Ball of Confusion

by Ian Black

  Spittle flies from George’s mouth; he spits out words, “You’re the worst kind of dragon and every time you look in the mirror YOU KNOW YOU ARE!”

  “DO IT!” he commands furiously.

  George feels gagging pressure beneath his Adam’s apple as the blade slices through his skin, and as it’s drawn horizontally across his throat pressurised blood spurts and belches instantly from the wound.

  Larry grabs his own throat, cringing, disgusted, “Oh no!” The people standing behind Larry do the same, as the torturous noise of George gagging and gargling blood sounds out from the phone, and continues for far too long… until it stops… There’s a moment’s silence… followed by hacking sounds… a thud, and euphoric cheers.

  The screen goes black… Larry lowers the phone and stares at the floor, stunned, his face white as a sheet, like the clammy-skinned man behind him who projectile vomits.

  Larry places the phone in his pocket, crouches onto his haunches, and carefully cradles the head in his hands.

  “I’m sorry, George,” he whispers emotionally, before respectfully placing the head back inside the candy-striped box, and replaces its candy-striped lid.

  •

  Chapter: 30

  Consider the Flipside

  The foiled terrorist attack on Parliament, and George’s beheading, opened the floodgates to a flurry of international media interest, and as CNN’s involvement became common knowledge Larry and Millie became pivotal to the furore. Everybody wanted a piece of them, including several government agencies that bled them relentlessly; not only Agent Williams from MI5, but also MI6, the CIA, FBI and Interpol. Each questioned them in detail and took steps to ensure that Larry and Millie understood the potential likelihood of reprisal attacks against CNN, and Millie in particular. They were instructed: to be vigilant at all times.

  To capitalise on the situation Larry pulled out all the stops to ensure his network struck while the iron was hot, and consequently CNN’s team edited and produced Millie’s documentary in days. One Man’s Good is Another Man’s Evil was broadcast by CNN International in over one hundred countries within a week of George’s death. It was an instant popular success; creating much debate in the world’s press and on the political circuit.

  Millie’s documentary drew parallels between George and Hazma’s lives. She began with a brief history of their backgrounds, birth places, families and childhoods, to reveal how they were raised on different continents by ethnically diverse cultures in extremely different circumstances. She then demonstrated how, though their life paths had been markedly different, their basic moral codes were similar; in particular their thirst for revenge, borne from oppression against someone they loved.

  One Man’s Good is Another Man’s Evil suggested that “a reprisal killing is a reprisal killing”, whether committed by a poor abused neglected uneducated white English kid, whose moral guidance was based on a fairytale… or a normal well-educated boy from a good God-fearing family, who only became a fanatical Islamic fundamentalist after his parents were murdered in cold blood.

  Not that she condoned either of their actions, but used the examples to get her message across that whether we are born in the Middle East or West or anywhere… if people are oppressed… there will inevitably be ramifications.

  Referring to the old adage that religion is often the well-rooted cause of war, she drew a few basic comparisons between several faiths to demonstrate how most religions preach similar themes… i.e. to do unto others as you would have done unto yourself, and went on to admit that after this message has been championed around the world for thousands of years, how flabbergasted she is that oppression and belligerence remain rife and beneath our noses on the news every morning, noon and night.

  At the end of a programme filled with thought-provoking nuggets and comparisons, Millie, in a somewhat unorthodox manner, summed up by stating, “In conclusion… oppressed people will, inevitably defend themselves and seek revenge in any way they can… As a young girl, after witnessing the incomprehensible catastrophe of 9/11, I felt compelled to at least try to understand what kind of person could participate in such inexcusable death and destruction… I needed to discover for myself the reason and logic… Eventually an opportunity arose, a chance, my chance to interview a man who hailed 9/11 as a success, as a victory for his God and his people. I personally describe this man as a terrorist, though to the contrary his own people describe him as ‘a man of God defending his faith’, and we’ll never agree on that one but though my time spent with him was brief… it was long enough to gain valuable insight, enabling me to begin to understand that the motive of an avenging terrorist is no different to that of any other reprisal killer… Motives stem from circumstance and influence, and although personally I remain abhorrent to oppression and violence of any kind… at least now, I think I understand why 9/11 happened! And though I still firmly believe 9/11 was downright evil… I understand why others think otherwise!”

