Us and Them

Us and Them

By Louise Broadbent

         Clive’s brown eyes flickered to the clock on the dashboard: 8:54. Six minutes until he was officially late. He strained his body to the right, keeping his feet on the appropriate pedals, and thrusted his neck forward to allow him to see no movement in the queue of cars lined-up before him. He hunched back in the seat. Clive heard a drumming, and noticed that his finger was tapping the steering wheel. He stopped it.

         The air felt dirty, too hot, even though he‘d turned the heating off. Clive opened a window; the cold air invaded the car and infiltrated his skin. Clive shut the window. His eyes jumped to the clock: 8:56. He turned the radio on, but switched it off when he heard the newsreader’s voice. Cars sighed by on the other side of the road. Clive turned to watch them, and thought he glimpsed a homeless guy huddled in an alleyway, or was it just a discarded coat? No, that was a blanket, a filthy, grey blanket. Two large, dark, eyes set in a brown face were just visible above the blanket. Clive remembered when the city had been packed with homeless people, but this was the first he’d seen in months, maybe even a year. Clive shuddered, then turned his attention to the traffic.

         Could that be? Yes! Movement. Clive found the biting point and sat, poised, while the motion dominoed its way to him. He urged the car forward in first, his hand on the gear-stick, hoping to change to second. The car in front screeched like a harpy, its brake lights glaring red at Clive. Clive applied his own brakes and stopped. He could now discern his office block. His eyes darted to the clock: 8:58. Clive turned away from it to look outside the window. The alleyway was out of sight. His thoughts wandered to the Jumas, his ex-neighbours. He hoped they’d chosen a better hiding place. The car behind him appeared to be too close in the wing-mirror. He checked the rear-view, it was too close. Clive tutted and resumed wheel-tapping.

         If he abandoned the car and walked he might make it in time. But he couldn’t do that. He might have been able to last year; the vehicle-recovery-men had been efficient and probably didn’t discriminate, but they‘d towed away all the confiscated vehicles long ago. His eyes returned to the clock: 9:01. Clive sighed, he was now officially late.

*          *          *

         Clive struggled into the office to be bombarded with the din of typing, ringing phones and polite salesmanship. 

         ‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ he said to no one in particular. Clive’s newly graduated boss emerged from his office, his hand caressing an imagined beard as he searched the document he was holding.

         ‘It’s fine,’ Clive’s boss looked up, ‘Clive. Don’t worry about it, it’s fine. I wouldn’t sack you for that.’ Clive’s boss made a sound pretending to be a laugh and stroked his sleek, dark hair. He sidled backwards into his office. Clive’s eyes hovered upon the one remaining empty seat, before scanning the rest of his colleagues, most of them new: replacements. Clive took a long breath, noting that the smell of musty disinfectant hadn’t changed. He walked passed the identical desks, able to see them all now that the flimsy screens had been removed. He slumped into his swivel chair, and placed a hand on his desk. Clive pushed his computer’s power button, listened to it whirring into life, and reached for the uppermost document in his ‘In’ tray.

         Clive’s eyes sought the view from his window. He studied the cityscape, the skyscrapers on the left and that ship shaped building made from green glass on the right that, despite working and living in London for several years, he still had no idea about. Clive shrugged, then shifted in his seat. Something about the skyline seemed wrong, something about the whole view. It seemed darker despite the sunshine, but that wasn’t it. He turned back to his computer and began to type up the data on the document he’d already selected.

*          *          *

         Clive paused in his data entry over a foreign name. There seemed to be a lot more lately, or perhaps Clive was just getting slower. He would never get promoted if that was the case. As Clive typed up the rest of the document he was working from, he wondered why City Link would have become more diverse in its customers. Perhaps Clive was imagining things, but the names did look like they originated from the Middle-East. There was no way such people would be City Link customers. Maybe he was wrong in thinking they were Middle-Eastern names. Maybe the names seemed foreign because City Link was making the effort to be multi-cultural, possibly out of buried guilt.

         ‘Everything alright?’ Clive looked up to see Dan, one of the replacements, standing by his desk.

         ‘Fine,’ Clive replied, how could everything not be alright about data entry? And why did Dan care?

         ‘It’s just that you’d stopped,’ said Dan.

         ‘Oh.’ Clive was not sure if he needed to give Dan an excuse. ‘Well, my wrist aches if I don’t rest it for a minute every now and then. I’m less efficient with an aching wrist. I’m actually saving time.’ Clive was proud of his excuse, with its hint of sarcasm, but still had no idea why he had to address one to Dan.

