Numb E-Book

anonymous

• Herausgeber: Liberties Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Following her husband's death in October 2014, 'Kay Buckby', as she wishes to be known, stumbled upon a number of shocking revelations within his diaries and notebooks. Deciding to expose her discoveries, she contacted an Irish ghostwriter to compile her husband's ephemera into a book. You hold the result in your hands. Numb is the story of 'Alan Buckby', as told in his own words. A war correspondent for more than two decades, he led a double life, appearing to be a regular family man while at home in London, but immersed in sadism and depravity while on overseas assignments. 'Alan Buckby' reported on a number of global conflicts. Detailed within his notebooks were his observations from the ongoing wars in modern-day Iraq and Syria, as well as the conflicts in 1990s Sarajevo and 1980s Northern Ireland. In addition to these glimpses into his professional life, the notebooks and diaries also narrated his personal life, from his childhood in the UK to his post-university years in Paris and his home life in London. This document is not just a chronicle of 'Alan Buckby's'life and work. It is also a chronicle of his efforts to understand his own fascination with torture, sexual violence and murder, and his wife's attempt to understand how the man she knew as her husband and the father to her children could have been involved in such horrors.

Leseprobe

NUMBThe Diary of a War Correspondent

Anonymous

Contents

Title PageForewordChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Copyright

Foreword

‘Alan Buckby’, my husband and the author of this diary, died tragically while out for a walk in the middle of a storm. A tree fell on him, splitting his head open and killing him instantly. He was holding a saw.

He led a dubious second life, alien to the one we shared at home with our two children. As if the shock of his sudden death was not enough, I discovered certain files on his laptop, and then his handwritten notebooks. He had merely changed our names to lend an air of superficiality to the contents.

Buckby thought his life worth documenting. You may ask why I did not destroy the notebooks. Instead, I spoke with a close friend, Marg. She had me re-evaluate my opinions and options. Things, once done, cannot be erased, she said. Though I rake over the past trying to spot signs of my husband’s behaviour, I cannot do anything about it, apart from making people wary of supposed do-gooders.

Here then is my husband’s life, as he saw it: the wronged hero! In my defence, I loved what I knew of him. Should that now be washed away? What good would it do to remove my feelings from a dead soul? There are too many questions to contemplate. Perhaps you will think me complicit.

I wish to thank my ghostwriter for shaping the Buckby diaries, and removing anything that might give away my real identity. He only agreed to co-write the diaries on the condition that I provide this introduction, explaining how the story came into being. I can only presume this is so that he cannot be held personally responsible for the horrific events it contains.

Sincerely,

‘Kay Buckby’

London, February 2015

Chapter 1

2014

IRAQ WAR II

‘Where is it?’

‘Where is what?’ Hakim asks, switching off his camera phone.

‘I want to see it. The head in the video, wise ass.’

‘You want see head?’

‘Yes, Hakim, I want to see the head.’

‘No, no, Buckby sir, is very dangerous.’

‘$50.’

‘No. I no-know where is head.’

‘That’s bullshit, and your God hates falsehood. Stop lying, Hakim.’

‘You no-know Allah. Buckby sir, do not speak of what you no-know.’

‘It’s not “no-no”. It’s “don’t know”. As in, you don’t know shit!’

‘But Buckby sir, I do.’

‘No shit! OK, $100 for the head.’

‘Is good. But Buckby sir, why you want head?’

‘Why? To bury it, of course.’

Hakim doesn’t get sarcasm. He just twitches his nose, and his moustache follows.

‘You no want body?’ Hakim asks.

‘Sure. OK.’

‘Body cost more. OK?’

‘No, not OK, Hakim. Why must I pay more for the body? I don’t want to eat it.’

‘Eat it?’ Hakim frowns, his eyebrows knitting.

‘Don’t be stupid, I just want to see it: the head and the body.’

‘Body in different place, Buckby sir. Is very dangerous place.’

‘OK. Forget the body. Fine, $100 for the head.’

I pay Hakim, and we arrange to meet behind the mosque later that night. I check the batteries in my camera, twice. I’m nervous and exhilarated; a photo of the head will be a major scoop. Our paradoxical role doesn’t go over my own head: they, the jihadi, killing for their God, me, an infidel, photographing sacrificial murder for money. Opposites attract. I’m only a vulture, feeding on leftovers.

*

NOTEBOOK

Iraq is a desert and vegetation is scarce, due to the lack of moisture and saline content in the ground. But in the alluvial plains and along the banks of the Euphrates and Tigris rivers, papyrus, lotus and other tall reeds abound. But the irrigation of the mud flats is being overlooked, and what little flora and fauna remains will soon be obliterated.

The Mosul Dam captures snowmelt from the mountains in Turkey and controls Iraq’s fate. Why do the authorities withhold the water flowing down the Tigris River? At will, the Mosul Dam could drown an entire nation of pests.

Fate!

