Chris Cleave Ebook Boxed Set (52 page)

He looked down at me with my crutch and my Asda bag. It’s true I didn’t look quite right.

—Please constable. My husband was blown up on May Day. Terence Butcher used to be his boss.

—What did your husband do? said the copper.

I told him and I gave my husband’s warrant number.

—Open the bag if you would please madam, said the copper.

I showed him what was in the bag.

—Alright madam, he said. Wait there just a moment if you would.

He turned away and he spoke into his radio.

I won’t tell you the questions they asked me Osama. I won’t tell you how I got in to see Terence Butcher. I’m not going to give you anything you could use to blow up Scotland Yard. A lot of my husband’s old mates still work there. I won’t tell you where Terence Butcher’s office was. I won’t even tell you his real name. Terence Butcher will do it’s close enough anyway. I mean all those coppers
have meat-chopping names don’t they? Like Peter Slaughter. Francis Carver. Steven Cleaver. All the coppers in there had names you could take a grindstone to.

Scotland Yard was just like you’d expect inside. All nerves and notice boards. A constable took me down god knows how many grey painted corridors. The whole place smelled of sweat and Dettol on the lower floors and coffee and Dettol on the upper ones. Terence Butcher’s office was high up I won’t tell you how high exactly. The pale green gloss paint on his door was chipped and grubby but the metal sign was bright and new.
CHIEF SUPERINTENDENT TERENCE BUTCHER
it said. I don’t know anything about police ranks but the constable who was taking me was so worked up he could hardly knock. ENTER said a voice and we did.

The office smelled of new paint. There were bare shelves all over the walls and cardboard boxes all over the floor. Terence Butcher was sitting against the window behind a long wide metal desk. There were 3 phones on the desk and a photo of a wife and kids. I supposed they were his. I mean it’d be wrong for any man to have a photo of someone else’s wife and kids on his desk but especially for a copper. Terence Butcher was wearing a white shirt with black shoulder tabs with silver crowns on them. No tie. He was talking into one of the phones.

—No, he said. It’s very simple. I’ll tell you again. I told them to go to sector Sierra 6 and wait for orders. I did not tell them to start arresting the Japs. The Japs are not the enemy Inspector. They are a welcome fillip to our capital’s tourist economy. You want to get your officers under control.

He slammed the phone down. He kept his hand on the receiver and dropped his head till it was nearly on the desk. Then he took a deep breath and as he breathed in he straightened up so it looked like he was being pumped up with air from the phone. He was very tall when he stood up and he had big grey eyes that looked at me.

—Sir, said the constable. This is the lady.

—Yes, said Terence Butcher. I can see that. Good lad. Off you go.

—Thank you sir, said the constable.

I walked into the middle of Terence Butcher’s office and I held my metal crutch in front of me to stop my hands shaking. Terence Butcher stood up. Behind him I could see the black helicopters hovering in the grey sky over Westminster Abbey. They made no sound. The window was double glazed. Bombproof. Terence Butcher came half out from behind his desk and then he stopped and looked like he wanted to go back behind it. You could tell he didn’t know what to do with himself I shouldn’t think he was used to people who weren’t there to take orders or dish them out. In the end he just sat there on the corner of his desk and twisted his fingers together. That’s what I do with my hands mostly but it looked strange on a big man.

—I’m so very sorry for your loss, he said.

—Don’t say sorry if it isn’t your fault. This life’s hard enough.

Terence Butcher shrugged and looked at his phones like he was hoping one of them would ring.

—I came in case you could tell me anything about my husband and my boy.

—I’d like to help, said Terence Butcher. But I didn’t work with your husband on a day-to-day basis. If you’d like to speak with someone who knew him better I can arrange a meeting with his direct supervisor or one of his colleagues.

—Nah you’re alright. I know all about what he was like alive. I came to find out how he died. I’d be happier to know my husband and my boy were blown to bits rather than trampled or burned to death you see.

—Christ, he said. Look. You’d be better off talking to the officer in charge of the May Day incident room. If you really think it would help then I’ll instruct him to take you through the details.

—Yeah but I wanted to see you didn’t I? I’m in a state at the moment I don’t need to be talking with a complete stranger.

Terence Butcher narrowed his eyes and looked at me like I was the smallest row of letters at the optician’s.

—Do I know you? he said.

—Do you not remember?

Terence Butcher looked at me for a long time.

—I’m sorry, he said. I meet so many people in this job.

—And you buy them all a G&T do you? You tell them all they’re much too pretty to be a copper’s squaw?

—Mmm? he said.

—Bomb squad fancy dress disco? 2 Christmases ago? You were dressed as Russell Crowe in
Gladiator
.

—Oh no, he said. You weren’t the little Red Indian girl?

—Pocahontas actually.

—Christ. I don’t know what to say.

—Nothing to say. Nothing happened did it.

—Didn’t it?

—Nah. I’d of remembered.

Neither of us said anything for a while. It was so quiet you could hear the air-conditioning blowing the smell of hangovers and paperwork round the building.

—Are you seeing a grief counsellor? said Terence Butcher.

—Nah.

—You probably should. We could arrange it if you like.

—Nah. You’re alright. There was one at the hospital and she didn’t do any good.

—How do you know?

—Cause I tried to kill myself last night didn’t I? I’ll probably try again.

Terence Butcher stood up from the corner of his desk but he didn’t take his eyes off mine.

—Don’t give me that, he said. I’m a pretty good judge of character. If you wanted to kill yourself. Really wanted to I mean. Then you would have done it by now.

—I was in hospital. It isn’t easy. I would of jumped out the window only it was ever so cold.

Terence Butcher sighed.

—I see, he said. Then let’s make it easy for you shall we?

He reached down and opened a drawer in his desk. He took out a pistol. It was sharp and black and vicious-looking. It was bigger than they are on TV. It was about the same size as the entire universe. He held the pistol out to me still looking in my eyes. He held it by the barrel so the handle was pointing at me. At least I think it’s called the handle. I’m no good with guns. The end you hold anyway.

Terence Butcher’s hand was as steady as his eyes. He held the pistol there and my hand moved towards it. I don’t know why. I never wanted to touch the thing but his eyes made me do it. My hand closed around the handle. It was cold and shiny and the thing was too big for me. I watched myself holding it like a girl trying to lift something made for grown-ups. Terence Butcher let go of the barrel and my arm fell down with the weight of the gun. I tried to point it at myself. I tried and tried but I couldn’t lift it with one hand and I couldn’t use both hands without dropping the crutch and falling over.

I burst into tears and sat down on the floor. I let the crutch fall onto the cardboard boxes. I looked at Terence Butcher through the tears in my eyes and I put both hands on the handle of the pistol with my fingers laced round the back of the handle and my thumbs around that metal bit that goes round the trigger. I lifted the gun up and put the barrel in my mouth.

The expression on Terence Butcher’s face changed. I don’t think he expected me to do it. He looked very sad and calm now. The gun felt so strange in my mouth. It was metal but it wasn’t a knife or a fork or a spoon so my mouth couldn’t work out what to do with it. It’s funny but you can’t think about killing yourself. When there’s something in your mouth your body thinks it ought to be food. My tongue licked round the end of the barrel. It tasted of
oil. The taste was sour and my body pulled the gun out of my mouth. I made a face. I couldn’t help myself. I sat there on the floor in the middle of all the cardboard boxes and I stopped crying. I was thinking nothing much.

—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. Counter-terrorism 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.