Christian Hook, the protagonist of Out of Office, comes from what we might term a “left wing” background. After the 7/7/ attacks – which he briefly uses as an opportunity to escape his marriage – he finds himself becoming more bitter, cynical about the multi-cultural “experiment”. Much of this is because of his own failings, but he is also confused by the way the “Left” seem unable to confront what he sees as the darker side of Islam.
Hook finds himself becoming enraged by the way society seems to be changing to accommodate religious nuts of all persuasions. In the book, one borough of London decides to ban alcohol. This may seem far-fetched, until you consider the leaflets distributed by George Galloway in Bradford West – or the proposal by the Vice-Chancellor at London Met (which I attended and where my first novel, “Fire Horses”, was launched) that they are considering banning alcohol in case it offends Muslim students.
Encouraged by his developing “friendship” with a young militant Hook begins to question the meaning of the terms “Left” and “Right” and ponders: how long can a tolerant society tolerate intolerance?
Extract:
East London is one enormous building site. Clouds of concrete dust and aphids invade orifices; the noise of metal on metal and drill-bits into pavement fill Hook’s aching head beneath a hard helmet that’s way too small. The inner support digs into his skull, cracking up with dehydration. The oversized orange bib makes him sweat and, although it’s not yet ten, the searing heat compels Hook to memorise escape routes.
The site is to be a Building of Belief, part of the Olympic development. Hook finds it difficult to get worked up about the project. What was it Orwell said in Homage to Catalonia about blowing up all the churches?
The Bengali site supervisor showing him round the unfinished foundations is also wearing a hard hat; Hook tries to work out the squat, middle-aged man’s religion. He’s always taken pride in his tolerance, his understanding of complex issues – a few years back he won the regional award for Journalism that Promotes Racial Harmony (London East Region).
Yet now, Hook realizes, he’s forgotten much of what he wrote: the difference between Sunni and Shia, the origins of Ramadan, why it is Muslims pray to Mecca five times daily. The thing that scares him most is his own ignorance. He’s supposed to care, understand and empathise, when all he wants to do is run away.
The Bengali shouts in his ear but as they’re standing next to a pneumatic drill Hook can hardly hear him. Impatiently the man points a stubby finger up at an unfinished dome, closing like tulip petals against the white hot sky.
It occurs to Hook that he’d better pretend to take some notes for the article he drafted on the bus: mostly he writes from memory, but some people find that suspicious. Reaching into his jacket he extracts the notebook and pen Shelley bought him last Christmas, pages virginal.
His drafted feature extols the virtues of diversity and tolerance; Hook’s written a million similar pieces on how the mosque provides a sense of belonging and the caring sharing Tablighi Jamaat instill discipline in the young. Maybe they do – Friday prayer beats sniffing glue in bus shelters.
The walk over uneven ground makes his ankle throb and a tiny insect swims in his eye. The site supervisor shouts something that sounds like “I was born on a bus”, and Hook dutifully writes it down; he’ll worry about the quote later. When he sends the feature to the management committee of the mosque it’ll be amended to requirements. That’ll keep the councillors happy, and that means Karen’s happy, which seems more important after yesterday’s snap reaction.
Hook’s throat is dry from dust and hangovers, and despite a rash promise he vaguely remembers making to Monica he longs to be in a pub – any pub. Flashbacks from the day before keep popping up: running through Soho; that woman’s disgusted face; giving Jack the finger instead of shaking his hand.
When he shakes hands with the Bengali the guy seems put out, which hits a nerve: it’s Hook who had to wait on site for half an hour because the prick lost his pass. Hook walks towards the lift to the underground car park and exit, waving his arms ineffectually – neither waving nor drowning.
Mark
Mark Piggott is the author of 'Out of Office' available to order by clicking here
