Incendiary (28 page)

Nowadays I suppose that chap was just some lunatic who escaped in the panic but at the time I didn’t know what was going on. I thought maybe everyone had gone like him. So I went very careful after that Osama and you can’t blame me. It took me 2 whole hours to walk back to Bethnal Green. I didn’t take the streets I took the footpaths and the back alleys and I went across gardens like a fox. When I did catch a glimpse of the main streets there were soldiers standing all along them. The soldiers had machine guns and armoured cars and I even saw some tanks though god knows what they were in aid of.

There were a few other people in the alleys on the way home but this time none of them was trying to rape me or eat me thank god. I started to feel a bit better because they were just ordinary people like me in Nikes and Pumas trying to get home through the curfew. We looked at one another in the half-light from the helicopters and you could see this same expression on everyone’s face. It was the look of people who’d woken up expecting one sort of day and got something completely else.

Barnet Grove when I got there was dead quiet. No people out on account of the curfew and no lights anywhere because the electric was off. Half a dozen cars were burning and there was no one to put them out. Melted rubber from the car tyres was running down the gutter at the side of the kerb. It boiled and bubbled like the lava when a volcano erupts and it disappeared hissing down the storm drains. The stink was horrible.

My boy was waiting for me in the street outside the Wellington Estate. He waved hello to me.

—Oh my boy oh my poor little boy are you alright?

My boy grinned and climbed into one of the burning cars and sat down on the bare white-hot springs of the passenger seat. He smiled out at me while the flames licked around him and the windscreen popped and shattered.

A helicopter was hovering low at the far end of the street. It was coming our way. Its rotors whipped the orange flames of the burning cars into this roaring white. My boy looked up. He was excited. The helicopter was getting closer. You could hear its rotors over the roar of the flames. My boy twisted his head out through the melted glass of the passenger window to look at it. Chopper he said. Chopper chopper chopper. He always loved that word.

The searchlight came onto us and it stayed there. It was a bright white light like a camera flash and you couldn’t look up into it. A megaphone voice came down out of the sky. STAY WHERE YOU ARE it said. YOU ARE IN VIOLATION OF CURFEW. DO NOT I REPEAT DO NOT MOVE. Yeah right. Like I was just going to hold still while the coppers got a good steady aim. I just legged it and ran into the Wellington Estate with my poor boy screaming LEAVE MY MUMMY ALONE up into the burning sky.

I sat down in the stairwell of our tower block to get my breath back. I sat there for half an hour shivering till I found the strength to climb the stairs to our flat.

Someone had shoved a letter under the front door and I picked it up after I let myself in. I put the letter down on the kitchen table and lit a couple of candles and they started flickering on account of there was a nasty breeze in the flat coming from the windows which were all smashed in. There was broken glass all over the floor and the smell of burning tyres coming in from the street. I went into the bathroom and turned the battery radio on. THERE IS NO CAUSE FOR ALARM it was saying. I started the bath running and I went back into the kitchen and popped 4 of my pills out of their packet and drank them down with vodka. Then I opened the letter.

My brave friend, what can I say, except let us remember the happier times? I did so enjoy choosing those clothes with you and I will never forget how stunning you were in them. Please wear them sometimes and remember I wasn’t always a bitch to you. You must loathe me for the choice I had to make. I searched my heart and decided it would not have been helpful to the country for us to run the story. The paper has been very supportive of me as I made this difficult choice and they have offered me some wonderful opportunities, which will mean security for my son when he is born. I hope you will find it in your warm heart to understand and forgive me one day. As someone who has been a mother I know you will understand that we must always do what is best for our children. Your friend, Petra Sutherland.

I burned the note and dropped the ashes on the kitchen floor. I took the candles into the bathroom. The radio was saying INITIAL ESTIMATES PUT CASUALTIES AT 100 TO 120. A HOTLINE FOR CONCERNED FRIENDS AND RELATIVES HAS BEEN—

I turned the radio off and got into the bath and lay back with my ears underwater listening to the sound of helicopters rumbling through the plumbing. I lay there till the water went cold and the candles went out.

