Blast From the Past

by Ben Elton

  “Sorry about that,” he said and laid it down on the table beside his glass. Then he made as if to resume their embrace, but Polly raised a hand to stop him. She could hardly believe her eyes.

  “A gun!” she gasped. “You’re carrying a gun! You’re armed!”

  “Sure,” Jack replied casually. “I’m a soldier. It’s what I take to work.”

  “I’m a council worker but I don’t have a file full of pointless forms and a leaky biro stuffed into my knickers! I can’t believe you’ve brought a gun into my home.”

  Where Jack came from, of course, everybody had a gun in their home. People didn’t even think about it. In fact if you didn’t have one you were weird. Obviously Jack knew that things were different in Britain, but it still did not seem like a big deal to him.

  “I’m sorry, Polly, but I need it.”

  “You need a gun in Stoke Newington in the middle of the night?”

  “Yes, I do,” Jack replied. “I’m a target.”

  This was not the type of conversation that Polly would have chosen to conduct in the middle of making love, but she could not just let it go.

  “You do know you’re breaking the law, don’t you?” she said. “I mean, this is Britain, not Dodge City! You can’t just wander around with a gun in your pocket.”

  But it seemed that Jack could.

  “I’m one of America’s most senior soldiers. Quite a lot of people about the place would like me to be dead. It’s a diplomatic thing. We have an informal understanding with Special Branch.”

  Polly still could not accept it. “You come to my house dressed like Oliver North, you have informal understandings with the Special Branch, you carry a gun! I hate people like you. I’ve spent my life protesting about people like you!”

  Jack shrugged and smiled his smile.

  “So how is it …” Polly continued, “how the fuck is it … that you’re the only man I’ve ever loved … ?”

  “Bad luck, I guess,” said Jack. Then he drew her back into his arms.

  For a moment Polly thought about resisting. She thought about informing Jack that she was not a tap who could be turned on and off, that she did not consort with gunmen. But then he held her and she held him. Their lips met again with even greater passion, it seemed, than they had done a minute or two before. Again Jack could feel Polly’s divine form crushed against him, could feel her hands pulling at the belt of his jacket. Now he really had to see her naked once more. He stood back a little, not so far as to stop Polly from undoing his belt but far enough for him to raise his hands to the buttons of Polly’s nightshirt. Whatever his original plans might or might not have been, he simply had to see her naked again. He would die if he did not. He knew that it was wrong. He had promised himself that what was about to happen was the one thing that would not happen but he didn’t care. He had been mad to imagine that he could control it. He loved her and he wanted her. Nothing had changed.

  Now his hands were at the middle buttons of her nightshirt, his eyes straining, waiting to feast themselves on what lay beneath. His face, usually so mature and assured, was suddenly like a boy’s, eager and scared. Polly, too, could hardly restrain herself. She’d opened his jacket and her hands had stolen to the fastening of his trousers. She neither knew nor cared what had brought Jack back to her door; she was happy to give away the past and ignore the future. Her entire life was crammed into the immediate living moment. Jack’s fingers brushed against her skin as her shirt fell open and he felt her shiver gently at his touch. He shivered also, and by no means gently. Polly’s hands tugged at his zip. His whole body felt as if it would explode. He moved his hands from one button down to the next, allowing his fingers to explore the greater freedom that the opening of Polly’s shirt now afforded. Her breasts felt smooth and firm, the skin springy and subtle. He wondered if he could ever let go now that he had them in his hands again.

  “You got rid of the nipple ring, then?” he whispered.

  “Yeah, everybody started wearing them.”

  Polly had a hold of Jack too, her hand deep in his trousers, gripping the straining erection through his shorts. Now Jack’s hands were at Polly’s waist, the final button of her shirt undone, his fingers slipping under the elastic of her knickers. Another moment and all would be revealed.

  Then Polly’s phone rang.

