by RR Haywood
‘AFFFFA. AFFFFA.’
They go closer to the edge of the road, pushing through the gaps to see scantily clad men and women dressed in mimicry of Roman soldiers, with plumes of bright-red feathers glued to their heads and backsides as they march in time to the drum, and as the samba music grows to overtake the military beat so the chanting grows louder.
‘AFFFFA. AFFFFA. AFFFFA.’
Behind the near-naked Roman soldiers come more women and men. These dressed in tiny tunics, just scraps of material that cover breasts and groins. Sandals on their feet and the contrast is clear. Soldiers and slaves, but while the soldiers march, so the slaves dance and writhe to the music as they work to steal up behind the scary soldiers who pretend not to notice and the excitement in the crowd grows as those watching chant ‘AFFFFA’ faster and louder.
Ben watches with keen interest, not having a clue of the term of reference or what it represents. Miri the same.
The slaves attack. Running amok with giant feathers as swords to slice and stab the Roman soldiers who burst out to dance in the street and sides. A heady, gaudy sight of flesh and skin on show and Harry watches beautiful women go by while trying to discreetly see if they really are women.
The float passes, but next is a permutation of the same thing. Roman in theme. Soldiers leading slaves by leashes and almost erotically dominatrix in appearance and design. The word ‘AFFA’ etched in sequins on the arses of the slaves that get patted and smacked by the soldiers. The word ‘AFFA’ spotted on the sides of the floats too. On banners and on flags and one gorgeous woman stops in front of Ben to shake her boobs tattooed with the letters ‘AF’ on one breast and ‘FA’ on the other, all in flowing script. Ben stares open-mouthed, earning a dig from Safa in the process, but it wasn’t the ample cleavage he was staring at but the word. The same word seen everywhere. This is 1999. Why doesn’t he know what the word ‘AFFA’ means? They said it in Hyde Park in 2111 too. He turns to look at Miri, who makes a drinking motion, then nods to the bar behind them. ‘I’M GOING TO THE BAR WITH MIRI . . .’ he yells at Safa.
‘GOOD. GO LOOK AT MORE BIG TITS.’
‘I WASN’T LOOKING AT HER TI— BOOBS.’
‘YOU BLOODY WERE. I SAW YOU.’
‘NO, I WASN’T . . . I MEAN . . . I WAS LOOKING AT THE TATTOO ON HER BOOBS . . . NOT HER ACTUAL BOOBS.’
‘SURE. FUCK OFF. GO FIND A WOMAN WITH BIG TITS.’
‘I WASN’T STARING . . . I’M GOING TO GET THE DRINKS.’
‘WHATEVER,’ she says, flicking a middle finger up while staring ahead.
He tuts and turns to see Emily shaking her head in admonishment.
‘I WASN’T LOOKING AT HER BOOBS,’ he yells.
‘SURE,’ she yells back, giving a sarcastic smile and an even more sarcastic thumbs up.
He walks off behind Miri towards the building line and the various wide doorways of the bars. The smells of beer and cigarette smoke hang in the air. The heat of people packed together.
‘You seeing all this?’ Ben asks, putting his mouth to Miri’s ear to be heard.
‘Confirmed,’ she says. ‘Observe for now.’
Miri simply holds up seven fingers and shows a banknote to a young man behind the bar, who snatches it from her grip before rushing off while she nudges Ben and points at the bottles on display. Whiskeys, rums, vodkas and all different spirits. Ben spots only one label he recognises. All the others are different, with brands he has never seen before. A big sign above the bar proclaiming AFFA BEER SOLD HERE in English and Portuguese.
‘What’s affa mean?’ Safa asks him when Ben and Miri go out with the drinks, apparently now having forgotten the buxom woman Ben was staring at.
‘No idea,’ he shouts back.
‘Ben?’ Malcolm pushes into his side. ‘What does affa mean? We’ve never heard of it.’
Ben shrugs, then turns back to face the procession and drink the beer in his hand.
Harry downs bottle after bottle, but then he is a big man and able to consume such quantities. He starts smiling and laughing too and dances in the road with the men and women that go by. He dances with Emily, lifting her off her feet with his hands on her waist and making her squeal in delight at being hoisted up so easily.
Miri goes for more drinks, noticing the banknotes held by others are slightly different to the money she has but at least the same colour and size. She aims for the busiest section, knowing the bartenders are too frantic to check the notes.
