by John Ling
CHAPTER 5
Samir hurled himself against the door, crying out with each impact, determined to overpower them with his righteousness, but curses, they had wedged something larger and heavier against the door, and no matter how hard he tried, it wouldn’t budge, and it was no use, no use at all, and curses, he would have to find another way, so he sagged against the wall, lurched back towards the staircase, and he descended, retching and coughing and spitting out bloody saliva, the pain in his skull throbbing, his vision growing fuzzy, his spirit wavering.
No, no, no. Do not doubt now. Do not despair. This is a test of faith. A test of commitment. God is watching you. Always watching you. The Compassionate. The Merciful. The Gracious. The Evolver. The Fashioner of Forms. This is jihad. You cannot falter now. You must not falter now.
Clutching his head, Samir found the kitchen and made for the stove and started fiddling with its knobs, half-crying, half-laughing because, yes, he would use fire, cleansing fire, to destroy the entire house, and he would be a shahid, a martyr, the greatest of honours and, oh, how much he ached to be a shahid like the great Osama bin Laden, to avenge the Holy Prophet, to be rewarded with paradise, to make his family proud and—
That’s when Samir blinked and saw that the stove was electric, not gas.
He howled.
Why, God, why?
Mad with rage, he swept his arm across the dish rack, plates flipping, shattering, and he tore out drawer after drawer, cabinet after cabinet, scattering their contents, breaking out in feverish sweat, launching himself against the fridge, rocking it back and forth until it toppled, bursting open, and he was delirious, oh so delirious, and he didn’t hear the sirens, the footsteps, the voices until the two police officers were right on top of him, screaming, their tasers drawn.
‘On your knees now! On your knees!’
‘Comply! Comply!’
Panting, Samir picked up a meat cleaver. He raised it above his head, and he charged them. ‘Allahu akbar!’ God is great!
The officers fired their tasers.
There was a whoosh of air and a hissing sound.
Samir felt a stinging sensation in his chest, and it swelled into a wave of numbness and nausea. A thousand volts of electricity rocked him, and he slumped to the floor, convulsing. The last thing he felt before his consciousness winked out was his arms being forced behind his back and handcuffs biting into his wrists.
Samir gasped.
Oh, my Prophet, my Prophet. I have failed you.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 6
‘Good morning. If you’ve just joined us, you’re listening to Tough Talk. I’m Hayley Ngata. Today I have a special guest with me here in the studio. Reverend Jonah Vosen probably needs no introduction. He is the founder and director of the Ascension Group, a think tank and advocacy foundation based on Christian values. No stranger to controversy, he is well-known for his biting social commentary. But love him or hate him, you have to agree that he’s always an interesting man to talk to. Reverend, thank you for being here, and welcome to our programme.’
‘Gidday, Hayley. Hello, everyone.’
‘Reverend, as we all know, Abraham Khan and his wife were attacked last night by an armed intruder. The nation is shocked, and it’s put us all on edge. What are your thoughts?’
‘First, let me just say that I’m thankful that Mr and Mrs Khan are safe. I can only imagine how traumatised they must be. What they have gone through is appalling. I am praying that they find strength during this very difficult time.’
‘Even though Mr Khan is a Muslim and his wife is agnostic?’
‘I pray for them anyway. I don’t discriminate.’
‘Good on you, Reverend. Now, regarding the incident itself...’
‘Shocking, yes, but hardly surprising. This has happened because we have allowed undesirable cultures to take root in this country.’
‘You are referring to Mr Khan?’
‘No, Hayley. Goodness, no. I’m talking in general here. For instance, let’s take the radical who tried to murder Mr Khan. His name, I believe, is—’
‘Um, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to stop you there. My producer’s in my ear, telling me that the suspect has been granted legal name suppression. We can’t allow his name to be broadcast.’
‘My mistake. I apologise. Well, let me put it to you another way. Most immigrants arrive on our shores with a genuine desire to contribute to our beautiful land. To add to our diversity. But it appears that some are failing to assimilate. They are either unwilling or incapable.’
