—See? said Terence Butcher. You don’t really want to kill yourself.
—What if I’d pulled the trigger?
Terence Butcher grinned. He got up from behind his desk and stepped through the mess of boxes on the floor and knelt down next to me. He took a Marlboro Red out of a pack in his shirt pocket and put it in his mouth. Then he took the gun out of my hands and lit his ciggie with it. He pulled the trigger and the gun went click and a little yellow flame came out of the end of the barrel. I looked up at him.
—If you’d pulled the trigger you’d have suffered a serious case of hot mouth, he said.
—Oh.
—Yes. Welcome back to the land of the living. Now let that be the last I hear of any silliness. I’ve got a whole bloody city to look after. Don’t want to add you to my worries.
Terence Butcher reached down and gave me his hand. I grabbed it and he pulled me up like I weighed less than a polystyrene cup. My face came close to his chest and I breathed in his smell of fabric conditioner and cigarette smoke. I held on to his hand longer than I should of. I was trembling and he felt it.
—You’ve got the shakes, he said.
—Yeah.
—You and me both, he said. Ever since May Day.
—Yeah?
—Yes, he said. Ordinarily I would have been at that game too. I haven’t missed the Arsenal against Chelsea since. Well. Since ever.
—Yeah well you wouldn’t would you.
He looked at me very steady.
—Come on, he said. Let’s get you sat down.
He helped me across the room to his chair. It was the only one in the office.
—I’m sorry about the mess, he said. I just moved in here yesterday. I haven’t unpacked.
—I suppose you got promoted did you?
—Yes, he said.
—Nice one.
—Thanks.
He wasn’t looking at me he was looking over my shoulder out the window. I just sat behind his desk and waited. His chair was too high for me so I sat with my white Pumas swinging just above the floor. I looked at Terence Butcher’s 3 phones and the photo of his wife and kids. His wife looked alright. She had a nice smile. The photo was of her and 2 kids sitting on a lawn. She looked very comfortable sitting there. She looked like the sort of girl who’d always been around lawns. It was sunny in the photo and she had a summer dress on with a blue flower print. The dress was pretty ordinary but she might of had nice legs under it you couldn’t really tell. Her ankles were alright but she was wearing Dunlop Green Flash. The laces were done up with a double bow. I was making myself notice these little things because I couldn’t let myself look at her kids.
I looked at her face and I wondered what it would feel like to pick up one of those 3 telephones and call her. I imagined what it would be like to hear her voice say hello darling. To hear the 2 kids squabbling in the background. Fighting over lego. Everything very normal and everyday. I imagined what it would be like to look straight at her pretty face in the photo and say I won’t be back till very late tonight darling. Something’s come up at work.
Terence Butcher looked down at me and smiled.
—The wife, he said.
—You love her do you?
—Of course, he said. What sort of a question is that?
—It’s the sort of question you ask a bloke who buys you a G&T dressed as Russell Crowe.
Terence Butcher coughed.
—Yes, he said. Well. Please don’t take it personally.
—Yeah well I wouldn’t take it personally if it’d been anyone else.
—Look, he said. I’ve already told you I’m sorry. It’s the job. Okay? This job is a bastard and so sometimes you have a few drinks and you let your hair down.
—Tell me about your job.
—Why?
—Because my husband never would.
—He was right, said Terence Butcher. You don’t want to know.
—I’ll be the judge of that.
Terence Butcher sighed then and it was more like a blowout than a slow puncture.
—Well if you have to know it’s bloody simple, he said. Counterterrorism is the worst job in the world. You watch Londoners going about their business. You see them getting onto buses. Taking their kids to school. Drinking half a lager at lunchtime. And all the time you’re getting this information. From phone taps. E-mails. Tip-offs. It’s not like it is in the films. You never know what the bastards are planning. You only get these peaks of activity. You know something’s going to happen. You don’t know what and you don’t know when. But you think it might be today. So you get jumpy. When a siren starts up you hit the roof. If a car backfires you have to stop yourself diving for the pavement. There’s a million volts of electricity churning round in your guts. That’s why you can’t sleep. You get nervous.
