by Jon McGregor
Too right there is love, too fucking right.
Her hair falling hotly down the back of her neck, gathered in a handful held away from her head, hoping for a breeze to blow down and cool her skin. But there’s nothing. No movement. No sound. Waiting in the long corridor for a door to open and her name to be called.
Waiting here now for all our names to be called.
Mike. Heather. Danny. Ben. Steve. Ant. Here we all are now.
Present and correct.
Waiting at the checkpoint for the policeman to give him back his passport. On that empty road in the Bosnian hills somewhere. If he was even a policeman. The valley falling away to one side. Gorse bushes and stunted pine trees and the smell of sunbaked rock. Patrick jigging his legs up and down and Steve telling him to calm down and shut up and calm down. The guide sitting between them silently, his eyes lowered. The two policemen talking together by the side of the road, kicking loose stones away down the hillside, flicking through the pages of his passport one more time and glancing up at him. One of them making a big show of patting his pockets before stepping over to the truck and calling up through the window. Cigarettes? My friend, cigarettes? The heat in that cab, the windows wound right down but no breeze blowing through and the sweat streaming down them all. Reaching under his seat for another packet of cigarettes and tossing them down to the policeman. If he was a policeman.
And talking to the others in the cracked gloom of Robert’s flat. Listen to this though I’ll tell you something. This was when. Not long ago. Years after it happened. Raising his voice against the music racket going off in the kitchen. Mike and some other kid going out into the hallway and not listening at all. Robert only half looking at him and Heather saying Go on Stevo I’m listening. Bristol John shouting on about someone nicking his lighter, going Where’s me bastard lighter now then. The front door banging open and closed, open and closed. A smell like pear drops coming from the kitchen, and Ben charging in and out of the room, Bristol John saying It’s all right I was fucking sitting on it weren’t I, and Heather saying Go on Stevo I’m waiting, I’m listening.
So then this policeman blows a big cloud of smoke up into the air and says Where you want go? Which he knew already. He’d asked them twice, he’d seen their documents and everything. It was just part of the power game. The games you play when you’re holding the cards. When you’re holding the guns. Just like when we were in Northern Ireland. It’s all the bloody same. Patrick still jigging his leg up and down and the two of them running with sweat and the guide still not saying a thing. And the policeman says You open the truck, you show me what you have. Please, you show us now. So then all three of them climb down and open the doors of this hired white truck. On this hot afternoon in the middle of Bosnia. What were they doing in bloody Bosnia. The two policemen looking through the pallets of blankets, the cases of medical supplies, the shoeboxes donated by the shop’s customers who’d filled each one with a handful of games and toys. Pencils, crayons, notebooks, tennis balls, gloves, chocolate bars, action figures, wind-up cars and finger puppets and yo-yos and balls of string. A snow-globe of Big Ben with a red London bus which vanished in a swirl of snow flakes when Steve held it up and shook it for the policeman’s benefit. Like, There you go boss, are you happy now. All the work it had taken to get this lot together, to hire the truck and pay for the fuel and drive all the way over there, and now these two jokers were tearing into it all, emptying out the boxes, helping themselves to a few of the things that took their fancy, toys and crayons and balloons. For their own children it must have been, Steve thought. And then they climb out, and Patrick shuts the door, and the policemen give them back their passports. And then they all just stand there. The guide isn’t saying anything. He’s shaking. Just, bloody, shaking. There’s no other traffic on the road. It’s not even a road, it’s just a line of gravel and crushed rock winding up round the hill, and somewhere over the hill is this place they’re trying to get to. So then the policeman says.
Heather hardly even awake and Steve still telling the story. Bristol John looking up suddenly and going What’s that fucking smell. What the fuck is that fucking smell now. Standing up and patting his trousers and touching the lino and going Oh fuck it I’m wet, looking down at Heather and going Heather you stupid cow, what you done? Heather looking up at him, and looking down at herself, and people coming in from the kitchen to see what’s going on. Cheering, laughing. Heather pulling herself to her feet, falling down, getting up again. Going Oh fuck now look what I’ve gone and done. Going I thought I already went for a piss, I thought I didn’t need to go again. Looking at Steve and going My cunt lied to me. Cracking and wheezing with laughter, and going I didn’t think I needed to go for a piss but my cunt lied to me. Everyone shouting with laughter.
