by Alice Jolly
She walks back to the Windsor Guest House via the church. She’s stopped there before to light a candle. She’s not quite sure who she should light a candle for – Laurie, Mrs Joyce Waldron, this tiny nub of something which is growing inside her – whose days might be short? Or perhaps for Mollie? As Jemmy lights her candle she looks up and sees a man watching her. He’s an ordinary sort of man – very tall and solid but strangely light on his feet. Has she seen him in the church before? He has greying hair combed straight back from his forehead and ordinary, old-man clothes. The way that he looks at her isn’t unfriendly but there is something disconcerting in his gaze. It’s as though he knows something that she doesn’t, as though he sees some significance in this moment that she can’t discern.
Jemmy picks up the candle she has just lit, lifting it from its spike. She looks at the man as she holds the candle up to her face, then she blows on it, enough to make the flame dance but not enough to blow it out. For a moment, the man nearly smiles, which is what she wants. She’s trying to tell him that it isn’t all as worrying as he thinks. Even though it is that worrying really. Bloody awful. As bad as it could possibly get. So bad she can’t believe it’s happening. She replaces the candle, stares into its dancing yellow flame for a few moments more, and then turns and leaves.
26
NOW
Jay – Baghdad, March 2003
Hi Mum, Granmollie, Grandad, Friends,
Sorry I haven’t been in touch. Everything is changing so fast and it’s just so hard to find anyone with a phone or a computer connection but now I’m typing this from Greg Marsden’s computer. He says I have to let you know what is going on. The situation is like this – yesterday morning these three journalists were arrested in the desert near the border and no one has any idea what’s happened to them. Now it just isn’t safe to drive through that area. Greg had a car on standby for days, waiting to leave.
I thought maybe that was a good idea because it’s hard to find a place in a car unless you have a lot of money. Then yesterday morning Greg’s editor phoned and ordered him out and we were just about to leave – but then there was the news about the journalists and now everyone says it’s safer to stay. Yesterday when all this stuff came up I was pretty scared for a while but now I feel OK. This was what I wanted so in a way it’s easy that the decision got taken for me.
But the thing is, Mum and Granmollie, I need your help and I just hope that even if you’re angry with me you will try and do what you can. I know I should have kept in touch more. I’m doing some work here for people who run a website which posts up stories written by Iraqis. Ask Wilf to show it to you. They need someone to find the stories, get them translated and take some photographs, so that’s what I’m going to do. It’s a really good job for me as that’s what I like doing anyway. This organisation can’t pay so I need some money. I still have quite a bit but it’s not going to last. Problem is there’s no way of getting money into this country unless you carry it in by hand. Greg says I’m a bloody idiot and I should have gone but when he gets out he’ll be in London and he can pick up some money there. Can you ask Wilf and the others if they can help? I know that’s a really big lot to ask and they already need money for other things but I don’t know who else to try. Even a really small amount of money could be a really big help and every time anyone does something to help the Iraqis they are just so full of gratitude that it is almost embarrassing. Might be worth asking Ahmed because he might know as well.
These fucking people going on and on, telling me that I’m putting my life at risk for no purpose, that there’s nothing I can do here, and asking me whether my mother knows that I’m here and what she thinks. All these people are talking about is their own fear. This American woman who is meant to be a fucking Christian giving me a lecture about being self-centred and wanting to create some huge drama and not being able to understand that maybe I actually CARE about this place. But I don’t give a toss what any of these people say. I’m not frightened and I know that what I’m doing is right. I know that I can help and that I’m going to do it.
This place is deadly quiet now and there’s been this weird wind. They call it a turab and the light turns yellow and the air is thick with dust so you can’t see the sky. The wind goes clammy and whips down the streets. All the shop signs rattle and the branches get torn off the date palms. Suddenly everyone is listless. All the shops are shut up and the windows are covered in tape, trenches are dug in the street. Thousands of Iraqis have packed up their stuff and moved out of the city. People are stockpiling food and fuel. Soldiers and security guards are all over the place.
I’m staying with this Iraqi family in the Mansour District. The peace protest people who are still here and Voices of Truth are in the Al Fanar Hotel and the guy who owns it said I can go there even though it's crammed full of his family as well, but I’d rather stay here. And also Patricia is staying here and Hans as well and they say I can always sleep on their floor. In order to stay here I’m meant to have a visa and I do have one because one of the Iraqis I know has connections in the Foreign Ministry but the visa could get taken away at any time. Greg and the few other journalists who are left are all moving from one hotel to another, trying to work out where they need to be in order not to be bombed. Everything is just rumour after rumour and everyone building up supplies of food and water and taping up windows. You should see the kit the journalists have got – special suits to wear for a gas attack, a generator, a kit to build a bomb shelter. At present they’re betting on the Palestine Hotel although that may change again any time. In the basement there’s a bomb shelter but it won’t withstand a direct hit. The bombs may start tonight but no one knows. Mum, I know you’ll be angry about the money and about a lot of other stuff. And I know you must be frightened but it will be OK. I promise you – it will be OK. Sorry, have to go right now. Greg needs the computer.
