—And you can fuck off too, she said. You think I’d have played your stupid game if I’d known this was part of it?
—It wasn’t, said Jasper. I thought she was still in hospital. I promise.
—Car salesmen promise Jasper, said Petra. Estate agents promise. Men in my life are supposed to fucking deliver.
She slapped his face again and screamed at him and the upstairs neighbours started banging on the ceiling. I tried to stand up but I’d forgotten my crutch so I just fell down in a heap on the lino. I watched Petra’s stilettos slamming past my face as she stormed out of the kitchen. Then I rolled on my back and lay there looking up at the striplight on the ceiling. Jasper’s face was looking down at me. His face was wobbling all over the place and going in and out of focus like something you find on the videotape when you thought the camera was turned off but actually you left it running.
—Are you alright? he said.
—Do I look alright?
He knelt down beside me and put his hand on my cheek. His hand was all cold and trembly.
—Oh Christ, he said. I can’t believe what we’ve done to you.
—Yeah. You and Osama bin Laden.
—No, he said. I meant me and Petra.
—Oh. Well. Never mind eh.
He opened his mouth to say something but then he closed it again I suppose there wasn’t much to say.
—Listen do you think you could take me to bed?
—Oh god, he said. I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I mean Petra’s right here in the flat.
—I don’t mean do you think you could have sex with me you twat I mean do you think you could just take me to my bed please I can’t seem to move my legs you see.
—Oh, he said. God. Sorry. Yes.
He picked me up off the lino. I didn’t weigh much any more you see Osama on account of you don’t have the same appetite once all your favourite food just reminds you of bombs. Jasper carried me through to the bedroom and laid me down on the bed. He put me down on my husband’s side I didn’t have the strength to tell him to move me to the other. So I just lay there staring at my husband’s water glass. All the water in it had evaporated there was just this thin white crust left on the sides of the glass. It’s funny what’s left behind once what you had is all dried away. It’s funny how it never made the water cloudy.
—Jasper. Stay with me. Just a few minutes.
—I don’t think that’s a good idea, he said.
He moved his face very close to mine I could feel his breath on my face. He opened his mouth to say something but just then Petra shouted from the lounge JASPER WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THERE? GET IN HERE NOW.
Jasper stroked my hair back off my face.
—I have to go, he said.
—Just 5 minutes. Please.
—I can’t, said Jasper. I couldn’t explain it to Petra. You saw how jealous she is.
—2 minutes.
Petra shouted from the lounge again JASPER IT’S HER OR ME CHOOSE WHO YOU LIKE BUT CHOOSE RIGHT NOW.
Jasper stood up and shrugged.
—I’m sorry, he said. You know if I stayed it would just make it worse.
—For you or for me?
Jasper looked at me for a long time.
—I’m sorry, he said.
Then there was just his back walking away into the lounge. After that I cried a bit and then I lay awake listening to Petra and Jasper arguing with each other in whispers. It was a horrible noise very vicious and quiet like 2 insects fighting in a jar. It didn’t sound like love to me Osama but then what would you or me know I mean we’re half deaf from the bombs already.
After a long time I couldn’t hear Petra and Jasper arguing any more. The pills and the booze made me sleep for a bit but then in the middle of the night I woke up. It was the noise that woke me. I got up and went over to the window and held on to the frame of it to steady myself. I looked up at the helicopters circling overhead and flashing light out in all directions. It was like a free police disco and about as much fun. I mean I don’t know if you’ve ever been to a police disco Osama but I have so you can take it from me. The DJs are always coppers themselves and if you don’t think they play the theme tune from
The Bill
near the end then you think wrong.
I couldn’t face lying down and waiting for my boy’s voice to start babbling round my head again so when I got sick of watching the helicopters I went into the lounge on my tiptoes. I shuffled along the walls to hold myself up. Petra was asleep on the sofa and Jasper was on the floor by the telly. They both had their coats over them. I went down on my hands and knees and crawled over to Petra very quiet and slow. She was curled up on her side to fit onto the sofa and there was just her head and neck sticking out from underneath her coat. I knelt and watched her for a bit I suppose I was trying to remember what it was like to be able to sleep like that.
