by Will Self
murdered and raped children – but we’re the right men for it,
precisely because we take no pleasure, we’re merely professionals …
And now it’s dark o’clock, and outside the main gate of Camp Val
tongues are still wagging … Wagging over the detainees the Rams
brought back from Al-Afrika Street – and wagging over Asif, the
lousy little ’terp, who – Cambell from the int’ cell has reported –
just happened to be the son of one of Ali al-Garbi’s most prominent
Sadrists. Gawain has already put a call in to the Chief of Police
and informed him about the incident – although … why? The
man’s rumoured to be a pederast who spends his days shuttered
up in his vulgar villa on a bank of the Tigris, fiddling about with
Yemeni, Baluchi and even … Somali boys: the human flux and
reflux of this indigestible situation … What do I really know about
Islam and Muslims? He massages his eyelids with finger and thumb,
so summoning this vision: a dusty-white maidan under hurting
sun – white-robed figures swirling together, then swishing apart
to reveal their Saladin: a huge man with a huge black beard who
windmills his scimitar’s flashing blade. Gawain stands, awkward in
Birkenstocks, cargo shorts and a T-shirt bearing the slogan Play Up
and Play the Game … Saladin’s scimitar slices through this loose
stuff, and it’s only then, looking down at his belly … thinly grinning
that Gawain remembers: I’m armed … so raises and fires his plastic
rifle. The plastic seven-point-six-five round makes its leisurely,
specially effected way towards the huge chest of the mighty jihadi –
but then, just about everything’s plastic nowadays: the case of
Trimmer’s laptop – the duff spoiler of the Thomas family’s crappy
old Volvo. The map cases that’d arrived in a job-lot on the day before
the Rams deployed … plastic, and the maps they were issued
with at Shaibah … plastic-laminated that labelled the towns and
villages, the saltpans and oil fields, of southern Iraq with the sort of
clunky code names beloved of the British military: Cheshire, Westmoreland,
Omagh … What do I really know about Islam and Muslims?
The plastic bullet hits Saladin’s chest and rebounds in still slower
motion, end over end, describing a limp parabola that ends, uselessly,
on the sand at Gawain’s feet … Only this: that the word itself
means … submission – and I’m through with that … One thing,
Greeny, Trimmer had said as he was swinging into one of the
Coldstreamers’ Wimmiks, I’ve put it in my report as well, but if you
bag anybody coming over the border who seems … well, handy,
get ’em down to the DeeTeeEff asap. It’s not just a matter of finding
out what the Iranians’re up to – our spooky friends have an asset
they’re particularly keen to exfiltrate, someone high up … Word is
he may try to cross over into our – I mean, your sector. Gawain had
queried, Our spooky friends? What d’you mean by that? The slime
at main? And Trimmer snorted, Hardly – Brigade’s intel’ wonks are
picking up sod-all from the locals. How can they, when they’re on
lock-down at Shaibah and the aypod twenty-four-seven? No, this
is something to do with the big boys – with London … No! This is
something to do with the small boys – with Bardney … Before Jonathan
had got into the low-slung coupė – before he’d removed his overcoat,
neatly folded it and placed it on the car’s back seat. Before he’d
driven away … without so much as a backward glance, there’d been a
mouthful of marbles: suppressed giggles from behind the flinty wall.
Jonathan walked along to where it dipped to waist height and
looked over – the eavesdroppers had been hiding, shivering, behind
a tombstone. Come out! Jonathan cried. Come out, I say! But they
hadn’t come out – they ran away, their narrow, grey-cloth-clad
behinds shining in the winter sunlight – or at least this is how
Gawain pictured it. When Jonathan returned he’d teased him:
I say? I say? What will you bray next, posh boy? But the Butcher’s
face had been leeched … bloodless – bien cuit: I’m not as blasé as
you imagine, Gawain – I care a great deal about the people I work
with, who all too often run appalling risks for very little reward –
and I resent it, really I do … the way these people are caricatured as
grubby little opportunists … Maybe so, but it’d been the grubby
little opportunists who’d awaited Gawain in Ali al-Garbi – or at least
caricatures of them: Tizer claims the sharkskin suits were all the
rage in the Soviet bloc – and are a two-tone legacy of Saddam’s
ambivalent attempt to cuddle up to the Russians. But the men who
wear them … look pretty rough: sitting in stifling corridors, drenched
in cologne, waiting to petition one of the remaining SeePeeAy
bureaucrats for a generator or a water-purification plant … for their
community. Any of them, Gawain hypothesises, might be one of
Jonathan’s precious assets, not waiting to siphon off British and
American taxpayers’ money, but to piddle out the Bardney boys’
innocent betrayal … He said to her – she said to him, he said to –
others: a cat’s cradle of comms, such as he’s seen dangling from every
post and pylon and rooftop in Ali al-Garbi, the cables of which
tighten … and tighten, until the grubby little opportunist in the
stifling corridor is … garrotted. Anyway, Jonathan always comes
on so fucking strong – like nothing fazes him. But how would
he actually cope with this noduf? With Ali al-Garbi, its shabby-shiny
sheiks, bullying Badr militia commanders and ineffectual
governors, who, so far as Gawain could tell, were all the puppets,
either of the sinister black-turbanned clerics or the foreign
agents provocateurs who pull their strings … Yes! Jonathan! What
would you make of this? He’s spoken aloud and hears his words
drop uselessly to the Portakabin’s floor … Plop! Plop! followed by
the resurgence of the sinister cries at the main gate … fire a few
baton rounds over their heads – get rid of ’em. He stands, picks up his
webbing belt and holster, buckles on the assemblage. Picks up
his body armour arms up! and puts it on. He thinks of his sister, Fay,
a yoga instructor and part-time hospital physio’ who lives with her
long-term partner near Keswick … Geoff’s all right: their rainy,
childless Sunday afternoons – visiting the Pencil Museum again,
followed by a walk on the shores of Derwent Water hand in hand,
seeing the water dimpled by squalls and itching for the fells. Later,
there’d be pork scratchings in the snug, followed by a dark night
in an overheated room. He wonders if Fay and Geoff’s sex is as
workmanlike as his and Fiona’s … a drubbing really – more arousal
to be had from the greasy Cumberland sausage on the breakfast plate.