Winter

Dear Osama I taped newspaper over the broken windows to keep the draughts out but still it’s been a cold winter. There is comfort in the small things of course I do like to watch the pigeons fly up over the roofs I do like the frost on the motors on a bright early morning. I got 1 letter from Terence Butcher on very thin blue paper his handwriting was shaky and it got worse towards the end so you couldn’t make it out. I would of liked to write back but there wasn’t an address.

Since I got that letter I get nervous they’ll come for me next and take me off somewhere in the back of an Astra. Whatever it is that makes your writing go to scribbles I’m scared they’ll do it to me. I did get a visit from 2 plainclothes men quite early on but they didn’t stay long they wouldn’t even have a drink. I showed them my boy and said Look you can’t take me away what would become of him then? The men just looked at each other and then back at me and one of them said In consideration of the circumstances madam I don’t think it would be appropriate for us to press charges. I said Oh fair enough then. Then the other man said However madam it has been decided that you will no longer receive your widow’s pension. I said You’re joking aren’t you why’s that then? How am I expected to live? and the man said Perhaps you should have thought of that madam before you passed official secrets to the press.

There wasn’t much to live on after that. Jasper’s bank card was no use it was lost somewhere in the dark mud at the bottom of the Thames. I pulled up the carpet and got out all those fivers I used to stash when my husband was gambling. We had a high old time for a month me and my boy. He had choc-chip every day and I had vodka and not just the own-brand stuff either it was real Absolut but by the end of last month the money was gone. So I went out and I did the exact same thing you’d of done in my situation Osama I got myself a job stacking shelves at the Tesco metro on Bethnal Green Road.

I had to fill in an application form to get the job. It asked why I specially wanted to work at Tesco’s and I wrote
BECAUSE MY HUSBAND AND MY BOY WERE RECENTLY BLOWN UP BY ISLAMIC TERRORISTS AND THIS HAS CAUSED A NUMBER OF PROBLEMS FOR ME BUT THE MOST URGENT NOW IS MONEY AND THAT IS WHY I WANT TO WORK AT TESCO’S ALSO BECAUSE IT IS CLOSE TO MY FLAT AND I WOULD MUCH RATHER STACK YOUR SHELVES FOR MONEY THAN GO ON THE GAME
and then I threw that application form away and I took another one and wrote
BECAUSE I AM A TEAM PLAYER AND I BELIEVE TESCO’S IS AN EXCELLENT COMPANY THAT RESPECTS TEAMWORK
and they gave me the job just like that.

Stacking shelves is excellent Osama you shouldn’t knock it till you’ve tried it. It does not vex your brain very much and it is a great comfort taking the out-of-date tins off the shelves and putting new ones there till all the shelves in your section are very neat and all the labels face the front. If you got the job they’d give you a uniform so you’d never have to worry about what to wear and they’d give you lots of training I mean they even have a course in anger management and if you could get through the trial period without butchering any of the difficult customers and broadcasting their executions on the Internet then they’d give you a very nice name badge to pin on your red dungarees with your name printed out on a Dymo tape and your badge would say

TESCO

O S A M A

HERE TO HELP

The day I got this job was the day I started writing this letter to you Osama. I’m on 7 pound 20 an hour which is to say I can either afford food or booze but not both so it’s true what they say I suppose life is full of choices. Back at the flat I can’t afford the electricity to turn the telly on so after my boy goes to bed I just write. I’ve been writing to you till after midnight most nights and if it’s a quiet day then I write at work too. Part of this shelf-stacking job is that you have to walk up and down with a clipboard taking stock and so that’s just what I’ve been doing. I count up all the tins of beans and I write them all down and while I’m at it I write down what you’ve done to me Osama I just think you ought to know.

Sometimes late at night I get too tired or too sad to write any more and then I just sit on the sofa all wrapped up in blankets and watch my breath steaming in the lounge. It can be a bit sad just to see the telly sitting there all dead and blank so I Blu-Tacked some of my boy’s drawings up over the screen and I sit watching them. Sometimes I put music on or I make myself laugh very loud so the upstairs neighbours can’t start feeling all superior. You may think that’s funny Osama but you never can squeeze every last bit of pride out of a human being. It’s like a tube of toothpaste. You can twist it and you can crush it but there’s always a tiny bit left isn’t there?

