Phone

by Will Self

  So, clean ’em up a bit, will you – it stinks in here. I know it isn’t

  politically correct, but besides being a damn fine medic, Captain

  Petersen happens to be a lady. MAJOR MCADIE (simpering repulsively

  and making a mincing gesture): Ooh, I’m a la-ady …

  COLONEL THOMAS: Marty … CAPTAIN CAMBELL: Don’t you

  worry, Boss, we’re recording all the teaqueue sessions anyway –

  couldn’t step out of line if we wanted to –. MAJOR MCADIE: And we

  don’t want to. COLONEL THOMAS: Want to what? MAJOR MCADIE:

  Step out of the line, Boss – me and the missus have got very keen on

  the line dancing, we have. She had to drag me along to begin with –

  thought it’d just be a bunch of old fossils Zimmering about, turns

  out lots of younger people’re doing it nowadays as well … COLONEL

  THOMAS (staring hard into MCADIE’S pouchy red guileless face): I’ll

  bear that in mind, Major McAdie. CAPTAIN CAMBELL (conducting

  COLONEL THOMAS from the cell, then swinging open the door

  to the third and darkest of the TeeDeeEff’s chambers): See, Boss,

  we’ve set up a monitoring post in here – our equivalent of the old

  one-way glass. THEWLIS here keeps an eye on everything – makes

  sure it’s all recorded. CORPORAL THEWLIS (rising from the collapsible

  picnic table he’s sitting at so abruptly his white plastic garden

  chair topples backwards): Sir! COLONEL THOMAS: Carry on, Thewlis.

  CAPTAIN CAMBELL (pointing to THE LAPTOP on the picnic

  table): See? Feel free to join Thewlis, Boss. You can watch us take

  one of the detainees through a cycle. Reassure yourself everything’s

  … kosher. (CORPORAL THEWLIS retrieves a second white plastic

  garden chair from the gloomy recesses of the cell and COLONEL

  THOMAS slumps down in it. CAPTAIN CAMBELL leaves, and can

  be heard talking to MAJOR MCADIE next door in undertones.

  COLONEL THOMAS tries to concentrate, but he’s been awake for

  over twenty-two hours – he looks up blearily at the hole hacked in

  the concrete wall which serves as a window, and thinks he sees there

  a huge and tufty caricature of a face … Miffy can’t go upstairs to the

  loo in the new house by herself – not if it’s dark. Says Laura will be up

  there – but grown all giant. Giant clown doll Fi knitted for her – red

  button eyes, thin black-threaded lips … Staring at the back of poor

  Miffy’s head as she … lifts her nightie –. COLONEL THOMAS is jerked

  awake by:) CAPTAIN CAMBELL (shouting but muffled): You’re

  beginning to seriously piss me off! You low piece of shit – you utter

  fucking knob-head. Don’t look away – don’t look away from me!

  Look me in the eye, you disgusting man. You disgust me. Is that

  how your fucking burqa of a mother brought you up? Is it? To sit

  around in your own piss and shit! For fuck’s sake! (The live-feed

  from the camera set up in the interrogation room is lagging so that

  everything CAMBELL shouts in the adjoining cell is repeated a split-second

  later by THE LAPTOP’S crappy speaker.) THE LAPTOP

  (tinnily): You’re beginning to seriously piss me off! You low piece of

  shit … (and so on). MAJOR MCADIE (in Arabic and muffled): My

  colleague is very angry with you – very angry! He says you have a

  head that resembles a door handle and that you are improperly toilet

  trained. He commands you to face him … in the eye looking …

  THE LAPTOP (tinnily and in Arabic): My colleague is very angry

  with you – very angry! (and so on). IRAQI DETAINEE (in Arabic,

  scarcely audible): I do not understand why you are doing this to me –

  I’m an honest man. Honest and peace-loving. When you British

  arrived in Ali al-Garbi, I went out into the street to welcome you –

  I threw flowers! THE LAPTOP: I do not understand why you are

  doing this to me – I’m an honest man … (and so on). MAJOR

  MCADIE: He says he doesn’t understand British, Dave – that’s a

  good one. It’s like he thinks we really speak something called

  British. CAPTAIN CAMBELL: Spare me the fucking commentary

  will you, Marty – just tell me exactly what this bastard is saying.