*

I was into destruction as a child: detaching things. I removed the wings from flies, or spliced wasp bodies in two. Somewhere along the way, I wished for things to remain frozen in time. Unbroken. As I grew up, I began finding things precious, beautiful. Butterflies, daisies, girls. In my teens, I developed a problem with shitting. It was the turtle’s head peering from my ass that I liked clinging to. I wanted to remain whole. I didn’t like the concept of having waste: of being a dirt producer.

Waste not, want not.

I was fit to burst when I was caught out in my sleep, my sphincter muscle caving in, depositing two litres of liquid faeces on the floor and bed. Not even the stench could wake me. Mum had to save me from dad.

I wonder whether the shitting problems are why decapitations leave me unnerved. Maintaining personal integrity – wholeness – is a subject close to my heart. I’m quite attached to my head, in the same way that I was once attached to my turd.

*

We’ve arrived, Hakim and I. There are two and a half of us in the room. The decapitated head makes up the half.

The house is a shed with a tin roof. Internal partitions of cloth and board carve out rooms. The outer walls are concrete blocks. One wall bulges. It’s recently uninhabited, or at least seems to be, as it’s stuffy. The windows are unopened. The room holds a smell of meat. Our noses lead us to the kitchen, where the head lies on the floor. I hold my shirt over my nose to block the stench; decomposition happens quickly in the desert heat. The head seems to look at me wherever I stand. The neck is shredded like mincemeat. Flies feast on it.

‘You no want take head?’ Hakim asks.

‘Take it where? Why?’

‘To bury it, Buckby sir.’

‘Are you fucking mad! Proof of death is all I want. I’ve got it.’

I nod to my camera, and make to leave.

‘You have no sorrow.’

‘Hakim, this isn’t the head of my brother, or a friend. Mourning is for others. I didn’t know the poor bastard. This is work.’

‘We cannot leave head here.’

‘And what do you propose?’

‘Save it, Buckby sir.’

‘It’s a dead head, in case you hadn’t noticed!’

Hakim looks at me sideways. I shiver, though he’s a small man with signs of a pot belly. His brown eyes might kill. The passage of the Qur’an that I plan on quoting in my article springs to mind: When you meet the unbelievers in the battlefield strike off their heads.

I change tack. Pretend to care. We reach a compromise, and decide to place the head in the kitchen freezer. I tear off the ends my shirt and stick bits of cloth up my nose. With a soup ladle, I roll the head onto a flat tray. Hakim holds the freezer door open. In goes the head.

We leave a note on the freezer door: WARNING: This freezer contains the decapitated head of an American journalist.

Driving back to the centre of Baghdad, I’m silent. Disturbed. My hair is damp. I think I might have run my hand through it after touching the head. Fuck. I’m using some dead man’s blood and sweat as hair gel. I rub my hand against the car door. Usually, I tap my chest pocket to make sure that my notebook is safe, but I fear staining my shirt. I distract myself, humming. It doesn’t work. My student days come racing back:I used to put fish guts in the freezer to stop them from rotting. It kills the smell.

In the hotel, I don’t look at my photos until I’ve shampooed my hair twice. I take it for granted, my hair. I overlook its vitality. I’ve an excellent head of hair for my age. I say this to the mirror. I’ve a fine head of thick brown hair at the age of fifty-five. But when I run my hand through it, it feels like my fingers are counting each remaining strand. My face is full of pockmarked lines, both thick and small; some wrinkles are like streams that join up with broad rivers. Fuck this. I neck a few thimblefuls of Jameson. I laugh. A mirror doesn’t show who one is – I dye my hair.

My efforts are in vain. The Internet out-scoops me. The gruesome decapitation video that Hakim showed me was already posted online, making my photos of the dead head irrelevant.

There’s uproar.

The summary: society is sick and death is addictive.

I recognise my addiction, the pornography of watching torture and murder. Why else am I transfixed by a beheading?

*

I’m thinking of taking time out. No more war reporting. Maybe stay at home. Ah, London life. I could drive the kids to university and discuss the consequences of Arsenal’s draw with Tottenham.

In my time off, I imagine writing a critically acclaimed book, a tome that might transform me into an authority. War to Law, that’s what I’ll call it. I’ll chart the progress to law-abiding statehood after a new country is carved out on the back of war or genocide. I’ll focus on the way a once-murderous people, overnight, now long for nothing more than to sip latte in a café and watch Sex and the City. It’s a noble premise, my book. I’m going to get righteous, and reach out and understand those who take up arms.

Try this:

Some wars are necessary. To be master of one’s destiny is a universal human right. Wars are no longer intra-country, but between people and beliefs. Who you are, or choose to be, may increase your chance of being killed.

I haven’t gotten past the opening lines, but I’ll finish it one day. I’ll lay claim to the fertile territory of categorising wars: religious wars (the Islamic State, for example), stateless wars (the Kurds in Syria, Turkey and Iraq). In my notebook, I’m constantly jotting down witty oxymorons that I’ll worm into my masterpiece: fight for peace, love to hate, the living dead. My book will show how post-war concerns promptly move onto conquering new objectives – mortgage interest rates, currency stabilisation … and latte.

