“What’s your opinion of Gatesave using forced labour to make their wine, Mrs Golden?” asked the reporter, crouching and holding her tape recorder next to the woman’s head.
“Their customers are literally drinking the blood of slaughtered infants!” she foamed from her position in the mud, shaking a smiling blood-soaked doll’s head to make her point. She lifted her head and looked at me and Mr Cohen. “You’re worse than the Nazis!” she screamed.
“Yes, hello Mrs Golden,” he called back.
“Please calm down mother, you’re not helping,” pleaded Dan.
Mr Cohen turned back to me. “I wonder if you can help me understand what’s going on? Mr Hart? Dan?”
“Well, it’s complicated,” I said.
“Hmmm. Yes, things often are in this world. I understand your supplier here is hosting a group of viticulture students from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem?”
“Yes, something like that,” I said in a small voice.
“It’s a great university. I know, because I studied there. Not viticulture, sadly, but ancient and modern languages.”
“Oh. That’s nice.”
“Yes. So I was fascinated to hear about your little internship scheme. In fact, so was Professor Weitzman, the Head of the Faculty of Agriculture, when I called him this morning. Most fascinated.”
“Hmmm, yes,” agreed Dan. “I can see why he might have been.”
“I even took the liberty of speaking to a couple of your students earlier today, gentlemen. I tried English and Hebrew but they weren’t too familiar with those languages. Which is strange, because students at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem tend to be pretty good at both. Their Arabic was far better, though. I suspect their Somali might be better still, although I confess my own Somali stretches to only a few words.”
“Yes. Tricky old language, Somali.”
“Indeed. Gentlemen, I don’t really care what you’re up to here. You could be running a gigantic crystal meth factory – it wouldn’t concern me in the slightest.” Mr Cohen raised his finger. “Except. Except, for some reason, you have involved the good name of Israel and simultaneously attracted the attention of Mrs Golden and the national press. And that, unfortunately, does make it my problem.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“Good. Now then, I would be very grateful if you could extricate the good name of my country from this strange little scheme of yours. And I would like you to do that very quickly. Are you capable of doing this or do you require my help?”
I had the feeling that Mr Cohen’s help would involve flashing blue lights, men in uniforms and the inside of a cold, hard cell. Jeremy Spott-Hythe hove into view. He was naked and carrying a shotgun.
“Why is that man wearing no clothes, in the middle of winter?” asked Mr Cohen.
“He’s trying to tell when the next frost is due,” I explained.
“Felix! Your pregnant student has gone into labour!” Spott-Hythe called.
“Are you sure it’s not just stomach cramps?”
“Well, the head’s showing so… it’s definitely looking like she’s pregnant. For the moment.”
Oh, Christ! If we sent her to hospital she’d be questioned, we’d have the authorities down here in no time and I’d be locked up by the end of the day. I stared more closely at the Somalis up on the hillside. What the hell were they actually doing…? It was mid-afternoon – the group had taken a break from inspecting grapes and were arranged in a semi-circle on their knees, on the gently sloping hillside above. To my horror, I could see that Madar, the musical Somali who had led the call to prayer back in Little Chalfont, had sliced the end off a stray traffic cone and was holding it to his mouth.
“Allāhu ʾakbar. Allāhu ʾakbar,” he sang.
“Now that’s not a sound you often hear at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem,” pondered Mr Cohen.
“Ah. No. Can you hold on for just a second?” I turned to Dan and whispered savagely, “For pity’s sake, ask them to stop. Tell them they can do an extra-long prayer this evening or something.”
“I can’t interrupt. It would be rude!”
“Afternoon Felix!” called Wodin as he, Fistule and Mercedes emerged from a taxi. Wodin peered up at the praying Muslims on the hillside. “Oh dear. That’s not part of the plan, is it?”
The crowd of protesters were rattling the gate more vigorously now – the chain was jangling and crashing against the wood.
I turned to Wodin. “Can you and the guys try to stop that rent-a-mob from vandalising the gate? We really don’t want them invading the farm.”
Wodin walked over to the protesters with Fistule, who held a large joint in his hand. “Hey, dudes. Why all the shouting? Let’s just have a smoke and talk about this,” called Wodin.
