Incendiary

  I looked down on the whole of London spread out under me that morning and I knew it was time for me to go back down into it.

  * * *

  I was walking with a crutch. A grubby aluminium stick with a green plastic handle. Clack clack it went on the pavement. Its soft rubber foot was all worn away. It was just the bare metal end clacking down between the old black blobs of chewing gum and the thin white streaks of pigeon shit. I hoped it wouldn’t slip because then I would slip too. Clack clack clack I walked away from Guy’s Hospital along St. Thomas Street.

  My body was mostly healed. I was carrying Mr. Rabbit and 2 bottles of Valium in an Asda carrier bag. It was not warm and not cold. There was no wind and the sky was very low and grey but it wasn’t raining. It was like they’d completely run out of weather. I was wearing my white Adidas trackie bottoms. White Pumas. Red Nike T-shirt with the big white tick. I could of been anyone. It was a great comfort. Jasper brought the clothes to me in hospital. I’d asked him to. I’d given him the spare keys to the flat. Clack clack clack.

  It was an effort walking with the crutch. I was tired and out of breath. I’d lain 8 weeks in bed after all. I sat down at a bus stop on an orange plastic bench. It made me dizzy to watch the people rushing all around. I took deep breaths. I just watched my Pumas on the pavement. My crutch had a label on it held on with Sellotape. PROPERTY OF GUY’S HOSPITAL it said NOT TO BE TAKEN AWAY. Well I peeled that label off. I was on my way to see a copper after all and there was no point in taking chances. I scrunched the label into a ball. I looked around for a rubbish bin but there weren’t any. They’d taken them away in case anyone tampered with them. There were no rubbish bins any more and no Muslims with jobs. We were all much safer.

  I dropped the scrunched-up label on the ground. There was an old dear on the bench next to me. Like I say it wasn’t cold but she was wearing a big fur coat. The kind of coat that might of cost 10 thousand quid at Harrods or a fiver at Barnardo’s you couldn’t tell. She hissed like a cat when I dropped that ball of paper and Sellotape. She had purple lippie on.

  —Do you mind? she said.

  I looked at her and I saw just what she would look like with her guts blown out and her cheeks burned off till you could see her false teeth clattering loose in her gob. Clack clack clack.

  —Sorry.

  I picked up my litter and I put it in my pocket.

  —Good girl, said the old dear. That’s the spirit. Are you waiting for the 705?

  —I don’t know. I’m just resting. I’m ever so tired.

  —Where are you trying to get to love? said the old dear.

  —Scotland Yard. I’m going to see a copper.

  —Oooh dear, she said. I hope you’re not in some kind of trouble.

  She shuffled away from me on the bench like she was afraid of catching something off me.

  —No. I’m not in trouble. I’m going to see a copper who works there. He used to be my husband’s super. Because my husband and my boy are both dead you see they were blown up and all they found was their teeth and Mr. Rabbit. Would you like to see Mr. Rabbit?

  —No thanks darling, said the old dear. You’re alright.

  The old dear looked at me for the longest time without saying anything. The traffic roared past us. She had these small thick glasses on and her eyes looked like cheap sweets behind them.

  —Well love, she said. If you’re going to Scotland Yard then you need the 705. Take it till just after Waterloo then you might as well walk over Westminster Bridge. After that you want Victoria Street don’t you.

  She didn’t say anything else. We waited for the 705 and when it came I sat near the front and the old dear went upstairs. Even though she was old and there were lots of empty seats on the bottom deck. I was crying a bit. I put my hand inside the carrier bag where I could stroke Mr. Rabbit in secret while London went past outside the bus windows keeping itself busy. I got off too early. I mean you always do on a new bus don’t you? I got off at Waterloo Station and I should of waited until a couple of stops later. At Waterloo Station was where it happened. I was getting off the bus all wobbly on my crutch and I saw my boy.

  My boy was holding some woman’s hand. The woman was taking him into a newsagent’s. It was my boy alright. It was his beautiful ginger hair and his cheeky little smile. He was pointing at something in the window of the shop and you could tell he really wanted it. It was Skips probably. He always did love Skips I mean kids do don’t they? They fizzibly melt you see Osama. In one second all the emptiness in me was gone. They’d made a mistake. My boy was alive. It was so wonderful.

  I went straight across the road with my crutch. A cab nearly killed me. The cabbie screeched his brakes and he called me a stupid slapper. I couldn’t of cared less. I went in the newsagent’s and I saw my boy straight away. He had his back to me. He was on his own looking up at the drinks fridge. The woman was at the counter buying ciggies. I went straight up to my boy. I dropped my crutch and the carrier bag. I turned my boy round I kissed his face. I picked him up and I gave him a huge hug and I buried my face in his neck.

