Dot and Sam 32

Dorothy Philpot. Landlady of The Harbour Light pub
Sam Philpot. Drag-queen and lifelong companion of Dot’s.
Billy Parkins Doorkeeper.
Jessica Merlot The town’ and county archaeologist.
Josephine MacDonald The town and county archivist.
Richard Drummond Town planning inspector
Robert Vincent. Junior planning inspector.
Georgina. (Georgie) Homeless Transgender girl previously known as George.
Bobby Gay boy on the school bus.
Marty Girl on the school bus. (She becomes Georgie’s best friend and lover)
Jack. Marty’s twin brother (Keen runner).
Trevor Aitkins, Georgie’s Biological father.
Lucinda Aitkins Georgie’s biological mother
Terence Georgie’s step-dad
Peter Terence’s homophobic son.
Allison. Old school friend of Trevor & Retired Solicitor
Fred Allison’s husband
Elizabeth Aitkins (Beth) Georgie’s younger biological sister. Later proves to be sympathetic to her ‘sister’
Jonathon Aitkins (Johnny) Georgie’s younger biological brother.
Rosie the Rivetter Terf Gang Leader on campus.

Chapter 32

At ten o’ clock Georgie found herself outside the principal’s office knocking on the door. She heard the summons to enter and with righteous confidence, she entered just as the sonorous tones of the clock tower bell were fading across the last remaining decent expanse of lawn on the whole college campus. As she stepped towards the desk the principal turned from looking across the lawn to face her. When their gazes met, a flicker of a smile crossed his countenance and he motioned towards the chair that stood angled in front of his desk.

They sat down almost in synchrony and he moved to pick up a file off his desk, while Georgie set down her back-pack before straightening her chair slightly then settling into it at a sufficiently comfortable angle to connect directly face to face without having to twist her neck unduly. It enabled Georgie to lean back slightly with her right arm resting easily on the desk whilst her head could tilt forward as though demonstrating sincerity and interest, whilst in reality, Georgie was suppressing her anger.

“Good morning Mis Aitkin.”

“Good morning Principal Evans.”

“It’s about the attack you and your friends suffered at the end of last term just before Christmas.” He declared as he held up a letter that Georgie recognised as an exact copy of the one she had in her back-pack.

“Yes Principal Evans. What actions will the college be taking?”

“Well we’d like to discuss your feelings before we take any further actions.”

“And the feelings of my friends, what of theirs?”

“We’d like to discuss those with each victim independently.”

Georgie paused thoughtfully before asking.

“Why not collectively, is there some sort of intention to divide and rule?”

“It’s matter of compensations being offered by the Islamic Republic of Dhuran.”

“Compensations? I did not know there had been any discussion of compensation or compensations.”

“Well that’s the reason I’ve asked you to meet here this morning. To sort of get the ball rolling.”

“How would I do that, d’ you mean organising some sort of class action?”

The principal’s face paled slightly.

“No, no! No, nothing like that.”

“Well I’m afraid there is a mood on campus that supports such a move. Lots of students seem to feel that is what’s appropriate. I was told last night that there have been twenty-four reported incidents in different colleges around London, since the start of the Michaelmas term last September. I had no idea there had been that many but I’m sure you did.”

“Well; yes I did, but we are not sure how many of them are religious issues and how many others just sexual assaults. Some of them are difficult to separate as sexual assaults, religious assaults or hate crimes, or even all three. Not all the assaults were serious though.”

“Well, they’re all hate crimes as such if there’s some sort of gender or religious element to the attacks.” Georgie pressed, then added.

“If that’s the situation, I feel there should be some sort of co-ordinated endeavour by the student body and the faculty to see how to tackle this. There seemed to be a mood last night amongst the students that the most effective strategy would be a publicity campaign that exposes the natures of the attacks, the sources of the attacks and describe what definitive consequences have ensued.”

“That’s a bit like washing our dirty linen in public.” The Principal objected.

“You’re right, but the linen has to be cleaned, and it has to be seen to be clean.” Georgie countered. “Publicity is one of our most effective detergents.”

