by Lavie Tidhar
‘You get a lot of business here?’ he said. The old man shrugged. ‘Some.’
Chatty. He looked at the book in his hands. The European Campaign. In big bold letters below: An Osama Bin Laden: Vigilante Novel. Smaller letters above: By Mike Longshott, author of “Assignment: Africa”, “Sinai Bombings”, etc. The cover depicting an exploding double-decker bus on a crowded street.
‘Ever read them?’ he asked the old man.
A shrug. ‘Sure.’
‘What do you think?’
‘Load of rubbish, innit.’
‘How much for this one?’
The old man shrugged again. ‘You want film?’ he said. ‘I have original reels.’
Joe wondered: original reels of what?
‘Film posters? Memorabilia?’
‘Just the book would be fine.’
‘I don’t make money on books,’ the old man said.
‘It does say bookshop above the door,’ Joe pointed out. The old man shrugged. ‘That’s just for respectability, like.’
‘Right.’
The man named a price. Joe paid. ‘You got anything else?’ he said, not sure why he did so. The old man squinted at him. ‘Like what?’
‘Stuff,’ Joe said.
‘Stuff,’ the old man said. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’
Joe shrugged. ‘Forget it,’ he said. The old man suddenly chuckled. ‘You mean opium?’
‘Sure,’ Joe said. ‘Opium.’
‘Fought two wars over opium,’ the old man said. ‘No shame in saying the name. I get mine in Chinatown, funnily enough. On account of tradition.’
‘Any place good?’
The old man looked him up and down. ‘Wouldn’t have figured you for an opium eater,’ he said. Joe shrugged. The old man said, ‘Try Madam Seng’s on Gerrard Street. Good ambience, and I supply them with the movies. Old black-and-white stuff.’
‘Thanks,’ Joe said.
‘Don’t mention it.’ The old man was still looking at him curiously. ‘Have I seen you before?’ he said.
‘No.’
The man shrugged. ‘Maybe someone like you,’ he said.
‘Like what?’ Joe said.
The man shrugged again. ‘You know. A fuzzy-wuzzy.’
A fuzzy-wuzzy? What the—?
Joe took the book with him. As he left the doorbell rang again and the cat on the rocking chair opened one eye, only to close it again a moment later.
Joe walked up, leaned against the wall, and looked at the book in his hands. Fuzzy wuzzies?
He leafed through the pages.
— we are at war and I am a soldier —
At 07:21, four men entered the train station at Luton. Hassib Hussain wore dark shoes and trousers, and was bare-headed. Germaine Lindsay wore bright white trainers and carried a shopping bag. Mohammad Sidique Khan wore a white baseball cap. Shehzad Tanweer brought up the rear as they entered the station. All four carried backpacks.
Mohammad Sidique Khan was born at St. James’s University Hospital in Leeds. His father, Tika, was a foundry worker. Mohammad went to South Leeds High School and later to Leeds Metropolitan University. Later still, he worked at Hillside Primary School in Leeds, a mentor for the children of recently-emigrated families. He was described by colleagues as a ‘quiet man’. He was married, with one girl. At the time of his entering the Luton train station, his wife was pregnant with their second child. She later had a miscarriage.
In a filmed segment found after the event, Khan said, ‘Our words have no impact upon you, therefore I’m going to talk to you in a language that you understand.’ He was thirty years old. ‘Our words,’ he said, ‘are dead until we give them life with our blood.’
Hassib Hussain was eighteen. He had also gone to South Leeds School, where his teachers described him as ‘a slow, gentle giant.’ He liked cricket, and was a member of the Holbeck Hornets football team. He lived with his brother at 7 Colenso Mount, Holbeck, Leeds. Shehzad Tanweer was twenty-two; Germaine Lindsay was nineteen.
