Incendiary Page 3

  —Everything makes you nervous, he said.

  And he was right oh god he was absolutely right I could feel death rushing towards us.

  That night my husband was exhausted he’d had a hell of a day and to top it off he’d blown 250 quid on the wrong horse at Doncaster. I shouldn’t of got him to make love to me I should of just let him be but my nerves were screaming and I thought maybe he could bring it out of me. But no it was miserable sex and the terror stayed inside me my husband just made it worse. He was full of fear himself I could feel every one of those 250 quid he lost knotted in his muscles when he held me. Afterwards we just lay in the dark looking at the ceiling. Neither of us could sleep. The upstairs neighbours had mates over.

  —I’m going to kill those bastards, said my husband. Drinking and shouting all hours of the night. Don’t they understand there’s families in these flats? What the hell is that they’re listening to anyway?

  —It’s Beyonc.

  I knew the names of all the singers Osama I watched a lot of telly in the daytime you see.

  —I don’t mean who is it, said my husband. I mean what kind of music do you call that?

  —It’s R&B.

  —It’s a horrible bloody racket is what it is, said my husband. Look at this. The bass is so loud you can see the ripples in my water glass.

  —I wish we were rich. If we were rich we could live in a house not a flat. It’s only the poor who have to suffer each other’s music.

  —What are you on about? said my husband. We’re not poor.

  —Yeah alright but I mean look at us.

  —Don’t start, said my husband.

  —Start what?

  —Don’t start on about money, he said. You think I need bloody reminding?

  I sighed and I stroked his face in the dark.

  —No love. I’m sorry.

  —No, said my husband. I’m sorry. You deserve better than me.

  —Don’t ever say that love I’m so proud of you. You’re a good man. You never think twice when you get the call. You go out and you save people’s lives.

  —Yeah, said my husband. But it shreds my nerves to buggery and when I get home those same people whose lives I saved are making our flat shake with what was her name again?

  —Beyonc.

  —Yeah that’s it, he said. Beyonc. Sometimes I wish we just let the bombs explode.

  I stroked his hair he didn’t mean it. We lay there for a long time with the neighbours’ music banging through the ceiling. My husband’s eyes were open. He was all feverish and sweaty looking up at the ceiling.

  —Fuckers, he said.

  —You don’t have to swear love.

  —I’ll fucking swear when I fucking well want to.

  —Don’t swear it makes me jumpy when you swear.

  —Calm down love, said my husband.

  —No you calm down. You’re the one who lost 250 quid. How am I meant to feed the boy and put clothes on him when you carry on like that? Why don’t you effing well calm down?

  My husband looked at me like I’d slapped him round the face. I suppose it was a shock on account of I’ve never been a moaner but I was losing it and Beyonc wasn’t helping by shouting CRAZY RIGHT NOW down through our bedroom ceiling so loud it made my back teeth buzz.

  —Oh fuck this, said my husband. I don’t think we can carry on like this. My nerves are shot and you’re half mental with worry all the time. You’re turning into a hysterical woman.

  —I am not hysterical.

  —Yes you are, he said.

  —NO I AM EFFING WELL NOT HYSTERICAL.

  I grabbed my water glass and I smashed it against the wall. The water and the glass burst all over the carpet and I burst into tears. My husband held me very tight and stroked my hair.

  —It’s alright love, he said. It’s not your fault. Anyone would be the same with all this stress.

  I turned on the bedside light and I lit one of my husband’s ciggies. My hands were shaking. The music from upstairs got even louder. The ceiling was heaving. Now the bastards were dancing up there. They were the NEIGHBOURS FROM HELL. I smoked the ciggie down to the filter and I threw it across the room like I never would of done in my right mind. I may not be a saint Osama but I am very house proud.

  My husband stared at me like he was seeing something for the first time. The ciggie landed where the carpet was soggy from the broken glass water and it hissed out. I suppose that’s when my husband made his mind up.

  —You know what I’m going to do? he said.

  —No. What are you going to do?