         ‘Ah, I see. Good. You want to be as efficient as you can be. This work is so important,’ Dan said. Clive couldn’t work out if he was being sarcastic or not. He seemed sincere, but what was so important about City Link?

         ‘Yeah,’ Clive said, deciding it was best to mutter his agreement.

         ‘Speaking of, we’d better get back to work. See you, er…’

         ‘Clive.’

         ‘Yes, I knew that. See you, Clive.’ Dan marched back to his own desk, which was by the door and next to the gangway, facing the other desks. Clive’s forehead gathered as he thought about Dan’s zealous nature, then pulled his eyebrows up as he contemplated his use of the word ‘zealous’ in thought. Clive had to feel proud about something, and unlike Dan, he couldn’t about data entry for City Link. But then Dan probably did something much more vital, like data organisation, or perhaps even customer support.

*          *          *

         As Clive entered the canteen, the smell of mince, cheese and gravy, combined with the warm air smothered him. Long tables stood in rows. There were two TVs in opposite top corners. The news was audible over the murmur of conversation and scraping chairs. Clive joined the queue for food. He touched his thin hair, running his fingers over his receding hairline. The queue edged forward, Clive moving with it. He leaned out of the queue, without stepping away from it, to try to see what the food was. It smelled like bolognaise, or some sort of pie.

         'Phew! Talk about a narrow escape,' Dan said, as though he were speaking to the whole room. He was sitting at a table a few rows in from the queue, with a small group of friends sat around him. Clive’s eyes hopped to the news, then back to Dan. 'They will not stop trying to bomb us,' said Dan. One of his friends muttered his agreement, his back to Clive.

         'They just don't get that we will always catch them, arrest them, and deal with them, well, appropriately,' Dan said.

         'Appropriately?' asked a girl with long brown hair, her voiced singed with anger. Clive thought that it could be the new girl, Kathy, or perhaps Sarah.

         'Yes,' Dan said, his eyes locked with the brunette’s.

         'This week has dragged by, I thought it would never end,' said Sandra, a blonde sitting opposite the guy who had spoken before. Dan turned his attention back to the news.

         'Aha! You see? You see that? We'll beat those vermin. We're the good guys and they're the bad guys. God is on our side.'

         'You believe in God?' Sandra asked.

         'Well, yes, I suppose so.'

         'You suppose so?' the brunette asked.

         Dan paused before saying, 'Clive, you know Clive? Quiet guy, does data entry, you know what I mean,' Dan began.

         'You mean the one who’s still on data entry, even though he's nearing 50 or something?' Sandra asked.

         'Is he?' asked the brunette.

         'Well, he's got a receding hairline,' Sandra said.

         'Anyway, he’s thought of a way to increase efficiency, by resting his wrist every now and then, simple really,' Dan said.

         'Yes, simple. So...' the brunette began. Clive turned to study the grey, brick wall, ignoring the rest of their conversation. His head felt hot. His hands trembled. He hid them in his pockets. Looking up, Clive saw that he was near the front of the queue. He had been right, it was bolognaise.

*          *          *

         Clive switched off his computer, its last words a pathetic whine, and pulled on his oversized, navy jacket. Clive didn’t care that his coat swamped his slim frame, it kept him warm. He walked towards the door, increasing his pace as he avoided Dan’s attempt at eye-contact.

         'Hey, er, Clive!' There was a note of triumph as Dan remembered his colleague’s name. Clive had just pushed the door open, ready to escape. He held it and turned to face Dan.

         'Yes, Dan?'

         'Some of us are going to the pub for a drink, I thought you'd like to join.'

         'Me?' Clive asked.

         Yes, Clive, you,' Dan said. Clive waited for Dan to go through the door while he tried to think of an excuse, but Clive lacked practise at this situation.

         ‘Well, I’ve got to get home, really,’ Clive began.

         ‘What for?’

         ‘My wife?’ Clive felt uncomfortable using Mary as an excuse.

         ‘I didn’t know you were married. Besides, she’d let you out for one drink wouldn’t she? What is she, a tyrant?’ Dan asked.

         ‘Well, no, but…’ Clive and Dan had reached the revolving door to the outside. Dan went in a compartment before Clive. When Clive joined him, Dan was buying a poppy for Rememberance Day.

         'Thank you, sir,' the man selling the poppies said.

