Phone

  murdered and raped children – but we’re the right men for it,

  precisely because we take no pleasure, we’re merely professionals …

  And now it’s dark o’clock, and outside the main gate of Camp Val

  tongues are still wagging … Wagging over the detainees the Rams

  brought back from Al-Afrika Street – and wagging over Asif, the

  lousy little ’terp, who – Cambell from the int’ cell has reported –

  just happened to be the son of one of Ali al-Garbi’s most prominent

  Sadrists. Gawain has already put a call in to the Chief of Police

  and informed him about the incident – although … why? The

  man’s rumoured to be a pederast who spends his days shuttered

  up in his vulgar villa on a bank of the Tigris, fiddling about with

  Yemeni, Baluchi and even … Somali boys: the human flux and

  reflux of this indigestible situation … What do I really know about

  Islam and Muslims? He massages his eyelids with finger and thumb,

  so summoning this vision: a dusty-white maidan under hurting

  sun – white-robed figures swirling together, then swishing apart

  to reveal their Saladin: a huge man with a huge black beard who

  windmills his scimitar’s flashing blade. Gawain stands, awkward in

  Birkenstocks, cargo shorts and a T-shirt bearing the slogan Play Up

  and Play the Game … Saladin’s scimitar slices through this loose

  stuff, and it’s only then, looking down at his belly … thinly grinning

  that Gawain remembers: I’m armed … so raises and fires his plastic

  rifle. The plastic seven-point-six-five round makes its leisurely,

  specially effected way towards the huge chest of the mighty jihadi –

  but then, just about everything’s plastic nowadays: the case of

  Trimmer’s laptop – the duff spoiler of the Thomas family’s crappy

  old Volvo. The map cases that’d arrived in a job-lot on the day before

  the Rams deployed … plastic, and the maps they were issued

  with at Shaibah … plastic-laminated that labelled the towns and

  villages, the saltpans and oil fields, of southern Iraq with the sort of

  clunky code names beloved of the British military: Cheshire, Westmoreland,

  Omagh … What do I really know about Islam and Muslims?

  The plastic bullet hits Saladin’s chest and rebounds in still slower

  motion, end over end, describing a limp parabola that ends, uselessly,

  on the sand at Gawain’s feet … Only this: that the word itself

  means … submission – and I’m through with that … One thing,

  Greeny, Trimmer had said as he was swinging into one of the

  Coldstreamers’ Wimmiks, I’ve put it in my report as well, but if you

  bag anybody coming over the border who seems … well, handy,

  get ’em down to the DeeTeeEff asap. It’s not just a matter of finding

  out what the Iranians’re up to – our spooky friends have an asset

  they’re particularly keen to exfiltrate, someone high up … Word is

  he may try to cross over into our – I mean, your sector. Gawain had

  queried, Our spooky friends? What d’you mean by that? The slime

  at main? And Trimmer snorted, Hardly – Brigade’s intel’ wonks are

  picking up sod-all from the locals. How can they, when they’re on

  lock-down at Shaibah and the aypod twenty-four-seven? No, this

  is something to do with the big boys – with London … No! This is

  something to do with the small boys – with Bardney … Before Jonathan

  had got into the low-slung coupė – before he’d removed his overcoat,

  neatly folded it and placed it on the car’s back seat. Before he’d

  driven away … without so much as a backward glance, there’d been a

  mouthful of marbles: suppressed giggles from behind the flinty wall.

