most charming, sawing through a thick rasher, separating the lean
from the fat, while chuckling amiably: Let me get this right – you
two decided to run a beeandbee in Bardney purely on the basis
of logistics. Sod-all to do with the village or the countryside –
presumably the business could’ve been anything, a takeaway or a …
I dunno – a seed merchant’s … I mean, I don’t want to be rude,
but I don’t get the feeling that either of you has long nurtured
an ambition to enter the hospitality industry? John had conceded
these points without much cavilling. Had Jonathan ever been more
endearing as, delicately removing the skin from a slice of black
pudding, he’d twitted mein poofy hosts: My, ah, friend and I are
actually in a similar position – his vitally important work keeps
him bolted to the industrious North, while I – a mere dilettante –
cannot stop stirring the overheated flesh-pots of the South. My!
how they bubble … And there’d been more loose talk as he’d
worked his way methodically through a very full English: It’s strictly
hush-hush, he’d said, rustling that morning’s Telegraph, in which
there’d been the full text of the Prime Minister’s statement, but I do
have some contacts in the EffOh, and they tell me there’s more than
a soupçon of casuistry in all this … At which the two dull, decent,
vaguely left-wing men had tugged their beards sagely and nodded,
although Gawain had suspected the precise senses of “soupçon” and
“casuistry” eluded them … quite as much as they did me. Later, back
up in their room, under the steeply sloping eaves, he’d been … the
very picture of a modern major-gen-er-al! packing his overnight bag
with angry efficiency, while berating this … this … Butcher: It’s
not clever – and it’s not funny! You’ve no idea who these men really
are, or who they may know … It’s as if … I dunno – as if you want
us to be found out! And Jonathan, who’d somehow contrived to
remove his clothes without his lover noticing, lay back on one of the
twin and equally uncomfortable beds and laughed and laughed, ‘til
Gawain tossed his wash bag to one side and … jumped on top of
him! Then Jonathan’s fingers had been softly slipping spiralling
down the shaft of Gawain’s penis, and he’d been giggling, Have
you long nurtured a desire to enter the hospitality industry? Gawain
remembers the sky-blue candlewick bedspread slipping from the
wrought-iron balustrade of his ribs, then he’d flipped the Butcher over
and … we were fucking: his firm hams gripped in Gawain’s sweaty
hands – his onglet slipping over his bony hips, his pork chop hard and
heavy. It’d been the first time ever that Gawain had assumed … top
cover – a vantage from which he could both scope out the territory
ahead and … perfect my manoeuvrist doctrine … Immediately
Jonathan had come, Gawain sensed a profound alteration in their
own … rules of engagement: Looking back over twelve years, we have
been victims of our own desire to placate the implacable … and he was
implacable, Gawain’s lover: If you don’t believe your outfit’ll be able
to handle the deployment, you shouldn’t be clamouring to go …
Which was plainly RIDICULOUS, Gawain near-shouted in reply,
given it’s pretty much treason for serving army officers to refuse an
executive order – besides, every other SeeOh of just about every
other regiment … bar the Corps of Army Music was feverishly lobbying
for inclusion. Don’t matter, Jonathan had continued implacably:
rot goes all the way to the top – ambitious generals and senior
spooks alike, they’re all queuing up to tell the Narcissist-in-Chief
what he wants to hear. They’d been sitting side-by-side putting
on their socks – a moment of shared domesticity Gawain ruined
with his own recently won implacability: And you, Jonathan – what
about you? Are you one of those who’re telling the Prime Minister
what he wants to hear? He’d stopped hooding the detainee with the
charcoal-coloured material, his lovely face darkened with the blood-rush
of anger … or shame. It’d seemed to Gawain then – and this is
certainly how he recalls it now – that his lover had been arguing
with some internal and hectoring voice, because when he finally
spoke his own was strange, small … strangulated – and I didn’t
recognise it: I think … I think you’ll … just have to have … faith –
yes … faith, Gawain, in my … conscience … but to paraphrase
TeeBee’s own aperçu, It’s impossible to persuade towards reason the
utterly unreasonable … Then he’d reassumed his Jonathan mask, and,
speaking through it in the way which made Gawain want to …
punch his fucking lights out! he’d continued: D’you not think it a
trifle bizarre, love, that this is a leader who will – I’ve no doubt – go
down in history for simultaneously putting men violently asunder,
and playing God yet more by making it possible for us to be
legally bound together? Standing at the dormer window, looking
out through the thick old pane at the winter whorld – the graveyard
wall opposite, its ancient flints frosted – Gawain had dared
imagine … let no man put man asunder: he in his dress uniform,
Jonathan in immaculate morning dress, standing to attention before
a mumsy-looking Lincolnshire registrar – behind them in the banal
function room a small gaggle of their new and accepting rural
friends, prominent amongst them … Brian and John – we’ve pretty
much opened up specially for you blokes – wouldn’t want to let you
down … There’s not that many, um, gay-friendly establishments in this
neck of the woods … We’re actually off on our own hols the day after
tomorrow … Marbella – yes … Marbella, we’ve a timeshare there –
tiny place … just a studio, but we like it. In full fig and flicking
invisible particles from the lapels of his cashmere overcoat, Jonathan
had fully recovered: Honestly, Gawain, this pair positively lay
waste to just about every gay stereotype in the book – they dress
like pensioners, only Jim they’ve ever clapped eyes on is the old
bloke who mows their lawn, while as for interior design … He’d
indicated the stack of mod cons sat atop a cracked and creaking
old chest-of-drawers: electric jug, ancient portable teevee, mini
music centre, lamp, and, at the summit of it all, a brand-new
wireless broadband router, pinprick lights perpetually winking the
message that … we’re all bound together with everyone, now … such
are the requirements of inter-operability: Electric jug? Electric jug?
