The Metal Heart

by Caroline Lea

  I don’t care, I think savagely.

  The thought is strange – like the stomach-lurching moment of walking up a stairway and suddenly finding that one of the steps has crumbled away.

  Bess has come back from the mess hut, bringing two sandwiches. She begins sweeping the floor; she avoids my gaze.

  ‘What has happened with the prisoners?’ I ask.

  She keeps her eyes fixed on the brush. ‘There was a riot,’ she says quietly. ‘They’re refusing to work. They’re all on rations of bread and water and confined to their huts.’

  ‘But . . . you don’t think that prisoner . . .? They said he hit a guard.’

  Bess shrugs, continues sweeping. A muscle twitches in her jaw and she won’t look at me. ‘Where’s your sister gone? It’s cold out. I think it might snow.’

  I put my head out of the infirmary door, where the darkness is dropping, and call, but there is no reply. I sit on one of the beds and wait.

  She doesn’t return.

  I boil a pan of water, stirring some honey into it, and I divide it between two small bottles. I close my eyes, trying to sense where she might be.

  Nothing.

  After another hour of waiting and pacing, I tuck the bottles of honey and hot water into my pockets and walk out into the clenched air.

  A thousand cold stars are stamped into the frozen sky. I look to the north for a glimpse of the Merrie Dancers – those fine ribbons of light that pulse through the sky in winter to remind us that the world around us is a living thing. The night is dark, still, unbreathing.

  ‘Con!’ I call. ‘Con!’

  No answer. The prisoners’ huts are all in darkness too. I imagine the men inside, shivering, listening to my voice echoing again and again. Perhaps they will think it’s one of the spirits on this island. Perhaps the guards will imagine some transformed selkie, raising her voice to the wind, crying out for her lost mate.

  I call again. Again.

  No answer.

  The door of the Punishment Hut is shut and a guard stands in front of it, his teeth chattering. From inside, I hear coughing.

  Cesare.

  The wind scrapes my cheeks and I huddle into my coat. When the guard sees me, a shadow moving in the darkness, his hand moves to the gun on his hip. I step into the light from his torch beam and take my handkerchief from my pocket, waving it in mock surrender. I do my best to smile.

  He doesn’t move his hand from his gun. I take a deep breath and walk towards him, still smiling, still waving the hanky.

  ‘Cold night,’ I say.

  ‘You shouldn’t be out here.’ Close up, I can see how young he is – not much older than me. Perhaps his shivering isn’t just from the cold.

  ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you,’ I say.

  ‘I’m not frightened.’ His eyes are wide.

  ‘Of course. I wondered if I could see the prisoner. I’m a nurse here. He’s unwell.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Can’t let you. That’s a dangerous man in there.’

  ‘He’s ill. I want to give him something.’

  He tightens his grip on his gun. ‘I’ve got my orders.’

  ‘Please.’ I take a step towards him.

  ‘What’re you up to?’ The guard’s eyes flick over my face, and then away.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ I say. ‘I only want to check on the prisoner.’

  ‘I can’t allow that. And you can’t frighten me into it.’

  ‘Frighten you? How could I?’ I force my smile wider.

  He licks his lips nervously.

  ‘You do a fine job with the prisoners,’ I say. ‘You must be very brave.’

  He stands a little taller. ‘They don’t try anything on. Not with me.’

  ‘Of course not. It’s an important job you have, to make all these decisions about what happens to the prisoners. A great deal of responsibility for you.’

  He shifts his weight and swallows. ‘Aye. Well.’

  ‘I just want to see the prisoner,’ I say. ‘He’s ill.’

  ‘You’re planning something.’

  ‘What could I do? I’m only a wee girl. And you’re here.’

  He hesitates.

  ‘Please,’ I say. ‘I’ll be ever so grateful.’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘But he’s not well,’ I say. ‘What if he dies? Because of you. What will you say?’

  He sighs. ‘Five minutes. No tricks. I’ve got my eye on you.’

  It is pitch black inside. The guard goes in first and shouts, ‘On your feet!’

