Boris Johnson - Seventy-Two Virgins

‘It is bullshit,’ said Jones. ‘It is the Jewish cabal who run the American media complex.’

‘Too bad, buddy. You lose,’ said the President. ‘If I were you I’d stick to your promise and let us all out of here.’

‘Shut up!’ said Jones the Bomb. He stuffed his Browning into his trousers and started waving his Nokia under the President’s nose.

‘See this?’ he said, wielding it like a TV zapper. ‘If I want, I kill you with this. If I want I kill us all.’

‘I don’t want,’ said the President. ‘Fact is, you sure as hell misunderestimated the great world public.’

‘You come with me, stinky pig,’ said Jones the Bomb, and yanked the presidential handcuffs in the direction of the door. ‘Follow me!’ he yelled at the others. Adam wearily obeyed, and Cameron and Dean brought up the rear.

“Ere,’ said Dean, as they moved down the subterranean green-carpeted corridor, with its old yellowy electric light, in the direction of Westminster Hall. ‘Is your name Cameron?’

‘And you’re Dean, right?’

‘Is he your boyfriend?’ said Dean, pointing at Adam, who was striding after Jones the Bomb.

Cameron chose not to answer this question, and asked:

‘That man on the TV, was he really your father?’

‘The hell should I know? What was his name again?’

‘I think it was Katz.’

‘Is that like the animals?’

‘It was with a K, I think.’

Dean pondered the ethnic implications of this. They passed the small window that gave on to Parliament Square, whose mullions were now treacly with water; and once again Dean snatched a glimpse of the hundreds — thousands? — of running, booted men, the APCs, the helicopters. It was almost twilit in the square, and there was something orange and thundery in the light.

In the hall, Benedicte had once more subdued the crowd, and now she handed over to Jones. ‘We’re back, my friends.’ As announcements go, this one was less popular than Gary Glitter announcing his comeback to a thousand skinheads at the Slough Apollo. But this audience had neither the energy nor the courage to boo. There had been death in this building, and they knew there would be more before the day was done.

‘I know some of you have just heard a noise, a bang, and you may be worried. Let me reassure you that it was the American imperialists, who tried to recapture this ancient British Parliament, and who have been violently repelled, with great loss of American life.’

The President was about to speak, and then said nothing. Jones could tell that many of them didn’t believe him; but some of them did.

‘So let us show we are not afraid, by continuing our debate. I know it is the custom to speak for many hours here. Who would like the floor?’

Up in the rafters, beneath the flèche, Pickel now prepared his shot. He lined up the lead terrorist in his sights, and began to sing his executioner’s song, the moaning hymn to his own calvary.

‘Were the whole realm of nature mine, That were an offering far too small. Love so amazing, so divine, Demands my soul, my life, my all.’

He’d missed in the yard, but there were extenuating circumstances there, with that pisser Barry White. This time he would do the business.

The neck was presenting itself to the cross-hairs, a stretch of stringy brown neck, with the muscles and veins standing out, there where the drug had to go in. It was a tough shot, but it was doable, and it had to be done now.

Well stuff this for a game of soldiers, thought Roger Barlow. He’d been waiting to speak for ages, and it was just like the Commons: you stood up and walked to the end of the diving board; you girded your Speedos and stared at the terrors below; and then someone else was called, and you sat back down again, and the adrenalin turned all manky and stale in your system. There was only one thing to be said for his terror of making his speech — every phrase of which was now supermasticated in his mind — and that was that it obscured his terror of being shot.

And if he spoke well, they might just knock that story on the head.

Listen, the editors would say to the sadistic girl who was persecuting him, we can’t do down Roger Barlow any more. Did you hear his speech on America? Did you hear him speak up for the President, and the transatlantic alliance?

Bad luck, they’d say to the vicious wheedling little Debbie Gujaratne. We don’t want any anti-Barlow stuff. Barlow is in, they’d say; Barlow is cool. And Debbie would gnash and spike her rotten little story.

Oh God, oh Gawd, thought Roger Barlow: why had he done it? Why had he put himself in this ludicrous position? And he thought back to the moment of failure, the woman with her shirt seemingly open to the waist, with her lip gloss, her black hair, her busy little fingers on his arm.

‘Oh Roger,’ she’d droned, ‘oh please. You promised,’ and he’d touched her cheek — Oh strewth, had they been snapped? — and reached for his wallet.

Oh Eulalie, Eulalie, he moaned. Unless he spoke up forcefully now, Eulalie was going to be his ruin.

He rose to his feet and tried to catch the eye of Jones the Bomb; and as he did so he tried to envisage the reaction of the Oedipal four-year-old, when the news of his folly broke over London like a thunderclap, and he was the butt of a thousand jokes.

‘Who is that man, Mummy?’

‘You are not necessary. Goodbye.’

‘Mr Chairman terrorist,’ he said firmly, causing a bit of a gasp in the back rows. ‘Ahoy there.’

Gently, gently, said Pickel the ace marksman to himself, drawing a bead on that hectic pockmarked neck.

Jones bowed his head, shaded his eyes, and squinted in the TV lights. Who was that at the back? He jerked his head forward again for a better view .

Keep still, you pisser, muttered Pickel. The neck was big in his scope; he could see the grime around the white neck of the T-shirt; he could see the pulse.

But it was no goddamn use if the sucker kept jigging, because the neck would just pass out of view, and he would be focusing on stone again.

‘My dear sir,’ said Jones the Bomb to Roger, thinking that whatever happened, this was the last speech. ‘The world awaits!’ And he stepped back to the lectern, and almost eighty-five feet above him Pickel cursed and felt the ache begin in his fingers.

Standing in a clot of embarrassment next to Jones and the President were Cameron, Adam and Dean. Cameron had started to cry, big tears chasing each other down her cheeks: not because she was terrified — though she was — but because the whole thing seemed so mad, and so interminable.

Dean felt at once overcome with sadness to see her tears, and appalled at the thought that he might be responsible. He was about to touch her arm, and comfort her, when Habib approached him.

‘It should have been you to die, not Haroun,’ said the Arab quietly, and Dean dropped his hand and stared out in misery once more at the audience, who stared in misery back.

And then he saw her. Yes it was. There could be no question. Five rows back. He looked straight into her beseeching eyes.

‘Mr Chairman terrorist, my lords, honourable members, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Barlow, ‘I really don’t have much to add to what speakers today have already said . .

‘Then shut up,’ said Jones the Bomb, bending to reach for the Nokia in his jacket pouch.

‘Damn,’ said Pickel.

‘…but on behalf of all the electorate of Cirencester, whom it is my privilege to represent, I believe I would be remiss if I…’

‘Get on with it!’ said Jones the Bomb, and looked down again at the green liquid crystal display of the Nokia, as he prepared to bring the operation to its predestined end.