“Is it Gatesave policy to distribute illegal drugs, Mr Hart?” asked the journalist, her tape recorder hovering before my nose once more.
“Ashhadu ʾan lā ilāha ʾillā-llāh,” sang Madar from the hillside above.
“Mr Hart. I can see you have a lot on your plate but I must ask, most respectfully, that you address my request,” insisted Mr Cohen.
“Ah, yes, just hang on. With you in a minute.”
At that moment, the crowd broke the chain around the gate post and pushed it open. “Get back! I know how to use this!” Mrs Spott-Hythe swept her scythe at the protesters, inserting a long, neat slash across the front of a small man’s grubby anorak.
“Violated! I’ve been violated by the fascist agents of child murderers!” he whined. The photographer zoomed in on the unfortunate man’s jacket. Sadly, the blade hadn’t penetrated his chest.
“Police! Attempted murder! Call the police!” screamed Mrs Golden.
“I’m calling now!” shouted a tall, wet-looking man with bad acne.
“Don’t you dare use those infernal machines on my property! They emit radiation!” Mrs Spott-Hythe flipped her scythe and jabbed the blunt end into the face of the spotty-faced protester. He dropped his phone in the mud and screamed, sinking to his knees and clutching his face.
“Ashhadu ʾanna Muḥammadan rasūlu-llāh,” Madar’s voice floated down from above.
“Murder! Murder!” screeched Mrs Golden.
“Close the gate! The alpacas will escape!” called Mrs Spott-Hythe. Sure enough, two llama-like creatures were jogging towards the open gate, friendly smiles on their furry faces.
“Good! Liberate them!” called a mousy-looking young woman from the crowd of protesters, opening her arms in a gesture of mammalian solidarity.
“Ḥayya ʿala -ṣ-ṣalāh,” sang Madar.
The alpacas ran through the open gate and careered into the crowd, knocking the mousy woman to the ground. Still smiling, one of them spat at the Daily Mail photographer while the other lowered its head and started to eat Mrs Golden’s hair.
“Jesus fucking Christ, my eyes!” shouted the man from the Mail, dropping his camera and pawing at his face.
“They’re setting their animals on us!” screamed Mrs Golden, attempting to batter away the creature’s head with her loudhailer.
“Mr Hart, please!” called Mr Cohen, tugging at my coat. “This must end now! I respectfully ask that you attend to my request!”
“Ḥayya ʿala-l-falāḥ,” sang Madar.
“Felix, we need a midwife, now!” shouted Jeremy Spott-Hythe, waving his shotgun, his dongle swinging in the frigid air. “None of the other students are qualified.”
I turned to Dan, who was wringing his hands. “Go and do something useful, for God’s sake! Wash your hands first!” Dan ran through the gate towards the stables.
Mrs Golden had grabbed hold of the bridle of the alpaca that was eating her hair, and was now being shaken about, flinging pouting, blood-stained dolls’ heads in all directions. The animal started to walk backwards, dragging her like a sack of potatoes.
Despite Wodin and Fistule’s best efforts to close the gate, the crowd surged forward, pushing them aside. The press pa
ck ran forward for a better shot.
“Back, you dogs!” shouted Spott-Hythe, discharging his shotgun into the air. Everyone ducked and the alpacas bolted in panic, dragging Mrs Golden, whose arm had become tangled in her animal’s harness, through the mud and into a nearby vineyard.
“Don’t shoot, man!” wailed Fistule, his arms outstretched in front of the crowd. “Everyone just chill!” Several of the protesters barged past Fistule, who fell on his back in the mud. They ran at Mrs Spott-Hythe, who swept the blunt end of her scythe across their legs, sending them toppling, howling to the ground.
“Allāhu ʾakbar. Allāhu ʾakbar,” sang Madar.
“Hold the front page and get down here, it’s like the fucking Alamo,” shouted one of the photographers into his phone.
“Next time, I shoot to kill!” hollered Jeremy Spott-Hythe, as his wife drove the end of her weapon into the buttocks of the acne-afflicted protester, who was rolling in the mud.
“Rape! I’m being raped!” he screamed.
“Mr Hart! Will you please address my concerns!” shouted Mr Cohen.
