A Single Source

by Peter Hanington

  Gabriel paused to let the boy absorb this key detail for a moment before finishing his story. ‘I had a drink of champagne, sitting next to Pettazzi, on top of the Fiat Tagliero. It was the first and only plane I have ever been on.’

  His story finished, Gabriel turned back to the young waiter, eyes shining. ‘I’m sorry. I have tired the sun with my talking, sent him down the sky. How old are you?’

  The kid told him.

  ‘The same age as my younger grandson, Gebre.’

  ‘Yes, I met him here once, with you. Where is he now?’

  Gabriel attempted a smile. ‘He is travelling.’

  30 Rattling Cages

  DATELINE: Stockwell Road, London SW9, February 8 2011

  Carver was in bed, his laptop balanced on his belly, re-reading his notes. He’d been back in England for seventy-two hours and he hadn’t left the flat. He’d slept, he’d eaten takeaway food and he’d read everything he could find on Quadrel Engineering & Defence, on export licences, international law regulating the sale of CS gas, definitions of internal repression – the works. There was no shortage of reading material but none of it would silence the nagging voice in his head – the one telling him that he was wasting his time. For the story to fly he’d needed an eyewitness and some evidence and he’d managed to lose both. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, shut his laptop and looked over at his bedside table. Next to the goose-neck lamp, balanced on top of a precarious-looking pile of books, was last night’s pizza box; he flipped it open with a finger – empty. He sighed, then grimaced – something in the room didn’t smell very good. He eyed the wastepaper bin in the corner of the bedroom, which was full of foil cartons, polystyrene and pizza boxes the same as the one in front of him.

  He was considering whether to get out of bed when his phone started buzzing from somewhere down in the duvet. Carver was about to press reject call when he saw who it was that was calling.

  ‘Hello, Jean.’

  ‘Missing me yet, are you?’ Her voice was crystal clear; she could have been in the next-door room, not a couple of thousand miles away.

  ‘I’m surviving.’

  ‘Barely, I bet. I can smell the takeaway food from here. Have you even stepped out of your flat?’

  ‘’Course.’

  ‘What’s the weather like?’

  Carver glanced towards the window; the curtains were closed. ‘It’s raining.’ This seemed like a pretty good guess.

  ‘Not according to the World Wide Web it isn’t: from what I’m reading here it’s the kind of diem you need to go carpe.’

  Carver sighed. ‘I’m doing some more research, reading up on—’

  ‘Give me a break, Carver. You’ve read enough; you need to go rattle some cages. Me and Patrick are doing what we can.’

  ‘You and Patrick?’

  Jean filled Carver in on what they’d been up to since he left Cairo. Patrick had been door-knocking in the neighbourhood where Nawal had collected the tear gas canisters, trying to find someone else who’d been at the demo or at least seen it. Zahra had taken Jean to Nawal’s flat, to a friend’s apartment near Tahrir where she sometimes slept and to a lock-up on the edge of the city where Nawal kept a beaten-up old Fiat that the pair had planned to put back on the road some day. They hadn’t found her collection of gas canisters, batons and bullets in any of these places but Jean said Zahra hadn’t given up. She was trying to think of other possible hiding places.

  ‘She’s in a pretty bad way but as long as there’s a chance of doing right by Nawal, I reckon she’ll keep going.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Are you getting the message, Billy?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You need to pull your finger out – stop Hamlet-ing around.’

  Carver picked up the empty pizza box and Frisbeed it in the general direction of the bin. ‘Okay, I have to go see my boss, Naomi, later. I’ll beg a bit more time to spend on this.’

  ‘Good man, but don’t beg too much and don’t take any shit from those people.’

  Carver paused. ‘I appreciate you doing this, Jean, alongside your own stuff, I mean. How’s that profile of your priest coming along?’ Down at the other end of the line he heard the sound of Jean lighting up another cigarette, a deep pull of breath.

  ‘Yeah, that’s the other thing. I’ve been busy fact-checking that piece. There’re a few things about Father Rumbek that don’t quite add up.’

  The Way of Sorrows (xi)

  Near Zuwara, northern Libya

  Wanis brought the news. Gebre had woken early and was sitting on a white plastic picnic chair that he’d dragged up to the roof of the unfinished villa. On the horizon, behind the blocks of half-built and falling-down apartments, the sky was brightening, turning from purple into pink; the air was cool on Gebre’s skin and he closed his eyes. The only sounds at this hour were the low rumble of the sea, pushing shingle up and down the shore and the high singsong of swallows. The birds swept and darted across the white rooftops in their dozens. As Gebre watched, a couple of the birds separated themselves from the group and took a rest, long tails bobbing, on a washing line that someone had strung between this villa and the next. They were facing him and Gebre had a sense that they were waiting; he slid off his chair and down on to his haunches and the birds took this as their cue. They launched themselves from the washing line, wings beating furiously and then stopping. Gebre turned his head in time to see the birds glide over a thicket of television aerials sprouting from the block behind his and up into the roof of a tall cylindrical water tank. Gebre squinted his eyes and saw that what he’d thought was a rusted water stain was in fact a swallow’s nest.