  —Oh my boy my brave boy my lovely boy.

  My boy was shouting and kicking against me. He didn’t smell right either. I suppose it wasn’t surprising. The woman probably hadn’t been feeding him right. My boy always was fussy you see. He would eat his vegetables but you had to cook them just right for him. Did I say that already?

  —Oh you poor brave boy. Mummy’s here now. Mummy’s back and she’ll never let you out of her sight again. I bet you miss Mr. Rabbit so much well he’s been missing you too. We came all the way across town to find you. Me and Mr. Rabbit. We did have an adventure! We took the 705!

  Then it all went wrong. My boy got pulled away from me. One second he was in my arms and the next second the woman was holding him. She was screaming and screaming at me. My boy was screaming too. Both of them were bright red and screaming.

  —Give me back my boy.

  —E int your boy, screamed the woman. Git chore ands off im yer crazy car.

  —Give me back my boy. Hand him over.

  —But e int yours! Carn choo see? Look at im fer Christ’s sake! Ave a good look at im!

  The boy was sobbing. The woman was holding him right up to my face and shaking him like my eyes couldn’t focus on him if he wasn’t moving.

  —See? she said. E’s mine. Ain cher Conan?

  There was snot running down the boy’s face. His nose didn’t look right and his eyes were the wrong colour. Suddenly he wasn’t my boy any more. Suddenly he didn’t look anything like my boy. I couldn’t work it out.

  —Oh god. Oh god oh god I don’t know what I’m doing I’m so sorry.

  Then the woman started ranting at me with the boy sobbing in her arms. She just went on and on. I could see her mouth moving but the words didn’t make any sense. I was hypnotised just watching that mouth moving moving moving in her angry red face. She looked like one of those live crabs on the market with their pincers done up in rubber bands and their mean little mouths moving moving moving.

  I turned round and I picked up my crutch and my carrier bag and I walked out of the newsagent’s clack clack clack with the woman still screaming effing blue murder behind me.

  You’d think it would of got better after that but actually it got worse. There I was walking down Lower Marsh Street with my heart thumping and now my poor sweet boy was everywhere. I saw him getting onto buses and going into shops and walking away down the street. It was always the back of him I saw and there was always some woman holding his hand taking him away from me. He was every little boy in London.

  I don’t know how you did it Osama but you didn’t just blow my boy to bits you put him back together again a million times. Every single minute ever afterwards I watched my boy walk off with Sloaney mums and traffic wardens and office girls out on a shopping break and I never thought any of them looked like they could of made his tea the way he liked it. Choc-chip ice cream! I wanted to shout at them. I want
ed to tell them he loved choc-chip almost as much as he loved his dad but there’s no point telling people things when you’re stark raving mad is there? They won’t listen.

  I walked across Westminster Bridge watching the empty river sliding past underneath. I shivered. It should of been nice and quiet on the bridge because it was closed to traffic but there were 2 helicopters hovering low above the Houses of Parliament. The noise was horrible. They were shocking vicious things those helicopters. They were like fat black wasps looking outwards through their glittering eyes.

  There were 2 Japanese walking in front of me. Their T-shirts said 23 BECKHAM and OXFORD UNIVERSITY. They started to video the helicopters. A copper walked up to them very fast. You could tell he was trained to walk not run. He made the Japanese stop filming and he took their cameras off them. The Japanese were going nuts and mouthing off at the copper in foreign. The copper just stood there very patient and calm. He was wearing a thick bulletproof vest and a thin black moustache. I walked past the 3 of them. The copper smelled of nylon. He had a radio clipped to his jacket and there was a voice coming out of it like a bossy child shouting through a hurricane. TANGO TANGO NINER it said PROCEED TO SECTOR SIERRA 6 AND STAND BY. It did make me nervous.

  Parliament Square was closed to traffic too so I walked straight down the middle of the road past Churchill and Smuts and all those other bronze chaps. The traffic started again on Victoria Street. I didn’t have far to go. New Scotland Yard had a row of coppers stopping anyone from parking or loitering in front of all the metal and glass and that silly spinning triangle on a stick that always looks like it could do with a clean. One of the coppers tried to move me on when I stopped there but I wouldn’t leave.

  —I’m here to see Superintendent Terence Butcher.

  —I’m sure you are madam, said the copper. Now move along please if you would.

  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.

&
nbsp; 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.