and the white ball bounces and swerves off the cushions and Alex is ready for the next shot before the balls have stopped moving. Come on, Alex, we say when he gets a chance to win a frame; even my nan, who loves him too. He hits shots in the match where we gasp, all there in the front room, like the crowd at the Crucible, like when he pots the pink using the rest and knocks the black off the cushion and gets to ninety-three. It feels good, all of us sitting there together.
Then Margaret Thatcher starts shooting people.
One minute Alex is there, trying not to lose his concentration, which he always does at some point, itâs his Achillesâ heel; the next minute thereâs a picture of men standing, crouching, in the street with guns. Everyone talks at once so I canât hear the television. Next to the men dressed in black with guns is another man in a grey suit jacket rolling up a piece of carpet. It looks heavy. The men dressed in black point their guns at a row of white houses. The houses are big, with columns at the front and nice balconies. I imagine that theyâre the kind of house my dad plans for us to live in one day. The man with the grey jacket carries the heavy carpet along the front of the houses. Another man helps, carrying the back end. Something drops out of the side of the carpet and I see that itâs an arm, a pale arm flopping around from inside the rolled up carpet. I realize that the flopping arm belongs to someone who is dead and although I saw my great-granny when she was dead, this is different, on television, someone whoâs been shot. I think, If Iâd died when I fell out of the window this is how my dad and grandad wouldâve carried me.
My mum says, Oh my God, Francis, and then everyone else realizes what the arm is. Harry Robertson is outside the window, looking at half a car that is leaning against the kerb, missing it all. I donât understand why heâs not watching the snooker in the first place. Then my grandad leans forward and swears and changes sides on the telly and thereâs John Wayne in a film and everyone shouts at my grandad and he turns the channel back again. There are men, soldiers, dressed in black, standing on the balconies of the beautiful houses.
Itâs the SAS, my dad says. I canât tell from his face whether thatâs good or not.
Whose side am we on? I whisper to Johnny but he doesnât hear me.
Then thereâs an explosion, a bang and a flash of fire and a big cloud of smoke so you canât see the buildings any more, and thereâs a cloud of smoke drifting down the street. We all call out when the explosion comes, louder even than when Alex knocked the ball off the table when he was trying a mad shot. I can see the shape of Harry Robertson standing looking through the window at our television. The soldiers shoot; they fire their guns through the blasted windows, then they all jump through, into the buildings; then there is nothing, just the white buildings and the balconies and the reporterâs voice talking.
The soldiers in black are the SAS. My dad explains who they are to my mum. I donât know who they are shooting. Iranian gunmen it says on the television. Flames jump out of one of the windows; fire is coming from the broken windows.
There has been a siege and hostages. I understand that bit. Hostages are when you keep someone prisoner. Six people are dead. Itâs a great success for the SAS, for Margaret Thatcher, the reporter says. At the Crucible, Alex loses concentration completely and loses the final 18 â 16 . If Johnny really wants a revolution heâll have to fight against the SAS. But he couldnât even fight the skinheads.
Back at school thereâs no football for a day while we all play SAS because everyoneâs so excited about it. We get into trouble for being too violent. No oneâs dead, though, I want to say. People love them, the SAS, except me. I can see them in
Then Margaret Thatcher starts shooting people.
One minute Alex is there, trying not to lose his concentration, which he always does at some point, itâs his Achillesâ heel; the next minute thereâs a picture of men standing, crouching, in the street with guns. Everyone talks at once so I canât hear the television. Next to the men dressed in black with guns is another man in a grey suit jacket rolling up a piece of carpet. It looks heavy. The men dressed in black point their guns at a row of white houses. The houses are big, with columns at the front and nice balconies. I imagine that theyâre the kind of house my dad plans for us to live in one day. The man with the grey jacket carries the heavy carpet along the front of the houses. Another man helps, carrying the back end. Something drops out of the side of the carpet and I see that itâs an arm, a pale arm flopping around from inside the rolled up carpet. I realize that the flopping arm belongs to someone who is dead and although I saw my great-granny when she was dead, this is different, on television, someone whoâs been shot. I think, If Iâd died when I fell out of the window this is how my dad and grandad wouldâve carried me.
My mum says, Oh my God, Francis, and then everyone else realizes what the arm is. Harry Robertson is outside the window, looking at half a car that is leaning against the kerb, missing it all. I donât understand why heâs not watching the snooker in the first place. Then my grandad leans forward and swears and changes sides on the telly and thereâs John Wayne in a film and everyone shouts at my grandad and he turns the channel back again. There are men, soldiers, dressed in black, standing on the balconies of the beautiful houses.
Itâs the SAS, my dad says. I canât tell from his face whether thatâs good or not.
Whose side am we on? I whisper to Johnny but he doesnât hear me.
Then thereâs an explosion, a bang and a flash of fire and a big cloud of smoke so you canât see the buildings any more, and thereâs a cloud of smoke drifting down the street. We all call out when the explosion comes, louder even than when Alex knocked the ball off the table when he was trying a mad shot. I can see the shape of Harry Robertson standing looking through the window at our television. The soldiers shoot; they fire their guns through the blasted windows, then they all jump through, into the buildings; then there is nothing, just the white buildings and the balconies and the reporterâs voice talking.
The soldiers in black are the SAS. My dad explains who they are to my mum. I donât know who they are shooting. Iranian gunmen it says on the television. Flames jump out of one of the windows; fire is coming from the broken windows.
There has been a siege and hostages. I understand that bit. Hostages are when you keep someone prisoner. Six people are dead. Itâs a great success for the SAS, for Margaret Thatcher, the reporter says. At the Crucible, Alex loses concentration completely and loses the final 18 â 16 . If Johnny really wants a revolution heâll have to fight against the SAS. But he couldnât even fight the skinheads.
Back at school thereâs no football for a day while we all play SAS because everyoneâs so excited about it. We get into trouble for being too violent. No oneâs dead, though, I want to say. People love them, the SAS, except me. I can see them in
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