The four men met up at Luton Station. They drove there in a red Nissan Micra, which Tanweer had rented several days before. They left the car parked by the station. They waited for nearly half an hour at Luton before boarding the 07:48 Thameslink train to King’s Cross. They arrived at King’s Cross at twenty past eight. Half an hour later three of them would be dead.
hobbies for the dead men
——
Joe looked up from the book and drew a deep breath. This was insane. Longshott’s obsessively neat facts and figures seemed designed to snare him, entrap him: names, times, street addresses, hobbies for the dead men. London. He thought: fuzzy-wuzzies, and giggled. Was he searching for Longshott, or was Longshott searching for him? The pulp writer was leaving him a trail of crumbs to follow, and he was following, and the world was slowly unravelling around him, a threadbare tapestry that could no longer quite comfort him against the chill. I could throw it away, he thought. There was a bin nearby. I could drop it and walk away, go back, and if she follows me I will say—
But he had no idea what he’d said. He remembered those pointy ears, pinned back, the soft brown hair; something in her eyes that he could put no words to. She always looked, he thought, like she had more to say to him.
Is that what it came to, he wondered — is it simply that I am afraid to say no to her? All this, the bloodied trail he followed, the shades that fell in his path, fell and were stilled, the questions he didn’t want answered: was it all for her sake, or for his?
His head ached, and he leaned it against the old bricks and closed his eyes. The book felt heavy, unwanted in his hands. He stood up, walked, turned left, and found a pub with unbroken windows, loud music, and few clientele. He purchased a pint and carried it to a table scarred by extinguished cigarettes. He leaned back in his seat, took a swallow of beer, and opened the book again.
— the reality of this situation —
The four men separated at King’s Cross station. Crowds milled through the halls and corridors, up and down escalators, to and from platforms, into and out of trains. Their backpacks were full of homemade explosives.
Mohammad Sidique Khan took the Circle Line. So did Shehzad Tanweer. One went west; the other east. Germaine Lindsay went on the Piccadilly Line. All three activated their charges at 8:50am, within fifty seconds of each other.
Hassib Hussain was meant to travel on the Northern Line. Instead, he had discovered, in the last hour of his life, what every Londoner knew off by heart: you can never rely on public transport.
The Northern Line was closed.
Not sure what to do, the slow, gentle giant went above ground. He stopped at a Boots store in King’s Cross Station. At 09:35 he boarded the number 30 bus to Hackney Wick. The bus was a Dennis Trident 2 double-decker. Its registration number was LX03BUF. At 09:47, as the bus passed through Tavistock Square, Hussain detonated the bomb in his backpack. He was later identified by the remnants of his skull, credit cards and driving license.
Below ground, subterranean London was a world of smoke and fear, twisted metal and bone fragments, a world of darkness, despair, death — and an overwhelming desire to live, as survivors fought to escape out of the tunnels. Passengers not killed in the attack were left in packed, dark carriages. Air filtered in through the smashed glass windows. Passengers talked, trying to reassure each other. From time to time there were screams. They could not leave the train because the live tracks would have electrocuted them. When they did disembark, they journeyed single-file through the tunnels, ghostly in the half-light of the emergency lights. The air was full of dirt that worked its way into people’s lungs and made them choke. When they reached the stations they were lifted up onto the platforms, where they joined others like them, dirty, blackened, bleeding hollow-eyed people who were as yet not sure they really were alive.
‘I and thousands like me are forsaking everything for what we believe,’ Mohammad Sidique Khan said in his recorded statement. ‘Now you too will taste
the reality of this situation.’
a trail of graffiti
——
His head hurt — a blackness behind his eyes, shooting stars. He looked down and saw that his drink remained almost untouched on the table. He felt no desire to drink. He raised his hand and looked at his palm, the lines etched into the skin like tracts that led nowhere, that terminated at dead-ends. The skin around his nails was nicotine-stained yellow. There was a small scar at the base of his thumb and he couldn’t recall where he got it, or how. He left the pub, went outside, and drew in a breath of muggy London air. What did they believe, he thought. What did he believe? He could not taste a reality in his situation. He began to walk, staring at the walls as he passed, not knowing which way he was going, not caring, the darkness behind his eyes expanding and constricting like a heart.