Love you all.
27
NOW
Lara – Brighton, March 2003
The television screen shows the silhouette of city buildings illuminated by exploding balls of orange lights. It’s thirty-six hours since the first bomb dropped and Lara has watched every minute on BBC News 24. She lies in bed now with the map spread out and tries to locate where the bombs are falling – but it’s no good because no specific addresses are mentioned, just buildings. The Ministry of Defence, the Royal Palaces, the Al Rashid Airport. Lara can find the airport but nothing else. Are any of the Royal Palaces close to Mansour? It’s impossible to know.
And now there is bombing everywhere.
Last night a few explosions hit the city at two in the morning, which was five o’clock in Baghdad, just as dawn was breaking. They came with a sound like the roll of thunder and then miniature mushroom clouds had bloomed, beautiful and deadly, in the early silver light. Lara had thought then that perhaps the Americans were going to keep their promises and that only specific military installations would be bombed. But now night has fallen in Baghdad again and the screen is crowded with a fireworks display, flashes of purple and orange light. Briefly a city – low rise and dust coloured – appears. Smoke pours out of the roof of a building. Military targets only. A broad and concerted campaign. Bush’s various statements have always been contradictory. Is collateral damage anything more than a euphemism for murder?
Lara clambers out of bed and pulls on her jeans. She can’t watch any more – but what else is there to do? She misses Alan, horrid little press-and-communications Alan. Truth, Justice and Peace Alan. The nerve centre, the clandestine operation. Librarian from Southend stands against the great tides of history. Oh how she hated him and his sanctimonious little emails but he had at least kept everyone informed. And she misses that. Who now will send her an email or call with news? For those other waiting relatives, it’s over now. Their sons, daughters, brothers, fathers are all home safe and they’ll avoid her as the cured avoid the terminally sick. A few peace protesters have stayed but Lara has no idea who or wh
ere they are.
Oliver, he is her only hope – if he’s there. She puts on trainers, a jumper and coat. And if he isn’t there then she’ll have to go to her mother. Mollie is the only person who cares for Jay as much as she does. Almost certainly she’ll be at home watching television and so at least they can watch together – and without Rufus. Lara picks up the folder where she keeps all her phone contacts. She wonders if Mollie might have been in touch with Greg Marsden again. He obviously has some ability to communicate with Jay. Perhaps they could ask him to persuade Jay to get to the Palestine Hotel. If it’s full of foreign journalists then it must be the safest place.
Lara sets out through the dwindling light. For a moment, her mind swirls in confusion and she expects to hear that thunder-like rumble and see a ragged circle of light appear over the dull glitter of distant roofs – but then she remembers. It isn’t Brighton that is being bombed. But still those images fill her mind as she walks – past the corner shop, the pub, the gate into the public gardens. It’s a just a normal evening in Brighton so why does everything seem exaggerated, enlarged, laden with hidden significance?
As she nears the Guest House, she peers at the area railings, looking for the familiar glow of the forty-watt kitchen light. But it seems no one is home. Where can Mollie be? Does she even know the war has started? Lara lays a hand, briefly, against the railings. Looking up she notices that the ghastly flag which has always hung between the two third-floor balconies has gone. Thank God for that. Maybe the wind finally blew it away. Lara walks on, turns back at she comes to the church. A girl is approaching the door of the Guest House. A rope of dark hair hangs down to her waist and she wears voluminous trousers, a fitted coat stitched with flowers. Lara has seen this girl before but she can’t remember where. The girl steps up to the front door, takes keys from her rainbow shoulder bag. Is she a new lodger? Another of Brighton’s waifs and strays? Does Mollie have to take them all in? The girl dissolves, enveloped by the darkness of the house.
Lara turns away, heads down the road at the side of the church. She needs to find Oliver. The entrance hall at the Community Centre is thick with Zimmer frames and wheelchairs. Bingo night, or bridge. Lara threads her way through the ranks of pale cardigans, hearing aids and shuffling shoes. Oliver isn’t in the office or the café and so Lara pushes open the door that leads to his stairs. The stairwell is dark and when she presses the light switch nothing happens. Her shoes echo on the bare boards as she climbs. She knows he isn’t in, can feel his absence. She bangs on the door a couple of times then heads back down the stairs.
The only other place she can go is the peace protest office. They’ve raised money for Jay – a thousand pounds so far. That news made her feel ashamed because most of the people in the peace movement haven’t enough money to buy a coffee. The door to the basement is open and a light shines. Lara hears the sound of a news reporter’s voice but the office is empty except for Spike who sits with his wool socks and sandals up on a desk, eating a bag of prawn-cocktail crisps.
Good evening, she says.
Hi there, Ms Ravello. He nods at her vaguely, goes back to the television and the crisps. She wants to ask him if there is any news but what news could there be? Everyone is seeing the same.
So where is everyone?
Gone to London for the vigil. Had to go now because there’s trouble on the trains.
Oh right. And Ahmed as well?
Oh no. Not Ahmed. Didn’t anyone call you? He’s gone to pick up your mother.
What? Where from?
