Ball of Confusion Page 10
Volume from the usually silent televisions has been turned up by management to broadcast newscaster’s narratives accompanying these devastating images. The information being relayed is patchy and incomplete, so murmured conjecture and debate rumbles around the arrivals hall, until, a sombre newscaster’s voice now confirms the unfolding general consensus of opinion, that what the world is witnessing, is a direct act of terrorism… Four aeroplanes have apparently been hijacked, by radical terrorists, to be flown deliberately, as missiles, into strategic targets… including the twin towers.
Only one man in the airport already knew that… he stands alone, away from the crowds; an extremely well-dressed man in an expensive pinstriped suit. Adjusting his silk tie, he watches the screens from afar. A dark-skinned man with immaculately swept-back black hair, highlighted naturally by fine strands of grey. Seemingly of Arab origin, he is strikingly handsome, mid-fifties, holds a fine stature and wears the distinct air of aloofness that only complete self-confidence can bring.
In contrast to the disbelieving expressions of horror worn across faces of the watching masses, the demeanour of this unaffected man is markedly different. He appears positively unmoved by these events, and holds his head high throughout the evolving broadcasts, and though he’s neither smiling, nor visually gloating, a satisfaction seems to radiate from his body.
The man glances coolly at his chunky gold Rolex Oyster wristwatch, before casually strolling, practically gliding, towards the arrival doors from passport control. He watches the motion-sensor doors continually sliding open and closed, as people step into the United Kingdom via customs.
•
Meanwhile, inside the baggage hall, sixteen-year-old Hazma stands alongside a trundling carousel, conveying luggage retrieved from the hold of a flight just in from the Middle East. Of slight, small stature, his body looks considerably younger than his age, whereas his focused face portrays a maturity and intensity well beyond his years.
He’s unfazed at travelling alone, to a foreign country on a plane for the first time, and is seemingly aware of everything and everyone around him. Most other travellers scrambling for baggage in a free-for-all around him appear to be of Middle Eastern or South Asian origin; some of whom wear traditional dress from those regions. Hazma wears jeans, tee-shirt and training shoes, as he identifies his own rucksack, slings it onto his back and heads for passport control.
The miserable British customs officer wears a large turban and appears of Indian origin. He questions Hazma in abrupt rude fashion, in heavily accented English, “You are travelling on a student visa?”
“Yes,” replies Hazma; his English also heavily accented. “I’ll be studying religion and chemistry at London College.”
The customs officer scrolls his eyes across a raft of official paperwork folded inside the passport, then asks, “How long will you be staying in Britain?”
The young man replies confidently, “It is a two-year A-level course… and when I pass I shall go to university for a further four years.”
“When you pass?” enquires the officer sarcastically, “You mean if you pass.”
Hazma stares back at the dour man, and replies with aplomb, “When I pass.”
The customs officer looks down and pauses, as if to consider… then stamps Hazma’s passport and with head down hands it back. There is no please, thank you, or welcome to England… just a dismissive half-hearted nod of his head signifies Hazma is free to proceed.
•
The smooth pinstriped man stands behind a steel barrier by the sliding doors, glancing at his Rolex, then up at the electronic board, and scrolls his eyes down over the lines detailing flight arrivals. The flight he’s interested in was delayed, due to air traffic control’s global turmoil, but according to the board, it has definitely landed now.
Next time the doors open, his cool face cracks and brightens, on seeing Hazma entering arrivals. A broad smile beams from his mouth, complimented nicely by glistening whitened teeth.
“Hazma!” he welcomes the boy across the barrier.
The boy nods back an acknowledgement of recognition, and replies, “Doctor Ruparela!”
They move swiftly towards each other, but after several paces Hazma’s quick step slows significantly, respectfully, as he waits to see by which protocol the doctor will greet him.
Ruparela reads the boy’s hesitancy, understands, and offers his hand towards him. Hazma readily accepts and they shake, before the man reaches around the teenager and with both arms embraces him warmly.
“Welcome, Hazma.” Ruparela speaks with an extremely well-spoken, well-honed, confident English accent, with just the faintest hint of accented influence. “It’s splendid to see you… Good flight?” The boy nods his head. The doctor guides him away, and lowers his voice to whisper, “You’ve arrived, on a truly magnificent day.”
“Why?”
“Let me show you.” Ruparela leads Hazma to the periphery of a huddled crowd, still staring in amazement at the continuous horrific footage being broadcast from New York.
Hazma also looks astonished as he watches replays of the plane exploding into the tower. His jaw drops as he turns to the doctor and whispers, “Is that—”
“Yes…” Ruparela cuts him short, leans in close and whispers, “our brothers.”
As they watch, the television reporter presents a clip of footage just in from Palestine. An American foreign correspondent stands on a busy street corner, holding a microphone in front of him, explaining that the crowds dancing and cheering joyfully behind him are celebrating news of a significant terrorist strike against the United States of America.
Ruparela looks for a response from Hazma’s face, but the serious boy seems confused by the situation, and confirms as much by looking up, whispering, “Should I rejoice?”
