Ball of Confusion

by Ian Black

  Hazma peers across the side, into dark murky water and asks, “Can fish see in the dark?”

  “Not as good as in the day… another reason we fish at night. We use every advantage to win the battle.”

  As the boat reaches the bank Uncle slides in the oars; resting them over his lap. Bilal pats his son’s head and with a proud fatherly smile steps ashore.

  Hazma watches his father trudge back towards the apartment, as Uncle suggests, “Would you like to row, Hazma?”

  “Yeah!” yelps a delighted boy.

  “I’ll row from the bank; then you have a go. Watch how I do it.”

  Hazma observes attentively, as Uncle rows from the shore. In the quiet of night, the water ripples softly as they glide.

  On reaching middle river Uncle stops, and points towards the dark looming exterior of their apartment block. “Look!” he exclaims. The inside light of Bilal’s apartment illuminates his silhouette in the window. “Your papa is finding our food.”

  Hazma grins; as the sound of rolling thunder echoes from far away. The uncle looks up surprised, and appears confused, as the sky is clear.

  “What is it, Uncle?” asks the boy.

  “Just thunder…”

  “Then why do you look confused?”

  He explains, “Thunder normally precedes rain… and rain is held in the clouds… but there aren’t any clouds!”

  Hazma throws his head back and gawps up. There’s no moon tonight, but an abundance of bright twinkling stars fill the sky.

  The uncle is also confused by the unusual sound of the thunder. Rather than crashing once or twice, in bursts, the noise is continuous; more of a rumbling drone, which appears to be escalating louder, and drawing nearer.

  Bilal’s head pops out from the window, he’s heard the rumbling too, and looks up towards this unusual unfathomable sound.

  Then, as all three crane their necks skywards… at 2.38am on the 17th January 1991… they witness first-hand, the first bombings of Baghdad (during Operation Desert Storm, Gulf War 1).

  Rapidly, the sky resembles an incredible disorganised firework display. Light-streamed flight paths of despatched tracer rounds, rockets and missiles launch skywards; with peppered explosions of anti-aircraft fire; creating a jaw-dropping frightening vista as missiles are fired at enemy aircraft invading Iraq. Tumultuous explosions pound, weapons sound: booms, cracks, screams; sirens wail, in a scene which has transformed in seconds, from sane serenity… to insane bedlam.

  Bilal screams from the window, “GET HIM IN QUICKLY!”

  His brother’s already rowing, furiously towards the shore; while Hazma marvels in awe, at the sky’s fiery reflections shimmering, dancing, over the dark water’s surface. He strains his neck back, looking high into the sky, mesmerised totally by extraordinary light and noise; naively oblivious, to its lethal consequence.

  In the distance, on the outskirts of Baghdad, the first enemy bombs whistle as they drop; but then the whistling stops… as they hit the ground and explode! Obliterating everything they find. Smoke plumes mushroom skywards, flames and flashes fly, adding noise, colour and action, to a fearsome fiery sky.

  Hazma’s mother, woken by the noise, joins Bilal in the window and screams in horror, “HAZMA!” Holding both hands to her cheeks, “ROW, ROW, ROW!”

  Uncle rows like he’s never rowed before.

  Seeing his parents screaming, and his frantic uncle’s face, Hazma becomes instantly scared, “What’s happening, Uncle?”

  But in the pandemonium Uncle can’t hear, he’s rowing for their lives. Hazma looks skyward; as a payload of missiles approach their destination. Fired from warships afar, they flash and flicker like pretty little shooting stars, until they land ugly and explode, and as each missile lands the explosions draw nearer. Like a giant’s footsteps, their deafening sounds become louder. The smell of smoke, cordite and fear fills the air.

  As the boat nears the shore, Uncle retracts the oars; while Hazma watches the sky, and picks out the flight path of a single glowing missile, descending their way.

  His mother wails, and father yells incessantly, “HURRY, HURRY!”

  The nose of the boat thumps into the bank; Uncle stands and barks, “COME NOW!”

