Blast From the Past Read Free Page A

ashtray and returned to staring out of the window.
    Down below, the chilly Brits were assuring each other that, despite its undisputed position of global dominance, the American army was not what one would call a proper army.
    ‘They’re either screaming abuse at each other, singing silly spirituals or bonding in a big hug. I mean really, I ask you, what a way to run a show.’
    The Brits all agreed that, despite having more fire power than Satan and more influence than the God in whom they trusted, the armed forces of the United States were not what one would call a formidable fighting machine. No, no, the damp, miserable, khaki-clad figures felt, much better to be lean. Lean and hungry, like the British forces. Much better to be underfunded, undermanned and undervalued, like they were. That was character-building. That was what made a soldier a soldier.
    ‘They can’t even get the uniforms right,’ the jealous Brits assured each other. ‘They seem to be dressed either as hell’s angels in leather jackets and sunglasses or as Italian lift attendants with more brass and braid than a colliery band.’
    Everybody agreed that it was a shocking state of affairs, but in truth there was not a man amongst them, itching in his damp khaki blouse, who would not have dearly loved to swap places and be dressed half as stylishly as the Americans.
    A far-off noise in the gloomy sky announced the imminent arrival of the loved and hated allies.
    ‘On time, at least,’ remarked the senior British officer in his best patronizing drawl. ‘Thankful for small mercies, eh?’
    It started to rain.
    ‘Look at them,’ said the general, staring out of the drizzle-dotted window as his plane taxied towards the little RAF terminal and the forlorn-looking British reception committee. ‘Nothing ever changes in the British army, you know that? They’re actually proud of it.’
    One of the crew handed the general his coat.
    ‘They always look the same. Down at heel but defiant. Like they just got off the boat from Dunkirk. The worst thing about being a great power is when you’re not one any more. It takes centuries to get over it . Look at the Portuguese. They just gave up altogether.’
    ‘Sir! Yes, sir!’ said the young airman, not having the faintest idea what the general was talking about.
    Jack turned to General Schultz, his chief of staff, who was sitting respectfully two seats behind, playing on a gameboy.
    ‘Let’s make this piece of bullshit as quick a piece of bullshit as any bull ever shitted. OK?’

4
    POLLY TURNED ON her bedside lamp and felt her irises scream in protest at the sudden light.
    The phone was on her desk, on the other side of the room. Polly had put it there so that if ever she booked an alarm call she would have to get up in order to answer it. It was too easy to just reach out from under the duvet and clunk the receiver up and down in its cradle. Polly had missed trains that way. You didn’t wake up, your dreams just changed gear.
    The phone rang again. Somehow it seemed to be getting louder.
    Through Polly’s watery eyes the room looked strange. The phone, her desk, the crumpled shape on the floor that was her jeans, everything looked different. It wasn’t, of course, just as the phone wasn’t getting any louder. Everything was exactly the same as it had been when she’d gone to sleep the previous evening.
    The phone kept ringing.
    Polly got out of bed and padded across the room towards it. Across almost her entire home, in fact. Polly’s landlord claimed that Polly lived in a studio-style maisonette and had set the rent accordingly. Polly thought she lived in a bedsit and that she was being ripped off.
    The phone was set to ring six times before the answerphone kicked in. Polly watched the machine as it completed its cycle.
    She was more angry than scared.
    Very angry, terribly angry. Anger had seized hold of her whole body, which was the one thing she knew she must not let it do if she wished to get