‘Reverend, isn’t that racist?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Well, the prime minister has called you a far-right xenophobe. She’s attacked you as being out of step with modern, multicultural New Zealand. And many Christian and Muslim leaders agree. They accuse you of perpetuating a separatist cult.’
‘Come on, Hayley. That’s a weak argument, and you know it. I have Dutch, Welsh and Maori blood running through my veins. I do understand the value of multiculturalism. In fact, I celebrate it. But at the same time, I’m also a pragmatist. By any chance, have you read Samuel Huntington’s Clash of Civilizations?’
‘No, I can’t say I have. But I do know that it’s been cited a lot since September 11th. Something about cultural fault lines...’
‘That’s right, Hayley. Fault lines. Flashpoints. Mismatched cultures in violent collision. Everything else is just icing on the cake.’
‘Icing on the cake?’
‘Here’s an example. Saudi Arabia is the largest exporter of oil; the United States is the largest importer of oil. And guess what? Fifteen of the nineteen hijackers on 9/11 were Saudis.’
‘Yeah. Okay.’
‘Consider that for a moment. Why would Saudi citizens attack America? Their single biggest customer? Does it make sense? Does it add up?’
‘No, I have to admit it doesn’t.’
‘You see, it’s not a traditional conflict over resource or territory that we are witnessing. It’s really a conflict over hearts and minds. A cultural conflict. A conflict that you and I aren’t even aware of until it creeps up on us and explodes in our faces. That’s what so many fail to understand.’
‘So you’re against... what? Muslim immigrants?’
‘Just those who seek to take us back to the seventh century.’
‘Extremists, then.’
‘Yes, extremists. Radicals. Jihadists.’
‘Reverend, if you don’t mind me saying, you’re pretty radical yourself. Isn’t it hypocritical and unfair to be singling out Muslims and dumping it all on them?’
‘I’m not discriminating against any one religion.’
‘Yet you seem to be drawing a direct link between Muslims and violence.’
‘Will you allow me to put it all into context?’
‘Sure. Go ahead.’
‘Okay. You’re familiar with how critics make fun of my faith and the things I hold absolutely sacred. Does that justify me going out and murdering them? Wrecking violent vengeance upon them? Of course not. Yes, their comments may cause me outrage. But I must still tolerate their right to say what they want to say. It is the rule of law. It is the cornerstone of who we are as a society. So, to be clear, I’m only against those who reject freedom of speech in favour of barbarism.’
‘But shouldn’t free speech have its limits? I mean, insensitive portrayals of Prophet Muhammad have hurt Muslim sensibilities in the past, and we’ve seen the consequences of that overseas. Should we allow free speech to run amok when we know what it will lead to?’
‘Hayley, the freedom that gives naysayers the right to insult God is the same freedom that gives me the right to share my faith. It works both ways. It’s how a mature and dynamic society works. Now, we may not always agree with one another. But we can at least accommodate dissenting opinions. Censorship is not the answer. As a journalist, you would know that.’
‘So you are in favour of Mr Khan pushing ahead w
ith his book tour.’
‘Indeed, I am. Mr Khan is a good Muslim and a good citizen. I have the highest respect for what he’s trying to achieve. He is not intimidated by terrorists, nor should he be. He represents a new breed of Muslim progressives. Someone who uses literature to inspire intellectual advancement instead of blowing himself up to make a point. Now, small as our country may be, it has always stood up for what’s right at critical moments in history. This happens to be one of them. We have an obligation to support and protect Mr Khan as he embarks on his mission.’
‘And you stand by that even if he inspires outbreaks of violence?
‘That’s actually a moot point. We knew the risks when we gave him asylum here. We knew how much those fascists in the Muslim world hated him. But as the old saying goes, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. So we can’t back down. Not now. Not ever.’
CHAPTER 7
‘So you think you can fight?’ Maya Raines eyed the students before her. They were fit and trim and confident. The kind of girls who knew their place in the world and weren’t afraid to show it.