He followed a trail of graffiti. Near an off-license someone had spray-painted the message, Vera Lynn was right.
7/7 again. 9/11. 7/8. 11/12. It was as if a mad mathematician was let loose in the city with unlimited cans of paint.
We are Edwin Drood made no sense.
Mum I miss you.
On the side of a red phone box: Refugees go home.
Behind his eyes, expanding and constricting, the darkness blocking out thought. An adult cinema, an usher staring at him curiously, white-blond eyebrows raised, on the wall, that term again. Fuzzy Wuzzies, I can see you.
Somehow he found himself on Charing Cross Road and the mute fronts of myriad books stared out at him from beyond a prison of glass. Turning, and there was that poster again he had last seen at Papa D’s place, in Paris, the man with the long beard and the clear, penetrating eyes that seemed to look inside him, to sift through the dust and debris that made up his life, and to know him. Wanted: Dead or Alive. Osama Bin Laden, Vigilante. A display of garish paperbacks. Some sort of crime fiction bookshop. Walking, walking, down Shaftesbury Avenue where it was quieter and cooler, on a building of chrome and glass someone had spray-painted the message Madam Seng is a Snake Head and he paused, because there it was again, and suddenly he had too many leads to follow and he guessed they would all be dead-ends and he didn’t want to start. The darkness behind his eyes was alive, rattling doors in his mind that he wanted tightly closed. He walked, not conscious of any particular direction, folding away from Shaftesbury Avenue until music stopped him. An organ played, pouring out a sea of notes that washed over him, halted him, lifted him, and he saw a church and beside it, right where he had halted, the doors of yet another pub.
the angel of St. Giles
——
The interior of the pub was dark and there were people inside and the sounds of conflicting talk. A fire was burning despite the heat outside, but Joe did not find it suffocating; he found it comforting. There was a bar area and the barman was tall and dark and unspeaking, like an extra in a silent movie, and Joe ordered a shot of whisky and drank it and still felt cold. He ordered another one and lit a cigarette and went to stand by the fire. He was shaking, and he didn’t know why.
Conversations came wafting like smoke:
‘So I said to him, is that really a way to run a business? We’ve got ten tonnes a month coming in from India, we need two people just to do the customs clearance, and he wants to—’
‘It’s the shipping costs. Good thing for us the Saudis know what’s expected of—’
‘If we could break open the Japanese market it wouldn’t be so bad, but—’
‘The Asian market has always been too-good a promise—’
‘And he says, do you have a passport? Well, do you?’
‘I liked him in that film, the one with—’
‘And he says, well, how much if we buy this amount a month, and you won’t believe it—’
‘It was a ghost movie. I’m sure that—’
‘Ten tonnes a month!’
‘I’m sure that’s not right.’
‘With that actor who plays a detective, and he has to—’
‘You have to follow the paper trail, that’s what it comes down to. Always keep your eye on the paper trail—’
‘Co-Prosperity Sphere, sure, but how does it benefit us?’
‘Hong Kong—’
‘Don’t say Hong Kong to me, you know perfectly well that—’
‘A passport for what? I mean, it’s not like we’re back in World War Two, is it? So I said to him—’
‘It’s the Saudis, it’s a good thing we’ve got our hand firmly on the rudder, if you know what I’m saying—’
‘With that actress who plays the love interest, what’s her name—’
‘Opium. You can use it to finance wars or heal the sick. That’s what he says to me. The cheek of it! As if we’re not already paying enough—’
‘You know that joke, the one with the elephant—’
‘Ten tonnes!’
‘Does he die in the end?’
Joe shuddered. In the fireplace the flames danced to the beat of an unseen drum. He saw a small blue plaque fixed to the wall: The Angel Inn. Here, in the middle ages, the condemned would stop for a final drink before proceeding to the gallows in St. Giles’ Circus.
Below, in black marker pen, someone had scribbled: So have a drink!
