This Broken Land

by H M Sealey

  “Gave himself up?” Kit’s smile dropped away.

  “You with your clever plans. You got Howard Steele. You got the Blackwood woman, but you lost Noor Blackwood and it was Noor Blackwood we needed. Howard Steele didn’t get drunk. Howard Steele made damn sure you focused on him while the girl escaped.”

  “Howard Steele has been useful. I believe he’s cooperating with my sister and helping her track down possible Family Matters activists.”

  Sylvester laughed, took Kit’s drink and drained it in one mouthful. “Your sister got nothing out of Howard Steele.” He ground the cigarette butt into an ashtray and glared at the younger man.

  Kit shrank back in his chair, for the first time since they’d met Asim saw him cowed.

  “He was cooperating -”

  “Howard Steele cut his own damn wrists!” Sylvester’s vice was acidic. “He fooled your idiot sister into thinking he was willing to help them, then he killed himself! When they found him he was alone. You’re as useless as each other, you and your petty rivalry! You haven’t changed since you were children, either of you.”

  Kit suppressed a slight smile. He was pleased Kat Summerday had got no further in her investigations that he had.

  “So, you said you were here cleaning up my mess concerning Elsie. What does that mean?”

  Kit lowered his voice and leaned forwards. “It means somebody’s feeding people bogus AS drugs and shipping out girls to the Border.”

  Sylvester didn’t look surprised. He snapped his fingers and ordered another drink in perfect Arabic.

  “I don’t think the victims are usually particular valuable.”

  “You knew about it?”

  “I worked it out. I wouldn’t mention it in public if I were you, not if you want to keep your job.”

  “But she’s here, the girl, Elsie Kessler.”

  “I see.” Sylvester didn’t look particularly surprised. “Have you spoken to Zeb?”

  Kit waved the suggestion away. “Zeb’s being an awkward bastard though that’s nothing new. So I intend to buy her.”

  Sylvester grinned at the idea. “That’s an expensive investigation.”

  “I have a friend willing to lend me the money. Zero interest of course.”

  “Of course. You’ll have to hope what the girl has to say is worth the money.”

  Kit didn’t respond to that at all.

  “So what are you here for?”

  “Actually, a similar reason to you. Only I may have got a little further in my investigation.”

  “You have a lead on Family Matters?”

  “I’ve had leads for a long time. I just chose not to share them with you.”

  “How long’s a long time? You admitted you had suspicions about the old woman for years, but you just went on letting her play her games.”

  “Barbra Kessler was a very mixed up old woman. I don’t think she knew what she believed. No, all she did was help a few Muslim and Christian children get out of the country with their families. Small fry really.”

  “Losing children is never small fry. Our birth rates are down catastrophically.”

  The waitress brought Sylvester his drink and Kit ordered another for himself by pointing to the glass on the tray and gesturing until she smiled and nodded.

  “Yes, that’s what happens when you systematically destroy the nuclear family and replace it with non-gendered individuals, mixed-species marriages and same-sibling couples. A man may have permission to marry his dog, but it doesn’t produce offspring. No wonder you need to steal children from ordinary, heterosexual relationships.”

  “You sound jaded.”

  “Do I? You realise birth rates on this side of the Border are sky high?”

  “Yes.”

  “Still, a few children here and there slipping through the net. It’s not the end of the world. Family Matters isn’t the biggest threat to Old Britain. Not by a long shot.”

  Kit was interested now. He watched the old man intently. Asim kept his head lowered to the table, occasionally scanning the room for his Uncle Baraq.

  “I disagree.” Kit dropped his voice to a whisper. “There are still too many women not reproducing. Have you any idea how desperate the situation is? Family Matters steals resources we need and Christianity stops women breeding without a husband. Right now we need girls breeding the minute they can.”

  “Like cattle really.”

  “This isn’t a joke.”

  “Oh, I know. You want a country of bastards belonging to the state, raised by the state and paid for by money that no longer exists. Well, there won’t be an Old Britain at all in a few generations at this rate and good riddance. Quite frankly, the world doesn’t need this ugly culture NuTru has invented.”