“It’s not that easy,” the principal tried to explain. “The Islamic Republic of Dhuran is investing large sums of money into greening the desert and a lot of the plant research is being conducted at this college. If the republic suspended the funds it could leave this college hung out to dry. We’ve taken their funds and invested them into the new botany block. It’s a very prestigious operation.”

Georgie fell silent as the old legal adage sprang to mind, -‘Money talks, justice walks’-

“Oh! Well that’s it then; by dint of financial pressure or blackmail, girls can continue to be attacked and molested while islamic mullahs can continue to preach their poison and press their hate. I suppose next you’ll be demanding that all girls must wear burkahs when outside their halls of residence.”

“That’s ridiculous Miss Aitkin.”

“Is it? Is it really? We’ve already got schools in Britain where sex education is proscribed by religious parent groups. Liberty and education is dying through death by a thousand cuts.”

“This conversation will get us nowhere Miss Aitkin, there’s little the college can do to change the political and religious situations in Foreign countries.”

“I’ll concede that, but there’s lots the colleges can do to repair the religious and political situations in THIS country.”

“How?”

“By confronting hate and misogyny wherever it rears its ugly head; not to mention bigotry and separation of males from females on campus; based on religion and scriptures.”

“Again I repeat how?”

“The first thing is to come down hard on any actions that put any students in fear of their safety or comfort, irrespective of religion or sex.

“The college is already committed to that.”

“Except when it threatens college funding.” I countered. “You’ve got to mean it or nothing will improve.”

The principal fell silent for he had little more to add. I suspected that he wanted me to make some irresponsible move that might compromise my academic placement so I raised a questioning eyebrow and asked if there was anything more.

He sighed slightly then shook his head.

“Not for the moment,” he conceded. “We’re going to have to tread carefully on this one.”

On that note I courteously made my excuses and left.
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Back in my room I flopped onto the bed and ran through some options that floated through my brain. Then, after finding myself at a loss, I finally took some notes and headed for the library. I found Marty diligently going through some notes and when she saw me she nodded me over to her desk.

“Are you stuck?” I whispered.

“Not really,” she whispered back, “but I wish those buggers next door would keep it down. I can hardly concentrate.”

The new library block, (which had accounted for the loss of lawn space,) had been built with several subdivided spaces to hold discussion groups. The modern quality of construction whilst very new and ‘shiny’ had rather skimped on the internal divided spaces with a view to making internal alterations or replacement cheap and simple. Consequently, the ‘sound-proofing’ was not as good as it might have been.

Sadly, the concept of silent study spaces was foreign to some people and their discussions tended to be loud and confrontational. The Dhuranians it seemed, were amongst these peoples.

I listened through the wall but could not understand any of it.

“What are they talking?” I asked.

“It’s Arabic, I’ve learned that much at least." Marty lamented. "When the previous Mullah got suspended, they moved to the room next door and now they use that as a sort of Mosque cum social room. They chatter and argue and pray all the bloody time.”

“Mosque?” I asked.

“Yeah, their command - and - control centre I suppose,” Marty rolled her eyes. “It’s the same bloody ones arguing and shouting all the time.”

I Made a show of shrugging sympathetically to Marty as I explained.

“Well, I daren’t say anything or the Principal might use it against me. I’m glad I don’t have to work in here much.”

“You’re bloody lucky. They drive me bloody crazy with their arguing.”

“How d’ you know they’re arguing?”

“It can’t possibly be anything else. I half expect to see blood seeping under the door sometimes when I leave because of the noise. I’ve definitely encountered scuffles outside their door. It’s like a war and that’s amongst themselves. If I can, I give them a wide berth.”

On that note both Marty and I went down to eat, where we found yet more of the arguing as they ate their food..

“There’s no getting a-bloody-way from it!” Marty cursed softly. It’s since that new Mullah has arrived. He’s supposed to be a more moderate, academic sort of guy but to me, he foments more argument than cohesion.

Again I said nothing but I had a plan formulating in my mind. If I could somehow foment trouble between the Muslims and the Terfs I might gain some traction in my endeavours to make it safer for the LGBT’s on Campus. I only wished I understood what they were arguing about.