  There is a clinking from the back of the hut and then the guard shines his torch on Cesare, who cowers and shields his eyes against the sudden light.

  His skin is pale, and when he coughs his breathing has a sea-stone rattle.

  ‘Your cough!’ I exclaim. ‘Can I look at you?’

  He spreads his hands; his chains clink. ‘I am prisoner. You can do anything.’

  ‘I must take your pulse, listen to your breathing,’ I say. ‘I have brought you some honey water. We used to have a hive, in Kirkwall, and I gathered the honey myself . . .’ I can hear myself gabbling and am glad of the near-darkness to hide the heat in my cheeks.

  I hold out a bottle. His hands are cold – the bandaged one is grubby – and they tremble as he takes the lid from the bottle and sips at the liquid. I put the other bottle on the ground next to him.

  ‘For later.’

  ‘Thank you.’ In the dim light from the torch, his eyes are black.

  ‘I need to take your pulse.’

  ‘No tricks now!’ the guard warns.

  Cesare watches me while I hold his wrist, but the flutter of his pulse is too faint. I unbutton the top of his shirt, my fingers half numb with cold and fear. He stays absolutely still, barely breathing as I press my fingers into his neck. His skin is warm and rough; his pulse gallops under my fingertips. I count the rapid rise and fall of his breath.

  He doesn’t take his eyes from mine.

  ‘I won’t let them keep you in here,’ I murmur.

  He blinks, then coughs.

  ‘Time’s up,’ the guard says, and ducks out into the night.

  As I turn to follow, Cesare grasps my wrist and pulls me close. My stomach jolts.

  Cesare whispers, his words hot and fast in my ear. ‘I do not hurt MacLeod. There is no riot. But they say I lie. You must help me.’

  Then Cesare releases me and I stand rubbing at my wrists, still feeling the warmth of his breath. He coughs again, his expression pleading.

  I walk back to the infirmary with the feeling of his fingers on my wrist still, his words in my ear.

  Help me.

  I’d forgotten about Con, but there she is, waiting in the infirmary. She is sitting on one of the beds, her cheeks flushed from the cold.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, and pulls me in close. ‘I just want to keep you safe.’

  I nod. I don’t ask her where she went. I don’t apologize.

  Help me.

  The infirmary lights are dimmed: all the men are sleeping. Con’s hands are freezing. She leads me behind the curtain to our section of the room and, without speaking, we climb into the little bed. I turn my back on her. The sheets are cold and my head aches. I can hear her breathing in the darkness.

  She bumps her hip against mine. ‘You’re taking up too much room.’

  I pretend to smile.

  She reaches for my hand. ‘Take blood and breath and skin and bone.’

  ‘Take all between these seven stones.’

  When we were children, we used to mourn for all the dead fishermen who disappeared in the storms. We’d sneak down onto the beach and say the old rhyme.

  We had been warned never to lie down between the point of high and low tide: it was the place that was neither land nor sea, so it belonged to the devil. But we’d heard that you could lie on that piece of sand and place seven stones at seven points on your body and recite the words, and the sea would give back whatever it had stolen. In excha
nge, it would take part of your soul. It seemed a fair trade to us: our souls in return for all the lives that had been lost.

  We had laid the stones on our head, heart, hands, feet and groin and we had chanted the rhyme together:

  Take blood and breath and flesh and bone.

  Take all between these seven stones.

  Now, in the darkness of the infirmary, with those familiar words in my ears, I feel the hairs rise on my neck.

  It’s a strange question: what would you give up to save a life?

  In the soft glow of the moonlight, I look at our hands – so alike that, with our fingers intertwined, even I can’t tell whose hand is whose.

  ‘I love you,’ Con whispers.

  ‘I love you too,’ I say. And it is an odd thing: the words feel hollow, suddenly, but they are as easy to say as any others. As easy to say as, ‘I didn’t do it,’ or ‘I’m sorry,’ or ‘I’m keeping you safe.’

  Orcadians

  There’s a whisper of snow in the air as people trudge up the path to Kirkwall Town Hall. It is late and dark, so most of the women and children are at home, where they have been told to stay because the meeting may be upsetting.