  But Hazma doesn’t hear or move, he can’t, his body’s frozen with fright as he gawps at the screaming missile. Impact imminent, Uncle sees it too, and lunges to shield the boy.

  His parents’ screams are drowned out, absorbed by deafening roars; the rocket’s forceful burners, propelling it, into the apartment building THAT EXPLODES, with an awesome cacophony of noise. The blast discharges flack, shrapnel and obliterated rubble; whizzing, whistling, scattering, ricocheting, in all directions. The shock sends shudders juddering through the ground; causing the river to bulge and billow; stirring a sudden surging swell that crashes against the riverbank, tossing the vessel viciously into the air. The craft twists, over onto its side and dumps its passengers into the river.

  A second surge flips the boat up, tipping it over, right over, the bow crashes upside-down onto the water, straight onto Uncle’s head…

  He slumps face down in the water.

  The cool waters shock Hazma into breathlessness, and panic takes hold. Scared, confused, he’s never been taught to swim, the six-year-old holds his breath, flailing wildly with arms and legs; just about keeping afloat. Bobbing and spinning, smack-bang in the middle of a war zone, the dead centre; Hazma’s wide petrified eyes see it all.

  His body tires quickly. The flailing arms evolve into a kind of instinctive weak doggy paddle, pathetic in choppy waters; so each time Hazma sinks, he kicks and paddles harder, bobs himself back up, and between each frantic breath at the top of his bob yells, “Help!”

  But in the chaos of war… no one hears.

  The plot of land, where the family home once stood, is an expansive bomb crater. The building decimated; razed to the ground. Only rubble remains.

  Bobbing up on a swell, Hazma thrusts out an arm, high into the air, and attempts to yelp, “Hel—” but his weak cry never reaches the P. His word becomes a glug as he gulps a gob full of river on his way back down, towards the depths.

  On the shore, while war rages around him, one of the neighbouring old toothless bearded men stands alone, looking down into the crater… A solitary sign of life amongst so much dealt-down death and destruction. He sobs… shattered, grief stricken absolutely at the pandemonium of terror surrounding him. War-torn woe weeps from every crack and crevice on his carnage crippled face.

  He turns to face the river… slumps broken to his knees… clasps his palms together tightly… and prays.

  •

  Chapter: 7

  The War – in Surround Sound

  The classic Californian tune “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” blasts out from the optional-extra bouncing Bose speakers inside William Jones’s luxury Mercedes car. He’s an eminent physician, performing at the top of his game, enjoying life; as he whistles along cheerily, manoeuvring his large saloon into a right turn at the lights on Sunset Boulevard, entering the affluent, exclusive residential district of Bel Air, .

  Hearing his mobile phone ring, he uses volume control buttons on his multifunctional steering wheel (another optional extra) to turn the music down, then glances at the caller ID on his Motorola Flip, which reads Wife. An immediate smile forms upon his thirty-five-year-old face, and he greets his wife by spouting a self-modified nursery rhyme, “Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does Millennium grow?”

  A giggling Mary replies, “Millennium grows very well thank you… but she’d be a lot happier if her daddy were home!”

  William accelerates his Mercedes up the hilly street, lined both sides with breathtaking multi-millionaires’ mansions, and replies, “Two minutes, honey!”

  “Okie-dokie!” she hangs up.

  He cranks up the volume and bellows out the harmonious chorus, “Wouldn’t it be nice…”

  Meanwhile in the expansive, expensive designer kitchen of their extravagant
home, Mary Jones places the cordless phone onto a polished granite work surface and prepares to serve their evening meal. She lays out three white gold-leaf-edged china dinner plates, then while reaching for the cutlery drawer catches a glimpse of her elegant self in the full-length bevelled mirror. After a brief inspection, she’s satisfied, and with a nonchalant toss of the head flicks her beautifully conditioned long straightened hair across her shoulder, while reaching for the knives and forks; as the kitchen door bursts open.

  “When’s Dad home?” blurts vivacious six-year-old Millie.