Petra’s face was soft and still and yellow in the light that came in from the street lamps. Whenever a helicopter came overhead the windows rattled and Petra frowned in her sleep and in the white searchlights you could see this little pulse fluttering away in her throat. I watched her pulse and I listened to my boy’s voice starting up again in my head very distant at first and then nearer and nearer like the radio tuning in on a station m m mum mum mummy mummy MUMMY! I tried to tune it out I tried to concentrate on
that vein banging away on Petra’s neck. On and on that pulse went because it never stops does it? Your heart bangs away like a stuck record and the streetlights on Barnet Grove switch on again and off again and the tide sloshes up and down in the Thames and it’s life whether you can sleep or not.
Dear Osama everything I’ve written so far happened in the spring and it never stopped for one second. It was dirty and sad and anyone who wasn’t blown up and burned was doing the nasty with each other like they might never get another chance. It was just like being in nature. I mean I’m a London girl Osama but I know what goes on in the countryside. I watch the telly like anyone else. Spring is when everything is fighting and killing and mating and London was no different after you went at it with bombs. It was like we all became animals again. You could look at people on the bus and you’d almost see the fur bristling under their nice clean clothes. After May Day everyone was nervous. It wasn’t just me any more.
But then summer came and the weather got hot and people slowed down. If you hadn’t had your husband and your boy blown up then I suppose May Day started to feel like a long time ago. People stopped thinking about how short their life was and they started thinking about motors again.
—Would you look at that? said Terence Butcher. They’ve given tow car of the year to a bloody Volkswagen.
We were in his office and
Caravan Club Magazine
had just come in the post along with a bunch of memos about terror suspects. He’d opened the magazine first. That did surprise me a bit Osama on account of in my opinion he had the sort of job where you ought to have a good old go at defeating the global jihad before you get on to
hobbies but what would I know. Terence Butcher stood behind his desk and held up the magazine so I could see the article.
—That’s nice sir.
—Nice? he said. What do you mean nice? It’s a Kraut abomination. Give me a Vauxhall Cavalier any day. Plenty of poke when you need it on the uphills. Don’t have to send off to Dresden every time you need a spare distributor cap.
—Well I wouldn’t know about that sir. My husband always saw to our motors.
—Then take it from me, he said. You wouldn’t catch me dead in a Volkswagen. I’ve a good mind to write a letter to the editor. Do I have a ten-minute window this morning?
—No sir I’ve got you pencilled in to fight Islamic terror all day. Your tea alright is it?
Terence Butcher looked down into his mug and he nodded.
—Yes, he said. It bloody well is. I don’t know how I drank that slop the last girl made.
—You didn’t drink it did you? You used to pour it into the pot plants and they got sick and died sir.
Terence Butcher smiled at me and I smiled back. The look went on too long.
—Listen, he said. How long have you been with us now?
—2 months sir.
—And you’re enjoying it? Right?
—Oh yes sir I like it here I’m glad to be doing something useful it takes my mind off it all you know.
—Yes, said Terence Butcher. You never seem to stop for a second. You’re a force of nature. There isn’t one minute of my day you haven’t organised. I’d be surprised if you’d left a single sheet of paper out of place in the entire building.
—No sir well I can’t stop can I? The doctor won’t give me any more Valium.
—Oh, he said. Well how do you cope in the evenings?
—Don’t worry about me I cope fine thanks sir.
Actually Osama how I coped in the evenings was I used to come in through the back entrance to the estate and sneak into our flat and keep very quiet with the telly and all the lights off so Jasper Black wouldn’t see I was home and come knocking.
Our flat was hot in those summer evenings so I left the windows open for a bit of air and sometimes if you were lucky there was a breeze. It wasn’t any of your fresh mountain air Osama it smelled of summer in the East End which is mainly hash and car exhaust but a breeze is a breeze my husband always used to say. The breeze lifted the net curtains in the lounge and the shadows moved on the walls and in those shadows if you weren’t looking straight at them you could see my boy mucking around with his toys. It was better if you half closed your eyes. I used to watch him playing for hours it was better than the telly ever was anyway.
