Trembling With Fear 10-8-23

The Noise of Battle, by Masimba Musodza

Near the entrance to the Middlesbrough Town Hall, a newspaper vendor sold The Gazette with the passive expression of someone who did not care too much for the news, or if anyone stopped to buy it.

Emma glanced at the topmost copy. Next to the story about the sentencing of a young man for cruelty to his girlfriend’s dog, attended by a picture of him grinning defiantly with broken teeth like blighted maize, was a small item about Emma Cochrane’s Photographic Exhibition beginning that day. She leaned her head to the side to get a better view, but, just then, her attention was riveted towards the middle-aged man holding up a mobile phone while a teenage girl with waist-length black hair handed out leaflets.

“The war in the Congo has gone on for over 30 years, and kills more than 40000 people a month,” the man was saying. He waved his phone emphatically before adding, “That is the price paid for us to have smart phones, tablets and computers. The impact of war is everywhere….”

As Emma turned to ascend the stone steps into the town hall, she caught, out of the corner of her eye, a familiar flash of green. Across the street, Russell rose like Rip Van Winkle from the heap of dirty bedding at the doorstep of a disused building. He scanned the faces of passers-by. No one even glanced at him. Emma realised how absurd it was to think anyone would.

Russell crossed the road, with quick, darting movements, like an animal that knew the dangers of a road, but could not tell when it was busy and when it wasn’t. Emma began to up her pace, but he was already upon her, blocking her path.

“Emma….” he began

“Not now, Russell,” she said, pushing past him. “I have my exhibition today, remember!”

He reached out to grab her shoulder, but she was already out of reach. She turned to face him, forcing a gentle smile, “I wish you could come in and see it.”

As she ascended the stone steps, she knew he would watch her until she vanished from his view. But he would not follow her in.

Emma’s awareness switched to the present, to the people who stood in small groups, couples or individuals to gaze at pictures of homeless people staring out of a crowd of high street shoppers, of kids gawking at an amputee, and others. Her attention was drawn towards a middle-aged couple staring at a picture of a woman standing in front of a pile of canned food, while newspapers on a stand carry headlines of war. Emma walked up to them.

“Very powerful, images, don’t you think, Trevor?” the woman was saying.

“Have you noticed, Maggie, that we haven’t seen a single picture that was actually taken during the war itself?” the man said.

“Well, the whole exhibition is called the Noise of Battle,” said Maggie. “I think I read it on her website that she focused on the impact of war in places and spaces far removed from the actual war.”

“That’s right, madam,” said Emma, positioning herself to stand in front of them, beneath the picture. “I got the name from a street preacher who was shouting something Jesus said about the signs of the end of the world, that we would hear the noise of battle afar and at hand, meaning that this would be an age where if we were not actually in a war, we would still be affected by it because it would be in the news all the time.”

They are peering at the picture, each lost in their own thoughts. Emma wished they could listen to her instead. That is why she was here. And, it would help them understand why they were here too.

“In this picture,” said Emma, “a woman is looking at a bargain for canned food. The process of canned food was originally conceived for Napoleon’s army. Much of our popular technology, the internet, mobile phones etc. all have their history in warfare…..”

She trailed off, not because they were not even aware of her presence, but because Andy and Tim walked past. Tim, to whom everyone owed this exhibition. And Andy, who still had a life. She watched them leave the main exhibition area, heading towards the toilets. She followed.

Maybe it was a force of habit, but Emma glanced around to make sure no one was looking before she entered the men’s toilets.

Tim stood slightly bow-legged against the urinal, while Andy was washing his hands at the sinks.

“I’m glad you came, Andy,” said Tim, without looking up.

“I’m glad I came, Tim,” said Andy. He was looking at his smug, blond features in the mirror. “But the Noise of Battle, really?

“It’s how she wanted it, man,” said Tim. “She didn’t want to remember the Gulf anymore, but she didn’t want to forget war at all.”

With a grunt, he did his zip, straightened his posture and took the sink next to Andy.

“Emma has a breakdown and destroys all the pictures she took of the Gulf. And she still gets worshipped as Britain’s greatest war photographer!” Andy looks amazed at his own words.

“Your jealousy drove her to it, remember?” Tim reminded him. “She burnt those pictures because they were in your lives even after the war.”

“I wasn’t even there when she did it!” said Andy.

“Time and space, Andy. The Noise of Battle, remember?”

The two men stare at each other. In the silence, the sound of applause in the background could be heard. Andy inclined his head. “Speech time.”

As the two men exited, Andy took a last look. For a moment, he seemed to stare directly at Emma. She could see him in the mirror, but she knew he hadn’t seen her. When she heard the sound of the door close, she emerged from the cubicle.

In the exhibition area, a small crowd was gathering around the podium. Emma did not recognise the scholarly-looking grey-haired man, but that did not surprise her.

“Emma Cochrane’s work covers the social impact of war in places where there is no fighting, no bombing, no taking of prisoners and the committing of atrocities.”

He paused for effect, then continued “This is the world that, after accompanying our soldiers to drive Saddam Hussein from Kuwait, she returned to and found it as horrifying as any battlefield…”

Oh, well, she told herself. If that was the curator, he at least had grasped what she had tried to convey in her photography. Her work was done here.

She was back on the street, passing the man and woman campaigning against the war in the Congo. Yet, she imagined she could still hear the curator.

“It was in this place, where the noise of battles afar echo, that she met with violence…”

She was walking past Russell. He was not alone. Another man stood with him, with the same scruffiness of a rough sleeper. He looked up, first with mild interest, then shock, then hatred.

“You!” he snarled. “You took that picture of me in Kuwait! I was discharged because of you! You put me on the streets, you cow!”

Emma walked on. He is following, shouting accusations. “Did you win a prize, huh? Was it worth it? My life, for your fucking Pulitzer or whatever the fuck it is?”

Russell moved to restrain him. No one else is even aware of the scene unfolding. No, the scene replaying. The first time, when it had unfolded, they had turned their heads. Then, ran helter-skelter when the first shots had rang out, screams rising to the evening sky.

“Ironically, it was a soldier she had taken a picture of in the Gulf who shot her on the street…” the curator was saying, matter-of-factly.

Even as the now painless memory of the impact of the bullet that smashed through her skull and lodged itself just behind her right eye recurred, even as she fell to the ground, the whole world was fading. Today’s haunting was over.