  Kit winced at the vitriol in Sylvester’s words.

  “You need to be careful what you say.” He whispered, keeping his tone just on the right side of threatening. But there was something else lurking in his words, Asim wondered whether that thing was genuine concern.

  Sylvester was unperturbed by this though, he almost found it funny.

  “I’m old.” He laughed. “I’m not going to change my way of thinking for anyone. Nor am I going to quietly hand over all my information about Family Matters to you so you can convince me to retire – with a little help from AS drugs.”

  These words seemed to affect Kit, the hard line of his jaw softened a little and he rubbed his temples. “Stop it.”

  “Stop what?” Sylvester raised a hairy eyebrow. “Alluding to the ease with which you removed every obstacle that stood in the way of your career, including your own father?”

  The drinks arrived and the men took them, Sylvester raised his in a toast.

  “Here’s to Alistair. A good man who died to soon.” He took a long mouthful and savoured it; Kit left his untouched. Even Asim could see he was bothered by this conversation.

  “That’s unfair.” His voice was a rasp. “Dad chose Assisted Suicide. I respected that.”

  Sylvester finished the contents of his glass and gave a sharp peel of cynical laughter.

  “Is that what you tell yourself? That he chose it? His choice was most convenient for you, wasn’t it?” Sylvester leaned across the table and met Kit’s eyes with a pair that were bright beneath the wrinkled skin. “Let me make this plain Kit. Since there is no retirement age any more, I shall remain your superior until the day I die. And you will have absolutely no say at all in when that day comes.”

  ~

  Alaia

  Alaia clutched Dai’s hand tightly as she stared around the room. She had never seen women so immodestly attired before, or dressed in such elaborate clothing and colours. To her eyes they looked like prostitutes strutting like peacocks and signalling their availability to every man. It was terrifying and wonderful all at once.

  Tariq was playing host, he waved them all to a central table with pride in his eyes.

  “Well, this is a surprise.” Baraq said as he let his eyes touch on Asim on the far side of the room as casually as he dared, ascertaining that the boy was well. He ordered lemonade from the pretty waitress for himself, Alaia and Dai. It was not adherence to Shariah law that caused him to reject the alcohol on offer.

  “In this room, ordinary life is suspended for a while, that’s all.” Tariq touched Alaia’s arm. “The women are whores from across the border. Don’t let them concern you.”

  Alaia nodded and sat obediently between her uncle and Dai. She had to be brave as Asim was being brave. She had to meet this strange new experience without fear. There would be many strange new experiences if she ran. And she still intended to run.

  “This is what the Reformists try to ban.” Tariq announced. “But it’s as old as time. Taking captured women as slaves. It’s a right of every man. Every warrior.”

  Baraq regarded Tariq with steady eyes. “Is that what you consider yourself? A warrior?”

  “Of course I do. Our Brothers in The European Islamic State never made a secret o
f their selling of captives as they conquered the territory. It’s our way.”

  “I was under the impression that the Prophet himself, peace be upon him, said "there are three categories of people against whom I shall myself be a plaintiff on the Day of Judgement. Of these three, one is he who enslaves a free man, then sells him and eats this money. I believe He himself, in his wisdom, freed sixty-three slaves."

  Tariq looked irritated for a moment. “Then don’t enslave a free man.” He said. “Enslaving a fellow Muslim, a fellow free man is wrong, I agree. But the women here today are not free. And why do you think their lives will be any worse here than over the Border? There they sleep with any man who glances in their direction for the price of a drink. They’re whores, all of them. Besides.” He leaned back in the chair and folded his arms, a gesture of defiance towards Baraq’s words. “They’re Mā malakat aymānukum.”

  “What your right hand possesses? Prisoners of war? Are we at war?”

  “Of course we’re at war. If a nation exists that is not submitted to Allah – may He be exalted – then they have already declared war on us. It’s just Old Britain is so self-obsessed they don’t realise.”