—Coping fine eh? said Terence Butcher.
—Oh yes sir.
—Very good.
Terence Butcher was looking out of the window. He took a sip of his tea. It was still the same view of London out of his window only like I say it was summer now. The air was grubby and shimmering. The 2 helicopters hovering over the Houses of Parliament weren’t black any more. They’d painted them red white and blue and the Japs were allowed to film them.
There were still the barrage balloons hanging over the city only they weren’t bright silver any more. Each balloon had the face of one of the May Day victims painted on it. They’d winched them down one at a time and sent them back up. Each one with its smiling face. Of course they weren’t called barrage balloons any more. They were called the Shield of Hope. My chaps were up there doing their bit Terence Butcher had seen to that. My husband was defending the Oval Cricket Ground and my boy was attached to the roof of Great Ormond Street Hospital. When the wind blew it screamed in the balloons’ cables and the noise made the hairs stand up on your neck. That was my boy’s only voice now Osama. That was my only sky.
Terence Butcher turned back to me and put his tea down on the desk. He put it down too hard so some of the tea slopped out.
—You know what the best thing is about caravans? he said.
—No sir.
I looked down at his hand resting on the desktop beside his tea. His big hand brown from the early summer sun with its tendons strong as cables. I followed the line of his arm up to his elbow where his shirtsleeve was rolled. I imagined my small hand slipping inside that shirtsleeve and sliding up to the warm curve of his bicep. Sometimes in those days Osama I got a flash of a life where I didn’t have to sneak around hiding from Jasper Black. It was just the quickest flash of someone standing beside me again. Someone strong enough to start all over with. I looked at Terence Butcher’s hand and I thought yeah. You’d do.
—The best thing about caravans is that they’re always exactly the same, said Terence Butcher. You can tow your caravan to Brighton or Bournemouth or Bognor. Doesn’t make the blindest bit of difference. When you close the door behind you at the end of the day you’re home. You can rely on it. When I close my eyes at night I always think about closing the caravan door. It doesn’t matter what kind of a day I’ve had. Whatever awful things I’ve had to worry about are left outside.
He stopped and looked down at his shoes. Then he looked up at me again.
—But now that feeling is gone, he said. Ever since May Day. I’ve had to make some hard decisions. I’ve done things I’m not sure about. I don’t sleep. It’s as if I can’t close the caravan door any more. I can’t leave the horrors outside. That’s what those Arab bastards have done. They’ve got inside my caravan.
I looked at Terence Butcher. He was in a state alright. His eyes were red around the edges and that hand on the desk was white around the fingertips where he was pressing down too hard.
—Anything else I can do for you sir?
He blinked.
—Oh, he said. I’m sorry. Christ. Listen to me going off on one.
—That’s alright it’s not your fault I mean you’re a bundle of nerves aren’t you sir. With all due respect you’re an accident waiting to happen you’re ready to blow a gasket you’re an effing liability to yourself and others. Sir.
Terence Butcher rocked backwards on his feet.
—Oh dear I’m sorry I shouldn’t of said all that. It’s my big mouth I can’t help it I’m a bundle of nerves myself I suppose you’ll have to sack me now.
He sucked his teeth and shook his head slowly and turned to the window. Down below in the street a procession was going past. It was some sort of dress rehearsal for the Gay Pride Parade but you couldn’t hear the music on account of the bombproof glass and it didn’t look like much of a show. There was so much security down there it looked like a procession of police with a light gay escort. Terence Butcher looked down at it all and sighed.
—I don’t know what to do with you, he said. I can’t sack you because you’re absolutely right of course. I can’t promote you because frankly I’d be bloody surprised if you weren’t the least-qualified woman on the force. And we can’t carry on as we are because you’re starting to get right under my skin.
Terence Butcher turned back from the window.
—I hired you to make the tea, he said. That’s all.
—Yes sir I’ll just make the tea from now on. I’ll keep my big trap shut.
—No, he said. Don’t. I don’t have anyone else I can talk to.
—What about your wife sir?