One of them raised her hand. ‘Miss Raines?’
Maya nodded. ‘Yes, Zoe?’
‘We’re, like, black belts. We know all about fighting.’
The group sniggered. Lots of oohs and ahhs.
‘So you wouldn’t be afraid if some street punk tried to rape you?’
Zoe rolled her eyes. ‘Afraid? I would kick his arse.’
The group laughed. The oohs and ahhs got louder. Maya folded her arms, trying her damndest to keep a straight face. It didn’t help that the community hall they were in actually doubled as a children’s playgroup on weekdays. Cutesy drawings and craftwork decorated the walls. No, not exactly favourable to creating fear. If she had her way, she would have held this lesson in a dark and damp alleyway past midnight. Not a cutesy community hall on a Saturday morning.
Still, she didn’t see it as a negative. Sure, the young ladies were cocky now. But once the right stimulus was applied, fear would flow naturally. Yes, it would.
Maya waited for the laughter to die down before speaking up, ‘Zoe, if you don’t mind me asking, what’s your discipline?’
‘Tae kwon do.’
‘And your rank?’
‘Second dan.’
‘Right. So you can handle yourself—you can kick fast, and you can kick hard.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you want to put that to the test?’
‘Hell, yeah.’
The group parted and Zoe stepped forward, bold as a peacock. Maya took hold of the whistle hanging from her neck and raised it to her lips. She blew it long and hard, its shrill blast echoing throughout the hall.
A door at the other end opened. A man emerged, wrapped up in safety pads and wearing an enormous silver helmet that masked his face. He looked like a lumbering alien as he moved towards them, shifting his weight from side to side.
Zoe stared as the man stopped in front of her, stretching his gloved hands, his joints popping. The students murmured among themselves.
Maya clapped to get their attention. ‘Girls, meet Bulletman. You can think of him as being a crash-test dummy on steroids. The rules are simple. Zoe? Pay attention, Zoe. You’re going to try and get past him. And Bulletman? Well, he’s going to try and block you. You can hit him as hard as you want, anywhere you want. Head, groin, legs, whatever—it’s all fair game. And don’t you worry about the helmet. It’s padded with four layers. You won’t hurt yourself by attacking it. Now, bear in mind, Bulletman won’t be hitting back, but he will be pushing. He’ll be pushing hard. Any questions?’
Zoe raised her hand. ‘Miss Raines? Don’t I get to wear, like, protective gear?’
Maya smiled. ‘Protective gear is for wimps like Bulletman, not a tough cookie like you. Besides, the floor is padded. That’s all you really need. Cool?’
‘Oh. Cool.’ Zoe entered a sparring stance, arms raised, fists clenched as she bounced up and down, puffing fiercely.
A bad start, Maya knew. The bouncing would only compromise her centre of gravity, while the puffing would over-pressurise her blood, wrecking all muscle control. The worst possible combination.
Maya blew the whistle, and Bulletman rushed Zoe with all the force of a freight train, screaming, ‘You think you can get past me, bitch? You think you can? I’m going to beat the shit out of you! I’m going to break your pretty face!’
Zoe spun and kicked, but it was too weak, too hasty, and she missed, and Bulletman walloped into her, shoving her back, and she drifted to the left, gasping, punching—one, two, three—but they were glancing blows, feeble, ineffective, and Bulletman crashed into her once more, and this time she drifted to the right, bouncing, kicking—one, two—but Bulletman gave her no room, and he powered his head into her, destroying her centre of gravity, and suddenly she was retreating, staggering, tripping, no more conviction, no more technique, her eyes dazed, her face pinched, her body looking like a puppet flailing on invisible strings as Bulletman screamed and pushed, screamed and pushed, screamed and pushed, and she finally went down, scrambling against the wall, squeezing herself into a pitiful ball, Bulletman hovering over her, banging his fists, growling.
Maya checked her watch. Ten seconds. Yes, things had gone far enough. She blew the whistle.