Back in the day, when I was full of fire and passion, I got into a fight with the UN. They keep a directory of wars. But until they officially credited a war as being just that, my editor wouldn’t publish my story. The war that I was writing about didn’t make the grade. I got on the phone to them.

‘This is total bullshit.’

‘Mr Buckby, there are only 163 wars recognised by the UN.’

A nameless pseudo-human speaking bland UN-jargon is on the other end.

‘The U-fucking-N is spouting rubbish, and you know it. If the UN had been around in the Stone Age, you would be listing thousands of wars.’

‘The modern era is all that we can know about for sure.’

‘But wars existed before the concept of borders. Fucking hell, battling existed before we even invented countries. Countries are the direct result of wars!’

‘I repeat: it is a problem of definition.’

The problem of definition is this: what constitutes a war? The UN defines a war as one where a thousand or more people are killed in a given year. Anything less is only a ‘skirmish’.

The article I wrote lost its vigour and went unpublished. Nobody cares that some orphan’s mum was raped and his daddy butchered in a skirmish. My editor agreed with the UN, and said that the massacre was a trifling matter. Of course they’re right. I was just pissed that I wasted my time writing the story.

Anyway, one day I’ll write about it all.

One day.

Or another.

*

Fake tan has no place in a war zone, but nobody told Tania, the war bicycle that everyone rides.

Another day, another desert, another sweaty body. The hotel shower is broken. I’ve got a week’s worth of stubble. Everyone wears the same clothes, every day. Who cares? Welcome to Iraq. No hope of meeting Miss America out here. That’s why Tania, the touring prostitute, cleans up.

I go down to the basement bar in the hotel, the haunt of my colleagues. We could be at an accountants’ conference, except that we’re not balancing numbers – we’re totting up the body count. Last night, the Americans bombed Islamic State targets, but today an ISIS suicide bomber claimed even more lives.

Anyway, there she is, Tania. Standing at the bar in a cocktail dress, she’s all legs and ass – a girl on a mission. Tonight’s target is one that I don’t know. A new recruit. They’re all the same – hacks, hero writers, Hemingway hunters, idealists titillated by gore and brave talk, unaware that the cunt they’re talking to is the world’s greatest war hooker. If Carlsberg did war prostitutes.

‘Hey Grumpy.’

‘Hi Tania. Keep it up!’

‘Hey Bud,’ the new hotshot journalist beside her says. ‘Buckby, right? I’m new. A fellow journalist. A Vice man. I’m from Wichita.’

‘Fresh meat from Wichita, cool!’ I say.

But I don’t know if it is cool, as I don’t know where Wichita is. Do I care? His type pray for war to fill the boredom, to fill them up and allow them to hold court at the bar back home. Pontificate. He wears one of those jungle jackets, the ones with the little pockets on it as though he were a cameraman instead. Maybe he is. Who cares. I carry on walking.

We know the score, Tania and I – she has to increase her client base. Times are hard, and her time is running out: she must be in her mid-forties, and it shows. Her crow’s feet aside – which make up can hide – her body easily passes for thirty in the dark, and her ass, I estimate, for eighteen. Sometimes, I wonder where in England Tania is from. I’ll never ask. I’d hate to lower myself by registering any curiosity in her. When we fuck, I wonder if she likes me. A thought flashes through my head: imagine if we were something else. Then, as quickly as the idea comes, it evaporates, and we’re back to now. Tania is a whore. I’m a paying customer. I’m a man of words.

For an extra £20, Tania swallows.

A protein shake, she calls it.

Doing Tania is like doing yourself. She’s truly a nobody. She’s barely conscious, barely in the room (never mind the same bed), as she surrenders. I hate people with no resistance or yearning. You’d get more objection shagging a poodle.

Tania sees it as a duty of sorts, to comfort war journalists. She calls it a vocation. We’re in hostile territory, and companionship is hard to come by. She likes to joke that she’s our home away from home. When I fuck her, I feel dirty afterwards. I have to force a shit and take a long shower to wash the regret away, to rid me of my hunger for a piece of the world, and for giving in to human flesh.

The shame.

The only consolation is continuity. I have one regular sexual partner at home, and another at war. I remember the first time with each. In the beginning, Tania was all loud and raunchy, full of fake rapture, until I told her to shut up. A silent routine then established itself. My wife, by contrast, when I first plugged her, gave a short snort, a contemptuous, affected sneer. I should have spotted the signs early on. Not long after, dreams gave way to practicality and we got married.

The problem with Tania and my wife is that they’re too familiar. Sex with either leaves me as uninhibited as if I’m knocking one out over a statue of the doe-eyed Virgin Mary. The animal instinct is gone. Sex is a domestic chore, no different to washing the dishes. There’s no hunger. No life-or-death vibe. No respect remains. It’s just sex: me and my dangling meat.

Is sex better when you like the person you’re fucking, or is it more enjoyable doing it with someone you hate?