Telly, here – are you receiving me, over? All right, Boss – you … all
right? — It’s Pythian – OhSee of the Force Protection Unit.
Bessemer? Gawain asks. He’ll make it, Pythian says, but I doubt
he’ll ever get to make a baby – took the round in his balls. Shitloads
of blood, but Wentworth knows his stuff – got one of these
flash new compression dressings on it … He’ll make it back long
&n
bsp; as the crabs arrive sharpish … Sharpish, eh … Time has, Gawain
thinks, been rebooted – clocks and watches resynch’ed: there’s a
monstrous click – a terrifying hiss, another click, and:
Al-l-l-louuuuuaaakhbaaaaar! the call to mid-morning prayer spurts out
over the baking rooftops of Al-Afrika Street, drenching flappy-black
abayas and sky-blue bedspreads alike with … fanatical
belief – come to my baby shower … Fi had issued the invitation to
several of the Wags – and they came, the women – Queue-men,
really – bearing booties, all-in-ones, sterilising units – pretty much
everything required for the … new recruit, so that hakuna matata
… What the hell happened, man? Gawain asks of Pythian, who, in
his dusty desert camos and Dee-cup body armour is a … brindled
terrier of a man, sharp-muzzled and snapping at the world’s ankles:
his deep-set eyes dart up to the rooftops – down to the troopers
who’re covering the roadway, then back againannagain to the dark
doorway where Gawain can just about make out a single white
plastic garden chair lying motionless on its side … moving – we
should always be moving, ‘cause bad shit happens … if you stand
still. Should be moving – stepping over that white plastic garden
knock on hell’s darkest chamber. One carried out by the book: Pythian
on point – the SeeOh in the middle – a trooper providing rear
cover. But for now Gawain remains … stranded, the amplified wail
reverberating between his ears, together with another of Jonathan’s
infuriating remarks – or aperçus, as he insists on calling them:
Have you ever considered how ridiculous it is, Teddy Bear, the way our
so-called emergency services rush to the scene, sirens screaming, lights
flashing – when the crime or the crash, or the cat-up-the-tree has
already … happened! Secure is it, Pythian – secure? Pythian nods:
For now, Boss – we done it by the book. Pitched up. Fanned out.
Covered all the exits. Went in. Gentle as. Asif goes in, talks to
the Sheik. He says he’s got friends staying – been travelling all
night. Sleeping now. But we were that gentle, Boss – we didn’t even
wake ’em … Asif? Gawain queries. – He’s our ’terp, Boss, rocksolid
bloke. Rock solid. – And bodies, Pythian – how many? – Eight
females, Boss. Five kids. Six males, and an as yet unconfirmed
number of their, ah … friends. Sleeping in this room off the
kitchen, Sheik says. Knocked on the door, nice and gentle, like –
sec’ it opens this fucker slots Bessemer right in the crown jewels.
