‘This fascist state means to kill us all!
We must organise resistance. Violence is
the only way to answer violence.’
Gudrun Ensslin
I took his phone. It was lying on the bench between us. He was pretty much out of it and it must have fallen from his pocket. I could have given it to his brother, but I didn’t. I put it into my bag.
That was careless, leaving it on a bench like that where anyone might find it. You can tell a lot about a person from his or her phone: what apps are there, photographs, texts sent and received, whose numbers they have in the directory, favourites, websites they access, emails, depending on what kind of phone it is, even what kind of tariff someone is on, all these things are very revealing, the photographs and video footage especially. A mobile phone is personal, your life in a capsule. You should look after it. He hasn’t even locked it and it isn’t password-protected which is unforgivably sloppy of him. I look at the photos he’s got. The video clips. Interesting stuff. He’s a killer. They all are. I transfer what I want on to my laptop.
The only phone I’ll own now is a cheap pay-as-you-go. No numbers. They are in my head. No photographs. I delete every message that I send or receive.
I hadn’t seen Charlie for a while. He tells me that getting sacked was the best thing that could have happened to him. Made him focus on his art. Now he’s a Real Artist, not just a part-time teacher, and he’s doing well. Beginning to sell. He suggests we go back to his place, so he can show me the work he’s been doing. That’s what he says but I can tell from the way he’s looking at me that there will be more to it. I go along anyway. He’s got a new flat. A loft space in a converted granary.
He shows me the studio, the work he is doing now. It’s very political. Photographs from the London demonstrations merge with images from other countries, burnt-out tanks and buildings, car bombings in Iraq, Afghanistan. The Palestinian flag, the Star of David and the Stars and Stripes merge into one another, torn, blackened and scorched. One huge canvas shows soldiers, their faces erased, bleeding into a reddened landscape, surrounded by scenes of dereliction and devastation. A closer look shows a row of burnt out high street shops; British fields turned into barren no-man’s-land, a dead waste ground ribboned with black seeping oil.
‘That’s oil. See?’
‘Yeah. I get that.’ I nod slowly, walking up to the canvas and stepping back again, in a suitably admiring way. ‘Powerful stuff.’
He grins, arms crossed. Pleased with the effect his work is having, my response.
‘I want to show what’s happening in the world and what’s happening here. Fuse the two together. Literally bring it home to people. What we are doing in Afghanistan, Iraq, Gaza – the Intifada – the destruction and violence we are causing.’
That’s enough preliminaries. He pours some wine and we take it through to the bedroom. Maybe he’s drunk too much, but it takes him a long, long time. I drift off, and I’m thinking about my appointment with Armani guy. I tell him I want to study Politics. Not here, abroad somewhere. I’ve opted for History, Economics, French and German. ‘Can you do it in a year?’ he enquires, fingers steepled, head on one side, looking doubtful. ‘Your previous subjects were Art, English and Drama.’ Mother looks impatient, like my new choices are just a fad. What does she care? If I fail everything, she’d be glad.
‘Of course I can,’ I say and go on to tell him exactly why. He taps a few notes into his Mac but he’s not really listening. He sits back, manicured fingers steepled again.
‘By opting for us, you’ve made a wise choice. We now have Academy status and will soon have a splendid new sixth form and community college, the best in the area. Let me give you the virtual tour of the facilities . . .’
He turns his Mac round and starts a promo video of what it’s going to be like. The virtual tour sweeps up to the new Academy buildings off to the right, all smoked glass and wood cladding. The sixth form college will occupy a space on the other side of the drive, so the school reaches almost to the main road. The school is on a rise. The grand front entrance is up a flight of steps (ramp to the side), all glass and chrome. Impressive. Over his shoulder, out of the window, it appears to be a building site. He sees me staring.
‘It will be finished by the end of the summer,’ he says, reassuring. ‘Ready for the opening ceremony on the first day of term. We are expecting a very important visitor . . .’
He mentions a name and sits back in his chair with this self-satisfied look, like we are supposed to be impressed. It’d take more than that, I think to myself and smile. I can hear the chants, like a chorus in my head: Shame on You, Shame on You, Liar, Liar, Out, Out, Out . . .
That’s when I have the idea.
It’s like a vision, wonderful in its purity. It’s a gift. I play it in my head and want to laugh out loud.
Fantasy? Maybe. But I can see a way to make it a reality.
Charlie always falls asleep directly after and I’m as far from sleep as it is possible to be without chemical assistance. I never sleep in the same bed as someone else, that’s too high a level of intimacy for me, so I leave him and walk back through town. It’s after midnight. I quite like it at this hour. I like the sense of dislocation. The difference between daytime and now.
The traffic lights turn from red to amber to green and back again, but apart from the occasional taxi, there is no traffic to stop. The pedestrian alert sounds out and the green walking sign flashes, although there are no pedestrians as such, just gangs of lads and girls walking up and down the middle of the road, laughing, shouting, talking loud, carrying on some kind of running argument that will probably develop into a fight.
‘Who you lookin’ at?’ a girl shouts at me from across the street, her mouth slack, her eyes black holes inside her sooty make-up. She’s big. One strap of the skimpy top she’s wearing hangs down showing her breast bulging out of her black bra. The rest has ridden up during the long night exposing rolls of flab, livid white in the orange street lights.
‘You. You fat bitch!’
I want to yell, but I don’t answer, just shrug and stare back. They don’t frighten me. This could be seen as a provocation, but they always back down. Boys don’t interfere. They don’t fight girls and the girls confine their fights to people they know.
I see him sitting on the bench in front of the town hall. We haven’t seen each other for a while but he isn’t really in a fit state for a catch up. His speech is more or less incoherent and every time he opens his mouth he looks like he might throw up. I’m no Florence Nightingale. I don’t do puke and I’m not terrific on blood and drool so I’m glad when his brother shows up.
Good thing I didn’t leave him, though, or I would never have found his phone.
It is like the lock on a safe, as though I’m turning the dial for the right combination and the first tumbler falls into place.
Chance and serendipity hardening towards destiny; moving from what could happen to what is meant to be.
I weigh his phone in my hand. I can make the connection. Everything I’ve seen on it lends strength to my idea, pushing me from theory towards action. I toy with it. Moment of decision. As I look at it, the light flashes, the buzzing vibration startles me. He’s sent a message to himself. The message is mostly expletives, but I get the gist: he has noticed that his phone is missing and he wants it back.
That’s a sign. He’s made my mind up for me. I tap in a text back to him.
Ur bro has ur fone
I put the phone in my bag and get ready to go out. I have no intention of giving it back just yet. Propositions are so much better put in person. I want to know where he’s living and Jamie will lead me right to him. I select my wardrobe carefully. Striped vest, white pedal pushers, espadrilles, suitably nautical. I add a hat and dark glasses and I’m off down to the river. Sunny Saturday in July. Perfect for a boat ride.