  (Fully awake once more, COLONEL THOMAS blearies at THE LAPTOP’S

  screen, and sees looming there the IRAQI DETAINEE’S bruised

  and bloody caricature of a face, while to either side of it hang the

  red and sweaty ones belonging to CAPTAIN CAMBELL and MAJOR

  MCADIE.) MAJOR MCADIE: As I said, Dave, a literal translation

  from Arabic’s always tricky: it’s a flowery sorta language, doesn’t

  lend itself to matter-of-fact statements – unlike Parseltongue! (Both

  men laugh.) IRAQI DETAINEE (wonderingly, and in Arabic): Who

  are you idiots? You call this interrogation – this isn’t interrogation. I

  was interrogated by the Mukhabarat after the ninety-one rising –

  the one you and your allies, the Great Satan, said you would support.

  I was taken at dawn, together with six of my fellow fighters,

  to the EssEssOh’s aitchqueue in Kut. The first question they asked

  me – which is the first question any Iraqi asks another he wishes

  to obtain information from – was: Who’s your Sheik? You people

  really are the most consummately, comprehensively ignorant occupiers

  it’s possible to imagine – this remains, at root, a tribal society,

  and over this have been imposed still more divisions – religious,

  ideological, ethnic – such that any given individual will have an

  immensely complex and ever changing network of friends, enemies

  and potential allies. So, in ninety-one, Saddam’s torturers first

  asked who my Sheik was – and then, when I’d told them, they got

  out the car battery and the jump leads. A little later on a chainsaw

  was brought into play – if you clowns had bothered to physically

  examine me you’d know this already. So, I ask again: who are you

  idiots? Clearly you’re not cut from the same cloth as the British

  officers who came here in the nineteen twenties – men my own

  grandfather remembers from his childhood. They were racists, pure

  and simple – yet they took the trouble to study our culture and language

  systematically, whereas you – you! You’re a pathetic joke!

  CAPTAIN CAMBELL: Voluble fucker, ain’t he, Mart. What was all

  that carry-on, then? IRAQI DETAINEE (continuing in Arabic purely

  for his own grim amusement): Nor can you be the descendants of

  the men who were stationed here – because they were mostly Indian

  sepoys. Traditional behaviour on the part of the Little Satan – get

  one subject race to oppress another. But now the Great Satan’s in

  on the act, too – those pictures of the abuse at Abu Ghraib, the

  prisoners all piled up on top of each other – Kurds on top of Sunnis,

  Sunnis on top of Shias – same martial-races policy, really – and

  that Munchkin standing alongside, looking like some public-school

  educated British subaltern of the imperial era, tormented by his

  homosexuality and his inability to grow a bear –. CAPTAIN CAMBELL:

  All right, all right – shut the fuck up with your jabbering.

  Anything in that lot, Marty? MAJOR MCADIE: Difficult to ma
ke

  out, Dave – seemed mostly … background info’. CAPTAIN CAMBELL:

  Not interested in that, we want hard intel’ – and preferably a

  confession. C’mon, Marty, put your fucking back into it – either

  this muppet or one of his mates mowed down Bessemer. Slotted

  Asif as well – a ’terp like you, albeit rather better at his job. His relatives

  – his peeps, they’re still out there, prob’ly with bombs under

  their burqas –. IRAQI WOMEN: Ullalullaullalullaullalullaullalulla!

  IRAQI DETAINEE (musing to himself in Arabic): Could be the

  dawn prayer – these jokers wouldn’t know even know the difference.

  It’s the Fifteenth Night of Shabaan – and they certainly don’t

  know the signif –. CAPTAIN CAMBELL: Will you shut the ruddy-fuck

  up! It’s like you’re … you’re … under the misguided impression

  you’re the important person in this room – that you’re holding the

  fucking conch shell and have the right to speak. Well, you’re not

  holding the FUCKING CONCH SHELL! Can you see a conch

  shell in this dumb rag head’s greasy-fucking-hands, Marty? MAJOR

  MCADIE: Can’t say as I do, Dave … CAPTAIN CAMBELL (screaming

  into the IRAQI DETAINEE’S ear): No! No! No fucking conch

  shell! You’re not the main man here – I’m the fucking main man

  here! If you don’t start cooperating with us, you’re fucking set,

  you are – fucking set: we’ll go round your miserable stinking hovel,

  we’ll rape your mother and your sisters … IRAQI DETAINEE (to

  himself, in Arabic): Always with the raping! I’ve no sister, only one

  much older half-brother – probably not to your taste when it comes

  to sexual violation. And my mother is currently dying of ovarian

  cancer in the hospital the SeePeeAy claims – in a report I’ve

  seen – to’ve rebuilt, but which is in fact a burnt-out shell to this day.

