BATTERING RAM

 Alan Dent

            The mobile lay on the polished surface of the African blackwood table at which Michael Henderson was eating the breakfast prepared by the au pair. He was annoyed because the toast, nestling in triangles in the silver rack, was overdone. He liked it slightly, but only slightly, baked so its surface was crisp and warm, but he couldn’t tolerate any significant browning. He’d told her several times, though in his mind, many.

                                    “Katya ! This toast is burnt.”

She arrived and removed the offence while he was intent on the FT. That some of his shares were down added to his disappointment. Not that he was in financial danger. On the contrary, but he disliked setbacks. They had to be borne. Sometimes the toast wasn’t just as he liked it or he’d lost a few hundred thousand. The difficulty of wanting life to be perfect was that even the smallest failings could seem like catastrophes; but he’d been raised to expect the best. An only child of the managing director of an auto electrics company and his company secretary, he started prep school at four. Usually the au pair took him, holding his hand as they walked the half mile beside the hedges and beneath the flowering cherries, the magnolias, the silver beeches, the elms and the oaks; but he loved it when there was a rush, she wasn’t available and his father would drop him off in the Rolls. Most of the boys’s parents had expensive cars, but theirs, he believed, was the sole of its make. Occasionally, a boy was allowed to come to play and Michael would delight in showing him the house, repeating what he’d heard his mother say about the expensive vases, paintings, carpets, chairs and chandeliers. Curious the flat feeling he experienced once the showing-off was over, the desire for his friend to leave. Sometimes, in bed, before  sleep, he puzzled over what was meant by the word friend.

            When the phone chimed the arrival of a message, he was somewhat slow to answer, but when he did, a little surge of joy had to be quickly mastered, as he began, almost instantaneously to compose the sententious phrases he would deliver in studios and to assembled journalists. Today was a late start. He hadn’t arrived home till two, there was nothing pressing. Yet now he wished he’d been on his way hours earlier.

                                    “Have you heard?”

                                    “Yes. Appalling, isn’t it.”

                                    “Terrible, terrible,” said Michael as the chauffeur pushed to the limit as he’d been instructed. “But we have to make the best of it.”

                                    “Laying the blame?”

                                    “That’s right. Look, I’m expecting the BBC to be in touch any minute. The obvious stuff is commiseration, support for the community, this is an attack on all of us, on our values. But we mustn’t miss this chance to call for a halt to the protests.”

                                    “Of course, I agree.”

                                    “It needs to be said over and over that the link is clear. The demonstrations, the chants, they’ve caused this outrage. The pressure must be applied at once and not relinquished till we’ve got our enemies off the streets.”

                                    “Understood.”

            His interlocutor was Sam House KC. They’d been in touch regularly since the October 2023 attack, given their common interest in the success of Israel and the international right. Israel’s response had brought into a being a movement which terrified Michael more than it disgusted him: if hundreds of thousands could fill the streets of London, month after month, if their concern for the Palestinians was stronger than their allegiance to the monarchy, the flag, the church, the business community, what was to stop the emergence of a mass, grassroots movement? At Cambridge, he studied mostly medieval history, the modern world with its arrival of the common folk as a political influence, disturbing him; but dipping casually into the history of the Levellers, the Diggers, the Chartists, the Trade Unions, the Suffragettes, chilled him. In a way, he knew the genie was out of the bottle; the common people had their say. What was obvious was that if they could vote, their minds needed to be controlled. Nostalgic for the time when the authorities could bludgeon the unruly, he nevertheless admitted it was an improvement to be able to let the people elect those in power while defining their choice so narrowly there was no threat to the rule of money.

            In the House he searched out Lydia Catlow, his most ideologically reliable colleague. It was true, reduced more or less to a rump, the Tory Party had thickened like a soup reheated over several days, so there was no recognisable left, right or centre, but Freud’s narcissism of small differences seemed ever more applicable.  Henderson had always wanted to drive his party rightward; even the venerated Thatcher he thought of as too close to socialism. Under her stewardship, public spending as a share of GDP increased, for him a sin so fundamental there could be no forgiveness. The core principle of his politics was that the majority of people are incompetent to make their own decisions. Power must be in the hands of those who know how to use it, and the objective sign of their ability is money. Equitable distribution of wealth was an insult to human nature. The benefits system was a moral outrage. Though he blenched a little from people starving in the streets, he considered it a more moral outcome than saving them by taking money from those who had earned it by sheer merit.