Bulletman ceased his assault and stepped away. Slowly, Zoe uncurled herself, her chest heaving, her face red as a cherry. The salty smell of sweat hung thick in the air. The smell of fear.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Eventually, Bulletman reached for Zoe and helped her to her feet.
Maya allowed the silence to linger for a bit before breaking it, ‘What you’ve just seen is called the adrenalin dump. Let me just say that again: adrenalin dump. Your heart races. Your vision tunnels. You start to shake. You can’t breathe. You lose fine motor control. Your reflexes go wonky. Time slows down. You lose focus. Your black belt doesn’t help you. You forget all your fancy moves. You get overwhelmed. You get pummelled. You get raped. You become a statistic. End of story.’
Maya walked to a bench nearby and unclasped the chilly bin sitting on it. Icy vapour swirled as she got out a sports drink. Cracking the can open with a fizz, Maya handed it to Bulletman, who handed it to Zoe. Zoe accepted the drink with shivering hands, her head bowed.
Maya turned back to the students. Their faces were pale. They didn’t look so smug now.
‘Girls, there’s the dojo and then there’s the streets. Chances are, your instructors have never been in real confrontation on the streets. They don’t even know what it feels like. They can’t tell you about the hormones pumping through your blood, the neurons firing in your brain, the spasms attacking your muscles. They can’t coach you what to do when your reptilian side overpowers your mammalian side. I mean, we are so used to thinking of ourselves as civilised and restrained human beings that we have completely lost touch with the very instincts that are vital for keeping us alive and well. That’s what this course is meant to fix. I want my students to understand the adrenalin dump. I want them to master it. Because, girls, you already have the tools. Evolutionary biology is hiding in plain sight. Don’t believe me? Then spread your fingers. Go ahead. Lift up your hands and spread your fingers. Notice the webbed skin between them? There you go. Your reptilian roots are right there, buried beneath a mammalian façade. Now, if you can use that under stress, under extreme stress, it might just prove to be the difference.’
Maya studied the group. They looked lost, as if she had just been speaking to them in Latin. Obviously, she needed to unblock their minds with a hard-and-fast demonstration. Nodding at Bulletman, she took off her whistle and her cellphone and placed them on the bench.
Maya turned just as Bulletman rushed forward, screaming, ‘You damn bitch! I’m gonna kill you! I’m gonna kill you!’
Maya felt the adrenalin ribbon through her like an explosion of warmth, pitching her to the edge, causing her to see red, her bo
dy shaking like she was being caught up in a hurricane, but she forced herself to breathe—in through the nose, out through the mouth—conscious of her thundering heartbeat, welcoming the rush, riding it, allowing her raw primal instincts to take over, and she dodged past Bulletman’s arms, slamming the web between her forefinger and thumb into his throat, hearing him grunt, stopping him in mid-lunge, before palm-striking his face in a blur—bam, bam, bam—the force coming from deep within her, the very core of her being, as she turned fear into rage, her screams eclipsing his as she refused to back down, refused to be a victim, and she cracked her elbow into his ribs, while her knee powered into his groin, and he staggered, faltered, and now the tide of the battle had well and truly turned, and she palm-struck his kidney, clawing at it before headbutting him in the chest, catching him in his solar plexus, and as he whimpered and doubled over, she snapped her elbow straight up, catching him in the chin, and his head jerked back, and he reeled, arms thrashing, and he went down with the hardest thump, and she orbited around him and loomed, her foot raised above his face, ready to deliver the ultimate coup de grace.
Maya paused for effect. Then, slowly, very slowly, she eased her foot away. She reached down for Bulletman’s outstretched arms, helping him up.
Her tunnelled senses eased as she came down from the adrenalin high, and she became aware of the students clapping and cheering and whooping as they crowded around her with Zoe at the forefront, wide-eyed and eager.
‘That’s way awesome!’
‘Unreal! Never seen anything like it!’
‘You were like an animal, Miss Raines! Like an animal!’
Maya could do little but pant and smile. That’s when her cellphone buzzed on the bench, cutting short the kudos.