The Day Before Tomorrow (3 page)

Tristan nodded and left her to read it alone, sensing, as his wife could not, that that was what Tamar wanted.  He bustled Ophelia from the room with a rather overdone carelessness, and a remark about taking care of herself in her condition, and didn’t she feel like a lie down, as she was looking a little wan.

Tamar gave him a grateful smile and resolved to try to be nicer to him in future.  Not as nice as he would like her to be, obviously, but nicer than previously.  After all, it could not be easy being married to Ophelia.  She was later to be glad that she had made this resolve. 

For now, however, there was Denny’s letter. 

Oct 25th

Dear Tam,

Just landed in  ––I am with the –—th everything is okay, please don’t worry.  Captain Stiles is our captain, and he is a decent bloke.  I feel like I know him from somewhere.  I am billeted with a good bunch, but some of them are very young to be here I think.  My bunk mate is Karl Morris who is only 17 but is built like a brick out house.  I have shown him your picture, and he wasn’t half jealous ha ha. 

Tomorrow we are setting out for –––- which is where the front line is, but don’t worry Captain Stiles says nothing much is happening at the moment.  I’m only telling you, because the mail is slower from the front lines and I don’t want you to worry if you don’t get a letter next week, although I will write.  Captain Stiles is a right laugh.  He says General ––– is a right –––- but he seems okay to me, just a bit pompous, you know.  Speaking of pompous how’s Tristan whatsisface?  He’d better be behaving himself.  Why isn’t he up here with us lot anyway, did he tell you?  All right for some eh? 

I have to go now, make sure and write to me soon. I love you.  And God knows I miss you.  Captain Stiles says it’ll all be over by Christmas.  Well, he says it had better be.  Do you recognise the name?  I’m sure I know him from somewhere.  I love you. 

 Always, Denny x

* * *

Denny was on sentry duty with Karl.  It was freezing cold, and Denny was tired.  The push to the front had been postponed for reasons unknown.  But Denny suspected that the reason was Captain Stiles, who had exploded impressively when the orders had been confirmed.  So impressively, in fact, that the whole camp had heard him.  Denny grinned at the memory.  He had ranted on at some length about incompetent Generals and raw recruits.  Denny appreciated it. Here, at least, was one officer who cared about the lives of his men.

 The Captain had been found, later that night, wandering around drunk as a rat and singing loudly about the army and how he didn’t want no more of it.  ‘The Generals in the army are all a bunch of bas-tards – I don’t want no more of ar-my life.  Gee mom I wanna go home.’

Denny sighed, it wasn’t funny really, wasn’t it how they all felt?  And the Captain had been here from the beginning. 

The other recruits had been reluctant to handle him in this state, and so it had been Denny who had propelled him into his tent and put him to bed.  He did not feel like the Cap was a stranger for some reason, like the others did.  Every time he saw him, he felt a strange sense of
Déjà vu
, which he had played down in his letter to Tamar, knowing her scorn for all such chimera.  Anyway, Denny was used to handing drunks, his father had been one, but not like the Cap who was a friendly drunk.  Indeed the Cap loved the whole world (except, apparently, the Brass) when he was in his cups; it was impossible not to like the guy.  He had probably got drunk on purpose to delay the move to the front lines. 

Denny did not like sentry duty; too much time to think, and thinking, in a place like this, could drive you mad.  So far, he had avoided it, mostly by taking care of Karl who was prone to thinking.  But now Karl had fallen asleep, and Denny did not consider it worthwhile to wake him unless something happened, so he had nothing to do but think. 

Captain Stiles stumbled out of his tent to Denny’s simultaneous relief and alarm.  He shook Karl urgently, but the Cap was upon them. 

He treated Denny to a toothy grin.  ‘Naw, don’t wake him,’ he said.  ‘He’s a growing lad, he needs his sleep,’ and he put a finger to his lips.  ‘I won’t tell.’ 

He settled down next to Denny and lit a huge cigar, which Denny surmised to be the property of the General.  

They sat in a companionable silence for a while.  But the Cap kept looking at Denny and opening his mouth then shutting it again.  Sometimes he would begin a sentence then stop.  Clearly, he had something on his mind. 