  “Dad’s car should be pulling onto the drive right about now,” she replies. Mary adores her only child’s boundless enthusiasm; although at times she does find her energy levels exhausting, but wouldn’t change a thing about her daughter, personality or looks. Millie has that enviable knack of being and looking cute, and today’s no exception: in a scruffy baggy tracksuit, massive fluffy animal bootie slippers, round reading glasses and hair up in pigtails. The girl sprints into the hall and slides along the marble floor until grinding to a halt at the large solid-oak front door; popping up onto tiptoes she can just about reach the handle, and pulls the door open.

  “Daddy!” she squeals, bounding into the front garden; nearly tripping over the long rabbit ears of her slippers.

  Her father draws the Mercedes to a halt on a crunching gravel driveway; huge electric wrought iron gates close automatically behind him. As he opens the door warning chimes ping continually as William steps out, into the loving arms of his daughter.

  “Hi, Daddy!” she chirps, giving him a huge bear-hug around his thighs; completely restricting his leg movement.

  “Hi, honey.” He lifts her up, pecking a kiss on the end of her nose.

  Millie is very aware, and noticing the door chimes still pinging, reaches over her father’s shoulder, pushes the door closed and enquires, “Good day at hospital, Dad?”

  “Oh yeah, big babies, little babies, black, white, brown, yellow babies… and today, I encountered… adult babies!” he smiles.

  “Adult babies?” she asks.

  “Some grown-ups I work with act like babies,” he chuckles. “How was school?”

  “Err…” She pauses for a moment, then announces excitedly, “I got my school report today.”

  William places her down on the floor, looks into her eyes and with exaggerated interest asks, “You got your school report today?”

  “Yep sir’ee Bob!” she squeals (a phrase stolen from her father’s vocabulary).

  “Well…” he pauses, deliberately building tension, “after I’ve read your report… will I be happy?” another pause, “or will I have to… hang you from the door?”

  Millie screams gleefully, turns, throws her arms in the air and flees towards her mother, who’s standing smiling in the doorway. “Mom, Mom, Dad’s going to hang me from the door!” The young girl runs straight past Mary into the house.

  William greets his wife, kissing her lovingly on the lips, and asks, “Good news from school then?”

  Mary half smiles with a shrug and replies, “Mixed.”

  William screws his eyebrows looking confused, so Mary explains, “The principle rang…”

  “And?”

  “She beat-up the playground bully again! He was picking on her friends.”

  William smiles, “That’s my girl,” then asks, “What about her report?”

  “Well,” she shrugs coyly.

  “How’d she do?”

  Mary’s chest puffs-up visibly with pride, and her face beams back; she’s been desperate to tell him, after reading and re-reading her daughter’s school report so many times that she knows the words by heart, “Well… according to our daughter’s school report… Millennium Jones is officially a very intelligent little girl… A caring, confident, delightful child, who continually impresses with her attitude towards her studies, her teachers and peers…” Mary can’t stop grinning. “And apparently… her parents should be extremely proud!”

  William nods his approval, “That’s great!” Then after a pause asks, “Did it actually say… her parents should be extremely proud?”

  “Err… no,” smiles Mary, “but it should have… because we are!”

  “Yep sir’ee Bob!” agrees the equally proud father, as they enter the house and close the door behind them.

  •

  Later that evening William sits comfortably in his large leather electrically reclining armchair, watching TV in the sumptuous splendour of his swanky panoramic cinema room, while Millie, now wearing her pyjamas and dressing gown, hangs suspended from the top edge of the cinema room door, hanging on by her fingertips, arms extended to their full, like a monkey, with tiny legs flailing side to side.

  William has placed her there; it’s a ritual bit of fun/pretend-punishment (which he secretly knows she enjoys).

  She’s just about managing to cling on, with her face and nose squashed against the door, and squeals excitedly, “I won’t fall you know!”

  Like any father, he enjoys teasing his daughter. He gets up, moves behind Millie, and with both hands tickles her ribcage lightly. She giggles, and as he increases tickle-intensity her legs flail harder, she squeals and laughs louder, but once it becomes unbearable she can’t retain her grip; Millie’s fingers slide backwards, across the door’s top edge, until she can’t hold on, and falls back away from the door… into the safe secure arms of her father.