Terence Butcher stopped talking. There was sweat on his forehead.
—I know just what you mean.
—You do? he said.
—Yeah. I get very nervous too.
Terence Butcher swallowed.
—I shouldn’t be telling you this, he said. You just lost your husband and your boy. I doubt you’ve slept in days and here I am telling you my life is hard.
I caught the first flash of it then. I saw what Terence Butcher would look like with my arms around his neck. My arms so thin and white against his skin.
—I don’t mind. Talk if it makes you feel better. Get it all out.
—You’re a remarkable woman, said Terence Butcher. Listen. Can I get you something? A coffee or a tea?
I looked up at Terence Butcher and I saw what he’d look like with his fingers pushing under the waistband of my white Adidas trackies, with those big hands around my bum pulling me down on him and both of us moaning and the windows exploding inwards in a bright white flash and his office filled with flying glass cutting us into small pieces his cheating flesh all mixed up with mine so they’d have to bury us together.
—Tea please.
He walked up to the desk he picked up one of the phones I forget which.
—2 teas, he said. Biscuits.
He held the phone and I watched the muscles in his back through his shirt while he ordered us tea. It felt nice to have this big man do something small for me. It gave me the shivers. I wondered if Jasper Black would bring me tea and biscuits if I turned up at his office. It’s funny Osama the way you start to think when you’re a widow.
I reached down into my Asda bag. I got out one of my bottles of Valium and held it out to Terence Butcher on the palm of my hand. My hand was shaking so hard the pills were rattling. I blushed.
—Here. They’re tranquillisers. I got 2 bottles so you might as well have one of them if you’re having trouble sleeping.
He reached out his hand. He held the bottle so it stopped rattling but he didn’t take it out of my hand. He looked into my eyes.
—The wife doesn’t approve of these things, he said. Says they disrupt the body’s natural equilibrium.
—Yeah? Well so do bombs.
Terence Butcher was quiet for a moment and then he closed his hand around the bottle. I felt the tips of his fingers against my palm as he took the pills.
—Thanks, he said.
—You’re alright.
The tea came. It was just how you’d expect police tea to be Osama all lukewarm and milky. Terence Butcher put the bottle of pills in his trouser pocket.
—Listen, he said. A favour deserves a favour. I wouldn’t bother drinking the tea around here. It’s disgusting. I pour it into the plant pots.
He grinned and I grinned too. It felt nice. I hadn’t smiled much since they stopped that nurse Mena from coming. Then one of the phones on his desk rang. He looked at it for a moment before he picked it up.
—No Inspector, he said. Sector Sierra 6. I’d spell Sierra for you if Sierra wasn’t already a letter of the phonetic alphabet.
He slammed the phone down.
—Poor bastard’s had even less s
leep than me probably, he said. We should start a club. Insomniacs against Islam.
He smiled again but I didn’t. I was thinking of Mena. How she used to pop those blue pills into my mouth at the hospital. The mercy of her god that she stole from a jar for me so I could crunch it between my teeth and forget about things for one more day. Allah Akbar we used to say. Now I remembered that bitter taste of love.
—You really think it was Islam that killed my husband and my boy?
Terence Butcher stopped smiling.
—Well, he said. It wasn’t the Easter Bunny.
—I knew a Muslim. She was a nurse in the hospital. She was the gentlest woman I ever met. Her god wasn’t a bombing god.
—Yeah, said Terence Butcher, well it isn’t their god that bothers me. It’s the devils that sell them the Semtex.
—They’re not all like that.
—No, said Terence Butcher. And not every kid kicking a ball about in the park will get to play for Arsenal. Doesn’t mean they wouldn’t all love a go.
—You’ll just make it worse talking like that. You want to try to understand them.