What were they even doing in bloody Bosnia.
Is there anything else you’d like to share with the group. Take your time. We can wait. Perhaps you’d like to explore some of the emotions generated by this episode. Or perhaps you’d like to keep your mouth shut and your arms folded until the time’s up and you can get your script. Keep your eyes on the clock. And the stone tiles. And the deep stainless-steel sinks.
I don’t know Father, do you think He believes in you.
Mike waiting in a room with one of those therapy blokes or doctors one time. Exploring the issues and all that. Going I wouldn’t mind it that much though la, that’s not the problem. Straight up, I don’t think I’d even have mental-health problems in the first place if the voices were just a bit nicer to me, you know what I’m saying?
Waiting for the gear to cool in the syringe, and peeling back your clothes to find the vein. Stroking the skin on your arms, running cold steady fingers down the pulsing cords of your neck. Easing your trousers down and spreading your legs to find the bruised and scabbing entry-wounds along your fem. There, or there, or there. Hushed and holding your breath.
Waiting to feel the gear hit home, those long seconds between sticking in the pin and the gear doing what it does to your body and your brain and whatever else, your, fucking, soul. Waiting for all that pain to just get taken away. Wiped away, washed away. Or waiting for the meth to seep into you and get rid of that rattling for a few hours more, get rid of all the things that come up on you with the sickness. To hold you for the few hours while you work on getting sorted again. To keep the troubles away. The fucking troubles. The things that come to mind when you’d rather they didn’t come to mind, certain things. Certain things which if you’re not careful they all come pouring out the same way your guts come pouring out when you get sick, when you go too long without getting sorted. Comes pouring out of you. When you’d rather it didn’t. When you’d rather none of it came to mind.
Waiting outside the chemist’s all them mornings, Mike and Danny and Heather and Laura and Bristol John, Stevie, Maggie, Ben, necking our little paper cups of meth, draining the thick green syrup and licking our lips and Mike going Eh now if it weren’t for this stuff there’d be a what’s it called, a like uprising or insurrection or something you know what I’m saying.
It’s the opium of the masses is what it is pal.
Steve wasn’t bothered but he waited a while before he talked to Heather again. Bang out of line what she said and there was no call for it. Waited a while before he went round there or he talked to her again. Didn’t bother him. But it was one reason why he weren’t there for the Christmas dinner with the others. Plus it was something else. Waiting for Ant, for what Ant was cooking up.
Sausages wrapped in bacon and roast parsnips and proper horseradish sauce. Don’t sort of get to eat proper horseradish sauce that often. Steve would have loved it. So why didn’t Heather notice when he wasn’t there. Or did she. Always been there before.
Robert would have loved it but he’d never been there for years. Never left his flat for years had he. Too scared of something. Of what. Of having his flat repossessed while he was gone was it. Thought as long as he stayed put they couldn’
t do nothing. Said it was all he had left and he’d fight anyone for it.
They never even tried though did they but. Must have been getting enough housing off him or something. Or must have just forgot or lost his file down the back of the desk or something.
And all the presents they gave out at the Christmas dinner, all the decorations. All the volunteers down there and it all just makes Boxing Day even worse.
Jesus. Boxing Day. One day of the year makes you miss a family no matter what. Cold and quiet outside, everywhere closed, quiet like a fucking grave. And all the lights on in the houses. And all the houses full of people sleeping it off in armchairs with plates of leftovers spread around the room and their families close by all around them. The day centre all closed up and you realise the day before was just pretend, just another fucking pantomime.
Round about then that Steve hooked up with Ant. After that business with Heather. Found him on the wasteground behind the day centre when they were all waiting for it to open one morning, helped him out and they ended up both sorting a new place to stay.
