Phone

by Will Self

  salute might be like, should the subordinate disdain to bestow one

  on his superior. Which is what, Gawain reflects, unloading his

  tray, I was doing to Blakey. Poor Blakey – shackled to his harridan

  wife. Passing by their quarters, once, Gawain had heard them

  hard at it – and she’s the very picture of a long-haired general:

  a big, gawky woman in dated, dull clothes – calf-length skirts and

  blouses with piecrust collars – who’s present at all the regiment’s

  carefully orchestrated disco-dances and church parades, manning

  the refreshments table or handing out the hymn sheets – sticking

  her lantern jaw into everything, desperate to shed some light on her

  husband’s prospects for promotion. Will it be like that for Fi and

  me, Gawain wonders, pushing a small bow-wave of gravy across his

  plate with a perfect hemisphere of boiled potato, the greasy wake

  spreading out behind … But what’s ahead? Nothing but scraps of

  overcooked roast lamb … quite indigestible. Standing outside the

  Admin Block with the rest of the team and a few hangers-on,

  Gawain waves as the Royal Welshers’ coach sweeps round in a wide

  circle, whisking all the whey-faces away … There’s poetry in that,

  Gawain thinks – poetry in most things if you stop to think about it.

  Poetry and artistry in military manoeuvres as well … hard edge,

  light touch. Artistry, too, in the cell Blakey’s placed on the overhead

  projector’s lightbox – the original political boundaries having been

  repurposed with felt-tip pens of many different colours. He steps

  away from the lectern – and the Chief steps up, a fine figure of

  leadership: strapping … he could beat me to a pulp, his features

  razor-sharp, his laser gaze targetting far horizons. The Chief

  doesn’t exactly drone on – but Gawain, his belly full, his muscles

  dully aching, finds it hard to concentrate on all the divisions and

  subdivisions: the Bosniaks and the Croats, the Bosnian Serbs and –

  for all he knows – the Serbian Bosnians … Basically, the Chief

  drones on, our job’s to keep the bastards apart – tricky enough under

  the best circs, as those of you who were along for the Cyprus deployment

  will know full well. But the situation in the former-Yugoslavia

  appears – at least to me – wilfully complicated … The junior

  officers at the front of the room stir, amused by this very typical

  Chiefism – because Lieutenant-Colonel Roger Renfrew refrains

  from the soldier’s habitually fatalistic attitude towards a world

  which … refuses to follow orders. For him there’re no impersonal

  shitstorms, snafus and embuggerations – only situations in which,

  had the Fighting Rams been to hand, the malefactors would’ve

  been brought to heel – which was another Chiefism, covering everything

  from pacifying bolshie civilians to reducing Her Majesty’s

  enemies to human purée … given each territory has its own

  embattled ethnic minority – which is more often than not supported

  by an ethnic majority in the adjacent territory, who in turn are

  giving merry-hell to a different ethnic minority … Gawain observes

  Lieutenant “Tizer” Townshend in the front row – must be tricky

  being quite that big, makes it easier for you to be spotted when

  you’re … grabbing forty winks. But it’s fair enough, really – Tizer

  gave his all against the Welshers … as did we all. At times – and

  this is one of them – Gawain indulges in the fantasy of living

  entirely in a parallel rugby-union universe, where all his adversaries

  are gentle-manly and play by the rules … Yet he can never sustain

  this vision – he’s always out there, receiving a perfect pass, getting

  his head down and charging – only to realise that the last defender

  between him and the touchline has … long hair and breasts! It

  wasn’t exactly repulsive, kissing Fiona, but it’s dreadfully cramped and

  fiddly in there … so he smoothly re-enters this messy and chaotic

  world, right on cue: Gawain, you’re responsible for the B Company

  rota – have all the men cycled through? He smiles at his prospective

  father-in-law and replies, Troopers McCruisken and Fellowes

  still to complete, Chief … then Lieutenant-Colonel Renfrew smiles

  back! Smiles so warmly his prospective son-in-law glows. It occurs

  to Gawain – not for the first time – that the Chief actually likes

  me. This isn’t the benevolent tolerance of senior-to-junior officer, but

  genuine affection … Fair enough, Renfrew says, but see to it, there’s

  a good chap – time is of the essence. Now: I know some of you will

  still be thinking this’ll be just another Cyprus – but there’s tricky,

  and there’s seriously bloody tricky … He lays his green felt-tip

  pen down on the cell … In Cyprus we had a long-established

  and completely secure base, hot-and-cold-running water – regular

  bulletins from the bloody News Bunny, so far as I could make out.

  But in Bosnia our billet’s going to be a little bit more … commando.