            His own fortune was partially inherited. His father had financed him to the bar and given him quarter of a million towards his first house in Oxfordshire. More importantly, through business contacts in the USA, he’d secured his son a job with Hurst, Duffield and Walpole, one of the country’s biggest corporate law firms and now, a generously doting grandfather, paid for his two sons to attend The Dragon’s School.

            Catlow was as rigid as himself in her adherence to principle. She could always be relied on to sneer at any suggestion the common folk could shift for themselves and was a s quick to spot any sign of independence or autonomy. The current spate of demonstrations spooked her as deeply as it did him.

                                    “It’s crucial we link the two,” he said, setting his papers on his empty desk.

                                    “Absolutely.”

She sat opposite him and palmed her blonde hair from her cheek. Though she was a declining star and he in the ascendent, she couldn’t forget that she had made her way from a modest background in the north. Her parents  had been socially conservative Labour voters, her mother a devout Catholic who went to mass every day, her father a train driver who belonged to the NUR but refused to strike. Educated at Christ The King High, and St Xavier’s 6^th Form College, she left after poor A Level results and trained as a dental technician. Politics rarely crossed her mind; rather she felt insulted and injured by certain attitudes. Steeped in Catholicism’s electric responses to sexual behaviour, she was alarmed by the feminist claim of a woman’s right to choose. Vaguely, emerging from the swirl of unconscious assumptions whose intrusion shocked her,  she felt impregnation was quasi-mystical. It was somehow a crime against the given order to curtail a pregnancy. Once conceived, there could be no going back.  Women who responded with a smile and, “Oh, I don’t think we need to bring God into it, Lydia. He never got a girl pregnant”, provoked her to haughty silence.

            It was when she met James Catlow her ideas coalesced into a political stance. Having inherited his father’s modest but lucrative insurance brokerage when he died suddenly at fifty-seven, he converted it into a financial advisory service whose suburban clientele didn’t baulk at his fees, seeing them rather as proof of his excellence.

                                    “There are people who know how to run a business and those who don’t,” he told her. “It’s in the genes. I’m an entrepreneur by nature. If it wasn’t for people like me, we’d be living in caves.”

It seemed so obviously true, she wondered why she’d never thought of it. It was truth which had to be defended and its shield was the Tory Party. Though she understood her parents’ labourism, they earned modestly and felt social democracy was their best defence against catastrophe, she disdained it: it was by granting licence to their betters the common people could look after themselves. James was right, people like him saved the rest from primitive conditions.

                                    “This is a great opportunity,” he glanced at her, half fearing she might recoil from his opportunism.

                                    “I couldn’t agree more.”

                                    “I mean, the killing of two Jews is a terrible thing, but we can’t riak being stuck in mourning. We can use this to silence the protests about Gaza and by pushing that we can weaken popular movements per se.”

                                    “Perfect.”

                                    “You know Lydia, this has been a terrible two years. Week on week, thousands on the streets opposing Israel. Think where that could lead. Israel is the bulwark against the Arabs, the Muslims. If we don’t keep them in their place, the world order could wobble.”

                                    “They don’t share our values, Michael.”

                                    “Quite right. How can they? What kind of religion is Islam?”

Lydia was secretly unnerved. She had little idea of the underpinnings of the religion, having always felt an instinctive antipathy. Why should she inform herself about something she disliked? It was obvious Muslims were less advanced than Christians. After all, the great discoveries of science, the greatest works of art, none belonged to the Muslim world. Michael’s Cambridge education intimidated her. Had he studied Islam? Did he know its history and its creed? Safety lay in agreement.

                                    “Well, it’s not like ours, is it?”

                                    “And look what’s taking place, Lydia. Lefties making common cause with Islam against Israel and the West. You can see where that’ll lead, can’t you?”

                                    “British values will be lost.”