  44

  Peter had remained in the gutter for some time, kneeling in the dirty running stream, imagining himself somehow cleansed and sanctified by the waters of the night. Water has ever had a strong hold on the spiritual side of men’s minds and it was no less the case for Peter, even though his spirit was warped and his mind ill. The rain upon his face and the stream lapping at his knees seemed somehow to lend a new courage and nobility to his resolve. In his unformed fantasies he imagined himself reborn and baptized, a martyr and a saint. He spread his arms, Christ-like, as he knelt. Like Christ he was an outcast, a man alone and, like Christ, he knew a greater love.

  But that love had been betrayed.

  Peter had resolved upon murder. It just remained to decide who was to die. Would he kill the American? Would he kill Polly? Perhaps he would kill them both, and then himself. But if he killed himself how would his mother cope? Perhaps he would have to kill her too.

  He got up, soaked to the skin but warm and happy. He had a purpose, a goal. He could see an end to his emptiness and longing.

  Fumbling in his pocket for a coin, he made his way back to the phonebox.

  45

  Jack and Polly sprang apart. The ringing of the phone came as a shock, totally unexpected; they had been utterly lost in their mutual undressing.

  “Who the hell is that?” said Jack, grabbing at his trousers to prevent them from falling down.

  “How would I know? I’m not a clairvoyant,” Polly replied, closing her nightshirt. But she did know.

  “It’s nearly four in the morning, Polly. Who’s going to ring at such an hour?”

  It seemed almost as if Jack was more anxious than she was.

  “You tell me. You did.”

  After the sixth ring the answerphone kicked in and delivered Polly’s familiar message. Of course Polly knew what was coming next. It would be the Bug. He was out there and he was trying to get in. A great wave of despair swept over her, so strong and so desolate that her knees nearly gave way and caused her to fall. Would she never have any peace from this man? This thing? Was he going to spoil every joyful moment for the rest of her life?

  “You fucking whore,” said the machine. “Is he in you right now? Is his fat Yankee dick inside you? Yes, he is. I know he is.”

  There was a pause. The line crackled. Polly and Jack did not speak. Jack was too surprised and she was too upset. Then the hated voice of the Bug began again.

  “He’s got AIDS, you know. He has. All Americans have, and now he’s given it to you, or else you’ve given it to him, which is all either of you deserves, sweating and grunting like filthy pigs in your sty …”

  Polly could no longer contain herself; it was all too much. She began to sob. Great, heartfelt, gulping sobs, dredged from the pit of her stomach. Why her? Why now? Why had she caught the Bug? Was she cursed? She made her way to the bed weeping as she went and sat down, burying her face in her hands, all the pent-up emotion of the evening spilling over into despair. For one joyful moment she had forgotten everything, both past and present pain, but it had been an illusion, she could see that now. She was just not meant for happiness. Even if she did sleep with Jack he would still be gone in the morning and she would be alone. Alone, that is, except for the Bug, who had infected her life and for which there was no cure.

  Jack could only look on, his heart hurting for her in her distress. It was unbearable to see her this way. She seemed so helpless, her body shaking with her sobs, her chest, still half naked through the gaping shirt, shuddering jerkily with sorrow.

  “What’s he doing to you now, slag?” Peter’s voice filled the room. “Has he come? Has he spunked
his stuff into you yet? Maybe he’s beating you up? You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Polly? It’s all tarts like you deser—”

  Jack wanted very much to meet this unpleasant pest. He crossed the room and picked up the phone.

  “Where are you speaking from, pal?” he asked in a friendly, matter-of-fact tone as if addressing an acquaintance. “We could talk about all this stuff face to face.”

  “I got my knife back, pal. And I’m going to kill you with it.”

  “OK, that’s fine. That’s good. Where are we going to do this thing?” Jack could have been arranging for a couch to be delivered. “I can meet you anywhere. We could get it over with right now if you like. Tonight. Just tell me where to go.”

  Down in the box in the street Peter could see that his money was running out. He had only one more coin and he hadn’t yet fixed upon his plan.

  “You can go to hell, mate,” he said and slammed down the phone.

