Soldier N: Gambian Bluff

by David Monnery

  He went back to his room, stepping over the unhinged door and onto a floor covered with his personal possessions. He left them where they were, and stood at the window for a moment, staring out at the row of huge palms growing out of the corrugated sea, and the twin minarets of Banjul’s Great Mosque rising behind them against the yellowing sky.

  If they were after him, he thought, then they would also be after Jobo Camara. Always assuming that this was about the dead man on the Denton Bridge, and not the beginning of some pogrom against all the whites in Banjul.

  The latter was not very likely. He would have to warn Jobo, and that meant getting out of the hotel.

  He edged his way carefully down the three flights of stairs which led to the last bend above the lobby. The hotel seemed even emptier than the day before, which he supposed was hardly surprising. It was a favourite of Gambian businessmen, and Gambian business was presumably at a complete standstill. The businessmen would all be at home, waiting for the smoke to clear.

  For a fleeting second McGrath felt the attraction of being at home himself, feet up in the music room, eyes closed, Bach filling the air. The moment passed. Even at the age of thirty-nine, he enjoyed this sort of thing too much.

  He inched an eye round the corner of the wall. Two Field Force men, both carrying Kalashnikovs in their laps, were sitting on either side of the door which led out to the terrace and street.

  McGrath went back up to the first floor, along to the back of the building, and down the fire-escape stairs. He carefully opened the door to the yard outside, but more out of habit than from any expectation of meeting anyone. The Field Force men were waiting for him to come back to the hotel, not trying to stop him leaving it.

  The Ministry of Development jeep was still sitting where he had left it, temptingly available, but McGrath swiftly but reluctantly came to the realization that he would be a trifle conspicuous driving it round the streets of Banjul. It would take only ten minutes to walk to Jobo’s compound, and there was still enough light left to see where he was going.

  He vaulted the wall separating the yard from Otto Road and started down it, keeping to the centre of the road, his eyes constantly searching the shadows on either side. After a moment’s thought he took the Browning out from its holster and carried it openly in his hand – this was neither the time nor the place for false modesty. ‘How can you tell me you are lonely?’ he started to sing. ‘Let me take you through the streets of Banjul … I will show you something that will make you change your mind …’

  Ralph McTell, eat your heart out, he thought.

  He got several strange looks, and one local even burst out laughing at the sight, shouting ‘mad dogs and Englishmen’ at him several times, despite the obvious lack of a midday sun. But no one tried to arrest him, mug him, or in any way interfere with his passage through the darkening city.

  Jobo’s compound in Anglesea Street seemed unusually full of light, though his knock on the gate seemed to diminish the illuminations somewhat. ‘It’s McGrath,’ he shouted, hearing whispering and footsteps.

  The gate opened, and the face of Jobo’s uncle appeared.

  ‘What you want?’ he asked.

  McGrath noticed that the man was wearing his Field Force uniform again, and hoped he had not walked out of one trap and into another. ‘I’ve come to warn Jobo that the rebels may be coming for him,’ he said, keeping the Browning behind his back.

  ‘They have already come,’ Mansa Camara said. ‘Come inside.’

  McGrath followed him across the compound yard, and into a large room on the ground floor of the colonial-period house which comprised the principal living quarters. Inside he found Jobo, smiling cheerfully despite the fact that he was still partly immobilized by his wound, and eight men in Field Force uniform. On closer inspection it became apparent that two of them were less than happy at being there.

  ‘They came to arrest me,’ Jobo explained, ‘so we arrested them.’

  ‘We have decided it is time to begin fighting back,’ his uncle added. ‘We are not sure what we can do, but we feel we want to do something.’

  ‘Mr McGrath will know what is happening,’ Jobo suggested.

  Mansa raised a quizzical eye.

  ‘The Senegalese will be in Banjul tomorrow,’ McGrath told him.

  ‘Then perhaps we can offer them some assistance,’ Mansa said.