Denny decided to help him out.  ‘Do, you know something Cap?’ he said, ‘I have the strangest feeling we’ve met somewhere before.’

~ Chapter Seven ~

C
aptain Stiles hated the army, and he hated it even more when the new recruits had turned up.  There they stood pale and weary in a ragged line straight off the wagon.  Waiting for their orders.  Good god, he thought, some of them were little more than
children
.

Like that one at the end there, despite his prodigious size, he was baby faced and clearly in over his head.  But the one next to him, the skinny undersized one who seemed to be the only thing holding the big one up, although not literally of course, he was officer material if ever Stiles had seen it.  A former high-ranking policeman at Scotland Yard, Stiles had an unerring eye for men, and this one interested him.  A small, skinny man himself, he knew that a large man just makes a larger corpse and Private Sanger’s almost uncanny self possession in the face of the horrors before him as compared with Private Morris’s clear terror, made him living proof of the archaism “size matters not.”  He found his eye repeatedly drawn to this young man.  He was only average height but seemed taller because he was so thin.  Sharp featured with hollowed cheeks, he was not at all handsome, but he was striking.  (Stiles sensed rather than saw that he was older than his companion.  He was one of those men who would look young for the rest of his life.  Which was in Stiles’s opinion, something of a mixed blessing) He stood so still in contrast to the nervous fidgeting of the others, looking calmly around him.  A listener and a watcher this one.  He looked no older than his companion until you watched his eyes.  It was in the eyes, Stiles decided, the difference between a young man and a boy, not the physique.  Thus, before he had ever spoken a word to him, Captain Stiles had marked Denny Sanger out for promotion to Corporal.

Captain Stiles was not prone to fancy, and he put his “feeling” about Private Sanger, down to his experience of men in general and in no way did he think that it might be because he instinctively felt that he “knew” the man and his character. 

But when Denny said that he thought they might have met before, he realised that that indeed was the feeling that he had been trying to put his finger on for the last three days.  However. ‘I don’t think we’ve ever met,’ he evaded.

Denny sighed.  ‘No, I suppose not,’ he said. 

‘Mind you,’ said Stiles, ‘You’re a London lad, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Don’t suppose you’ve ever been arrested, have you Sanger?’

Denny shook his head. 

‘No I didn’t think so,’ said Stiles.  ‘I only ask because I used to be in the police force.’ 

Denny gave a violent start. ‘I’m sorry sir, but now I’m
certain
that I know you from somewhere.’

‘Well, I have the same feeling,’ Stiles admitted.  ‘But I don’t suppose it matters.’

Denny thought it
did
matter, although, if he had been pushed, he could not have said why.  Therefore, he dropped it.

‘You wanted to speak to me sir?’ he ventured. 

‘Yes,’ Stiles cleared his throat.  ‘The thing is, I reckon we’ll be pushing on to the front tomorrow – day after at the latest.’

Denny bowed his head in agreement. 

‘That Damn General won’t be told – anyway, I can’t delay any longer,’ 

Denny smiled at this. 

‘So, ahem, anyway, I’m going to need a good right-hand man up there, and I reckon that’s you – Corporal.’

‘Er, that’s “Private”, Cap.’

‘I know what I said.’

* * *

Tamar had taken to watching Television as a way to avoid conversation.  Since the set was in the old servant’s quarters, and both the Buffington Smythe’s considered Television a pastime that was beneath them, she found that she got quite a lot of peace that way.  Unless Tristan ran her to earth and delivered his “Television is the opiate of the masses” speech and tried to tempt her to a stroll round the garden. 

She quite agreed with him in a way, but she was finding the TV soothing.  It demanded nothing from her, and, in its banality, she could lose herself for hours on end and almost – not quite – but almost, forget her troubles.  Besides, there was the aforementioned bonus of avoiding conversation.  Ophelia never came in here. She thought that “vibrations” from the TV set were harmful to your health. 

Sometimes Tristan would wander in like a pallid ghost and sit with her in silence watching old programs that neither of them had seen before.  (Repeats and war updates were all that was ever shown these days.) 

Perhaps, she thought, he liked the peace and quiet too.