  ‘Hey, black man, better start getting your shit together – your boat ride is tomorrow night.’ Wanis was smiling. ‘Will you leave me your cigarettes?’

  Gebre and Solomon packed and repacked several times before they were happy. Their most precious things: photographs, Gebre’s exam certificates, their telephones and a torch were still inside the plastic waterproof pouch and they put the money they had left in there too. It was agreed that Solomon would wear the pouch on a string around his neck. Everything else was in the suitcase but Wanis had warned Gebre that this might be weighed before they were allowed to board and as a result they’d removed all but the most essential articles of clothing.

  The next night, Wanis’s uncle and half a dozen other men arrived to escort all the people in Gebre and Solomon’s warehouse down to the beach. The operation began at half past midnight. It was a scene of chaos, with tired and confused children crying and being hushed by their desperate, anxious parents who in turn were being threatened by members of the gang. The smugglers insisted there must be no noise and no lights either and as a result there was much tripping and stumbling as the group made its way across open ground and down to the shoreline. Once there they were ordered to march in the direction of a small jetty around half a mile away. In the distance they saw the occasional flare of burning gas from the Mellitah oil terminal.

  As they drew closer the brothers saw two fishing boats tethered to the wooden pier and knocking against each other in the ink-black sea. Gebre had decided that on balance it would be better to be first on to the boat rather than last and so the brothers tried to keep their place near the front of the ramshackle queue. Standing at the entrance to the jetty was a hollow-cheeked Libyan man with a handgun tucked into his jeans, black against his white Real Madrid football shirt. The man was muttering the same few words over and over to every man, woman or child who approached him, in Arabic and Tigrinya: ‘Hold up your bags. Hand them to me.’

  The man took anything he considered too heavy or bulky and threw it back behind him on to a growing pile on the beach. As they waited in line, Gebre saw a couple of people pleading with the man, detailing how essential or personally significant their possessions were to them, offering to open their luggage and find the item they were unwilling to lose. The man was not interested: ‘Get on the boat, or
stay behind.’

  Gebre sighed. ‘It seems they want to rob us one more time before we are allowed to go.’ As the pair approached the front of the queue, Solomon pushed ahead of Gebre. The man was not interested in their case, which he lifted easily before handing back, but Solomon’s trainers did interest him.

  ‘The Adidas. What number?’

  Solomon looked down at his trainers and answered in his own language. ‘Too big for you, little man.’

  The Libyan did not understand, but he registered the murmur of approval from the other passengers who’d overheard the exchange and he didn’t like it. He put his hand to his gun and was about to press his case when Gebre intervened.

  ‘My brother says the trainers are fake, mister. Not good enough for you. But my shirt is real Adidas; perhaps you would like to have this?’

  The smuggler stared at the T-shirt and nodded, watching with an amused grin on his face as Gebre took off his shirt and, bare-chested now, handed it over. He took it and jutted his chin in the direction of the boat. Behind him – on the beach – his colleague was going through the confiscated bags. He had a switchblade in his hand and a pen light between his teeth and he was systematically slicing each bag open and removing anything of value.

  The brothers walked to the end of the jetty and joined the line of migrants waiting to board the fishing boat furthest from the shore and closest to open sea. The crew were busy transferring a load of large wooden crates from the deck of the boat to the jetty and the Libyan captain was supervising this operation. He wore a white shirt with dark trousers and was wandering the deck shoeless. Solomon stared at his feet – the man’s toes were so long that they looked more like hands than feet. He was shouting at his men to stack the boxes neatly and not to mix them up.

  Having got themselves into a position where they knew they’d be among the first to be allowed on to the boat, Gebre relaxed a little. Solomon opened their suitcase and pulled out one of his own T-shirts for his brother to wear. While Gebre put it on, Solomon unzipped the plastic pouch around his neck and got his phone out.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I want a picture. Almost everything that’s happened since we left I want to forget, but I want to remember this.’ He switched his phone on, checked the flash was off and holding the camera at waist height took a couple of surreptitious photos of his brother. Solomon was about to turn the phone off and put it away when it buzzed in his hand. He looked at Gebre. ‘Now we get a signal!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A few missed calls from Grandpa and a message.’ He handed the phone to Gebre.

  Beloved boys, if you receive this and you are still in Libya then try and reach me, it could be better to delay the crossing. G

  The brothers looked at each other. The group around the first boat was growing and the queue had become a crowd.

  Eventually Gebre spoke. ‘It is all fine. He will have heard of people having trouble with bad boats but this boat is good. It is too late to change our minds anyway. I will reassure him.’

  Solomon nodded and watched Gebre type.

  ‘I will tell him that we will call him tomorrow. From Italy!’ He smiled at his big brother. As soon as the message was sent, Gebre switched the phone off and Solomon put it back in the pouch.

  They stood in silence, awaiting further instructions and listening to the sound of the two boats knocking together in the water. The noise reminded Gebre of a child’s wooden xylophone. There were already at least a hundred people waiting alongside the first boat and Gebre could feel his brother getting edgy. Solomon lifted the suitcase and pulled out one of the lifejackets

  ‘I think we should put these on now, Gebre; it will be more difficult once we’re in the boat.’

