by Will Self
yes … Jonathan here told me about this strange coincidence – says
he had a drink with you chaps in the summer, in … Manchester?
Bit more than a drink in Gawain’s case, Chief, Tizer puts in. Really?
The Chief turns to his prospective son-in-law: How’s that, Captain
Thomas? And from somewhere … or someone, Gawain receives the
gift of light-hearted charm: Oh, y’know, Chief – far too much
booze … Dancing, yes – but rest assured, no romancing … He
darts a look at his canalside ravager, but the EmmEyeSix man’s
expression is as sunnily unclouded … as that morning. Shocked,
Gawain realises: It’s routine for him – absolutely bloody routine.
Picking up a man – getting him drunk then drugging him …
Taking him somewhere and … then … Chop-chop … bag the
chops … That’ll be two twenty-five … pay at the till, please … The
halo of a white nylon trilby encircles the spook’s beautiful brows –
a white apron shrouds his slim form. His hand no longer holds a
wisping cigarette but a dripping cleaver! Because he’s a butcher, this
one – not a killer – which, when you stop to consider it, is really a
perfectly honest job description if you’re a soldier. No, he’s the man
down the chinking line, who drags the upended beast along the rail
by a length of chain tied to its leg, then sticks a billhook in under
its ribcage, and, with a sharp yank, unzips my belly. Blood and
guts hosed away, he sets to work cutting and trimming prime
cuts … I don’t know about you … Gawain keeps it up and light …
but that was the worst hangover I’ve had in ages – took me days to
recover … The Butcher smirks – and the Chief carries on: Well,
carry on, then, Gawain – er, Jonathan here says he’d like a look-see
round the establishment. Bit bloody odd if you ask me – there’s
bugger-all to see –. You can never, the Butcher cuts in, have too
much information in my line of work. The Chief sucks his shit-coated
lower lip: And I s’pose you’ve clearance? The Butcher raises
one elegant eyebrow, summoning a gruff: Will you do the honours,
then, Gawain? Already ten yards off, the Chief turns back: And
thank you, ah, Jonathan, for a most illuminating overview – wasn’t
it, chaps? He strides off, while his chaps wait until he’s out of
earshot, before: So, Mike – or Jonathan, or whatever your name is,
mate – you the full biscuit, or what? Tizer lowers over the Butcher:
EmmEyeSix, issit? EssEyeEss? And Shabba joins in: Oi, Mikey
or Johnny, or whatever your name is – you gotta pen what fires
bullets? The spook’s unruffled: As a matter of fact, I do, he says,
withdrawing a fat fountain pen from his inside pocket. See, to all
intents and purposes, an innocuous – if rather expensive – Mont
Blanc – he unscrews the cap … the expected nib – but remove
this – he does so – and you’ll see that instead of an ink cartridge
there’s a, um, secret chamber – it’s rifled, and takes a nine-millimetre
cartridge … Shabba says: Did Q demonstrate it for you in his
underground lab? The Butcher laughs indulgently: Yeah, well, it
really is called the Q Section, and they do give us gadgets – stuff
we use out in the field. But we’re talking secure comms mostly.
Not to shit on the Firm’s mystique, but it’s a stone-cold fucking fact:
no Intelligence Branch officer has so much as fired a weapon on
assignment since the Second World War … He reassembles his
mightier-than-the-sword, seemingly oblivious to the five pairs of
eyes intent on his every move. No ifs, no buts … we’re all, Gawain
thinks, thinking the same thing – although it’s him who says: Same
diff’ … for the regiment, I mean. We missed out on Granby –
Desert Storm, that is. Haven’t even had a Paddyland tour … All
we’ve done in years is a blue-hat job in Cyprus –. And now this
Bosnian bollocks, Tizer interjects, but screw that anyway – what’s
the story, matey? Bit far-bloody-fetched, you turning up like this on
our patch – you and Greeny here gotta thing going on –? Oh, keep
on, Shabba sings, dancin’ an’ romancin’ … Yeah, the Butcher says,
mincing his fag butt with the sharp toe of his handmade shoe, we’ve
got a sort of thing going on – obviously I can’t tell you lot anything
about it. Why, Anderson says, why not? I mean, we’ve all signed the
OhEssAy … Oh, shut the fuck up, Tizer yawns, he isn’t remotely
serious – they’re just lovers, that’s all there is to it. But listen …
seriously – all that stuff you were saying in there, d’you mean it?
