Harvey

In the pub, at my little table.

Yesterday’s paper, Blair’s secret note to Bush — I will be with you, whatever.

Tony, I’ll hold your coat while you blow up the world.

beside it, a warm gin and tonic going flat, and a tin of cashews gone soft on the sticky wood. the country pretends it’s shocked. same country that swallowed every other lie with a grin, now gasping. spare me.

down at the Prince Albert, the lights are low. books nobody reads rot on the shelves, cracked tiles, and a dusty stack of vinyl going twenty pence a pop. the place smells of spilled ale and old tobacco. the room is quiet. just the old man in the next booth muttering about lamb stew and kitchen tiles. no radio, no Sinatra, no nothing. just the low hum of people pretending everything’s normal.

she’s in the corner. all in black, hair gone grey too early, doodling circles next to a wet coaster. her pint is dwindling. a paper poppy pinned to her coat. on the table, a small oak frame: Harvey in his 6th Regiment kit, twenty-two years old, grinning.

a dozen old boys shuffle over and drop a fat envelope beside her. coins clink, a few crumpled notes, a couple of cheques in shaky handwriting. on the front it says: For Harvey. three weeks of rattling buckets. she doesn’t cry.

she just stares at the picture while the envelope sits on the wood.

all those monumental lies, weapons of mass destruction, a million dead, give or take.

change from the jukebox,
that will fix it, Mrs. Humphreys,
that will bring him back.