         'Well it’s for a very good cause,' Dan said. Clive wasn’t so sure. It had been once, but now that Britica was at war with 'terror', as the media put it, Clive didn't want to think about what the money was for. He sensed that Dan was watching him. Squirming inside, Clive donated some money as well, and pinned the poppy onto his jacket. 'A very good cause,' Dan repeated. Clive looked away. 'So, Clive,' Dan began, making Clive turn back, 'how about it?' Clive sighed again, and nodded. Dan flashed his teeth at Clive, and began striding down the street, Clive followed just behind, trudging through the muddy leaves.

*          *          *

         The scent of musty beer enclosed Clive as he followed Dan into the murky pub. A fire burned on the left, an urn-like pot on the mantelpiece above it. Dan marched to his colleagues, who were standing beneath the TV, by the bar. Clive ignored the TV, focusing his attention on Dan’s friends: Kathy, who Clive was sure was the girl he’d seen in the canteen; Sandra, and Alan, who looked like Father Christmas in a suit, and had worked at City Link for longer than Clive.

         ‘Alright, Clive?’ Alan asked.

         ‘Yeah, you?’ asked Clive, as he joined the group.

         ‘Can’t complain.’

         ‘Sh!’ Dan said, indicating the ‘breaking-news’ now being shown on the TV.

         ‘Several Muslims are being held by police on suspicion of the attempted terrorist attack that was terminated earlier today. Police say that they found a great deal of suggestive evidence, including a copy of the Qu’ran, and a so titled “Poem of Protest“.’

         ‘So, Dan, how’s your wife doing? Didn’t you say she started a new job today?’ Kathy asked.

         ‘What?’ Dan’s gaze remained on the news.

         ‘Your wife, does she like her new job?’

         ‘I guess,’ Dan said.

         ‘You guess?’ Kathy asked.

         ‘Mmm,’ Dan said.

         Kathy paused; her forehead gathered, a finger resting on her lower lip. She watched Dan’s face before asking, ‘Good news about the police catching those terrorists, isn’t it?’

         ‘Good news? It’s great news! Not that it’s not expected, of course, the police do a great job,’ Dan began.

         ‘What’s this?’ asked Sandra.          

         ‘It just pisses me off that these Muslims still think they can bomb us,’ Dan continued.

         ‘Hmm.’ Kathy’s lips pushed together as she frowned.

         ‘But then, the police do do a fantastic job. Just like our army, fighting for the good of Britica all over the Middle-East. Did you hear how many we got today?’

         ‘By “got” you mean killed?’ Clive asked, the words made his mouth dry. Why had he got involved? Dan nodded, to Clive’s relief.

         ‘Yes, but not all of them were terrorists,’ Kathy said. The others looked away from her. Clive studied the wooden floor.

         ‘So your wife’s got a new job?’ Sandra asked.

         ‘What do you mean?’ Dan asked, his eyes pinning Kathy’s face.

         ‘Well,’ Kathy paused, chewing the inside of her mouth, then said, ‘some of them were innocent civilians.’

         ‘Innocent civilians? Kathy, those ‘innocent civilians’ are the, the monsters that bombed us on 9/11! Who are still trying to bomb us! They are terrorists, Kathy! Next you’ll be saying they’re right to bomb us, or that they deserve to be citizens and have jobs and houses!’

         ‘No, but,’ Kathy began.

         ‘Do you honestly think that the government would do all that if they weren’t terrorists, if they were ‘innocent civilians’? I’m sorry, Kathy, but the truth is, these people, well, they’re not even people, they’ve got no humanity, the truth is that these Muslims are evil. Don’t you watch the news?’ Dan’s hands were shuddering. He stared at Kathy, his eyebrows pushed over his dark eyes, before turning away and shaking his head. Clive opened his mouth to speak, but closed it at her words.

         ‘You’re right, Dan. How stupid of me to think that some Muslims are innocent.’ Kathy turned to the barmaid and ordered a drink.

         ‘They’re not,’ Dan said.

         ‘That’s what I just said.’

         ‘I’m not sure you’re getting it.’

         ‘No, I get it.’ Kathy looked straight into Dan’s eyes for a few moments before the barmaid brought her drink. She thanked her and took a large sip. Clive sighed. He caught the other barmaid’s eye, and ordered a pint of Tetley’s. He took a large gulp, and swallowed it with difficulty. He stared into his pint, then forced another gulp down his throat. He heard movement close by, looked up and saw that the others were drifting to a table by the window. Clive watched them for a few seconds, and then followed. He sat down and turned his gaze to the street outside.

         ‘So, how is your wife?’ Sandra asked Dan.

         ‘She’s OK, thanks. Started a new job today, I haven’t heard from her about it yet,’ Dan said.

         Clive stared out of the window, without seeing the street outside. He had been sure for a moment that Kathy had known, had not listened to the propaganda and the lies. But he had been wrong. 