D’you really think the fuzzy-wuzzies’re going on the offensive? The
Butcher’s tone darkens until it’s well done: Absolutely. We’re in a
chaotic new world, gentlemen – anything you pick up while you’re
out there – he reaches into his inside pocket – either kick it up
through your own int’ sec’ to Brigade Command – he pulls out an
oxblood leather wallet – or you can reach me directly at Vauxhall
Bridge Road … and deals the cards out croupier-quickly. Tizer
snorts: Who the fuck would we ask for? There’s no name on this –
just a number. The Butcher remains the very epitome of sang-froid:
Our political masters may’ve in their infinite wisdom decided that
the Service, as a whole, should be publically avowed – but that
doesn’t mean any individual actually … exists … He wiggles his
manicured nails either side of his face. – Spooky, eh? He laughs,
Fuck’s sake, chaps – we’re not a bunch of plods yanking diplomats
from under whores’ beds, that’s Stella’s outfit. We’ve a bit more –
he drops an octave – class. Now, Greeny? Gawain knows that to
check if a joint’s ready to serve, you thrust a carving knife right
in – hold it there for twenty seconds, then withdraw it. If the tip of
the knife is too hot to touch … the meat’s done. They’re strolling
perfectly casually away from his brother officers, and he’s saying to
the Butcher perfectly casually: I’ve no idea where to take you – the
garrison’s absolutely vast, but it’s just a dull little town, really – shit
shops, tacky facilities … He falls silent, conscious of the lithe
body loping pantherishly along beside him. I want to break free,
he thinks, but he already is … How ‘bout the gym? the Butcher
says, and Gawain piffles, Pardon? The gym, the Butcher persists.
The gym-na-si-um. Y’know, where the young men lift the weights
from their lovely strong shoulders. Dunno ‘bout you, Gawain, but
there’s nothing more likely to, ah, divert me on a boring Sunday
afternoon … Silence. They walk on in … silence. Their footfalls
striking the tarmac drum, they gradually synchronise, until it’s a
comradely march … Gawain remembers SeeEssEmm Rowley at
the Academy – recalls standing before him … no time to take a
shit, so one was still … chambered. He feels the spatter of Rowley’s
spittle on his cheeks – hears the martinet’s strangulated cry: There
ees sheet drill, Thomas, and there ees be-you-tee-full dr
ill! But this drill
they’re doing now – it can never be beautiful. Never be beautiful
because it’s being performed by a couple of … bum-boys! Squad, left
turn, Gawain involuntarily mutters – and is thrilled when the body
beside him does precisely that. They march along a concrete path
between stunted military hedging – they bash through swing doors,
bounce on springy floorboards, bash through a second set of doors
and find some young men weight-lifting: one lies supine, arms bent,
shoulders bulging, the bar inches from his giblets face, while the
underdone one hovering above says, Point … Point … Gawain and
the Butcher march past their sweatcloud and Squad, right turn! bash
through a third pair of doors, into a padded cell … Rubber mats are
draped over wall bars – and there’s a tickly stink of sisal, liniment
and more sweat. Gawain slams the Butcher up against a vaulting
horse that’s ready for the knackers … Your game – what is it? What’s
your … f-fucking game? The Butcher remains imperturbable – apart
from his eyelashes. He has, Gawain observes, the longest silkiest
eyelashes – and they, they are perturbed by … my breath. The tip of
the Butcher’s tongue pokes between his pursed lips. He gives a little
wriggle – which somehow relaxes Gawain’s grip so that … I’m
caressing his shoulders. The eyes implore Gawain to Kiss me! And then
there’s a rainbow trout, tickled from the Wye, thrashing about …
in my landing net. Gawain has been trained to perfection in the art
of tank warfare – as a light reconnaissance unit, the Fighting Rams
are deployed to probe the enemy’s defences, and where possible
thrust forwards … He struggles at first – then, advancing a knee
into the defile between the enemy’s flanks, he begins to reverse …
the tide of battle. Following Sunday lunch, the Chief will be drowsing
in his armchair, slowly drifting down Jacob’s Creek while
Missus Renfrew wipes the place mats and puts the napkin rings
away. Upstairs in her attic bedroom, beneath the dormer window,
Gawain’s straight doppelgänger sits with his fiancée … a man
who never was. She’s showing him the pictures she’s cut out
from glossy magazines and inserted in the plastic pockets of a ring
binder, because she’s a well-organised bride-to-be: Obviously this
isn’t my corsage, Greeny – you won’t see that ‘til the Big Day … But I
thought maybe this one … or these – for the bridesmaids, and my maid-of-honour
… Gawain likes it when Fiona calls him by his Rams
nickname – it makes him feel they’re shackled together: another
ball-and-chain linked in to the chain of command … We’re good
mates – we are. What he likes a lot less is the clanking of their
interlinked and insufficiently oiled tongues – that, and the oppressive
smell of lavender rising up from her clothes, her hair … her
skin. When I’ve left, he often thinks during their clinches, she’ll
fold herself up and put herself neatly away in her hope chest. But
here, in the gym’s store-room – in amongst a tangle of ropes and a
jumble of obsolete equipment, leaning up against the only horse this
cavalryman has ever ridden, Gawain abandons all hope … and
groans into the Butcher’s avid mouth, even as he feels his joint, too
hot to touch, against his thigh. Stubble rubs stubble, adding to the
heat of their passion – passion which boils my brains … producing
a steamy pungency that swirls and curls through the gap between
the swing doors. Soon enough, Gawain thinks, some roided-up
muscle freak will smell us – and what will happen then? As their
tongues tackle, he sees their stripped-sapling bodies dragged across
the muddy pitch – sees their incriminating erections waggling
in the outraged faces of the court martial … Lieutenant-Colonel
Roger Renfrew presiding, senior officers who ceremoniously order the
miscreants to be poleaxed with our own choppers. Cut it out! His
cry, shouted into the Butcher’s mouth, escapes – and they break to
stand facing each other, rocking a little on the worn old floorboard.
