Banksy of the front

Banksy of the front

“Read it. Frank, read it.”

I opened my eyes and looked up at Darryl's boyish face. He was grinning inanely and showing me his mobile phone. I wasn't wearing my glasses so I could barely see the type on the tiny screen. Not that it mattered. I'd received the same message on my mobile phone twenty minutes before. I remembered it well. They’d deleted it almost immediately from all our inboxes, but Darryl felt the need to show me his phone.

“Yes, I read it," I replied.

“It's brilliant. Banksy’s the man – he’s telling it as it is.”

Darryl laughed and started leaping around like a spaniel. He always did this when any crumb of comfort or news arrived from elsewhere. It gave him an energy and hope that had long since left me.

“It didn't upset you then?” I asked.

“No way, man! He always makes me smile!”

Groaning, I turned to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Doesn't it make you think, though?” I asked, now facing Darryl.

“About what?”

“About what it is you have to do before they start to recognise what you’re doing?”

Darryl snorted arrogantly. I hated it when he did that. Like all teenagers he was prone to juvenile idiosyncrasies, no matter how charming he could be.

“Do you care?”

I rubbed my face with my hands. I tried my hardest, but, no, I didn't care - no matter how hard I tried to convince him (and myself) otherwise. Sometimes Darryl and I would talk long into the night – I would try to get him to see everything the way I saw them. He had innocence on his side, however; such a rare quality amongst the rest of us and one that allowed him to sleep at night.

I started to shiver again despite the warmth of the French summer outside. I'd been shivering a lot those last two days. I was coming down with something, most likely. Not unusual with all that’s going on.

“Did you notice how quickly they deleted it? They're getting quicker at spotting him," I said. "There's a rumour going around that unless he stops they’re considering taking the mobiles off us all and communications going back to the older technologies. If he can get into the System so easily then, well, you know…”

I tailed off half-heartedly. Darryl shrugged and turned away from me. He started packing his rucksack.

“What older technologies do you mean?”

“Radios, letters. Stuff like that.”

Darryl wasn’t listening any more. He continued to fold up his clothing to put in his rucksack. He was surprisingly tidy with his clothes. I was only a couple of years older but much more untidy. I stood up from the bed and stretched my arms into the stale, dusty air.

“What were you doing this time last year? I was about to start my last year of art college,” I said.

“What, last summer? I suppose I would've been surfing on a beach somewhere when I should've been going for Uni interviews. I spent a lot of time on the net as well. Got a bit addicted to forums and blog sites and rubbish like that.”

“Funny how they’ve come back into fashion,” I said.

“It was a bit stupid, really,” he continued, ignoring me. “I should've been doing more productive stuff. It's easy to say that now, though. And I did have another six months on you. I drove my old man mad last summer before…well, you know.”

He always stopped himself before finishing sentences like this. A shadow would cross his endearing, youthful face. Everything the rest of us were seeing – which, it seemed, contrived a vile aging process – was staring to reveal itself in his features. It was a look of resignation that hadn’t been there when he’d arrived at Christmas. It was a look I despised. Let him wear a naïve look. It was his right. He was born free to make the choices in life – his choices – of whether to be stupid, or well-informed, or ambitious, or precocious. Like the rest of us, however, he'd lost that right the second the bomb had dropped on Israel…

“I can't believe our colleges are still taking German students! I mean we're all out here…”

“Do you remember IPods?” I asked.

“Of course, my Dad owns one. So out-of-date now, of course – older technology, as you’d call it,” replied Darryl with a grin.

“Banksy says they've started making them again. They’re cheaper and easier to make than the Sonix and Waveforms.”

Darryl shrugged and carried on packing his rucksack.

“He says the troubles have set technology back fifty years. Usually science and medicine advances, but what with the special nature…”

There was a huge explosion nearby. Dust fell from the ceiling. The power of it caused our beds to jump in the air. My ears were ringing. One of my poly-photos rocked on the bedside table and fell to the floor. Thick liquid started oozing from it.

Darryl’s face was dark once more… and ten years older.

I felt the atmosphere outside change. Running feet and shouting suggested sudden panic was taking its grip. Somebody let off a flare.

We’d had the drills and reconnaissance missions. Now, as informed by our mobile phones, the time for an act of ‘a serious nature’, as they called it, was upon us. I’d suspected that something was going to happen that day. I had been hoping for at least the morning to prepare ourselves. The reprieve never came. I knew that what we'd all been expecting had finally arrived…

Darryl looked like he was about to say something important when the sound of a dozen penny whistles singing in the summer evening broke out. A look of horror crossed Darryl's face. So familiar was I with his bravado, I felt a surge of emotion rise in me and tears begin to well in my eyes. I put my hand on his shoulder and offered him a reassuring smile.

“I reckon you'll be ok. You've got a lucky feel about you.”

Darryl looked hungrily at the door, his face now white with fear.

“Why do you reckon they still use the penny whistles? Like in the old wars?”

“I don't know,” I said with a shrug. “Some things never need to change, I suppose.”

We looked at each other a while longer, neither of us knowing what to say or do.

“Come on men!” Screeched an officer as he ran past our dugout. “Two minutes to the big push!”

We each instinctively turned and picked up our rifles. Darryl put on his hard hat, attached his mobile to his tool belt and slung his rucksack over his shoulder. He looked immaculate. I merely picked up my rifle and ensured the safety catch remained on. I’d decided long ago nobody would die from my hand. I wanted merely to survive.

As we were walking out of the dugout Darryl stopped me and pointed at my mobile, still sitting on the bed.

“Frank, aren't you bringing it?”

“No, Darryl,” I said. “I won't need that now.”

As we ran towards the impending battle I recalled that last e-mail I'd received on my mobile phone only thirty minutes before. It had been an enlightening and amusing read - typically dry and laced with irony. Much like all of Banksy's work. I thought the headline was particularly good…

They don't make conscripts like they used to!