         ‘She wants to see a play this weekend, but I’m not too keen on it,’ Dan said. Clive wished that Dan’s voice was less booming, he cared as little about Dan’s wife as Dan appeared to. Why was he intimidated by Dan? Kathy wasn’t, not that that had done any good. Why had Dan been watching Clive working? What was so interesting about his data entry? It was probably because Dan was so keen on ‘the cause’, that was why he seemed threatening.

         ‘Then how do you know you won’t enjoy it?’ Sandra asked, the argument apprehending Clive’s attention.

         ‘I’ve got better things to spend my money on,’ Dan said.

         ‘Like what, your man-bag?’ Alan lifted Dan’s bag for the girls to see. They giggled. Clive sneaked a sideways glance at Dan’s bag, and smirked into his half-drunk pint.

         ‘Dan’s got a man-bag!’ Kathy said.

         ‘Do you keep your lipstick in there?’ Alan asked.

         ‘Actually it contains very important documents,’ said Dan. The girls made a noise of mock admiration.

         ‘Documents about what? City Link customers?’ Kathy asked.

         ‘Our work is more important than you think,’ Dan said. Clive’s head turned. His eyes were caught by Dan’s. Clive turned back to his window. The girls stopped giggling. Clive, gazing outside of the window, saw a police woman on the other side of the street, her dirty-blonde hair forced into a bun pushed under her hat. She was looking at the pub, then turning to look at something opposite it. She disappeared into what Clive assumed was an alleyway. Clive heard shouts obscured by the window. He frowned, struggling to see into the alleyway. After a few drawn out minutes, the police woman appeared, dragging a homeless guy with her. His nose was bleeding onto his dirty, grey blanket, and one of his large, dark eyes was swollen. Clive knew that blanket, those eyes. It was the same homeless guy he’d seen before. He had probably been the only one left in the city. He wasn’t moving. She pulled a book from somewhere on his body, opened it, then ripped out some pages. She spoke into her radio, then kicked the homeless guy. He still didn’t move.

         ‘They’re supposed to be protecting us,’ Clive muttered.

         ‘He must be a terrorist, otherwise…’ Sandra said.

         ‘It’s about time,’ Dan said. No one asked what he meant. Clive’s eyes were intent on his pint. Dan must have seen him too. Clive was sure he hadn’t mentioned him in Dan’s hearing. But what if he had? It could be Clive’s fault. He hadn’t meant for Dan to tell the police. He hadn’t meant for the police woman to find him. He hadn’t meant for her to…arrest him. That had been their doing, not Clive’s. Besides, the Muslim hadn’t hid very well, and there wasn’t much point moving to a different alleyway if it’s so close by to the first. He’d probably been too weak to move further. Also, there was a possibility that the police had evidence against him, perhaps that he’d been plotting something. Clive gripped his pint as he forced down another gulp. He’d been paying too much attention to Dan. He’d been paying too much attention to the news. Clive wondered if he could down the rest of his pint, and decided to give it a go. He spluttered, but survived it. Clive stood up as he set his glass on the table. He could hear an engine snarling outside. He turned away from the window, focusing on struggling into his jacket. A van door banged beyond the window. Clive finished forcing his arm through his sleeve.

         ‘I’ve got to go,’ Clive said.

         ‘Bye, Clive,’ Alan said.

         ‘Ah, don’t leave mate,’ said Dan. Clive wondered since when had he and Dan been mates. Clive repeated that he had to go and hurried towards the door. Peering up the street, he glimpsed a police van driving away. Clive turned his back on it, and began walking to the car-park. He pushed the inside of his pockets down as he walked, and stared at the leaves merging with mud that he squelched beneath his feet.

*          *          *

Clive manoeuvred the car into his drive, killed the engine and pulled out the keys. He sat, hunched, for a few minutes, his eyes resting on his lap. He looked up at the house next to his. The house that shared his white-washed wall, his black guttering, his red-tiled roof. It was a mirror image of Clive‘s house. But they were segregated by a garden wall. The wall had been low enough for Clive’s youngest child, Tom, to scramble over, but now it seemed an impassable barrier. Perhaps it was because the grass had been neglected. Clive’s eyes were drawn to the inert front door, as far from his own as possible. His eyes looked in the large downstairs window, all he could see was darkness. It reached forward towards Clive. He looked up at the windows on the top floor, darkness. One of them, the one nearest his own house, was broken. Clive heard the sound of a brick shattering the glass. He shuddered at the memory. The house towered above Clive, staring down at him with its blind windows. 

         ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Clive spoke aloud to the house. He struggled out of the car and hurried inside.

*          *          *

         ‘Did you have a good day at work?’ Mary asked Clive over dinner that night.

         ‘As good as a day of data entry can be.’ Clive’s reply never varied.

         ‘No promotion, then?’ Mary asked without looking up from her shepherd’s pie. The sound of cutlery clanging on plates was interrupted by the kids scuffling.

         ‘Stop that, you two,’ Clive said.

         ‘We’re pretending to be Muslims,’ Tom said. Clive sighed, and turned his attention back to his meal.

         ‘Wouldn’t you rather pretend to be good, Britican children?’ Mary asked.

         ‘But we are good Britican children,’ Sue said.

         ‘Not right now you’re not,’ said Mary.

         ‘No, because we’re pretending to be bad Muslim children,’ Tom said, beginning to whine. Mary looked at Clive, who avoided her eyes.

         ‘Clive,’ Mary said.

         ‘Yes?’ Clive asked.

         ‘Aren’t you?’

         ‘What?’

         ‘Never mind,’ Mary said. Clive recognised her tone as meaning the opposite of her words.

         ‘Did you enjoy school today?’ Clive asked Tom and Sue

         ‘Yeah, I learned that even Muslim children are bad, because their mummies and daddies are bad,’ Tom said.

         ‘I learned that ages ago. Today I learned about the war and how we’re going to win because we’re the good guys, and God’s on our side, not theirs,’ Sue said.

         ‘And their mummies and daddies are bad because they bomb us because they don’t like us because we’re better than them,’ Tom said.

         ‘No, it’s because they don’t have a democrazy and we do.’

         ‘You mean a democracy,’ Mary said. Clive shot a look at her, angered that she could encourage them. Mary ignored it.

         ‘That‘s what I said, a democrazy,’

         ‘No, it’s ‘cause they bomb us,’ Tom said.

         ‘They bomb us because we have a democrazy,’ Sue said.

         ‘No, it’s ‘cause they’re the bad guys.’

         ‘Didn’t you learn about anything else today?’ Clive asked.

         ‘Yeah, I learned about the Terrorism Act, and how Muslims can’t vote or have houses and stuff,’ Sue said. Clive sighed and turned his attention back to his food.

         ‘That’s ‘cause they bomb us,’ Tom said.

         ‘No, it’s because they don’t understand democrazy. Just like you. You’re just like a Muslim,’ Sue said.

         ‘No I’m not! I’m not a Muslim.’

         ‘You’re a dirty Muslim.’

         ‘No! No! No! That’s not true, is it daddy?’ Tom asked. Clive stopped eating and looked up at his children. He searched their eyes but could only see the lies they’d been taught in school.

         ‘What is truth? Is there such a thing anymore?’ Clive asked.

         ‘Don’t confuse them, Clive,’ Mary said, ‘it’s not true, Tom, you’re not a Muslim, you’re a Britican. Sue’s just teasing you.’

         ‘Dirty, filthy Muslim,’ Sue said.

         ‘Stop it, Susan!’ Mary shouted. Clive stood up and left the room. ‘Where are you…?’ Mary asked, her last word unheard as Clive shut the dining-room door. Clive wandered into the living room, and sat in his chair. He hunched forward, his hand feeling the wrinkles created by his frown. How had he let this happen? His children had been moulded into monsters. But what could he do about it? If he told them otherwise, they’d tell their teacher, and he’d probably be reported. He might even be arrested.

         ‘Why did you just leave like that?’ Mary asked, having followed him in.

         ‘Don’t start, Mary.’ Clive didn’t move.

         ‘You’re setting a bad example for the children. How are they supposed to grow up right when you behave like that?’

         ‘How are they supposed to grow up right at all?’

         ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Mary asked. Clive shrugged. ‘Well it would help if you’d set a good example.’

         ‘How can I do that?’ Clive knew that acting on his thoughts would be considered terrorism.

         ‘By not leaving the table in the middle of dinner for one thing! And why didn’t you back me up? It’s like you’re not really here half the time. I have to work too, Clive.’

         Clive sighed. ‘I know.’

         ‘It’s not like you’re the only one who works, and can use that as an excuse, because I work too. We’re supposed to be equal.’

         ‘Oh, we’re in a very equal society, aren’t we?’ Clive knew he shouldn’t be taking this out on Mary, it wasn’t her fault, but he couldn’t stop himself.