  Jonathan walked along to where it dipped to waist height and

  looked over – the eavesdroppers had been hiding, shivering, behind

  a tombstone. Come out! Jonathan cried. Come out, I say! But they

  hadn’t come out – they ran away, their narrow, grey-cloth-clad

  behinds shining in the winter sunlight – or at least this is how

  Gawain pictured it. When Jonathan returned he’d teased him:

  I say? I say? What will you bray next, posh boy? But the Butcher’s

  face had been leeched … bloodless – bien cuit: I’m not as blasé as

  you imagine, Gawain – I care a great deal about the people I work

  with, who all too often run appalling risks for very little reward –

  and I resent it, really I do … the way these people are caricatured as

  grubby little opportunists … Maybe so, but it’d been the grubby

  little opportunists who’d awaited Gawain in Ali al-Garbi – or at least

  caricatures of them: Tizer claims the sharkskin suits were all the

  rage in the Soviet bloc – and are a two-tone legacy of Saddam’s

  ambivalent attempt to cuddle up to the Russians. But the men who

  wear them … look pretty rough: sitting in stifling corridors, drenched

  in cologne, waiting to petition one of the remaining SeePeeAy

  bureaucrats for a generator or a water-purification plant … for their

  community. Any of them, Gawain hypothesises, might be one of

  Jonathan’s precious assets, not waiting to siphon off British and

  American taxpayers’ money, but to piddle out the Bardney boys’

  innocent betrayal … He said to her – she said to him, he said to –

  others: a cat’s cradle of comms, such as he’s seen dangling from every

  post and pylon and rooftop in Ali al-Garbi, the cables of which

  tighten … and tighten, until the grubby little opportunist in the

  stifling corridor is … garrotted. Anyway, Jonathan always comes

  on so fucking strong – like nothing fazes him. But how would

  he actually cope with this noduf? With Ali al-Garbi, its shabby-shiny

  sheiks, bullying Badr militia commanders and ineffectual

  governors, who, so far as Gawain could tell, were all the puppets,

  either of the sinister black-turbanned clerics or the foreign

  agents provocateurs who pull their strings … Yes! Jonathan! What

  would you make of this? He’s spoken aloud and hears his words

  drop uselessly to the Portakabin’s floor … Plop! Plop! followed by

  the resurgence of the sinister cries at the main gate … fire a few

  baton rounds over their heads – get rid of ’em. He stands, picks up his

  webbing belt and holster, buckles on the assemblage. Picks up

  his body armour arms up! and puts it on. He thinks of his sister, Fay,

  a yoga instructor and part-time hospital physio’ who lives with her

  long-term partner near Keswick … Geoff’s all right: their rainy,

  childless Sunday afternoons – visiting the Pencil Museum again,

  followed by a walk on the shores of Derwent Water hand in hand,

  seeing the water dimpled by squalls and itching for the fells. Later,

  there’d be pork scratchings in the snug, followed by a dark night

  in an overheated room. He wonders if Fay and Geoff’s sex is as

  workmanlike as his and Fiona’s … a drubbing really – more arousal

  to be had from the greasy Cumberland sausage on the breakfast plate.

  There are, he thinks, these compensations: the small sips of intimacy

  to be sucked from parched conversations about the weather and

  current affairs – a
nd, of course, minor ailments, the minute description

  of which is most long-term marrieds’ way of touching at a

  distance … Moving towards the Portakabin’s door, Gawain becomes

  aware of a strange sort of pause … or … gap … in … every …

  thing, it’s … lagging! One or other of his sons’ spoilt whines solders

  his burning brain to his griddling skull: It’s lagging! They’d played

  the game together, the three of them taking turns with the controller:

  You’re not much cop, Dad, considering you’re a tank commander …

  He’d considered pointing out to the disrespectful brat that there

  was a world of difference between jabbing buttons and the

  combination of nimble tactical thinking and heavy psychological

  lifting required to move armoured vehicles around on a battlefield

  – but then my head exploded … even as the truck the

  Thomas menfolk were riding in continued its mad zigzagging dash

  across sandy nothingness towards a walled compound. My head

  exploded … the screen darkened, and, although the Germans’

  tracer-fire kept on streaming towards their truck, it was over for

  him … endex: he’d never get to assault those Moorish walls. But he

  did get to see his own hollowed-out and virtual body lying there …

  such a privilege, and in the ultra-secure surroundings of Number

  Seven, Maltby Close, behind the vertical louvres Fi … never

  bothered to replace, he’d thought, This must be what it feels like to be

  a true and valiant Christian knight – or the right arm of the Prophet

  for that matter, on your way up to heaven, sitting on a half-landing

  eating sherbet, and … waiting for the virgins. His sons had kept

  on sneering at him: You just fire and fire, Dad – you never check

  your ammo or your health bar on the heads-up display … At

  Camp Val the unloading bay lies immediately to the rear of the

  SeeOh’s own trailer – which is the one nearest to the main gate.

