The Knives

by Richard T. Kelly

  ‘But what happens to those cases? What action is taken?’

  ‘It depends on resources. We can’t look forever, sometimes we have to admit our data is flawed, the trail’s cold. In some cases it is just not in the best interests of the taxpayer to continue the search.’

  Guy Walters raised a hand. ‘I see a case for hiring bounty hunters, frankly. Based on last known addresses, credit checks, whatever.’

  ‘The thing is, Guy,’ Manning shook his head, ‘you can track them down and they’ll just file new legal cases to remain.’

  ‘So the Lost Register is a dumping ground, isn’t it? To forget about?’ Blaylock rubbed his brow. ‘Eric, if we just take asylum applicants – the rise in new cases, and cases awaiting a first decision, and cases older than six months, and the thirty thousand cases older than seven years – can I ask, is it your view that our people are just incapable of taking a damn decision?’

  Eric now wore the bothered look of one who felt himself unjustly in the hot seat. ‘Minister, our officers dwell over quite a lot of cases where grounds for rejection are high, just because we know we may lose an appeal. And we know your views on lost appeals. So, yes, a pile does accumulate, otherwise we’d just buckle.’

  Guy Walters, indefatigable in a crisis, spoke up. ‘Couldn’t we incentivise the case officers to turn down more appeals? Some kind of a sales board, with prizes?’

  Phyllida Cox made her wintry entrance to the debate. ‘This workforce will not respond to any further pressures. They will only become even more demoralised. To make a system move you need skilled, incentivised staff. As you know, Home Secretary, our budget meant that a great many good people left. I doubt we’ll hire them back?’

  ‘Can we not do some blue sky thinking here?’ Thus Ben Cotesworth, fretful as usual. ‘I’ve read a submission on amnesty—’

  ‘That’s a non-paper’, Eric retorted, ‘not worth the Minister’s time.’

  ‘What? If you invited illegals to come forward, pay the back taxes they owe, get in a queue for permanent residency—’

  ‘Ben,’ Blaylock shook his head, ‘amnesty’s a lost cause. It’s the wrong message.’

  ‘It hasn’t occurred to you that we already have it? Effectively, unofficially, with all these failed cases we can’t pursue?’

  ‘What occurs to me is we shouldn’t be in the business of retroactively blessing criminal behaviour just because we’re all too bloody worn out to do anything about it now.’

  Blaylock’s vehemence turned the table contemplative for some moments. Finally he spoke again, somewhat hoarsely. ‘Does anyone happen to know – offhand – if my predecessors were aware of the scale of chaos this report describes?’

  ‘Before my time, Minister,’ Eric Manning fired back.

  ‘And mine, of course,’ said Phyllida, also unusually hastily.

  Blaylock nearly laughed. He began to speak slowly, seeking to measure the effect of his words. ‘Okay. We need to now collectively take responsibility for sorting out the mess. We are in this together and we must get out of it together. We need an internal review of all procedures. Meanwhile, for our sins, we have to publish this catalogue of misery within a fortnight.’

  Mark Tallis spoke up from the end of the table. ‘Obviously the press will say the report is a colossal shambles. And I think we should take a moment to consider the message it sends. Clearly Mr Quarmby’s initial findings need to be studied carefully. We need to examine our processes, yes. But my view is, this is not yet ready for public announcement. Not as-is. We would be doing a disservice.’

  ‘To what, Mark?’ Blaylock was truly curious to see what kind of sorcery Mark proposed.

  ‘For one, there are questionable figures that we need to double-check. I mean, “anywhere between 400,000 and 800,000”, what is that? The Home Affairs Committee has the right to expect correct statistics – as right as we can make them. There’s a security risk here, too. This report is a virtual crib-sheet on playing the system, what route to take into the UK illegally, when to lodge your claim. We need to consider redactions. We need to study it all, carefully, and get back to Mr Quarmby in due course.’

  ‘When?’ Phyllida Cox’s tone was tart.

  ‘In due course. But I think it’s far too important to say, “Oh, within a fortnight.” It will take the time it takes.’