*

When I arrive, I always make a good impression. The clean-shaven always do. I never trust anyone in a suit, and can’t understand why others do. Does doing up your top button give you a higher IQ? I take anyone dressed up at face value: that they are wearing a disguise. Would you trust a clown? Yet here I am, preparing for an interview, protected by a pair of uniformed soldiers.

‘Fetch me a stool so I can gather my thoughts,’ I say to my protectors.

‘Soldier, get Mr Buckby something to sit on, quick time,’ the officer barks to his colleague.

‘Yes, sir,’ the squaddie roars, almost deafening me.

They’re talking one soldier to the other, so why all the shouting? With a click of the heels, the squaddie is off. Now it’s only the officer and me in the disused car park. They aren’t paired to fit, the soldiers. The commanding officer I’m left with is smaller than the squaddie. It’s unnatural, the way the officer walks on his toes to try and look bigger. I try not to laugh, and realise that I take being six-foot for granted.

That the soldiers are stationed in a car park is an arrogant statement. It’s an easy target for a hand-held missile. But the message that the army wants me to understand is that they aren’t afraid, that they have things under control, that we need not hide. Bullshit. Everyone knows the Iraqi army runs from a fly!

It’s chilly. The day is reminiscent of a different war. I have to remind myself where I am: in Iraq and not Kent. If I close my eyes and believe in the cold air then I could be back in England. Alas, no. Nothing has changed since I covered the last Iraqi war.

Wars have become too alike, no different to a hotel franchise. The ground is beat up. Buildings lie in ruins. Then there are the natives: dumbfounded and confused, everything they once knew now rendered useless. War reconfigures life. I look to the sky for a breather, and yawn. The sky is how I tell wars apart. Usually we have clear skies in Iraq, but today a cloud settles overhead, like a cumulonimbus spaceship, casting a grey shadow on life below. A wind stirs, and although it can’t possibly rain, the symptoms of a downpour are there. Yes, it could be England. Home.

The officer tries to break the silence.

‘You think she’ll talk?’

‘She’ll talk.’

A car pulls up, its windows blacked out, and Shada steps out. The car door slams shut and startles her. I wonder who her handler is, who pushed Shada out the door. Her mother, or a counsellor? Actually, she most likely buried her mum. Shada cautiously makes her way towards me. I wonder if she might be survived by someone, if she might allow sex to be about something more than sex. Hardly.

Sex and its offspring will never bring her joy.

Her cautious approach gives me time to judge her. Shada is conscious of her body, all skin and bone. She has on a shabby linen dress that reveals a rack of ribs, and pubescent hip bones. With each forward step, a bony thigh imprints itself on her dress. She uses her arms to try and hide her body. She fails.

Shada stops a few paces from where I sit comfortably on a stool. She’s of school-leaving age – jailbait back home – and clearly hasn’t been properly fed. She’s wary of me. I don’t know how to put her at ease. She doesn’t have a coat, and I can’t ask her if she’d like to remove something to make herself more comfortable.

I recognise her trauma: the shock of rape or murder. I ask the soldiers to leave us alone. One minute they’re standing sentry behind me and the next minute they try acting casual as they pull back, to allow Shada and me a little privacy in the empty parking lot.

Up close, with my genitally centred gaze, I can read the line of Shada’s knickers, funnelling towards her bruised, stretched pubis. Might she ever finger herself in the gulley again? I come to my senses. When did she last wash or change clothes? I would like to ask.

Her legs are bruised, with colours ranging from penis pink to bluish brown. She’s too desensitised to her own beauty to bother covering up her injuries. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was into self-harm. A cutter, perhaps.

I suddenly feel the urge to point, but where? Her body bears too much history. There’s no point asking anything, and that is the only point I take from the entire exercise.

‘They beat me. They leave me on ground, sleeping in blood. I wake up. They bring me in shed and sex me. I do not know how many they are.’

As Shada recounts her horror, she fixes her eyes on me, but both of us lose courage and look away. I feign jotting something down in my notebook. She speaks good English. I presume that, before all of this, Shada led a privileged, preppy sort of life. Perhaps that’s why they chose her for me. Still, I’d like to correct her English and tell her that being knocked senseless is not referred to as ‘sleeping’.

I’m sketching the outline of a dog in my notepad. When I look up, I find that I can’t fix my eyes on her. She’s pitiful. I lower my gaze, letting it settle on her midriff. Shada becomes self-conscious, aware of my prying eyes. I like that. I want to dominate her thoughts and override the memories of her rapists. I feel like a headmaster who summoned a schoolgirl now appealing for mercy.

Note to self: I must role-play this schoolgirl fantasy with Tania. I would give Shada an A+ for her frankness, but an empty parking lot is not the place to give it.

A wave of jealousy washes over me. Who schooled Shada? Who was the author of her bruising? Fuck the cherry-pluckers. I let out a fart, a loud rudey. The Guinness effect. I waft the smell away. Shada doesn’t flinch.