And then Ant sorted him out in turn. When Robert was waiting for someone to come back and find him that’s where he was, watching Ant cooking up something new.
That’s where we all were, when it comes down to it.
Except Laura. Where was she. In the back of that taxi and going where. Going to rehab, Danny says. Out to the country.
Fucking, ombudsman.
The doctor or whoever going Mike, perhaps when you feel the need to communicate with these voices.
That poster they always have up at these therapy places, going For all its drudgery and fucking sham this is still a whatever.
This huge stretch of wasteground covered in weeds and flowers and trees and piles of rubble. Like a bloody nature reserve or something, birds and butterflies and all that and when you’re out in the middle of it you can’t hardly hear the traffic. Good place to go drinking. Steve walking through there for a piss one morning and near enough fell over this lad just lying there looking up at the sky. This was Ant. Steve asked him if he was all right down there, and the lad nodded, and Steve said Right then and went off for his piss. Hadn’t even finished when Ant goes Actually can you help us out though marra?
And what about the rest of us, when Robert was lying there waiting for help. Or when he, what was it. Like Ben. When he got out of the cells and he could have gone straight up there could he. But he was looking for Mike. He was looking for anyone. Looking for some way of scoring as quick as he could, fucking rattling and cramping all over, running doubled-up through the streets like he was ducking for cover. Where was Laura then, when he wanted to find her. Wanted some company. Always looking for company. But there weren’t no one around, it seemed like. When he got out of the cells. This was, what, day after Boxing Day it must have been, or the day after that. No one around. Like some kind of ghost-town and that. Reminded him of something, reminded him of that time he got back from school and the people who ran the children’s home had like done one and there was just these social workers there going Ah, now, Benjamin, the thing is there’s a small problem here. A few issues. What were they called. Bradshaw. Mark and Susie. Call me Mark. They’d taken loads of stuff out of everyone’s rooms while they were at school and fucked off to Spain or Portugal or somewhere. Call me Mark, call me Susie. Fucked off because it turned out some other kids who’d been there before had been talking about what had supposedly happened to them, some kind of interfering and all that. And these social workers had taken them all off to a bunch of other children’s homes, asking them all these questions, going Don’t worry now if there’s anything you need to talk to us about. Going Did they ever make you feel uncomfortable, Benjamin, did they ever ask you to, all that.
Got out the cells and there weren’t no one around. But he found a dealer he knew, got himself a bag, got himself off down the carpark basement which was the closest place he could find to cook up and he was pretty fucking desperate by then.
And how long had Ant been lying on his back in that wasteground, waiting for someone to come by and help. All night it must have been. Spent the evening drinking with some kids he didn’t know, and when he woke up they’d all gone and they’d taken his crutches with them. Couldn’t get far without them. Couldn’t get nowhere but. So he’d stayed where he was, and waited. He’d done it before like. What else could he do. Watched the stars going out above him, the sky going purple as the night drained away out of it, the sun breaking into the morning from somewhere in the corner of his eye. Weeds and flowers coming into focus, dew forming on petals and leaves. A spider stringing up a web between two thistle stems. Moths and bees spilling out into the day. Weren’t all that bad a place to have spent the night. Bit cold though but. Bit boring after a while.
And then there was Steve, looking down at him, the glare of the sun behind his head and his knob already poking out of his trousers. Great big-bellied sod with his ruined hand hanging by his side and his eyes all screwed up with drink and confusion.
Like some kind of saviour but.
The two of them hobbling out of there, Ant’s arm around Steve’s shoulder and Steve’s arm around Ant’s waist and Ant hopping along the trodden-down path. Looking like brothers in arms or some bollocks like that. Talking all the way to the day centre. Looking like a couple of kids in a three-legged race. I did have a peg-leg but would you credit I managed to lose it, Ant said. He was on the waiting list for another one but he was going to have to go back to his home town for it and it was taking him a while to deal with a few like situations. Like someone nicking his crutches the night before, for one.
His empty trouser leg hanging and swinging like a long wet rag.