  Blaylock, who had sat in silent admiration of Mark’s ceaseless guile, now looked to Dame Phyllida. ‘Does that seem … reasonable?’

  Phyllida replied with some weariness. ‘Mr Quarmby’s reaction, we can safely assume. But ultimately, David, like everything that happens here, it’s your decision.’

  *

  Back in his office for the briefest colloquy, feeling harassed and edgy, due at a meeting downstairs and hardly wanting to touch the disreputable ruse he was now endorsing, Blaylock instructed Mark to email Roger Quarmby a considered response in his name.

  ‘Write what you just said, Mark. “I have read your submission … My view is that it needs consultation before any public announcement.”’

  ‘Right. Becky Maynard’s asking what’s the line for the press?’

  ‘The same, but you can tell Becky the truth, that we’re trying to avoid an absolute shoeing from the press on our litany of past fucking failures. Okay? I’ve got to move, the basement is waiting for me.’

  *

  Exiting the lift on the ground floor Blaylock saw through glass that Seema Hassanli was helping Sadaqat Osman, nattily clad in a dark sports coat and tie, to negotiate his way through the entrance security. Sadaqat was saying goodbye to another woman at his side, and stooping to kiss the head of a small boy.

  Blaylock forged ahead into the basement conference suite and found the thirty-foot table hemmed on all sides. Scholars, imams, charities, media monitors, women’s groups – they had assembled from far and wide, some men in white, some suited, a few in leather coats, most sporting taqiyah. The handful of women all wore hijab. And all faces appeared ponderous, hardly looking forward to the dependably fractious hour ahead.

  Blaylock nodded to Sheikh Hanifa, dependably near Blaylock’s vacant chair at the head of the table, then saw Seema enter with Sadaqat. They squeezed together into a space at the far end of the table. Blaylock sought Sadaqat’s eye and they exchanged nods.

  ‘This meeting comes at a crossroads,’ Blaylock began. ‘For some time now we’ve gone down a road together. Where we have needed to get to is a drawing of the teeth of extremism in British Muslim communities. We have listened to you as representatives, we have sought your ideas on how to prevent radicalisation, we have funded you and trusted your judgement. It has been a complex and worthy undertaking. But in my estimation it has not proved successful.’

  He looked around and let the comment work its intended affront.

  ‘As much as we spend – forty million a year – the numbers of extremists plotting atrocities against the wider public are not in retreat. And when plots are uncovered we repeatedly hear groups from whom we expected oversight pleading ignorance. I know people in this room have worked hard. And much has been done. There’s no need for anyone here to feel wounded. But the point of our work has been to send out a clear message, that faith in Islam can be a proud part of a patriotic British identity and that violence has no part in it. Has that message been carried properly, clearly, into your communities? I need to know I wouldn’t get better results just giving the money to law enforcement. And at the present time, I‘m not convinced. So from today I will be reviewing all funding programmes. The total funds available will have to be significantly reduced, and all parties currently in receipt will have to reapply in the next year.’

  Arif Syed from the Council of Mosques and Imams was the first among the sea of aghast faces to speak. ‘Home Secretary, we have worked with your department for seven years, now you propose to tear that up and cut off funds?’

  ‘Not if your results are demonstrably adequate for the investment. Where a scheme has helped keep young people hones
t – fine.’ Blaylock gestured down the table to Sadaqat, who looked sharply down at the table. ‘Where it’s amounted to nothing more than talk? Talk is free.’

  ‘You realise we will not just accept this decision – we will fight it.’

  ‘I accept that. But I put it to you that we will be able to agree on an evidence-based assessment of what has or has not been effective.’

  Having delivered his bombshell, Blaylock now felt nagged by remorse, seeing people with whom he had dealt affably for some time now bridling, not unreasonably, at being held accountable for matters beyond their bailiwick. He recalled West Belfast housewives whom he and his platoon had castigated for giving succour to IRA violence that, clearly, frightened and appalled them.