‘The Americans would have you believe they won the war single-handedly—’
‘The Russian Deal—’
‘And there’s a pink elephant in the room! A pink elephant! And no one wants to admit to seeing it. You know that expression—’
‘I need another drink. You want one?’
‘What’s the time?’
‘Time for another drink.’
‘Oil isn’t the problem, it’s the—’
‘But I can’t remember who the bad guys were. Was it ever even explained?’
‘Ten tonnes! And what does he want to go for instead? What? Tea. How much bloody tea can you drink?’
‘Built the empire on—’
The talk swirled round and round in Joe’s head, snatched sentences meaningless, the volume too high, the voices of the condemned, dead men talking, the flames dancing in the fire and he smashed his glass against the wall, the fragments cutting into his skin, blood running between his fingers, and he left a bloodied handprint on the wall as the conversations died around him and the bartender came from behind the bar and said in a quiet, almost voiceless voice: ‘Perhaps you should leave now, sir.’
Joe stared at his hand, made a fist and released it, watched the tiny glass shards moving like silent boats across a bloodied sea. He could no longer find shelter in those places of the world where peace could be bought for the price of a drink. The realisation physically hurt him. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again saw only the impassive face of the bartender, heard that empty, featureless voice again say, from inside hollow eyes and bleached-white skin: ‘I think you should leave. Now, sir.’
The conversations returned, the voices louder, drowning out thought. Joe nodded. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said. The bartender nodded. ‘This way, sir,’ he said; and, gently taking hold of Joe’s elbow, he led him to the door.
the one clear thread
——
London was full of angels, it seemed to Joe. He didn’t know what was happening to him. The darkness behind his eyes was pounding at him; he could not find solace in drink; his mind refused to quiet down, was dancing like the flames he had been watching, was forcing him down dark pathways he did not want to take. London was a road-map, its directions less than helpful. People went past him. His hand was throbbing. He flexed his fingers and found satisfaction in the pain. A waking up. He walked, turned the corner, and was at St. Giles’ Circus, but there were no gallows there.
Traffic crawled past him. The Circus was a four-way traffic jam. He waited for the lights to change, crossed over to the butt-end of Charing Cross Road where it meets Oxford Street, and found himself before the open entrance to the London underground.
He stared inside. People came and went, shovi
ng past him. Stairs led down into the ground. Light bulbs cast a yellow glow over the entranceway. He could hear rumbling far down below, and voices seemed to call out to him, to whisper through the throng of people, a wedding feast for the circus performers, chanting through a silver screen. He shook his head and suddenly it cleared, and he knew that he was scared.
He turned away. There were leads for him to follow, a goal that was clear in its simplicity. Do the job he was hired to do. Find the man he was hired to find. Be a detective. He felt relief, and the blackness was gone, and he felt light-headed. He lit a cigarette and it tasted good, and he turned away from the entrance and walked down Charing Cross Road, ignoring the books in the windows, and realised he was hungry and still hadn’t eaten that day. There was a maze around him but he didn’t need to follow every turn: all he had to do was follow the one clear thread that would lead him out. At a stall in Leicester Square he bought himself a sandwich and ate it as he walked back to the hotel. At the Regent Palace he found comfort in the quiet abandoned corridors with their faint smell of disuse, had a long hot shower in a cubicle and, back in his room, bandaged his hand and then lay in the bed. Someone had come in while he was gone and changed the sheets, and they felt cool and soft against his skin, and he sighed and, turning over, clutched the pillow against his chest and fell asleep.
IN STATIS
men like clouds
——
Early morning. The room in darkness. A scratch at the door. The bed cold underneath him, feeling disused. Joe in the space between sleep and waking — aware, but disinclined to move. Someone outside trying the door, quietly. He never dreamed any more. Something clicked the other side of the door. Joe’s hand throbbed, the pain reassuringly real. The door opened, softly, letting in a band of light. A dark shape in the doorway, face obscured by shadows, but he could see the black shoes, a short-sleeved chequered shirt, thought back to Vientiane — which seemed a life-time ago.
