The Camus Affair The waiter, a dark skinned Nubian in perfect white sleeves and black waistcoat delivered two arabica coffees in petit china cups. He greeted the two men in french, common courtesy to call them Monsieur as he bent over the hostess trolly to serve each a crumbling fresh pain au chocolat with silver tongs. The older Muslim waved him away from his plate with a gesture, a gold signet ring from Hatton Garden on his open right hand. He had a masterful chiselled beard and the first signs of grey hair showing his wisdom. Marseu, the younger man, addressed him in fluent English with a Palestinian ascent. ‘The river is pleasant of a morning, so calm compared to the wreckage of my homeland.’ The elder smiled concealing sorrow. ‘A perfect start to the day, before your journey. You will carry the consignment on the boat. If you are stopped by the coast guard you will have to ditch it. Let us not talk of war on such a sunlit morning. I have settled in London some years but the mad dog regime in Afghanistan still haunts me with recollections of their cruelty’. As Marseu reached for the sweet pastry their hands touched over the coffee cups. ‘Will there be anything else?’, the waiter had returned without the trolly. The older man dabbed his lips with a napkin. The waiter concealed a sneer, ‘I see the focus of your affections. Fleur Du Mal’. As he turned the elder Muslim bit his lip with irritation. Marseu commented ‘Like your quintessential Englishman Oscar, a love that dare not speak its name’. He smiled gently with admiration at the elders restraint in the face of overt prejudice. ‘Like the french Jean-Paul wrote, the waiter is able to step outside his role to exercise the agency of his humanity, or for that matter inhumanity’. The espresso warmed his lips, the chocolate melted mildly on his tongue. ‘Hot chocolate’, he nodded conspiratorially as his eyes followed the behind of the waiter, ‘but not so sweet’. Marseu continued, ‘In Gaza I dared not be so open. My family died twice to me with their religiosity , shunned from puberty, then a second death as the Israelites advanced, destroyed reputation with the former, the physical devastation of the later’. Gingerly he took another sip from the small white china espresso cup. ‘Unlike the pied noir of Camus, I grieve the death of my mother. I hope the Algerians prevent me being shot if we are detected’. The older man looked concerned ‘The Algerians are reliable at resettling refugees , you have the advantage of wealth, all should go according to plan. The consignment is merely a distraction for the cost guard to conceal the real delivery, that of yourself to freedom. If you are detained you will claim ignorance, that you were duped into being a mule.’ He continued, ‘homophobia is like the nazis, not so much l’stranger as combat magazine, Camus’ journalism work for the Paris resistance. A clandestine affair, as so too ours’. The younger man took another bight of flaking pastry. ‘Of course the nazis are like the right wing British media, they claim the Middle East is full of rapists’. Marseu suppressed a snarl, ‘It is my mother land that has been raped with the Americans arming israel’. The older man continued ‘Never the less , you must conceal your sexuality unless we find it necessary to prove you are vulnerable in the Middle East. The ECHR will be invoked by our lawyers if there are administration issues with immigration ’. The obsession with sex and outsiders hails back to the Victorians and sir Richard Francis burton with his anthropological observations in footnotes to A pilgrimage to almadina and Mecca. The older man continued his analysis. ‘You could be my cross dressed Scheherazade. Lingering romance for 1001nights. I would enjoy listening to the magical realism of your tales, like the boy that rubbed the magic lamp’. Marseu smirked ‘your wish is my command. I will perform for you in London, the dance of seven veils. That is no thought crime in England. The media in England can say what they want, I read of the heretic with an axe to grind, the English seem to think we are all perverts and their children our Prey’. The older man smiled gently ‘You will not be a crime statistic on an MI5 computer, our relations are more non binary, perhaps hexadecimal. Know this, I’m a base 16 kind of guy’. Marseu pondered his reply as the African waiter approached with the bill, eyeing the gold crucifix around his neck, on proud display over his neck tie, ‘As the Parisian resistance anarchists put it, Ni Dieu ni maître’. To be continued… The french have always had an uneasy relationship over the historic rule of Algeria. Camus, himself from a poor algierian family sat on the fence with the matter. His squabble with Sartre in Parisian press was over Camus’ liberal rejection of socialism after the nazi occupation. Paris had its algierian population but there was prejudice and harassment by the authorities. Stop and search but only if the face fits. They had arranged to meet in plain sight. The Algerian’s man was a wanna be Caribbean with Rastafarian pretensions. A