Sometimes I fall asleep on the sofa. When I wake up it’s 5 in the morning and still dark. I go into my boy’s room and tuck the blankets more close around him. Then I pick up my biro and carry on writing to you for an hour or 2 until it’s time to get dressed for work. Is it any use Osama has any of it changed your mind or would you do the same things all over again tomorrow?

Just before I leave for work I walk over to the window in the early morning light. I look out and see my boy walking down the white line in the middle of the road. He balances on the white line with his arms out to the sides like the tightrope man in the circus. He’s concentrating. His tongue sticks out the way it always does when he’s busy. Sometimes black smoke pours off him and sometimes there’s just these little wisps.

In the evenings when I get home from work the first thing I do is look at the post if any’s come. I only ever get 2 kinds of letters in the post these days. The first kind says they’re going to repossess the telly and the second kind says they’re going to repossess the flat. Since the beginning of December both kinds have been arriving in red envelopes. I’ll tell you honestly Osama I don’t know what I’m going to do.

Sundays are a bit different from the normal routine. First thing in the morning I go out to the newsagent’s and buy the
Sunday Telegraph
. I take it back to the flat and lay it out very careful on the kitchen table but I don’t read it straight off. First I have a shower and then I go to the wardrobe and get the outfit Petra bought for me. I put it on very gentle so as not to stretch it. First the bright white underwear. Then the white silk slacks and the Herms tunic top. Last of all those lovely Fendi heels. Next I go to the bathroom and put Petra’s face on very slow and careful. It took me a long time to save up for that makeup.

My boy sits on the edge of the bath and bangs his heels on the side of it bang bang bang watching me get ready. When I’m done I look at myself in the mirror above the basin.

—You look lovely Mummy, says my boy.

—I am not Mummy darling. I am Petra Sutherland.

My boy giggles and we go to the kitchen and we sit down at the table and open up the
Sunday Telegraph
to the Lifestyle section. Petra’s column is at the front of it and there’s a little photo of her next to her name. My boy always touches that photo with his stubby little fingers.

—That woman looks just like you Petra, he says.

I smile back at my boy.

—Yes. Isn’t it adorable?

Then I read Petra’s column aloud. I haven’t forgotten how. I can still do her voice perfect. I flick my hair back when I speak. Just the way she does. For half an hour every Sunday morning Osama I am Petra Sutherland. I forget all about the cold and the dirt and my poor dead chaps. With my beautiful accent I tell my empty kitchen all about how I’m coping with my very public bereavement by focusing every ounce of positive energy on my pregnancy. How thrilled I am by the letters of support from ordinary members of the public. How I don’t think I’m being particularly brave. I’m just doing what any mother-to-be would do. One has to face the future.

Talking to the landscape gardener about my new house in Hampstead is a wonderful distraction and helps me connect with the eternal cycle of nature. And no I absolutely do not think one should be obliged to dress in a tent just because one happens to be pregnant. Chlo and Prada both have some terribly clever maternity frocks that make me feel sexy and glamorous.

In the spring my baby will be born in a holistic birthing centre and I will go straight back to work. My column won’t even miss a beat. Did I mention I recently won the Columnist of the Year award? And I am delighted to be able to inform my readers that I have my own television show starting next month on the BBC. Impending motherhood has broadened my horizons. I feel I now have more to share than just lifestyle ideas. I want to talk about life. In the broadest sense. And I am lucky enough to have the opportunity to do so. The fabulous thing about being a mother these days is that all your hard-won wisdom doesn’t need to stay with you in the kitchen. You can go out and shout about it. I’m fortunate to have discovered a wonderful nanny. She’s a great find.

Every Sunday morning Osama I am just so happy being Petra Sutherland.

*                  *                  *

It is Christmas Eve Osama and there is a new release of ENGLAND’S HEART IS BLEEDING in the charts with bells on it. They’ve hung lights on the Shield of Hope. Each balloon has its theme there are huge stars and candles and snowmen. It looks amazing at night there are a million electric bulbs glowing where the sky used to be. The only thing is you can’t see the faces now. My husband isn’t there any more there is a red-and-white Santa Claus instead. My boy’s been replaced by Rudolph.

It is Christmas Eve Osama and this morning I decided you were right after all. I mean I’ve been thinking about it a lot what with not having much to do of an evening. Some people are cruel and selfish and the world would be better off without them. You were absolutely right the whole time some people only deserve to burn.

