by Ian Black
Several hours later, Millie accelerates away from traffic lights, slamming her Mini’s gearstick through the box; jolting the vehicle into kangaroo jumps with every clutch depression and release. She turns to Terry, her cockney cameraman passenger, and states the obvious, “I’m shit with a stick!”
“I can see that,” replies Terry. “Do it smoother. Calm down a bit. Treat it with some TLC. If you stop thrashing it, your car will be happier, you’ll be happier and I won’t get whiplash!”
“I don’t do calm,” she replies. “Not enough time in my life for calm!”
Once in fifth gear, the ride becomes smoother.
“Ah, that’s better,” comments Terry. “Ever been on The Wild Mouse at the fair?”
She replies with an expletive expression and states, “Don’t be so dramatic.”
“I hope it’s not dramatic in this nick!” he replies. “My arse twitches when I film inside.”
“Don’t be soft… George is a nice guy.” Millie reassures him.
“What about the terrorist?” Terry does seem nervous.
She glances across, raises a devilish eyebrow, and in a sinister tone replies, “I haven’t met him… yet!”
•
Both cellmates are lying on their bunks when the same guard returns and announces, “That Yank bird’s here with a cameraman. She’s tidy!”
Enthusiastically George jumps down, whereas Hazma remains on his back, staring up in silence at the sprung underside of top bunk.
“You coming, Haz?”
Hazma continues staring upwards and replies, “She’s American… that is a problem for me.”
George crouches down, and gives him some advice, “Listen, Haz. I’m telling you as a mate… you need to chill out! You know she’s American, I know she’s American, and the guard knows she’s American… So are you coming?”
“Or not?” completes the guard.
George explains, “You’ve helped me, Haz. I know more about life and religion and things from what you’ve told me; things I never knew… And I know you don’t like Americans with the bombs and all that, but Molly’s proper nice, honest, and she just wants to talk to us… She wants to learn from us! About us! So are you coming?”
The guard looks at his watch.
•
The claustrophobic interview room is so small that a table and four chairs practically fill it. Millie sits squashed into a corner on the table’s angle, while Terry stands with his back forced into the opposite corner, balancing a large camera with built-in microphone on his shoulder. As he focuses on Millie he moans, “How am I supposed to get an angle in here? It’s tight as a gnat’s!”
“Stop moaning,” she sighs, taking a notepad from her bag. “A gnat’s what?”
“Nadger!” he confirms.
She smiles.
“Test.” Terry checks sound levels.
She obliges, “Is nadger the official term for a—”
“Levels are good,” he confirms. “And you don’t look too shabby either…” referring to the sharp black trouser suit she’s wearing. “Thoroughly modern Millie,” and confirms, “We’re ready to rock. Just pull those two chairs in either side of you, so you’re nestled in the corner. I’ll get all three of you in shot then.”
The door opens. A guard announces, “George Knight and Hazma Sahar. Where do you want them?”
Terry begins filming. Millie stands, motions to the chairs and replies, “One either side of me please.”
The prisoners file in, followed by the guard. George greets Millie with his hand outstretched, “Hi, Molly.”
“Hi, George,” she cleverly swerves his handshake with a jiggled-finger wave and replies, “it’s Millie,” before turning and holding her hand out to the Iraqi stood next to her with his head down. “Hello, Hazma.”
But he blanks her totally, keeping his head bowed while slumping into his seat.
As Millie and George sit, the guard asks, “Where do you want me?”
“Right next to me!” requests Terry keenly.
With Hazma avoiding all eye contact, Millie greets his cellmate first. “Nice to meet you again, George… and I’m pleased to meet Hazma today,” gesturing towards the Iraqi.
George tries to help her out, “Haz, this is Millie.”
She smiles.
The terrorist stubbornly keeps his head down, so Millie attempts to cajole him, by picking up on something George mentioned previously, but embellishing it somewhat to get straight to the point. “George, last time we met, you mentioned… that, in the way you and Hazma, kill for revenge… you are both the same?”
