Devil's in a Different Dress

by Chris Barraclough

  “What’s this?” I asked him.

  “Food,” was the begrudging reply.

  “Food you stole from Schmidt?”

  “He didn’t need it,” Jurgen answered, turning his head to let out a throaty cough. I offered him the thinnest of smiles.

  “Tell me you didn’t murder him just for a few tins of beef.”

  “A few tins?” Jurgen jabbed a finger at the pile, eyes suddenly blazing. “That might mean nothing to you, but to me it’s better than a sack of gold. Ever since the British took over, our supply routes have been cut off. We’ve been living off meal and corn for weeks!”

  “But Schmidt had this big old stash,” I interrupted, taking a step towards him. “And I guess he wouldn’t share with you?”

  “Like I said,” Jurgen said, his arm dropping back to his side. “He was dead when I arrived. I saw the food, I took it.”

  “How did you get inside if he was already dead?” Lane asked, brow furrowed. I kicked myself for not asking the same already, but Jurgen didn’t miss a beat.

  “The door was open,” he said, aiming his withering glare towards Lane. “He may have been out in the garden and forgot to shut it.”

  “Well, another question, then,” Lane said, his voice wavering slightly. “Where’s your hammer?” This seemed to throw the German off-balance, a ripple of emotion dancing across his face. Lane glanced at me and added, “I checked his tool box out in the kitchen. No hammer inside.”

  “It broke,” Jurgen said with a hefty dose of vitriol, but I could see the despairing look in his eyes and I knew that we had the bastard.

  “You’ll have to come with us,” I told him, my fingers curling around the pistol’s grip. His shoulders slumped a little, his hefty frame rocking back and forth like a flower caught in a breeze. I was worried that he might keel over right in front of us, so I stepped towards him with the intention of taking him by the arm and turning him around, before gently escorting him out.

  Somehow, I don’t know how, I must’ve let my guard down. I didn’t see his elbow come up until that solid chunk of bone was driving hard into my nose. All I remember was a blinding flash of pain that shot through my entire skull, literally blinding me as my vision blacked out for a split second. I felt myself stumble backwards, then my calf caught on something hard and I collapsed against the fireplace, the rough stone scraping my back up through my uniform. By the time my brain stopped vibrating and my sight faded in again, I was sprawled at the base of the fireplace, in a half-sitting, half-squatting position.

  The pain was horrendous, but swiftly forgotten when I saw what was happening in front of me. The German was fighting against Lane, the two men locked together and desperately trying to get the upper hand. Lane’s hand came up and grabbed Jurgen’s throat, but the move left him off-balance. Jurgen responded by twisting his body and forcing Lane away with his meaty shoulder. I saw my partner stagger away, but not before Jurgen reached down and snatched his service revolver right out of its holster.

  I think I screamed something at him as he raised the gun, some useless sentiment like ‘don’t do it’ or ‘put it down’. I’ve heard some of the other guys talk about how life runs in slow motion at moments like this, but I’ve never had that experience. For me, it was over in a second. The German pointed the gun and just pulled the trigger and I saw Lane’s head jerk backwards and his body collapse to the ground, folding up as if someone had flicked a switch. The next thing I knew, the gun was swinging around towards me. Somehow I managed to kick back to life, launching myself to the side and rolling behind a worn old armchair. The gun cracked again, the noise almost deafening in the confined space. I hit the wall behind the chair and lay there, staring up at the ceiling and gasping for breath.

  “Shit,” I muttered, my own voice drowned out by the ringing in my ears and the thud of my heartbeat, hard and relentless. I wasn’t sure if the bullet had hit me but I couldn’t feel any pain, beyond the pounding throb that cut right to the centre of my skull. Part of me wanted to just lie there, waiting for the ain to subside. Close my eyes and drift off into some kind of hazy, desperate sleep. Instead I forced myself onto my knees and peered out over the armchair, searching for the German. The fat bastard was gone. All I saw was the pile of tins and packets and Lane lying slumped in the opposite corner, not budging an inch. The sight of his crumpled form shook me into action. I pushed myself upwards, my head screaming in opposition. Every tiny little motion was agony, as if I were shoving knitting needles into my own brain every time I dared to move, but somehow I staggered across to him and knelt at his side.

  I was ready to shove my fingers into the flesh of his throat, to check his pulse. My hand didn’t even get close. One quick glance was enough to prove the poor bastard was done. The bullet had entered his left eyeball, blowing it apart and leaving little more than a gaping, fractured socket. My stomach convulsed at the sight of his remaining eye, staring up at me in shock. The fuzzy warmth of the magic pill snapped away and left me cold and vulnerable, fighting for breath. I raised a hand to my throat, sucking down desperate gasps of air. Air that smelled rich and bitter, like blood.

  “Oh, Jesus.” I fell backwards and scrambled away on my hands and feet, fighting back the nausea. My fingers curled around the grip of my gun and I yanked it free, pausing to try and catch my breath before launching myself against the wall and clawing my way up it. A freezing cold chill shimmered down my back, spreading to my limbs. I stumbled into the hallway, flailing wildly with my gun in case the bastard was hiding in some corner, ready and waiting. Swivelling to my right, I saw the front door was hanging wide open. I lurched towards it, gritting my teeth at the pain.