  ‘They reckon another one’s going to die tonight,’ Wynwood said quietly. He and Stanley were halfway through their second pints in the base canteen they shared with the Armagh section of 14th Intelligence Company.

  ‘Oh yeah. So how many’s that?’ Stanley asked, his thick Brummie accent offering an interesting counterpoint to Wynwood’s soft Welsh lilt.

  ‘He’ll be number seven. Langan reckons it’ll be a hot night in Belfast, what with that and our business this morning.’

  ‘Probably. I suppose they’re saying we gunned down four young innocents …’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I suppose they were all on their way to a Mr Balaclava contest.’

  Wynwood grunted. ‘Probably. But … I don’t know, Stanley … don’t it make you wonder a bit, all these men willing to starve themselves to death. I mean, the TV’s always calling the IRA a bunch of cowards, but from what I can see … well, they may be a bunch of psychos but they’re not cowards.’

  Stanley shrugged. ‘My mother’s got a martyr complex,’ he said. ‘Hard to imagine her on a hunger strike, though,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘They’d have to surgically separate her and the fridge.’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘What do you want me to say? That I admire the bastards? I think they’re idiots. What are they dying for – so that Northern Ireland can be run by Catholic shitheads rather than Protestant shitheads? A, it won’t happen. B, it wouldn’t make any difference if it did. And C, they should realize what’s important in life, like beer and women.’

  ‘And. football,’ Wynwood volunteered.

  ‘Exactly,’ Stanley beamed. ‘Now you’re getting the hang of it. I’m sure going on hunger strike is a turn-on for all the Provo groupies, but actually dying seems a bit over the top.’ He drained his glass and reached out a hand for Wynwood’s. ‘Same again?’ he asked, somewhat unnecessarily.

  Wynwood watched the ginger-haired Brummie walk up to the bar, and wondered if Stanley could be as straightforward as he seemed. There was certainly no indication to the contrary. Wynwood sighed. He liked the man, but he would not have wanted to be like him, even if he could. Beer, women and football – rugby football, that is – were necessities of life all right, but then so were eating and crapping. And when it came to what he did with his life, Wynwood liked reasons. Maybe some people could just follow their instincts, do whatever came naturally in any given circumstance and never look back, but he had inherited his father’s tendency to reflect on things past and present, not to mention those in the future. His dad had always displayed a tendency to grow maudlin, usually about two-thirds of the way through his fifth pint, and it was a tendency which, according to his wife, Wynwood shared. But then she was English, and the bloody English thought emotion was something you reserved for gardening.

  Where was I? Wynwood wondered, as Stanley accepted change from the barmaid, and said something which made her laugh. Reasons, that was where. Reasons for four men dead on a nice afternoon, reasons for men starving themselves to death. And not political reasons – he knew all that fucking crap … So what kind of reasons did he want? He was buggered if he knew. And probably buggered if he didn’t.

  He had a sudden desire to see Susan, to hold her and be held by her, to feel her gentleness …

  ‘Great pair of tits on that one,’ Stanley said, gesturing with his head back towards the bar.

  Wynwood burst out laughing.

  The credits for It Ain’t Half Hot Mum were rolling up the screen when his mum asked, ‘Are you happy, Franklin?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, startled.
>
  ‘It’s a simple enough question, boy.’

  ‘Yes, I s’pose. Why do you ask?’

  ‘’Cos you wearing the longest face I ever seen for about three days now.’

  ‘You want me to be laughing and singing when Everton’s in jail?’

  ‘No, of course not. But I don’t think Everton’s problems is all that’s worrying you. Is your soldiering going OK?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s great.’

  ‘And they don’t treat you different cos you’re a coloured?’

  ‘No. Leastways, the system don’t. There’s always a few, but I can deal with that. And they know I’m there ’cos I can do the job. That’s what the SAS is about, mum. Just doing things well.’

  ‘So you tell me. I sometimes wonder what these things are you do so well, but I don’t really want to know. I knows you’re not a mean boy …’

  ‘I’m not a boy, mum.’