* * *

The house that Mack was planning to rob was, like most large houses these days, fairly deserted, all the staff having gone, either to war or to be back with their families.  But there would be some people there, and that was where Cindy came in.  She was to make them invisible. 

Until he had discovered her, Mack had contented himself with small jobs, looting and petty theft, but he had seen the advantage of the war at once.  He knew that these big houses –  once impenetrable fortresses – would now be half empty and vulnerable.  He just had not had a plan – until now. 

He had been watching her for some time; she was undeniably good looking and pretty well off.  That was enough to interest him initially and then he had started watching the house.  When he had seen her literally vanish for the first time, he had not been able to believe his eyes.  He had set up the surveillance at first, with no idea of blackmail; he just wanted proof that he was not seeing things.  Only when he had the taped evidence in his hands, did he realise what he might be able to do with such an accomplice. 

Cindy was a witch, not a very good one mind you, but still a witch.  And invisibility was easy anyway.  You just had to move onto the astral plane where you could not be seen. 

She had explained to him that you could not touch things on the physical plane whilst you were on the astral plane, but you could take things with you onto the astral plane – your clothes for instance and yes other people and jewels and suchlike if you wanted to.  So that they could get into the house unseen but once inside, they would be exposed until, they had finished the job and were ready to leave.  Also, if the house had guard dogs these might be a problem as animals were more sensitive than humans and might sense their presence even while on the astral plane.  This had happened to Cindy, she told him, hoping that he would give up the idea.  But she had to admit that the dogs would not be able to see them or to touch them, and if they roused the house, Mack said, she would just have to hide them on the astral plane, that was what she was there for.  Besides, they would reconnoitre first and find out if there
were
dogs. 

It was foolproof he said.  Cindy was not so sure.  Besides, it was wrong! 

‘Hecaté forgive me,’ she said to herself. 

Witches traditionally have a bad press, but actually, they live by a code of honour as strict as any you may find.  Magic power is not meant to be abused, and novice witches take an oath never to do so.  Some break it of course, but most find that they do not want to.  Their power is earned by long years of training (Cindy was actually forty, she just
looked
twenty five) and with the training comes discipline. 

They pulled up at the gates of the large house.  Cindy had not told Mack about the teleporting that she could do.  If he knew that, she surmised he would have her teleporting them all over the county to rob places. 

‘Get out,’ said Mack, ‘round the back – now, do your thing.’ 

Cindy reluctantly obliged.

‘Here,’ said Mack, ‘I can still see you, what are you trying to pull?’

Cindy sighed.  And was about to explain when an obliging tramp came round the corner and walked straight through Tommy.  She held out her hands. ‘See?’

Mack nodded. ‘Okay, let’s go,’ he turned to Tommy who had gone as white as a sheet.  ‘Come on you,’ he barked, ‘we haven’t got all night.’ 

This was not strictly true, as Cindy knew, since there is no time on the astral plane.  But she did not feel inclined to mention it.  She wanted this over with. 

~ Chapter Eight ~

I
t was raining heavily.  Although technically, the temperature had gone up, Denny felt colder than ever; he had never felt so miserable in his whole life, and tomorrow they were to engage the enemy.  He sat under a makeshift shelter trying to write to Tamar, but it was hard to find the words. Tomorrow he might be dead, and there was no point whitewashing it.  He could not say as much in his letter, but neither did he feel like filling it up with pointless trivia about the weather and Harper’s BO or Morris’s aspirations as a painter (a house painter, not the other kind – he wanted to go into the family business.) It seemed a modest enough ambition, and yet, to Morris, it was the height of wonderful and completely out of his reach.  It made Denny sad. 

He gazed out across the grey, rain drenched fields designated “The Neutral Zone” by Woodley, a big Star Trek fan.  Out there, somewhere, was the enemy.  Was there a young man there looking back at him feeling the same way as he was?  Probably.  And they would have their own Morris and Wood and others.  Men just like them.  And these were the men who he would have to kill, and who would try to kill him, it was ridiculous.  They would not want to be here anymore than he did.  Except for the odd few fools, they had a few of them over here as well – all gung ho and macho bravado.  Denny despised them, whichever side they were on.