  MAJOR MCADIE: Um … he said ‘ukht, Dave … CAPTAIN CAMBELL:

  What? He said yuck-ten? MAJOR MCADIE: No, he said ‘ukht,

  Dave – it means sister. He said sister – I reckon this one understands

  a sight more British than he’s letting on. CAPTAIN CAMBELL

  (shouting into the IRAQI DETAINEE’S ear): So, you’re holding out

  on us, are you, you fucking fuck! Turns out you’re the only gay in

  the village, does it? (He disappears abruptly from the laptop’s screen

  and can be heard shouting still louder:) Haynes! Haynes! Get your

  sorry arse in here – and bring that crowbar with you … COLONEL

  THOMAS (bleary from his nap, and speaking of inconsequential

  things, as you do): What’s the book, Thewlis? CORPORAL THEWLIS:

  It’s an old Harry Potter one, sir – Harry Potter and the Chamber of

  Secrets. COLONEL THOMAS: Oh … yes … I remember reading

  that aloud to my kids – it’s jolly good, isn’t it? CORPORAL THEWLIS:

  Yes, jolly good, sir – and sorta ‘propriate reading material, given

  the circs … But I can’t wait for the new one – my mum’s gonna go

  into Gateshead, queue up and buy it for me, like. COLONEL

  THOMAS: It’s such a phenomenon, Thewlis – that’ll be a jolly long

  wait. CORPORAL THEWLIS: Jolly long, sir – but she’s a real trooper,

  my mum. She’ll take along a fart sack and some scran – plot up just

  like a Ram on stag –. SERGEANT HAYNES (his voice issuing from

  both tinny speaker and from the vestibule): Ollie-ollie-ollie! THE

  IRON BAR: Zoing! Zoing! Zoing! SERGEANT HAYNES: Ollie-ollie-ollie!

  THE IRON BAR: Zoing! Zoing! Zoing! CAPTAIN CAMBELL

  (speaking through the laptop): You hear that, do you? That’s my

  main man, Billy Haynes, that is – and he isn’t a commissioned

  officer in Her Majesty’s army, you fucking fuck, he’s come up the

  hard way, has Billy. You hear that iron bar? He’s gonna shove it

  right up your homosexual arse if you don’t start giving us some

  answers: What were you doing in Sheik al-Abhadi’s house? Why

  did you have percussion grenades on you and five hundred YouEss

  dollars in cash? Are you a spook? You look like a fucking spook – a

  fucking gay spook! IRAQI DETAINEE (in Farsi): Did my beloved

  only touch me with his lips, I, too, like the flute, would burst into

  melody … But he who is parted from them that speak his tongue,

  though he possess a hundred voices, is perforce … dumb. CAPTAIN

  CAMBELL: Marty? MAJOR MCADIE: Haven’t a bloody clue, Dave –

  it’s not Arabic, must be one of the Persian lingos. CAPTAIN

  CAMBELL: I know you understand English, you piece of shit in

  human form – and if you understand it, you can fucking well speak

  it, eh? So speak to the iron bar! THE IRON BAR: Zoing! Zoing!

  Zoing! COLONEL THOMAS: We mostly read comics in my day –

  English ones were difficult to get when we were overseas, but I’d an

  aunt in Caernarfon who’d send me a bundle every month or so …

  Hotspur … Victor … the Eagle. It was pretty unsophisticated stuff

  by today’s standards, all about square-jawed Brit bulldogs taking

  the fight to the beastly Hun, but I pored over them, sopping it all

  up. CORPORAL THEWLIS: Sir … COLONEL THOMAS (rising unsteadily

  from his white plastic garden chair and looking bemusedly

  at the darkened chamber ill lit by THE LAPTOP’S screen): Oh …

  Oh, well – better be getting on, then … You – you carry on, Thewlis

  … Carry on with your … reading. HARRY POTTER AND THE

  CHAMBER OF SECRETS: Try and stop him – ‘cause I’m a real pageturner,

  so I am – and that’s how I’ve got hundreds of thousands

  of boys like this one into reading, making them capable in due

  course of absorbing the entire Western canon, and along with it the

  values of liberality and tolerance which have underpinned our

  civilisation for millennia. THE IRON BAR: Zoing! Zoing! Zoing!