  When a Rams patrol returns to base they drive their Wimmiks and

  Scimitars into an external fifty-metre-long sandbagged rat-run,

  then in through both sets of gates. The troopers get out and stomp

  over to an unloading bay that’s been bodged together with old

  railway sleepers. Chattering away, they aim their EssAyEighties,

  Brownings and Sig Sauers nonchalantly – pull the triggers with

  expressions of mild distaste, then walk off shaking their trouser

  legs, just as … Trimmer’s bods did back in Mitcham … It’s lagging,

  Dad, and your head’s exploded … I owe you three farthings – or the

  Queen’s shilling … Gawain stands on the steps of the trailer, smelling

  the Ali al-Garbi night: faint whiffs of wood– and dung-smoke

  from the shantytown by the Tigris, the pervasive reek of Camp

  Val’s septic tank – and the fresher, fouler smell coming from the

  long row of Portaloos which serve as a latrine for Rams, Kiwis and

  Jap contractors alike. Still, better than the old Roman-style shitters

  they’d had in the past: Everyone knew your business – saw you doing

  it … Back in Yorkshire, the medics had dipped the Rams in all

  sorts of vaccines – against anthrax, cholera, smallpox … Allah

  knows what. The entire regiment underwent exhaustive ennbeesee

  training as well: out on the parade ground in early-morning drizzle,

  several hundred men and a few women clambering into plastic all-in-ones

  … Ooh, aren’t they cute! This must be how a baby feels,

  Gawain had thought at the time, standing zipping himself up, then

  peeling back the remove-to-stick seal and affixing it to his … bib.

  In front of him the Rams crinkled and crackled as they stashed

  their bottles of decontamination fluid away in their bergens. The

  entire drill was meant to be completed in three minutes flat, but

  Gawain seriously doubted if in battlefield conditions they’d manage

  it … in under forty-five – I’ve a hundred and one uses for a dead cat …

  so had said Captain Petersen in her medical briefing for squadron

  leaders … and a hundred and one ways of treating tummy trouble …

  She likes that sort of banter, does Gail: jollying the big babies

  along … so there’s absolutely no need for anyone to suffer in silence – at

  which PowerPoint there was, naturally enough, a raspberry chorus

  from the boys-will-be-babies along the back row. Yes, indeed: there

  were a hundred and one ways of treating diarrhoea – trouble was,

  after a while, none of ’em fucking work. So all those ennbeesee suits

  are being filled up with slurry from the inside: a brown tide rising

  and rising, ‘til it submerges our teary eyes. Half the Rams had the

  shits on any given day, despite Petersen’s regular top-up briefings

  on personal hygiene … mucky boys – mucky little puppies … always

  gotta be reminded to wash their paws after playing in … the sandpit.

  Oh the feeling, when you’re reeling … Gail’s Welsh, too … you step

  Lightly … Gawain steps lightly off the last flimsy tread and … down

  to the ground. Trouble is … I’m still lagging – lagging behind his

  blond avatar, bulky in its camos and body armour. For a moment he

  wonders what’d happen if he drew his sidearm and fired … outside

  of the screen – would it magically reload? Because that’s what happens

  … at home – I’m lagging … lagging behind the Rams’ valiant

  SeeOh, who moves off confidently across the compound, a deeply

  superficial zone of intersecting translucent panels, where walls have

  mouths-instead-of-ears and helpful instructions float … in mid-air.

