Choices by Steve Smith

‘Your child is … unusual, Mrs Roberts.’ – ‘How so?’ she said. The headmaster shuffled in his chair and fingered his ear. He made to speak and then stopped and shook his head. He stood up. ‘I’m afraid that I’m going to have to ask Charlie to leave the school.’ – ‘But why?’ – ‘Please don’t make this more difficult than it already is.’

In the corner, a budgie squawked and fluttered its wings. As the woman stared at the teacher, pleading for some kind of explanation, they turned to a commotion in the bird cage, witnessed a cloud of feathers and heard the creature fall, dead, to the bottom.

The headmaster walked to the cage, peered in, turned around and asked the mother and son to leave.

‘Do I have to go to another school again, Mummy?’ – ‘Yes.’ – ‘But why? All my friends are here.’

***

He walked through the shattered streets, full of man-made carnage. There was a layer of white dust on everything. Pieces of concrete were scattered around, as if some monster had smashed its toys into a million pieces after a child-like fit of rage. A woman called softly to him. She was lying under a large piece of masonry, one hand free, waving at him gently. Her dark skin, covered in dust and blood, made her look Caucasian. Charlie walked over to her and went down on one knee to look at her face. Despite the dust, her brilliant brown eyes stared back at him. He saw a small child to her left: its head had been crushed by a slab, the size of a paving stone. ‘Help me,’ she said, in Arabic. He pulled his side-arm from its holster and put it to the side of her head. She didn’t flinch as he pulled the trigger and blew her brains all over the rubble. The splashing of bright red on the surroundings took his eye: the contrast would make a striking painting.

*** 

‘What we do today, we do for the good of mankind,’ said the General. ‘You must not hesitate to perform your duty.’ He looked at Charlie, standing before him, not blinking. ‘Are you okay, Captain?’ – ‘Yes, Sir.’ – ‘What’s on your mind, son?’ Charlie paused to think. The General said: ‘Don’t think about them as people, you understand? Use your training and do your job. We are all counting on you.’ – ‘Yes, Sir.’ – ‘They threaten our way of life, son, and people like you have to stand in their way. Stand up and be counted.’ – ‘Yes, General, Sir. Thank-you.’ They exchanged salutes.

The crew of the bomber kept quiet, speaking only to confirm operational readiness, altitude and position. Fifteen minutes to drop, they were ordered into radio silence. Charlie looked at the sun, rising before him above the cloud base. He thought of the beauty of nature and its simplicity. He thought about the human virus that had spread all over the world, leaving dirty hand marks and shit everywhere. It was natural for things to die and for new life to replace it. The human factor smothered and choked it.

‘D minus two minutes.’ – ‘Check.’

Two pieces of paper were handed to him. He pulled a key from his neck and opened a panel. He watched the controls light up. He typed the codes from the two pieces of paper onto a keyboard and pressed a button. ‘Ready.’ – ‘Check.’ – ‘Arming.’ – ‘Check.’ He heard a beep and saw a red button start to flash. ‘Armed.’ – ‘Check.’ – ‘Confirmed,’ said another voice, behind him. All that remained was the memorised code and the push of a button.

He thought of the people below. People going about their daily business: sitting in meetings, waiting for a bus, having a quick coffee, food shopping, having sex, talking to their mothers on the phone, working out in the gym, watching television, eating, laughing, crying, fighting, shouting, raping, abusing, killing. ‘Captain?’ He thought about the target and the fact he had been there himself, that he had visited tourist spots, spoken to waiters, talked to tour guides, been to the theatre, taken photos: Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London.

‘Captain!’

He keyed in the number and stopped.

‘Captain – we will miss the window of opportunity!’

Charlie pressed the button.

‘Away. Package has been delivered. Return to base.’ – ‘Check.’

*** 

‘There were people down there.’ – ‘I know,’ said the psychiatrist, nodding. ‘Real people, doing … things,’ said Charlie, his head bowed. ‘Yes.’ The psychiatrist looked down at his pad. He had drawn several three dimensional boxes on the page and nothing else. ‘Why did we have to kill them all?’ Doctor Reynolds looked up and sniffed. ‘You were following orders. It’s not your fault. You had no choice. No choice.’ – ‘Why me?’ – ‘Well, you must be trusted by your superiors. They, in turn, are trusted by the public to protect them. There must have been a very good reason to have to do whatever you did.’ – ‘But what was the reason?’ The doctor shook his head, still sketching. ‘Why don’t you know? Who decides?’ shouted Charlie.

Reynolds stopped, sat back and looked up at this aggression. They were sitting directly opposite one another, in comfortable chairs, only a small glass-topped coffee table between them. Charlie snarled and looked at the reflection of the doctor in the glass. He thought of picking up the table and smashing it down over his head, raking shards of glass down his face, watching the blood drench the collar of his white shirt, of putting his own hands around the doctor’s neck, strangling him, contaminating his own skin with the man’s blood. He considered how easy it would be to do this.

He watched the doctor convulse, heard the gasping noises, saw his hands squeezing the arms of the leather chair and listened to the last wisp of breath. All was quiet, all was silent. It soothed Charlie. He saw the man’s wild eyes, his grotesque face. He waited and watched death. He wondered if the spirit was watching its callous client sitting, doing nothing. He considered how many spirits would be in the room watching him. He took the pad and looked at the doodles before placing it neatly on the table.

‘There is always a choice, Doctor Reynolds. Who can tell me if I was right?’

** End **