                                    “That’s right. Fair play. The rule of law. Abhorrence of aggression.”

                                    “Absolutely.”

                                    “What did we go to war in Iraq for if not to defend ourselves against mad Islamic socialists?”

Islam and socialism occupied distant compartments in Lydia’s mind. The former meant men with long beards memorising impossible texts and adhering to their strictures mindlessly while the latter meant Tony Benn issuing mellifluous calls to hand everything over to the State, Arthur Scargill ranting at ignorant, brutish miners or Barbara Castle bossing everyone around and preventing honest, hard-working people from driving home from the pub after a few drinks. She had no idea Iraq was full of socialists. Was Saddam a socialist? She had seen him simply as backward, as she categorised all people from the Middle East, except Israelis.

                                    “Quite,” she said, as confidently as she could.

                                    “You know what the left will argue,” he said. “It’s a response to what’s going on in Gaza. We mustn’t let that idea take hold. We’ve got to get into people’s heads that the outrage was carried out by people radicalised by seeing marches through London and hearing chants calling for the death of Jews.”

                                    “Wasn’t there just one attacker?” she said.

                                    “But there must have been a conspiracy behind him.”

                                    “Wasn’t he out on bail for rape?”

                                    “That’s irrelevant. He was an antisemite, pure and simple.”

                                    “Hadn’t he been in prison?”

                                    “Of course, along with other mad Islamic socialists. Our prisons are wick with them.”

Lydia’s head span a little. She was as willing as the next Brit to label the attacker a pure antisemite without any evidence of irrational Jew-hating, but that he might be a rapist and had a criminal background had registered: maybe he was demented. Perhaps that explained more than the attribution of antisemitism. She felt unable to reject Michael’s view either externally or internally. No doubt he was right. It was pure Jew-hatred whipped up by the marches, even though she couldn’t recall witnessing or reading about any calls for the death of Jews.

                                    “You’re right,” she said.

                                    “You see how dangerous a moment this is. If people conclude the attacker was motivated by what’s happening in Gaza, that could be fatal for our support for Israel, and that needs to be unquestioning.”

                                    “It does,” she said, against her own impulse. Israel was obviously a defender of Western values, an advanced democracy and a fine example of capitalism in a region dominated by regressive medievalism, but she had never quite considered the country beyond all criticism.

                                    “On the other hand, if we can link the protests to the killings, convince people the attacker’s mind was twisted by hearing the violent chants, week after week, we can reinforce support for Israel as a prime British value and curtail the right to protest. In the long run, that could cripple popular movements. All those lunatics who want to steal our wealth and give it to the feckless.”

Lydia armed with Michael’s ideology, went among her colleagues garnering adherence. Not that she encountered any resistance that mattered. It was a question more of ensuring people pushed the ideas to the limit. There must be no gap through which a link between the outrage in Manchester and the carnage in Gaza might be established; and equally the chance to keep the subversives off the streets was unmissable.

            Meanwhile, Michael was in contact with Rabbis, journalists, editors, academics, business people, tailoring his pitch carefully to each. To Rabbi Katz, he spoke without reserve:

                                    “We have to get the antisemites off our streets.”

The ageing cleric nodded sagely and smiled  patronisingly.

                                    “Hatred of Jews is eternal,” he said with sad regret. “We knew this was going to happen. It was simply a matter of time.”

He had been a fierce opponent of Jeremy Corbyn, using his influence to argue he was unfit to lead the country. One morning, listen to Radio 4, he heard Tony Blair opine that Corbyn himself was not antisemitic. A shock ran through him. That Corbyn supported the cause of Palestinian autonomy, was undeniable evidence of his desire to harm Jews, if not to see their elimination. To the evidence of Corbyn’s actions in support of Jews and his established opposition to ethnic and religious persecution, he responded with patient explanation that the man was deluded: like most people of his persuasion, he was an antisemite without knowing it. People hid their antisemitism from themselves by criticising Israel. It permitted them to feel morally justified. While, what he knew, as every true Jew, was that hatred of Jews was in every gentile heart. Some succeeded in sublimating it, in denying it publicly, and were good people because of it, but it was prescribed that the messiah would arrive only through Jewish suffering.