Hazma lifts his head, snapping, “We are not the same!”
His emphatic response surprises the room, though Millie is secretly pleased by it. Larry always taught her: Quick opening conflict = good news.
Looking embarrassed, George explains, “He’s trying to say…”
The Iraqi bangs his fist on the table, interrupting George, and staring straight into Millie’s eyes, he puts the record straight, “Listen… George is a good man. I respect who he is and what he’s done… but we are not the same!”
Millie glances at the camera. Terry responds with a thumbs-up.
Hazma explains, “George has dealt with his oppressors… He’s had his revenge… I have much work to do.”
Millie has done her homework, and asks, “You mean becau—”
“Let me finish!” Hazma’s anger is stewing, hot, and beginning to steam; his eyes bulge from their sockets as he looks directly into camera and quotes, “I will avenge the oppression of my people until my final dying breath!”
The guard, sensing a darkening mood, leans onto his front foot. Terry zooms in onto the irate prisoner’s face as he continues, “George and I are not the same. He was born to the West, where your people live immoral decadent Godless lives, and fear death… Our people live to moralistic values. We live with God, and embrace death, when avenging acts against our faith!”
Millie has craved this opportunity for years, and though feeling slightly intimidated and nervous, she’s buzzing, and seeks clarification, firing a loaded question, “You say you aspire to die, defending your beliefs… So, is martyrdom, your only salvation?”
“I will die, defending my faith!” he confirms, every word is angry.
George tries to help his friend out, explaining, “Like Saint George and Jesus did, helping their people!”
Hazma concurs, “Your martyrs were brave, moralistic men who fought oppression and died for their beliefs… We do the same and are branded fanatical indoctrinated freaks!” He shakes his head. “We have the right to defend our people!”
Millie debates his point, “But you are comparing yourself to martyrs who died thousands of years ago, this is the twenty-first century. There are sensible, civilized ways to defend your faith. Disputes cannot be settled by martyrdom. Disputes end by negotiation.”
She’s pulled his trigger; Hazma shoots from the seat, forces his face directly into her and yells, “NEGOTIATION! LIKE AMERICANS DO?” He jabs his finger at her face. “If people don’t do what Americans want, you don’t negotiate… YOU OBLITERATE!”
Millie feels spittle on her face.
“SIT DOWN!” orders the guard.
Hazma ignores him, ranting, “The West will pay, again and again. YOU WILL PAY!”
George stands up protectively, “It’s not Millie’s fault!”
Hazma recoils his neck, snarling, “She is America!” and spits in her face.
George flies across the table, and lands a perfect right hook onto Hazma’s cheek, and continues pummelling the Iraqi like a punch bag, as the guard clambers clumsily around the table, and is joined immediately by colleagues who separate the brawling prisoners, protecting Millie at the same time.
Terry continues filming, while being buffeted by flying chairs and barging bodies. During the melee his jolted lens picks up as much footage of the floor and ceiling as it does the altercation, so he shuffles into the doorway and
continues filming while staff quickly get the situation under control and frogmarch both prisoners away along the corridor.
Terry pans the camera to Millie; slumped back in her chair in the corner. Her face wears a shocked expression, and the remnants of Hazma’s splattered spittle. Terry focuses extremely close up onto the white streaks of saliva, strung like snails trails across her silky brown skin.
Millie deliberately holds the pose, staring into the lens; she’s a pro, and intentionally squeezes every last drop of dramatic footage from this traumatic scene, until Terry lifts the camera from his shoulder, places it down on the table, takes a seat, and sighs.
They sit for a while in silence, except for the whirring of a wall fan. Millie wipes a sleeve across her face; then looking down at the phlegm prompts an expression of disgust, as she asks, “Did you get it all?”