  “No.” Baraq shook his head. “We have a treaty with Old Britain. This isn’t the ESI. We rejected their extremism.”

  “Extremism.” Tariq snorted. “The people who make history and change the course of nations are always the extremists Baraq. Don’t you think it’s the extremists in charge in Old Britain?”

  “Perhaps. But here I like to think we are more civilised.” Baraq reminded him. “We fought a war to be more civilised.”

  Tariq did not accept this observation. “Be careful not to confuse civilisation with enslavement to western thinking.” He slammed his hand down on the table. “We must forge a pure Islamic state and purge every ounce of unislamic thought.”

  Baraq nodded around the room. “There seems to be a great deal of western thinking in this room.”

  “This? We take money from the infidels and pander to them for now.” He let the waitress place the drinks down on the table before he continued in a low voice. “It won’t be like that forever. The day is coming when Old Britain will fall to us.”

  “To us? What of our treaty?”

  “A temporary thing.” He grinned. “The fools over there emasculate their men. They’re eunuchs before they’re out of the cradle, half of them pretend to be women. They don’t even realise there’s a war to fight. They’ll fall to the sword even as they sob about diversity. I was there Baraq, I remember what that world was like.”

  “You murdered a Muslim man, a brother, in cold blood if I recall.”

  “I was different back then, before I learned of the true religion. Of submission to Allah, the most merciful.”

  Baraq nodded. “I understand mercy.”

  The room quietened with interested anticipation and all faces turned to the stage where a tall, dark man, one of the Mutaween himself from another district, called for silence and began to address the crowd.

  “Brothers and esteemed friends. It is good to see so many of us still understand that the buying and selling Mā malakat aymānukum is lawful for us. Even prescribed. It is our right to do this, even if those who are our enemies do not realise that they are our enemies and do not understand that we will never make peace with Dar al-kufir until they submit to Allah – La hawla wa la quwwata illa Billah.”

  There was a cheer that echoed around the room. Both Asim and Baraq noted that it did not come from the lips of the western men. Possibly they did not understand the Arabic. Did they realise that the men here were declaring war on them? The clean-shaven men in suits watched proceedings the way visitors watched animals in the zoo, condescending amusement.

  Asim translated softly for Kit, who watched without comment.

  Tariq spoke softly in Baraq’s ear, surveying the room with quiet satisfaction.

  “So many of the Kafir come here to buy slaves for their factories and brothels. One day they will be the slaves too.”

  ~

  Elsie

  There are so many people in the room, hundreds of them. It looks like a nightclub or a café but the stage in the centre is more like a catwalk.

  I never wanted to be a model. I never wanted the attention. Appearing in front of an audience is the stuff of nightmares. I hate being alone, but I hate being noticed almost as much. When I was little I sat in a room in front of twenty people, psychologists and doctors and social workers, all scrutinising me, all bombarding me with accusations about my parents, my beliefs, asking me questions a four year old could never answer. Questions designed to trip me up and condemn my family. Those memories are dark things, things I prefer to forget. I wasn’t a person, I was a case. A number.

  We’re all numbered. Before I walk on stage Zeb puts a card in my hand and tells me to make certain everyone can see it at all times. My details match the number, although the details don’t include my name. My name no longer matters.

  “Now get out there and smile. Try to catch an eye then look away bashfully.” He pats my face. “You’re a pretty girl. You’ll get a good price. Don’t start crying again.” He warns me. “Save it for after the sale.”

  And then I stumble onto the stage in front of an entire audience. When I was eight I was in the Holiday play in December with Missy. I froze and couldn’t remember my lines. I stood there in front of all the adults, feeling like a goldfish in a bowl. Every pair of eyes on me. I couldn’t even move until Missy came and held my hand. Nobody held my hand when they took my family away. Nobody holds it now.

  I look to find Missy now, but I can’t see her. All I can see are faces staring at me, judging me, deciding whether or not I’m worth buying. Tears roll down my face. This is all I am. My entire worth is going to be decided for me by whoever pays the most. I’m not a human being at all any more.