‘Where are you staying? Do you have somewhere to stay?’ I ask.

I don’t jot down the address. I’ll remember it. Our union has only begun. Sex and paranoia is my favourite cocktail. I feel hungry just watching her. I make my excuses, and return to the hotel for a feed before writing a heartfelt dispatch. It’s odd, the way my hunger grows. Lambs in spring and thin girls make me ravenous.

After lunch, I write a draft article and then take a nap. My hotel room is like a bachelor pad. The sheets haven’t been changed in weeks and, without room service, there’s nobody to tidy the mess. I roll over in bed so as not to see the empty whiskey bottles and soiled clothes that litter the floor. Shada is back on my mind. She must always be wary of being followed. She’ll always carry that wounded twitch, that of a startled rabbit, not trusting anyone. Being gang-raped would do that to you, evermore fearing a re-enactment.

I rehearse what I’ll say in my head. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter how it spills out, as Hakim is odd. Hakim is a Shiite, who thinks little of killing a Kurd or Sunni. In fact, by killing them he thinks he’s doing his people a service – obliterating the neighbours. The infidels.

‘Hakim, no killing, OK? You must promise,’ I insist.

‘What is in it for you?’

‘I have my own reasons.’

‘Buckby sir, you might put me in the picture.’

‘Setting you up? Hakim, come on! Look, you can check the pictures afterwards and confirm that I haven’t included any shots of your head.’

‘The money?’

I give him $500. He counts it, aloud, in Arabic. A taxi drops us off short of the derelict building, in a Baghdad suburb. The lack of streetlights leaves us cloaked in a silvery darkness beneath a clear moon.

First, we secure the building. Hakim switches to high alert, looking for signs of a booby trap. I’m breathless trying to keep up as he dances around the scrub until we complete a lap of the building. Scouting protocol. I’m relieved to see a flicker of light inside. The excitement grows in me, making the hairs on my neck tingle, horrified that my intentions might come to pass.

Homework done, we move like lightening to execute the plan. Hakim fears that she might be armed, so stealth and surprise are vital. He kicks in the door and rushes at Shada. I follow behind. I don’t think she registers me, such is her horror at Hakim bearing down on her. It’s then that I realise Hakim is only her height, and might not have the strength to overpower her.

‘Shut door,’ Hakim barks, his hand already gripping Shada’s throat.

Did I read a smirk on Shada’s face, as though she knew I’d come? It angers me, and I’m glad that Hakim will leave an indelible imprint on her and give me the last laugh. From her, there will be no rebirth, no urge to spawn and multiply, no infinite generations.

Shada irrigates her dress. I don’t fail to notice the pee trickling down her leg. She has to urinate the unfolding madness before it’s stuffed back in. She jackknifes her abdomen to prevent Hakim reaching her core. Against the run of play, Shada strikes him in the chest. Before replying, Hakim fixes her with a look, and releases a tight smile. Then he punches her in the face. That’s how it’s done.

Her face explodes in blood. She takes one in the stomach. Now she’s winded. Her rasping is startling – she’s fighting for air, fighting for life. My heart beats faster. Although Shada must think she’s going to die, she still resists. Her instinct for survival hasn’t dimmed. So sensuous.

I’m in physical confrontation with myself, my penis erect in my pants. I don’t know what to do with my fly, as my throbbing cock fights to be released. I resist touching her, but I wonder if I should touch myself?

With all fight lost, Shada finally registers me. I think she’s concussed, as I filter in and out of her sight line. Now she’ll disrobe. Hakim rips off her clothes, working himself up to the task. He’s stroking his cock in between giving her the odd punch in the face. A hint of resistance returns, ‘No, don’t. Please. No.’ All said in English. For my benefit? Then, having made it difficult for herself before, her gut tightens, an inward knot. Acceptance, then submission. Entry.

On the drive back to my hotel, I view the rape through my Canon. It’s a mix of still shots and video. Shada fell in and out of consciousness as Hakim straddled her across the kitchen table and pummelled her. An elegant indecency ensued, Hakim frigging her and wanting objection, but getting harmony as they rode as a single wave. And all the while, Shada stared at me.

I turn off the camera, disappointed. There wasn’t enough injury.

‘Hakim, you know the man with the head?’ I say

‘What man?’ he asks.

‘The head without the body. The dead man.’

‘Yes, Buckby sir, I remember.’

‘What if he converted to Islam? I mean, if he did, despite him being an American, then who are they to cut off his head?’

No answer is forthcoming. Hakim just gives me a stupid look.

‘Hakim, in the beheadng video, they have an obligation to include a bit where they ask the guy if he will convert, as the concept of ritual murder is that you only kill non-believers.’

Back at the hotel, I’m too exhausted to go downstairs to the bar, when upstairs there is whiskey. I slam back a few neat ones, staring at myself in the mirror. I check for new wrinkles, then lie on the bed in my filthy clothes. Aging fucks me off. I shift my thoughts. Two rapes are hardly more startling than one. Raped once or twice, what’s the difference? The therapy is the same. She’ll get over it. Or not. Anyway, nobody cares.