  ‘I knows that too. Have you got a girlfriend?’

  Franklin hesitated. ‘Not really.’

  ‘I takes it from that she’s white.’

  Franklin burst out laughing. ‘They’d have burned you as a witch,’ he said.

  ‘Ain’t there no black girls in Hereford?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not really. It’s a white town, through and through.’

  ‘So what she like? What’s her name?’ his mother wanted to know.

  ‘Miriam. She’s a student teacher. She … What else do you want to know?’

  ‘I want to know why she’s after a black man.’

  Franklin told himself to take a deep breath and count to ten. ‘Maybe she’s after me,’ he said eventually. ‘Maybe she’s not as hung up on colour as some people.’

  ‘Maybe,’ his mum conceded. ‘But it ain’t common. And the ones like to think they colour-blind is often the ones using it to make themselves feel special.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s like that.’

  ‘You don’t think?

  ‘I’ve only been out with her once.’

  ‘OK, I say no more. You do what you want. You always did … no, I don’t mean you selfish – you not – I just mean you always like to find things out for yourself.’ She smiled at him. ‘So I still don’t know why you so miserable.’

  ‘I’m not. Not really.’

  ‘There’s an awful lot of “not reallys” coming out your mouth this evening.’

  ‘Brixton’s depressing.’

  ‘Especially for us who have to live here.’

  ‘I know. I lived here, remember. The whole country feels depressing, mum … I … I don’t know. And anyway,’ he said, looking at his watch, ‘I got to get to this meeting Barrett arranged.’ As he got to his feet there was a knock on the front door. ‘Expecting anyone?’ he asked her. She shook her head.

  It was Everton.

  ‘They released me,’ he said eventually, after managing to free himself from his mother’s embrace. ‘They’re dropping the charges.’ He looked at Franklin, and it was not a look of gratitude. ‘You pulled some strings, didn’t you, bro?’ he said.

  ‘No.’ Unless simply showing up in uniform had been enough. ‘Didn’t they tell you why you were being released?’

  ‘They said it was insufficient evidence, but they didn’t think that the day before. The magistrates didn’t think that. And I was the only one released. You know how that gonna look, bro?’

  ‘You’s out and that’s the main thing, Everton,’ his mother said.

  He ignored her. ‘You know?’ he asked Franklin again.

  ‘Yeah, I know. But if I pulled any strings I didn’t know I was doing it. I was just trying to get you out.’

  ‘Like I asked him to,’ his mother added.

  Everton let his anger give way to sorrow. ‘I know you means well,’ he told Franklin, ‘but it just don’t work any more, you looking out for me. Not wearing that uniform.’

  ‘We’re still brothers, Everton.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ He turned away. ‘I need a bath, mum.’

  ‘You knows where it is.’

  Franklin and his mum were left standing at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘I think I’ll go out for a drink,’ he said, taking his jacket down from the hook.

  ‘You don’t want to take what Everton says to heart,’ she said, but without any great conviction.

  ‘I know,’ he said, colluding in the self-deceit. ‘But I could do with a drink.’

  ‘Well you go and have one, then,’ she said with forced cheerfulness. ‘I’ll make Everton some supper.’

  Franklin let himself out and started walking. Maybe he would have a drink later, but his main aim had been just to get out of the house.

  It was still light, and being Friday night the streets were full of people going out, people carrying booze home, music and ganja smoke floating out through the windows, as both smokers and loudspeakers limbered up for the night’s parties. Down on Brixton Road the usual groups were gathered, wondering what would happen, wondering whether this would be one of the nights which exploded. There was no sense of inevitable violence, only of a general willingness to contemplate it if the moment seemed propitious.

  Was this the Britain he had agreed to serve? Franklin walked away from it, up the hill towards Streatham, his long legs eating up the pavement. His mother’s question would not leave him alone. Why was he unhappy?

  It was simple really, but it was not something he could explain to her. He loved being in the SAS, loved nearly every minute of it. He had even loved the selection procedure, and especially enjoyed scoring higher than the other entrants, all of whom had been white, in just about every test.