gold tooth and a multi coloured bead necklace with the Hebrew letter yod and he for a prominent pendant. Needless to say dreadlocks. They met in a public square in east Paris, tower blocks surrounding with bold coloured Lego like architecture. The square was dominated by another harlequin, a monstrous sized sculpture of a multi coloured snake. The English afghani approached alone clutching a red leather briefcase with metal clasps. Their man, the Rasta, shot him a broad toothy grin with a flash of gold. ‘Ja lurv Man’. The afghan was in no mood for pleasantries. They were meant to be seen from twitching curtains at the tower block windows. ‘The money for safe passage, US dollars. My client is both wealthy and educated but it is best that he mixes on the boat with poorer refugees. He has the cover story the Algerian people smugglers concocted, give me the contraband.’ He exchanged the brief case of money for a ruck sack weighted down by kilo blocks of maroccon hashish. ‘By the way buffalo soldier your medallion is the wrong way around, Hebrew reads from right to left. At least i can assume you are not a zionist’. ‘The darker man looked ruffled, ‘The boat will be at the arranged location at the allotted time, we will see your boy toy next week’. They parted as they met, virtual strangers. Continued… The afghani rolled over in the double hotel bed to check the red LED lit digital clock. His darkly haired chest was revealed by the unfurling crumpled bed blanket. ‘Wake up Marseu, hands off cocks as we say in England , it’s eight o’clock already, you need to prepare for tonight’s journey’. He felt close to the young Palestinian. They had aspects of a shared history. Both from war and more war. Both religious outcasts due to their sexuality. He had come from poorer stock in Afghanistan. All opium and assault rifles. His family, fundamentalists all for sharia law, a veiled faceless mother afraid to leave their humble home alone. He had always dreamt of more, a life in the west. A self fulfilled quest to become western with its liberalism. He never dreamt he would come to work for the authorities but here he was in bed with the mark, whom sadly he realised he was growing fond of. He had snuck out of bed like in a spy film and riffled through his unsuspecting partners locked diary, picking it with a free Palestine metallic badge safety pin. Diary entry: My knowledge of Tafsir may leave a lot to be desired. I thought I may end up in the shatkora but fortunately they haven’t decided if I’m for the Bindi. I like ladies fingers but I’m still looking for Mister Right, I’m still a bit sour as Miss Left. Jains, left me fighting illusions with the rakshasa. Bring me the head of light entertainment. With the nonsense all over the TV I maya not even know what I’m talking about. Still, I’ve got the Amritsari to fall back on, I like a chick pea. Into Aloo with the okra before visiting the golden temple. Diary entry: Gaza flattened like a scene from the madness of the poet Rimbaud. Perhaps I myself am a little shaken up by the flight out from Palestine like the Jews from Egypt. My thoughts seem disjointed. Perhaps a little PTSD. Surrealism of war. Fleeing for safety to France. Hope to network with Algerians suggested by Egyptian aid worker in Gaza. Diary entry: The invasion by Israel all over European media. The TV seems stuck in a loopy loop. The Americans are arming the Jews. I have no love for whichever religion but the authoritarian reach of Zionism is clear to be seen in the mother land. Dust devil clouds of destroyed buildings on the rivers of Babylon. Diary entry: I think i am falling in love with my English contact in Paris. We’ve made a connection though i suspect he is just in it for the money and a romantic adventure. Perhaps when we reach England I will be at liberty to dress for him as the French maid. The afghani had whipped a tear from his eye reading that through the night. He felt it too, a deeper connection. As Marseu woke dreamily he smiled affectionately at the young man. Slim, feminine and smooth. Cultured, he had read Christopher Hitchens and was not like these fool Muslim Algerians. God is not great. Thereby hangs 1001 tales. Perhaps literally back in Afghanistan where you could be brutalised for homosexual inclinations, genitals cut off and sown into your mouth before a beheading. He admired Ayaan hersi Ali but felt her rightful anger and outrage carried her towards extremes. Spies like us, now she was a convert to Christianity. Perhaps the return to Dawa. The Persians used to say the walls have ears. It starts with Mohammed marrying his third bride, the child aisha , the far right think all of us from Muslim cultures are the molestor type. Of course when did he actually sleep with her? Their occult spy, John Fowles’ ‘The magus’, Mr Crowley, said all Arabs were pedarists and into little boys, he produced a satire of Sufi poetry, the scented garden of abdullah , to entrap lovers of Rumi as pedophiles. Crowley whose name at the very least rhymes with holy. Cultured Muslims take offence at Freemasons