The Wraiths of War (7 page)

It wasn’t just my hearing, though, that was temporarily obliterated during these nightly attacks;
all
my senses were as badly affected. The constant explosions would cause the ground to shake, my jittering vision to fill with nothing but the sight of flying mud and shrapnel, and the blinding flash of exploding shells. Often I couldn’t even see
that
much, because my eyes and nose would be streaming from the stinging effects of gas and sulphur. The drifting smoke would catch in my throat, making me cough until I could taste blood, and filling my mouth with a nasty chemical taste. At such times even my sense of touch was unreliable. There’d be nothing but shifting, shaking, sliding mud beneath my hands and feet, making it impossible to orientate myself.

With more mud buffeting my body from all sides, I’d sometimes feel as though I was drowning, unable to tell up from down. On these occasions, when it became impossible to stand upright, impossible to see what my friends were doing or hear what they were saying – impossible to function in any useful way at all – I would simply give up and sink into the filth and curl my body around the heart, which I always kept in the button-down hip pocket of my uniform jacket. Sometimes I’d clutch it in my hand and think about leaving, think about using the heart to project myself somewhere else,
anywhere
but here…

But I never succumbed to temptation. I was too afraid that if I did I wouldn’t have the nerve to come back. And even if I did come back I was afraid the temptation to take a break might come upon me again and again, with increasing regularity, and that the War for me would therefore become horribly protracted, the nightmare stretching on and on, to a point where even my ‘breaks’ from the conflict would become blighted by the terrible knowledge that at some point I’d have to return to it.

Although the War is long behind me now, the memories of those terrible times are still fresh in my mind. I’m still haunted by them; they still give me nightmares – so many, in fact, and of such intensity, that often I find myself wishing only for peace, for an end to it all.

But the simple fact is, I endured the trenches. All of us who were there endured them.

Well, that’s not true. Not all.

Some died, of course.

Others went mad.

And yet others were mad, or at least half-mad, before they even set foot on foreign soil.

Which brings us back to John Pyke.

After that night during our training when the heart became active, Pyke avoided me. He still slid me sidelong looks at regular intervals, but from that point on they were full not of aggression and intent, but of mistrust, wariness – even fear.

So I sometimes believed anyway. Because for all the times when I was convinced he had seen the heart in full flow, and was running scared because of it, there were just as many other occasions when I told myself I was being paranoid, and that his wariness was down to the fact that he was alone and outnumbered, and therefore worried that our little band of brothers might at some point gang up on him.

I don’t know for certain, because I never got to know him that well, but I’m guessing that back home, on the streets of Lewisham, Pyke had been a big cheese, a cock o’ the walk, the kind of bloke it was easier to back up than to oppose. Under normal circumstances, young blokes like Pyke who lived in tough areas would abide by the law of their particular jungle, every man for himself, with the strongest, usually bolstered by an entourage of weaker hangers-on, rising to the top.

The War, though, changed all that, and the prevailing mood from 1914 became one of all lads together, of local rivalries being forgotten in the face of a common enemy. The previously diffuse population of Britain’s young men had discovered there was strength to be had in numbers – which was bad news for men like Pyke, who’d become used to being top of the pile, having achieved their status through bullying and intimidation, and who now found themselves suddenly weakened by dint of becoming one of the herd. Now, when Pyke and his ilk tried to throw their weight about, they’d find themselves confronted by a single body of men prepared to stand together and defend the weakest. Some of these tough guys – the smarter ones – adapted; they bought into the group mentality and became better men because of it. Others, though, those who were too stupid, or too crazy, to conform, all at once found themselves ostracised and friendless.

Pyke was not only one of the stupid ones, he was also one of the crazy ones – and I’m afraid it was me who’d made him so.

All right, so maybe that’s exaggerating it a bit. Maybe it wasn’t me that had made him crazy, but the heart. And maybe the heart didn’t actually
make
him crazy. Maybe Pyke was already three-quarters of the way there, and the heart, combined with the effects of the War, had just nudged him over the edge.

All the same I felt guilty about it. And the likelihood that Pyke, if he had survived the War, would have remained a nasty piece of work, didn’t make me feel any
less
guilty.

‘Time for a spot o’ tiffin, I think,’ Frank announced once the back-slapping had died down. ‘Stick the kettle on, Pykey.’