  Marjorie Croy has come anyway. ‘If my children’s feet are hardy enough to stand worn-out shoes, then our ears can all cope with whatever’s to be said.’

  So, she sits in the hall, two children at her sides and one perched on her knees. Her cheeks are pink with cold, her hands folded across her lap. In her face, it’s possible to see her daughter Bess’s jawline – softened by age, but with the same pugnacious tilt to it.

  She and her children sit quietly with the other Orcadians as John O’Farrell and Major Bates walk into the hall.

  Everyone sits up: they’ve seen Major Bates on only one occasion so far, when he came to the island to recruit for the camp, and the general thought, at first, was that he was an odd one: severe, they’d thought, and a cold fish, although there was increasing talk from some of the guards that he could be kindly too, at times.

  Now, at the beginning of March, he looks thinner, older, greyer. Smaller, somehow.

  John O’Farrell is thinner too. There’s still more grey in his hair, people note.

  He stands, looks at Major Bates, who nods encouragement.

  John O’Farrell’s voice is steady. ‘I know there have been some new complaints about the prisoners –’

  ‘It’s not complaints about the prisoners,’ Artair Flett says. ‘It’s a question of where the bloody hell they’ve got to –’

  ‘Language!’ someone shouts.

  ‘Shit. Sorry.’ Artair ducks his head in apology to Marjorie, whose children are wide-eyed and grinning at the expletives.

  ‘I’m in a mither,’ Artair says, ‘and I’m not the only one. They’re good workers, those men, and now I’m told they’ll not be helping me? What am I supposed to do with my boundary wall? It’s half finished.’

  There are murmurs of agreement: Alasdair Neill has a ditch half dug, and Rabbie Firth needs help getting his sheep in.

  John O’Farrell holds up his hands for quiet and, gradually, the muttering dies down. ‘The prisoners,’ he says gravely, ‘are on strike.’

  ‘On strike?’ Rabbie says. ‘Is it better wages they’re wanting? Or a pension for when they retire?’

  Muffled laughter, then Major Bates stands and silence falls.

  ‘The prisoners are unhappy because they believe that their work contravenes the Geneva Convention, which stipulates that prisoners cannot be compelled to construct enemy fortifications.’

  A sea of blank stares.

  ‘So,’ Major Bates says, ‘we have been investigating the possibility that these . . . boundaries… are not barriers at all. Nothing to do with the war. They are,’ he pauses, ‘causeways. Much-needed causeways to link the islands together. Civilian constructions, for use in peacetime. So that you and your families can travel easily between the islands. It’s something you’ve long needed.’

  ‘My arse it is,’ someone mutters, and is quickly hushed.

  ‘You need these causeways,’ Major Bates says. ‘This is a message that I would like to be unanimous.’

  Silence.

  At last, Rabbie Firth says, ‘So . . . if we tell the prisoners they’re building causeways, they’ll come back and help with our work too?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  There’s a general noise of approval as people rise to leave, but then Marjorie Croy calls, ‘What about the treatment of the prisoners? Isn’t that the real problem?’

  Everyone stops, falls quiet, stares. Marjorie is still in her seat, her children around her, her baby still on her lap, and she repeats, ‘What about the way they’re kept? I’ve heard stories from my Bess.’

  People sit down again.

  ‘She’s working in the infirmary,’ Marjorie says, half turning so that everyone can hear her. ‘And she says that those prisoners are being beaten. Horribly bruised, some of them. Fed on bread and water, she says. Locked up in the dark, she tells me. Left to starve.’

  And as Major Bates tries to shout that this isn’t the case, that it’s all been blown out of proportion, his voice is drowned in the protests: people on these islands have brothers and sons who have been captured and imprisoned in Germany. Only last month, the radio told them, the Japanese invaded Singapore and took sixty thousand British prisoners of war.

  ‘Are we treating these men like animals?’ Marjorie calls. And her children, as if they have heard all this before, stare unblinking at the major, like the Fates sitting in judgement.

