Her name is Stephanie Mills‚ and every part of me is in love with every part of her.
I opened the back door‚ my smile replaced with a snarl‚ and unstrapped Jack out of the car. I gripped the back of his neck and frogmarched him down the path. He shrugged his shoulders away from my grip and ran to her. His protector. His Mother.
‘Mummy‚ Imy opened all the windows and then he put the cold air on and I wasn’t even wearing a jacket and... And... And...’ He spurted in one breath‚ as I took the stack of files from her. She kneeled down and embraced Jack whilst giving me that look from over his shoulder. ‘And he said he’s going to chop my fingers off‚ Mummy.’
The look I delivered to Stephanie insinuated that it was all true. She stood up and smoothed down her suit as Jack scuttled behind her legs in mock fear.
‘I swear it’s like having two kids. Why do you two always have to fight so much?’
‘Ask him!’
‘I’m asking you‚ you’re the grown up.’
‘He’s hidden the remote control. El Classico is on tonight.’
‘El what? Forget it‚ I don’t want to know.’
‘It’s a silly football match‚ Mummy‚’ Jack said‚ poking his head around her legs. Stephanie shot a look at him and he retreated back.
‘So you’re not staying tonight?’ Stephanie asked. ‘You can watch it here.’
‘You can give me a bath‚ too and a bedtime story‚’ Jack chipped in.
‘I’ve made plans with Shaz tonight‚ kid.’
She placed the palm of her hands on my chest and patted it once‚ twice. Her hands lingered as she planted an overdue kiss on my lips and whispered. ‘Tomorrow? I’ll cook.’
‘Definitely‚’ I whispered back‚ my voice catching. Nearly three years together and her touch still made me want to forget the world and follow her voice‚ her smell. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘Say hi to Shaz from me. And Imy...’ Stephanie inclined her head towards Jack who was now sitting cross legged on the front lawn picking clumps out of the grass. I nodded at her and with a too quick peck she turned and walked into her house.
‘Alright‚ kid.’ I sat down opposite him‚ legs crossed‚ mirroring him.
‘Can’t you stay?’ His eyes everywhere but on me.
‘I would love to. But I’ve got things to do. I’ll come early tomorrow‚ we’ll have lunch together.’
‘I’m at school tomorrow‚’ Jack said‚ whine creeping into his voice.
‘How about I swing by after? Take you to the park or we can go on a bike ride. Your choice.’
‘Both… Can we do both?’
‘How about you ride your bike to the park. How’s that sound‚ kid?’
His eyes finally met mine and he nodded excitedly. ‘Are you doing sleepover tomorrow‚ too?’
‘I’ll bring my PJ’s. Let’s make a camp and sleep in there‚’ I said. ‘Now come on‚ bring it in‚ give me the good stuff.’ He stood as I got to my knees and gave me a hug that only a five-year-old could possibly give‚ nice and tightly fitting into my body. I kissed him on the head and hissed in his ear.
‘Where’s the damn remote?’
‘I’m not telling you‚’ he replied‚ whilst his hand snaked into my shirt collar and released damp grass down my back before running off inside laughing manically.
I sat in my car and watched them for a moment. Stephanie in the kitchen‚ steaming mug in one hand – coffee‚ one sugar‚ no milk. In the other hand she held a Spiderman beaker – hot chocolate‚ microwaved‚ one minute medium. Jack stormed in and clumsily climbed up onto the stool in front of the breakfast bar.
I said a silent prayer. Warmth‚ health and happiness.
But I knew that as much as I loved them‚ inevitably it would be me that took all those things away.
The phone rang again‚ chirpy and incessant‚ desperate to be held. I looked across at the two other operators sitting either side of me. To my left Dave‚ or Davey as he liked to be called‚ a middle aged man who dressed way too young and smelt like tangerines. To my right‚ Kelly‚ a cute‚ geeky girl‚ the type who turned up transformed to the school prom and surprised the hell out of everyone‚ and ended up sleeping with Jason‚ the captain of the swimming team. Probably‚ I don’t know. I just wanted to go home.
Kelly and Dave were busy on calls and the phone was still screaming in my face. I sighed loudly‚ my irritation clear to Carol‚ the team leader from hell. She glanced over at me just as I glanced over at the clock. Two minutes to five. Two minutes before I could get the hell out of this place for a few hours before it all starts again. I knew if I answered the phone I’d be stuck here past five. I can just about make it to five‚ but keeping me here any longer is tantamount to taking the fucking piss‚ especially on a Monday. I locked eyes with Carol and ventured out a hopeful smile whilst inclining my head towards the clock‚ the smile wasn’t reciprocated‚ instead she nodded down her long beak at the phone. I huffed and puffed a little‚ just enough to have made my point‚ and then I answered the phone.
‘IT Helpdesk‚ how can I help you?’
*
On the short drive home‚ I mentally pictured the inside of my fridge‚ it didn’t take long. I couldn’t be arsed with a big shop‚ I could do that later on my iPad‚ from the comfort of my armchair‚ but I did need a quick fix for the night.
I ducked into the newsagents at the end of my road and browsed the ready meals‚ picking myself out a prawn curry and a litre of milk. At the till‚ my eyes fell on the Daily Mail. On the front page a painfully familiar image was staring back at me. One I had seen many times‚ an image fast on its way to becoming as iconic as the plane flying into the twin towers on 9/11 or the devastated London Bus with its top blown on 7/7. My neighbour‚ my friend‚ Parvez Ahmed‚ laid out on his back atop a police van. His eyes open and lifeless‚ a sawn-off AK47 hanging around his neck and a Glock 19 handgun gripped in his dead hands. I picked up the newspaper‚ knowing full well that it was going to spoil the rest of my evening.
I placed the prawn curry in the microwave and read the article at the worktop. I was expecting inaccuracies‚ and it didn’t disappoint. It had been around three months since the failed attack and the media just would not let it fucking go. It’s exactly this kind of journalism that prods and provokes and burns an imprint into the public’s consciousness. Not letting them move on‚ not letting us move on. Not a spare thought for those who suffered‚ whose families suffered. Parvez‚ who had died for a belief that many would never even contemplate understanding. Now they celebrate his death‚ parade the images like a badge of fucking honour. A constant reminder of the victory for the West. British intelligence working for the people.
But I knew better. I knew the truth.
Nine jihadis‚ four holding points‚ Oxford Street. All armed with automatic rifles and handguns‚ the objective to block in thousands of shoppers on Boxing Day‚ one of the busiest