Truths, Half Truths and Little White Lies

by Nick Frost

  I love it when you actually get to see the difference first-hand between the speed of light and the speed of sound. I’m fascinated and afraid. I see the missile pummel into the mountainside and a large section of earth silently slumps into the air and slides like water down the valley. A second or two later a giant bang. A supersonic shockwave hammers around the valley. Its noise amplified by the steep sides. It leads me to think about how it’d be great to be assassinated by a highly trained sniper with a Barrett .50 cal sitting 400 metres away, high in a clock tower or minaret. I think that’s how I’d like to go. No pain, no awful illness. That giant cartridge would turn my soft computer into a sticky pink foam in a thousandth of a second, long before I ever heard the bang of the gun. You would literally be dead before you knew it. Cool! I digress. I’ve just watched this science right in front of me, live.

  ‘We should go,’ mutters Michel, and we go.

  ***

  I’d been in Israel, give or take with my first bit and now, for twenty months. I have my own room now, it’s real ‘big-dog’ shit, no more sharing for me. I’d taken all four single beds and I’d lashed them together with zipties to form a single mega-bed. That’s real power. Colonel Kurtz was back. It was time for me to leave.

  Easier said than done. I was in a rut and I liked it, it was what I knew. I was comfortable swaggering around like I owned the gaff. Something had to change and naturally the catalyst was a girl. I met her and fell for her and when she left my heart wasn’t in it any more. Three weeks later I was gone.

  I didn’t actually like Rachel very much at the beginning. I was sitting with Dave in the common room and she swanned in and turned the TV over while we were watching it! That’s not on. You don’t do that. She drove me bonkers (a sure sign I liked her).

  From the off I was always fighting a losing battle, but I didn’t really care. I liked her. I knew she kind of liked me too but I probably understood from the get-go that long term it wouldn’t work. I was so different then, confused and very jealous, wanting someone to cling to. She wasn’t it. Not then, we were both really young. Rachel, originally from the depths of Virginia Water, was a free spirit. A traveller, and the most sociable person I knew. Everybody liked her. She also spoke fluent Hebrew.

  We’d been hanging out together, having a laugh, not having a laugh, being together, not being together and definitely not having sex. It was a confusing time. One day Rachel invited me to spend a night with her down in Tiberias. I was excited and nervous. This had never happened to me before, a weekend away with a girl! I felt a bit grown up. It was Passover and she had to meet her grandmother who was an Israeli. I wasn’t Jewish and could not be relied on to behave so I wasn’t invited to meet Granny. Which was fine by me.

  She’d meet her Bubbie, I’d hang around drinking and we’d hook up later and spend the night in one of the lifeguard towers. As ever, food was a big draw for me, I was happy to leave the culinary monotony of Bar-Am for a couple of nights. The thought of rich, crispy, buttery pizza plus the chance to hang out with this nice girl who liked me was a dreamy notion. I talked at length on the journey down about that pizza.

  When we arrived in Tiberias I had my spirit crushed pretty fucking quickly, my dream lay in tatters. This had nothing to do with Rachel. This had everything to do with Passover and kosher law. It meant pizza places couldn’t use leavened dough. Instead of thin, crispy, buttery NYC-style pizza it was kosher cheddar and tomato puree sprinkled on a stack of matzo crackers. This was a bad omen. I should’ve turned round and gone straight back to kibbutz. No woman was worth this.

  She said shalom and we arranged to meet later. The year 1992 was a time before mobile phones, for me anyway. To think of a time before mobile phones now seems utterly ridiculous. Life was different then. You made an arrangement and you had to stick to it, there was no texting a raincheck an hour before. I found a bar, post up and ready myself for the wait.

  I was a long way from having to meet her grandmother. During an earlier trip we’d tried to meet members of her family. It didn’t go so well. We were in Jerusalem on a kibbutz trip, all the volunteers, including Rachel and me. It was great. She had family in Jerusalem so while the rest of us went on the piss she went off to visit them. We’d arranged to meet Rachel and her cousins in a bar called The Underground.