  —I’m going to quit the force, he said. I’m going to get out while I’ve still got my health and you’ve still got your marbles.

  —Oh god love. That’s brilliant do you really think you could? What would we do for money?

  —I know a doctor, said my husband. A police doctor. I did him a favour once back when I was in uniform. His boy got arrested for drugs. It wasn’t anything really. Just a few pills. The lad was no worse than anyone his age. I flushed the pills down the khazi. No sense in making trouble for them. They were a nice family. Anyway. This doctor. If I go and see him and tell him my nerves are shot. Well. He owes me a favour. He can write me a ticket.

  —Ticket? What do you mean a ticket?

  —Well, said my husband. A ticket means you go on sick leave indefinite. I’d still get 3-quarters pay so there’d be no pressure. I could find another job.

  —Oh god love could you really?

  —Yes of course I could, said my husband. I’m 35 years old I could retrain.

  I smiled in the dark. My husband. Leaving the force. I couldn’t believe it. It was so wonderful.

  —Oh god love imagine it no more call-outs no more stress. You’ll lay off the bookies and we’ll move into a nicer place and we’ll laugh all the time and watch the telly together in the evenings. We’ll watch whatever you like okay? And we’ll make a brother or a sister for the boy. Okay?

  —Okay, said my husband. Yeah. Okay.

  I smiled at him.

  —Come on love.

  —Come on where? he said.

  —Just come with me.

  I took him into the lounge and I pulled him over to the stereo.

  —Come on love. Help me choose a CD that’ll drive the neighbours mental. We’ll turn it up really effing loud. Give ’em a taste of their own medicine.

  My husband started laughing.

  —Oh you crazy cow, he said. I love you. How about Phil Collins?

  —Phil Collins. Yeah that would wind them up alright but I was thinking of something even more annoying how about Sonny & Cher?

  —Christ love, said my husband. We only want to piss them off we don’t want to make them lose their will to live.

  —Okay then. How about Dexys Midnight Runners?

  —Perfect, said my husband. You are an evil genius.

  We took the speakers and we turned them on their backs so they pointed straight up at the neighbours. My husband switched on the stereo and he turned the volume to max. My husband knew how to pick a good secondhand stereo. Ours was a monster. It used to be in a police pub in Walthamstow. Just the roar it made without a CD in it was brilliant. It was like a plane taking off. We giggled at each other. The upstairs neighbours were in for it alright.

  —Ready? said my husband.

  —Ready.

  —Contact! said my husband.

  My husband put the CD in. He pressed PLAY and we ran into the kitchen. We held hands and crouched on the floor. It was scary. It was like an earthquake the way the plates rattled when Dexys Midnight Runners sang COME ON EILEEN.

  When the song was over we went back in the lounge and we switched off the stereo. Everything went very quiet. Then one of the neighbours shouted from upstairs.

  —Don’t ever try that again you bastards, he shouted. Or I’m calling the police.

  —They won’t do nothing, my husband shouted back. The police love Dexys Midnight Runners and I should bleeding know.
I’m a copper myself.

  The neighbours went quiet after that and they didn’t turn their music back on.

  —Ah peace at last, said my husband. Thank fuck for diplomacy.

  Then I remembered something. I put my hand up to my mouth.

  —Oh god. We forgot all about the boy. All that racket. He must of been terrified.

  We went to his room we opened the door we thought he’d be howling but he wasn’t. He was just lying there fast asleep. He’d kipped through the whole thing hugging Mr. Rabbit I swear the ordinary rules of sleep did not apply to that boy.

  We went next door and lay down on the bed. It was lovely and quiet now. My husband went to sleep straight away. I lay awake for a little while just feeling so happy. My husband was going to leave the force. No more waiting up for him watching Holby City. No more worrying my boy was going to lose his dad. It was so wonderful I couldn’t believe it was true. I shook my husband awake again.

  —Oh Christ what is it love? he said.

  —Did you really mean it? What you said about leaving the force?

  —Of course I meant it, he said. You ever known me not to do what I said?

  —No. When are you going to do it?