  ‘You speak of what we have agreed. You seem to me to be selective here, Home Secretary …’ The gathering turned expectantly to Zaf Qadir, who occupied the far opposite head of the table to Blaylock. Chief of the sizeable and influential British Muslim Congress, Qadir had the starved, hawkish features of one highly self-denying in his diet, and the severe mien of one who might deny others much else besides, though his fine tailored suit suggested a certain interest in fripperies.

  ‘We have agreed’, Qadir continued, ‘that extremism is not some “Muslim problem”? That our community is beset by white British fascism, the marches and provocation and hatred.’

  ‘I hope I’ve never given you cause to doubt my view of that?’ Blaylock replied. ‘But, with respect, that is that and this is this. If relations between Muslim and non-Muslim in Britain were only ever concerned with wrangles over the problem of how to prevent violence on our streets then that would be a hopeless, hateful picture. They are not. Our relations are far richer than that problem. This meeting, however, is solely to do with that problem. We have other forums, other monies, devoted to enhancing mutual appreciation between faiths and communities. This is not that meeting. This meeting is about stamping out extremism – ensuring Muslims live fully as citizens of this country, upholding the law and opposing violence.’

  ‘Yes, there is the presenting problem,’ said Qadir. ‘There are also the underlying causes. Is it not a time for cool heads to look closely at our shared failures? Rather than inflame a situation and, perhaps, just confirm suspicions about how this government really sees Islam? Need we speak of significant disagreements over foreign policy?’

  ‘Of course not. That would be a waste of time. British Muslims are fully entitled to criticise British foreign policy, in public and through the ballot box. They have no right to take it as grounds to plot violence against the public. We all share freedom of speech, freedom of worship, the right to be safe from harm. From these alone should follow good relations. And we make no exceptions, we allow no excuses.’

  ‘Again and again’, Qadir shook his head, ‘we hear this idea that “extremism” is really just insufficient “Britishness”, that Britishness is the cure-all medicine, that Muslims must somehow choose between being British and being Muslim—’

  ‘Well, clearly, one may be both, but only the “British” part entitles you to your democratic say, whether you want to use it as protest or whatever. “Britishness” is what unites us. If you think otherwise, then you may be labouring under a misunderstanding. Citizenship means signing up to the whole, and the whole must be swallowed. We know there are some readings of Islam that don’t fit with the values of this country – the sorts of readings hawked around by the Ziad al-Kassers of this world. These need to be challenged. It perturbs me, for instance, how mosque committees don’t necessarily do so in their choice of imams. That, too, is something we may have to look at.’

  ‘Forgive me, Home Secretary.’ Sheikh Hanifa spoke softly, yet still Blaylock was surprised. ‘I am a man of faith, we are people of faith. We did not adopt or purchase that faith. We did not decide on it for personal advancement. We believe that what we believe is the truth revealed. An imam must have legitimacy, must have expertise in sacred knowledge, in the teachings of the Prophet Muhammad, salallahu alaihi wa sallam. He cannot be some … community worker? Appointed by your office?’

  Blaylock looked down the table to where Seema Hassanli wore a disbelieving look. At her side Sadaqat Osman had closed his eyes.

  ‘Sadaqat, thank you for coming today, I’m interested in your opinion as a newcomer to these proceedings. Does what I’m outlining seem reasonable to you? Or not?’

  The gathering now turned as one, near accusingly, to the least familiar face around the table. Sadaqat looked up and appeared troubled, albeit hardly intimidated. Blaylock had only the vaguest notion of how the young man might respond, and a far more pressing sense of the gamble he had taken in seeking to enlist Sadaqat as an advocate for his new dispensation.

  At last Sadaqat spoke. ‘I don’t believe … that the mosques are so significant? Or that the problem you see is so much down to imams? But I think you’re right, Mr Blaylock, that only Muslims can make the argument you want made. And that Muslims have to want to make it. As for what you, the state, should do? More regulation, more law enforcement …? I can see why you talk about that. And – by your logic, if what you say is true – maybe that is the road you should go down …’

  Sadaqat had not endeared himself to the room, and this only made Blaylock admire him more. He held up a hand as the silence left by Sadaqat now began to fill up with forceful disputation.

