Phone

by Will Self

  rejecting the call): Confiscated, Boss. (He grabs the canvas bag

  and, opening it wide, displays its contents to COLONEL THOMAS.)

  Nothing this lot love more than a good natter on the phone – look

  at all these … latest models, some of ’em. THE CONFISCATED

  PHONES (shifting about in the canvas bag as MCADIE pokes it

  in a manner reminiscent of a doctor performing a scrotal exam):

  Clickety-clackety, snickety-snackety … COLONEL THOMAS:

  Bagsie. MAJOR MCADIE (passing the bag): What d’you want ’em

  for, Boss? COLONEL THOMAS: No biggie, Marty, but I dunno …

  What with that lot freaking out by the gate – and not really knowing

  exactly who we’ve scooped up – I think a comms lock-down is

  best policy. Tizer was meant to’ve collected up all sat phones on

  establishment – any cheapo Iraqi ones the men’ve picked up in the

  bazaar as well. I’m going to lodge them all with the Provost and

  he’ll issue the chits in the morning. Radio silence ‘til rouse-up,

  understood? MCADIE and CAMBELL (resentful of their own conditioned

  obedience): Boss! COLONEL THOMAS: And make sure the

  men from Bessemer’s multiple don’t come sneaking back over here –

  no funny business, right? MCADIE and CAMBELL: Boss! COLONEL

  THOMAS: You’re on your own time now – and I’d appreciate

  some concrete intel’ at the end of it. I’m going to see what Major

  Townshend is doing about the sitch on the gate. (Carrying the BAG

  o’ PHONES, COLONEL THOMAS leaves the TeeDeeEff. CAPTAIN

  CAMBELL watches him go, observing that, while the SeeOh has a

  martial bearing, he’s cursed with round and womanly hips. Removing

  the Biro from the clipboard he bought at the Ousegate Ryman’s,

  CAPTAIN CAMBELL doodles distractedly at the bottom of the list of

  Iraqi names … Gawain … Hay Wain … Haywain … Gaywain …

  The SeeOh has stopped halfway across the compound, and stands

  swinging the BAG o’ PHONES in one hand while he hearkens to the

  eerie Ullalullalullaalullalulla! coming from beyond the main gate.

  CAPTAIN CAMBELL, who’s done some bugling, appreciates the

  Iraqi women must be breathing in even as they ululate, so sending

  this stream of lamentation past their hummingbird tongues …

  again annagain. The SeeOh moves on once more, stops, changes

  direction, moves on again … he’s lagging and CAPTAIN CAMBELL

  also wonders: Is he rich? A colonel in a line regiment would almost

  certainly have some private means, but, judging by COLONEL

  THOMAS’S dishevelled appearance when off-duty, and the clapped-out

  Volvo estate he drives, he must have to survive on his salary.

  And there’s no way he’ll promote out of command after this balls-up,

  whereas he, CAPTAIN CAMBELL, might well be the man of the

  hour: bracing the rag heads effectively – getting the vital intel’

  the spooks need, and in the process meting out summary justice on

  men who’ve been perverted by violence … This, along with “private

  means” being an expression much used by CAPTAIN CAMBELL’S

  mother, a Scots lady of a certain age, who’s dressed top to toe by the

  Edinburgh Woollen Mill. MISSUS CAMBELL (in her son’s mind):

  You’ve no private means, Davey – you’ll be out by the age of forty,

  and what then? You’ll be an oddity – there’s no respect any more for

  those who sacrifice their careers for the sake of public service. Think

  of Mister Baines … (MISTER BAINES being a former Captain in

  the Paras, who’s the Secretary at the links south of Nairn where

  CAPTAIN CAMBELL and his mother often play a brisk nine holes.

  Passing by the open door of MISTER BAINES’S cubbyhole office,

  CAPTAIN CAMBELL once saw the Secretary stabbing at his own

  hand, quite savagely, with a brass golf tee. A glass of neat whisky sat

  by his jerking elbow – it was ten in the morning.) You see, Davey,

  no private means, and perverted by violence … COLONEL THOMAS

  shakes his head, separating this imagined scene into its component

  parts: tweed skirt … golf tee … whisky … Such flights of fancy aren’t

  my style – but he knows where this one took off: He suspects ME,

  Cambell – really suspects ME … A slideshow clicks past COLONEL

  THOMAS’S exhausted eyes: all the occasions on which he’s dodged

  the accusatory bullet – or caught it deftly in mid-air, flipped it over

  and sent it back towards his tormenter. But now … What’d

  Jonathan always said? To maintain an effective cover story you need

  constantly to rehearse its details – where you live, what you do – the

  little private endearments you bestow on your “wife”. Your interrogators

  will be looking for the slightest inconsistencies, so it needs

  to be on the tip of your tongue … Semper Fi.) COLONEL THOMAS

  (hefting the BAG o’ PHONES): But where’re the rest of the phones –

  there ought to be more phones? (At last he moves decisively towards

  the squadron lines: the men’s tents are ranged in four rows of ten.