The man pulls him in closer, and answers quietly, “Yes… you should rejoice, and we shall… but not here.” Then turns and moves towards the exit, “Follow me!”
Once outside, where it is safe to talk, Ruparela moves close to Hazma, so close that as he stoops their foreheads touch gently, and he deliberately applies pressure to hold their heads together, emphasising the depth of his sincerity, as he stares deep into Hazma’s pupils and reminds him, “You are special to us, Hazma… You were plucked from drowning by the hand of God… As the infidel bombs rained down, the old man prayed… and Allah showed him you… You, Hazma… You will be our salvation… You are chosen by God.”
•
Chapter: 1C
Ball of Confusion by Millennium Jones
(continued)
“Every day…” Millie explains to her audience, “I see examples of how differently people’s minds work… how diversely we all think.”
A swift glance detects some fidgeting in the crowd; understandable in the heat, Millie swelters too, and there’s an added intensity to her delivery as she continues. “From foetus-to-child-to-adult, we are all conditioned by circumstance and influence and continue to be influenced while following our life’s path… We evolve constantly… I’ve changed… already I’ve changed, me, Millennium Jones, after sixteen years I’m different… Because now… after 9/11… I’m someone else.”
On hearing nine-eleven, the fidgeting stops, and while Millie deliberately pauses for effect, looking out across the hall, sees she has their full attention again now; sweaty faces stare back, she goes on, “After the second plane hit the south tower… I became someone else… after I watched re-runs on television in disbelief as United Airlines flight 175 exploded over and over again. As I watched desperate helpless people choose to burn alive… or freefall intentionally to their deaths… I watched those people jump; I watched them fall and heard their bodies POP like water balloons exploding over the sidewalk… I watched… in horror… for days!”
Knowing this part off by heart, Millie places her notes on the podium, enabling her to gesticulate freely as she surveys the audience like a president and states passionately, “That haunting
image of the twin towers burning cast a dark shadow that shrouded the Earth… An image so ingrained on my memory…” she staccato’s her words out, “that… I… will… never… forget…” Anger and conviction flow freely from her voice, “It made me physically sick… sick from the sight of suffering!”
Many amongst her spellbound audience nod their heads in empathy, as her words roll faster culminating into a tongue-lashing; a tense tirade of fury, “In the aftermath, I kept asking… WHY? Why would anyone hijack a plane and fly it into a building, deliberately killing thousands of innocent people, and themselves?” She holds her arms out, questioning, “WHY? What would make anybody do anything that catastrophic? The question played on my mind for days… I couldn’t sleep. I watched never-ending news, read reports, researched, blitzed search engines for days and days repeatedly asking myself… WHY?”
She pauses for well-needed breath. The auditorium is so silent Millie can hear herself breathing. With the back of her hand she wipes sweat from her brow, collects herself, regains posture, refocuses… and delivers calmly, “Then it dawned on me…”
•
Adulthood (2014)
•
Chapter: 11
Glistening Bitumen
Early evening in Burnham Beeches: an area of ancient woodland covering over 500 acres on the outskirts of Greater London. Deep within a dense conglomeration of trees lies George, sleeping on a crumpled plastic groundsheet with his head resting on a makeshift pillow, his rucksack. After living as a recluse for so long, he’s unsure of his age, which is about thirty years old.
His late afternoon nap is interrupted by chirruping birds and rustling leaves as a gentle breeze blows through the trees. He wakes with stomach rumbling and focuses on the darkening sky visible through gaps in nature’s thatch above him. The foliage wears fifty shades of green, sprinkled with browns. A few spots of rain filter through and land on the cheeks of his unkempt heavily bearded face. He puts a hand to his mouth, yawns, and then gently brushes away a small spider scurrying from the safety of his beard, but makes sure it lands safely on the grass.
He stands and stretches out his arms, as fine rain begins to fall on his long matted mane. He’s dressed in overly excessive layers of old scruffy clothing; George is a tramp now. Reaching inside his overcoat he scratches an armpit then packs the plastic sheet into his rucksack. Swinging the bag onto his back he notices an extremely juicy-looking blackberry, which he pops into his mouth, then after about a dozen more heads towards the country lane that meanders through these woods.
With no pedestrian footpath, George trudges along the road towards civilization, intent on scavenging himself a meal. His body remains small and skinny for his age, and from a distance with his mass of facial hair and straggly locks, he looks considerably older, but on closer inspection George’s eyes still sparkle and his chiselled features are in fine form. He’s a handsome man, disguised by neglect.
It’s dark now, as George trudges his tatty boots through swelling puddles of rain. Turning the corner he sees flashing blue lights, from a stationary police car parked behind a small two-seater sports car. Two uniformed police officers are stood beside the car, addressing a civilian driver looking back subserviently through his open window. The police are wet, and getting wetter.
The thought of encountering police no longer fazes George. His dark days are long gone; he stopped worrying about being caught for his crimes many moons ago. It is fourteen years since he escaped DC.