For … years … now … the Butcher pants … the lively
hunt has been all I’ve desired – he wipes his greasy mouth with the
back of his hand – but now I’ve met you, my love – he cups
Gawain’s cheek – the sheep may safely graze, because I’ve tracked
you down, dearest – and now you’re at bay … And his love bleats,
I don’t even know your name. Laughing, the Butcher sticks out
his cleaver: It really is Jonathan – Jonathan De’Ath. Gawain –
straightening his tunic, adjusting his belt – whines girlishly: How do
I know you’re telling the truth? The Butcher laughs some more –
then answers sincerely: Well, De’Ath – hardly a viable alias, is it?
I mean, when we do a natural cover operation – that’s assuming a
false identity – it’s got to be credible, so Requirements select the
name on your passport, driving licence or whatever carefully …
Make sure it’s not likely to raise eyebrows – or hackles for that
matter … They hear boots giving the corridor a good kicking, and
Gawain blurts out, We’ve gotta geddout of here! Then they are,
striding down the somnolent lanes lined with ticky-tacky boxes:
Alamein Avenue … Blenheim Crescent … Malplaquet Mews …
Every single schoolrun, Gawain muses, will be a campaign that
lasts for … centuries. Trooper Winters from Gawain’s own section
is manning this, the quietest of the checkpoints on the entire perimeter.
But if he’s surprised by this sight – his SeeOh bugging out
with some pinstriped ponce – he’s too fixated on his victorious future
to show it, only saluting smartly as they swing past the sentry
box’s tainted Perspex. Squad, le-eft turn! A boot between the bars
and it’s oop ‘n’ over. Then they’re standing on a patch of piebald
turf surrounded by moulting hedges from which tattered crows lift
off kraaarking … Jonathan raises one black sole and then the other.
This, he says, is gonna trash my Grensons. Gawain, walking ahead,
hears the swish-past of weekenders’ cars heading home down the
AyWun, and throws back: We won’t be overheard here – your lot
haven’t got an eye in this sky, have they? He turns to confront his
pursuer, and the rage that’s been building inside him bursts out:
In Manchester – that night … Did you? Catching up, Jonathan
grabs his arm – and, looking straight into Gawain’s eyes, asks, Did
I what? Did I? It would’ve been rape, y’know – rape. You were
completely fucking out of it –. And who was responsible for that!
Gawain bellows. The Butcher shakes his pretty head: Not me – not
my style at all. And of course I didn’t … take advantage of you –
are you crazy? So heightened are Gawain’s senses he feels each
hot snort of indignation on his quivery top lip: N-no, I’m n-not
fucking mad – I’m about to go to staff college. I’m a Fighting
Ram – a Yorkshire-bloody-Hussar. And I told you – I fucking told
> you – he has a fistful of red knitted-silk tie and crisp white shirtfront
– I’m engaged by the hedges – which are in bud and greenly
streaming past the car’s windows. Mark’s lips are moving schizily
as he tosses his word-salad – which is Camilla’s own coinage. She
catches, Tossitupin theair, and also: Felltoearth nowherenear …
Followed by, Inmyfuckin’arse – halloperidolly, gotta sweetie –.
I’m NOT TALKING ABOUT YOU! she snaps, and he falls
silent – silent enough for her to hear more burbling coming from
the back seat: Fivehunnredanfiffy, fivehunnredanfiffywun, fivehunnredanfiffytoo
… painfully audible despite the Vauxhall’s
growling engine and the wind whistling through the windows’ perished
rubber seals. At least with Ben there’s never been any How far
is it, Mummy? or When will we get there? No – no! She checks
herself: Not at least – if only, if only he’d say those things over and
over again like normal children do! Not that Camilla actually
knows what normal children of his age do, not having spent much
time around them. But it had to be better than these fivehunnredanfiffynine
egregious stereotypies – not her words, but those of Mark’s
father, tossed to the top of her own word-salad … She shifts her
hips in the warm vinyl, adjusts the rear-view mirror … could be
worse – I’ve all my own teeth, and feels the fart brewing beneath the
gastric band of her seat belt. When she was loading up the Vauxhall,
preparatory to their departure from Bamburgh, she’d found Ben
already belted up in the back, the road atlas open on his lap: he
was consulting the distance table on the final page. She’s no idea
what it is they’ve passed fivehunnredansicksyseven times since
then … telegraph poles … lamp-posts? but knows whatever they are
her son will’ve used them to calculate fairly accurately where we
are … White-out-of-green lettering CATTERICK GARRISON TWO
MILES swims into view … right on cue, followed by a slip road they
grumble past. The fields to either side of the motorway are flaring
bright under the late April sun … I was raped inna rape field. Were
you, Milla? she quizzes herself: And by who? The reply comes back:
By a rapist – obviously. Rapist, Papist, therapist – I was raped by