  He loved mastering all the different skills involved, and facing so many different challenges. Even Northern Ireland had been a real eye-opener when it came to learning things about himself and what he could do. And there had been the jungle training in Borneo, and a month in Hong Kong as part of a training mission.

  He had made friends too. White friends. A lot of the banter might be unconsciously racist, and occasionally it made him want to scream, but on most occasions there was no evil intent in it, and it had always seemed to Franklin – right through school and beyond – that picking fights over dumb or insensitive remarks proved nothing. If blacks took on the challenge and showed the whites that, on an even playing field, they could match them at anything, then the stupid remarks would start to die of their own accord.

  That was why he had joined the white man’s army and the white man’s world. If enough other blacks did the same then maybe people could start forgetting about colour and getting down to the real problems – like poverty, unemployment and homelessness.

  At least, that was how he had explained it to himself. The problem was, he was not sure he believed it any more. He loved his life in the SAS, but it only seemed to work within the cocoon of the Regiment. It did not work in Brixton, or within his family. It was like one of those relationships which could not be brought into the outside world, because the two people had nothing in common outside the love they shared.

  Like him and Miriam probably. He hoped not, but he would hardly be heartbroken if he never saw her again. And every time he went out with a white women there was this voice in his head reminding him how much easier it would be to find a black woman and have black kids and not have to deal with race all his life.

  That was it in a nutshell. He did not want to deal with race. Nor be oppressed by it. It just got in the way of who he was. It was so stupid anyway, just a skin pigment, for fuck’s sake. It should not matter. But it did. In Brixton Police Station he had been a black first, a human being second. Even to Everton, it sometimes seemed like he was a black first, a brother second. Only in the SAS had he felt respected for what he could do. Not for who he was, not yet. But for what he could do.

  He stopped walking, and looked round to see where he had got to. He was at the crown of Brixton Hill, and it was finally getting dark. He no longer wanted a drink.

  When he got h
ome his mum had already gone to bed, and Everton had gone out. But there was a message from his brother on the kitchen table: ‘Man named Major Caskey’ – a phone number followed – ‘wants you to call him back tonight. If you’re gone before I get back – thanks.’

  Franklin reached for the phone.

  Caskey let himself into his top-floor flat in Cathedral Street shortly before eleven. Everything had been arranged for the next day, and he had even had time for a couple of pints in the Slug and Pellet on his way home. Solitary pints: usually you could count on at least half a dozen troopers propping up the Slug’s bar, but tonight there had been nobody. Maybe there had been a party somewhere which no one had invited him to.

  The flat looked no different from usual, yet somehow it seemed a little sadder tonight. In the photograph on the mantelpiece his wife looked a little more accusing, the kids a little more indifferent. He had thought of ringing Liz from the pub, but lately her husband had taken to answering the phone, and even he had to be getting a little suspicious at how many wrong numbers they were getting.

  What a fucking mess. He was glad to be getting away, at least for a few days.

  The Radio Times told him he had fifteen minutes before the test highlights, so he walked into the bedroom and started packing the small blue holdall he always used in such circumstances. It looked a little worn now, but he almost thought of it as a lucky charm.

  Six pairs of underpants, six pairs of socks, six shirts, a spare pair of trousers. Compass, star chart, torch. Etc., etc., etc. Christ, after twenty years he knew the list off by heart.

  The bag packed, he went back to the living room and poured himself a glass of the claret he had been forced to abandon earlier that day. The cricket was late as usual, but wonderfully restful, even in the ludicrous highlights formula. Cricket highlights – what a contradiction in terms! In cricket the moments only made sense in terms of the hours.

  And it had been a bad few hours for England, with the Australians building a sixty-nine-run lead without ever looking more than merely competent. England had cut it to twenty by the close for the loss of only Brearley, which Caskey supposed was something. Throughout the day both sides had seemed in a thoroughly bad mood, and Richie Benaud was suitably disapproving.