George has kept an incredibly low profile ever since. Initially, the mental trauma he experienced from killing Frank and Maurice sent his mind into a state of turmoil, and his body’s self defence mechanism took him back to what he knew best: his own company… and the sanctity of the woods. During George’s early stages of vagrancy, his mind would occasionally wander back to his darker days of damning experiences, and although regretful that they had happened, he’s convinced himself that both killings were unavoidable, as both victims were dragons who encroached forcefully into his life by attacking those he cared for. His ma had taught him what to do.
His life as a tramp keeps him fairly isolated from people, which is totally George’s choice, as it keeps him away from dragons too. He listened intently during Mr David’s Life Skills lessons, and remembers being taught to consider other people, what they are capable of… himself too, and never wishes to harm anyone else, or experience anything so traumatic ever again. He’s a man suited… to a simple existence.
Being withdrawn from civilization, he never gets chance to speak much, consequently his speed of speech remains slow, and mature voice tone is low. He talks like a chugging misfiring engine on tick-over, and never quite hits the gas to rev it up.
George does sometimes get lonely though, and misses the company of others, so seeing an opportunity to chat now, he seizes it. George sidles up quietly behind the rain-soaked officers’ backs and drawls, “Have you caught a bad man?”
His unexpected presence from the dark startles both policemen, who jump and spin around. Seeing a drenched tramp one of the officers appears amused by the comment, “Yeah, we’ve caught a really bad man.”
“What did he do?” George enquires with genuine interest.
“He wasn’t wearing his seatbelt,” Officer One replies efficiently.
Looking confused, George exclaims, “That’s not bad!”
“It might not be bad, but it’s against the law, mate!”
George continues observing, as the coppers return their attention to the driver, but as they lecture the man George interrupts, offering his assistance. “Um, excuse me… but if you really want to catch bad men, I can take you where there’s loads of them… Drug dealers, muggers, pimps… I used to live there!”
Slightly irritated by George’s presence, and the rain, Officer Two replies, a little less politely now, “Listen, we’re busy here, be a good bloke and move along.”
But George is insistent, “He’s not, really bad though, is he? I can show you proper bad men… You can arrest them!”
The driver of the sports car is white, early thirties; he smiles at George and exclaims in well-spoken English, “Hey, he’s got a point chaps!”
Officer Two ignores the flippant comment, focuses on George, and with his patience and politeness now exhausted, tells the tramp, “Like I said, move along, we’re busy.”
But George persists, “You could catch them now, really bad men!”
“Clear off!” Officer Two raises his voice.
George can’t believe they’re not interested, “But…”
“PISS OFF!” yells the officer.
Unimpressed by their negative response, George frowns, shakes his head in disgust and trudges away mumbling, “I’m only trying to help.”
•
George follows the road through rain for half a mile, until stopping at a sharp corner, where he sees, standing on white lines in the middle of the road, a large deer with head held high, antlers displayed majestically. The animal hasn’t seen or heard George, who watches the deer’s ears prick up, before turning its head towards the sound of approaching engine noise. The animal looks magnificent and proud, stood silhouetted against the dark backdrop, on a stage of wet black bitumen glistening in moonlight.
•
The sports car driver accelerates away, waving farewell to the officers through his window, but once clear of earshot, after winding up the window, he exclaims loudly, “FUCKING MORONS!”
He turns on the sound system to recommence where he’d left off: with his evening fix of Johann Strauss’s “The Second Waltz”. The CD spins and belts out his favourite classical track. He increases windscreen wiper speed to combat the falling rain, then settles back in his seat, eyes focused on the winding road ahead, and lets his mind climb inside the music floating eerily, but beautifully from the speakers.
He gently uses his free swaying left hand to conduct “The Second Waltz”, and by chance notices that the windscreen wipers are synchronised in time
with the tempo of the music. He smiles into the mirror at this kooky coincidence, and as the music intensifies he conducts more vigorously, and accelerates a little faster.
•
George watches the motionless animal, as it stares towards approaching vehicle noise, which grows louder… until it appears: a gigantic juggernaut cab pulling a forty foot trailer. The deer bolts, but in startled confusion turns its body towards the cab rather than the trees. Instinctively the driver slams both foot pedals and the vehicle’s wheels screech, feverishly attempting to grip on the slippery wet surface. The desperate driver feels his heavy trailer shuddering and wavering behind him as its tyres fail to grip efficiently in a straight line with the cab.
George watches the deer skip nimbly to the side, narrowly escaping death, darting into the trees as the driver finally loses control. The juggernaut twists into a skidding jack-knife and continues sliding, in the shape of a scythe, until grinding eventually to a halt, sprawled completely across the width of the road.
Once still, the wagon’s air brakes and steaming engine hiss. The sounds blend in with the pounding pouring rain.
•
Meanwhile, as rain pelts the sports car’s windscreen, the driver doesn’t mind, his mind is absorbed with racing his car through tight forest bends, and quantifying the quirky complexities of Strauss’s “The Second Waltz”.