Chris Cleave - Incendiary

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.