On the Edge of Darkness (Special Force Orca Book 1) (16 page)

“
Yeah… he was interned, like the rest of ‘em…taken away to some camp in Surrey, so they say. Shame, really, he was such a nice man.”

“
Made nice bread and all, what they intern him for? He’s been here for as long as I can remember.”

“
Still an Austrian though, ain’t he?…he’s been ‘ere since the Great War. He was a prisoner up at the ‘Big House’, when it were a prisoner of war camp. He never went home after the War, stayed on and married Ethel May. She’s dead now, you wouldn’t remember her. She used to play the piano at the ‘flea pit’, before you was born’… ‘Ere, there’s an idea, why don’t you go to the ‘flicks’ tonight, do you good to get out for a while, might meet a nice girl!”

“
Thought it was closed… It was the last time I was home.”

“
They’ve opened it again, but it closes early on account of the blackout.”

“
I don’t know…” said Wyatt, screwing his face up, “I was thinking of listening to the wireless for a bit and having an early night.”

“
Early night at your age, indeed! I’ve never heard such a thing!”

“
Mum, early nights is all I’ve been dreaming of for yonks.”

*     *     *

Magistrate’s Court, Central London

“You are a disgrace to the uniform you wear.” the magistrate was saying his voice falsetto with indignation. “If it wasn’t for the fact that your comrades would have to do your duties, as well as their own, in your absence, I would give you a much longer custodial sentence. As it is you will jolly well spend the remainder of your leave in police cells. I therefore sentence you Patrick Benjamin O’Neill to …to.”

“
Three days,” whispered the clerk of the court.

“
Three days,” piped the magistrate, “and I hope you’ll use the time to contemplate the errors of your ways…after all there is a war on you know!”

*     *     *

Hampshire

They sat in comfortable armchairs in front of the inn’s roaring log fire, feet outstretched, drinks in hand. Alongside the dancing flames their shoes lay in an untidy, steaming heap.

The room was empty apart from the old man
and his dog. He sat by the sash window that served as a bar, through it, the owner could be seen moving backwards and forwards busy preparing their lunch.

If Grant could have frozen th
at moment in time he would have, He took a long and leisurely sip at the pint of cider. He was pleasantly tired, the kind of tiredness that only came with physical exertion and alcohol. He hadn’t felt like this in a very long while. He observed, with almost scientific interest, the glow as the alcohol spread around his body, numbing the ache in his legs and neck. What was it he’d overheard O’Neill say once? ‘Booze was God’s way of showing he still loves us’…something like that anyway.

“
What did you say?” asked Charlotte, she too sounded tired.

He realised he had spoken out aloud.
“Oh, nothing I was only thinking of something someone had said.”

“
What was it?”

“
It was nothing much.”

“
Well, I want to know everything anyone has ever said to you.”

“
That’ll take a lifetime.”

“
I know,” she said.

*     *     *

Nuneaton

Mrs Goddard removed her carpet slippers, the ones she seemed to live in, and shuffled one foot into a scuffed garden clog. Crossing to the back door she picked up the garden fork.

“
Bit late for gardening, mum, ain’t it? It’s getting dark.” said Goddard.

“
Feeding the chickens, son,”

“
What’s with the fork? What’re feeding ‘em, sides of beef?”

“
No, you’re daft as a brush you are, the fork’s to keep that bloody cockerel away from me.”

“What’s fancies yer, does 'e?”

“Don’t you be crude, you know I don’t like it. Sailor or not, you’re not too young for me to wash your mouth out with soap, like I used to… you remember?”

“
I remember mum,” said Goddard, almost tasting the soap as he spoke.

His mum was half way out of the door
, a determined look on her face. “He’s a blighter that bird. I can’t wait for Christmas to come so he gets the chop.”

“
That ain’t like you mum,” he called, rising from his chair.

“
Well… that’s as maybe… all I know is that he’s a right bugger. Every time I go in the hut he gets behind me… and then he jumps. Yer Dad’s right, he’s always say’s the brighter the colour the fiercer the bird and they don’t come any brighter or fiercer than that there Rhode Island Red, I’m here to tell yer. He ain’t managed to knock me down yet, but it ain’t for the want of trying.”

Wyatt wandered out after her
, cup of tea in hand. Leaning on the door jam, he watched her make her way down the long garden with her a brimming pail of peelings and meal. The sun was setting behind the Chestnut tree, as she past the row of vegetables. She spoke to his dad, who was bent double, weeding rows of tiny greens. He looked up and said something, his mum laughed. The wire compound, where they kept the chickens, included the big tree. Goddard could see the birds flapping down from it as they saw her nearing the gate.

The neighbours
donated their left-overs and , once a year at Christmas, they each got a chicken in return. His mum had been telling him how well it was all going. It had put a stop to the neighbours moaning about the noise the cockerels made. It all sounded a bit illegal to Goddard, bit of a black market really, what with rationing and that.

Her back was towards him
, but he could she was having trouble with the bent hook on the gate. She put down her pail and swung the rickety wire gate back wide, lifting it over his Dad’s pile of weeds. It was just then that the Rhode Island Red struck. Flying at her in a flurry of feathers and talons. She screamed and made to close the gate, but it stuck fast on the pile of weeds. She dropped the pail and the fork and ran screaming back down the path amid a fluff of feathers and foul oaths.

