Phone

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