Incendiary (29 page)

I looked back at Petra I looked right in her eyes.

—God you’re fucking crazy, she said. There’s no one fucking there you’re talking to yourself oh god oh god oh you need help I can help you you don’t have to go through with this please oh please just put that lighter down and we can get you some help oh please and you won’t get into any trouble I promise.

I just looked at her I couldn’t believe she was promising again.

—Why are you doing this? said Petra. Please? WHY?

—It’s like you said yourself Petra. We must always do what’s best for our children.

Petra went very scared and pale then she was just trembling and whimpering. I took a couple of steps back towards the wall of the office so I’d be out of the way when all that petrol went up. I called to my boy. He had his nose pressed up against the windows gawping at the waves of flame rolling over London so all you could see was the very tops of the tallest towers crumbling in the heat.

—Come on darling come back here with Mummy out of the way.

I held up the Zippo and I put my thumb on the spark wheel. I stayed like that watching Petra cry for a very long time. My boy looked up at me.

—Mummy what are you waiting for?

Kids will ask questions won’t they Osama? I took a deep breath.

—I’m waiting till I don’t feel anything for her any more not even a tiny bit.

—How long will that take Mummy?

—I don’t know.

—Oh.

I just stood there and Petra was crying and I was crying too even through all the pills.

—Mummy I’m bored can’t you just do it anyway?

I sighed.

—Nah.

I looked at Petra Sutherland one last time with London burning behind her and then I took my thumb off the wheel. I folded the lid back on the Zippo very slow and careful and I put the Zippo down on the desk very gentle. I thought about it for a moment and I reached down and I took Mr. Rabbit out of the Nike bag and I sat him down nice and comfy next to the Zippo. Then I took my boy by the hand and we walked out of Petra’s office and we closed the door behind us.

*                  *                  *

That was this morning Osama and now I’m back at work I mean it’s not as if I’ve got anywhere else to go is it? I changed into my uniform and the manager had a go at me for being 2 hours late but it’s not as if she was going to sack me. I mean it’s Christmas Eve and they need all the staff they can get. I don’t suppose you know much about Christmas Osama so let me explain it’s the holiest day in our religion so half the East End is in here today stocking up on lager and fairy lights.

I’m on my lunch hour. I would of thought the coppers would of been here by now to take me away but they haven’t turned up yet so I’m sitting in the staff room eating Tesco’s Value mince pies and finishing off this letter. It’s nice in the staff room there’s Christmas songs playing on the stereo and some of the other girls are in here laughing and nattering. My boy is playing on the tabletop making claws with his hands and going RRRR! RRRR! he’s a prowling jungle tiger I think or maybe a JCB digger. There’s a little window in here and you can see out into the store and you can hear the Christmassy customer announcements over the loudspeakers. JOY TO THE WORLD. GOODWILL TO ALL MEN. KAREEM TO CHECKOUT 4 PLEASE.

You can see my section from here Osama. I am very proud of my section all the tins and packets are inside their sell-by dates and all the labels are facing front and everything is very neat and tidy. I wish you could see it. I think it is beautiful all that neatness. Tidiness almost hides the horror. This is love Osama this is civilisation this is what I’m getting paid 7 pound 20 an hour for.

The coppers will find me here soon and they’ll take me away and have me banged up. I don’t blame them I mean you can’t have people like me strolling around with petrol cans. They’ll put me in prison for a bit or maybe in the nuthouse although I think I’d prefer prison on account of the nutters would just upset my boy. Don’t worry about me Osama I’ll be alright I’ll just keep myself to myself and it’s not as if I’ll get bored I’ve got more letters to write like I said.

When I get out of prison Osama if you’re still outside too then I want you to come and live with me. Please don’t laugh please just think about it it could be a new start for both of us. We could get a decent place in the nice part of Hoxton or somewhere else if you prefer. Anywhere not too pricey would be alright although not South London if it’s all the same to you. Come out of your cave Osama and come to me I can’t hate you any more. I am weak from hate I don’t even have enough hate left to turn the little spark wheel on a Zippo. I know I’m just too stupid to know better but look at me. I’m like a broken jukebox the only tune I play is looking after my chaps. Won’t you let me play it?

I will comfort you when you have bad dreams in the night. I will cook your tea just the way you like it. I will make our upstairs neighbours wish they’d never been born. I will try very hard to be faithful. I will hide you from the law and put all your CDs back in their right boxes with their labels facing front. We’ll make a new start the 2 of us. Everyone should be allowed a new start. Come on Osama my boy needs a dad and it’s about time you grew up too. I’ve told you all about the sadness of bombs so now you must give them up. I know you are a clever man Osama much brighter than me and I know you have a lot of things to get done but you ought to be able to get it done with love that’s my whole point. Love is not surrender Osama love is furious and brave and loud you can hear it in the noise my boy is making right now while he plays. RRRR! RRRR! he says I wish you could hear him Osama that noise is the fiercest and the loudest sound on earth it will echo to the end of time it is more deafening than bombs. Listen to that noise Osama it is time for you to stop blowing the world apart. Come to me Osama. Come to me and we will blow the world back together WITH INCREDIBLE NOISE AND FURY.

The work was carried on with diligence, and London is restored; but whether with greater speed or beauty, may be made a question.

—Inscription on the Monument to the Great Fire of London, south side

Acknowledgments

Thank you

Rebecca Carter, a brilliant, generous, and inspiring editor. Laetitia Rutherford, a perfect agent. Hannah Dawson, who got things started. Alex Cleave, the man and the legend.

Toby Eady and everyone at Orme Court. Jessica and Rosie Buckman. Karolina Sutton. Vanessa Kling. Alison Samuel, Dan Franklin, David Parrish, Paul Baggaley, Roger Bratchell, Rachel Cugnoni, Beth Coates, Suzanne Dean, Claire Wilshaw, Tom Drake-Lee, Lorelei Mathias. Sonny Mehta, Maya Mavjee, Leyla Aker, Thomas Ueberhoff, Elik Lettinga, Anna Pastore, Stefania De Pasquale, Charlotte Weiss, Maggie Doyle, Ana Maria Barros, Tone Torp, Anand Tucker, Andy Paterson, Sharon Maguire.

Louis and Clmence. Rosemary and John. Mary, David, Sue, Fennella, Keith, Susanna, Duncan, Reuben, Amy, Nick, William, Sally, Emily, Anna, Libby, Catherine, Adrienne, Alice, Ben, Catherine, Julien. Chlo, Mike, Becs, Matt, Olivia, Jake, Grace, Mark, Dan, Martha, Vlad, George, Jonathan, Lucy, Jonas, Tanya, Emelyne, Siobhan, Chris. All the people who saw me home on the nights when I wouldn’t have made it.

Chris Cleave, London

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chris Cleave took a degree at Oxford and worked for the British newspaper
The Daily Telegraph.
He lives in Surrey with his wife and son.

This Is a Borzoi Book Published by Alfred A. Knopf

Copyright 2005 by Chris Cleave

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Doubleday Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

www.aaknopf.com

Published simultaneously in Great Britain by Chatto & Windus, London.

Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Cleave, Chris.

Incendiary / Chris Cleave—1st American ed.

1. Terrorism victims’ families—Fiction.         2 Terrorism—Prevention—Fiction.

3. Working-class families—Fiction.         4. Working-class women—Fiction.

5. Loss (Psychology)—Fiction.         6. Suicide bombings—Fiction.         7. London

(England)—Fiction.         8. Widows—Fiction. I. Title.

PR6103.L43I53 2005

813'.6—dc22                                    2005044078

eISBN: 978-0-307-26429-9

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