She broke down on the motorway on the way back from London, couldn’t get back. But fortunately it’s Ahmed’s night off at the hotel so he borrowed Wilf’s car and went to get her but that was only half an hour ago so it’ll be a while until he’s back.
That was kind of him.
Spike’s eyes are still fixed on the television.
And I wanted to say, Lara says. Thanks very much. The thousand pounds. I think that’s great, really kind.
Spike shrugs. Yeah, well. A fair bit of it came from your mum. Anyway, not much good now, is it? Spike says, then his face brightens and his sandy hair appears to stand up a little straighter. Except maybe a couple of the photos will get picked up by the national press.
What photos?
You haven’t seen.
What photos?
Uuum. Jay took some photos – maybe last night, maybe earlier this evening. And they’ve gone up on the website. I can show you if you want – but are you sure?
Nobody told me.
I was going to email but I just— Ms Ravello, I’m sorry.
Spike is standing up now, shrugging his shoulders, his palms raised. Lara is about to ask him why the hell he didn’t call her – but then she sees that he’s exhausted and despairing. He’s worked night and day for three months in this grubby basement room and still Baghdad is being bombed. And now the look that he’s giving her is touched with concern, kindness even. She wonders if he’s never looked at her like this before, or whether she’s never been fully aware of him until this moment.
Lara, she says. It’s fine for you to call me Lara.
Spike’s plump finger flicks the computer switch. While he waits for the connection, he pulls at the line of studs in his ear. Lara’s eyes fix on the screen as it flashes from page to page. As Spike’s forearm moves, his dragon tattoo ripples. He opens the home page of the Voices of Truth website which Lara has seen a hundred times before. Then he clicks again. A photograph fills the screen. It shows a stretcher being unloaded from the back of an ambulance. On the stretcher a prone and bleeding figure is half covered by a sheet. Four men are handling the stretcher and the edges of their bodies are blurred due to the speed at which they move. One of the men is shouting, his mouth a twisted blur of silent desperation. Another man stands by with his head gripped in his hands.
And this one, Spike says.
Another image appears. It’s flame-filled, blazing. But in the foreground figures are running towards the camera. Three figures, silhouetted black against the burning building, their arms outstretched, their legs flailing as they run. Then further back, closer to the building two other figures drag a man along the ground, pulling him by the arms. Behind them the building is like a human face – the door a black gaping mouth, the eyes and nose dark yawning holes in the mass of orange flame. But it’s the figures which Lara watches – and in particular the two at the back who pull the body along the ground. How close are they to the burning building?
And where is the person holding the camera?
Lara sits down, clasps her hand to her mouth. If Jay is holding the camera then he can’t be more than twenty metres from the flames – and presumably, all around him, unseen, there are other burning buildings. These are the real pictures – not the whizz-bang-pop computer-game images on the television screen. And Jay is right there, just out of the scene. A boy who loses everything, who is too disorganised to do a university course, who misses every train, leaves his wallet on the counter in the corner shop. And yet somehow, just hours ago, he was standing in the midst of this burning city and taking photographs. Lara wants to put out her hand to the place where Jay must have stood. She wants to touch this young man who she doesn’t know at all.
Fantastic, aren’t they?
Spike puts a cup of coffee down on the desk beside her, then another plastic cup and a bottle of whisky. He pours a measure of whisky into the plastic cup, pushes that and the coffee towards her. Lara realises that tears are pouring down her cheeks. She wants to say – he’s very brave – but feels she can’t now. It comes too late. He’s been brave now for the last six weeks, longer.
Of course, it’s no good now, Spike says.
What do you mean? No good?
Well – because the website is being closed down.
What?
Sorry. I thought you knew. There’s been an injunction. One of the big American news channels.
They can’t do that.
Yeah, I k
now. Except they just have – taken out an injunction and threatened to sue us. We spoke to a human rights lawyer and he would help us but he needs a ten thousand pound fighting fund just to begin and the real costs would be far higher. Right now we don’t have money for a new toner cartridge for the printer. That’s why I said – hopefully the national papers might pick up those images. Everything else is embedded reporters.
Lara turns back to the screen and the place where Jay stands, just out of the photograph, somewhere in that burning street. So her son is risking his life for these photographs and they won’t even be used. Rage moves through her as suddenly as the flames which engulfed that Baghdad building.
I’ll get you the money, she says.
Thanks, Mrs Ravello, Spike says, shrugging.
Lara.
Yeah, sorry. Lara. But it’s not even clear we’d win.
So you’re going to give up?
Spike shakes his head, sighs. I thought you’d just given up your job?
Yes. I did. But there are other ways in which I can get money.
Lara’s mobile phone rings, the sound loud and insistent. No number appears on the screen. She stares over at the television where a British general is being interviewed. She feels Spike watching her as she presses the green phone.
An American voice leaps at her. Is that Ms Ravello?
Yes. Lara closes her eyes, waits. So this is the moment.
So you’re Jay’s mother?
Yes. Lara can hardly force the word out. She sits down on a chair, feels fear smash against her like a wave. She wants to turn the phone off, not hear the words.