  Lesley? – This is the cue for Major Hirst, the Adjutant, who

  runs a hand through his sparse hair before taking his place at the

  lectern: Well, Chief, it’s certainly pretty basic – and there’s been

  pretty fierce activity in the immediate area, but I’m hoping it hasn’t

  been used as a bloody mortuary. In a nutshell, chaps, the Unprofor

  bods – in association with the local commander – have, out of the

  goodness of their hearts, commandeered this highly des’ res’ for

  us – he snaps off the overhead projector and snaps on a slide one:

  a long, low concrete structure appears, sited on a densely wooded

  hillside – which was, up until hosilities commenced, a … um,

  paint factory. Someone in the back row whispers, With Dulux

  once is enough, but the Chief, hands on hips, ignores this: We’ll

  be on lock-down after dark – full stag, obviously. We may not be

  able to undertake offensive ops – but we’re bloody well going to

  defend ourselves. On that very matter, Captain Anselm is here from

  EmmEye to give us some up-to-date intel’ on who the players are

  and what capabilities they have – and for those of you thinking

  there’ll be sod-all productive for us to do, Anselm’s brought a …

  um, friend with him from London. Apparently – the tip of the

  Chief’s nose grows – his, ah, friends’ friends – no Pinocchio he – are

  keen to find out more about our Serbian chums … Lesley, will you

  ask them to come in? In the corner of the briefing room, between

  the desk with the projector on it and the door, rolled-up maps have

  been deposited, together with the seats of broken plastic stacking

  chairs. The seats of plastic stacking chairs have been deposited in

  the space between the door and the desk with the projector on it,

  together with rolled-up maps. All the Rams’ officers are looking at

  the door – looking towards its little window of toughened glass.

  Gawain thinks: That’s where I’ll always bloody be – not inside,

  not outside … Always at the door, piled up with the rest of the

  broken
stuff no one can be bothered to get rid of … The door’s pneumatic

  arm whistles, summoning the knowledge that gives us strength:

  Anselm, who looks like typical slime – a killer-nerd with blue-tinted

  glasses and a conspicuous stain on his jacket collar … ally as fuck.

  He’s an odd smile about his lips as he pushes the door wide open

  so the man Gawain knows as … Mike! can enter. He’s wearing

  a beautifully cut pinstripe suit and carrying an expensive leather

  briefcase. He hesitates briefly – and Gawain sees him, standing in a

  cloud of thistledown … lifting one slim white foot so he can lasso

  it with the slim white loop of his … Calvin Kleins. Without any

  preamble Anselm begins running through the dispensations and

  strengths of the various forces: Essentially obsolete platforms …

  Such-and-such artillery … Restricted mobility … and so predictably

  on. Gawain’s aware of some of his brother officers taking notes –

  but he can only sit, mouth open to catch the flies that buzz out from

  Mike’s piercing pale blue eyes. He is, Gawain glories, so much better

  looking than I remember … But as he stares – and Mike stares back –

  a clamminess overtakes him, for fingertips … pencils –penises! are

  rubbing the man’s perfect skin on to mine … transferring the decal

  of his identity … to me! I’m pleased, Captain Anselm says, to tell

  you we’ve someone here who knows a great deal more about Ratko

  and Radovan than I do – Jonathan? The man previously known as

  Mike takes his place at the lectern and snaps off the slide projector –

  the former Yugoslavia is just that. Through the after-image of the

  Balkans swim these fishy words, last heard in the South China Sea

  of the Britannia’s bar: Okay, okay … don’t worry, I’m not trying to

  muscle in – I’m just a weekend warrior, a gung-ho stab who’d

  like the honour of buying the real McCoy a wet … By his kit and

  clobber Gawain would’ve eyedeed him as ex-public school – and

  quite possibly Oxbridge – but then there’s the odd colourlessness of

  his accent – which was surely … Northern, I’m falling … Falling, as

  undigested chunks of roast lamb rise up his oesophagus – falling …

  no! Plunging into … the abyss: What’s he doing here? It can’t be a

  coincidence – and who the fuck is he anyway? A friend? A friend

  of a friend of friends? He’s certain bloody friendly … The situation

  is fluid, as you’re all well aware – Colonel Blake tells me you’ll be

  based at Vitez, but, with the AitchVeeOh and the Serbs now in

  cahoots, it may no longer be possible for the Bosnians to hang on to

  the Maglaj finger – which really, since the combined forces launched

  their attack in July, hasn’t properly been a finger of territory at all,

  only a finger of … fudge, which isn’t enough. – The junior officers

  in the front rows chortle obligingly – not that the man calling

  himself Jonathan is ingratiating, his is an unforced charm … people

  say yes before they know what they’ve been asked to do. Listen, he

  continues, we’re obviously not asking you to do our work for us –

  that’d be in direct contravention of your peace-keeping status. But

  in a three-cornered ruck like this … well, all sorts of interesting

  stuff comes out of the woodwork … But why the fuck, Gawain

  silently interrogates him, why the fuck have you come out of

  the woodwork? He thinks back to that summer morning in Manchester

  – consciousness dribbling into his gritty head along with

  the cold water piddling from the duff shower rose. Tizer and

  Shabba must’ve hauled him bodily from the bed, where he’d been

  crumpled in his soiled clothes, and dumped him in the bath. As

  Gawain spluttered into life … a cold start – too much choke, he’d

  heard Tizer reading aloud in the next room: Hope you enjoyed

  yourself, Greeny – and don’t worry, what happens in Manc’ stays in

  Manc’ … cheers, Mike … Then Tizer had been standing in the

  doorway, looking down at him: What the fuck, Greeny … sounds

  like you met up with that bloke again – the stab. Also sounds

  like you got up to some serious monkey-business – got laid, didja?