  4

  Though Adam Villiers and Brian Shoulder of the Yard awaited him for the regular Thursday session – itself to be truncated on account of his appointment in Cogwich – Blaylock was required to beg their patience, Roger Quarmby having finally trapped him on a phone line to vent his displeasure over the delayed publication of his report.

  ‘What exactly do you mean by “not yet ready for public announcement”? What part of the work I’ve done is in any sense unsuitable for consumption?’

  Quarmby had a high-in-the-nose Lancastrian accent that, together with his narrow hooded eyes and pursed lips, gave him a schoolmasterly aspect now being exacerbated by his obvious belief that he was being fed a load of dog-ate-my-homework excuses.

  ‘We have queries and comments, Roger; these will be compiled and returned to you for your attention so that your final version is wholly accurate.’

  ‘Home Secretary, my submission was wholly accurate. You asked me to do what I took to be important work, for which I surveyed all the evidence. I do not draft “political” documents to endorse a preordained view, wishing things to be other than what they are – that is of no help to anyone, in fact it’s harmful. If that’s what you have in mind to engineer here, be assured it is not acceptable to me.’

  ‘Roger, I’m sure when you see our queries you will appreciate this is a fuss over nothing …’ Having attained what felt to him like the height of disingenuousness, Blaylock pressed on.

  *

  Entering his sequestered session with Villiers and Shoulder, Blaylock knew at once, by Villiers’s lowered solemn head, that there was bad news to be broken. Indeed, he was advised that one of the ‘persons of interest’ under risk certification had absconded from surveillance: a Pakistani baker’s son from Birmingham named Haseeb Muthana, married father of two with a third on the way, believed to have studied bomb-making during an excursion to the Afghan borders.

  Blaylock felt a prickling between his clothing and skin, knowing what he could be subjected to in the House for such sloppiness.

  ‘The hopeful news, arguably, is that we strongly suspect Muthana has left the country.’

  ‘How did he get out? Surely we were holding his passport?’

  ‘We have formed the view that he got across the Channel Tunnel in the back of a lorry and picked up false documents in Belgium.’

  ‘So, should I be relieved?’

  ‘Muthana’s a fairly shrewd individual. We’ve suspected him not of any driving urge to martyrdom but, rather, of playing an advisory, directorial role in the bomb-making ambitions of various small cells. That’s a role he can
continue to play so long as he has means of communication. So we must keep our ears open, and hope to pick up his voice somewhere out in the ether …’

  *

  Since conversation with Alex was proving fitful while they waited, Blaylock got out of the car, also to take the air and check his messages. He was booked on the evening’s political TV talk-show, and he now learned that Madolyn Redpath had been drafted onto the panel at short notice. The thought of his inaction over her lobbying on behalf of Eve Mewengera was a splinter in his conscience. He preferred to focus on delivering Alex back home by 7 p.m. following a day of good filial relations that would pile up further credit for him in Jennie’s eyes.

  Peering through the car’s smoky glass window he watched the boy cleaning his camera lens diligently with a soft cloth, unwinding tangled black leads, and methodically replacing items within the folds of a small black leather carry-case. It seemed a notable investment of effort in such a teensy piece of gear. Blaylock realised that Andy, too, was watching the boy. They exchanged looks.

  ‘The passion of it, eh?’ Andy remarked. ‘Reminds me of my boy when he plays his American football on Sundays. All the padding and taping and putting on the war-paint. He goes into another world.’

  The world Andy was describing was one in which Blaylock rather wished Alex would spend more time. Finally the boy slid out of the Jaguar, camera in fist, soft black bag of odds and ends over his shoulder.

  ‘Okay, Spielberg,’ Blaylock ventured, ‘we’re ready for our close-ups.’ A withering look, though, told him he’d name-checked the wrong sort of film director.

  They were in a car park tucked behind the redbrick high-rise of Cogwich Shopping City, and passers-by beyond the wall evinced no interest in the ministerial visit. But then barrelling toward them came their host for the afternoon, Bob Gaines of Panoptic Answers Ltd, a big enthused side of beef, red-faced under fair hair, who pointed up to CCTV cameras on the car park’s nearest lamppost.