                                    “Well, we have an opportunity,” said Michael, leaning forward, “we must establish a short, straight line in people’s minds from the murders to the marches. When they see the next march on the television, they must instantly think of murder.”

The Rabbi was struck by a tiny doubt.

                                    “On the streets of the UK,” he offered.

Michael, understanding, nodded and met his eyes.

                                    “Of course, of course.”

                           Though he harboured a particular dislike of the BBC, Michael had contacts through Cambridge. He instructed his secretary to book a lunch table at the Ivy Victoria. Tom Coulson had retained his athletic demeanour. At university he rowed and played rugger and tennis. He was one of those men who seem to believe the earth turns because they walk on it. Michael, physically less impressive and with no gift for sports, enjoyed, each time they met, the little frisson of recognising he’d got further in life. Tom was successful and influential, but hadn’t been a cabinet minister; he’d never been able to think himself a creator or destroyer of empires.

                        Over his roasted queen scallops and Tom’s whipped feta, fig and candied pecan salad, Michael gently broached his topic.

                        “Very impressed with the BBC’s coverage of the outrage,” he said.

                        “Really? Thanks.”

                        “What strikes me, is the obvious link between this and what we’ve seen on our streets for the last two years.”

                        “People have a right to peaceful protest, Mike, that’s democracy.”

                        “You know me, Tom. I’m a student of our history. I venerate the ancient liberties of the English.”

                        “What about the Scots and the Welsh?”

                        “Of course, that’s what I meant. British liberties.”

His guest laughed and dabbed his lips with the beautifully laundered napkin. Michael closed his lips around another tender scallop, seeking a few seconds pause to steady his thoughts.

                        “It’s the chanting, Tom. From the river to the sea, what does that mean except the annihilation of Israel?”

                        “It could mean a single State of fifteen million.”

                        “Oh, but that’s unthinkable. I mean, the starting point has to be the right of a Jewish State to exist.”

                        “Gandhi didn’t think so.”

                        “History moves on. We can’t wind the clock back to before 1948.”

                        “Facts on the ground, eh, Mike?”

                        “No, I’m not being cynical. But we have to begin from where we are.”

                        “Sure, like North Korea.”

                        “Even that, yes. Even that, Tom. I mean, you can’t tell me you’re happy with what you’ve seen on the demonstrations.”

                        “Whether I’m happy isn’t the question, is it? We have to report impartially.”

                        “Absolutely, if you didn’t there would be a strong case for the abolition of the licence fee.”

Coulson nodded but his expression changed. His nostrils flared a little, he diverted his eyes.

                        “That was delicious,” said Henderson, pushing his plate forward. He took a sip of the Krug Grand Cuvée. “What do you think of the champers?”

                        “ Public service broadcasting is crucial to democracy, don’t you think?”

                        “The Americans thrive without it. Anyway, to get back to my point, there has to be a link, don’t you think?”

                        “Maybe, but how do we know?”

                        “Common sense, Tom. This lunatic has seen the protests, heard the chants and decided to take his hatred out on Jews.”

                        “How do we know he wouldn’t have had there been no demonstrations?”

                        “They wind people up. That’s what they’re for. Hate Israel, hate Jews.”

                        “We can’t say that, can we? We have to report what happens not make it happen?”

                        “But you have a moral responsibility when Jews are being murdered at synagogues.”

                        “We have a moral responsibility all the time.”

                        “Heightened at times like this. These protests, who’s on them? Marxists, Trots, eco-warriors, anarchists, members of Palestine Action, every Jew hater in the country? All I’m saying, is don’t fall into the trap of thinking of them as benign. They aren’t Pollyannas, they know what they’re about.”

                        “I don’t doubt some unpleasant and misguided folk hide themselves in the crowd. What are you asking me to do?”

                        “I’m not asking you to do anything, simply, at this sensitive time, we ought to avoid offending the Jewish community.”

                        “Isn’t there more than one, Mike?”

                        “Indeed, but they’re all Jews.”

                        “I don’t think we’ve offended them.”

