it.’
Millie dug in. ‘You know I love aquariums and you made us rush around yesterday. I didn’t see everything.’ Millie looked about six, apart from the green hair and the sleeve tattoo. ‘They’ve got loggerhead sea turtles.’
Ella started to laugh, then couldn’t stop. That started Amala off and then Millie. They were holding onto each other, doubled over. ‘For fuck’s sake, let’s get a drink. The fish will still be there tomorrow.’
It was a good decision. They found an old-fashioned bar tucked away from the main drag. Still laughing, Amala said, ‘Excuse me, is this seat taken?’
‘No, help yourself.’ Sitting down, Amala looked at the good-looking guy in the baseball cap who was staring intently at the game. She glanced around to see the screen then did a double take back to the guy.
‘Fuck me, Ben Affleck.’
‘Well, that’s quite an offer. Do you want to wait until the end of the game?’
Amala dined out on that for ever more.
TODAY
Tuesday 25th May 09.27
MILLIE
I am puzzled. What do Thompson and Norton want with me? I am also a bit agitated. I was only meant to be here for an hour, so I could be back at my desk by lunchtime. I have a supervisory meeting with a student but I had planned to be finished by three and home in time to let the nanny off. Hopefully banking a few hours, and brownie points, by turning up early. She has worked so many hours this last month it’s the least I owe her. Apart from Ella and Amala, she is the only one who knows Mark has left. I haven’t even told my mum. I can’t face all the questions about why. I push the hideous feeling of shame to the back of my mind and switch on my phone.
There are a few messages from students about deadlines and references. I scroll through. Still nothing from Mark and nothing from the nanny. I quickly message Neil to ask if he is around and if he knows what is going on.
I wonder how Ella is getting on. She’s meeting her contact today. Lunch on Sunday had got pretty heated. Aafa is sure he is being followed and he thinks Neil and Amala should do more. He’s probably right.
I picture him around Ella’s kitchen table.
2 DAYS BEFORE
Sunday 23rd May
MILLIE
I can see Ella stick the little goat cheese tarts on the plates and start taking the dishes to the table. I stand to help her, getting a whiff of something odd. I look at Ella, she shrugs, ‘I followed the recipe.’ I look down and see a wizened and slightly charred tart, smelling vaguely of sweaty socks.
I sit back down beside Aafa, he looks deeply uncomfortable. His voice is quiet but determined. ‘You don’t know what it’s like in the PPCs. They take your clothes, your stuff and put you in those paper jump suits. They leave you in a holding cell with nothing but a hard bench and toilet pan. Half the time they switch off the lights and leave you in total darkness. It’s impossible to know how long you’ve been there or how long they’ll keep you. I hear them talking and joking about me, about my beard, and how am I going to find Mecca in the dark. They take your phone and they read your private messages. How would you like it if every text you sent, every picture you kept had some ignorant squaddie leering at it, laughing at it?’
Amala says, ‘Christ, if they looked at mine they would round me up for debauchery.’
I chip in, ‘And if they looked at mine they would send me a sympathy card for being so boring.’
Amala says, ‘Hardly Mills, all those testosterone-fuelled students, eh?’
But I would hate it and so would they.
Aafa bites his lip. His face an equal mix of anger and sadness.
Ella is full of sympathy. ‘I know, Aafa. I know it’s an outrage. I’m still working on this story about young girls being radicalised. I know it’s your subject, Millie, but I want to make it a human story. Until the public get to hear real people telling real stories, like Aafa, they are never going to see past the stereotypes and the statistics.’
I look over at Aafa. He’s such a good kid. I give his hand a squeeze. ‘I know it must feel crap. It’s deeply unfair. The PPCs are profiling. They’re under the cosh every which way they turn. All their stats tell them that the likelihood is the person stopping you being safe in your bed, or on the Tube or at a concert is probably brown, probably Muslim and probably a young man. That doesn’t make it right. But people are scared. They want easy answers, easy solutions. They can’t get their heads around the fact that it’s just as likely to be the nice, middle-class white girl blowing things up, as it is the bearded brown guy.’
We all seem to have been talking about Ezylocate for weeks. Amala’s right. So is Aafa. It’s a nightmare that is keeping us all awake at night more and more. Not just me. Ella, Neil and Amala too.
Ella says, ‘Something’s got to change soon. It’s not just Britain. It’s the rest of Europe, the US and Australia. They are all grappling with assuring the public they’re safe while still protecting their civil liberties. There are no easy answers, despite Thompson’s rhetoric.’
We go quiet and eat our food. The only sounds are from the speakers above us quietly playing Carmen, and the chipping noise of cutlery trying to chisel through the pastry. Neil gives up, cranks up the music and sticks a rose in his mouth. He begins to dance around the kitchen table. Singing with exaggerated passion, ‘Habanera’, his favourite aria.
He shouts to Amala, ‘Come on you wonderfully debauched creature,’ and throws a flower at her. She sticks it between her teeth and they start to dance. Badly. Very badly.
TODAY
Tuesday 25th May 09.30
MILLIE
Aafa’s right. I don’t really know what it’s like to be targeted and followed, but I keep hearing the same story over and over again.
I feel sick to the stomach. I have felt this way for weeks. I have my own shopping list of shame swirling around along with my worries about Aafa. And my worries for Amala. The guy hitting her last week had really shocked me. She was all swagger but it was just that. Swagger. I know underneath she must be scared.