  Gebre nodded and the pair took turns helping each other into the bright orange jackets, both aware that their fellow passengers were watching them closely.

  The wait was not a long one; once his men had finished unloading the crates the captain appeared from beneath the deck of their boat and ordered that the people be let on. He oversaw this process himself to start with and his calm demeanour inspired some confidence. So did his boat; it stank of fish and diesel petrol but it seemed solid – seaworthy was the word Gebre had heard. As the people poured on and moved around in an attempt to find a comfortable space, the captain moved to the side of his boat to see where it was sitting in the water. Gebre guessed that there were between two hundred and fifty and three hundred people on board when the captain finally called a halt. He started the engine and reversed slowly away from the jetty and out into open water.

  31 Long Player

  DATELINE: Stockwell Road, London SW9, February 8 2011

  Carver showered, dressed and ran a comb through his hair. He’d agreed to meet Naomi in reception at old Broadcasting House at eleven. The Tube train emptied at Oxford Circus and he joined the crowd as it funnelled itself from the platform level up to the street via tunnels, staircases and escalators. The animated adverts on the station walls offered fly-drive holidays and ladies lingerie. Carver wanted a coffee.

  Jean’s weather forecast was proving to be uncannily accurate. A light morning cloud had cleared while he was underground and the day was bright now. Carver could feel his fellow Londoners’ spirits lift and walking past the window boxes outside the Langham Hotel he even spotted a few yellow crocuses poking their heads tentatively up through the dark soil. He bought himself a black coffee at the café next to the new BBC extension then doubled back towards old BH. Outside All Souls Church, a homeless woman was folding the cardboard boxes that had served as her bed and bedroom back into a neat pile.

  He was early and was sitting on a worn red leather banquette in the corner of reception for twenty minutes before the uniformed woman behind the desk waved him over, an apologetic look on her face.

  ‘Mr Carver?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry for leaving you sitting there. Miss Holder asked that you meet her up on the sixth floor. Do you know it?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Carver rode the old art deco lift up to the sixth – home to various BBC bosses and an oak-panelled conference room. As the lift doors opened Carver saw his boss sitting in a high-backed wooden chair, typing away at her phone. She was wearing a black trouser suit and had her legs crossed with the right foot swinging – dangling a shoe. Behind her was a flip chart covered in Day-Glo Post-it notes. He tapped on the doorframe.

  ‘Hello?’

  Naomi put her phone down, pushed it away from her across the table and stood. ‘William, welcome. Come in.’

  The room was situated at the very front of Broadcasting House and as a result was a slightly odd shape; sitting in it felt rather like sitting in the prow of a ship, as there were windows on all sides and plenty of oak and leather.

  Carver took the seat facing hers and looked around. ‘Last time I was in here, someone was trying to sack me.’

  ‘Really? Who was that?’

  William tried to remember. ‘A small man, damp hands … Druce? Drice?’

  Naomi nodded. ‘Oh yeah, I remember. Julian Drice, he used to sit in on management meetings. He left last year, went back into consultancy – big bucks. I don’t think he was ever planning to stay long at the Beeb. He used to tell me that serious people, ambitious people, needed to switch jobs every three years.’ Naomi looked at Carver. ‘Think there’s anything in that?’

  ‘I can see why it would make sense for Drice. Get out quick before people realise what a wanker you are. Though in his case that would mean changing jobs every couple of hours.’

  Naomi smiled ‘You didn’t get along?’

  ‘No.’ He studied his boss. ‘Is that why you wanted to see me? Is this going to be another redundancy offer?’

  Naomi shook her head. ‘No, it isn’t. I know we had a few rows while you were away.’ Carver shrugged. ‘You rub people up the wrong way and you dumped me right in it leaving Cairo with no notice but you’re still one of the best
reporters I’ve got.’ Carver opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. ‘So I’m willing to put those disagreements behind us William, if you are?’

  ‘I am. Willing that is.’ He paused before jutting his chin in the direction of the flip chart. ‘What’s all that about?’

  Naomi looked over her shoulder. ‘Ah, we just had an hour of digital training. Don’t worry, I’m not planning to make you sit through that either. I think you’d rather be made redundant, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘There is some interesting stuff in there though. A few ideas about how to find new audiences, ways to measure interest, that kind of thing. I think the most relevant thing for us …’

  Carver tried his best to listen, but before long he could feel his mind begin to wander; he looked past Naomi’s shoulder, out of the window and over towards the Langham Hotel. In one of the rooms he could see a chambermaid in an old-fashioned black smock changing the bed. She unfolded a bright white sheet and flicked it out in front of her. Hands outstretched, she waved it across the bed. The window was open to air the room and the sheet billowed like a sail. Naomi cleared her throat, summoning William back to the room. He tried to remember what he’d half heard: something about how the technology could work out not just how many people read a story or clicked on it to listen, but how long they read or listened for as well. The words Naomi had used were linger time, and the average linger time was nine seconds.

  ‘What do you think?’