  During her closing monologue, flashing images of death and destruction shoot and flicker like wildfire across the screen, while loud violent background music blares along with gunfire shots and explosions. A cleverly edited collection of still pictures and video footage merges, synchronised into one continual montage of true historical conflict, which amongst others includes: 9/11, the bombing of Baghdad, Auschwitz, the killing fields of Cambodia, the Congo, Hiroshima, the Somme, WW2, Vietnam, the tank in Tiananmen Square, 7/7, Bloody Sunday, the Birmingham bombings, Mogadishu, Bosnia, the Oklahoma City bombing, Lee Rigby’s slaughter, Afghanistan, and the clips continue one after another until the music stops suddenly, and silence prevails… as more footage plays, but in slow-motion, of young Syrian children dying painfully, writhing in agony helplessly on the floor following chemical weapon attacks inflicted upon them in Damascus.

  The horrific sequence finally draws to an end with a close-up still shot of George, at the very start of his decapitation, as he stares down at the sabre with wide petrified eyes, on feeling the initial nick of its incision, before being drawn across his throat.

  Millie narrates over that final image, “Oppression and revenge will continue its relentless cycle until we, as a human race attempt to consider the flipside; that is to at least try to understand other people’s points of view. Our different beliefs and ways of life are due to human conditioning, and the world’s population will never live life the same way… we must understand that, and only by considering other cultures and the consequences of our actions will we ever cure the catalysts to these heinous crimes… One man’s good is another man’s evil. Evil intent is a matter of opinion, and the only possible hope of nipping evil in the bud… is to consider the flipside!”

  A silent screen fades slowly to black… as white text appears dedicating: IN MEMORY OF GEORGE KNIGHT.

  •

  Prior to the broadcast, while editing final clips in the production studio, the team discovered footage that was never aired. After zooming in to the close-up of George and then in to an extreme close-up of the terrorist wielding the sabre behind him, they identified through the balaclava eyehole, that the man who decapitated George had a noticeable large brown mole in the corner of his left eyelid… and tears in his eyes.

  •

  Chapter: 31

  St Ives Sojourn

  As the media frenzy peters out and the circus leaves town, Millie’s brain is frazzled and frequented on the hour every hour by memories of what happened to George, especially those words written on the candy-striped box label: Never forget what you did! She mourns his loss, with guilt.

  Colleagues, friends and family keep reminding her how badly she needs a break; a holiday to clear her mind. After eventually realising how physically and mentally exhausted, and emotionally down she feels, Millie agrees to take a few days recuperation away with her boyfriend.

  They both get into her Mini and drive west for about five hours, as far as they can go until reaching the coast at one of Cornwall’s most beautif
ul spots: St Ives, a quintessentially old-English fishing village. After parking the car they check into a quaint, comfy bed and breakfast then take a stroll hand-in-hand through the tiny cobbled streets, window shopping, people watching and simply enjoying the hassle-free feeling of being away.

  Warm spring sunshine on her face, and crisp unpolluted sea air infiltrating her lungs and pores of her skin feels practically medicinal to Millie; exactly what she needed. The scent of freshly made bread, cakes, fudge and fish and chips isn’t too bad either; nor candyfloss or pasties.

  After a hearty Cornish-pasty lunch and a few jars of ale in The Sloop Inn, the couple meander their way along the sea front, and eventually find themselves sitting huddled together on the soft golden sands of Porthmeor Beach.

