Boris Johnson - Seventy-Two Virgins

‘So go on then,’ gibbered Jones, thrusting his face close to the President. ‘You have seen the verdict of the world. The majority is clear. This time there are no hanging chads and stuffed ballot boxes, like you have in Florida. What do you say?’

‘Well,’ said the President, ‘well.’

It was dawning on him that he might have to take a decision. Alone, shackled to a lunatic, with three other weirdos, besieged in some dungeon-like meeting room of the British Parliament, with no one to advise him but the blurting television, he was being called upon to make a choice of enormous moral and political implications. For the first time in his career, he was deprived of the jowly counsel of the businessmen who formed the upper reaches of his administration. ‘Well, buddy,’ he said, ‘I think we should wait and see.

You say the verdict is clear, but I notice that the numbers have been changing a little. According to this fellow here,’ he gestured at the BBC with his free hand, ‘it’s come down from 61 per cent to 58 per cent.’

‘Coward!’ yapped Jones. ‘You do not even have the courage to do what the world wants you to do. We are the voice of the people of the earth. The poor people. The people that America abuses and insults and tortures. We are asking for one small thing. You do not have to give our comrades a Presidential pardon. We do not even say that they are all entirely innocent of crime. We only say they must be brought to trial in a country where they can receive a fair trial. Give the order, Mr President.’

Silence for a second. The noise of the helicopter, more muffled than in the main hall. Another crash, as though another tile had come off the roof. Then a mysterious vibration, as though the whole building were starting to shiver and purr like an ancient cat in its sleep. It was rain, falling on the roof, as a sudden drop in temperature released the thousands of gallons the heat had been holding in the sky.

‘No, sir, I can’t do that just yet.’

‘Give the order and you will go free. But if you fail to accept the verdict of the people, then it will be my pleasure and honour to kill you, even if I lose my own life.’

The President narrowed his eyes and looked again at the screen. The fellow seemed serious. Must be to do what he’d already done. The President didn’t want to die, not at all, not for the sake of the Guantanamo prisoners. His brain revolved, not normally the fastest process known to nature, but now accelerated by adrenalin.

He could pretend to capitulate and give the order, and then double-cross Jones the Bomb. But no, then people would think he was weak, and in any event, the terrorists might kill him anyway. But if he did nothing, people would also think he was passive and powerless.

‘Mr Jones, sir.’ It was Dean, putting his hand up to speak. Cameron watched him closely. ‘Mr Jones, I think we’ve done enough now: can we stop?’

Again and again Dean saw the mysterious round weapon drop from the roof. In his imagination it portended the inevitable retaliation of the superpower and its lieutenants. He saw men with guns dropping from the ceiling on ropes. Violent men, who shot without questions, and then kicked their corpses.

‘What do you mean, stop?’ said Jones impatiently.

‘Well, I think we’ve made our point.’

Jones glanced at the President and the others, as though to confirm that they had heard this impertinence. ‘Dean,’ he said in his softest and most murderous tones. ‘Shut up.’

‘They’re going to kill us, Mr Jones, and they’ll never let us out of here alive.’ Dean was aware that this was a paradoxical complaint, given what he had nominally undertaken to do.

‘But we’ve discussed this.’

‘I’ve been thinking, and I agree with yow, Mr Jones, sir. I agree with yow about everything, but I’m not sure .

‘You’re not sure what?’

‘I’m not sure that I, like, really want to die.’

‘Assuredly, Dean, if we die, angels will accompany us to our rest, and we will lay our heads on pillowy bowers, and we will live in the tabernacle of the blessed, where no rain falls, neither is there any snow, and the warm breezes play…’

Dean shouted: ‘I don’t care. Anyway, I like snow.’ For the first time that day Jones the Bomb looked taken aback. It was if a snake had been hypnotizing a rabbit and the rabbit had suddenly stuck its tongue out.

He glared. Dean bit his lower lip. He had been on the wrong side of the law before. Ever since the cremation of the neighbouring cheese laboratory, he had felt a fugitive, an alien, but never had he felt so lost in a jungle of fear, and now the great white hunters were coming for him, and he was among the rabid beasts that must be put down. Cameron stood up and moved towards him.

Dean resumed. ‘I’m just saying that I wanna …’

‘You want to surrender? Will you do nothing to help our brothers who are fighting and dying in Palestine?’

‘Well, I think I have helped you know, so I honestly think we’ve done our bit.’

‘Do you want to give into this world of pornography and decadence, and the abuse of womankind…?’

‘And freedom and democracy and the rule of law,’ said the President.

‘Quiet,’ said Jones the Bomb, yanking his chain. ‘Dean,’ said Jones, ‘you took a holy oath that you would join the ranks of the Shahid, that you would be a martyr.’ On the way down the corridor to room W6, Dean had looked quickly out of one of the leaded windows. He saw that the crowd was being dispersed from Parliament Square, and that the men in blue were being joined by men in green.

‘Listen, mister,’ said Cameron. ‘I think he made it pretty clear that he doesn’t want to be a suicide bomber.’

‘What is it to you, woman?’

‘Don’t you woman me.’

‘Adam,’ snapped Jones at Dr Swallow, who stared levelly back. ‘She is your responsibility; kindly take charge of her.’

‘No one takes responsibility for me,’ said Cameron.

‘Yeah, Mr Jones, sir,’ said the President. ‘Welcome to Western civilization, buddy. Get with the programme.’

‘Hold your tongues the lot of you.’ He shoved his automatic into the President’s temple so hard that he winced. Then Jones pulled the gun away and pointed it at Cameron and then at Dean. There was a silence.

‘Well,’ said Cameron to Adam. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’

‘There’s nothing I can say,’ he told the girl he loved.

‘I’ve been a fool, and I’ve been cheated. Cameron, I’m sorry.’

There was something amiss with Haroun, thought Benedicte. She knew the man craved martyrdom, but he was red-faced with impatience. He walked towards her with tiny steps, as though trying to keep a walnut between his knees.

‘Quickly,’ he said.

‘What is thees queeckly?’ she whispered. ‘It is time to blast these sons of goats and monkeys.’ ‘We must wait for Monsieur Jones to come back.’ ‘No! If I wait any more, something will happen.’ ‘What ees something?’

‘Something bad. To me.’

The Palestinian girl looked closely at Haroun. ‘Mais tu veux faire pi-pi, chéri?’

Haroun didn’t like Benedicte. Her chic white T-shirt unambiguously revealed the location of her nipples. She was not attired like a black-eyed one.

He jerked his chin.

‘But go on then,’ she chuckled, waving the muzzle of the Uzi at the swing doors. ‘We can manage.’

And if anybody laughs at me now, thought Haroun as he minced out, I will shoot them in the bladder.

‘Tootle pip,’ called Lady Hovell to his smouldering back, ‘you clear off, and take Ulrika Meinhof here while you are at it.’