Stuff permission.

And then I’m snoring.

In the morning, I look at the photos. Some of them are quite artistic, like the one where I caught Shada en flagrante, dreamily peering at the camera as Hakim impaled her. Over coffee, I read my article in the newspaper online. It describes Shada’s initial gang rape. After last night’s high jinks, I can better visualise the crime scene. My article becomes more vivid. It’s like extrasensory perception. I see the flaws and corrections needed to make my descriptions more real.

Alas, I’m only human.

Trying to write better.

So readers can feel more.

More impunity.

I log off and settle back to reflect on my work. I look at my crotch and spot some dried semen on my jeans. It makes sense; my cock is a never-ending fountain of cream. I’m all wanked out and feeling relaxed.

In between examining the bottle of whiskey, trying to calculate how much is left, profound questions flood my mind. Does promiscuity justify rape? It matters not. Nobody cares. It’s too late to doctor my article, expunge some words or fix others. Shada’s story will be reduced to chip-wrapper within hours.

*

During Ramadan it’s safe to cycle. Murdering husbands are busy with their wives and children, and everyone is eager to attend mosque. On a practical level, fasting from dawn to dusk means that the local psychos hardly have the energy to go on a murdering rampage.

Ramadan is the only month that I risk cycling from one hotel to the next. It helps clear the stench from my clothes. I never stop, unless I have a clear sight of all that lies ahead and behind. During these dashes, I feel alive, like a runner during the great wars of old, my daring granting me legendary status among fellow journalists. The mere act of cycling leaves some colleagues calling me a reckless lunatic. I know that they must secretly envy my gumption.

His white skin is safety, so I roll to a stop. His greeting is an apology, as though he has something to confess. He does.

‘I couldn’t be so open about it before,’ he says.

‘About what?’

‘Being a priest,’ he replies, tapping the collar at his neck. ‘Mea culpa,’ he continues, his hands raised high as though I’m holding him at gunpoint.

‘Oh, I see.’

‘A Catholic, yes. I’m Father Cuthbert,’ he continues, as he notices my indifference to his confession.

‘Oh yeah, right. Tolerance! Things are changing for the better.’

I use that line with everyone: murderers, rapists, the raped, soldiers, victims.

Things are changing for the better!

‘Are you the journalist, Buckleby? I spotted your Anglo skin, your large stature, your bulk.’

‘Buckby. Alan Buckby.’

I’m irritated by how he tinkers with my name. I’m not gone on priests, anyway. I mean, is Father Cuthbert really celibate and on the path to sainthood via martyrdom, or is he just another nonce? And why are priests overfed, if they stand up for the poor and hungry? I look at his overflowing girth and think: where’s the solidarity?

‘Oh yes, right you are. Yes, it’s Buckby you are. London is it?’

Then, before waiting for a reply: ‘Did you know that I was posted in Somerset before volunteering for missionary work here?’

‘No, I didn’t know that Father.’

I don’t know what, if anything, I want to get from him – from our conversation – and so I become curious about the building that he emerged from. It’s an innocuous looking, semi-detached, two-storey. Father Cuthbert observes my interest with pride.

‘Nice and discreet don’t you think?’

‘Your house? Yes.’

We face each other once again. Black trousers and white shirt. If he didn’t have a pot belly, he could have been a waiter. I feel that our conversation is a jigsaw puzzle, a puzzle that I don’t have a complete picture of. Father Cuthbert breaks the spell that led to our chance encounter, giving direction to our conversation.

‘Are you not a little curious?’ he asks.

I smirk. He’s like a puppy waiting to be patted. Because it’s a cool, overcast morning, I decide to indulge him.

‘Yes, sorry, you caught me off guard. I’m curious. What is this place?’ I ask.

‘It’s the Lord’s house. Are you a Catholic?’

‘Catholic? Me? Yes, yes, of course,’ I reply, affronted. Then I correct my exaggeration.

‘Well, I’m partly Catholic – an Irish dad.’

‘I don’t think that I have seen you at mass. I hope the fear hasn’t turned you away.’

‘It is a bit frightening, Father. You must be frightened yourself.’

I say it instinctively, fishing for a story though I don’t bother taking out my notebook.

‘The Lord protects me.’

‘Ah, the mysterious-ways malarkey.’

‘I feel invincible!’

Father Cuthbert shouts this out in a gay theatrical laugh that leaves me frantically looking around in embarrassment.

‘Won’t you come in?’ he asks.

‘Oh, no. I just happen to be passing.’

‘Allow me to hear your confession.’

‘What confession? I have nothing to confess.’

‘My son, even Jesus had sins. Even Jesus confessed.’

‘I must be off.’

But I don’t leave, as I catch myself wondering what Jesus’s sins were. Maybe Jesus visited a brothel, or maybe he didn’t really fast for forty days and forty nights.

‘Five minutes to cleanse you soul. And it’s free. I cannot think of a better offer.’