  Back in Polly’s flat Jack hung up.

  “Pleasant fellow. I think I met him earlier,” Jack remarked casually to the top of Polly’s head, her face still being lost in her hands. “I guess he’s your stalker, right?”

  Polly was regaining some control. “Yes,” she said in a snotty, teary voice. “I’m sorry. Usually I try not to let it affect me, but it’s been going on so long. He’s always like that, disgusting, horrible …”

  “Let me see if I can catch him,” said Jack, and he might have been talking about the postman.

  Jack took up his coat, slipped his gun back into his pocket and hurried out of the flat, leaving Polly in a state of shock. Jack figured that there was a good chance that the man had been phoning from the callbox where Jack had seen him skulking before. It was certainly worth giving it a go, because life would be a great deal easier for Jack if he could catch the sad bastard that night.

  Peter had been making his way back from the callbox on the other side of the road when he heard the door of Polly’s house opening. Quickly he retreated into the shadow of a doorway. For all his bravado on the phone he realized how dangerous the American man was. Peter watched as his former assailant emerged from Polly’s house and ran up the path. Peter considered leaping with his knife from the darkness as Jack ran past but the memory of their last encounter was too fresh, the taste of his own blood still in his mouth. Peter would have had to cross the road to get to the American and by the time he did that the man might have pulled out a knife of his own. Peter reasoned that he could take no chances. If he lost the fight he would never be able to take his revenge on Polly for betraying him.

  Jack ran past and round the corner towards the phonebox. Peter had intended to remain in his hiding place, but then he saw something extraordinary.

  Jack had left the door to Polly’s house open.

  46

  It was too good a chance to miss. Peter had not been inside Polly’s house since the very beginning of their relationship, and now the door was open and Polly was alone. Peter darted out from the shadows and scuttled across the road and up the path of her house. He hesitated for only a moment before pushing open the door and going in.

  Once inside the hallway he paused and breathed deeply, taking a moment to absorb the atmosphere. This was her private place, her home, her “sanctum”, she had called it in court. He was risking a prison sentence just being there, but it was worth it. It was exquisite to be a part of her private world. He almost thought that he could smell Polly.

  He began to climb the silent stairway, torn between the need to hurry and the desire to luxuriate fully in the moment. As he ascended he dragged one hand gently along the banister, imagining her hand upon the same polished wood, each morning and night.

  In his other hand Peter held the knife.

  A few moments later he stepped into the orange semi-darkness of the top landing. Only one door led off it, which Peter knew to be Polly’s. A light shone through the crack beneath it. She was inside, and she was alone. This, then, was it. The supreme moment. Peter did not know what would happen next. He had made no plan. His great opportunity had sprung itself upon him too quickly for that, but there was one thing he did know: if anyone was going to spend the night alone with Polly it was him.

  He knocked on the door.

  Inside the flat Polly stirred herself. She was grateful that Jack had returned so quickly; she had so hated being left alone. She got up from the bed, buttoned up her nightshirt and went to the door. Contrary to her usual habit she did not glance through the spyhole before beginning to undo the chain.

  The phonebox had been empty. Jack had not expected anything else; hunters rarely find their quarry presented to them on a plate. There had been no point in trying to search the street either. There were so many shadowy doorways, basement stairs, gates and walls that it would have taken the rest of the night to investigate them all. Jack had longed for a set of infra-red nightsights, but of course, he reflected, you never have the right tool when you need it. He walked back to the house deep in thought. Turning the corner into Polly’s road, Jack noticed suddenly that the door to her house was wide open. He broke into a breathless sprint.

  Polly turned the deadlock, and before reaching for the latch dabbed at her eyes with the hem of her nightshirt. She dreaded to think what sort of state her face must be in. Her eyes stung and she wondered if they were red and puffy, but there was nothing to be done. She opened the door.