She returns with two crates of beer and a bottle of rum that gets passed round with something akin to ritualistic swigging by a group forming a bond while all around them are signs and logos they have never seen before.
‘Roman,’ Miri says, nodding at Ben. ‘S’definitely Roman.’
‘Roman,’ Ben replies, nodding in response. ‘S’got to be.’
‘Affa? Affa? I don’t know it. Do you know it?’ Miri asks him a few seconds later.
‘Nope, I don’t know it . . . I keep thinking . . . I keep thinking affa? I don’t know affa . . .’
Emily takes the bottle, carefully wiping the opening with her arm before glugging a few big mouthfuls of rum. ‘I mean . . . you know . . . I just worry. I do. I worry. That’s who I am? You know?’ she tells Safa earnestly.
‘Sex,’ Safa says knowingly, winking at Emily in such a way that Emily sprays her drink. ‘He just needs some nookie . . .’
‘Safa! He doesn’t . . .’ Emily says, wiping her chin.
‘Bet he does,’ Safa says. ‘OI, BEARDY . . . ARE YOU HORNY?’
‘WHAT?’ Harry roars, turning round in the way of a mountain rotating on its axis and thereby shifting several people caught in his gravitational field.
‘HARRY, YOU DICK,’ Safa laughs as Harry wraps his arm round her and Emily, lifting them both off their feet in a huge bear hug.
‘GOING AFT,’ Harry strides out to join in with some scantily clad Roman soldiers and tunic-wearing slaves with Safa and Emily still in his arms. The women laugh hard, bouncing along as Harry dances, spins and turns with the men and women.
‘Oi, piss off,’ Konrad yells, seeing a man taking a bottle from one of their crates of beer.
‘Hey, buddy,’ the man says, standing upright while holding several bottles. He smiles at Konrad, showing even white teeth in a square jaw underneath buzz-cut hair. Wide shoulders, muscular arms and clearly very American.
‘I said piss off,’ Konrad says.
‘Come on, buddy, it’s carnival,’ the man drawls, laughing as he passes some of the bottles to his mates.
‘Hold my beer, Malc,’ Konrad says, passing his bottle to Malcolm.
‘Er, he’s a big lad, Kon,’ Malcolm says, blinking in alarm.
‘No, no, hold my beer . . . Bloody cheeky Yank . . .’
‘Come on now, Kon . . . I’m sure he’ll put it back . . . Oh, he’s taking more. Ere, mate, that’s a bit naughty, that is. You put them back.’
‘The US Navy requires these beers . . .’ the American says with a line that makes his shipmates burst out laughing. ‘Aw, come on, Affa, quit whining . . . We’ll leave you one . . .’
Konrad gives a gargled yell and takes it upon himself to defend the beer supplies against the blatant theft underway by the US Navy. He charges fast, crossing the short distance, while the Americans laugh and look at each other in mild surprise as E-3 rating Culinary Specialist Seaman Gibowski, a former college fullback, reels from the forehead of a half-British, half-German workman from the future slamming into his nose.
Gibowski goes down hard with the bottles of beer falling from his hands as Konrad stands victorious for a long second while the other E-3 rating US Navy Culinary Specialists stare on before lunging at Konrad.
‘KON!’ Malcolm shouts, then charges in to help his mate.
Harry spins and dances with Safa and Emily still laughing in his arms, all three turning heads at the sight of Malcolm being propelled backwards past them and track back to the Battle of the Crate now underway with Konrad swinging ou
t wild and crazed but not hitting anyone. The sailors swarm, taking him down amidst a sea of elbows and legs flailing until the roar of a very large man peaks over the din of the music and behind Ben and Miri, Harry, Safa and Emily rush into the fray as more seamen from the culinary department arrive to assist their colleagues. US Navy ships are big; they have a lot of sailors and that means a lot of food to be cooked and served, which means a lot of sailors to cook and serve it.
‘You don’t think, do you?’ Ben asks with a sudden thought, his back to the huge brawl going on behind.
‘What?’ Miri snaps in between swigging from her bottle of beer.
‘Affa . . . You don’t think it’s like . . . You know . . . Alpha . . . affa . . . Alpha . . . Nah, haha . . . Silly . . . Ignore me.’