  Between them and the T-wall the Engineers built to shore up

  the fourth side of the compound sit THE OFFICERS’ TRAILERS:

  streamlined, off-white canisters jacked-up on breeze-blocks.) THE

  OFFICERS’ TRAILERS: We’re cold but we’re old. We’re no kind

  of hard cover, either – one or two eighty-ones, walked up the path

  and lobbed over the garden gate – we’d crumple up like tin cans.

  COLONEL THOMAS: That’s quite enough out of you lot. (He moves

  between the tents, angling for THE TRAILER on the far left.)

  THE TRAILERS: Bubble-bubble, groan-groan, scccrrrreeeaaal …

  COLONEL THOMAS (musing aloud): Strange the men don’t resent

  us having air con’ – then I ‘spect they realise those units are pumping

  out bloody Legionnaire’s … THE TRAILERS: We’re diseased

  death traps – you’d best believe it. (COLONEL THOMAS approaches

  THE TRAILER at the end of the row, mounts its flimsy steps, knocks

  on its flimsy door – which swings open. He enters, feeling the surface

  shift beneath his boots in an unsettling way. It’s gloomy and

  chilly in THE TRAILER, and as he advances the sweat on his chest,

  back and arms cools unpleasantly.) COLONEL THOMAS: Tizer?

  Tizer? You in here, mate? (A laptop computer, cracked open on the

  worktop, catches COLONEL THOMAS’S eye. He picks it up and prises

  screen and keyboard apart. A slideshow is under way: Tizer on

  exercise in the Brecon Beacons, Tizer in the mess back at the Rams’

  aitchqueue, Tizer on holiday in some tropical paradise – in all of

  these photos the six-foot, fourteen-stone cavalry major is cradling

  either a cute puppy or an adorable kitten, his expression guardedly

  winsome.) COLONEL THOMAS (sensing THE TRAILER is occupied):

  Wonder who he got to take them … MAJOR TOWNSHEND (who

  sits on the floor between a storage unit and the foot of the folded-down

  bed): Hnnn … Hnnn … COLONEL THOMAS (crouching

  down): For Christ’s sake, Tizer, you all right? MAJOR TOWNSHEND

  (his voice gruff, muffled by his hands): If they’re that bloody f-fat,

  how c-can they wipe their arses? COLONEL THOMAS: What’s that?


  What did you say, Tizer? MAJOR TOWNSHEND: I said, if they’re so

  f-fat, how can they WIPE THEIR ARSES! COLONEL THOMAS:

  How can who, Tizer? How can who wipe their arses? MAJOR

  TOWNSHEND: Fat bastards, Greeny – those fat bastards with big

  bellies and big buttocks, and those little chicken-wing arms stuck

  way up on their fat shoulders – how can they reach to … wipe …

  their … arses? How, Greeny? (He grasps the foot of the bunk

  and hauls himself semi-upright, releasing a foul stench.) COLONEL

  THOMAS: Oh, Jesus, Tizer – have you been drinking? (This isn’t a

  query, although COLONEL THOMAS senses there are more powerfully

  deranging forces at work here besides alcohol: MAJOR

  TOWNSHEND has shat himself.) MAJOR TOWNSHEND: How could

  I possibly be fucking pissed, when the SeeOh’s imposed a FUCKING

  TWO-CAN RULE! COLONEL THOMAS (persisting with

  the logic of the exchange, although he’s now realised his TwoEyeSee

  has suffered a catastrophic mental breakdown): C’mon, Tizer,

  old chap – y’know it’s only a guideline – I’ve certainly never enforced

  it rigidly in the officers’ mess: you and that Kiwi captain did for the

  best part of a bottle of Jay an’ Bee the other night –. MAJOR TOWNSHEND:

  Not talking ‘bout booze, Greeny – talking ‘bout shit …

  two cans of shit. Got two cans of shit … (He lets go of the bunk

  and topples sideways on to the floor, where he lies, curled up and

  sobbing.) I’ve shat myself, Greeny … I’ve shat myself … COLONEL

  THOMAS: What’s got into you, Tizer – did something happen? Was

  it the incoming when you were up on the gate? (He hears CAPTAIN

  PETERSEN’S touchy-feely voice even as he speaks – she tried her

  therapeutic banter on him during the pre-deployment flap: It’s

  not a case of musts or shoulds, Colonel – we can feel very oppressed by

  such inflexible commands …) MAJOR TOWNSHEND: I’m just fed

  up with it, Greeny … wiping your arse – it’s too far to reach,

  mate … Can’t get up there any more, ‘sides, I was meant to …

  THE TRAILER (rocking on its worn-out suspension): Crrreeeaaak-crrreeeaaak,

  crrreeeaaak-crrreeeaaak! He was meant to be SeeOh –

  you only got promoted ‘cause of your father-in-law: you crawled up

  his daughter’s cunt to get into his back passage –. MAJOR TOWNSHEND:

  … command the regiment – I was. Passed out from

  the Academy above you – I was only just pipped for the Queen’s

  Medal, wasn’t I … Did a sight better than you at Staff College as

  well … COLONEL THOMAS (laying a hand on his shoulder and

  speaking kindly): Listen, Tizer, I dunno about all that – what I do

  know is we’ve an evolving situation here – I daresay the Jam and the

  Badr bunch are equally pissed off about what went down today –

  can’t you hear the women outside the gate? IRAQI WOMEN:

  Ullalullaullalullaullalullullalulla! MAJOR TOWNSHEND: Yeah, I can

  hear ’em, Greeny – what d’you want me to do about it? (He struggles

  to rise, releasing more shitty gusts.) D’you seriously think

  they’re gonna attack? COLONEL THOMAS: Shouldn’t think so – they

  know the catfish air boys are within a few minutes’ fly-time. Have a

  gunship overhead popping off perfectly targeted cannon fire be –.

  (He stops short, overcome by the absurdity of discussing operational

  matters with a big man who’s curled up like a baby, and who’s shat

  himself … like a baby.) Listen, old man, we’ve gotta get you to the

  rap – get you cleaned up. See what Gail reckons to it. MAJOR

  TOWNSHEND: She wanted me – y’know that, don’t you? COLONEL

  THOMAS: Who? Not Gail, surely? MAJOR TOWNSHEND (rolling

  over on to his back and addressing his SeeOh formally): No,

  not Captain Petersen, sir – Princess Di. COLONEL THOMAS: The

  Princess of Wales? What’re you on about, Tizer? MAJOR TOWNSHEND:

  When we were still at Catterick and she came up on an

  official visit and stopped by the Wives’ Club – long before she palled

  up with that grease-ball … Not that I’m bothered, ‘cause she never

  done it with him – wouldn’t do that … Wouldn’t muss up her …

  hair. PRINCESS DIANA’S HAIR (which hangs in the gloom midway

  between the two officers, a disembodied nineteen eighties do, the

  tips of which curl into whispering lips): I never let him touch

  me with his oily Muslim hands – never let him run his soiled fingers

  through me. MAJOR TOWNSHEND: You see it, Greeny, you see

  her hair? COLONEL THOMAS (rising unsteadily to his feet): I …

  feel … dizzy. THE LAPTOP: You spin me right round, baby, right

  round –. MAJOR TOWNSHEND (singing): Like a record, baby,

  round-round –. (He stops and speaks.) And you’re a poof, Greeny,

  so you are. COLONEL THOMAS: You – you what? MAJOR TOWNSHEND:

  You heard me: you’re a fucking woolly-woofter! You …

  you … (laughs) … thinking no one in the regiment knows – that’s

  gotta be the funniest thing ever, ‘cause everyone knows, Colonel

  GAYwain. THE LAPTOP: Uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh, oh no …

  COLONEL THOMAS (bending down and wedging his hand in

  MAJOR TOWNSHEND’S armpit): C’mon now, Tizer, that’s enough –

  I want the Doc to take a look at you. THE LAPTOP: Yeah, you

  borrowed me last night – claimed you were gonna watch some

  utterly bone film, but really you spent hours looking at Calvin-fucking-Klein

  male underwear models – don’t you know anything,

  you plank: when you surf anywhere on the web you leave a big

  fucking spunky trail. COLONEL THOMAS (grabbing THE LAPTOP,

  squinting at the screen and frenziedly manipulating its keys):

  I’m gonna fetch Gail in a sec’, Tizer – get her orderly, too. Get

  them to calm you down! MAJOR TOWNSHEND (sinisterly calm): I’m

  perfectly calm, GAYwain – it’s you who’re in a poofy-fucking-tizzy.