—I’m not paid to understand, said Terence Butcher. I’m paid to prevent.
—Yeah well you didn’t prevent May Day did you?
He looked at the floor.
—No, he said.
—So maybe you’re going about it wrong. I don’t see how you can stop the bombers if you don’t understand them.
Terence Butcher came round to my side of the desk. He stood behind the chair and put his hand on my shoulder.
—Look, he said. The Arabs are different from us. Don’t fool yourself you can understand them. In the Iran-Iraq war they sent children to walk across the minefields. To clear a path so the grown-ups could go and gas each other. They gave each kid a little metal key to paradise. The kids hung those keys around their necks. The grown-up Arabs told the little Arab children that there weren’t enough landmines to send all the kids to paradise. So the little children actually ran. Can you picture what an antipersonnel mine does to a human child? If you saw it I dare say you wouldn’t think it was getting anyone closer to god. But that’s what’s in Johnny Arab’s mind. He can’t get to heaven without sending you to hell.
—That’s not right.
—Isn’t it? he said. Can you think of another name for what you’re living through?
I looked up at him. He was all blurry with tears on account of I was thinking about my boy with his ginger hair flying in the wind running ahead to be the first boy in paradise. He’d of been the first to go. He was a bright boy but kids will believe anything you tell them Osama I suppose you don’t need me to tell you that.
—You need to get this straight in your mind, Terence Butcher said. It’s us against them. War against terror. Fighting fire with fire.
—But you can’t.
—Yes we can, said Terence Butcher. It’s an ugly war and there’s no honour in it. But we will win because we have to. It’s a war we win by ditching our principles. By interning people who are high risk. By listening to private phone calls. And it’s a boring war too. A workaday war. We win by persuading the Brits to have balls. To stand up on the Circle Line and ask Does this bag belong to anyone? We win by following up on every single lead. However insignificant. We win by phoning our wife and saying Sorry darling. I’m not going to make it back till very late again. Give the kids a kiss for me.
He was looking at the photo of his wife and kids. His hand was still on my shoulder. I held on to his desk.
—Alright then. I want to fight.
—What? he said.
—You heard. If it’s a war then I want to fight. Give me a job and I’ll do it I don’t care how dangerous it is I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you want. Just give me a job where I can do something to help.
—No, he said. Let’s not go there. Trust me you don’t want to get involved in this.
—But there’s nothing else I can do is there? My husband and my boy are gone. All I want is to stop another May Day from ever happening again. So no mother ever has to feel how I feel now.
—I admire what you’re saying, he said. You’re a good girl. But you don’t need a job right now. I’m sorry but what you need is counselling.
His hand was heavy on my shoulder. I looked at him and I felt myself go tight inside. It was pitiful all that emptiness whimpering for something to fill it. I made myself sit still but my body was only half tame I could feel it pulling against its rope. I know what you’re thinking Osama but don’t you dare judge me you goat-watching bastard. You wouldn’t know the first thing about it you’re not a woman.
—No. I’m fine. I don’t need counselling. I’m completely back to normal. I’ve seen counsellors I’ve seen grief therapists I’ve even seen Prince William he’s taller than he looks on telly. It’s all useless I just feel empty it doesn’t get better it only gets worse. Please. You couldn’t possibly know what it feels like. I’ll do anything. I could be a spy or I could just do the cleaning or whatever. I could make a better cup of tea than you get around here. I’ll do anything at all. Just please give me a job to do. If I have to go back and just sit in the flat alone I know I really will top myself.
Terence Butcher stared at me and I felt his hand slide on my shoulder. His fingers were beginning to sweat. I felt his breath on my cheek. Then one of the phones went. His hand was shaking when he picked it up.
—Yes? he said. Right. No you just stay there and get Anwar and Janet on a conference line. I’ll be right down.
He hung up.
—There’s something I have to do, he said. I’ll be ten minutes. Will you be okay to wait here till I get back?