         ‘What are you talking about?’ Mary asked. She waited a few minutes for a reply but received none. ‘You’re so…’ Mary made a noise of frustration and marched out of the room. Clive remained hunched in his chair, his fingers still feeling the wrinkles on his brow. His eyes were fixed on the out-of-focus carpet. He could hear his breathing, almost uneven, forced. A few minutes later, Clive heard the kids tumble into the room. ‘Switch it on then,’ Mary said. The noise of the newsreader soon grated Clive’s eardrums.

         ‘The Muslim caught today has been found guilty of terrorism and has been given the death sentence,’ the newsreader said, inspiring Clive’s children to cheer. Clive stood, strode to the TV, killed the image of the homeless guy on the screen, and left the room. He heard Mary’s exclamation, and his children’s boos, then the newsreader’s voice continued. Clive sighed, then began to mount the stairs, one at a time, leaning on the banister.

*          *          *

         Clive pulled long breaths of musty-sweet air into his lungs, trying to make himself sleepy with the scent of Mary’s skin. The darkness of the room shrouded him. He shifted around so that his back was to Mary’s. His eyes darted to the clock: 2:17. He sighed, closed his eyes, waited, then opened them again. He shifted onto his back. Clive could just about make out the ceiling, its darkness staring down at him, the darkness from within, overwhelming the window pane. The broken window hung above Clive, holding him down with its blind, accusing gaze. Clive shut his eyes, trying to block the vision. The homeless guy appeared in his mind, his large, dark eyes just visible above his filthy, grey blanket. He wasn’t moving. He didn’t even blink. Blood spread on the blanket. Clive opened his eyes.

         He began to think about work, it was boring enough to send him to sleep. He focused on the image of his fingers typing letters on his keyboard, so much so that they began to drum on the sheets. Mary shifted her position. Clive stopped drumming. He visualised the view out of the window by his desk. He could see the skyscrapers in the distance on the left, and the building of green glass in the shape of a ship on the right. But something was still wrong. There was something missing. What was it? There seemed to be a void near the foreground. Something had been there. Why did this trouble him so much? Many buildings had been demolished in the last few years. Why was this so important? And why did the names he entered seem so Middle-Eastern? Why had Dan been so interested in him? Perhaps Dan knew something. Perhaps the data he entered wasn’t really for City Link. Maybe it was - the mosque! There had been a mosque in that space.

         Clive stared at his memory of the mosque, shining white, never dirty, the tower or pillar, the green dome with something gold glinting in the sunshine on top. They’d said it had been a bomb. They’d managed to stop it going off, otherwise the whole city would have been destroyed. But that was just propaganda, it wasn’t true. How did he know? It could have been. No, of course it wasn’t, it was absurd. Clive shook his head, trying to disbelieve that he had almost fallen for the lies like everyone else. He was the only one who knew that this was wrong. The only one who knew that something had to be done. Evil needs only good people to do nothing. Clive couldn’t remember who had said that, although he knew it was true. But what could he do? He was just a data entry worker. He couldn’t lose his job, how would he provide for his family? Mary’s income wasn’t enough. He’d never get promoted if people knew what he thought. He’d only fail if he attempted something, and what would he do anyway? Something, anything, he had to. But he couldn’t. If he did, he’d be treated like them, arrested. He’d never see Mary or Tom or Susan again. They might be arrested too. He couldn’t risk that.

*          *          *

         At about 11am the next morning, the Collins family arrived at the park. The smell of woodchips, damp earth and dying flowers held them. Tom and Sue ran on ahead, chased by a breathless but willing Clive. The woodchips felt soft underfoot, slowing him like sand as he ran. He grabbed the cold, smooth metal bar of the climbing frame as Tom scrambled up it.

         ‘Beat you, daddy!’ Tom called. Clive grinned and nodded at his son, then turned his eyes to his hand on the pole as he waited to catch his breath. The sounds of other children playing surrounded him. The memory of their last visit to the park, several months, if not a year ago, pushed itself into his mind. Clive had forgotten its impact on him. It had kept him away from the park. It made him want to leave now.

         ‘Push me, daddy!’ Sue called, bouncing on her heels by the swings. Clive wandered over, wrestling with the memory, trying to force it out of his mind. Sue heaved herself onto a seat and waited for Clive to pull her back before letting her swing forward. He could see Shareen, his neighbour’s daughter, on the swing next to Sue’s, where she had been that day. She was giggling, racing Sue, her father, John, pushing her in competition with Clive. But the swing was empty. A girl who was a stranger to Clive jumped on the swing, pulled herself back, and kicked off. ‘Daddy!’ Sue called. Clive had forgotten to push her. He apologised and began to do so, still thinking of the Jumas.