It was 7 this morning when the bailiffs came to evict us from the flat. It wasn’t their fault they were just doing their job and it didn’t look like they got the same satisfaction out of it that I get from neatening up rows of tins. They were sorry for what they had to do. They looked so miserable I told them to cheer up and I made them a cup of tea. It’s funny I mean I’d been dreading them coming for so long that it was quite a relief to finally have them in my kitchen. They said I could take all the time I wanted to pack my things up but I told them not to worry. I put my makeup and my Harvey Nick’s clothes into a Nike bag along with Mr. Rabbit. Then I took my boy’s hand and we left the Wellington Estate.

It was cold and crisp this morning with a bright blue sky and ice on the pavements. On Bethnal Green Road we had a McBreakfast at McDonald’s and I changed into Petra’s clothes in their toilets. I put Petra’s face on in their mirror and I shoved my old Adidas tracksuit down their khazi. So if you ever wondered Osama why the McToilets are always blocked well there’s one of your reasons anyway. Then I took the boy to the Shell garage and I told them my motor was run out of petrol. They let me buy a 5-litre red plastic can and they filled it with unleaded for me. People are ever so helpful when you’re shivering in Herms cause you left your coat in the car. Before I left the garage I bought a nice silver Zippo lighter. I got the man to fill it with lighter fluid for me I said I didn’t want to get the stuff on my clothes. The man flicked it on to test it and it made a nice bright flame till he snapped the lid back on and handed it over.

Outside the garage I put the Zippo in my pocket and I put the petrol can inside my Nike bag. We walked to Cambridge Heath and got on a D6 bus and went up to the top deck and sat right at the front. My boy always loved the top deck of a bus. He was jumping around and shouting he was so excited but I was very calm I knew what I had to do. At Mile End we changed onto the 277.

It wasn’t any problem getting in to the tower at Canary Wharf. The security blokes just nodded me through. I was Petra Sutherland after all. As seen on TV. I took my boy into the lift and we rode up to the
Sunday Telegraph
’s floor. At the reception desk the girl was a bit confused because she thought she’d seen me go in already that morning. I smiled and told her I’d had to pop back to the car for my gym kit. I held up my Nike bag and she smiled and buzzed me in.

Petra was on the phone when I stepped into her office with my boy. She had her back to me and she was saying NO I DID NOT SAY PLAID I DISTINCTLY REMEMBER SAYING TARTAN. She didn’t turn round till she heard the click of me locking her office door behind us. Petra’s office was gorgeous. It was right on the corner of the tower and you could see the whole of London laid out behind her with the buildings glittering under the blue morning sky.

Petra’s mouth opened wide but I didn’t give her a chance to speak. I thought she’d said enough. I just picked up the solid glass Columnist of the Year award off her desk and smacked her across the side of the head with it. She fell back stunned into her office chair. I turned round to look back through the glass walls of her office. No one was watching. There were venetian blinds on the glass and I twisted them shut so no one could see us.

I looked down at Petra it was obvious one of her cheekbones was broken and I felt sick I remembered kissing that cheek. I remembered stretching up out of the bath to do it while the candles flickered low. I didn’t want to think about Petra’s broken cheek so I just got the 5-litre can out of my Nike bag and I started pouring petrol. I poured it all over the carpet round Petra’s chair and I poured it all over Petra’s chair and I poured it all over Petra till her white cashmere sweater was soaked and heavy with the stuff and clinging to her skin. You couldn’t breathe for all the petrol fumes and Petra started choking and coming round. Her eyes were streaming and there was blood and snot running out of her nose.

—Oh no oh fucking Jesus Christ no please no you’re not going to murder me are you? she said.

I didn’t say anything I just got the Zippo out of my pocket and opened the lid of it and held it up and Petra Sutherland was squirming in her chair but she couldn’t stand up she was saying no no NO NO NO. My boy wasn’t taking any notice he was laughing and running round the office banging on the glass windows and looking out over the whole of London in flames underneath us. LOOK MUMMY he was pointing. WHAT’S THAT BURNING? It’s the new Swiss Re building darling. AND WHAT’S THAT BURNING? It’s St. Paul’s Cathedral. AND WHAT’S THAT BURNING? Shush now just for a second darling Mummy’s very busy.