  Millie gazes out across the sea, and though she’s away she can’t help, or stop her mind drifting away, reflecting on recent events, and what happened with George and Hazma. While pondering she looks up to see the afternoon sun being ambushed by fluffy white clouds blown over by April breeze, which develops into more of a wind, causing Millie to shiver slightly. With his arm around her James feels the shudder, cuddles her in closer and asks, “What you thinking about?”

  She looks embarrassed to admit, “The same as always… sorry!”

  “You’ve got to let it go, Mill.”

  She nods her head, “I know.”

  James points his finger, “Shall we walk up that hill?”

  Millie nods her agreement and they stroll arm-in-arm along the beach, towards a grassy mounded peninsula jutting out into the Celtic Sea, known locally as The Island.

  They meander the well-trodden costal path that winds around The Island mound, enjoying invigorating sights and spray from the waves as they crash powerfully against a rocky frothing shoreline. They walk feeling no need to talk, preferring instead to soak in nature’s symphony from the wind, waves and cawing mercenary seagulls craving morsels of food. They nod politely at passing dog walkers and tourists while following the winding path upwards until arriving, slightly out of breath at the top, where they tread the old steps leading up to a tiny stone building, too small to swing a cat in, built centuries ago on the peak of the hill known as St Nicholas Chapel.

  After enduring the windy incline, their lungs and calf muscles scream, so they take a well-earned breather on a parapet wall surrounding the chapel, admiring the spectacular vista, as breathtaking as the wind, over which Millie hears her mobile phone ringing in her lapel pocket.

  She inspects the caller ID which reads number withheld, places the phone tightly to her ear and answers, “Hello.”

  With the wind whistling she can’t hear what the caller’s saying. “I can’t hear you, just a minute,” and shelters in the chapel doorway, “That’s better, who’s calling?”

  On hearing his distinctive voice, Millie feels struck by lightening, and hangs on every word as Ruparela’s eloquence rolls out rhetorically, “One man’s good… is another man’s evil!”

  She’s dumbfounded, his call is so unexpected, and uncharacteristically Millie cannot conjure a reply.

  Ruparela feeds on her silence, “You truly are an expert, Ms Jones… an expert in stating the bloody obvious!”

  “What do you mean?”

  He snaps back, “I’ll tell you what I mean. You say evil intent is a matter of opinion? Well, of course it is you stupid bitch, without a difference of opinion you wouldn’t have conflict in the first place!”

  James detects from her face she’s distressed by the call, and with concern asks, “Who is it?”

  Millie nods to show she’s okay, before replying to Ruparela, “I—”

  “YOU,” Ruparela interrupts, “are an archetypal Western journalist. You broadcasted exactly what I predicted… biased bigoted bullshit!”

  Millie defends herself, “I showed perspective from both sides.”

  “HA!” he mocks. “Perspective? You compared the mind of a learned Muslim to that of a tramp? A dense uneducated man whose killings were driven purely by revenge! Is that seriously what you think Jihad is… revenge? You present yourself as a conscientious journalist then base your facts on two futile meetings with Hazma!”

  Millie stutters, “Well, I—”

  He interjects again, “You preach, to consider the flipside… ”

  “I…” She struggles to get her words out.

  He calls the shots, “I’ll show you the flipside, but only if you guarantee to document the facts exactly as I present them… I’ll give you real insight… but on my terms!”

  Millie’s mouth is suddenly dry; she swallows hard before replying, “I tried to interview you, in your office, but you fed me a smoke screen!”

  “That was before you blew the whistle. The goalposts have moved.”

  “They did move…” she retorts, “when you killed George.”

  Ruparela chuckles disrespectfully, “Your pet… was an insignificant pawn, who became a player… a losing player. He bought a ticket to the game, lost… and paid the price.”

  “Are you really that heartless?” She’s angry now. “What kind of a man are you?”

  “You can find out who I am… on my terms!”

  “Okay!” she snaps back. “When?”