‘Where’s that damn rum?’ Miri demands, spinning round to drunkenly view the mass fight underway. ‘Mr Ryder . . .’
‘What?’
‘Mr Ryder, turnabout,’ Miri orders.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Ben says, turning round. ‘It could be Alpha . . . Affa and Alpha are . . . Oh hello, there’s a big fight going on . . . Ooh, is that Harry? It is . . . He’s got those two chaps in his hands . . . But what I’m saying, Miri, is Affa and Alpha sound the same . . . ish . . .’ He trails off, realising Miri is no longer next to him, but is punching a man in the face.
‘Oh,’ Ben says, watching almost idly. He looks round to see everyone else has cleared away to stare at the bedlam with amused interest. Then he spots Safa in the middle, the love of his life battering everyone near to her. Even when drunk she moves faster than everyone else. He sighs happily, feeling his heart swell until E-3 rating Culinary Specialist Seaman Gibowski, having just got back up, takes a cheap shot at the back of Safa’s head. ‘OI, THAT’S MY GIRLFRIEND . . .’
Half an hour later the bar fills with the roar of a hundred voices joined in song and all of them surrounding a bearded giant of a man holding a beer bottle above his head while he leans back to sing.
‘Welcome to the Hotel California . . . such a lovely place . . .’
It was a seething, brawling mess of floundering bodies and people rolling over each other until a quick-thinking young man from one of the local bars doused the fighters with a hose and within seconds, they were separated, soaking and looking round in a post-scrap daze wondering who started it and why.
It was Harry, with Emily at his side, who led them into the bar of the young man with the hose and decided he should buy everyone a beer. Miri paid, of course, in the way of quickly pushing banknotes into the hands of the bartenders and telling them, in part Spanish, part Portuguese and part Russian to keep them focussed on her instead of the money.
The song ends on the music system. A song that seems to have still happened despite the changes to the timeline.
‘MORE,’ Harry roars, holding his beer aloft.
‘MORE,’ everyone else roars, taking their cue from the epicentre of the party. All eyes on the big man. All eyes on his wide shoulders and the thickness of his neck glimpsed behind his beard and the whiteness of his teeth through those bushy dark hairs.
As the music starts again, so the people move and sway to sing and give voice and the compression of the crowd surrounding Harry closes in, pushing Emily further into his side.
Sometimes Edith looks like Emily. Sometimes, when Harry lies in his bed and tries hard to summon Edith’s face he sees Emily’s instead. He dreamt of Edith a few nights ago. They were walking on Blackpool seafront and stopped to kiss in the rain. It gave him a warm sensation inside but when he pulled back it was Emily instead and Harry woke up confused.
Now he drinks and sings but he still can’t remember Edith’s face. Even now, in the packed bar, he cannot summon the image of her face, so he sings the words of a song he just learnt as Emily loops her arm through his and leans back to glug from the bottle, showing the shape of her slender neck and her defined clavicle bones. She catches him staring and lowers the bottle to grin and laugh. ‘Beardy,’ she says, blinking heavy and slow.
‘AYE,’ Harry roars, holding his beer aloft.
‘AYE,’ everyone else roars, holding their beers aloft.
That makes Emily laugh again. Harry likes it when she laughs. He likes the sound of it and the way her cheeks blush when she’s been giggling for a while. He likes the way the tip of her nose moves when she talks and the little lines around her eyes that crease deeper in mirth.
She slides her arm across his back and laughs at the difference in their sizes, and steps in front of him to feel his arm around her waist holding her tight. The man who took out Alpha and Bravo. The man she eats popcorn with on the big red sofa when they watch holo movies.
She lifts the bottle to her mouth and leans back, glugging deep and seeing him upside down. He looks down, smiling at her then planting a big kiss on her forehead that makes her choke and burst out laughing again.
‘Welcome to the Hotel California . . . such a lovely place . . .’
They sing together with her looking up and him looking down. Both with flushed, ruddy faces glistening lightly with sweat. Both with wet clothes that cling to their frames in the steamy heat of the packed bar. She pushes her fingers to entwine in his, but it’s not right, honour kicks in and Harry forces himself to look up and away. He is betrothed to Edith. He made a pledge. He can’t remember Edith. He can’t remember her. He tries hard and closes his eyes while singing to try with every ounce of effort to see her face, but it won’t come. He is forgetting who he is. He is forgetting his loyalty and honour, but then he died in Norway. Edith will marry someone else and live a long happy life. She’s already done it. She’s now dead or she still has her life to live. She is neither the past nor the future but a singular reminder of a love he had that was true and pure, but that is now gone.