Soon found out they’d both been in the army. Ant had only done a couple of years but that was good enough for Steve. Hadn’t even been out long. Went to Afghanistan, he said, Helmand. Came back without firing a shot.
The clock on the wall pointing almost to morning now and our waiting coming to an end. Robert somewhere behind those doors. Boxes of gloves on shelves along the wall. Deep stainless-steel sinks. Voices somewhere in the building, laughter, doors opening and closing. Someone saying We’ll be bringing that big one through this morning. All of us here, standing or sitting or leaning against the wall, still waiting. It’s something we know how to do. Something we’ve had the practice at. We’ve got the time. All the time in the world.
Steve waited a few weeks before asking Ant what had happened to his leg. Waited until they’d sorted out a new place to stay, got it cleaned up and settled in. Told him about Port Stanley again, and about going to Bosnia although he left out all the stuff about what was her name, Maria, Martina, Marie. Marie. Got to the bit where the policeman shut the doors of the truck again, and gave them back their passports, and said So, now, where you want go?
Ant cooking up a big spoonful of gear while Steve told the story, and Steve watching carefully to see what he did. The spoon, the filter, the water, the citric, the handful of wrapped needles and syringes. More complicated than I thought, he said, and Ant only nodded, concentrating.
So we told him the name of the town again, Steve said, and this policeman just shook his head. Just like that. Looked off down the valley and shook his head. And he goes, No, no. You do not go there. You can not.
Ant looked at him, holding the syringe up to the light and tapping the barrel as he eased a single drop of liquid from the needle’s eye.
And then, Steve said, then this policeman goes No. You do not go. There is nothing for you there. There, even the dogs are dead. Ant shuffled across the floor, rolled up Steve’s sleeve, and looped a belt around his arm. Steve watched him. Even the bloody dogs, he said, shaking his head.
Ant looked up at him, stroking the pale skin on Steve’s inner elbow, and pressed the needle against the thin blue line of his vein, and just before he pushed it in Steve said, like to distract himself, What about you mate? What happened to your leg? Ant smiled, and slowly pushe
d the plunger down, and Steve didn’t say any more.
Didn’t have to wait long to find out what all the fuss was about. Like being wrapped up warmer and warmer and warmer. Like being cocooned in blankets and silk. Like more than any of these things. Like being held.
We stand, and we sit, and we lean against the wall. We wait. What else can we do. We look at the clock, and we see its hands stretch towards the morning. We hear footsteps, and the jangle of keys. The door is unlocked and opened, and the lights are turned on, and the room fills with people.
Ant knows about waiting though but. We see him now, we look and we see him now, waiting for help, bleeding into the silenced ground, lying in a field beside a road with the plants flattened beneath him as if he’d fallen from the sky. None of the pain he would have expected. Not yet. None of the screaming and panic and flailing around for something to be done. Only this whispering numbness, this stunned state in which it takes him a moment to understand where he is. To understand that some homemade bomb has thrown their Land Rover into the air, has blown another hole in the road, has probably killed one or more of his mates and done who knows what to him. Lifted him from the surface of the earth and hurled him down into this field of waist-high stalks. The flower heads looking down at him where he lies, waiting. For someone to come. For some sensation to come seeping back into his body. The tips of his fingers, the ends of his toes. The blue sky. The poppies. The nodding poppy heads. The smell of smoke, and burning, and hot, baked earth. The sounds coming back with a rush, like he was being lifted from water. Gunfire, and shouts, and heavy bootsteps across the dry soil. Faces over him, helmeted faces, and bodies dangling with equipment, and then hands upon him, searching him, cutting away his clothes, touching his face. Hands which come away from his body covered in blood. Gloved hands. Voices telling him he’s going to be okay. Voices telling him they’re going to get him out of there. Voices asking where the bloody helicopter is, where the hell those bastards are now. Someone saying they were giving him a shot of morphine to keep him going until the helicopter arrived. And everything then okay but. The fading away of the gunfire, and of everything else.