There are, he thinks, these compensations: the small sips of intimacy
to be sucked from parched conversations about the weather and
current affairs – a
nd, of course, minor ailments, the minute description
of which is most long-term marrieds’ way of touching at a
distance … Moving towards the Portakabin’s door, Gawain becomes
aware of a strange sort of pause … or … gap … in … every …
thing, it’s … lagging! One or other of his sons’ spoilt whines solders
his burning brain to his griddling skull: It’s lagging! They’d played
the game together, the three of them taking turns with the controller:
You’re not much cop, Dad, considering you’re a tank commander …
He’d considered pointing out to the disrespectful brat that there
was a world of difference between jabbing buttons and the
combination of nimble tactical thinking and heavy psychological
lifting required to move armoured vehicles around on a battlefield
– but then my head exploded … even as the truck the
Thomas menfolk were riding in continued its mad zigzagging dash
across sandy nothingness towards a walled compound. My head
exploded … the screen darkened, and, although the Germans’
tracer-fire kept on streaming towards their truck, it was over for
him … endex: he’d never get to assault those Moorish walls. But he
did get to see his own hollowed-out and virtual body lying there …
such a privilege, and in the ultra-secure surroundings of Number
Seven, Maltby Close, behind the vertical louvres Fi … never
bothered to replace, he’d thought, This must be what it feels like to be
a true and valiant Christian knight – or the right arm of the Prophet
for that matter, on your way up to heaven, sitting on a half-landing
eating sherbet, and … waiting for the virgins. His sons had kept
on sneering at him: You just fire and fire, Dad – you never check
your ammo or your health bar on the heads-up display … At
Camp Val the unloading bay lies immediately to the rear of the
SeeOh’s own trailer – which is the one nearest to the main gate.
When a Rams patrol returns to base they drive their Wimmiks and
Scimitars into an external fifty-metre-long sandbagged rat-run,
then in through both sets of gates. The troopers get out and stomp
over to an unloading bay that’s been bodged together with old
railway sleepers. Chattering away, they aim their EssAyEighties,
Brownings and Sig Sauers nonchalantly – pull the triggers with
expressions of mild distaste, then walk off shaking their trouser
legs, just as … Trimmer’s bods did back in Mitcham … It’s lagging,
Dad, and your head’s exploded … I owe you three farthings – or the
Queen’s shilling … Gawain stands on the steps of the trailer, smelling
the Ali al-Garbi night: faint whiffs of wood– and dung-smoke
from the shantytown by the Tigris, the pervasive reek of Camp
Val’s septic tank – and the fresher, fouler smell coming from the
long row of Portaloos which serve as a latrine for Rams, Kiwis and
Jap contractors alike. Still, better than the old Roman-style shitters
they’d had in the past: Everyone knew your business – saw you doing
it … Back in Yorkshire, the medics had dipped the Rams in all
sorts of vaccines – against anthrax, cholera, smallpox … Allah
knows what. The entire regiment underwent exhaustive ennbeesee
training as well: out on the parade ground in early-morning drizzle,
several hundred men and a few women clambering into plastic all-in-ones
… Ooh, aren’t they cute! This must be how a baby feels,
Gawain had thought at the time, standing zipping himself up, then
peeling back the remove-to-stick seal and affixing it to his … bib.
