Deep Black

33

There was a knock at the door. It couldn’t be Jerry. He had left ages ago for the mosque to catch Maghrib at around last light. I opened it to find two old boys, cigarettes in their mouths. One handed me a sliver of soap and a hand towel. The other gave me some thin sheets that had gone grey a few hundred wash cycles ago. Everything stank of cigarettes.

I tried the shower tap and got a trickle of cold water, so I jumped under it before it ran out. The 1970s radio set into the Formica bedhead was tuned to American Free Radio and pumped out country-and-western.

The sun was going down when I emerged. I switched off the radio and turned on the steam-driven TV, which was tuned to a snowflaky version of CNN, but at least I had decent sound. The only other channel was showing a football game.

Not wanting to be the object of tonight’s target practice, I turned out the lights before I went on to the balcony and looked out over the thousands of satellite dishes that sprouted like weeds from the rooftops.

The rattle of automatic gunfire came from somewhere in the distance. A few more rounds of heavier automatic fire, probably 7.62 short from AKs, were met by a huge amount of fire from the Americans’ lighter 5.56 ammunition. Then a stream of heavier-calibre stuff was unleashed, probably .50 cals, and this time I saw tracer bouncing up into the last few minutes of dusk from the other side of the Tigris.

It stopped as quickly as it had started, but the lull didn’t last long. Two Apache gunships thundered overhead, their shapes deep black against the evening sky. Somebody was going to wish they’d had an early night.

They swooped over the river and, moments later, one of them opened up, strafing the riverbank. It felt strange to be spectating from the very place that most of the shock-and-awe footage had been shot, watching the same area taking hits all over again.

Below me, preparations for the pool party continued as if no one had a care in the world about what was happening the other side of the rush fence. Either they felt immune to attack or wanted to believe they were. Plastic tables straight from the same B&Q as the garden shed were being dragged into the grass and round the still empty pool, and a couple of big oil-drum barbecues were on the go.

Another brief contact rattled round the city somewhere, followed closely by an explosion. Nobody stopped doing what they were doing. Nothing mattered beyond the garden wall and our American protection. The Palestine was a little oasis, a bubble of safety.

I looked around the sky. There was no tracer, and I couldn’t see any smoke. It was time for a brew.

The lift bounced at every floor as it took me down to the lobby.

From a mug the boys had found behind the counter, I took a heat-testing sip of Nescafé. There were just a couple of Iraqis left in here, maybe because all the eggs and cheese had been eaten. The Casio and guitar stuff was still in place but the player wasn’t to be seen. Shame: Johnny Cash’s dad had grown on me.

I heard Jacob before I saw him, coming up the stairs saying goodbye to his BG. He saw someone to talk to and gave me a smile. ‘Hey, Nick, they glued you to that seat?’

I stood up and we shook hands as he asked for three coffees at once – unless they had another mug?

‘How’s your half-day been, Jacob?’

‘Oh, just had to go check up on a few things. Kinda got to keep on top of them. Say, where’s your reporter fella? What’s his name? He treating himself to an early night?’

I thought he was going to treat me to another of his winks. ‘Jerry. No, he’s gone to the mosque.’

The waiter brought the first two coffees over and started to pour in the milk. Jacob lifted a hand. ‘No, fully leaded when the sun goes down.’ He turned to me. ‘Well, I’ve been talking to a few people for you. Ain’t heard nothing about no Bosnians. They kinda should have – it’s a mighty small town in some ways.’

Jacob had an asbestos mouth. He’d already picked up his second cup as the waiter brought the third. ‘Anything else I can do for you, you just let me know, y’hear? Maybe I can make some connections for you.’

I was starting to get an uncomfortable feeling about Jacob. He was being a bit too helpful. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t give a fuck about the Bosnians. We’re just throwing out a net and seeing what gets dragged in.’

The third cup was about to be killed. ‘Tell you what, I’ll keep my eyes open. What room you in, just in case you decide to unglue yourself from here?’

I told him and we shook hands. ‘Thanks, Jacob. Appreciate it. Have fun tomorrow with your son.’

‘Sure will. We’ll talk later.’

I left him to it and walked down into the lobby to wait for Jerry. He might have bumped into his ayatollah in the mosque, but I wasn’t counting on it. Tonight I’d see who was about on the circuit. A Bosnian would certainly stick in their minds.