A hand on his neck and he opens his eyes to realise Emily is still clasped in his arms in front of him and reaching up to pull him down. He lowers gently, caught in the moment of feeling her body leaning back against him, of the shape and smell of her, of the tone of her skin and the feel of her hand on the back of his neck. If he turns his head a little he could kiss the soft tender skin of her inner forearm pressing against his jaw.
Emily saw Ben and Safa kissing off to one side and the image struck her. She wants to tell Harry to look, so he can see how cute it is and how well they suit each other. She wants to tell Harry that Safa said he might be horny and in her mind that joke will be funny and they’ll both laugh and drink more beer.
She smiles up at him. The lighting low, the music blaring, the voices singing and her hand on the back of his neck and as he lowers so their eyes lock and her smile fades. His eases. Their eyes become focussed and serious. Breathing deepens. Hearts thunder. They are both young, fit, healthy and detached from everything they ever knew to do a thing of monumental meaning and in that second all those things can be seen and understood.
She pulls away, then pushes past him, aiming for the back of the bar. He watches her go, then feels the tug of her hand pulling him behind her.
She speeds up, heading through the dense bar to the doors at the back into a corridor leading to a storeroom filled with crates, barrels and bottles on shelves. Another door. A flight of stairs going up. Dark and gloomy with the neon lights outside the grimy windows filtering chemical illumination that mixes with the background noise of the bars surrounding them and the street outside. Not that they notice because she turned after climbing the first two stairs, grabbed her top and pulled it up over her head as Harry surged in to plant his mouth on hers.
Hands move with urgency. Fuelled by alcohol and lust. She feels his arms loop round her waist and lifts her legs to wrap round him. He climbs the stairs, carrying her easily while kissing hard. Both of them pushing into the other with weeks and months of tension bursting out from them. They cannot get close enough. They cannot move fast enough. She grunts as she kisses him, almost animalistic in her desire. Her hands pushing into his beard and the thrill inside at kis
sing Harry surges to give unabated pleasure. Mad Harry Madden. This is Mad Harry Madden. The thought of it. The thrill of it but more than that, this is the man who saved her, the man who refused to look at her nipples straining through the wet top that night, but now he is taking them in his mouth and feeling them stiffen on his tongue. She gasps at the sensation, at the bristles of his beard on her skin. He is safe. Whatever they do now is safe because he is Harry.
A battered old sofa once used in the main bar but taken upstairs for storage rather than paying the cost of dumping it. They sink down into the leather that creaks with the weight of their bodies kissing, searching, pushing and gasping for air.
The desire increases, becoming a craving, a need, an absolute necessity. She pulls his shirt overhead rather than waste time unbuttoning it. She kisses him while doing it, sitting astride his lap while his hands run and up and down her back. She feels his arms and shoulders then down his chest to fumble at the button and zipper on his shorts that she chose and bought for him while he does the same to her. Both of them getting in each other’s way. Both trying to kiss and push and do everything all at the same time.
She grunts again in frustration and pulls away to stand up in front of him to yank her shorts and knickers off. He stands too, his shorts falling down. She places a hand on his chest, pushing him back onto the sofa, then stepping up to sink down all in one motion and the sensation of penetration makes them both gasp and hold still for a gloriously long beautiful second as her back arches and she faces up to the heavens.
She falls forward to kiss him while moving back and forth with Harry holding her hips, feeling the movement and the sensation of being inside her. Seeing her breasts sway and the touch of her lips on his and her tongue darting in and out.
Edith doesn’t exist. Nothing exists. Not the bunker, not Safa or Ben, not Miri or anyone. Not the people they killed in any of the wars they have fought in. Only this matters; being here with Emily is his singular point of being and that absolute love, that hungry tenderness, extends out to envelop her. He becomes fascinated with the contours of her body, with the way the light shines on her hair hanging down her back. He slows his motion to savour every second, to search her eyes and smile when she grins at him, to laugh when she laughs at the delight they have together as she stares into his eyes, riding him with a pace that builds and grows.