News Where You Are

20. Michael, October 2009

Rush hour’s ended and the traffic has loosened once more to a steady flow. The sun has dropped and Michael sits right in its line, the whole bench bathed in warm, golden light. He experiences it as a gentle hand pushing him back down against the bench, not letting him leave.

The sun in his eyes always reminds him of their first few days in Port George, stationed in the transit camp. Phil thought life would be less regimented once they were posted overseas, but he was disappointed. Michael coped better with guard duty and the mindless marching. He found the strict routine allowed him to absent himself, to be somewhere else with his thoughts. Sometimes on shit days of endless drill he’d remember the characters he used to daydream about as a kid — soldiers and cowboys and tough guys called Buddy, and he could still imagine he was one of them.

Off duty, though, Phil found things to enjoy about Port George. The other lads didn’t like the atmosphere when they went into town. Most of them had barely left their hometowns before and found the constant attentions of Arabs trying to sell them lighters and dirty postcards disconcerting. But Phil could more than match the bullshit and bluster of the street traders and on the first night he was the man every other soldier asked to negotiate their purchase of a new lighter or a watch. He liked haggling with the vendors. The next time he was in town he’d remember their names and strike up conversations with them, asking about the best bars and places to visit.

Michael feels the golden light pressing against his eyelids and is once more with Phil exploring the back streets of the town on their own. They find an open-air café free of other soldiers and Phil is delighted at the discovery. At Phil’s insistence they share a hookah and Michael finds the orange-scented smoke working its way into the creases and folds of his brain. He closes his eyes and sees Elsie on top of Adam’s Hill, the wind blowing her skirt against her legs. He’s not sure how much time passes before he opens his eyes and looks at his watch.

‘The lorry’s picking us up in fifteen minutes.’

Phil shrugs. ‘We can get a taxi.’

‘Have we got enough money?’

Phil laughs. ‘Do I look like some sap who’s going to get us ripped off? I’ll negotiate a price. Just sit back and relax. We’re going to travel back in style, not like cattle in a truck.’

Later they find a taxi willing to take them back out to camp. Phil manages to barter a good price and they get in. Michael feels woozy from the smoke and the heat, and the inside of the taxi spins just a little. He sits with his head back on the seat behind him and looks up out of the window at the stars flying past overhead. He wonders what Elsie is doing right now; he wonders if she can see the same stars. He can’t remember ever seeing stars like them in Birmingham. He doesn’t know what time it is there. Maybe it’s not night. Maybe she’s on her lunch, sitting under their tree in the park, polishing an apple on her sleeve.

Suddenly Phil is whispering urgently in his ear. ‘We’re going the wrong way.’

Michael carries on looking out at the stars. ‘Why are you whispering?’

He whispers louder. ‘We’re going the wrong way. Away from the camp.’

Michael raises his head and gives a brief look out the front of the cab: ‘Nah. He knows where he’s going.’

‘He knows where he’s going all right, but it ain’t to the camp.’

‘How can you tell?’

Phil hisses: ‘Because it’s the wrong fucking way!’

Michael sits up properly and looks at him. He notices Phil’s face is pale and moist. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘We’re going to die.’

‘What?’

‘We’re going to die, Mikey. Jesus Christ, he’s going to kill us.’

Michael starts to laugh. ‘Why are you saying that?’

‘Cos that’s what’s going to happen. Have you not heard the stories? British soldiers get picked up in taxis, taken out to the desert, robbed and killed.’

Michael stops laughing. The taxi stops spinning. ‘What stories? What are you talking about?’

‘The stories — everyone’s heard them.’

He stares at Phil. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the stories when you said we’d get a taxi?’

Phil looks down at his lap. ‘I forgot.’

Michael leans forward and says to the driver: ‘Mister, I think you’re taking us the wrong way. Can you turn round, please.’

He’s ignored.

Phil is muttering: ‘Jesus Christ, Mikey, bandits.’

Michael tries again. ‘Oi, mister. Where you going? Turn round.’

He sees the driver’s dead eyes in the mirror as they start to slow down. ‘Don’t worry, please. We are here now.’

Phil and Michael look out of the window at the blackness beyond and both see that ‘here’ is not where they want to be.

The car pulls in at the side of the road where two men stand waiting. One of them opens the car door and signals for them to get out. The three men stand around Phil and Michael. One of them holds a large knife. He speaks in English. ‘Take off clothes, please.’

Neither Phil nor Michael moves.

‘Take off clothes, please, or I cut throat.’

Michael looks into the darkness, trying to see where the two men could have come from. He sees no houses or cars nearby. He wonders how far they’ve travelled to the rendezvous. Have they walked all the way from town? He starts wondering about the man’s English. Does he only know vocabulary related to robbery? Michael wonders if the robber looks forward to these little opportunities to practise his stock phrases.

He’s shouting at them now. ‘You! Take off clothes! I ask nicely last time.’

Michael smiles. The Hollywood school of English. He’ll be coming out with some Jimmy Cagney line next. He turns to share his amusement with Phil only to see Phil standing naked apart from his baggy cotton shorts, shaking despite the heat. Michael has no idea what Phil is playing at. He has a strange feeling, as if he’s watching the scene from a distance. The man keeps shouting at him, his face now inches away from his own. Why does he keep telling him to take his clothes off? Michael can think of no earthly reason why he would do such a thing.

Phil turns his head a fraction. ‘For Christ’s sake, Mikey, do what he says. Do you want to get us killed?’

Michael looks at Phil. It seems a strange thing to say. Michael is filled with a desire to be back in his tent eating the bar of chocolate he knows he has in his tin. He realizes he’s starving. He thinks about the shepherd’s pie his mother used to make. Then he thinks about her apple crumble and custard. What would he give for that right now? Or even just a single decent cup of tea and a nice coconut ring. He’s irritated to find his thoughts interrupted by the man with the knife screaming at him: ‘Take off!’ The man reaches across and plucks at Michael’s jacket and without making any conscious decision Michael finds his fist shooting out, hitting the man full force in the face.

The impact is a shock to both of them. Michael is suddenly alert. He lunges forward and manages to grab the knife before the other two men have dropped their fags. He feels their hands on his arms, but is able to kick and hack his way out. He waves the knife and they back away. He looks around and sees that Phil has already started running towards the road. Michael starts to run after him. He checks over his shoulder, but the men have no interest in the chase. Instead they hunch down, picking over Phil’s uniform.

Michael and Phil run along the dark road, managing after half a mile to flag down a passing truck. They climb into the back and collapse exhausted on the flatbed, trying to catch their breath. It’s a while before Phil is able to speak.

‘Bloody hell, Mikey. You could have done your John Wayne bit before I dropped my pants.’

‘I didn’t get the chance. You don’t need much persuasion, do you?’

‘They had a knife, for Christ’s sake, that’s enough persuasion for me.’ He’s quiet for a moment and then adds: ‘Thanks, Mikey.’

‘What for?’

‘You saved my life.’

Michael smiles. ‘They weren’t going to kill us, you daft sod. Their hearts weren’t in it.’

Phil shakes his head. ‘You saved my life.’

Michael looks at Phil and starts laughing.

‘What’s so funny?’

Phil’s face and body are smeared with whatever animal’s shit is all over the back of the truck and clumps of feathers are sticking to him.

‘We showed the others, didn’t we? Let them travel like cattle — we’ll get back in style.’