  He looked at me and sighed.

  —First thing Monday morning, he said. Now will you let me sleep?

  I smiled. I started to fall asleep myself. You can see I had my downs but I was often so happy in those days. I’ve gone through a lot of changes since then Osama but if you looked very carefully and the light was right I expect you could still see the memory of that happy time in me. Hidden but not quite invisible like the POLICE letters down the side of our old Astra.

  * * *

  They say you visited London when you were young Osama. I suppose you saw the nice bits did you? Did you see the Houses of Parliament? Did you walk down Knightsbridge on a sunny Saturday afternoon? Did you shop at Harvey Nick’s? Did they politely ask you to leave your Kalashnikov at the cloakroom?

  And I expect you watched the homeless in the squats and the subways? Did you see the crack girls on the game? Were you amazed how cheap the girls sell themselves in London? They’ll let you do them for the price of a Happy Meal for their kids most of them. Does it worry you like it worries me?

  So if you saw both Londons Osama then tell me this. Which London is it that Allah especially hates? I’m asking because I don’t see how a tourist could hate both Londons. The SNEERING TOFFS London and the EVIL CRACK MUMS London I mean. Sorry Osama for calling you a tourist I don’t mean to cause offence I’m just saying I don’t see how you can hate the whole of London unless you actually live here on less than 500 quid a week.

  One thing you start to hate when you live in London is the way rich people live right next to you. They’ll suddenly plonk themselves right next door and the next thing you know your old street is An Upcoming Bohemian Melting Pot With Excellent Transport Links which means there are posh motors boxing in your Vauxhall Astra every morning. My husband always noticed the motors.

  It was the morning after he promised to quit the force and he spotted a really nice one. We were outside in the street in front of the estate. It was May 1 and the sky was blue and it was nice and warm just like you want it to be on May Day. My husband was carrying the boy on his shoulders and both of them were grinning like idiots. They were wearing their Arsenal shirts because it was Saturday and it was the big day. Arsenal were at home to Chelsea. The upstairs neighbours were out too and they were wearing their Chelsea shirts. We were walking to our Astra and the neighbours were walking behind us. They were giving it the old mouth but we ignored them.

  The good motor was parked in front of our old Astra.

  —Look at that, said my husband. Aston Martin DB7. Hell of a vehicle.

  He took our boy off his shoulders so he could look in the windows. The little chap pressed his nose up against the glass. It was all black leather in there.

  —0 to 60 in 5 seconds flat son, said my husband. 400 horsepower. Take her up to 170 maybe 180. The force don’t have anything that goes that quick. If a villain wanted to give us the run around in one of these things we’d have to go after him in a chopper.

  —Chopper, said our boy. Chopper chopper chopper.

  He grinned. He loved that word.

  Then they climbed in our old Astra and drove off. The boy pressed his nose against the window glass and I waved him good-bye. I don’t even remember if he waved back. I wasn’t really watching I was thinking about what we needed from the shops. It’s funny but you don’t think about death you think about running out of crisps and toilet roll. I never saw my husband or my boy again.

  I went to the shop and I bought toilet roll bacon eggs choc-chip ice cream crisps chicken kievs butter bin bags and beer. The ice cream was a treat for my chaps when they got back from the game. It was my boy’s second-favourite thing after his dad. On the way back from the shop I saw Jasper Black and he was about to get into the Aston Martin DB7.

  —Hello there, he said.

  —Alright. That’s a nice motor. I’ll bet it does 0 to 60 in 5 seconds flat. I’ll bet it does 170 maybe 180.

  —Gosh, said Jasper Black. I didn’t know you knew cars.

  —Well that just goes to show you don’t know anything about me at all.

  —I’d like to get to know you better, said Jasper Black.

  —I’ll bet you would but I’m afraid that won’t be possible.

  —Excuse me? said Jasper Black.

  —You heard. The other night was a mistake. My husband’s a good man I should never of cheated on him.

  —Well can’t we at least talk? said Jasper Black.

  —Nope. My choc-chip’s melting.