  The Underground was like an Israeli version of the cantina in Mos Eisley. It was a place where one could do shots, have a shit falafel, eye up the birds, punch on, piss yourself and quaff litres of cold draught beer. I’d done all of these things by the time Rachel turned up with her handsome teetotal cousins. I was not good when they arrived. I was shirtless, jeans around my ankles soaked in my own wee-wee liquid. I lay semi-conscious over a large wooden barrel, dribbling. It’s all about first impressions, isn’t it?

  I completely understand Rachel’s decision to not allow me to meet Granny. It was probably wise. I wasn’t ready, I’ll be the first to admit. I’d never really had a girlfriend, sure there were crushes and teen fumblings but this felt like next level potential girlfriend shit.

  A couple of hours later we hook up, and keeping my promise I was definitely not pissed. We got our shit together and headed south out of the city on foot in search of somewhere to stay. It was getting late and the more we walked the more we could tell our plan of sleeping on a lifeguard tower had a few flaws.

  That winter there’d been a very heavy and prolonged snowfall all over the north. Which was great, I loved snow because as we know on kibbutz snow means chips. It also meant that the melted snow had added almost fifteen feet of water into the Galilee, this meant no beaches and the lifeguard towers we were planning to sleep in were half covered with floodwater. I heard a story about a biblical zoo on the banks of the Galilee. It houses all the animals that lived in the Holy Land at the time of Christ. They had a few Nile crocodiles. Sadly in the spring their enclosures became deluged by almost fifteen feet of melt water, and simply swam out.

  It took us an hour or so to realise our plan has gone to shit. We turned and headed back towards Tiberias. We’re tired and end up squabbling a bit. It’s close to 1 a.m. and we’re not really talking. In the distance we see the lights of a car coming towards us.

  All good slasher/hitcher films start the same way. A car pulls up fifty feet away. Stopping slowly. It’s brightly lit from the front so we see a nice silhouette through the back window of the faceless driver. We look at each other, excited that we have a lift and run towards the Zodiac Killer – I mean our lift. He leans over and opens the passenger door. We crane to peer in. He’s a heavily decorated soldier. We’re saved! Rachel lifts the front seat up and I jump into the back, she sits up front and a conversation in Hebrew begins.

  I now get my first look at the Zodiac and ironically he actually looks a bit like John Carroll Lynch. He’s a major in the IDF, fancy! He also has an Uzi in his lap. No biggie. He speaks to me in broken English, he seems all right, he opens the glove box and slings me a bottle of vodka. Brilliant. Free vodka. I like this guy. We pull off and I take a big swig and pass it forward. He swigs too which is unorthodox but what the fuck. We drive in silence except for the odd Hebrew from time to time. More vodka is quaffed.

  After about twenty minutes we turn down a pitch-black dirt track, he pulls up, turns the engine off and we sit in silence for a time. Some more Hebrew breaks out. The major is looking back at me smiling, talking Hebrew to Rachel. I happily smile back and nod and continue my assault on his bottle. To say I was totally oblivious to a growing weirdness would be a little inaccurate, I had sensed the beginning of a minor weirdness. Rachel suddenly jumps out of the car and ratchets the seat forward. She shrieks at me.

  ‘Get out now!’

  ‘Why? Free vodka.’

  ‘Get the fuck out of the car.’

  I bumble out of the back seat, grumbling. I was so sick of walking.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

  ‘Just walk, go, right now.’

  I was starting to get the point. I
half walked, half ran away from drunken Major Zodiac with his curly hair.

  After some running we stopped and turned to see him still sat there, lights on. He was making a decision. Thinking things through. The car starts and slowly begins to reverse. Rachel relaxes enough to tell me what happened. When Zodiac was talking to her in Hebrew, even though he was looking back at me and smiling, he was propositioning her. Trying to convince her to fuck him, even suggesting I could stay on his couch while it went on, which was nice of him I guess. He was fairly insistent towards the end, forcing Rachel to leap out. Poor girl. What a blind idiot I’d been.

  We trudged back into town. Our common enemy meant we were actually in a bit of a better mood. We walked round the city a bit and eventually found some stairs leading up to a large flat roof. We checked it out. It was clean and quiet so we made our bed up there. It was nice to finally be together. We snuggled in and fell asleep.