         ‘Sue,’ Clive began, ‘do you remember coming here with Shareen?’

         Sue wrinkled her nose. ‘Dirty, filthy Muslim. I hate her.’

         ‘You didn’t then,’ Clive said.

         ‘Yes I did, ’cause she’s a nasty Muslim.’

         ‘Don’t you remember racing her on the swings?’ Clive asked.

         ‘I always beat her.’

         ‘But you were friends with her, don’t you remember?’

         ‘No! I was never friends with a dirty Muslim. Never! Never! Never!’ Sue scrunched up her face, about to cry.

         ‘What’s the matter?’ Mary called from beside the climbing frame.

         ‘Daddy said that I, that I was friends with a nasty, dirty, filthy Muslim,’ Sue said. Mary’s lips pushed together as she looked at Clive. Clive failed to read her look. Other parents were watching the scene, with similar expressions on their faces. The air that had been filled with the sound of children playing, and the smell of woodchips, was suddenly rigid.

         ‘Can you watch Tom for a bit?’ Mary asked Clive. Clive walked to the climbing frame, while Mary went to have a whispered conversation with Sue. He stood near Tom, but watched Mary and Sue. After a few minutes, Mary started to push Sue on the swing. The other children went back to playing, and the parents turned their attention back to their children.

         ‘Stop! Stop!’ Sue shouted. Mary stopped the swing and Sue jumped off and ran to the see-saw. ‘I want to go on the see-saw now! Tom! Come down and come on the see-saw with me!’

         ‘No! I’m looking out for Muslims! I’m a police-helper,’ Tom called from the top of the climbing frame.

         ‘You mean a community support officer,’ Mary said.

         ‘Mummy, I want to go on the see-saw!’ Sue said.

         ‘I’ll go on the see-saw with you, Sue.’ Clive was eager to make sure that Sue wasn’t upset, and wouldn’t tell anyone about what he’d said.

         ‘No! I don’t want you, I want mummy or Tom,’ Sue replied.

         ‘I’m coming, Sue,’ Mary said. She turned her face away from Clive as she passed him and sat on the see-saw, opposite Sue. Mary made such a fuss over how fun the see-saw was, that Tom soon wanted to join in. Clive helped him down from the climbing frame and he ran to the see-saw. Mary gave him her place, and wandered over to Clive.

         ‘Is everything alright?’ she asked him.

         Clive looked at her, his forehead gathered into a frown. ‘Everything’s fine,’ he said. He forced his mouth to smile, attempting to hide the sarcasm, but it vanished when he heard shouts and screams from a street somewhere across the road. The cries mingled with the shouts of children. Clive strode to the railings, trying to hear. A van door slammed, the sound echoing around the streets. An engine started up then faded out of hearing. Clive heard something beside him, turned and saw Mary. ‘Did you just hear?’ he asked her.

         ‘No,’ she replied. ‘There was nothing to hear.’ Mary gave him a look that Clive understood. He stared into her large, brown eyes, then turned his face away. ‘Are they selling poppies already?’ Mary asked, fingering the poppy pinned to Clive’s coat. Clive tore it off and shoved it into his pocket. ‘You’d be better off leaving it on,‘ Mary said. Clive removed his hand from his pocket, leaving the poppy where it was. Mary pulled her red coat more tightly around her. ‘It’s cold, isn’t it?’ she asked.

         ‘Yes,’ Clive said, seeing Shareen and the homeless guy being beaten into a van.

         ‘Tom! Sue! Time to go! Come on, it’s cold,’ Mary called. Tom and Sue made noises of disappointment but wandered to their parents, dragging their feet.

*          *          *

         Clive was late. He jogged along the street towards the office. It was a short distance away from the car-park, but the clock on his dashboard had said 9:03 when he turned the engine off. Looking ahead, he noticed that he was nearing the alleyway where he had seen the homeless guy being beaten by the police woman. Breathless, he slowed to a hurried walk, glancing down the alleyway as he passed it. Was there someone behind the bins? Was that Shareen? His memory was probably making him see things again. No. John was peering around the bin, holding Shareen. There were others still hiding, probably his wife and other child.

         ‘Clive. Help us,’ John whispered. Clive stared at his filthy, tattered suit, that had always been pristine; at his overgrown beard; and his large, begging eyes. Clive turned away and kept walking. The best way he could help them, was by not drawing attention to where they were. But they were probably starving, it was a miracle they had survived so long. But they had survived, without Clive’s help. If he hung around, he would only draw attention to their hiding-place, and then the police would find them.

