18 The End of History versus The Last Man -1

"Look around you\ And what do you see? What is the result of this so-called democracy, this

so-called^reedom, this so-called liberty? Oppression, persecution, slaughter. Brothers, you can see

it on national television every day, every evening, every nightl Chaos, disorder, confusion. They are

not ashamed or embarrassed or self-consciousl 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, i December 1992,1 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 Ibrahim 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

Ibrahim 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 Ibrahim 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 Ibrahim awkwardly stretched to meet it, you couldn't help thinking, in the Brother's very

own style of third-word emphasis: five foot Jive.

The other problem with Brother Ibrahim 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 Ibrahim 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 dypsomaniacs,

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 ula ma 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'an 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 Ibrahim came to England, locked himself in his aunt's

Birmingham garage and spent five more years in there, with only the Qur'an 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 KB VIN 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 Ibrahim 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 Ibrahim 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'an (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'an. 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 Ibrahim, 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

Ibrahim 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 Ibrahim'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 hal al 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 hal al 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-too of 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 corner

shop 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

corner shop 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?" Boo/); 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 front line 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 Ibrahim 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, in nit 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 Ibrahim 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 F A The E to play on that, and really

get a comprehensive campaign together, so if.. ."

Ah, Joely.Joely'Joely'Joefy. 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 PO V, 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-fuckingtastic.

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 shagjoely," 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 col478 lege, 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 bed sit 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 situation ism 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 trans genic 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 / 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.

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