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Chapter One

Home

  It’s dark by the time the bus stops and the American soldiers swagger aboard, looking massive under the weight of their body armour and equipment. People look away, as if suddenly taken by something outside the window or engrossed in their books.

Slowly they move down the bus as they do every night, checking the permits of everyone aboard, making sure they have permission to be breaking curfew.

  I pull mine from my pocket, a small square of yellow laminated paper that becomes more tattered with everyday that passes. I find myself wondering how such a small thing has so much power, about how our lives became ruled by the pieces of paper we carry around.

  “Where have you been?” they demand of each passenger in turn, “Why do you need to break curfew?”

  I answered their questions and avoid eye contact as they regard me with suspicion. I’ve done this almost everyday for the past six months since the curfew was out in place, and it’s always the same thing: suspicion, intimidation.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home,” I tell them. I’m never normally so flippant. I guess I just don’t care anymore.

  “Don’t get smart,” he snaps back at me, “where exactly.”

  I tell him and he raises an eyebrow. His colleague pulls his shotgun a little closer to himself and watches me intently. I’ve seen first hand what those shotguns can do to a person at this range, and I have no desire to experience it myself.

  “That’s outside the green zone. In fact, that’s a red zone.” He states with obvious distrust.

  I explain that I need to take the bus into the green zone and then walk out through the town to my home. He regards my curfew pass again - more carefully this time – and demands top see my identity papers.

  These ones are just white, with a crappy photo and information all protected by curling laminate. He regards them for a long time before he is satisfied.

  “Fine,” he says eventually, before handing the papers back to me and moving on, “have a safe walk home.”

  This treatment doesn’t faze me. It happens every night, and so far I’ve been arrested and detained seven times. Rumour has it that the Americans have a list of people they suspect to be trouble, and people they suspect might be trouble.

  Who’s to say? Depending on the criteria I might well be on it.

  The bus stops and everyone clambers out into the cold, the half dozen or so Americans following us out, checking the bus for explosive devises. Anybody careless enough to leave their bag would be in for a rough time.

  The town centre is deserted, and even after a year of occupation I still find this strange. It used to bustle with noise and activity late into the night, especially at the weekend. Now it’s cold and silent.

  It takes me ten minutes to reach the edge of the green zone, and I’m going through the same routine: Who are you? Where have you been? Where are you going?

These soldiers don’t seem so thorough. I guess it must be nearly shift change time.

  I’m barely two minutes through the checkpoint when I hear the first of the shots; the distant, heavy sound of gunfire as someone takes a shot at the Americans, followed by the slighter higher pitched return fire. This goes on for barely five seconds before being joined by the deep bass of a .50cal machine gun.

  And finally silence again.

  Nobody comes to the window to see what’s going on. Too many people have caught a stray bullet for anyone to be that stupid. I simply put my head down and head for home. I don’t even look up when I hear the faint crump of a grenade going off barely three streets away.

  Ten minutes later I’m into the red zone and almost home. There are people on the streets here; skulking in shadows or sleeping on the street. It’s been a month since an American patrol came this way during the day, and the night patrols didn’t even get out of their armoured troop carriers.

  I let myself into the building and climb the stairs to my flat. The front door had to be replaced the first time I was lifted and there where still gouges in the frame where the door had been breached.

  I click the kettle on and fall into the same routine as every other night. I pull the milk out of the fridge, it’s about the only thing that’s in there now anyway. I barely eat now. I pull the cigarettes out of my pocket and light one up. I’ll probably go though about twenty before I finally fall asleep.

  The bed creaks as I sit down and stare at the wall. I try not to think about what used to go on in this room, between her and I. We would talk and plan and laugh.

  And now I’m crying again. The gunships thunder overhead again and there is another explosion a little way off. I manage to get a hold of myself as sirens scream past outside. Another booby trap left for the Americans no doubt.

  It takes a while but I finally manage to clear my thoughts. My mind is empty again, and I feel nothing. To distract myself I switch the television on and flick through the channels until I find the news just starting. It’s all propaganda, but it’ll do.

  “Good evening, and welcome to the BBC news at ten…”