Didn’t seem to be any harm going dry just for a day, and that woman seemed impressed. What was her name. Marianne. Michelle. Marie, Marie. Worked in the charity shop attached to the project and kept encouraging him to go back to the group. I’m really impressed, Steve. Really. I’m proud of you. All that.
Didn’t seem any harm going dry for the day and sitting in that group while the rest of them shared whatever it was they wanted to share and he just sat there and kept his mouth shut.
No harm except it was a bloody nightmare, the sweats and the shakes and the screaming bloody headaches but even they dropped off after a while.
One day at a time, and to be honest it was nice when that Marie in the shop said I am impressed. And then saying Do you want to come and work in the shop sometimes, Steve, it’ll give you something to do. Weren’t really a proper job to be fair, he didn’t get paid and all he had to do was mooch around in the back room sorting donations and packing boxes and nipping out into the yard every five minutes for a smoke. Marie nipping out too when the shop was quiet. And one thing leads to another and he’s telling her all about his time in the army. The Falklands, and Northern Ireland, and the so-called easy posts in Germany and Cyprus and the rest. She asked him what happened to his hand, the way it was all curled up like that, and he said Ah now Marie that would be telling.
Is there something you’d like to share with the rest of the group. Well, no there isn’t as a matter of fact. If I told you half this stuff you’d have nightmares for a month, or you’d think I was lying and you’d kick me out. Was about all he ever said in that group. My country lied to me and I’d rather not go into it all. I’d rather not share all that with the group, if you don’t mind, he said.
But nipping out to the yard for a smoke, and Marie sitting there on a stack of milk-crates, it seemed like it was all right to tell her. And she didn’t think he was lying or at least she didn’t say so. And one thing leads to another and she starts on about this charity road-trip. The shop had packed up a truck full of kids’ stuff the year before and sent it off to some Romanian orphanage, and this year they were thinking of doing the same only sending it to Bosnia instead.
Bloody Bosnia.
Toys and books and clothes and medical supplies and a whole load of other stuff all packed into the back of a truck, and all they needed now was some crazy bastard to drive it into a war-zone.
Would you happen to know of any crazy bastards? she asked him. With that way she had of looking at him. Out of the corner of her eye. With a smile hiding round the corner of her mouth.
Well as a matter of fact Marie I believe I do, he said.
Weren’t exactly a war-zone anyway, where they were going. He looked into it a bit, read the news reports, studied the maps. The fighting had finished, if you could call it fighting, what had happened. That was why they were going, there was stuff the people needed there, now the fighting was finished. The kids especially. Loaded up a whole truck full of stuff and then him and some bloke called Patrick set off one morning with maps and phrase books and cigarettes and cash, and the address of a guide to contact when they got there. Couple of photographers watching them go, and Marie waving him off and going Come back safe. Long time since someone had said Come back safe. Weren’t sure if they ever had. Worth it all just to hear that. Was it.
All this waiting though. Still.
Waiting outside the night shelter for them to open the doors. Hanging around for hours to make sure you get your place. Waiting at the walk-in centre to get something sorted, and getting referred on to somewhere else so you can wait a little bit more. Waiting for the chemist to open to get the daily script. Waiting to score when it seems like no cunt can get hold of it, the way it was before Christmas, all of us loading up on jellies and benzos to keep the rattles off. Too much to handle if you score on top of all that and you’re not careful. But careful aint really the point.
Waiting in the corridors at the courthouse for your case to be called. Waiting in the cells. Ben waiting in the cells for three days over Christmas, rattling to fuck in that concrete cube and racing for his dig when they finally let him go.
Or like Sammy, waiting for whatever it is he’s waiting for when he sits in his usual spot by the benches on the corner of Barford Street. Waiting for his beard to grow. Waiting for someone to stop and talk and pass the time of day. Sammy’s been growing that beard since he came down from Glasgow, if anyone’s interested, which no cunt is. Had a few how you say problems and that up there. Connected with woman troubles and money troubles and anyway aren’t they always what’s it the same thing just about all the same. Had to come south and change the old appearance but that’s years back now. And that’s a fact. And now there’s this trouble with the eyes, if anyone’s interested. Which no cunt is. Can’t see a fucking thing and it hurts like nothing else and if you’re waiting for some cunt to take an interest you’ll be waiting a long time.
Waiting by the phonebox for some kid on a bike to turn up with the gear. Like Danny there by the phonebox still, the trains rattling past, counting his money and counting it again and striding round in long desperate circles through the ragged grass.
Waiting in the corridors. Like Heather did. And she told them, when they fin
ally called her in, that they should give her a chance, that they should be the ones to wait. I’ll get myself together, she said. I’ll get myself together and I’ll come back, I know I’m not ready now but I’ll get things sorted out. You wait. And the woman said Heather, it’s not a question of waiting. This is a permanent order, do you understand what that means? And Heather said No, you wait, I’ll get it together. I’ll get myself a solicitor. I’ll get it overturned. I’ll never give up hope. I’ll go to the what do you call it the ombudsman.