  —I suppose I should really be going too, said Jasper Black.

  —Well off you trot then. Wherever you’re going I reckon you can still make it if you get a wriggle on. Your motor does 180 miles an hour after all.

  Jasper Black laughed.

  —I’m off to a football match actually, he said. Arsenal are playing Chelsea.

  —Yeah I had heard. My husband and my boy are there.

  —They say it’s going to be quite a game, said Jasper Black.

  —I didn’t have you down for a football fan.

  —Oh I’m really not. Not in the slightest.

  —So why now?

  —Petra, said Jasper Black. My girlfriend. She insists I must at least try to get up to speed with the game. I seem to be the last man in England who isn’t. I’m failing to hold my own at dinner parties. Last week Petra gave me an ultimatum. For god’s sake Jasper she said. Do you have to be such a snob? If you don’t drag yourself out of your ivory tower and along to a football match this very weekend I’m moving back to Primrose Hill. Petra does that sort of thing you see. Drama. She’s not like you.

  —So what did you say to her?

  —I couldn’t say anything. It was all a bit awkward. We were having supper with two of Petra’s girlfriends. Sophie and Hermione. They’re painters.

  —Good for them. Good steady trade. People will always need painters.

  —Ah, said Jasper Black. Well they’re not that sort of painter actually. They paint canvases. Mainly post-representational. They’re very Hoxton. They’re the kind of girls who’ll talk about football and cook you something ghastly like eel pie. Which one’s expected to find deliciously ironic. Rather than actually delicious if you see what I mean.

  I was standing there holding my shopping bags with my mouth half open.

  —I’m sorry, said Jasper Black. I’m boring you aren’t I?

  —Yeah you are.

  In fact Jasper Black was boring me so much I was trying not to dribble.

  —You’re very plainspoken, said Jasper Black. You say exactly what you think don’t you?

  —Yes I do. You should try it. Saves a lot of brain work.

  —Alright then I will, said Jasper Black. Here goes. I think you are the most original woman I know.

  —You don’t know me
you twat.

  Jasper Black looked up and down the street and lowered his voice.

  —We slept together, he said.

  —Doesn’t mean anything.

  —You really believe that? said Jasper Black.

  —Nah.

  Jasper Black looked down at my shopping bags.

  —So we do know each other a little bit. And I think you’re a very original woman.

  —You can’t know many women.

  —Oh but I do, said Jasper Black. I really do. I work on a national newspaper. The office is absolutely hissy with women. Do you know the Sunday Telegraph?

  —Well I don’t know. Has it got big red letters across the top and lots of girls with massive melons?

  —Um no, said Jasper Black. That would be the Sun or possibly the Mirror.

  —I know. I’m only pulling your leg. Of course I know the Sunday Telegraph. It’s the big pompous one.

  —Oh ha ha ha, said Jasper Black.

  —Yes. I am poor but I am not completely thick there is a difference.

  —I never thought you were thick, said Jasper Black. I think you are very real. What? Why are you laughing?

  —Well. I’ve been called a lot of things by a lot of people but no one’s ever called me real before. They probably thought that was bleeding obvious.

  —I’m sorry, said Jasper Black. You must think I’m an idiot.

  He blushed and fiddled with his car keys. I thought I might of overdone it.

  —Nah. You’re not an idiot. You’re sweet. You’re an idiot for not liking the football though.

  Jasper grinned.

  —I suppose I’ve just never seen football’s appeal, he said.

  —It’s cheap and people like you aren’t into it. Next question.

  —What about you? said Jasper Black. Aren’t you going to the game?

  —Me? Oh I never go to the games it makes me nervous. I just watch on telly. Don’t get me wrong though. I love the Arsenal. Have done ever since I was a girl.

  —I don’t think I could ever get behind a team like that, said Jasper Black. I’m too fickle. Still. I do have a hell of a nice car.

  He nodded his head at the Aston Martin DB7 and laughed. I laughed too.

  —There’s something nice about a man who doesn’t take himself too serious.