  ~

  Alaia

  “I can’t watch it any more. It’s disgusting!”

  Alaia and Dai slipped away to the quiet, rose-pink bathroom halfway through the auction. Alaia stood over the sink and stared into the mirror.

  “All those poor girls, some of them are younger than me. How can this happen? How can Allah let it happen?”

  “I’m not sure it’s Allah you need to blame for any of this.”

  Alaia turned her head. “These men do it in His name.”

  “There are other people here tonight, and the trader isn’t Muslim. I think human evil finds a way to flourish no matter the culture or religion.”

  “Maybe.” Alaia rubbed her eyes with her sleeve, removing any sign of tears “Have you seen your sister yet?”

  “No. I need to get back.”

  Alaia adjusted her Hijab so that none of her hair was visible. “I’m sorry. I just needed a few minutes away from – from that place.”

  “You still mean to leave?”

  She nodded. “I can’t live in a country that thinks that’s okay.”

  Dai took her arm and together they left the quiet sanctuary with the gold-edged taps and pale pink tiles and returned to the ugly excitement of the auction. They stood at the edge of the room for a while, where it was quieter, and watched as the girls were paraded on stage, pale and frightened and labelled like fruit in a supermarket to be squeezed before purchase to ensure ripeness.

  Dai waited for Missy with impatient ambivalence, one half of him was proud to have come so far and longed to see his sister’s face when she realised what he had risked for her safety. Yet he half hoped that Missy was not here in this terrible place at all, and that she had found her own way home by now. If anyone had the wit and determination to escape it was his fierce, intelligent little sister.

  “Alaia. There you are.” Tariq joined them carrying two classes of pale liquid. “Here,” He said, putting a glass into her hand. “Try this.”

  Alaia gazed into the bubbly liquid.

  “What is it?”

  “Champagne.”

  “It is haraam.�
�� She said in alarm.

  Tariq slid his arm into hers and she almost dropped the drink at the physical contact.

  “Not here it’s not.” His hand travelled down her back and she stiffened. “Here anything goes.”

  Alaia pushed the glass back into his hand and stepped away, increasing the uncomfortable distance between them.

  “It is haraam for me.” She explained simply.

  Tariq smiled a thin sort of smile. “I couldn’t ask for a more pious wife it seems.”

  “I am not your wife yet Sayyid.” And she never would be. Not ever. She would slit her own throat first.

  “Soon though.”

  Tariq’s hand moved towards her face and fingered the edge of her hijab. “You could take this off here.” He told her. “It’s safe.”

  She jolted backwards so sharply she collided with Dai. “No!” Her voice rose sharply. “It….it is haraam.”

  “That response is becoming tiresome Alaia. You can relax for a while. Come on, show me your hair.”

  If he saw her short hair he would recognise her as Abdullah. “No!” She insisted, offering him an artificial smile, a genuine one was beyond her skill at deception. She backed away until she was pressed against the wall. Tariq came closer, running his finger along her cheek.

  “Alaia, I can see how obedient you are to Allah,” This time he did not offer his usual words of praise, he was too enchanted by her eyes, two perfect, coffee-brown pools of light. “But why don’t you show me how obedient you can be to me? Here we are, together, choosing a slave, an…..intimate way for me to show you how honourable and generous a husband I will be.” He came so close his face was almost touching hers. She almost screamed, she could see every hair and line and blemish on his flesh.

  “Now, it’s time for you to give me a little something in return.”

  The door to the Ladies room was only a few feet away, Alaia, panicked by his unwanted hands, ducked beneath his arm and fled to the bathroom where the pink tiles and the perfume would give her sanctuary again.

  Dai began to follow, but Tariq caught his arm and held him back.

  “Just stay here a while Ayaan,” He commanded with a grin, placing his glass in Dai’s hand. Then to Dai’s great discomfort Tariq himself followed Alaia into the toilets.