  After a few hours we were awakened by the sound of a Muezzin calling the Muslim faithful to prayer. It was fucking loud. We’d inadvertently slept on top of a mosque. We were also now surrounded by thirty cats. It was nice, I like cats.

  ***

  When Rachel left Israel I missed her so much. I felt hollow. I wanted to leave. I’d been there long enough. So I left, again. When I got home Mum and Dad told me of their plan to move to Wales. Back to the place it all began for her. I think it was the right thing to do. Mum and Dad were not well, they’d got the council to rehouse them in a little place called Letterston, it’s a small village on the main road into Fishguard. This news meant I had eight weeks to get my shit together and find somewhere to live. Great.

  I’d made a mate in Israel this last time out, a man called Pat. He was a lot older than me and kind of a serious person. I liked him though. He was Irish and loved the Craic. One day on kibbutz I noticed a big red scar under one of his arms, near the chest. Me being nosy I asked how he got it; at first he wouldn’t tell me, he seemed sheepish and quickly covered it up. So I left it.

  Weeks later, after a few bevvies, he starts to tell me a story about what he did back in Ireland. I’m made to promise not to tell anyone. I’m excited, my interest definitely piqued. He tells me he’s an officer in the Anti-Terrorist police in Northern Ireland and the scar is a result of being shot in a firefight with the IRA. During a pause in the battle, Pat rolls over onto his back to grab a fresh magazine which is strapped to his chest and he’s shot by a sniper in the only part of his body not protected by his armour. Right under the armpit. Holy fuck. Tough break. Poor him. That was that. He never mentioned it again except to say he’d come to Israel to convalesce. After that we became mates. I completely trusted him.

  A couple of weeks after I got back from Israel I get a phone call from Pat. Amazing. He’s in London and wonders if he can come and crash at mine for a couple of days. Absolutely you can. He turns up, we embrace, hugs, laughter. I introduce him to Mum and Dad, he’s charming and funny, brings a bottle for Dad, something for Mum. Real textbook shit.

  Pat stays, we have a laugh. I like and trust him. He’s my mate. Most mornings he’d head off to use the phonebox on the corner, he needed to check in with his commanding officer. Cool. Our flat is so small that having a big Irish lump on the sofa is making the place feel even smaller.

  Mum and Dad start to hassle me, rightly so. A few days has turned into two weeks! I think Pat senses his time is coming to an end here. I feel bad for Mum and Dad but awkward about asking him to leave.

  One morning Pat heads out to make some calls. When he comes back he tells me I have to rent a car. His C/O has given him a job while he’s here and he needs my help. I’m afraid and excited.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘There’s an old pub in Peckham, there’s a package that’s been left there for me. I need to go and get it.’

  ‘Right . . . Um, sure.’

  ‘There’s a house. We need to park up the street and see who comes and goes.’

  This seems way above my pay grade but he seems to know what he’s doing so fuck it. I’ll be a spy for the day. I hire a car. He tells me it has to be powerful in case we need to get away. I squeak a bit inside. We drive down to this old boarded-up pub. I don’t fancy talking very much.

  ‘Pull in here. Keep the car running.’

  ‘How long will you be?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  Pat leaps out. He looks around to see if we’ve been followed. Classic spy stuff. He walks off and disappears behind the back of the pub. I need to shit so badly. After ten minutes he comes out holding a small package.

  ‘Drive!’

  I leave at pace revving loudly. After a while I ask him what’s in the package. He tells me it’s a handgun. My shit comes out. This is way too much for me. I’m actually properly afraid. The next day he tells me he doesn’t think I should come on the stake-out. I’m thrilled. He leaves very early and comes back late afternoon. I ask no questions and he tells me nothing but seems happy. He wants to celebrate. His treat. Cool. I’m still on edge but a night in London makes me feel better. It’ll also give Mum and Dad a chance to have the place to themselves for the night.

  We spend the night tearing it up in town, this is great, this feels like we’re back on kibbutz. This feels like the old Pat I know. I relax into him again. At one point we cross a packed Leicester Square when a rangy kid, all ribcage and long arms, approaches us.