  She waits for him to speak, but he doesn’t. Millie presses the phone tighter to her ear, and listens acutely to silence blaring from the earpiece. She doesn’t know for sure but senses he’s still there. Gazing blindly out to sea Millie develops her own thousand-yard stare while mentally blanking out the surroundings, focusing her thoughts totally on the phone… until eventually, he speaks, “A splendid view, Ms Jones!”

  A lead weight drops inside her stomach, her knees feel weak as she steps from the doorway and spins herself around and around, desperately scanning the hillside for Ruparela or any passer-by holding a phone…

  None can be seen. She walks to the edge of the steps, breathless, gulping in air from buffeting wind and pants, “You’re watching me?”

  Standing statuesque, she awaits a reply… but he’s gone. His call terminated on the screen.

  Watching her body language, concerned James asks, “You okay? Who was it?”

  But Millie doesn’t hear; she’s deep in thought, scanning the horizon sucking in copious amounts of air to clear her head… then whispers into the wind, “This is the end to my story.”

  At the same time, just across the skyline in an elevated car park, Ruparela’s faithful follower Imran stands leaning against a large white panel van, holding a phone to his ear with one hand, and grasping a large pair of powerful binoculars in the other, focused on James comforting Millie, with his arms wrapped around her.

  •

  Chapter: 32

  Special Delivery

  Immediately after the phone call, on Millie’s insistence, and against James’s better judgement, they collect their cases and begin the long drive home to London. Once on the road Millie reports back to Agent Williams and Larry about Ruparela’s call and from thereon the couple travel a long way without speaking, while Millie analyses her thoughts, and James sulks over ending his holiday on the day it began.

  Once night-time driving becomes monotonous, James turns on the CD to play his favourite album: Johan Strauss’s classics, but as the first recognisable bars of “The Blue Danube” sound out, Millie swivels and sneers, “You gotta be kidding me… you selfish son of a bitch!”

  “What?” He’s totally confused by her outburst.

  “You just don’t think do you?”

  “What about?”

  “The music,” she snaps. “‘The Blue Danube’, it was George’s music, when he danced with his mom, I told you about it!”

  “Well, fuck me!” James retorts, pissed off. “I’ve had to cut my holiday short and now I can’t play my music!”

  She looks at him flabbergasted, “You don’t think do you?”

  He jabs the off button and apologises sarcastically, “I’m really fucking sorry!”

  Millie’s eyes start
watering and her voice becomes emotional, “You know how much shit I’ve had, and now this latest phone call; with everything going on surely, you must realise…” Her bottom lip quivers as she whimpers, “I’m an emotional wreck!”

  His face looks blank. He struggles with emotional women, although he has realised the mistake, his musical faux pas. Seeing her weep he reaches over, clasps her hand and apologises, sincerely this time, “Sorry.”

  She acknowledges with a glimmered smile, deliberately insincere to make him squirm, then swivels away, looking out through the side window.

  Unhappy that she’s not happy, James tries to dig himself out of a hole, admitting to the back of her head, “I should have remembered… about the music…” Then after a pause, on a more serious note offers, “but I’m not happy about you meeting Ruparela… He’s a nutter. It’s too dangerous, Mill!”

  Continuing to stare out into the dark, she wipes a tear from her eye, then replies curtly, “It’s what I do, James… get used to it.”

  •

  After another thirty minutes’ driving, the car’s headlights flash over a road sign announcing: the road they’re following, winds across Cornwall’s Bodmin Moor.

  He’s bored stiff of driving now, especially in silence; plus he’s feeling a little drowsy, and also a tad guilty over upsetting Millie, so in an attempt to liven himself and the mood, he asks, “You all right, Mill?”

  She smiles, more warmly this time, and replies, “I’m okay.”

  “You sure?”

  Millie nods, “I’m fine.”

  But he knows she’s still mulling over the same old things, and racks his brain for something to take her mind off it. Travelling across Bodmin Moor reminds James. “Have Americans heard of the Beast of Bodmin?”