As Father Cuthbert speaks, he’s already guiding me off of my bicycle, and resting it against the wall. He has collared his first soul of the day.

He leads me inside and, with a gesture, motions for me to look around and take it all in, as he departs through a side door, saying that he’ll be in the confession box in a jiffy. It’s a homespun church: six rows of seating, the Stations of the Cross on the wall and a table serving as an altar. I sit on a pew. The place instils calm. There are no stations if you carry no cross. I fall into a trance and don’t notice time passing, until the tingle of a bell summons me to a confession box fitted against the wall like a lean-to.

I stand up, genuflect to the altar and make towards the confession box. Once inside there’s only a cushioned step. I dutifully obey and kneel. On cue, a curtain draws back, leaving us separated by a mesh grill. I’m reminded of jail. I face Father Cuthbert, who sits side-on, and sports a white sash around his neck. I feel as if I’m in a pawnshop, unsure of whether I can afford the price of a clean soul.

‘In the name of the Father …’ he begins.

On auto-cue, I join in, mumbling the few odd words that I recall from childhood, and hoping that effort and fake emotion might lead to conviction. Religious-education teachers at school used say, ‘Fake it till you make it’. We come to a silence, one that I’m happy to keep. Father Cuthbert prompts me with a cough. No reaction. More nudging follows.

‘Feel free to confess. What you say is between you and the Lord. I am only a conduit to God.’

‘Well, I told my wife that I would be home sooner than I knew I would be.’

I’m finding my feet, uncertain of which category of sin to open with.

‘Good. Very good. Keep going,’ Father Cuthbert encourages.

‘I told my wife I’d do things I didn’t do.’

‘Yes, yes. Like what?’

Although the light is scarce, I can see him nodding his head coaxingly.

‘I said I’d visit my father.’

‘And you didn’t?’

‘Not yet.’

‘One of the Ten Commandments is to respect your mother and father.’

‘But my father is long dead,’ I say.

Father Cuthbert gives me a curious look. I explain.

‘She wants me to visit his grave. Surely, it’s my wife that I let down, and not my father.’

He chooses to ignore my correction. But the thing is, none of it is actually true – my dad is dead to me, but not to the world at large. My confession is a lie.

‘Is there anything else, any other wrongdoing?’ he asks.

‘I’m not proud of it, but I piss in the washbasin.’

He remained there, head bowed, perhaps not clocking the last sin. Feeling bad for him that I haven’t got anything worthwhile to confess, I tell another lie.

‘Father, I don’t count all my drinks at the hotel so that I can keep my per diems. I also steal bottles of whiskey, sometimes.’

‘Yes, I see. Anything else?’

‘Nope, I think that’s about all of it. Sorry.’

I leave the confession box with a reasonable deal: one Our Father and three Hail Marys. But when I look at my watch, I see how much time I’ve lost. Penance must wait another day. I hurriedly leave the homemade church before Father Cuthbert comes out of the confession box.

As I cycle down the road, I wonder if it’s worthwhile doing an article on the priest’s war of faith. I decide that I’ll wait and see if he squeals on my little alcohol theft at the hotel.

When I get home I jack off over the photos of Shada’s rape. I feel used by her afterwards – by how she exposes my sexuality. I’m ashamed of my libido. Is that a sin I ought to have confessed? I feel a touch confused. I go for a lie-down and a stupefied euphoria floats me off into a deep sleep, as I think of the versatility of a recurring word: daft.

When I wake up, the word is still on my mind. I reach a hand under the bed and take out my notebook. I read my thoughts:

NOTEBOOK

A recipe: how to prepare a human.

First, poke two fingers under the chin bone. Get a firm grip. Then start hacking. The head will hit the ground with a thud, blood oozing from the neck. For a few seconds, his eyes will seem alive, bulging, pleading. Alas, no. Time is up. Decapitation is fatal. The killers hug one another, as if they have won a football match. They made a meal of it, taking two minutes to decapitate him.

Allahu Akbar.

A heretic being sentenced to death is not uniquely Muslim; Catholics also dabbled in beheadings. See: the Pope, 1870. Faith, huh? They say it is painful to have your head sawn off. But how do ‘they’ know that one way of dying hurts more than another? ‘They’ also said that a guillotined head was held up to the crowd so the eyes could look around for ten seconds. Curious.

On YouTube there is a video about salivation. Some Pavlov dog thing. A decapitated dog’s head is hooked up to a machine. Tubes pump blood into it to regulate body functions. The trick is to have the bodiless pet think that everything is OK. Scientists check the menace-reflex, forcing the eyes to blink, and, sure enough, it works; the canine is alive. Maybe bodiless animals are pets of the future. They do not piss or shit, or have to be walked. All said, the head houses our face, and that is where the personality lies. I cannot sort it all out.

The results of my research:

1. If a head can be a pet, if conjoined twins born with one body and two heads are considered two people, then a head – just a simple head – can be a person.

2. Therefore, a head is not half.

3. A head is a whole.

There were three of us in that kitchen. It confuses.

