Orange Grove
Thin rays of dusty light angle across the cell. The air is thick and stale. He is aware of the stink of his own dirt and sweat and feels sometimes as if this bleak prison is all he can remember, so he strives to recall how he got here. It was when he went into the church and there was some kind of fight…
The hotel dining room was cramped but friendly. Each meal taught something about the geography of the island; fresh vegetables from farms on the green coast, spicy, colourful dishes from North Africa and plates piled with fresh local seafood. Eddie’s bedroom window looked out on the village square. A few other tourists sat outside the hotel drinking cocktails; at the cafe opposite, old men argued and laughed and played cards as the tinny bells of the church cleaved the soft sea breeze. An armed policeman swaggered into the square and past the cafe. The old men stopped talking and watched him go by.
On the third day of the holiday Eddie travelled from the village on the ancient service bus. The locals laughed wheezily at his fumbling schoolboy Spanish. He alighted deep in the countryside and followed sandy paths through orange groves and fields along the northern coastline.
He stopped; an orange grove dropped steeply to the silver-blue disc of the sea. Pines sheltered the crop from the hot, dry western winds. Eddie savoured the warm scents of sea-tang, citrus blossom and pine resin, then turned his back on the coast and picked his way towards the outskirts of the village. As he came through a belt of pines the air turned rank, smelling of human confinement and misery. Right on the edge of the village was a compound of shabby concrete buildings. Two leering, baton-wielding policemen smoked nearby.
When he reached the square Eddie entered the church and took a pew near the back to enjoy the coolness. Some old women prayed in the front pew. Then the door banged open and two more policemen walked in, their footfalls heavy and echoing. One old woman stood up and asked them to show respect. Eddie watched as the argument developed. One of the policemen wearily lifted his hand and struck the woman, who crumpled to the floor.
Eddie stormed towards the policemen and hit the woman’s attacker in the face. The other policeman restrained Eddie while his colleague recovered. Eddie saw a baton being brought down heavily and then knew only silence.
The sun declines and the cell grows dark.
He had been ordered to put pressure on the church, to enforce compliance with the new order but because he defended himself against this foreigner, he has been imprisoned. The Government needs money and is encouraging tourists. If the Scotsman dies, so will he. There will be no second chances.
He lies down in the darkness. A light breeze has risen, carrying the scent of orange blossom into the cell.
Lockdown
We knew it was coming but it was still a shock; we’re not to go outside at all, well, except to buy food and that, and to ‘exercise’.
But you can go to work if you can’t work at home. I’m a delivery driver. How can I do that from home, know what I’m saying? The office staff can stay home and look at their online spreadsheets and move stuff from supplier to depot to buyer but it can’t get to these places by magic.
So I work. Walking out to the van from the house, at the depot, on deliveries, people shrink. It’s like everybody thinks everybody else has the bug already. We’re all each other’s enemies, you know what I mean, like in some spy film?
*****
A week of lockdown, now. At least I can work and still earn. And I haven’t caught the virus yet, that’s a bonus. I bought some stuff from the Co-op – tins and sachets and stuff that won’t go off – and put them in the Food Bank basket. Loads of people can’t work, after all.
When I knock on the doors and leave the parcel on the step and backtrack a couple of paces I sense the fear, the suspicion, behind the closed door. I snap a wee photie with my phone and then make sure the folk answer and get the thing they’ve ordered. Some are grateful. All are scared.
I joined in the Thursday-night clap for the NHS. It must be great to be a hero. Unless you catch the bug, obviously.
*****
Still no symptoms. Well, a wee sniffle and sneeze but that’s hay fever. Amazing that the weather’s been so good. People can get out for their exercise every day. But some folk are getting stir crazy; you know which ones when they pick up their parcel. I’m happy when I’m at home, but it’s good to be able to get out, away from Jen and the kids, and think my own stuff. I didn’t expect to have anything to think about, with the football and the racing both off. But the brain keeps on moving. Jen’s got me into books she’s recommended. Never been much of a reader but it passes the time and it sticks in your head, in the memory, you know?
I wasn’t going to go out for the NHS clap this week. I’d got to a good bit in this John le Carré book, I really didn’t know what was going to happen. But Jen made me come.
Everybody’s doing that social distancing right enough, but they’re out of their houses, out of their gardens, and they’re circling round our gate, looking at Jen and me and applauding. I’m like, what’s this? And the guy across the road, he says, ‘It’s not just parcels you’re delivering, Wayne. It’s hope.’
We all go back in. I want to find out what happens to George Smiley.
Flight of the dragonfly 