  Did I? Did I? Appalled, Gawain peers intently around the briefing

  room, seeking out the faces of his Manchester companions.

  Surprised? Yes, they are – obviously, but, apart from Lieutenant

  Townshend, who’s sitting forward and staring hard at Mike’s

  Jonathan mask, none of them appear that suspicious … – We suspect

  there’re some players behind the obvious ones – but, given how

  chaotic the situation is, it’s next to impossible for us to get intel’

  in any of the usual ways. Now, I’m not claiming there’re Spetsnaz

  commandos running around in the woods – but someone’s putting

  the lead in Ratko’s pencil. They may be well on their way to becoming

  a second-class power, but the Ruskies still regard this as within

  their sphere of influence … Mike-and-the-Mechanics … Iron Mike

  Tyson … George MIKEal … what’s his sphere of influence? As

  he chats on – casual, laid-back – despatches keep on arriving at

  Gawain’s aitchqueue, which are breathlessly delivered – they bring

  indisputably accurate intel’ that must’ve been gathered by an eye in

  the sky … How else to explain these satellite images that’re nonetheless

  close-ups? Gawain swigging from a can of Coke … He

  drugged me! Gawain on the dance floor of … a screamingly queenie

  club, shirt off, chest wet – and, still more disturbing, Gawain, face

  down in a patch of weeds, his buttocks naked and … raised. It’s

  all as bad as bad can be – yet the utter badness of it is concentrated

  into this explosive realisation which … shatters my mind: When

  he thrust into me – I pushed back … – It’s a situation that may

  indeed change as new players push into the Balkans – Captain?

  Anselm’s been fiddling with the slide carousel, and now an image

  wheels on to the screen as Anderson springs puppyish from his seat

  to hit the lights. His ghostly face wood-grained, Mike/Jonathan continues:

  This is just one of scores of crates the Dutch contingent

  have intercepted during their deployment – you’ll observe that the

  AyKays are of all sorts. Some old, some new. Some’re of Soviet

  manufacture – others’ve been bodged up by metal-bashers in the

  Kandahar souk. They’re crated and freighted by Macedonian and

  Albanian gangs – but the consignments are paid for by the same

  dissident Saudis who funded the Mujahideen in Afghanistan –

  Captain? Another slide click-clacks into view, and he continues:

  You can see here that the Kalashnikovs have been interspersed with

  layers of these books. – The Rams see mauve-covered volumes,

  strewn with golden tangles of Arabic script, and Second Lieutenant

  “Shabba” Sharples calls out, Serve to Lead! – a reference the spook

  effortlessly incorporates into: In a manner of speaking you’re right –

  it is their manual of leadership, since the literal meaning of Islam

  is submission – submission to the w
ill of God, or your SeeOh,

  whoever’s closer to hand … I submitted to him, Gawain thinks,

  does that mean he’s my god? … Anyway, we’re not entirely sure

  which bothers us more – the guns or the godliness – but one thing’s

  certain, with their adversaries in ‘Stan out of the way, these Saudi

  fighters are looking for other Muslim populations to mobilise. This

  is a serious matter, gentlemen – intelligence assessments can take

  some time to analyse thoroughly, and this isn’t even necessarily

  for Whitehall consumption, but at VeeBeeArr we’re getting all

  sorts of credible intel’ which points to the same ugly conclusion:

  Europe is going to be the new front line in their global holy war …

  A global holy war, eh – this is enough to get every red-blooded warrior

  in the room’s attention … and we all start fantasising. Gawain sees

  illustrations from one of his old Ladybird books: in the first,

  Richard, Cœur de Lion, cleaves an iron bar in two with the edge of

  of his mighty broadsword – in the next Saladin bests him by slicing

  a silk scarf into two shimmery and exact halves with his scimitar …

  Half an hour later the briefing closes with predictably professional

  questioning: Will there be a two-can rule? But by then Captain

  Anselm and his personable friend are long gone … Spilling out

  through the Admin Block’s swing doors, the junior officers spark up

  and form a scrum round their match-winning flanker: Wotcher

  reckon, Greeny – can’t be coincidence … Your spooky pal come to

  look you up, hasn’t he … Yeah, Greeny – he’s got your bum under

  surveillance … Time out! Round two, is it, Greenster? He stands,

  head down and lowing pitifully in my secret barn … No Fighting

  Ram, but a veal calf, kept in the dark for its entire life, then led

  out to be slaughtered –. Aye, aye, lads, Lieutenant “Potso” Ponsonby

  sings out, what’s this at ten o’clock? And they turn to see the

  Chief, together with the EmmEyeSix man, rounding the corner of

  the mess. The Chief’s face is a picture – albeit one executed by an

  unofficial war artist: on its veiny canvas disgust and delight are

  battling it out … Bit of a turn-up, Potso says as the odd couple

  draws near, you, ah, turning up like this. The Chief grimaces: Ah,