  He cuddles her tightly and with a whisper reassures, “I’ll always catch you when you fall!”

  William carries Millie back to his armchair, plonks her on his lap and gently strokes her hair, while reaching for the TV remote. It’s nearly 6pm, traditionally Millie’s bedtime. When Evening News hits the screen for Dad, it’s Millie’s prompt to hit the stairs for bed.

  He congratulates his daughter, “That really was an excellent report, Millie… Well done!”

  “Thanks, Dad,” she replies, chuffed.

  “That’s my girl… Keep soaking up that learning, honey. Your brain is like a sponge; keep feeding it and you’ll become more and more knowledgeable every day.” He pecks a kiss onto her cheek. “You make me real proud… Yep Siree Bob!”

  Mary enters the cinema room carrying a tray of milk and cookies, and reminds her daughter, “Nearly bedtime, Millie.” “I know,” she replies pertly. The girl gets slightly annoyed every night when her mother reminds her it’s nearly bedtime every night. So in return Millie cheekily reminds her mother every night of the agreed bedtime terms, “After the news comes on for Dad.”

  “Watch your lip, girl!” scolds Mary, placing the tray on a side table, before sinking into a matching reclining chair adjacent to her husband’s. As Millie drinks her milk, Mary turns to William, and with a look of concern on her face enquires, “Has it begun?”

  William sighs and replies, “I don’t know yet, but it’s imminent… I’ve heard Bush has said the deadline has come and gone, and that the Iraqi’s are living on borrowed time.”

  “Oh dear!” Mary can’t disguise her disappointment.

  “What’s the matter, Mom?” asks Millie.

  “It looks like we’re going to war.” Mary replies.

  Millie looks concerned, “We’re going to war?”

  William joins in, “No, not us, honey, our country. The US is going to war with Iraq.”

  “Why?” she asks.

  “Well…” he explains, “Iraq invaded a neighbouring country next door to it called Kuwait… Our President, George Bush, told the Iraqi President, Saddam Hussein, to get out of there and give it back… but he won’t.”

  “What does invaded mean?”

  “Taking by force… it’s like our next door neighbour coming in here, beating us up, kicking us out into the street, taking our house, and refusing to give it back.”

  Millie grasps the analogy immediately, and asks, “If our neighbours did take our house… what would you do, Dad?”

  Without a second thought he replies, “Well, you know that base
ball bat in the garage…”

  “William!” Mary cuts him short, “She’s only six!”

  “I know, I’m sorry…” he shrugs, “but a man’s home is his castle.”

  Millie questions, “So will the Kuwait men fight the Iraq men?”

  “They’re not strong enough, honey.” William explains, “Iraq is a much larger, stronger, oppressing nation with more troops and weapons… Kuwait is a very small country that can’t defend itself… which is why America and other nations around the world are offering to help them.”

  Millie catches on quick, “So we’re attacking them back.”

  “Correct!” William nods. “An eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth.”

  “What does that mean?” she enquires.

  Mary pipes in before he can answer, “It’s a stupid old saying… It means if someone scratches your eye out or knocks out your tooth, that you must do the same back… to get your revenge.” William nods, “That’s right!”

  Mary snaps back, “That’s not right, William!” her face frowning, “is it?”

  He knows he’s struck a nerve, so chooses his reply cautiously, “Well…”

  But his wife interrupts, “Millie, if everybody in the world decided to follow that logic, do you know what would happen?”

  Millie shakes her head.

  Mary answers, exasperated, “Nobody would be able to see or eat… because they’d have no eyes or teeth left! A great man called Ghandi once said, “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind!” But people like your dad don’t listen!” She sneers at him. “What a stupid thing to teach a child!”

  Under pressure, William doesn’t know how best to respond. He can either answer honestly, or tactically to keep the peace with his wife. Millie keeps looking at both parents’ faces, switching her gaze continually from one to the other, intrigued, excited to see who’ll speak next, and who will win.

  There’s a moment’s awkward silence, before the father admits,