“I got knocked about a bit…” he nods, “but we got some really good stuff!” Terry exhales loudly and exclaims, “That was intense!”
She agrees wholeheartedly under her breath, “Yep Siree Bob!”
•
Later that evening George and Hazma lie silently on their bunks; Hazma’s cheek is swollen from the skirmish.
George rolls over, peers down, and in his deep slow voice drawls, “You shouldn’t have spat at her.”
Hazma is immersed in one of his prolonged trances, but George continues anyway, “Why didn’t you just explain your feelings to her, the way you have to me?” Still no response. “You told me about understanding the grey area… but I reckon it’s you who wants it all black and white… black and white the way you see it!”
Hazma rolls his eyeballs across slowly, to make eye contact, but remains silent, so George continues, “I know about your family and all that, but Millie didn’t deserve that.”
George jumps down, holds his hand out to shake and apologises, “I’m sorry about the scrap, mate, but she’s nice… You shouldn’t have spat!”
After a tense pregnant pause, the Iraqi pulls himself up, and positions himself to stand face to face, toe to toe with George, whose hand remains outstretched. Hazma wears his aloof attitude face, with added menace, and though George is offering the olive branch, it appears from both men’s stances, and how they’re staring each other out, that both are prepared for either outcome, however it pans out.
It’s a Mexican standoff… until eventually, Hazma backs off, and turns away mumbling, “I won’t shake your hand.”
George looks hurt, “Why not?”
The Iraqi drags a chair to the window, climbs up, looks out and mumbles, “It’s a ridiculous handshake!”
George has no idea what he means.
Hazma tries to change the subject, bleating, “I’ve got to get out of here,” still staring outside, deliberately avoiding eye contact.
“You keep saying that,” George is annoyed, “but what about Millie? How can you hate a person you’ve just met?”
“It’s inside me… built up from years of pent-up anger.”
George shakes his head, “She’s just trying to understand?”
“She’s American!”
“So what?” George just doesn’t get it, and insists, “Will you look at me when we’re talking?”
Hazma climbs down, drags the chair across, sits down to face him and pleads passionately for understanding, “They killed my parents. That injustice… the bile from that injustice is coiled inside me, like a snake, and as a snake spits its venom, I must release my bile.”
“Millie didn’t kill your parents!” George argues. “And you told me that the British bombed Iraq as well… so why don’t you hate me?”
Hazma contemplates, before replying, “Because…” then stops.
“Because what?”
Hazma’s struggling to find a reply that will make any sense, and knows he can’t, so bows his head and mumbles back the only answer he can find, “Because I know you.”
•
At about the same time in Larry’s office, Millie and Terry stand either side of a seated Larry, facing the large bank of television screens. All three are focussed on the main screen playing Terry’s footage taken earlier. They are at the end of the video, where Terry zoomed in to focus on Millie slumped in the chair, with spit all over her face.
Millie presses the pause button, freeze-framing that final shot, and asks, “Is that good enough news for you, Larry?”
Larry nods his head, “A powerful piece.” Then points at the still shot of her and comments, “I know Terry particularly likes this final shot… It’s like the end to a porn movie.”
Millie looks confused; she doesn’t get the joke. Terry chuckles at the comment.
As the penny drops, Millie grasps the connotation and exclaims, “You’re not funny!” to both smiling men.
Larry gets serious. “But seriously, I like what you’ve got! Well done, both of you… So what’s next?”
Millie is determined with her reply, “I need to get back in there.” Larry nods, and questions, “What will you call the piece?”
She has the answer on the tip of her tongue, “One man’s good is another man’s evil!”
Larry nods again, “I like it… very apt… I like it.”
•
The next day, Millie sits at her desk as Larry approaches and announces, “Bad news, Mills.”
She looks up, “What is?”
“About your VO,” he replies.
“What’s a VO?” “A visiting order…” Larry explains, “to see the prisoners.”
“Why, what’s wrong?”
