David Mitchell - The Bone Clocks

“Major! Fuckface here says he’s a British journalist.”

“Says he’s a what ?” A crunch of boots approached. The boots’ owner barked into my ear: “You speak English?”

“Yes, I’m a British journalist, and if—”

“You’re able to sub stan tiate this claim?”

“My accreditation’s in the white car.”

There’s a sniff. “What white car?”

“The one in the corner of the field. If your private would take his knee off my neck, I’d point.”

“Media representatives are s’posed to carry credentials on their persons.”

“If a militiaman found a press pass on me, they’d kill me. Major, my neck, if you wouldn’t mind?”

The knee was removed. “Up. Real slow.” My legs were stiff. I wanted to massage my neck but daren’t in case they thought I was reaching for a weapon. The officer removed his aviator glasses. His age was hard to gauge: late twenties, but his face was encrusted with grime. HACKENSACK was stitched under his officer’s insignia. “So whythefuck’s a British journalist dressed like a raghead partying in a field with genu ine ragheads round a shot-down OH-58D?”

“I’m in this field because there’s news here, and I’m dressed like this because looking too Western gets you shot.”

“Looking too fuckin’ Arabic almost got you shot.”

“Major, would you please let that man go?” I nodded towards Aziz. “He’s my photographer. And”—I found Nasser—“the guy in the blue shirt, over there. My fixer.”

Major Hackensack let us dangle for a few seconds. “Okay.” Aziz and Nasser were allowed to stand and we lowered our arms. “British — that’s England, right?”

“England plus Scotland plus Wales, with Northern Ire—”

“Nottingham. ’S that England or Britain?”

“Both, like Boston’s in Massachusetts and the U.S.”

The major thought I was a smartass. “My brother married a nurse in Nottingham and I never saw such a rancid shit-hole. Ordered a ham sandwich and they gave me a slice of pink slime between two pieces of dried shit. Guy who made it was an Arab. Every last cabdriver was an Arab. Your country’s an occupied fuckin’ territory, my friend.”

I shrugged. “There has been a lot of immigration.”

The major leaned to one side, hoicked up a bomb of spit, and let it drop. “You live in the Green Zone, British journalist?”

“No. I’m staying in a hotel across the river. The Safir.”

“Up close and personal with the real Iraqis, huh?”

“The Green Zone’s one city, Baghdad’s another.”

“Lemme tell you the deal with real Iraqis. Real Iraqis say, ‘There’s no security since the invasion!’ I say, ‘Then try not killing, stabbing, and robbing each other.’ Real Iraqis say, ‘Americans raid our houses at night, they don’t respect our culture.’ I say, ‘Then stop shooting at us from your houses, you fuckfaces.’ Real Iraqis say, ‘Where’s our sewers, our schools, our bridges?’ I say, ‘Where’s the shrinkwrapped billions of dollars we gave you to build your sewers, schools, and bridges?’ Real Iraqis say, ‘Why don’t we have power or water?’ I say, ‘Who blew up the substations and tapped the fuckin’ pipes we built?’ Oh, and their clerics say, ‘Hey, our mosques need painting.’ I say, ‘Then get your holy asses up a ladder and paint them your-fuckin’-selves!’ Put that in your newspaper. What is your newspaper, anyhow?”

“It’s Spyglass magazine. It’s American.”

“What’s it like — like Time magazine?”

“It’s a liberal jizz rag, sir,” said a nearby marine.

“Liberal?” Major Hackensack said it like the word “pedophile.” “You a liberal, British journalist?”

I swallowed. The Iraqis were watching us too, wondering if their fates were being decided by this incomprehensible but clearly ill-tempered exchange. “You’ve been sent here because of the most conservative White House in living memory. Truly, Major, I’d value your opinion: Do you consider your leaders to be smart, courageous people?”

Immediately I saw I’d misplayed my shitty hand. You don’t suggest to a sleepless, angry officer that his commander in chief is a clueless jerk-off and that his comrades-in-arms have died for nothing. “Here’s a question for you,” Hackensack growled. “Which of those gentlemen know who shot down our helicopter?”

My feet no longer touched the floor of the pool of shit Aziz, Nasser, and I found ourselves in: “We only got here minutes before you did.” Insects buzzed, distant vehicles clattered. “These people told us nothing. They aren’t living in times when you trust strangers, specially a foreign one.” The officer was reading me as I said this; a subject change would be a good idea. “Major Hackensack, please could I quote your views about the real Iraqis by name?”

He leaned back and squinted forward: “You are shittin’ me?”

“Our readers would value your perspective.”

“No, you cannot quote me, and if—” Hackensack’s radio headset crackled into life and he turned away. “One-eight-zero? This is Two-sixteen; over. Negative, negative, One-eight-zero, nobody here but Caspar the fuckin’ Ghost and a bunch of gawpers. I’ll make inquiries for form’s sake but the fuckers’ll be laughing at us from under their fuckin’ head-towels. Over … Uh-huh … Roger that, One-eight-zero. Last thing: Did you hear already if Balinski made it? Over.” The major’s nostrils flared and his jaw clicked. “Shit, One-eight-zero. Shit shit shit. Shit. Over.” He booted a stone; it richocheted off the Kiowa’s fuselage. “No, no, don’t bother. Base admin couldn’t dig shit out of their asses. Inform his unit liaison directly. Okay, Two-sixteen, over and out.” Major Hackensack looked at the black marine and shook his head, then turned a malevolent gaze my way. “You just see a sewer-mouthed military man, don’t you? You just see a cartoon character and a platoon of grunts. You think we deserve this”—he nods at the wreckage—“just for being here. But the dead, they had children, they had family, same as you. They wanted to make something of their lives, same as you. Hell, they were lied to about this war, same as you. But unlike you, British journalist, they paid for other peoples’ bullshit with their lives. They were braver than you. They were better than you. They deserve more than you. So you and Batman and Robin there, get the fuck out of my sight. Now.”

“A salaam aleikum.” The elderly Irishwoman has a foamy cloud of white hair and a zigzag cashmere poncho. You wouldn’t cross her.

I place her Drambuie on the table. “Waleikum a salaam.”

“How did it go now? Shlon hadartak? ”

“ Al hamdulillah . You’ve earned your whistle-wetter, Eilísh.”

“Most kind. Now, I hope I didn’t send ye astray?”

“Not at all.” It’s just me and Eilísh in the corner of the banquet room. I can see Aoife, playing a clapping-chanting game with a niece of Peter the groom’s, and Holly’s chatting to yet more Irish cousins. “They had a bottle in the lounge upstairs.”

“Did ye bump into any extraterrestrials on the way?”

“Lots. The lounge looks like the bar scene from Star Wars .” I guess an Irishwoman in her eighties won’t know what I’m talking about. “ Star Wars is an old science fiction film, and it’s got this bit—”

“I saw it in Bantry picture house when it came out, thank ye. My sister and I went to see it on our penny-farthings.”

“Beg your pardon, I didn’t mean to imply … Uh …”

“Sláinte.” She clinks her schooner of Drambuie against my G-and-T. “Bless us, that’s the stuff. Tell me a thing now, Ed. Did ye ever get up to Amara and the marshes, in Iraq?”