In front of him the Rams crinkled and crackled as they stashed
their bottles of decontamination fluid away in their bergens. The
entire drill was meant to be completed in three minutes flat, but
Gawain seriously doubted if in battlefield conditions they’d manage
it … in under forty-five – I’ve a hundred and one uses for a dead cat …
so had said Captain Petersen in her medical briefing for squadron
leaders … and a hundred and one ways of treating tummy trouble …
She likes that sort of banter, does Gail: jollying the big babies
along … so there’s absolutely no need for anyone to suffer in silence – at
which PowerPoint there was, naturally enough, a raspberry chorus
from the boys-will-be-babies along the back row. Yes, indeed: there
were a hundred and one ways of treating diarrhoea – trouble was,
after a while, none of ’em fucking work. So all those ennbeesee suits
are being filled up with slurry from the inside: a brown tide rising
and rising, ‘til it submerges our teary eyes. Half the Rams had the
shits on any given day, despite Petersen’s regular top-up briefings
on personal hygiene … mucky boys – mucky little puppies … always
gotta be reminded to wash their paws after playing in … the sandpit.
Oh the feeling, when you’re reeling … Gail’s Welsh, too … you step
Lightly … Gawain steps lightly off the last flimsy tread and … down
to the ground. Trouble is … I’m still lagging – lagging behind his
blond avatar, bulky in its camos and body armour. For a moment he
wonders what’d happen if he drew his sidearm and fired … outside
of the screen – would it magically reload? Because that’s what happens
… at home – I’m lagging … lagging behind the Rams’ valiant
SeeOh, who moves off confidently across the compound, a deeply
superficial zone of intersecting translucent panels, where walls have
mouths-instead-of-ears and helpful instructions float … in mid-air.
Gawain barely notices the trooper on stag, whose challenge
morphs into a strangulated Ssssir! and a sketchy salute – he’s more
interested in this effect: I can see the back of my head! Out there in the
Iraqi night – of course, that’s a far more permissive environment:
Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas’s standing orders are that no one leave
the camp without their rifle loaded and a round chambered –
but that won’t stop things going off inside the compound. The
Rams, like all soldiers, delight in practical jokes – only last week,
Lieutenant Wilton, the TwoEyeSee of B Squadron, introduced one
of the oil-dyed sheep he’d somehow managed to trap – then dress
in suspender belt, panties and a bra – into the trailer shared by
his EnnSeeOhs. Wilton had filmed the scene with night-vision
equipment: half-naked men thrashing about, while the horny devil
was identifiable by its stronger heat signal … As he follows his
virtual self across the compound Gawain considers: These Iraqis
need to understand a bit more about us Brits – understand that
we value two qualities above all others: a genuine capacity for fair
play – and a good sense of humour … He’s reached the main gate and
stands peering into the sandbagged rat-run, with its rumble-strips
improvised with two-by-fours, and its signs silently screaming
STOP! and PREPARE TO BE SEARCHED! in English and Arabic.
There’re a few discarded Cyalumes on the dirty concrete which still
glow … eerily greeny. Troopers are milling about the grandly named
TeeDee
Eff, slovenly in off-duty shorts and flip-flops – the vicious
hanks of razor wire coiled on the roof of the concrete blockhouse,
caught in the sodium glare of the searchlights mounted on the
sangars … sparkle. The troopers are swigging from mineral-water
bottles filled with Foster’s and Christ knows what else … Troopers
Carr and Compton are arsing about, marching hup! two, three,
four! up and down in front of the metal door, Cyalumes stuck up
under their arms swagger-stick style … Their sweaty faces are
Sunny-Delightful in the grimelight. Gawain sees Lieutenant-Colonel
Thomas approach this parody of keeping watch, and Trooper Carr,
sensing his presence, whips round, Cyalume levelled: Halt! Who
goes there? COLONEL THOMAS: The only time you aim a weapon at
someone, Carr, is because you want to shoot them. You were told
that on your first day of basic – and just about every other bloody
day since. TROOPER CARR (Cyalume displayed in his outstretched
palm): But sir, it’s only one of these. COLONEL THOMAS (laughing):
Yeah-yeah, I can see that, Carr – I was just winding you up.
THE CHOIR (from inside the TeeDeeEff, their dry and cracked
lips struggling to form the unfamiliar phonemes): Chhhyour love’s
gomme chhhlookin’ so craazeee ri’ now, Chhhyour touch gomme
chhhlookin’ so craazee ri’ now … COLONEL THOMAS (with a
jerk of his leonine head): What the fuck’s occurring in there?
TROOPER COMPTON: It’s the choir, sir – Captain Cambell sorta …
put it … together. COLONEL THOMAS: A choir? He … formed a
choir, did he? TROOPER COMPTON: That’s right, sir – prisoners’
choir, sir … Gotta make ’em sing, he said – keep ’em singing …
COLONEL THOMAS: But we don’t have any prisoners here, Compton
(another jerk of his leonine head). All you men: this is the theatre
detention facility, got that? You don’t imprison prisoners in a
detention facility, now do you? You imprison prisoners in a bloody
prison – and prisoners-of-war in a prison-of-war camp. THE CHOIR
(throats grating, chests wheezing): Ch-chhhyour love gomme
ch-chhhlookin’ so craazee ri’ now, Ch-chhhyour touch gomme
lookin’ so craazee ri’ now … COLONEL THOMAS: No, what you do
with a temporary detention facility is put detainees in it who’ve been
temporarily … detained. And what do you do with those detainees,
