Chris Cleave - Incendiary

He reached in his pocket and handed me his card. I just stared at him.

—What’s going on?

—I’m not ecstatic with how I’ve lived my life, he said. I was born with a certain amount of talent and I’ve snorted it away. I let the system absorb me. But even a man like me has a point beyond which his pride will not allow him to go. I will not let them screw us like this. I’ve decided to make a stand.

He looked down at the suitcase by our feet.

—See this? he said. This is what the authorities are scared shitless of. This is six sticks of dynamite packed around a jam jar full of Strontium-90 and Caesium-137 painstakingly stolen from hospitals and factories across the Middle East by Al Qaeda operatives.

—No it isn’t Jasper. It’s Petra’s Louis Vuitton suitcase.

—You know that, said Jasper. And I know that. But as far as the rest of the world is concerned it’s a dirty bomb. If this thing goes off the whole of Westminster will glow in the dark until well into the next ice age. I’m about to call the police and tell them. And they’ll believe me because I’ll use the code word the May Day cell used. The one Terence told you about in your little pillow chat. And as soon as I get off the phone with the police I’ll call the BBC. That should get everyone’s attention.

—You’re off your nut. What do you want to do all that for?

—I’ll threaten to set off my nasty little bomb unless they bring me a camera crew. And then on live unexpurgated TV I’ll tell the world what really happened on May Day.

—No Jasper. Please no. You know what they’ll do to you.

—Oh yes, said Jasper. I’m hoping they kill me outright. I’ve never been much tempted by prison.

I stepped up close to Jasper and put my hand on his cheek.

—Why are you really doing this?

Jasper grinned.

—Well, he said. Would you believe me if I said I think you’ve been through enough and you deserve some kind of justice?

—No.

—No, said Jasper. Must be your tits then.

I started laughing then and so did he. It must of been on account of he was on coke and I’d had no sleep but we were in hysterics.

—Oh Jasper. We’re fucked aren’t we?

—Oooh yes, he said. Petra’s really done a number on us. We’re as fucked as it’s possible for two individuals to be in Great Britain at the start of the 21st century. We have finally done it. We have achieved terminal fuckedocity.

He hugged me. We were having a right old time of it there under good old Winston Churchill with the morning rush hour roaring on all round us but it didn’t last long because soon Jasper stopped laughing. He reached down and unzipped the suitcase. It wasn’t a dirty bomb in there it was Mr. Rabbit.

—Here, he said. I thought you’d want him back. Take care of him now won’t you?

Seeing Mr. Rabbit reminded me it was all real what was happening to us. The rain felt cold again and I shivered.

—Jasper. That’s enough silliness now. Let’s just get out of here. Let’s disappear. We’ll get on a train and just go.

—Where to? said Jasper.

—I don’t know. Anywhere that isn’t London.

Jasper stroked my cheek.

—Everywhere is London, he said. For us. Don’t you see? We are London. Anywhere we could go you’d always be grieving and I’d always be. Well.

—What?

Jasper looked down at the rainy pavement and the pigeon shit and the old black discs of chewing gum.

—Disappointed, he said.

The roar of the traffic was quieter now. Rush hour was nearly over. Anyone who had work to go to was either there already or hoping their boss wasn’t. I reached up and kissed Jasper very quick on the mouth.

—Jasper?

—Yes? he said.

—My boy would of liked you.

—Go on, he said. You’d better get out of here.

Then he got out his mobile and dialled the Metropolitan Police. I walked off down St. Margaret Street and I didn’t look back.

Jasper Black never did get to say his piece on camera and I never saw him again except for the TV pictures of that moment when he’s climbed up with that silly pink suitcase onto the statue of Churchill and the police sharpshooter gets him in the back. I expect you’ve seen those pictures too Osama they’re pretty famous. It’s the way that great big smile comes over his face as he’s falling.

I hadn’t got far when the panic started. I don’t blame people for panicking with the telly reporting a dirty bomb in Parliament Square. If I’d been them I’d of legged it too. I was on Millbank halfway down the Victoria Tower Gardens when people started running out of their offices. Once it started everything happened so quick. The panic was like a living thing Osama it had a smell and a voice. The smell hit me in the guts it was the smell of bodies sweating and struggling. Then there was the horrible noise. It was grown men screaming and sirens going berserk and the crunch of cars reversing into legs and bollards and railings. It was a panic like the darkest dream and the more people ran out onto the streets the bigger the panic got like a monster made of human beings.

I lost my boy and I was running in all directions screaming and looking for him but then the crowd got too thick and I couldn’t choose my direction any more. I was in the middle of all these young blokes in office suits and they were shouting and barging everyone out of their way so I just had to run with them. Then I couldn’t keep up any more and I fell. I lay on the streaming wet tarmac and they all ran over me in their hard leather shoes. I curled up into a ball and when it was finished I got up and walked on down towards Lambeth Bridge.

When I got to the Horseferry roundabout there was this woman in a green Range Rover and there were 2 blokes in suits trying to take it off her. She’d locked all the doors and she was gripping on to the steering wheel and screaming at these blokes to go away but you couldn’t hear her. You could just see her face white and terrified behind the windscreen like a telly with the sound turned off. These blokes wouldn’t let go of the door handles and the woman couldn’t drive off because there were people all around. The 2 blokes started rocking the Range Rover. They were screaming at the woman to let them in.

—My wife! shouted one of the blokes. My wife is stuck at home! I have to get to her. Let us in you bitch you’ve got 4 empty seats in there.

The woman collapsed over the wheel. She was holding her head in her hands and wailing at the pedals by her feet. The poor cow probably didn’t have a clue what was going on. One minute she’d been worrying about house prices and the next minute she was in the middle of a panic. Then one of the blokes lost it. I saw this expression come over his face.

—Right then, he shouted. I’ll show you you fucking bitch.

You could see the spit coming out with each word and splattering across the windscreen. He went round the back of the Range Rover and opened the petrol cap.

—Oh Jesus oh please god no.

The bloke took a Zippo out of his pocket and looked at me and there wasn’t anything in his eyes at all. He flicked the Zippo on and shoved it down the fuel pipe of the Range Rover.

—There you go bitch, he shouted.

The flames shot out of the fuel pipe in a jet and they blew the bloke off his feet. He went down with his suit in flames. It was soaked in petrol it burned white and fierce. It was shocking and the crowd pulled back and made a circle around him. You could see everyone’s faces very white against the grey rainy sky and their eyes glistened with the flames and the shadows of their noses were very sharp and black.

The other bloke who’d been trying to get into the Range Rover just ran off. I smelled my hair singeing and I pushed myself back away from the heat. The woman got out of her driver’s seat and stood with the crowd watching the man burn. The flames went 10 feet up in the air with the bloke twisting and flailing at the bottom. He was screaming for his mum and after a while he was just screaming and if you looked carefully towards the end you could see him lifting his head up and thumping it down on the tarmac again and again. He was trying to knock himself out and I hope he did.