When was this. Long time ago now. Years. Don’t seem like it. Jesus it don’t seem like it.
She told them to pass that on for her. That she would never give up hope and neither should they. The woman said Heather, please. It’s not a question of waiting. It’s not a question of hope. This is permanent and irrevocable. Do you understand what that means, the woman said. Like anyone could understand that. Like anyone could sort of get their heads round that. The bloke shuffling all his papers together and going I really don’t think there’s anything else we can do here, I think that’s us done. People slipping out of the room and not looking at her, and the woman going Heather, is there anything else we can get you.
Too right there is love, too fucking right.
Her hair falling hotly down the back of her neck, gathered in a handful held away from her head, hoping for a breeze to blow down and cool her skin. But there’s nothing. No movement. No sound. Waiting in the long corridor for a door to open and her name to be called.
Waiting here now for all our names to be called.
Mike. Heather. Danny. Ben. Steve. Ant. Here we all are now.
Present and correct.
Waiting at the checkpoint for the policeman to give him back his passport. On that empty road in the Bosnian hills somewhere. If he was even a policeman. The valley falling away to one side. Gorse bushes and stunted pine trees and the smell of sunbaked rock. Patrick jigging his legs up and down and Steve telling him to calm down and shut up and calm down. The guide sitting between them silently, his eyes lowered. The two policemen talking together by the side of the road, kicking loose stones away down the hillside, flicking through the pages of his passport one more time and glancing up at him. One of them making a big show of patting his pockets before stepping over to the truck and calling up through the window. Cigarettes? My friend, cigarettes? The heat in that cab, the windows wound right down but no breeze blowing through and the sweat streaming down them all. Reaching under his seat for another packet of cigarettes and tossing them down to the policeman. If he was a policeman.
And talking to the others in the cracked gloom of Robert’s flat. Listen to this though I’ll tell you something. This was when. Not long ago. Years after it happened. Raising his voice against the music racket going off in the kitchen. Mike and some other kid going out into the hallway and not listening at all. Robert only half looking at him and Heather saying Go on Stevo I’m listening. Bristol John shouting on about someone nicking his lighter, going Where’s me bastard lighter now then. The front door banging open and closed, open and closed. A smell like pear drops coming from the kitchen, and Ben charging in and out of the room, Bristol John saying It’s all right I was fucking sitting on it weren’t I, and Heather saying Go on Stevo I’m waiting, I’m listening.
So then this policeman blows a big cloud of smoke up into the air and says Where you want go? Which he knew already. He’d asked them twice, he’d seen their documents and everything. It was just part of the power game. The games you play when you’re holding the cards. When you’re holding the guns. Just like when we were in Northern Ireland. It’s all the bloody same. Patrick still jigging his leg up and down and the two of them running with sweat and the guide still not saying a thing. And the policeman says You open the truck, you show me what you have. Please, you show us now. So then all three of them climb down and open the doors of this hired white truck. On this hot afternoon in the middle of Bosnia. What were they doing in bloody Bosnia. The two policemen looking through the pallets of blankets, the cases of medical supplies, the shoeboxes donated by the shop’s customers who’d filled each one with a handful of games and toys. Pencils, crayons, notebooks, tennis balls, gloves, chocolate bars, action figures, wind-up cars and finger puppets and yo-yos and balls of string. A snow-globe of Big Ben with a red London bus which vanished in a swirl of snow flakes when Steve held it up and shook it for the policeman’s benefit. Like, There you go boss, are you happy now. All the work it had taken to get this lot together, to hire the truck and pay for the fuel and drive all the way over there, and now these two jokers were tearing into it all, emptying out the boxes, helping themselves to a few of the things that took their fancy, toys and crayons and balloons. For their own children it must have been, Steve thought. And then they climb out, and Patrick shuts the door, and the policemen give them back their passports. And then they all just stand there. The guide isn’t saying anything. He’s shaking. Just, bloody, shaking. There’s no other traffic on the road. It’s not even a road, it’s just a line of gravel and crushed rock winding up round the hill, and somewhere over the hill is this place they’re trying to get to. So then the policeman says.
Heather hardly even awake and Steve still telling the story. Bristol John looking up suddenly and going What’s that fucking smell. What the fuck is that fucking smell now. Standing up and patting his trousers and touching the lino and going Oh fuck it I’m wet, looking down at Heather and going Heather you stupid cow, what you done? Heather looking up at him, and looking down at herself, and people coming in from the kitchen to see what’s going on. Cheering, laughing. Heather pulling herself to her feet, falling down, getting up again. Going Oh fuck now look what I’ve gone and done. Going I thought I already went for a piss, I thought I didn’t need to go again. Looking at Steve and going My cunt lied to me. Cracking and wheezing with laughter, and going I didn’t think I needed to go for a piss but my cunt lied to me. Everyone shouting with laughter.
What were they even doing in bloody Bosnia.