Chris Cleave Ebook Boxed Set (67 page)

They untied all the balloons in the Shield of Hope and let them float away. I held on to the cable of my boy’s balloon and I hung there under his smiling face getting carried higher and higher in the night sky. It was lovely looking down on London shrinking till it was just a tiny spark in the darkness. It looked like all you had to do was spit and you could of put the whole city out. In my dream I smiled and I wondered where my boy would carry me. We floated very high above the world and the moon was very bright and I saw it all. All the rivers and the mountains were lit up with silver and the forests were full of creatures hunting and hiding and thinking nothing much. There was a warm wind pushing us and we swooped down low into the valleys and there were little villages there where the windows were lit up and all the colours glowed and you could
smell food cooking. And from inside all the houses you heard mums singing their children to sleep and their love was stronger than bombs.

When I woke up it was raining and I sat in that doorway just shivering. I watched everyone in the Monday morning rush to work I was thinking how last Monday I’d been one of them. After I’d watched for a bit I got up and walked to a phone box. My boy followed along after me with the tarmac of the road melting under his feet.

I stuck my last coins into the phone box and dialled Jasper’s mobile. It was the longest time before he picked up.

—Jasper! It’s me. What’s going on? Can I come back to the flat yet?

—Wouldn’t be wise, said Jasper. There are people looking for you.

—I looked at the paper. I looked at all the papers. Where’s our story?

—Our story is nowhere, he said. Our story is dead. Petra killed it.

—What do you mean?

—Petra claims she changed her mind, said Jasper. She called me from the office late on Saturday night. Said she no longer believed the story was in the national interest. Bless. As if Petra’s ever given a fuck about the national interest.

—Look Jasper I haven’t got much time my money’s going to run out. If Petra doesn’t want to go with the story then you’ll just have to do it yourself.

—No, said Jasper. I’ll tell you what’s happened. The paper’s sold out to the government and Petra’s sold out to the paper. Now the government has your videotape and the paper has first dibs on the next big Downing Street leak. God knows what deal Petra’s cut for herself. I’m guessing she’ll come back from maternity leave as deputy editor. Everyone’s a winner. Oh. Except you. And me. And the British public of course. You do have to hand it to Petra Sutherland. She’s fucked an entire nation.

I couldn’t get my head round it. I leaned back on the wall of the telephone kiosk and watched the glass melting where my boy was pressing his nose against it.

—Are you still there? said Jasper.

—Yeah. What happens now?

—Oh, said Jasper. Now the fun really starts. I get sacked from the paper and blacklisted as a drug addict. No one else hires me. Petra moves to one of her family’s charming homes in Primrose Hill and has my baby and gets a court order barring me from seeing it. I fester. My cocaine dealer and my local off-licence garner a modest living from me for a short period of time. One day my neighbours ring up to complain about a nasty smell and the fire brigade turn up to remove my rotting corpse from the flat.

—You’re high aren’t you?

—Very very high sweetness, said Jasper. It’s 8 in the morning and good old Jasper Black is high as a motherfucking kite.

—I need to come back Jasper. I need my bank card and my clothes. Who are these people looking for me? What do they want?

—Nothing good, said Jasper. But maybe nothing too bad either. You’re small fry. They’ll probably just threaten you. Tell you what’ll happen if you try taking the story elsewhere. If it’s any consolation anything they can do to you and me is small beer compared to what they’ll do to Terence Butcher. They’ll chain that poor fucker down a well so deep you could throw a packet of fags down it and he still wouldn’t have anything to smoke till Christmas.

—Listen Jasper we’ve got to be quick this phone’s flashing at me. What are you going to do now?

Jasper laughed down the phone. It was a sharp and vicious laugh and it hurt my ear through the receiver.

—I’m going to do what any self-respecting Englishman would do in my position, he said. I’m going to blow up the Houses of Parliament.

—Please Jasper this isn’t the time to muck about I—

—Want to watch? he said. Meet me in an hour on Parliament Square. Do you want me to bring your—

The phone went dead.

* * *

I didn’t have the bus fare so I walked down to Westminster. It was only a couple of miles. It was raining a bit and the sky was so black and heavy it gave you a headache but it felt good to be going somewhere finally. I couldn’t wait to see Jasper even if he was off his rocker. My boy was feeling better too. When we walked through Trafalgar Square he laughed and chased the pigeons and singed their wet tail feathers with his hands.

Jasper got to Parliament Square before me. He was sitting on a pink suitcase under the big black statue of Churchill. There was a little dry patch there sheltered from the drizzle. I ran across the road and Jasper stood up and we hugged for a long time while the traffic roared past on the wet roads. He smelled of whisky. After a bit we stepped apart and looked at each other. Jasper got out his Camel Lights and we both lit one and I stood there smoking with my hand shaking like a sewing machine.

—You look like fucking shit, said Jasper.

—Thanks.

—So, said Jasper. Petra stitched us up.

I shrugged.

—Yeah.

—I’ll miss her you know, said Jasper. I’m surprised. What with me being heartless and everything.

—You’ve always been kind to me.

—Not always, said Jasper. I’ve always fancied you but don’t mistake it for kindness.

I smiled at him.

—I didn’t bring your bank card, he said.

—Oh.

—I brought you my bank card instead, he said. I won’t be needing
it. Pin number’s scratched into the back of it. It’s good for a few grand. Not a king’s ransom but it should get you back on your feet.

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.