“I spoke to the governor… He’s got no problem with you interviewing George again, but refuses permission to interview the Iraqi. Says he doesn’t want a repeat of the last drama… No camera either; he says the cons play up when they’re filmed.”
Millie slumps back in her chair, exclaiming, “That’s shit!”
“I know,” agrees Larry, “but you can still milk information from George. Use him. Feed him questions to ask the terrorist, then mix the answers in with back story, plus the footage you already have… it’ll make a powerful one-hour piece.”
Larry’s phone starts ringing, as Millie agrees, “Okay. It’s not just about Hazma though!”
But Larry’s not listening, he’s answering his phone. “Hello!”
Millie watches him, and notes his expression changing, which suggests the call may have been terminated. He greets the caller again, “Hello?” but gets no reply… He’s cut the caller off, with his cheek.
She smiles.
Larry realises, “This piece of shit! I’m going back to Blackberry… What phone do you use?”
She holds hers up, “An old iPhone.”
He slides his latest version across the desk, “Consider yourself upgraded.” and turns away towards his office steps.
Millie asks after him, “You don’t want it?”
“No! Nay! NEVER!” is the resounding reply, as he waddles away, while breaking into song (to the tune of “The Wild Rover”) “No nay never no more, will I use a fucking iPhone… no neverrr no more!”
•
Chapter: 22
The Second Waltz
Several days later, Millie sits alone at an empty table in the open-plan prison visiting room. Most tables are filled with chatting convicts, friends and relatives.
George enters the room, and on seeing Millie his face lights up. He marches across and warmly welcomes her, “Hi, Mill.”
Feeling it rude not to shake hands again, she offers her hand, but surprisingly, he hesitates, and looks a little nervous to accept. Then eventually, after running the procedure through in his mind, he gently grasps her hand with kid gloves, and they shake, normally (something else Hazma has taught him).
He apologises as they sit, “I’m sorry about what happened last time. Everything’s complicated with Haz. He lives in black, white and grey areas.”
She smiles.
George admits, “I never knew about grey areas until I met Haz… but now
he’s explained that I may never understand them… I understand them now!”
She continues smiling, “You make things sound so simple, George.”
“I’ve been called simple, all my life!” he’s slightly embarrassed.
“I didn’t mean that,” she corrects him. “I meant—”
“It’s okay, Mill, I know what you mean.” He explains, “Life is easier for me to understand, because I never have too much going on in my head… Hazma’s different. Since his parents were killed his head’s been full of hate, religion, university, draughts, bomb making, revenge… His brain is full of thoughts, so he’s confused, I understand that!”
Millie nods, “I can understand that too.” She’s enchanted by his innocence.
“When Haz was a boy…” While George begins relaying a brief history of Hazma’s past, Millie keeps an eye on a guard by the door, whose attention is being distracted by oodles of bare female flesh on display from a suggestively crossed pair of long legs. An attractively legged visitor has intentionally allowed her mini-skirt to ride up high over her thighs to give her convict boyfriend a treat, but it’s treating the delighted guard too, who, mindful not to get caught ogling, has deliberately angled his body to the side, so he can feast discretely on her legs from the corner of his eye.
With the guard facing the other way, Millie places her bag on the table, as George finishes telling Hazma’s story, “…and it’s because you’re American that he spat at you.”
Millie’s research already revealed much of Hazma’s history, but it never hurts to get another perspective. “Thanks, I have a better understanding of him now.” Millie then lowers her voice a little and says, “George, I’ve got something here for you.” She glances again at the guard, who remains preoccupied, and retrieves a large family sized chocolate bar from her bag, and discretely slides it across the table.
His face lights up like a child’s on Christmas morning; wearing a smile practically wide enough to eat a banana sidewards he blurts, “Thanks, Millie!”
“Shush,” Millie hushes him quiet and leans forward, beckoning him towards her, “Slide the chocolate inside your trousers without the guard seeing.”