Seeming inspired by all her swearing she was a good two feet in front of the cockerel by the t
ime she reached the cement post, the one that held up the washing line. The cockerel chose that moment to launch his attack; he flew at her head down and neck outstretched.

But…he was on unfamiliar territory, and hadn
’t seen the post. Goddard’s mum dodged aside and the bird hit the post head on. He fell pole-axed and unmoving.

Goddard
’s mum didn’t stop, she was still swearing when she reached her back door.

Her
eldest was leaning on the doorframe, holding a long bar of Sunlight soap in one hand and her best scrubbing brush in the other.

“
Open wide mum,” he said smiling.

*     *     *

Hampshire

The remains of their lunch lay before them; a pleasing debris of cheese rind and tomato pips, the amber liquid in their refilled glasses catching the light from the fire.

The innkeeper appeared at his side smelling faintly of pickled onions,

“I hope you enjoyed your meal, me dears,” he said before he began to clear the table.

“
It was excellent, thank you very much.”

“
Thank you, sir,” said the man, as he turned to leave, “Oh! I almost forgot. Your room’s ready, sir.”

“
Room? …What room?” he asked, bemused.

“
Your wife said…” began the innkeeper.

“
Oh! You’ve spoilt my surprise!”

“
Oh! I am terrible sorry, Mrs…I didn’t mean…”

“
That’s all right, what’s done is done,” said Charlotte magnanimously, waving a trivializing hand. The innkeeper backing away, withdrew, a trifle red in the face.

She
glanced at Grant across the fire’s glow, its light reflected on the room key hanging in one hand. “It took careful planning you know,” she said. In her other hand she held up a penknife and shrugged at the stunned silence coming from Grant. “True, I underestimated, miscalculated the distance back to this inn, but…”

*     *     *

Silvertown

Wilson tucked the blanket back in behind the curtain wire and got down off the chair. “That’s better, won’t do to break the blackout a second night, old Bill Gatsby’ll blow his top proper.”

“
Arh! You don’t want to worry about him…don’t know what he frets about, we ain’t seen ‘ide nor ‘air of a German round here since the war broke out. His wife pointed at a bucket by the grate. “Stick some more coal on, while yer up, Luv there’s a dear.”

“
What’s you last servant die off?” asked Wilson, bending to the coal scuttle.

His wife smiled
, but didn’t look up from her mending, “You want these socks darned or not?…How long you been walking round like this?”

“
Since birth or a little after.” he said, resuming his seat by the range.

“
I’m talking about these,” she held up his navy blue socks. “There’s more spud than sock.”

“
Give over… no one bothers with that sort of thing now…’sides I always wear two pairs at sea; as long as the holes is in different places it don’t show.”

She shook her head slowly,
“Men!”

Wilson lean
t forward and switched on the wireless, it sparked into life like an angry cricket. The static suddenly cleared giving way to a brass band playing a march, the station drifted in and out.

“
Nice bit of music; bit faint though ain’t it?”

“
It’s the accumulator, needs changing.”

“
I’ll pop over to the newsagents tomorrow. Ted Ray’s on tomorrow night, don’t want to miss him, do we?”

She smiled,
“I’ve been putting it off, they’re so heavy.” Her tussled head bent once more to her work. Nice to have a man about the place again, she thought, even if it’s only for a little while.

*     *     *

Nuneaton

“No, it’s no good, it’s gotta go, son,” Goddard’s dad was looking up the garden. “The bloody thing’s a menace, it nearly had your mum that time… she’s livid, spoilt her best pinny.”

“
How about Christmas, you’ll be one short… when it comes to the share out, I mean.”

“
Bugger the share out, I ain’t having no more of it, he’s for the chop, could’ve had yer mum’s eye out.” Mr Goddard senior turned and headed down towards the netted enclosure. He disappeared through the gate and seconds later all hell broke loose for a second time. He emerged from the compound with the cockerel suspended upside down from one fist. Ignoring the bird’s screeching and attempts at pecking, its triumphant captor carried it straight to the back wall and the two nails over the drain.

The condemned bird was trussed feet first to the rusty iron nails. His Dad
’s hand disappeared into his pocket and pulled out the knife that was always there. Goddard remembered from a boy.

But the cockerel wasn
’t finished yet, as if sensing his impending doom he burst into life. It was all his Dad could do to hold the thrashing bird still with both hands, “Give’s a hand 'ere son.”

Goddard
bent down and retrieved the dropped knife. There was a flash of silver in the dying sunlight, a spurt of red, and mum’s torment was over.

His dad looked him in the eyes
, “You couldn’t have done that a few months ago, son,” he said.

He stared back at his Dad as they
crouched together, the cockerel’s blood running river-red between them. There was no need for a reply, Dad had been in the Great War, he knew what war did.

*     *     *

Central London.

His wife was getting into full swing, O’Neill snatched a glance over her shoulder… the copper behind her was loving it, the sadistic bastard.

“
It’s taken me all this time to find you,” she was yelling, “and if it wasn’t for the placard outside the newsagent…And the disgrace of it!”

That word again…

“I’ve never been so embarrassed, I’ve been after asking everyone if they’ve seen you and then I find out like that. Not just headlines in the newspaper, oh no! I had to have the newspaper man yelling it out for all to hear, ‘Local Irishman jailed for assault on policeman!’… I knew it was you, I just knew. Be Jaysus! Last leave I never saw you… you were on another of yer drunken binges and now this.”