Despite Pyke’s surly manner, Frank often addressed him in a breezy way, as if they were old mates. I knew Frank was doing it to wind him up, and sure enough Pyke flashed him a venomous look.

‘Do it yourself,’ he muttered.

Frank snorted a laugh. Aside from one or two barbed comments, he and Pyke had pretty much managed to steer clear of each other this past year or so. Today, though, for some reason – maybe because Frank was buoyed by his ‘rat bagging’ triumph; maybe because he’d simply lost patience with Pyke’s constant hostility – he was in a provocative mood.

‘You really take the biscuit, you know, Pykey,’ he said, still in that same cheery manner. ‘When it comes to priorities you really are arse about tit.’

The men were piling into the shelter now, huddling round the brazier to get warm, rain dripping from their helmets and clothes. Some, like Reg Coxon and Geoff Ableman, who’d been drafted in from other battalions and knew nothing of Frank and John Pyke’s past history, watched the exchange curiously.

‘Just leave it, Frank,’ I said. ‘It’s not worth it.’

As soon as Frank flashed a glance at me, I knew he wasn’t going to listen. After months of simmering silences, dark looks and the occasional muttered insult, clearly things, for him, had come to a head.

‘Why should I leave it?’ he retorted, and gestured disdainfully at Pyke. The big man was still sitting by the brazier, glaring up at us, a filthy, rat-nibbled blanket around his shoulders, his elbows resting on his thighs and his hands dangling between his knees.

‘Look at him,’ Frank continued. ‘He’s a fucking wet weekend. Like a fucking big kid he is. Harbouring his stupid grudge, as if it really fucking matters. As if it really fucking matters
after all this
.’

There were tears in Frank’s eyes, and suddenly I understood. He and Doug had been the battalion’s chirpy chaps, the ones who kept spirits up when things were tough, the ones who could always be relied on for a quick quip or a funny story. But now Doug was dead, and Frank, though he’d been trying to hide it, had been feeling the strain. And all at once he was at the end of his tether. He needed to vent. And Pyke, the dark, energy-sapping hole at the centre of our group, was the obvious target.

Jock McDaid, a thick-set Scottish engineer, who after the War would go on to become a Labour MP and serve in Ramsay MacDonald’s 1924 government, said, ‘What grudge is this then?’

‘Has tha’ ’ad a lover’s tiff?’ asked Reg Coxon, raising a ripple of laughter.

‘It’s something and nothing,’ I said quickly. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It
does
matter,’ said Frank, struggling to speak. ‘People have died, and it
does
matter…’ His voice choked off.

I would have half-expected Pyke to have jumped up by now, stung into action, but he was still sitting there, his body not relaxed but utterly motionless, as if he had a poisonous spider on his shoulder and was waiting for someone to knock it off. He was still staring at Frank, but oddly he wasn’t
glaring
any more. Then his eyes shifted to me, and I almost took a step back, shocked at how depthless, how empty, they looked.

Barely moving his lips he said, ‘Yeah, well, that’s hardly my fault, is it?’

Reg Coxon leaned over him, water dripping from the rim of his helmet and sizzling on the hot rusty metal of the brazier. Above us rain clattered on the corrugated metal roof.

‘Eh, lad? What’s tha’ say? Speak up.’

‘He said it wasn’t his fault,’ someone piped up.

‘What wasn’t?’

‘I haven’t a clue, old cock.’

Stan Little, standing on the other side of the brazier, scowled and said, ‘Like Locke says, it’s something or nothing. He’s half-cracked, this one.’

Pyke’s head turned, the movement strangely lizard-like, his eyes sliding darkly to regard Stan. ‘You would say that, wouldn’t you? You’re another one under his spell.’

Stan’s scowl deepened. ‘Whose spell? You’re addled, old lad.’

‘You know who.’

‘I don’t, you know. You’re going to have to tell me.’

I knew it was coming. And sure enough Pyke’s head turned slowly again and his empty eyes drilled into mine. When he raised a hand and pointed at me, I realised how much he was trembling, how scared he was.

‘Him,’ he whispered.

Then, as if the effort of pointing had been too much for him, his whole body seemed to droop. He lowered his head and wrapped his arms around it as if to defend himself from blows. All eyes turned to me. McDaid said, ‘What’s the lad talking about, Locke?’