  ‘Pills pills pills . . .’ He’s got pills apparently. I make that kind of ‘hmmm, yeah, um, sure’ face. I pull some money out. He pulls some pills out. I look at Pat to see if he’s up for it. I’ve forgotten the job he does. I turn to see him grabbing hold of this kid round the neck. Balls.

  From out of nowhere two of the dealer’s mates run towards Pat, he gets hammered by flying haymakers. Pat grabs the dealer even harder, his head deflecting the fists of these kids. I see others approaching.

  Pat screams at me. I am literally shitting myself. ‘Run to a phone and dial 999. Tell them Anti-Terrorist police officer needs back up.’

  I do not need asking twice. I fucking sprint out of there. I’m being followed. I find a phonebox on the east side of the square and dial 999. I tell them what I’m told to say. Even before the phonecall is finished I start to hear sirens. The door to the phonebox is jerked open, I’m punched. I grab the door and pull it closed. I’m shouting down the phone. Three youths, mates of the dealer, associates, are trying to get into this phonebox. Through the window I can see police vans and cars and officers pouring into the square.

  It offers little or no relief to me. These kids are tearing at the door to the phonebox. They’ve seen me in the square with Pat. The door’s flung open, I pull it back closed, through the gap, fists, punches and knives are trying to scythe their way in, trying to cut me. Street vengeance. Four coppers pound their way towards me. The kids see them and bounce. There’s a brief scuffle outside, I see my chance and head out, running. All around me the scene is absolute mayhem. I can only estimate the number of Old Bill but I’d have to say more than fifty. Easy.

  I find a copper. My hope is they’ll stick me in a car and take me away. My fear is I’ll be followed and stabbed, killed in an alley outside the back door of a theatre. I’m so fucking mad with Pat right now.

  I explain to the policeman what happened and that I was the one who made the call. Instead of taking me off the street and out of danger he tells me to run to Vine Street, ‘it’s where they’re taking everyone.’ I don’t pause, or wait or hesitate. I just run and run and run. My feet snap against the concrete, my heart pounds, my lungs are so fucking mad with Pat right now.

  I leave the din of shouting and screaming and sirens and fury behind but I don’t stop until I find the Nick. I run in headlong and burst into words. Pat is here. He’s bloodied and bruised. We’re taken into a custody suite. We sit in silence. I can’t even look at him. The door begins to open.

  He spit-whispers at me, ‘Don’t say a fucking word.’ I couldn’t be any more so
ber right now if I tried.

  A detective comes in and he and Pat speak for a moment, it’s terse and business-like. It makes me nervous. Pat reaches into his pocket and pulls out his warrant card, the thing that identifies him as a policeman. The detective softens at this. I relax by 4%.

  A conversation happens, it’s full of language I don’t or won’t understand. A document gets signed. I sit and say nothing. Then it’s over. The cop stands, Pat stands, they shake hands. It’s done. We can go. What has just gone down? What the fuck is going on? I’m so afraid I avoid Leicester Square for almost six years. I feel bad for the dealer.

  When I get home I’m angry and confused. We don’t talk. I think I want Pat to go now. I know we’re mates and shit but enough is enough. I’m not a copper, in fact at this point I’m probably completely the opposite. Pat senses this.

  The next morning he heads out to make his secret phone calls. When he comes back we’re all there. I sense something is really wrong. His eyes are red.

  ‘Are you okay, mate?’ I forget about last night. He stumbles and stammers.

  ‘My mammie’s dead.’ He releases a noise like a fat boar struck by a javelin and falls into my mum’s arms crying like a baby. Shit. Poor him. There’s no way we can ask him to leave now. I watch him grieve his way through the nice bottle of scotch he bought Dad upon arrival. We leave it for a while, imagining he’ll go home and take care of what needs to be done. He doesn’t though, not immediately.

  A couple of days later he gets up and goes to make his daily phone calls. Strangely, after two hours he’s not back. Six hours later he is still MIA. He doesn’t come back that night, he doesn’t come back the next day, or the next, in fact he never comes back. He never comes back. I never see him again. This, to me, is the most frightening thing of all, the not knowing.

  After a couple of days my parents decide to search his bags and phone the police. He left everything he had at my house. Left it all. Just ran. He even left his passport, one of three he had which are all in different names. What the fuck was going on?