  ‘Of course not,’ he says, flushing. ‘Of course not.’

  And, as he sits down, John O’Farrell leans across and murmurs, ‘News travels fast on these islands. They’ll not be having this. These are a people who have their own separate land laws dating back to the thirteenth century and they’re a close-knit community. They’ll not be having men starved or beaten on one of their islands. It’s against their sense of justice –’

  ‘Their sense of justice be damned,’ Major Bates says. ‘They’re not in charge of the camp or the men.’

  ‘True,’ John O’Farrell says, ‘but we don’t want a riot on the main island, as well as in the camp. The people here will only accept so much before they take the law into their own hands. It might be wise to listen to them now.’

  Part Three

  How could it be? There was a stifling grove,

  Yet here was the light; what wonder led

  us to it?

  From ‘The Grove’, Edwin Muir

  February 1942

  Constance

  The day I first consider killing one of the guards is the day I nearly die.

  Outside the infirmary it is cold, with darkness dropping like a stone, the sky sudden grey granite, fading to black. I search for the first star, but the bite of the wind makes me close my eyes. I have forgotten my coat but it is too late to go back. My ankle throbs where it caught on the bed and, as I walk, the memory of Dot’s words beats out the timing of my steps: I’m tired of you hanging off me.

  The first star glimmers. I shiver and try to make a wish. But what could I ask? For my sister to see sense? For the Italian men to be swept somehow from the island, or struck down with disease? Or perhaps I could wish for something else. Perhaps I could beg for my own memories to be different.

  I run my fingers over the hollow at my throat and count my steps until I can breathe easily, until I can no longer feel the sensation of his hands there.

  I feel them in my sleep, his hands. Squeezing.

  Sand. Darkness. His breath hot in my ear.

  I whirl around. There’s no one behind me. He’s not here. I’m safe.

  Then I stop. The silhouettes of the prisoners’ huts loom around me in the darkness and, with the stomach-lurching sense of having missed a step, I realize that I am lost.

  Lost in a camp of hundreds of men.

  With their muscled arms, their strong hands.

  The thought is ridiculo
us – how can I be lost? But the flimsy huts are a maze. Every one of them identical. Like the faces of the men. I imagine them sitting in those huts. Their hot breath, their broad chests. I imagine the sound of their laughter.

  My own breath is tight in my throat, my legs suddenly weak, my vision narrowing. I used to think that the idea of tunnel vision was just that – an idea, a myth. But I remember the way my sight had reduced to a single point, a single face. And the thought I’d had: that this would be the last face I would see.

  I stop. I lean against the steel wall of one of the huts, drawing air into my lungs, exhaling slowly, watching the clouds of my breath rising towards the star-scattered sky, then disappearing for ever.

  I make myself walk onwards, but I have a constant churning dread in my belly, as though the next step might be empty air. If I can just get to the bothy, I’ll be safe and Dot will come to find me. Then I’ll be able to explain the danger she’s putting herself in. Or perhaps I should walk to Skara Brae – the sunken houses on the coast that are over three thousand years old. If I hid there, it would give Dot a chance to look for me. Perhaps she’d feel the terror of losing me, then. Perhaps she’d understand how I feel. Maybe she’d see sense.

  It is fully dark now, but from behind the wall of the hut, I can hear voices talking in a language I don’t understand. Every word seems loaded with menace.

  The darkness is a physical thing as I force myself to walk past the huts, counting each one, trying to find my way out of the labyrinth. From behind one wall there is soft singing. From another, many voices join in a chant that feels like prayer.

  The end of the line of huts, and only the barbed-wire fence in front of me. I squint at the grey silhouettes of my surroundings. I’ve come the wrong way: the gate is on the other side of the camp.

  I turn but a noise stops me. Two of the guards are talking and smoking by the fence. The orange glow of the cigarettes lights their faces. I freeze.

  It’s him.

  Again, my hand finds the hollow at my throat. The place where he once pressed his lips.

  I want to turn and run, but I’m afraid they’ll hear me, so I stand very still as I watch another man – a prisoner – being led out from one of the huts, about twenty paces away.