  Peter had seen Polly’s shadow in the crack of light beneath the door, he had even fancied that he’d heard her breathing as the door chain rattled – but he was too late. He could hear noisy footsteps bounding up the stairs behind him. His enemy had returned. Quickly he stepped back out of the gloomy light and crushed himself into the darkness of the landing, pressing himself hard against the wall.

  The door of Polly’s flat opened. The American reached the top of the stairs and rushed in without breaking his stride. He did not see Peter in the darkness and Peter did not leap out to attack him as he had half intended to do. It was all too quick, too confusing. Killing was not an easy business. The door closed.

  Peter stood for a moment, dumbfounded, scarcely able to contain his thoughts. She had been there. The door had been open. He had missed his chance to kill the man and possess Polly, have her for his own. On the other hand, he was inside the house. He had penetrated her environment and they did not know it. They thought themselves safe. He must work out his next move. Peter retreated down the stairs and sat down on the threadbare carpet to think.

  47

  Inside the attic flat Polly kissed Jack, grateful to him for trying to fight the Bug and glad not to be alone. Jack returned her kisses while trying to catch his breath, tasting the salty tears around her lips. She felt so small and helpless. Jack longed to protect her, to possess her. At that moment, he and Peter were experiencing very similar emotions. Jack steeled himself against such thoughts, against Polly’s magic.

  “I didn’t get him,” he said. “He’d gone.”

  “You’ll never get him,” Polly replied. “He’s invulnerable. I’ve been trying for so long.”

  Jack put his lips to Polly’s ear. “Did you ever think about killing him?” he whispered.

  What a question. Of course she’d thought about killing him. Victims of stalkers often find themselves thinking about nothing else. Polly had wished that sick bastard dead a thousand times.

  “No, I don’t mean wishing him dead, Polly,” Jack said. “I mean actually getting him dead. Killing him. For real.”

  “Don’t joke,” Polly replied. “You don’t know what it’s like. If you knew what it was like to be a victim, how awful it is, you wouldn’t joke.”

  Gently Jack sat Polly down upon the bed and fetched her drink. “I’m not joking,” he said. “I’ll kill him for you.”

  “Oh, Jack, if only.” She was near to tears again.

  “Polly.” Jack spoke firmly now. “I’ll kill him for you. I just need to know who he is and where he lives.”

  Polly’s hea
d swam. It was such a lovely thought. Such a truly lovely thought. To have the Bug dead. Squashed. Gone for ever. Not warned off, not threatened with arrest, not made to give a solemn undertaking to stay away, but dead. Completely and utterly ceasing to exist. It was a beautiful dream. But that was what it was, a dream. You couldn’t just kill people.

  Jack knew what she was thinking. “I’m a soldier,” he said. “Killing people is what I do. It’s not such a big deal.”

  “When soldiers kill people it’s legal?”

  “Since when did you ever care about the law? Certainly not when I knew you. There is a higher law, that’s what you used to say. Or maybe you think it’s OK that I kill strangers whose only crime is that they come from a different country. Persecuting the weak and intimidating women is fine as long as it’s legal.”

  “I’m not talking about justice,” Polly said. “I’m talking about the law, that’s all. You’d get caught.”

  Jack smiled that charming, confident smile. “Hey, I’m out of here tomorrow. I’m gone. I’m on an army transport to Brussels and then home to the States. You think if I bump off some sad lowlife, nolife nut in Stoke Newington, somebody’s going to say, ‘Hey, I bet a general in the United States army did this.’ Never in a trillion years.”

  “Stop talking like that.”

  “I was in Special Forces, Polly. Believe me, I know how to hit a guy discreetly. I can do it on my way to the airfield and still get breakfast.”

  Polly was silent now. She wanted to tell him to stop again but the words would not come.

  “I mean, the guy’s connected to you,” Jack continued, “but he’s not connected to me, right? Of course you’re connected to me, Polly, but only you and I know that, don’t we? That’s true, isn’t it, Polly?”

  By a stroke of great good fortune Jack had stumbled upon a way of finding out exactly what he most wanted to know.