  Gawain barely notices the trooper on stag, whose challenge

  morphs into a strangulated Ssssir! and a sketchy salute – he’s more

  interested in this effect: I can see the back of my head! Out there in the

  Iraqi night – of course, that’s a far more permissive environment:

  Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas’s standing orders are that no one leave

  the camp without their rifle loaded and a round chambered –

  but that won’t stop things going off inside the compound. The

  Rams, like all soldiers, delight in practical jokes – only last week,

  Lieutenant Wilton, the TwoEyeSee of B Squadron, introduced one

  of the oil-dyed sheep he’d somehow managed to trap – then dress

  in suspender belt, panties and a bra – into the trailer shared by

  his EnnSeeOhs. Wilton had filmed the scene with night-vision

  equipment: half-naked men thrashing about, while the horny devil

  was identifiable by its stronger heat signal … As he follows his

  virtual self across the compound Gawain considers: These Iraqis

  need to understand a bit more about us Brits – understand that

  we value two qualities above all others: a genuine capacity for fair

  play – and a good sense of humour … He’s reached the main gate and

  stands peering into the sandbagged rat-run, with its rumble-strips

  improvised with two-by-fours, and its signs silently screaming

  STOP! and PREPARE TO BE SEARCHED! in English and Arabic.

  There’re a few discarded Cyalumes on the dirty concrete which still

  glow … eerily greeny. Troopers are milling about the grandly named

  TeeDee
Eff, slovenly in off-duty shorts and flip-flops – the vicious

  hanks of razor wire coiled on the roof of the concrete blockhouse,

  caught in the sodium glare of the searchlights mounted on the

  sangars … sparkle. The troopers are swigging from mineral-water

  bottles filled with Foster’s and Christ knows what else … Troopers

  Carr and Compton are arsing about, marching hup! two, three,

  four! up and down in front of the metal door, Cyalumes stuck up

  under their arms swagger-stick style … Their sweaty faces are

  Sunny-Delightful in the grimelight. Gawain sees Lieutenant-Colonel

  Thomas approach this parody of keeping watch, and Trooper Carr,

  sensing his presence, whips round, Cyalume levelled: Halt! Who

  goes there? COLONEL THOMAS: The only time you aim a weapon at

  someone, Carr, is because you want to shoot them. You were told

  that on your first day of basic – and just about every other bloody

  day since. TROOPER CARR (Cyalume displayed in his outstretched

  palm): But sir, it’s only one of these. COLONEL THOMAS (laughing):

  Yeah-yeah, I can see that, Carr – I was just winding you up.

  THE CHOIR (from inside the TeeDeeEff, their dry and cracked

  lips struggling to form the unfamiliar phonemes): Chhhyour love’s

  gomme chhhlookin’ so craazeee ri’ now, Chhhyour touch gomme

  chhhlookin’ so craazee ri’ now … COLONEL THOMAS (with a

  jerk of his leonine head): What the fuck’s occurring in there?

  TROOPER COMPTON: It’s the choir, sir – Captain Cambell sorta …

  put it … together. COLONEL THOMAS: A choir? He … formed a

  choir, did he? TROOPER COMPTON: That’s right, sir – prisoners’

  choir, sir … Gotta make ’em sing, he said – keep ’em singing …

  COLONEL THOMAS: But we don’t have any prisoners here, Compton

  (another jerk of his leonine head). All you men: this is the theatre

  detention facility, got that? You don’t imprison prisoners in a

  detention facility, now do you? You imprison prisoners in a bloody

  prison – and prisoners-of-war in a prison-of-war camp. THE CHOIR

  (throats grating, chests wheezing): Ch-chhhyour love gomme

  ch-chhhlookin’ so craazee ri’ now, Ch-chhhyour touch gomme

  lookin’ so craazee ri’ now … COLONEL THOMAS: No, what you do

  with a temporary detention facility is put detainees in it who’ve been

  temporarily … detained. And what do you do with those detainees,