The Menu Of Life ( Short Story)

The first attack happened just after dawn. The hospital’s main entrance was directly under my window; I grabbed my rucksack and ran.

The scene opened up before me, If Hell truly was on earth I was lurking somewhere at its perimeter. A spectator, rubbernecking a motorway pile up. Sirens blaring, women and children screaming, men choking back tears, chanting. The smell of sulphur mixed with the smell of death. I pulled the camera from the bag. One of the ambulance doors flew open. I could see the chaos inside. A medic desperately working on a bloody bundle, pushing, grabbing, throwing black bandages onto the ever growing pile that already covered the vehicle's floor. He lifted the pathetic package into his arms and jumped out. There was no life, you can tell when there is no life, after a while you sense it.

The paramedic held the rag covered corpse above his head and screamed.

 `Is this their freedom, is this their democracy?` 

`Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar.`

 The crowd joined him in unity.
 

A man, a terrified tearstained man grabbed the bundle. As he fell to his knees the bloody swaddling band flapped open to reveal the face. A child, no more than a year old, male or female I could not tell.  A gaping hole where the eye had been, the cheek hanging down, suspended only by a minute piece of sinew. The hair, O Christ I could smell the hair, the burning smell, that awful rancid burning smell.

Fumbling I opened the lens, click- click- click, captured forever in a few seconds, a few fucking seconds, the same time it took to rob this child of life. Life was of no use to me, the happy gurgling life, the obscure short existence this child had was not of any relevance. Channel Four could not use a shot of a playing baby, sucking its chubby finger.

`South Central under attack.`

 I foresaw the headline but the still that accompanied it would not require life, only death, this particular death, the death of this child.

The hotel room seemed cooler than before; the laptop was purring on the bed, content in it's mechanical universe. The USB connection lead belonging to the Pentax was still attached to it. I plugged the camera in. The usual preference.

`Open folder to view files.`

 I clicked. One by one they appeared, like Tarot cards being dealt out by a fairground gypsy, only difference was there was no hanged man, no fool, only death, death with a capital D. The crowd, the ambulance, the medic, all a relevant part of the encompassing final shot. A collage of death. 

It appeared slower than the rest. The cheek, the empty socket, the hair, the smell returned, that god awful fucking smell.  I attached them into an email.

Send. They were gone, embarking on an electronic journey. The only journey the child had probably ever undertaken.

I showered, wrote a few words, then lay on the bed. Outside the world had gone quiet. An evening’s silence for the death of the child?

The flag ceremony had taken place back in the spring. An optimistic occasion, an occasion full of hope. The British foreign secretary had made the mandatory speech.

`It’s time to give them back their independence, their freedom and their liberty.`

 The world’s media had reported it as.

`The day Democracy returned.`

What democracy, did the child enjoy democracy? Was it democratic to blow its tiny body apart? I wept, not for the child but for myself. My thoughts returned to London to Susan and the kids. She hated my job, no not the job but the places the job took me. I thought of her crying in the airport. The kids, my kids squeezing her hand. I thought back to when I first met her, that beautiful autumn morning on Primrose Hill. I thought about her aroma, our first kiss, the wedding, the lovemaking.  I wept not for the child but for myself. I thought of the day my eldest son was born, his tiny features, his beautiful skin; of his first birthday, the cake, the party, my parents fussing. Snapshots of happiness tucked away safely in the family album of the mind.  Photographs are right up there on the list of things to grab if your house caught fire. Fire yes fire, the fire of life was quenched in the child. The man, the tearstained terrified man, the child’s father, his fire was extinguished. Did he have a snapshot? I doubt it. Or if he did it would be the one which adorned tomorrow’s breakfast tables. No matter how hard he tried to delete that image, that terrible picture would be imbedded into his brain like the Hiroshima shadows, a permanent reminder of the horror.

My son, 15 years old next week, 15 years, 15 years of memories. 15 years sitting in the restaurant of human experience and still only half way through his starter. A delicious succulent starter which he devours avariciously. Me, I was on my main course, a delightful heart-warming blend of memories, expectations, hopes and fears. I thought back to the child, the black bloody image of the child. I thought of his father and how he would have been sharing in my main. His expectations, hopes and fears all ruthlessly snatched away by the waiter. The waiter of insanity, the waiter of death, the waiter of cruelty. I thought of the child and I wept, providence had avoided the child. 

The child would never sit at the table and enjoy the menu of life.