The voice from the darkness was guttural, cold. 'You sound like a parrot. A parrot is taught words that have no meaning — they are just spouted. Do it with feeling, or forget it.'
He cringed. The waistcoat constricted his breathing and lay heavy on him; in his nose was the stale smell of the filth in the bags. She came from the side, slipped into his vision. Her hand was on his neck and her fingers massaged the tightness of the muscle — where the pressure from the waistcoat's weight was.
She said, 'We love you and we admire you. Nothing can stop you, no one. We are privileged to walk in your shadow. The sun shines on you and God's hand is on you and will guide you. In this country, in little streets and in homes and in all holy places — wherever Muslims live and gather — your name will be spoken and God's greatness will be glorified. You give us an example of dedication that we will strive to follow. Believe it1 and say it.'
He believed it. Her hand loosed his shoulder. Where there had been a listless struggle to remember, there was passion. She slipped back and was beyond his vision. He said it: 'I give my life readily because the British authority attacks Muslims where they are weak and cam-tot defend themselves. I avenge the wrongs done by the British, and many more will follow me. I go, God willing, to Paradise. Pray for me.'
The voice from the darkness growled, 'It is satisfactory. Save it and box it.'
He slumped. Light flooded the room and the curtains were pulled back.
The girl helped him out of the waistcoat. He thought there was tenderness in the motion of her fingers. We love you and we admire you. It was as if, Ibrahim Hussein believed, she alone had time for him…Then a stark truth hit him. There was now no retreat. He must walk.
His testament was recorded. He had said: 'I go, God willing, to Paradise.' His own words condemned him.
He carried his tray away from the counter. He skirted the tables and made a target of the one furthest away from them. Into Banks's ears came the bleat of the one called Peter: 'This stuff might be all right for strapping young soldiers needing their strength built up — not for us. Sausages and chips. A pork chop that is more fat than meat and chips. Fish that drips with batter and chips…Someone might have told these people about cholesterol levels. What's this going to be doing to our hearts? Frankly, it's a disgrace.'
Food did not matter to him. At work and at home in his bedsit, he ate what was fast and convenient. He would have reckoned his fitness levels compensated for the rubbish he swallowed, snatched when he had time.
A plate loaded with sausage, bacon, beans, fried bread and chips was on his tray, with a can of soft drink He sat at the table, distanced from them. He ripped back the ring-pull, swilled the drink and started to eat.
He had not dented the plate's heap when he heard the shuffle of feet, loose sandals, behind him. 'Mind if I do? Is it permitted?'
He emptied his mouth. 'Please yourself.'
It was hardly a welcoming invitation, but enough for his Principal. On Wright's plate there was a chop in a pond of gravy, peas, but no chips.
'Not much to write home about, is it? The food…'
'It's what's on offer,' Banks said curtly. It had been his intention to sit quietly, alone, at the table, clear his plate and then submit to the addiction — open that bloody notebook, take his fix if he could find a vein to lance the needle into.
He kept his eyes on his food, listened to his Principal eat.
Banks had meant it, what he had thought in the courtroom, the hatred. But the guy was in his pocket, in his mind, and the bloody place where the guy was…There should have been a photograph. Maybe an outing from work, before he'd travelled, down to the coast; a group of young men in suits and shirts with collars, ties knotted below the stud. Without a photograph, he could hate but could not ignore the damn man. He was thinking of Cecil Darke's food: no meat, no fat, no fried chips served up in the forward positions on Mosquito Hill.
'Well, Mr Banks, what sort of day have you had?'
'Just a day, a day's work.'
'Me, I've had a good day.'
'Pleased to hear that, Mr Wright.' He mouthed it, hoped that his lack of interest would register and be rewarded with quiet. No bloody chance.
'See that Vicky, sat behind you?'
He didn't turn.
'I reckon anyone, and wouldn't take too much patience, is in there with a chance, a damn good one. Shoving her curves out for everyone to see. She's rather lovely, don't you think?'
He lied: 'I hadn't noticed her.'
There was a grin opposite him. 'Don't you do women, Mr Banks? Don't you have time for them? God, I'm telling you, it's an empty world without women — specially women like that Vicky. You married, Mr Banks? That why you don't do women?'
'Divorced, actually.'
He didn't have to — could have put his head down and gone on clearing the plate — but Banks broke the rules of his trade: he told his Principal about Mandy, about Mandy's adultery, about the dispute on the money share-out, about the collapse of any reasonable post-marriage, post-divorce relationship. It was no business of his Principal's but he was given it, chapter and verse, as if that was a way to lose a load that had festered. Couldn't have justified it, but he spilled out confidences on Mandy.
'Sorry to hear that, Mr Banks…Never mind. Look on the bright side. You're free, can play the field.'
'Things seem to get in the way,' Banks said. He felt inadequate and squirmed deep in his gut.
He looked up into Wright's face, and took the full-impact force of a smile.
Wright said, 'I don't suppose we're exactly a roller-coaster of thrills. Are you usually with people like us, life's flotsam?'
'The people I'm usually with would not appreciate the description "flotsam",' Banks said, and warmed to it as if the smile chipped at his natural reserve. 'What's normal for me, as a Protection Officer, is minding royals, diplomats and politicians. You see, Mr Wright, we're a finite resource, and by the time the big cats have been looked after there's not many of us left to look after — I'm uncomfortable with the word—"ordinary" people. Don't you see us on TV? We're jumping out of cars, opening doors, heaving back the great unwashed so they don't get too close. We're part of the scene of pomp and circumstance. Those people, they judge their importance by the number of Protection Officers assigned to them. There's a pecking order. The actual threat, well, that's a whole different argument. Take Churchill in the war, see him walking through the East End after a bad blitzing, and look for how many men there are around him with Sten guns — none. How many men in long raincoats with a Smith & Wesson in a shoulder holster? Two, maximum three. Now a junior minister in Northern Ireland, where there's supposed to be a ceasefire, has a whole busload of them. We open the doors and close them, we book restaurants, we do the shopping. They're the elite, and we're an integral part of the panoply. Odd thing, but they need us to massage their vanity, and we need them to show how important we are…A crowd of jurors, you and them, or a Protected Witness is damn lucky to get us for more than the bare minimum of days.'
He was interrupted: 'We were told about a duty of care…and I was told by the man who approached me of "long arms" and "long memories". Don't we get looked after?'
Banks grinned, sardonic, and was finally enjoying himself — couldn't remember when he had last talked freely outside the corral of the Delta team. 'Don't hold your breath, Mr Wright. It'll all be about the budget that's been allocated. When the coffers are dry you'll be dumped. You'll be given an in-house alarm and a few telephone numbers. You'll be up the creek and no paddle. Of course, if you were a politician the coffers don't go dry.'
'Is that-the party line, Mr Banks?' The smile spread.