KDBookOnline
Share Us
Henderson’s tone was bland, but he looked at Jem with unconcealed dislike.
Jem nodded. It felt like there was a boulder in his throat. ‘Just needed some air.’
It was plausible enough. The window was open but the sickly-sweet smell of death pervaded the room. Henderson stared at him, his expression obscured by his beard. Then, without advancing into the room, he gave Thomas’s shoulder a shove, jolting him back to consciousness.
‘Eh?’ Thomas blinked, sitting bolt upright and looking wildly around. Seeing Henderson, he rubbed a hand over his face as his ears turned pink. ‘Sorry. What time is it?’
‘Time for you to do your job and show some respect,’ Henderson said coldly. ‘Your friend here has been keeping watch on his own.’ He opened the door, adding, almost under his breath, ‘Though some might say he’s the one who needs watching.’
Thomas, sitting upright, rubbed his palms down his thighs, as if readying himself for action of some sort. ‘Right, then.’
With a last look at the drawer, and the fold of white cotton caught in it, Henderson left. As he closed the door behind him, a current of air tugged at the candle flame so it cast a brief glow of warmth over Sir Henry Hyde’s cold flesh in its nest of blue satin.
When the undertaker had brought the corpse up, the jaw had been tied beneath the chin. The bandage had since been removed, but the old man’s lips remained clamped, sealing in the family’s secrets.
I don’t blame Henderson for not trusting me. He was quite right.
I lied to you that night, after the fair—there was no intruder. I was used to making up excuses for being where I shouldn’t—I didn’t think twice about it. I didn’t always get away with it, of course. I was framed for theft when I was found in Frensham’s house. I served six months with hard labour and was only sorry that I’d got caught.
It was the first time the dishonesty bothered me—that night at Coldwell. I vowed that I wouldn’t put you in that position again. But one lie all too easily leads to another, and my life is littered with promises I failed to keep.
I never got the chance to tell you the truth.
July 1st 1916
France
It’s not supposed to be like this.
As they come out of the trench, they have to step over the bodies of their own men. The blue day has blackened. Smoke enfolds them. The grass is long and still wet with dew and the undulating field erupts in front of him in plumes of earth. Blinded by smoke, he trips over men and stumbles into craters.
Walk, don’t run.
Joseph looks back, the whites of his eyes wild, his whole face a terrified question. What do we—?
The man to his right is thrown backwards in a convulsion of bullets, a shower of scarlet. Joseph flinches wildly, his mouth stretching and gaping. Jem catches hold of his arm and yanks him back.
Stay behind me and keep going.
That’s what they have been ordered to do. That’s what they are here for. The Big Push. They have left their streets, their homes, their sweethearts to cross this field—now, today. They have spent six months stabbing sacks with bayonets and drilling squares for this. It’s all part of a plan.
But it’s not supposed to be like this.
His mind shrinks, so there is only room for the same refrain. He feels the guns now, rather than hearing them. All he hears is the sound of his own heaving breath and those words.
ITSNOTSUPPOSEDTOBELIKETHIS.
They were told it would be easy. The German artillery would have been destroyed by the bombardment, they said. Eight days of heavy shelling. There would be no one left in the enemy trenches—not even the rats. That’s what they were told.
He goes on. Walking not running. Stepping over bodies in the grass.
He feels as if he’s looking through a tunnel. Or that he’s wearing blinkers, like a dray horse. He hears the thud of men being hit, the whistle of bullets; he feels the rush of air as they pass him. He is braced—balanced between calm acceptance and utter disbelief—certain that at any moment he will be hit.
His hand goes to his heart, the pocket where the letter is, and he keeps walking, into the rain of fire.
Brighton
The hospital is in two houses on Lewes Crescent, one of the town’s grander addresses. She walks there, along the seafront, where it is business as usual despite the rumble of guns from across the Channel. There are still deckchairs around the bandstand and people strolling on the pier, though many of the men are in khaki uniforms or hospital blues and the women are in groups together with mothers, friends, and sisters instead of husbands, sweethearts, and sons.