  COLONEL THOMAS (jabbing repeatedly at the backspace key and

  watching the cursor eat a long string of letters, numerals and symbols):

  I’m not in a tizzy … I’m not – I’ve got the sitch … under …

  control … THE RAINBOW WHEEL (spinning on the screen): You

  spin me right round, baby, right round … THE LAPTOP (joining

  in): Like a record, baby, right round like a –. COLONEL THOMAS

  (slamming shut THE LAPTOP): Okay, that’s enough – you’ve shat

  yourself, Tizer, that’s how calm you are! (He strides the two paces

  to THE TRAILER’S door.) THE TRAILER: Creeeaaak-creeeaaak!

  Creeeaaak-creeeaaak! A single eighty-one round on top of me and

  you’d both be brown bread – I’m not a military vehicle at all, I’m a

  holiday home – same model as that buck-toothed twat who used to

  be foreign secretary drags behind her on her creeeaaak-creeeaaak

  hols! COLONEL THOMAS: I’m gonna lock this door from the outside,

  Tizer – but you’ll only be alone here for a few minutes …

  MAJOR TOWNSHEND: Yeah-yeah … Whatever – what do I care,

  GAYwain. You done me now, boyo – you’ve unpacked my …

  fudge. THE KEY: Screutch-eutch. THE LOCK: Ickle-snickle-snikk.

  (COLONEL THOMAS stands on the steps staring
distractedly into

  the mid-distance, to where the ceaselessly revolving RAINBOW

  WHEEL slips in and out of the searchlights’ beams.) THE RAINBOW

  WHEEL: Establishing network connection … Establishing network

  connection … Establishing network connection … COLONEL

  THOMAS (massaging his stinging eyes with thumb and forefinger

  as he muses aloud): Well, this could well be it – could be all over …

  Truth out – marriage over, career too … Prob’ly best for all concerned

  if it were … Jonathan and I – we could go to Bardney …

  buy the business off of Brian and John – make a proper go of

  it … they haven’t even thought of getting a web site built yet …

  THE RAINBOW WHEEL (still spinning in the maroon nowhere):

  Don’t you looooove faaaarce … ? THE LOUDSPEAKER (bolted to

  the minaret of a mosque three hundred metres south-west of the

  compound): Myyyyy faaauuult IIIIIIII feeeeeaaaaar … ! COLONEL

  THOMAS: Kids can visit at weekends – plenty of room for them …

  Be a bit peculiar to begin with, but they’ll enjoy the old place – it’s

  quaint … Make beds up for them in those little attic rooms …

  Have to be a bit circum– well, Miffy still comes into our bed sometimes

  … in the night. Fi’ll prob’ly be a bit angry to begin with …

  THE LOUDSPEAKER: IIIIII thooouuught thaaat yooouuu’d waaant

  whaaat IIIIII waaant … COLONEL THOMAS: Odd for Jonathan

  as well – quite a change of scene … and pace. Still, he grew up

  in a bit of a backwater, he’ll readjust – and we’ll have our love.

  THE LOUDSPEAKER: Where are the clow-ow-ow –. SERGEANT

  LANDON (arriving at speed, in helmet and body armour, and

  carrying his rifle): Sir! (He salutes smartly.) COLONEL THOMAS:

  What’s occurring, Landon? SERGEANT LANDON: Just been on

  the radio net, sir … it … it doesn’t look like Bessie’s gonna …

  gonna … COLONEL THOMAS: Pull yourself together, Landon.

  SERGEANT LANDON: Sorry, sir. They got Bessie down to Main all

  right, but he’d lost a lot of blood and they’ve been operating for

  hours … They aren’t very ho-ho-ho –. COLONEL THOMAS: Don’t

  worry … THE RAINBOW WHEEL (very faint but still spinning): …

  I’m heeeeeere! SERGEANT LANDON: Thing is, Boss, men’ve somehow

  got wind and they’re up and about again – in a pretty aggy