         ‘Excuse me, sir,’ a young police officer asked, his short, well kept hair reminding Clive that John’s hair had been like that before he’d been kicked out of his house by the authorities. ‘It has been reported that these terrorists have been seen in this area.’ The policeman showed Clive a photograph. It was of his old neighbours. John was holding Shareen as Clive had just seen him. ‘Have you seen them?’ The policeman studied Clive’s face. If Clive said that he hadn’t, the policeman would walk that way anyway and find them. They’d be put in a van like the homeless guy, and driven away. Clive looked at his watch to make time, it was five minutes past now. He could lie and say that he’d seen them somewhere else entirely. Somewhere in the opposite direction, then run back and warn them when he’d gone. Lie to a policeman. But someone else had seen them, the police knew they were near. But they didn’t know where. He could say they were around the corner just beyond the office.

         ‘Sir, these terrorists are extremely dangerous,’ the policeman said.

         ‘Yes, I have, I was just going to report them myself,’ Clive lied, before lowering his voice, ‘they’re in the alleyway just behind me, the one opposite the pub.’ The policeman thanked him and run past. Clive hurried to the office. If he’d lied, he’d have been found out. He had to say it. Someone else would probably have seen them anyway. Not if he’d warned them and told them to move. But how could he have done that? He’d have been seen, then they’d all have been arrested. He had his own family to think about. He had work to get to, if he kept on being late, he’d never get promoted. He might have had to think of an exact location, then the policeman would have detained him for even longer to describe it. Besides, the policeman could have been right.

*          *          *

         The smell of meat beat Clive’s nostrils as he reached to the front of the queue. He took a plate of steak and chips, paid for it, and sat by Alan. The news clearly audible over the growling conversation, and screeching chairs.

         ‘Dan’s not in today, I see,’ Clive said.

         ‘He’s a community support officer on Mondays,’ Alan said.

         ‘Ah.’ Clive understood Dan’s zealous attitude to ‘the cause’ now. But what about work? What about Clive’s own data entry? ‘Good weekend?’ Clive asked.

         ‘S’alright. Look at that. Another lot of terrorists caught.’ Alan waved his fork towards the TV.

         ‘There’ll be none left soon,’ Clive said, looking at his food.

         ‘Yeah. Thank God,’ Alan said.

         ‘So, what did you get up to this weekend?’ Clive asked.

         ‘Imagine that! A whole family of them! Mind you, if your parents are terrorists, you will be too. It’s how you’d be brought up.’

         ‘What?’ Clive looked up at the news. The photo the policeman had shown him filled the screen.

         ‘It’s about upbringing. If you’re parents are terrorists, you’re bound to be too. Pretty little girl, though. Pity,’ Alan said.

         ‘Police caught known terrorists Mr and Mrs Juma today, following a tip-off from a member of the public. Police say they had been part of a group planning a large-scale attack, and were the last members uncaught until today. The attack they were planning would have caused the deaths of thousands of innocent Briticans, more than were killed on 9/11. Even the children were involved, having been brainwashed by their parents,’ the newsreader said.

         ‘My daughter had her first scan on Saturday,’ Alan said.

         ‘They were my neighbours.’ Clive could see them in the alleyway, crouching behind the bins.

         ‘She and the baby are both doing fine,’ said Alan. ‘Did you say your neighbours?’

         ‘What?’ Clive asked.

         ‘You must be relieved they’ve been caught. Terrorists living next door. They might have come after you,’ Alan said.

         ‘We used to go to the park together. My little girl played with their little girl.’

         ‘And terrorists all along. The kids too. Well, it’s their upbringing, isn’t it? Still, makes you think.’

         ‘They might have come after me, after my family.’

         ‘These vermin are everywhere.’

         ‘Police would like to thank the member of public who informed them of the terrorists’ whereabouts, and urge others to be extra vigilant, and report any sign of a terrorist. Even a child could be involved in terrorist activity,’ the newsreader said. Clive thought of Shareen giggling on the swing, racing his daughter. What had she told the terrorists about Sue? They had known where he lived. He looked around and fidgeted. So did everyone else in the canteen. They fidgeted, fiddled and threw glances around the room. They were like cattle on the way to market, somehow aware of their fate. Or Muslims in a police-van, being driven to a mass grave.

Word count: 6758

Author's Note: I'm currently in the process of revising this to send to a magazine. As part of this, I'm planning on adding Clive's direct thoughts, developing his character more, developing Dan's character more (by introduing a 'good' side) and adding the possibility of actual terrorists, perhaps through an attack. Basically I'm trying to make this more multi-dimensional, and less black and white, if that makes sense. Any thoughts would be welcome.