He spent his days running, telling anyone who tried to strike up a conversation with him that he was in training for the London marathon to raise money for wounded ex-servicemen. He even believed at times that the point of the exercise was a charitable one instead of a way to shut down his brain and keep him apart from the rest of humanity. He became increasingly reluctant to make eye contact, preferring wary retreat to well-meaning interest about who he was and what he was doing.
He developed a physical revulsion against anyone wearing Arab or Muslim dress. Willis hadn’t prepared him for the hatred he’d feel. Or the fear. His body was shocked with a surge of adrenalin every time he saw a bearded face above a white dishdash, and he crossed roads or turned down side streets to avoid contact. His dislike grew to encompass anyone who wasn’t white. Part of him recognized that this response was irrational, but he made no attempt to control it. He felt better when he could shift the blame for what had happened on to people he didn’t understand, and didn’t want to understand.
Willis had warned him that some of his reactions might surprise him. The psychiatrist had talked in general terms about the consequences of trauma, and how grief, particularly for oneself, could skew perspective. He encouraged Acland not to dwell on the aspects of the tragedy that had been outside his control. Guilt was a powerful and confusing emotion, made worse when all memory of the incident was lost. As ever, Acland had steered him away from discussing the deaths of his men.
‘It’s not guilt I feel,’ he’d said.
‘What do you feel?’
‘Anger. They shouldn’t be dead. They had wives and children.’
‘Are you saying you should have died instead?’
‘No. I’m saying the Iraqis should have died.’
‘I think we should discuss that, Charles.’
‘No need, Doc. You asked for an answer and I gave you one. I’m not planning to wage war on Muslims in the UK just because I wish we’d got to the ragheads before they got to us.’
But he wanted to wage war on someone. He had dreams of pressing a pistol barrel to the side of a head and watching the white cotton keffiah bloom with blood. And other dreams about turning his Minimi LMG on an ululating crowd of women in burkhas and mowing them down at the rate of eight hundred rounds per minute. He would burst out of sleep, drenched in sweat, believing he’d done it, and his heart would pound uncontrollably. But whether from guilt or exultation, he couldn’t tell.
He knew he was in trouble – his migraines grew worse as his dreams grew darker – but, in a perverse way, he welcomed the pain as a form of punishment. It was natural justice that someone should pay. And that someone might as well be him.
*
Acland’s precarious equilibrium flipped spectacularly five weeks after he moved to London. He was minding his own business over a quiet pint at the bar of a Bermondsey pub when a group of sharp-suited City brokers pushed in beside him. They were hyped up about the money they’d made that day, and their voices became louder and more intrusive as the drink started flowing. Two or three times Acland was buffeted by those on the fringes, but he wouldn’t have reacted if one of them hadn’t spoken to him. The man, who could only see Acland’s right profile, tapped him on the shoulder when he didn’t receive an answer.
‘Are you deaf?’ he asked, waving a glass of orange juice under Acland’s nose and jerking his chin towards the empty stool on Acland’s blind side. ‘I asked you if you’d consider moving to give the rest of us some room.’
The accent was singsong, unmistakably Pakistani, and Acland’s reply was immediate and involuntary. He hooked his right arm round the back of the man’s neck and punched him squarely in the face with his left fist. The broker went down with a howl of anguish, knocking against his friends, blood spurting from his nose.
The rest of the group turned alarmed faces towards Acland. ‘Jesus!’ said one. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
‘I don’t like murderers,’ Acland told them, returning to his lager.
There was a second or two of surprised silence before someone bent over to help the man to his feet. He took a serviette from a dispenser on the bar and held it to his nose, staring angrily at his assailant. Whatever his religion or nationality, he was dressed like a westerner in a dark suit, shirt and tie. Only his fringed beard and choice of drink suggested Islam. ‘You cannot behave like that in this country.’
‘I was born here. I can behave any way I want.’
‘I, too, was born here.’
‘That doesn’t make you English.’
‘Did you hear that?’ the Pakistani demanded excitedly of his friends. ‘This man attacked me on racial grounds. You’re my witnesses.’ He was stockier and heavier than Acland and he fancied his chances with his colleagues to back him up. He wagged his finger in admonishment. ‘You’re a maniac. You should not be allowed out.’
‘Wrong,’ said Acland in a deceptively mild tone. ‘I’m an angry maniac. Even an ignorant Paki should be able to work that out.’
It was like waving a red rag at a bull. Enraged by the insult, the man lowered his head and charged. Had he come at Acland from the left, he’d have stood a better chance but, from the right, it was a no-brainer. He couldn’t compete in strength, speed or fitness – a broker’s life is a sedentary one – and the only way he knew how to fight was to flail his fists in the hope of landing a blow. He wasn’t expecting Acland to move off his stool as fast as he did, nor that Acland would exploit the forward motion of his run to slam him headfirst into the side of the bar before kicking his feet from under him.
Acland could have left it at that, but he didn’t. He was aware of urgency behind the bar and shouts from the Pakistani’s friends, but the suppressed hatred of months had been looking for a target and this loud-mouthed broker had volunteered himself. ‘You should have kept your mouth shut,’ he murmured, dropping to one knee and clamping both hands under the man’s chin, preparing to snap his head back and crush his spinal cord between two vertebrae.
Only the shock of a bucket of melting ice pouring over the back of his neck from the other side of the bar made Acland hesitate.
‘Cut it OUT!’ barked a woman’s voice as a dozen hands hauled him off and tossed him aside. ‘I SAID...cut it OUT!’ she roared as one of the brokers launched a toecap at Acland’s ribs. ‘No one MOVES till the police get here!’ She gave a piercing whistle. ‘JACKSON! HERE, mate! PRONTO!’
Her words fell on deaf ears. Acland absorbed an onslaught of kicks from the other brokers while uninvolved customers scattered hastily to avoid the fight zone. The Pakistani added to the confusion by staggering to his feet and grabbing at anyone or anything that might keep him upright. As he threatened to overturn a table, a huge woman with cropped and streaked dark hair emerged from behind the bar. ‘Easy now,’ she said in a deep, melodious voice that betrayed no excitement at all. ‘You’re bleeding like a stuck pig, my friend. Let’s have you out of harm’s way.’
With a grunt of effort, she hoisted Acland’s victim in her arms and dumped him unceremoniously on the counter. ‘All yours, lover,’ she said, before weighing into the fray. ‘You heard the lady,’ she said, smacking two of the Pakistani’s friends on the back of their heads with meaty hands. ‘Cut it out. This is an orderly house. All breakages have to be paid for.’ She elbowed her way past two more to look down at Acland. ‘You all right?’ she asked him.