                        “No, you’ve been very good, but even-handedness isn’t appropriate in these circumstances, if you see what I mean.”

                        “We can’t take sides.”

                        “No, but the balanced view, these people have their rights, Islamophobia is on the rise too, that kind of thing. Just now, shouldn’t we tone that down? I mean, two Jews have just been murdered in their place of worship, on Yom Kippur.”

                        “Sure, sure. But we’re giving plenty of coverage to that.”

                        “You have, Tom. Keep it up. More champers?”

                        Convinced his campaign was moving nicely, inspired by the thought the government might be panicked into restrictive measures and in the long run, the number and size of protests of any kind might be drastically reduced, Henderson was knocked off balance by an arson attack on a mosque. His brain rapidly processed the possibilities: far-right activists, high-profile Zionists, public sympathy for Muslims which might leak into support for the Palestinian cause. It wasn’t possible to keep it out of the news, but it was a terrible blow. It needed to be treated peripherally. No one had died. It might have been nothing but unruly kids, a bit of silly vandalism. He read the reports, saw the images, heard the comments and each time his innards twisted. In every way he could, he spread abroad the idea of insignificance, especially dismissing an Islamophobic motivation. There was no proof. Treat it as a simple act of criminal damage.

                        It happened that a few days after the arson attack, he was to address his constituency party. Once, the room at the Conservative Club would have struggled to accommodate the crowd; now fifty,  mostly elderly, members left the place looking and feeling sparse and sad. He smiled, he shook hands, he was upbeat. It was always worth rallying the faithful, even if many were now too shaky to leaflet or canvass. He had an important message.

                                    “Over the past two years, we have seen terrible things on our streets. Thousands chanting antisemitic slogans, calling for the elimination of Israel and the death of Jews, and the result is the death of two of our fellow citizens while they worshipped at their synagogue. What has happened to British values? Palestinian flags. Hordes of Muslims chanting slogans no British person can accept. If these people want to live in our country, they must adopt our ways…”

The applause was as fulsome as a small band of geriatrics could muster. He left feeling he’d unburdened himself. They would talk to their families, their neighbours. An audience was never too small. It was impossible to know how quickly and widely an idea could spread.

                          When footage of the speech appeared on social media and he was bombarded with questions about his attitude to the Muslim population, including those in his constituency, no more than two hundred but nevertheless, his constituents, he went briefly to ground, emerging to double down, as his closest advised: he had no prejudice against the Muslim community, he recognised the valuable role they played; in his constituency there were Muslim business people he met with often; he was merely making the common sense point that a community needs shared values; most Muslims, of course, accepted British values, but a minority was intent on stirring up ill-feeling; there was no room in Britain for calls to violent uprising or attacks on Jews. He would not retreat from that.

                        The media treated him mostly gently, but the right-wing outlets rallied to his defence: HENDERSON DEFENDS BRITISH VALUES: AT LAST, SOMEONE WHO WILL TELL THE TRUTH ABOUT THE JIHADISTS.

                        A handwritten, anonymous letter sent to his constituency office, reminded him that the British Empire had once contained 94 million Muslims and that both Lloyd George and Churchill had praised the loyalty of the Muslims to Britain. “There have been no more loyal adherents to the throne and no more effective loyal supporters of the Empire” it quoted the former. He scrunched it and tossed it in the wastebin. That was all in the past. He studied the period at Cambridge. He knew it was true the lascars arrived in British ports because they were recruited by the East India Company. He knew of the Muslim fighters in the First and Second World Wars, but things move on. Progress is the rule. Enoch Powell might have had to comply with significant immigration, if even with the caveat of eventual return, but what was once a need was now a threat. In any case, among the people he disdained, the lower orders in the north, people with so little drive they were content to be employed, the ignorant who shunned libraries and never read a serious book, resentment and hatred were stirring. It was like those days in February when crocuses bloomed, telling of an unnoticed, subterranean warming. It was too good an opportunity to miss. The battering ram of resentment of immigrants could flatten the walls which protected the right to protest, the right to strike, perhaps even democracy itself. Perhaps the time had arrived to argue democracy was a failed experiment and he was the man, not only to do it, but to be elevated by it.