I shrugged, trying to look as bemused as everyone else, though the heart in my chest was thumping hard, and the one in my pocket seemed to be getting heavier and heavier.

‘Search me.’

In a muffled voice, from behind the barrier of his entwined arms, Pyke said, ‘That’s a good idea.’

‘What is?’ asked McDaid, more confused than ever.

‘Searching him. He’ll have it on him somewhere. Then you’ll see. Then you’ll see what’s causing all this.’

All the men were looking at me now, and for once I was glad of the mud on my face. It meant they couldn’t see me turning red. I grinned and raised my arms.

‘Be my guest. I have no idea what Pykey’s on about, but if anyone wants to find what he thinks I’ve got, they’re welcome to try.’

Still the men hung back, many of them eyeing Pyke warily, some raising their eyebrows at each other, one or two tapping the sides of their heads.

‘This is daft,’ Stan Little said. ‘I told you the lad’s lost it. Now let’s forget all this rubbish and have a cup of tea. I’m parched.’

There was a general murmur of agreement. Someone said, ‘Maybe you ought to have a lie down, Pykey. Get a bit of kip.’

Pyke unpeeled his arms from around himself. He looked like a turtle emerging from its shell. He fixed his gaze on me again, and now his face was drawn, stricken, as if he believed he had come too far to turn back.

‘It’s in his pocket,’ he croaked. ‘His left hip pocket. I’ve seen it.’

Attention swung back towards me. I still had my arms half-raised. Under the scrutiny of the men I did my best not to look nervous, guilty.

Jock McDaid said, ‘
Have
ye got something in your pocket, Locke?’

I laughed. ‘Only this.’

I had to concentrate to stop my hand from shaking as I unbuttoned my pocket and took out the heart. The moment I produced it, Pyke whimpered and put his hands over his face. The rest of the men leaned forward.

‘What is it?’ Geoff Ableman asked.

‘What’s it look like?’ someone said. ‘It’s a little heart.’

‘But what’s it for?’

‘It’s not
for
anything,’ I said with a shrug. ‘It’s a family heirloom. A good-luck charm. My old mum gave it to me, said it’d keep me safe. Daft, really.’

The lie came easily. I saw several of the men relaxing, glancing at Pyke with renewed pity.

‘Why is the lad so afraid of it?’ McDaid asked.

‘Beats me.’

‘Can I have a look at it?’

As ever when someone asked me this question, I felt a pang of reluctance, had to fight a knee-jerk reaction to snatch it back, hide it away. But I forced myself to grin. ‘Sure.’

I held out the heart and McDaid took it.

Pyke jumped up so suddenly that all the men jerked back. The heel of his boot caught the wooden box he’d been sitting on with such force that it flew backwards, clattering against the wall of mud behind him.

‘
Don’t touch it!
’ His voice was high and thin, almost a screech. ‘
It’s evil!
’

‘Fuck’s sake, Pykey!’ someone exclaimed.

‘Sit dahn, lad,’ said Reg Coxon.

McDaid held up his free hand, as if appealing for calm, then extended it slowly towards Pyke as though soothing a nervous animal. Pyke had scooted backwards and was pressed against the wall, his face stark with fear.

‘Take it easy, lad,’ McDaid said. ‘There’s nothing to be scared of. Look for yersel.’

He raised his other arm, the heart sitting on the flat of his hand. I tensed. I wanted to take it back off him. I imagined it erupting into life, entwining its black tendrils around all the men packed into the shelter.

Pyke cowered, quailed. He half-turned, pressing himself against the wall, digging his fingernails into the oozing mud as if he wanted to claw his way through it.

‘It’s tricking you,’ he wheezed. ‘
He’s
tricking you. I’ve seen what it can do.’

McDaid’s voice was still soothing, but there was a hint of impatience in it now.

‘Come on, lad, settle yersel. It’s a rock, that’s all. It can’t hurt ye. Ye need to pull yersel together.’

Pyke was still clawing at the wall, almost sobbing. ‘You don’t understand. Only
I
understand.’

‘
What
don’t we understand?’ said McDaid.

‘
It’s alive!
’ Pyke hissed, making me think immediately of Colin Clive in the old black-and-white
Frankenstein
movie. ‘It’s why we’re here. It’s what made all this happen.
It’ll kill us all!
’