and their intelligence operatives. Crowley, a constructed semi fiction as bait in British press. The scented garden, printed and bound in vellum, a hundred copies to try to entrap perverts in intelligence. Seized under obscenity laws at Dover, apologists make out ‘the beast’ was some great libertarian, a liberal bisexual. The real story is harder to fathom. A fabricated ‘satanist’ in an age where blasphemy could result in a hanging or sexual libertines sent to the bedlam house. Edward Fitzgerald was a more genteel spy. Spying, you could get quite attached to whom you were observing, fishing for intel. He was on deep cover himself, close to the people smuggling ring targets. He reflected on the extremists in his home country and the far right rising across Europe. Christian fundamentalism was not so different to Islam, the same prejudices and myopic world view. Hell, the Imam even preaches that Christ was a prophet. Ironic that the abrahamic religions were hell bent on destroying each other. The same extremes based on false spiritual premises. Isaac and Ishmael had however apparently not forgotten their disagreements. To be continued… Marseu got out of bed in the meagre Paris hotel room to clean his teeth. ‘Don’t rinse your mouth out in the bidet , the escargo leaves an after taste’. The younger man laughed from the bathroom at his lovers joke. ‘be sure I’ll do my trans and dental meditation this morning’. When Marseu was done with his ablutions the older man had already dressed. ‘We must rehearse your cover story together before the boat tonight.’ He reached with his left hand for the signet ring on the other . ‘Here. A token of affection, I will be there for you in England.’ To be continued… The lovers had parted that morning. An Algerian cab driver picked up marseu as he carried a fresh rucksack containing the kilos of hashish, all sealed in cellophane. The bag was bulky and caused a slight ache in his lower back as he walked. He was dressed for the initial journey but was secure in the knowledge there was a water proof Macintosh and over trousers at the top of his bag. The driver of the cream Citroen did not talk, preferring to listen to smooth jazz on the vehicles radio. They drove out of Paris. Marseu could still remember the warm parting embrace from his afghani lover. He glanced at the signet ring on his middle finger, his hands being slightly slimmer than the English settler. Once they were outside Paris there was a swap of clothing, a new car and another Algerian driver. An older man with an unkempt bushy beard. Marseu sat in the back of the four wheel drive as they continued in silence. It was clear small talk was out of the question. This change of vehicles occurred at hourly intervals. By the time he reached the coast to stand still and silent on the beach it was dark, a signal light guided him from the final vehicle. In the light of the flashlight he was met by two Algerian gangsters dressed for sea . He changed into his water proofs. There was a long wait at the shore with lights out until a signal from the boat. They moved gingerly in the cold sea breeze to align with the approaching vessel. Before he’d had time to think Marseu was part of a little crowd of nervous refugees. A few children with mothers but mainly young men. They were crammed by the Algerians into the small dirigible and the sound of a motor propelled them from France. The craft was tight and he felt sorry for those without possessions, all anxiety and misgivings. He, with the large rucksack felt out of place in the crammed boat. Some way out to sea the engine was killed as the tide began to take the raft out to sea. Every so often the motor was engaged so the small propellor beneath the waves moved then onward. There were makeshift oars, the outermost bodies struggled to paddle. Soaked by spray and struggling not to vomit at the bumpy ride Marseu Bit his lip. The vessel was cramped and the refugees huddled together for body warmth. Engine on, then off again, it was slow progress. No one slept and the children sobbed at first. These were dark mornings and a poets moon rose above their heads as they approached the coast line of the U.K. The flight from Paris had been congenial enough. The English Afghani had ordered a chinzano and coke from the air hostess trolly. Before long they were at Heathrow. He prepared for his meeting with the management. His part in the mission all but complete. He wondered how Marseu was fairing. They were bound to get detained. He was fond of him and would appeal to his superiors to get papers. Maybe once he was settled they could meet again but for now the intelligence on the Algerian people smugglers was all that was of value. He was offered a copy of The Mail, he took it for a distraction. The headline was about Muslim rape gangs somewhere up north. He sighed. Everyone could see that these inquiries were government game playing. Impression management to conceal the real nature and degree of child abuse in the U.K. that was a real scandal and remained veiled from the general public. Abducted