Chivers is there – and they’re tight. He loses it – ‘fore I know it
he’s banjoed the bastard … Isn’t it rich? – Where’s Chivers now? –
He’s in the wagon, Boss – bit shaken up an’ that … Pythian’s
magicked on some sunglasses and, peering into them, Gawain sees
his own … knobbly knob-head staring back at him, and reflects how
at home Jonathan would be in this looking-glass war … with its
frequent opportunities for … narcissism. It’d taken them ages to
warm up the room that morning – the condensation was frozen
on the inside of the windows, and, as they lay in each other’s arms,
it slowly melted, while the fan heater puffed, and puffed some
more, but never … huffed. They lay in each other’s arms, and
Gawain lightly kissed Jonathan’s hair – his eyebrows, and around
the coldly beautiful curl of his shell-like … Jonathan must’ve
switched the electric blanket on surreptitiously – he knows Gawain
doesn’t like them. Slowly as they’d slipped in and out of sleep … in
and out of love, the sweat had pooled between them. Now someone
has switched it off – possibly the supernatural being the residents
of Al-Afrika Street are being called upon to worship, because
the sweat cools, enfolding Gawain in its chilly embrace … He thinks
of the old Vickers machine-guns, their barrels cooled by a …
full-metal nightdress filled with water, and reshivers: W-Where’s
Ch-Chivers now? In hell’s darkest chamber, quite possibly – why
wouldn’t he be? No matter what his basic instincts once were, he’s
long since been weaned off them and on to a diet of Quorn and
vegetarian sausages … How the fuck’s he gonna cope with becoming
… a man-eater – hakuna matata … are we a pair? Gawain takes
a last look up into the smarting sky … send in the clouds – don’t
worry … Okay, Steve, he says to Lieutenant Pythian as he pops the
popper of his sidearm holster, let’s do this thing – and remember:
Perry Rat Likes Shooting Arseholes Regularly … Pythian grins,
and, as he moves towards the doorway, delivers the final and most
important part of his sit’ rep’: Friends’re still banged up in this room
off the kitchen, Boss – once we knew back-up was on its way I
decided to wait it out … In the doorway they’re joined by Trooper
Dennison, who arrives looking waiterly … a body bag draped over
his arm. Adrenalin floods Gawain’s system – a still-chillier …
shroud – he sees Trooper Chivers, years hence, wandering the meat
aisle of some out-of-town supermarket, one grubby-faced tyke in
the trolley’s seat, the other grazing, his face smeared with chocolate
goo … and sticky fingers thrust through the wire mesh as he …
rides shotgun. Their father, hunting for Linda McCartney’s face in
no more recognisable as a once-living thing than the bean burgers it’s
stacked between … Then they’re shuffling along a narrow corridor
with doors to either side … making our entrance with our usual …
flair. There’s a steady tick-tick-ticking, keeping the heavy beat of
their breathing as they tread on the odd spangles and breast the
irregular shafts cast through the transom. Pythian pushes a door
open with his boot and swings his gat in the shocked face of
a teddy bear propped upright amongst rumpled bedclothes …
coulda killed me. Thought you said this place was secured, Gawain
whispers – but there’s no reply from Pythian, only the hiss from his
radio, which, tuned to the op’s open frequency, picks up a final,
despairing Alllouuuuarrakkbharrrr! followed by a second monstrous
… click! Silence – except for the crunch of their boots on the
broken things scattered across the white tiles. As they gain the last
door, Pythian whispers back: It is, Boss – we’ve got ’em all in here.
Told ’em to be patient – we’d sort it all out when back-up showed
up … Looking back over twelve years, our fault has not been impatience.
No, indeed, Gawain admonishes himself as they enter the
kitchen, how could I have been impatient when I didn’t know what
it was I was missing? They must’ve stayed with Brian and John in
Bardney more or less monthly in the two years since … the balloon
went up. It made sense logistically – and Jonathan seemed to have
developed some sort of attachment, both to
the locale and to …
mein poofy hosts: I’ve told Brian all about my situation, Jonathan
confided on their third or fourth visit. Gawain had frozen, shirt
half hangered, loose floorboard creaking underfoot, Holly and
Jessica in their EmmYouEffSee shirts looking up at him from the
yellowed newspaper lining the wardrobe: What the bloody hell
d’you mean by that? Jonathan smiled, Only that I’ve told him I’m
married – got a little weepy about it. Said you were pushing me
to leave wifey, but there’re my kids to consider … Right in the
middle of their exams – it’d be a terrible trauma for them …
Gawain had shrugged, hung the shirt in the wardrobe, straightened
up and spoken to him … as if he was on a charge: You’re being
childish, playing your oh-so-fucking-clever games. You’ll endanger
what we have – if you haven’t already. And for what? He senses
weakness and therefore continues to defy … Jonathan, tucked up under
the grubby eaves, had stretched luxuriantly – laughed throatily …
prob’ly fuck the Marlboro Man given half a chance. My, my, Colonel,
he’d said, you can be commanding after all … Yes! After all –
after all the supine years, the bottom years – the years spent with MY
FACE STUCK IN A FUCKING PILLOW! – Sir … Boss …
Sir … Sir … Here they all are: in a surprisingly large kitchen lit
to operating-theatre-strength by a yard-long, unshaded neon tube
bolted obliquely across the unpainted concrete ceiling. Despite their
shocked state, their SeeOh is pleased his Rams continue to observe
the unspoken rule: full screws and up are privileged to call him
Boss, but all other ranks must salute-and-sir. The Iraqis are all
cross-legged on a patchwork of linoleum off-cuts – it’s the hunger,
must keep ’em … limber – the men facing the wall opposite the
door, the women and children the one to the right. The room
boasts a sort of parody of a kitchen island: a free-standing central
unit bosh-bosh-boshed up out of plywood in which an aluminium
sink – but no taps – has been implanted. Flex sprouting from
hacksawed holes indicates where white goods were meant to go
before the sanctions – after all: cereal cemented to bowls will turn any
citizenry against … a dictator. No man is a kitchen island – cut off