Doctor calls it Gulf War syndrome.

*

Ah, the life in my notebooks, the ambiguity of being me. I must get away from the present. Far away. At least, that’s the feeling I have. Self revulsion. I fling the notebook across the room and force myself to think of more innocent times. For distraction.

Over half a lifetime ago, I was in Paris – the post-university me. There was a madame who only played a cameo role in my life, but maybe it’ll help. To walk you into a sense of this unwholesomeness early on.

At the time, a stranger said something that caught my imagination:

If you cannot engage in weird fetishes with a stranger then you never will.

Eager to put this free-spirited theory to the test, I rented a woman for the night – Madame Celine.

Though corpulent and with hammy thighs, it was only Celine’s bad breath that turned me off. She was hungry. I fed her to make her eager for the task. Then we visited a costume-hire store, where Celine was dressed up as a circus host, complete with frilly mini-skirt to make her coquettish.

Onwards we proceeded to My Boy, a gay and fetish nightclub, down by the river Seine. The more outlandish the attire the better, as My Boy was like a ghost train, where weirdoes could cruise and display their wares. Black rubber, piercings, chains and body art were all de rigueur.

I had on a pair of black plastic trousers and a matching leather jacket, under which I wore a black string vest. A touch of gel stretched my cowlick half a foot into the air. For the record: I’m not into fags; we just went there as foreplay. Celine was my crutch to force me on in case I wilted. After all, she was my ultimate target. My Boy only provided the impetus, with its moral-curdling depravity to whet the senses; all that prodding, pummelling and possession, all the giving and taking, fucking and sucking.

Afterwards, we went to a pay-by-the-hour hotel. Celine sniffed poppers while I jumped out of my trousers. I wouldn’t let her touch it. First I had her fix herself up, and wash herself out. Without guilt, I watched, and noticed that my staring made her nervous. Never mind, I thought. She’s on the clock, and I’m paying. Celine squatted over the bidet that was curiously, yet aptly, positioned at the head of the bed. She lavished two squirts of water on herself, before thrusting a hand between her legs. Not finding a towel, she untucked one end of the bed-sheet, and patted her downy twat.

My lack of respect worked wonders, as my confidence grew beneath my Y-fronts.

‘Why don’t you take it off?’ Celine asked, noticing the bulge.

‘Why don’t you?’ I said.

Madame Celine approached with an outstretched hand, eager to fish it out. But I kicked her backwards onto the bed, then stepped out of my jocks.

Looking for occupation, Celine rolled over on the bed and began sucking a dildo, all the while rhythmically thrusting her hips at me as though I were already inside her. I whipped the dildo away from her, and, laying her face down, lowered it into her pussy. She ground her way into it and, once it sat comfortably, recommenced gyrating. Up and down. In and out.

I greased up my cock and raised Celine’s hips, lifting her onto all fours. I drove it into the auxiliary tank. My cock slid in easily; her hole was wet. I maintained a slow steady rhythm, cock and dildo working hand in hand, each to its own porthole, splitting her down the middle like a log, spit-roasting her.

I turned to look at our reflection in a full-length mirror on the wardrobe. I, firm and thin, she, flaccid and doughy. I was consumed by the symmetry of penis and dildo, as together we retracted and re-entered her fortress. The play of lines, the angles, rectilinear, the construction was like a forceps, or, better, chopsticks – reaching in, grabbing, plucking at her soul. In to the root, up to the hilt.

It was research. Yet still, even back then, I knew that I was becoming unrecognisable.

I was searching for something.

Uranus?

*

Still lying in my hovel in Baghdad, these memories made me nostalgic. It’s something that I despise in others: nostalgia. Yet, there I was, in unwashed boxers and string vest, lying in a filthy hotel bed, its originally white sheets a dirty cream colour, daydreaming so that I could have a good wank. It’s endless, the way these women linger.

Lilli, the second girl on my mind, was different from Madame Celine, who had me in my prime, three decades ago. Now, it’s a different fate I suffer: middle-aged, and with a growing girth. By fifty, my life has already become less attractive. I was always given to hunting a younger sort, a feline type, flushed with the diamond of youth, unaware of her cut. Her carat’s worth.

So.

My wife Kay and I had a timeshare. Every summer, we spent three weeks in Marbella with the kids. One particular evening, Kay and I, together with friends, were collared into attending a tuxedoed barbeque at the golf club in which I occasionally played.

Suddenly, inertia: I’m captured alive, swallowed up by a group of people who are all desperately trying to matter. Their voices are all the same, yet they think that they’re unique, and that the world is in them. This is odd. Nothing of note ever happens in their lives.

Opinions, opinions: where will it get them? Nowhere. Precisely. Yet, despite this, voices flood the air, everyone married to their job, or to people at work. People just fill the space. The ennui. Where is their sense of what matters? Their sense of outrage?

They’re all property precious; their possessions express who they are. They’re not free. Or don’t appreciate their freedom. I have to get drunk fast.