—Alright.
—Don’t leave this room will you? he said. I’m not supposed to leave you here alone. But you’re on our side apparently. Aren’t you?
I smiled.
—Apparently.
When he left the room I turned round in his chair. It was one of those adjustable chairs with levers all over it. I swear that chair was more complicated than me. There isn’t all that much to me Osama and certainly nothing you could adjust. I’m sorry but I’m far too stubborn. I felt like doing something to cheer myself up so I pulled up my legs and spun round and round and round in Terence Butcher’s chair. I was singing La la la la Wonder Woman I always liked to do that ever since I was a girl.
I waited for a while. I don’t know how long because I lost my watch on May Day. I looked out over London and it was starting to rain and there were 2 grey pigeons on the window ledge doing the nasty. The one underneath was thin and sick-looking. Her wing was scrunched up against the glass and you could see the feathers all bent. The one on top was pecking at her neck and flapping his wings to stay there. His feet were just raw pink lumps all the toes had gone off them. He finished his business and slung his hook. She just sat there for a minute not even looking where he’d gone and then she flew off too in the direction of Westminster Abbey. I sat there for a minute getting nervous and then I started to tidy up. I couldn’t help myself.
Most of the cardboard boxes were full of files. I took them out one by one and stacked them on the shelves. There must of been 40 or 50 of them. They were big box files with their names written on their sides in magic marker. They had brilliant names all those files. They were code names. My boy would of loved them. They were called COUGAR and RED SKY and OPERATION THUNDER RESPONSE you know what coppers are like Osama. I took all those files out of their boxes on the floor and I put them on the shelves that ran along the sides of the office. I put them in alphabetical order it was a great comfort. I wish I could put the whole world in alphabetical order Osama there would be Deserts and Forests and Oceans between you and my boy.
When all the files were arranged I took the cardboard boxes they’d come out of and I broke them down flat and stood them against the wall. It felt so nice making everything neat and clean I wanted it to go on forever.
I’m that sort of person Osama you could give me
any sort of mess and I’d straighten it out for you. I’d be happy to. Let’s say you’d had a party and your flat was a state. Well I could come round in the morning and put all your glam rock CDs back in their right boxes and take the ciggie butts out of your plant pots and clean up the sick that had missed the toilet bowl. I’d be fine with it. Or let’s say your kitchen was on the small side and you couldn’t find anywhere to put anything. Let’s say all your cupboards were stuffed so that saucepan lids fell out when you opened the doors and all your work surfaces were covered with bomb parts and tins of beard wax so there wasn’t anywhere to stack the dirty dishes. Well I could come round and sort it all out with you. I’d go through your drawers and hold things up one at a time and ask if you really needed them. And what I’d do is I’d put all the things you hardly ever used into a box and put the box under your bed and that would leave you with space in the cupboards to put away everything you actually used. See?
When I’d finished arranging all Terence Butcher’s files I started taking the rest of his stuff out of the boxes. Some of it could just go straight into the desk drawers. Things like pens and Post-it notes. Then there was a box of magazines. I thought maybe I shouldn’t look inside in case they were glamour mags but I couldn’t stop myself so I opened the box. Actually the mags were only Caravan Club Magazine. There must of been 6 dozen of them. It was quite sweet really. It was nice to think of Terence Butcher driving his family down into Essex in a big blue Vauxhall Cavalier. Getting farther and farther from his city full of bombs. The kids needing to stop for a wee and his wife wearing Dunlop Green Flash and him peering in those big mirrors you strap onto the side of the car so you can see round the back of the caravan.
I put Terence Butcher’s magazines up on the shelves and I emptied the last of the boxes as best I could. It was just coffee mugs and football shields and stuff. The sort of things you’d expect. When everything was tidied away and all the cardboard boxes were flat up against the wall I sat back down on Terence Butcher’s chair and took 2 of the Valiums washed down with the cold police tea.