Phone

by Will Self

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

  chair, and moving in through that dark doorway to deliver a soft

  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

  the chiller cabinets, clocks the one of the man he killed – which is

  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