  Confessiamus! COLONEL THOMAS (distracted): Yes … carry on,

  Thewlis … (He leaves the cell and meets SERGEANT HAYNES in

  the vestibule.) SERGEANT HAYNES: Everything all right? COLONEL

  THOMAS (glancing into the large cell where the IRAQI DETAINEES

  are kneeling, hooded): It’s just like a game of slaps, really …

  SERGEANT HAYNES: Slaps? COLONEL THOMAS: Y’know – like

  boys play at school: you touch your fingertips together and then try

  to slap the other chap before he … slaps you. SERGEANT HAYNES:

  Oh, yeah, slaps. (He strides into the cell and walks along the row of

  IRAQI DETAINEES, yanking down each pair of plasti-cuffed hands.)

  Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap! Fucking slap! IRAQI DETAINEES’

  CHOIR (in yanking order): Ooh! Aah! Eek! Arr! Incomprehensible

  Arabic oath! Fuck you! Aah! SERGEANT HAYNES: That’s it, sir,

  isn’t it – that’s the go of it. COLONEL THOMAS: Yes … well …

  carry on, Haynes. (He takes one last look round at: the stained concrete

  walls and floors, which now and forever are the set-dressing

  of suffering, then leaves the TeeDeeEff. THE AFTER-IMAGE of

  THE LAPTOP’S screen goes with him: a mystically glowing portal

  into another world, beckoning him on across the compound towards

  the Regimental Aid Post. He follows it, oblivious to the restive

  troopers, who’ve crep
t back once more from the squadron lines and

  stand in loose knots, smoking and swearing.) THE AFTER-IMAGE:

  I’ll never leave you, GAYwain, I’ll always be with you – I’ll always

  be right at hand to show you smooth young stomachs with CALVIN

  KLEIN stretched across them … And show you down below, as

  well! Mm! Such loveliness once the male shape-wear is removed …

  COLONEL THOMAS (to himself): I never so much as laid a finger on

  any of the men under my command. THE AFTER-IMAGE: Under

  being the operative word –. COLONEL THOMAS: What’re you

  talking about, you evil sprite! I’m not a bloody paedo! CAPTAIN

  PETERSEN (arriving at a brisk trot and saluting sketchily, her

  handsome face uglified by anxiety): Boss? Boss? Are you okay?

  COLONEL THOMAS: Perfectly all right, Gail – just tired, but then

  we’re all tired, aren’t we? How’s Major Townshend getting on?

  CAPTAIN PETERSEN: Not at all well, I’m afraid –. COLONEL

  THOMAS: Has h-he b-been s-saying things? CAPTAIN PETERSEN:

  Dreadful things, Boss … THE AFTER-IMAGE: If you’ve forgotten

  what the instructor tried to din into you as you drowsed in Lecture

  Room Nineteen after lunch, let me, with my connection to the

  world wide web, reacquaint you with the exact wording: According

  to the United Nations Convention against Torture and Other Cruel,

  Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment, any act is outlawed

  by which severe pain or suffering, whether physical or mental,

  is intentionally inflicted on a person for such purposes as obtaining

  from him information or a confession … COLONEL THOMAS:

  I’m well aware of that, Gail – he said some pretty dreadful things

  to me. THE AFTER-IMAGE: … When such suffering is inflicted

  by, or at the instigation of, a public official or person acting in an

  official capacity, this will constitute under the terms of the Convention

  a … war crime. CAPTAIN PETERSEN: He was really raving,

  Boss – I had to give him a heavy sedative, he’ll be out for hours

  now. COLONEL THOMAS (more focused): Time enough to get him

  down to Shaibah before he starts up again? CAPTAIN PETERSEN

  (bemused): We-ell … I s’pose so, Boss. COLONEL THOMAS: That’s

  the ticket – you carry on, then, Gail, they’re expecting you over at

  the TeeDeeEff. High time those detainees were given their medical