A siren sounded and a police car braked hard at the gate. Two policemen jumped out and ran up the track, the younger one shouting into his radio. “We are at the scene, Control. There’s a disturbance in progress.”
As they rushed past me and through the gate, they came upon Mrs Spott-Hythe, grey hair flying, spinning her scythe like a witch-ninja. “I survived the Mau-Mau, I can deal with you rabble!” she yelled.
“There’s major public disorder here,” advised the policeman into his radio. “Control, we’re going to need backup!”
Then they caught sight of Jeremy Spott-Hythe, his dangling meat and potatoes and his loaded shotgun. The older policeman, a Sergeant, grasped his own radio and spoke into it urgently. “We have an armed and naked man on the scene, highly agitated. Send armed backup, repeat armed backup. We need eyes in the sky, eyes in the sky!”
“Lā ʾilāha ʾillā-llāh,” sang Madar through his traffic cone.
“Christ, Sarge, I think it’s some kind of terrorist training camp!” wailed the younger policeman.
“It’s carnage here, Control! We need tactical!” he shouted into the radio. “Repeat, we need tactical! Send everything you’ve got!”
“Officers!” shouted Mr Cohen. “I am a diplomat in need of protection!” He held up an impressive looking piece of ID. The Sergeant’s eyes bulged.
“We may have a diplomatic incident here, Control, suggest you send Special Branch, I repeat, send Special Branch.”
The other alpaca jogged over, a wide, dappy smile on its face. It grabbed Mr Cohen’s ID in its teeth and swallowed it.
“Right, I’m not putting up with this anymore! I’m calling the Home Secretary,” shouted Mr Cohen. He pulled out his phone.
“Put that devil’s tool away or I’ll smite you!” screamed Mrs Spott-Hythe, pointing her enormous blade at him.
“Suppress that woman please! You are obliged to protect me under the Vienna Convention,” shouted Mr Cohen at the officers.
Another siren sounded and a police van skidded to a halt, blocking the road. Six more policemen piled out and ran up the track towards us. They were intercepted by Mrs Golden sprinting out of the adjacent vineyard, wailing like a banshee. She had managed to untangle herself from the alpaca, which cantered after her, a large tuft of her red hair in its happy mouth.
Mrs Golden was clearly in a highly distressed state, the remaining dolls’ heads swinging wildly from her shredded, fake-blood-stained clothes, her hair a spiky mash of vine leaves and alpaca saliva. “Arrest everyone!” she screamed, “for rape, murder, assault with deadly animals, and oppression of the Palestinian nation!”
“Jesus Christ, Sarge, it’s the zombie apocalypse!” shouted one of the officers, as the pack of policemen gave Mrs Golden an extremely wide berth.
“Wa ‘anaa ‘ash-hadu ‘an laa ‘ilaaha ‘illallaahu…” chanted the Somalis in unison.
“What the fucking hell’s going on up there?” screamed one of the recently arrived officers. “It’s a fucking al-Qaeda convention!”
“On me! On me!” shouted the younger policeman crouching just inside the gate, beckoning furiously to his colleagues.
The police took up position around us. Protesters were running back and forth trying to avoid Mrs Spott-Hythe’s whirling scythe. Wodin and Mercedes were fighting a losing battle to block further protesters from invading the farm, while Jeremy Spott-Hythe spun around, waving his shotgun and winky at anyone who got too close. Fistule lay on his back, a muddy footprint on his face.
“Ok, we have a major incident here lads!” shouted the Sergeant. “Naked man with a firearm, probably mentally ill. Large number of Muslims praying, possibly in possession of explosives. Two mad women, one with a scythe, the other covered in dolls’ heads, may be witches. VIP, possibly foreign diplomat, impossible to say, all evidence eaten by South American mammal. Miscellaneous members of the public, probably on drugs, definitely hostile. International media present. Have requested armed support, air support, bomb squad, Special Branch, RSPCA.”
“My penis is on fire!” roared a deep voice from behind me. Everyone stopped and stared. Even the alpacas looked round. It was Tariq. He was accompanied by a very smart-looking man of Middle Eastern appearance carrying an attaché case. “Not really, my penis is fine. Just getting everyone’s attention,” he announced.
