Chris Cleave - Incendiary

They say you are a FIEND Osama but like I say I don’t believe a word of it. I’ve seen you in your videos. You give me the shivers and you look like a gentleman. My husband was a good man he was a gentleman too. You would of liked him. Maybe you should of thought about that before you blew him up. They say you believe in paradise. They say you believe that if your people kill anyone innocent then you’re doing them a favour because they will go to be with Allah. I wouldn’t know about that. My husband didn’t believe in Allah he believed in his kid and Arsenal football club.

I always liked the football but my husband and my boy were mad for it. My husband used to take the boy to all the home games. The fun used to start the night before. Before we put the boy to bed my husband would run around the flat with the boy on his shoulders. They would sing 1 NIL TO THE ARSENAL till the upstairs neighbours banged on the ceiling. They were Chelsea fans upstairs. You live in the mountains with your Kalashnikov Osama sending god’s fiery vengeance down on the heads of the prophet’s enemies so you might think football isn’t that important. Well it is.

Sometimes the upstairs neighbours would come down and bang on our door. It drove them crazy when my husband and my boy sang 1 NIL TO THE ARSENAL. The neighbours would scream at us to eff off and bang on the door with their fists. Well that just made it worse because my husband and my boy would start singing 2 NIL TO THE ARSENAL. The more fuss the neighbours made the worse the Arsenal was going to beat them to nil. All of it gave me the jitters I don’t mind telling you.

After the singing the boy would be overexcited and laughing and giggling like a lunatic. We couldn’t get him off to sleep for love nor money. Mum he would say mum mum mum come quick there’s something in my room. I’d rush in. What is it? I’d say. Nothing he’d say I fooled you ha ha ha. He was 4 years and 3 months old. You couldn’t be cross with him. That boy had such a beautiful smile. He was just pleased to be alive.

—Go to sleep little monster or you’ll be tired for the big game. Arsenal can’t win without you they need the support.

—But I’m not sleepy mum, he’d say.

—Go to sleep or I’ll have to fetch your father.

—I’m not scared of him, he’d say. My dad is the best dad in the world he’s better than. Than. Than.

—Than what? Eh little monster? What’s your dad better than?

—Monkeys, he’d say. My dad is better than monkeys and and and.

—And what?

—Tizer, said my boy.

It sounds silly Osama but sometimes I’m pleased your people blew them both up together. If my boy had survived he would of missed his father. It would of made him so sad. I never could bear for my boy to be sad so if someone has to be sad now I suppose it might as well be me.

When the boy would finally go to sleep it was always late and we would sit on the sofa drinking beers. Just me and my husband. One Friday night we had an argument about the football. I came right out with it.

—I wish you wouldn’t take the boy to the game. He’s too little. It makes me nervous.

—Nervous? said my husband. What is there to be nervous about?

—Well you know. The violence.

—Ha ha, said my husband. Crowd violence at a football game. That’s a laugh considering I defuse bombs for a living.

—I know. Well that makes me nervous too.

—Listen love, he said. Football crowds aren’t how they used to be. It’s a family game now and anyway I’m a copper I’m a big bloke I can handle myself.

—It’s not you I’m worried about. It’s the boy. He is 4 years and 3 months old he still sleeps with Mr. Rabbit.

—Oh for Christ’s sake, said my husband. You think I don’t look after him? You think I’d let anyone touch a hair on his head? I’d kill them first.

—Alright. But it still makes me nervous.

—Everything makes you nervous, he said.

And he was right oh god he was absolutely right I could feel death rushing towards us.

That night my husband was exhausted he’d had a hell of a day and to top it off he’d blown 250 quid on the wrong horse at Doncaster. I shouldn’t of got him to make love to me I should of just let him be but my nerves were screaming and I thought maybe he could bring it out of me. But no it was miserable sex and the terror stayed inside me my husband just made it worse. He was full of fear himself I could feel every one of those 250 quid he lost knotted in his muscles when he held me. Afterwards we just lay in the dark looking at the ceiling. Neither of us could sleep. The upstairs neighbours had mates over.

—I’m going to kill those bastards, said my husband. Drinking and shouting all hours of the night. Don’t they understand there’s families in these flats? What the hell is that they’re listening to anyway?

—It’s Beyonc.

I knew the names of all the singers Osama I watched a lot of telly in the daytime you see.

—I don’t mean who is it, said my husband. I mean what kind of music do you call that?

—It’s R&B.

—It’s a horrible bloody racket is what it is, said my husband. Look at this. The bass is so loud you can see the ripples in my water glass.

—I wish we were rich. If we were rich we could live in a house not a flat. It’s only the poor who have to suffer each other’s music.

—What are you on about? said my husband. We’re not poor.

—Yeah alright but I mean look at us.

—Don’t start, said my husband.

—Start what?

—Don’t start on about money, he said. You think I need bloody reminding?

I sighed and I stroked his face in the dark.

—No love. I’m sorry.

—No, said my husband. I’m sorry. You deserve better than me.

—Don’t ever say that love I’m so proud of you. You’re a good man. You never think twice when you get the call. You go out and you save people’s lives.

—Yeah, said my husband. But it shreds my nerves to buggery and when I get home those same people whose lives I saved are making our flat shake with what was her name again?

—Beyonc.

—Yeah that’s it, he said. Beyonc. Sometimes I wish we just let the bombs explode.

I stroked his hair he didn’t mean it. We lay there for a long time with the neighbours’ music banging through the ceiling. My husband’s eyes were open. He was all feverish and sweaty looking up at the ceiling.

—Fuckers, he said.

—You don’t have to swear love.

—I’ll fucking swear when I fucking well want to.

—Don’t swear it makes me jumpy when you swear.

—Calm down love, said my husband.

—No you calm down. You’re the one who lost 250 quid. How am I meant to feed the boy and put clothes on him when you carry on like that? Why don’t you effing well calm down?

My husband looked at me like I’d slapped him round the face. I suppose it was a shock on account of I’ve never been a moaner but I was losing it and Beyonc wasn’t helping by shouting CRAZY RIGHT NOW down through our bedroom ceiling so loud it made my back teeth buzz.

—Oh fuck this, said my husband. I don’t think we can carry on like this. My nerves are shot and you’re half mental with worry all the time. You’re turning into a hysterical woman.

—I am not hysterical.

—Yes you are, he said.

—NO I AM EFFING WELL NOT HYSTERICAL.

I grabbed my water glass and I smashed it against the wall. The water and the glass burst all over the carpet and I burst into tears. My husband held me very tight and stroked my hair.

—It’s alright love, he said. It’s not your fault. Anyone would be the same with all this stress.

I turned on the bedside light and I lit one of my husband’s ciggies. My hands were shaking. The music from upstairs got even louder. The ceiling was heaving. Now the bastards were dancing up there. They were the NEIGHBOURS FROM HELL. I smoked the ciggie down to the filter and I threw it across the room like I never would of done in my right mind. I may not be a saint Osama but I am very house proud.