kids, murdered school children, the moors murders and the like. All used to obfuscate the fact that a third of child victims were abused by their own blood. The link between pornography use and sex offending was spurious. Religious fundamentalism spreading memes of so called sex addiction in the name of sin and the power plays of the Priesthood. Some feminists shared the view. It follows that all sex offenders have watched pornography, it is false fools logic to infer that all men that watch porn are predatory. It starts at the Vatican, their specialist Patrick Cairnes, ‘all homosexual acts are symptomatic of sex addiction’. Who’s the deviant from social norms then? It’s bad enough with shariah law without bringing Catholic sexual attitudes into anything. Up tight on sin. It’s the same as the problem presented by Alcoholics Anonymous, an ideological construct that pre-dictates their false solutions. There are no alcoholics that meet their definition of alcoholism, their members are blind to the deceit about addiction as disease. It simply does not exist within that context. Ontological abuse. Religious moral crusaders. Hunting for pedophiles on the Internet? Primary profile, a parent, of either sex. He knew enough through his intelligence work. The U.K. was ashamed of the frequency of child abuse. The media sell the confusion and mixed messages. Rape gangs and babes in the woods, all very sad and he did not seek to detract from the victim’s suffering. But, the exception not the rule, to tantalise the publics fantasies for scandal whilst intel was gathered on social media regarding general attitudes. Attitudes ill informed from class room to dole queue, from grandparents to children. The sanctity of the nuclear family and the work a day hero with a thousand faces. The ‘good’ men. None of whom of course were rapists and certainly not migrants. Logistics and obscurement , the status quo upheld no matter what colour politic. They ‘treated’ the victims, the government wants service engagement for concealment and to sweep the matter under the carpet. The eight year independent inquiry into institutional childhood sexual abuse had one main finding. A generation of victims were failed by the system. Forgive? Cover up was the social norm right through to the porn witch hunt spin of the turn of the millenium. Pervert predators after your kids? Oh really? Don’t you think a perpetrator would know that the entirety of internet usage is on record, leaving a trace? Mythology when homosexuality was a thought crime meant the general public thought pedophiles were all gay, the opposite is in fact true. Sexual abuse is about power not sexuality. It’s not so long ago that there was no children’s act and minors had little to no rights. Entrapments like Ore and Wonderland using logic trees with baited material caught over 100,000 so called pedophiles in positions of authority, good standing and upright, many in the media. All cases had to be dropped due to corrupt methods. Bad parenting is the main issue, not migrants and the feared ‘other’. Next they’ll try to link people on welfare to sexual deviance in a media agenda. There is even a specialist police task force in the U.K. , Midland, created to criminalise victims where no conviction is possible from their witness statement. Think about that. There is an official remit to deny and reframe testimony of historic victimhood. Psychologists? Reframe, victim blame, turn the tables, role reversal. You don’t need to know the Milgram’s experiment to know 90% of people obey and believe any nonsense authority figures whisper in their ear. All at cost to tax payer . Distractions, entertainment and logistics. The government hides that the mechanisms have not changed much. He looked out of the small port hole window as they banked for landing, observing the wing rise on his side of the aeroplane. He drained his drink. Working for the authorities was often bitter sweet. The water was cold as ice. Marseu feared for his life. The coast guard had approached in what looked like a little gun boat and burst the rubber dirigible. It soon took on water in the waves and Marseu clutched on to the side as frightened refugees cried out to allah and children screamed. As he kicked atop the buoyant ruck sack the rippling light from the spot atop the first of three coast guard vessels shone on him. He loosened the bag too late as a bill hook reached out and he heard the water lapping on the boats side. No hope left, he was pulled unceremoniously into the craft coughing salty vomit with streaming eyes. The first taste of England. A cold, deep within his numb body, like no chill he had felt before. To be continued… He sat opposite his pay master at the mahogany desk. A green leather top with scattered office staff collectibles. His manager began the clicking of suspended silver balls in a newton’s cradle. ‘The intelligence you gathered was successful at catching the Algerian people smugglers.’ The bald portly superior, in airs, if in no other way, explained the debrief. Interpol busted the Algerian ring, including the Rastafarian French connection. Marseu had spent a couple of months now in a migrant hostel with other refugees. A secure safe house. Birds of a feather. The cogs of the machine were oiled as arranged in the beginning of the mission. They’d let Marseu sweat a bit over the drug smuggling charges but they would be dropped before the third hearing. The magistrate was aware of sensitivity to the case and would do as the Lodge instructed. The afghani spy reminded that he had co-opted Marseu into this set up as a blind. He was educated and the department could use him further. The plant reminded that the mark was gay and at risk in Gaza , his mother land. Lawyers were paid for by the department to ensure he was nationalised, threatening ECHR action if the system dragged its feet. A moot point with politico that the U.K. was monkey and the EU still the organ grinder. The Afghan had invoked the human rights act himself on entering the U.K. , bringing him in effect in with intelligence operations. The big white boss man interjected that far right groups were gathered in Essex around the migrant hotel and protesting against the Rights Act. A problem not so much of international law but of the application of it. Domestic statute bowed to its rightful master. The papers were full of scandal over migrant rape gang inquiries. A relatively rare issue in the U.K. but pregnant with media friendly scandal. Ayaan Hersi Ali spoke of the minor statistical skew in The Book ‘Prey’ but rather than conservative reactionaries she spoke to liberal education as the panacea. More investment in migrant settlement programs to teach those from shariah law home country the cultural norms of the U.K. all to the betterment and prosperity of the departments funding. A rainy day in Croydon immigration services. The two Egyptians had spoken loudly in English. They were sat at a table in The Slaughtered Lamb public house, drinking soft drinks. The English defence league protesters had overheard the conversation. A Palestinian in the migrant hostel was the focus of their dialogue. The Egyptian it turns out was being visited by his carer to assist with settlement as a political dissident for promoting pro western journalism in Cairo. The Palestinian was more of a concern. A homosexual using European human rights to promote their immigration claim. The barman showed interest. It was said by the Egyptian men that this Marseau character was fleeing Gaza as the authorities wanted to question him about his interest in young boys. Something about posting child abuse images on the dark web. Some of the protesters look ruffled. The Egyptian care worker spoke to the bar man. Drinks all round for a media friendly story with a few bricks to be launched at this Marseau’s windows. The rabble rousers nodded assent. The die was cast. Marseau was feeling lonely. He was reading Camus ‘The Plague’ in his hostel bedroom. He’d kept himself to himself. He could hear the white mob was back outside the hotel. Shouts of ‘migrant nonce’ and ‘pedo’ came from the assembly ‘ protect English kids’ , there was a cry of ‘the heritage, burn child molestors’. This rhetoric about pedophiles was all over the press but there was an unusual hatred in the EDL Christian right wing today. It gave Marseu the creeps. He was reading about the plague of rats, like those Nazis he thought to himself. There was an almighty crash as the window shattered to a thrown brick. The Egyptian had waited his cue line. He snuck into the room and before Marseau could get out of bed was smothering him with a pillow. Marseau thrashed around wildly but slight of build was no match for the bigger Egyptian man. An Efreet visited the hotel that night. Black soot left climbing the bedroom walls, assuming petrol bombing through the window. No one saw it till the fire elemental engulfed the room. Marseu was found by forensics, the burned body smothered by the demons smoke. The media jackals were hungry for a politically waited story. The deal had been done , Marseu was the fatted calf. The Nubian waiter was not on the rota today, off chasing La Chat Noir. The gold signet ring had been returned in a government issue brown envelope. Looking out on the waters of the river the Afghani operative felt the cold gold metal ring with his fingers. More pain au chocolat. The espresso heat melted the chocolate in his mouth. In deep, he thought, as he looked at the small boats on the waters. It reminded him of Marseu and his feminine wiles. That ship had gone down. He wondered if he would ever be truly free. Freedom was Apricot Cocktails, he had to be content with arabica beans. Freedom had been a mirage, a fantasy in the summer midday heat. Prometheus chained to England’s rock. A sense of space and place. A fleeting glimpse that melted away by autumn. The desert in his heart was vast. Passions parched. Of post brexit England, bitter sweet memories of scarcity, restrictions and control. Absurdism. His heart waxed romantically as he sat there on the banks of the Seine. Where was freedom without love?