“Are you in authority here, sir?” asked the Sergeant.
“Yes I am, officer. My name is Tariq Hussein. I am a human rights activist. This is my lawyer, Mr Samara.” The smart man nodded, rested his attaché case on the broken gate and flicked open the catches. “And this is my undercover colleague, Mr Felix Hart,” he added, waving towards me. “He can explain.”
I drew myself upright and thrust out my chest, nodding to the Sergeant.
The Sergeant folded his arms. “There’s a lot that needs explaining here, Mr Hart. We’d be very grateful if you could shed a little light on the proceedings.”
“You have arrived at the perfect time, officers,” I began. “I thank you for your prompt and professional response.” I extended my arm towards the Somalis on the slope above who, oblivious to the chaos below, had now finished their prayers.
“Standing before you, on the hills of Kent, are forty-two of the most benighted and oppressed individuals the world has ever seen.”
“They are not Jews from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem!” declared Mr Cohen.
“Thank you sir, I’d worked that one out for myself,” replied the Sergeant. “Please continue, Mr Hart.”
“They are Zionist collaborators in the oppression of the Palestinian nation,” shouted Mrs Golden, as she staggered through the gate, a few severed baby heads still swinging from her tattered dungarees.
“No madam, they are not,” I said. “They are simple, honest Muslims, blameless pawns in a vicious game, way beyond their control.”
“Oh,” said Mrs Golden, looking rather deflated.
“These people have been subject to a life so wretched, so utterly foreign to us here, that it requires a strong mind to even comprehend such iniquity.” Careful, better not bloody overdo it, I thought to myself.
“What’s that then?” asked the Sergeant.
“Slavery!” I declared, dramatically. The protesters, Wodin and the Spott-Hythes had stopped fighting by now and moved closer, the whole crowd were rapt with attention.
“That’s against human rights laws, Sarge,” piped up the younger policeman. “I’ve never nicked anyone for slavery.”
“Unfortunately, the offenders are not here, officer. They are far away, in their Dubai palaces, on the shores of the Persian Gulf.” I flung out my arm, gesturing far beyond the rolling hills of Kent.
“I quite fancy a trip to Dubai,” said one of the policemen.
“These men and women have been victims all their lives, officers. In Arabic, they are called bidoun, meaning ‘without’. They are stateless. Thei
r ancestors were simple African or Indian itinerant workers, stranded in Arabia decades ago when the maps of the region were redrawn around them. And there they remained, stranded, without passports, without permits, without hope.”
Galad sidled up to me. “We are very happy here,” he said. “Is everything ok?”
“Don’t look happy, Galad, for God’s sake,” I whispered. “Tell everyone to look miserable. The police don’t like happy people, it makes them suspicious.”
I didn’t have to worry. The Somalis had wandered down the hillside to join us, their now-frightened faces looking from the police to the wild, bloody Mrs Golden, to the naked Jeremy Spott-Hythe.
“Fear not, my friends, you are safe now!” I called. For Christ’s sake, I prayed, keep looking oppressed and miserable. “Without passports they are not permitted to leave the Middle East to return to their ancestral homes. Without papers they cannot be officially employed. Without permits they cannot access healthcare, nor education. Generation after generation are condemned to a lifetime of irregular work as unpaid servants, slaves or prostitutes, in the palaces of the rich, shunned by the state and exploited by the powerful.”
“How awful!” exclaimed Mrs Golden. “Something must be done!”
“Something has been done, madam, thanks to the brave efforts of the activists you see before you!”
“How did they get here then?” asked the Sergeant, frowning.
“Through the brave work of a dedicated network of human rights workers, including Dan Golden of Jews for Goodwill, and Tariq Hussein of Muslims For a Better World, who stand here before you.” The protesters burst into applause.
“My son! How could I ever have doubted you?” wailed Mrs Golden, looking around. “Where is he?”
“I think he’s delivering a baby,” called Wodin.
Tariq’s lawyer removed a sheaf of papers from his case and presented them to him with a flourish.
“We cannot reveal the exact route they took,” explained Tariq, “but we have documentation showing that they were under the control of a certain Sheikh Rashid bin Salem, a vicious prince whose financial empire is built on a network of human misery!”
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