can take your money a month in advance before blowing yourself up in a crowd.’ He pushed the sheet across to me. ‘I have to make sure a journalist gets this after the blast. Can you send it out for me?’
I looked at the tattered flyer. It was issued by an ineptly named Radical Suicide Society of Global Warming Justice Phenomena. The first ten lines were an inane sort of propaganda, but my eyes fell on the bottom two lines, which were handwritten. It was the address of the corner shop down the street. It had a courtyard covered by what was probably the only CCTV camera in the village, and I had taken to parking my car there every night for the past two weeks. I folded the flyer quickly.
My insurance specifically excluded explosions—and the car financing was so new I hadn’t started repaying it.
‘Um . . .’
‘You’ve got to be quick, though; there are many cash-strapped suicide squads that go around claiming the bombs of other NGOs—’
‘Can we stop calling them NGOs?’
‘Choose any newspaper or TV station of your choice—you can make yourself a bob or two, you know?’
‘You look like you’re over your depression,’ I said brusquely. ‘Why don’t you just dump the bomb in the sea and split. The world is a big place; they’ll never find you.’
‘They have this Deposit-Security Programme. You should read it . . .’
‘Perhaps you can give me a summary.’
‘It’s genius. They checked me into this clinic and put me under. They put a chip the size of a grain of rice inside me. Its biodegradable battery is invisible to X-rays and guaranteed to run for one year. Using me as an antenna, it broadcasts my location to their hub from anywhere I am in the world.’ He studied his fingernails, ‘They know I’m standing in your kitchen right now.’
‘Why don’t you take it out?’ I asked, not liking the pitch of my voice. I had a sudden vision of a chip-seeking missile crashing through the window.
He ran his hand through his hair. ‘That’s the point. It could be in my bladder or my scalp. I have no idea.’
‘If I were you,’ I said, trying to provoke some common sense in the youth in front of me, ‘no one could force me to detonate a suicide bomb. Think about it: the worst they can do is kill you . . .’
‘Their Suicide Enforcement Team is—’
‘Please!’ I snapped. Even Lynn would not swallow that.
‘Without that they’d be broke now, Mister Chew,’ he explained patiently. ‘People would just take their money and run. I know I would.’
‘Chow?’ I suggested sarcastically. It was the simplest of names.
‘Thanks, but I’m full.’
‘Humphrey Chow!’
‘That’s what I said, God. It’s just a bloody name. Their S.E. teams abduct runaways and . . .’ He hesitated before going on. ‘I’ll spare you the details, but personally I’d rather go with a bang than a saw.’
‘Are you . . .’ I cleared my throat. ‘Are you still within your month of grace?’
He shook his head. ‘I ran out of time and money yesterday, and they’ve e-mailed me the red notice. An S.E. team could be here tomorrow. I can run, but I can’t hide—unless I’m arrested. I’ll be safe enough in Her Majesty’s Prisons.’ He paused. ‘Either that or I bomb the corner shop.’
‘I can call the police for you,’ I offered.
‘That’s kind of you, but this country is too damned soft. I have no prior convictions, and the best I’ll get for breaking and entering will be community service.’ He glared. ‘This is your fault! Any other man who finds a bearded stranger in his bed would have thrown a punch, at the very least! There’d have been a major fracas yesterday—aggravated assault and battery, possibly with grievous bodily harm. By now I should have been enjoying police protection!’ He sneered. ‘Tea in bed!’
The image of the chip-seeking missile had receded somewhat. In its place flared a new vision of bearded Suicide Enforcers abducting us . . . torture chambers in a dark dungeon . . . and offbeat short stories flapping inside my head like possessed bats seeking escape, but my sawn-off arms were bandaged stumps that ended at the elbows. I looked wildly around the room. ‘You could break something expensive. You could . . .’
He shook his head. ‘Property damage is strictly small beans. With my law school tragedy I’ll probably get a suspended sentence or a month in the can. What’s that? I need a year in prison. They can’t track me after that. I’d rather go with a bang today than—’
‘Does it have to be the corner shop? Never heard of a suicide bomber taking out a corner shop.’
He paused. ‘Are you suggesting a Tesco? Whose side are you on anyway?’
‘Why this particular shop? It’s out in the middle of nowhere . . .’
He scowled. ‘The owner was rude yesterday. Said I stank of fried chicken. I’ll show her fried chicken!’
‘That’s hardly an offence worthy of the death sentence . . .’
‘She’s the nearest person I have a grudge against . . . unless—’ He broke off and eyed me speculatively.
‘Oh, come on!’
He shrugged magnanimously and turned for the door, ‘Au revoir, then. I’ll hang around for five or six customers and—’
‘I normally park my car outside the shop,’ I said casually. ‘It’s normally the safest place in the neighbourhood. Joyriders . . .’
He turned slowly, venting a diseased talent for melodrama. ‘Your car? How can you think of a car at a time like this?’
‘You dare to preach to me? You are blowing up corner shops for cash!’
‘So what do you suggest?’ he asked, reaching for his cord. ‘Should I blow myself up here?’
I watched his hand silently.
I have not always been this timid. One winter when I was fourteen, I attempted the murder of a Queen’s Counsel. I had found his name in a Hackney Social Services cabinet into which I had broken in search of the identity of my natural parents. Louis Raven, QC, retired, had signed me into care, and he seemed chief suspect for the role of Bolting Dad. I traced him to his golf club on Rounds Street. I watched him all day, following him four blocks to Poplar, where he lunched with three suits. Afterwards, we both walked back to the club; the one was well-fed, the other—following twelve anonymous paces behind—very, very, hungry. He drank till late. That afternoon when I went to confront my father I did not have a plan. By that evening, I had come to picture how different my life might have been, and it became quite clear what I had to do. I suppose the hunger was a factor. I didn’t even have enough money for a knife—I slipped one off the shelf of a hardware store on Poplar East. When he left his club it was 7:00 p.m. and dark, and as he dumped his golf clubs in the boot, I approached. As he opened his Porsche he felt the point of my knife in his side and drove thirty minutes, talking all the way. He was a barrister, all right: eight inches from a painful death and he couldn’t stop talking. I guess that blade kind of inspired him into the performance of his life. He slowed down along Old Kent Road, and I stepped out of the car. He still has the £7.89 knife that I got for free—and the contents of the wallet that he spilled desperately into my lap. Sometimes I wonder whether he was just a gifted liar or whether my arrival in the maternity with Negroid features truly had dissolved the marriage of his Caucasian clients, my ‘legal’ parents, Felix and Laura Fraser. I’ve never bothered to look for them. They can go to Hell—along with the adulterer who supplied my Negroid genes.
ZANDA ATTURK