A couple of days later an idea came to me, I had been researching a translation of a German paper discussing gravity when one of those inevitable adverts popped up on my site. They were offering small portable conversational translators where you made your remark and the translator gave it to the other party in their native tongue. The translator translated the other guy’s remarks to you back in your native tongue; in my case English. Then the intercourse was retained on record.

“Gosh,” I mused. “That could do for me. I could just press the device against the wall and voila! Arabic to English.”

A week later the device appeared in the mail room and a note appeared in my mailbox in the main hall. I collected my mini-translator and immediately and returned to our empty room after the morning lecture while Marty was ensconced in the Library. The most attractive feature was the translator’s tiny size that enabled me to slip it into my bra with the video-microphone fitted into a phony broach on my top while a tiny hidden video-camera gave me a translation and a recording of the conversation. That evening, I was loaded for bear.

The Dhuranic student community was a peculiarly insular group who even tended to isolate themselves from fellow muslims. They tended to gather frequently where the bulk of the settees in the common room had been gathered into informal collections that suited chat groups. Fortunately, there were still occasional single or double tables remaining by the walls that enabled single or student pairs to study or chat in a less restrictive space were chatting was permitted. Often however, these student groups became loud as discussions led to ad-hoc debates. This was a perfect spot to eavesdrop on conversations whilst purporting to be writing notes or reading. It was also an excellent spot to make recordings.

Two days later, I met Marty leaving the Library in a foul mood.

“Whass ’up love?” I asked.

“I can’t bloody study in there. The god-botherer’s are at it again, in Arabic; next door, and the Librarian is too afraid to tell them to take it down a notch.

“Well our room is quiet love, I’ve got a bit of reading to do down here, then I will join you later in our room to help with any maths. So why don’t you grab the chance of some peace in our room before I come up?”

Marty jumped at the offer while I took my place in the main library where the interference from the room next door was loudest. It was a simple matter to put my books on the table against the wall to hide my microphone and record/translate all that was being shouted and argued.

‘Why do they get so agitated and loud/’ I wondered as I turned off my earphones and quietly enjoyed some un-interrupted study with my books while my mini translator recorded some of the conversations and also translated them for me.

Later, I went to the common rooms and ran the recorded translations back in my earphones while dozens of students passed me by without a second glance.

What I learned simply shocked me. The new Mullah could be easily identified simply by his strident voice and the deference accorded to him by the Dhuranic students. Mostly however, he spoke softly but my sensitive microphone could pick it up and identify it easily. By that first night alone, I gained a deep insight into the hate that was being spilled out and what was worse; the bullying being handed out to students who did not want any part of it. It was a perfect islamic version of the old-style Soviet ‘long-tails’ strategies underwritten by primitive religious underpinnings.

I was sickened by what I heard and debated taking my recordings straight to the college authorities but I had already learned that – when money talks, - justice walks.’ Having now got access to their machinations and plans, I decided to fight fire with guile.

From that day, I regularly chose to ‘study’ in the library and record my translations through the wall until I had enough information to subtly enlighten the Terfs as to what was afoot in the Dhuranic camp and more importantly what plans they had to resume their ‘islamic morality patrols’ or more accurately their ‘morality endeavours.’

Here, the islamic mullahs information network started to work against them. They had shown me in their arguments and recordings, that they had lots of information concerning assorted social events associated with any activity that could be deemed ‘un-islamic’ and these were the events they intended to Target. Naturally, these events were planned in colleges all over London and I soon learned of the events that the mullahs were targeting. They were mainly drag balls, fancy-dress and gay events.

“Oh sweet justice!” I told myself as my secret surveillance confirmed the main events and locations were ‘morality-protests’ were planned.

It remained only to advise organisers of assorted LGBT groups when one of their events was to be targeted by religious protests. Furthermore, my secret surveillance of the Mullahs, had thrown up the identities of several London groups who were beginning to take umbrage at the illegal and un-British imposition of religious ‘morality patrols’ and their moods were becoming more combative.

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