  A moment later I was outside, the ice rain pelting down hard now, soaking into my hair and streaming down my cheeks. Instantly I spotted him. The bastard was taking off down the street, already about fifty yards away. I grimaced and started after him. When I hit the road, I screamed for him to stop and jerked my gun up, aiming down the barrel at his back. Normally I’d have been reasonably confident about putting a bullet right in the base of his neck, but my sight was blurred from the rain and the goddamn shakes meant I couldn’t even keep my arm straight. But then the German seemed to hesitate, staggering to a halt. I thought he was giving himself up so I slowed to a jog, swallowing down the bile that had leapt into my throat. Jurgen’s bulky frame swung around and I kept my gun trained on him in case he tried taking any pot shots, but when I saw why he’d stopped, my finger eased off the trigger. One meaty arm was wrapped around the girl, Katherine, crushing her spindly body against his chest.

  “Stay away,” he yelled, spitting water. Katherine stared at me wide-eyed, struggling against his grip, but he was far too strong for her. I stopped thirty yards away from them, but I kept my pistol up. The girl wasn’t a big enough shield to protect him. I squinted through the rain, meeting his despairing gaze. His head and shoulders were exposed, easy targets for anyone with a steady bloody aim, but by now my heart was pounding and my legs were like numb slabs of meat, not even connected to the rest of my body. Jurgen pointed Lane’s gun back at me, his arm shaking almost as bad as mine. “Stay away,” he repeated, the desperation all too clear in his voice.

  “Let her go,” I shouted back, knowing it was a useless gesture but trying to buy myself some time. I guess I hoped that somehow I’d snap out of it, just long enough to blow the bastard’s head in half. He started to slowly back away, his shoes scrapping across the concrete. Katherine was kicking back at him now, her heels slamming into his shins, but if it hurt Jurgen he didn’t let it show. “Where are you going to go,” I called out, blinking hard to clear my vision. “You’ll never get out of town. And even if you do, there’s nothing around but empty fields and hills. Think about it, Jurgen!”

  “I didn’t kill the old man!” He jabbed the gun at me and Katherine winced in his grasp, the man’s arm crushing her skinny little frame. I shook my head.

  “It doesn’t matter!”

  “Yes, it
does!”

  I don’t know if he meant to fire, or if his finger was just too tense on the trigger, but the crack of his pistol made me jerk in surprise. There was this whistling sound, high pitched, just an inch away from my left ear. The sound of death I knew all too well, which set my chest heaving twice as hard. I stumbled back a step, struggling to regain my balance as Katherine squealed and wrenched her body. Jurgen tipped to his side, fighting to keep her still and suddenly she wasn’t in front of him any longer, giving me a clear line of sight straight to his torso. I didn’t even pause to think. I just sucked in a breath and held it, my hand trembling worse than ever as I aimed through the rain and squeezed off a shot. The gun kicked against my palm and I saw Jurgen stagger, a second before his legs buckled and the pair of them crashed to the ground.

  “Shit,” I grunted, powering towards them. Katherine was yelling something in German, pushing frantically at Jurgen’s meaty shoulder which had her pinned against the road. I almost slipped before I got there, the sole of my boot sliding sideways across the wet stone. My gun flew from my fingers and clattered across the ground and I stooped to snatch it back up, cursing and muttering as I slipped it into the holster.

  By the time I got to Katherine, the rain had soaked right through my shirt and was stroking its way down my spine. Its icy touch was pushed far to the back of my mind. A quick glance at Jurgen showed he was down and out, still alive but fighting for breath. The bullet had caught him just to the left of his heart, probably shattering his breast bone. A red patch was already spreading across his chest. I kicked away Lane’s pistol, then I dropped to my knees and grabbed the German’s arm, heaving him upwards to give Katherine room to wriggle free. She pulled herself away and glared up at me.

  “You shot me,” she yelled and I stared back dumbfounded. The girl pointed her shoulder at me and jabbed a finger at a spot just above her bicep, where the raggedy dress was torn. I tenderly reached down and pulled back the fabric and saw an angry red trail carved across her flesh.

  “Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry, pet. Are you alright, does it hurt?”

  “Of course it hurts,” she said, but the anger melted from her face when she glanced across at Jurgen. He had one hand pressed to his wound, but I’d seen injuries like this a dozen times. The way he was gasping for air meant one of his lungs was probably punctured. Any second now, he’d start coughing up the blood that was seeping inside. Just a matter of time before he drowned. Even Katherine seemed to realise, for she crouched beside his head and peered down at him, a sudden sadness in her eyes. Jurgen stared back, the tension melting from his jowls until finally he looked at peace. Time for one last breath before he fell still and silent.

  I didn’t know what to say or do, so I just sat there with the girl, allowing the water to chill every last inch of me. I pretended not to notice the faces at the windows, staring out at us. How long would it take for this story to get around town? Gunning down locals in the middle of the street; Christ, even the Nazis were probably more subtle than that.

  “You seen a dead body before?” I asked Katherine. She looked at me with a curious expression.

  “Of course. Everyone has.”

  “Aye, right.” I fumbled in my pocket for my last cigarette and slipped it between my lips, but in seconds it was already too soggy to light. I let it dangle there, limp and useless.

  “What’s your name?” the girl asked. I ran a hand through my hair, splashing water down my already-saturated uniform.

  “Captain King,” I muttered. She just kept staring, so I shrugged. “Adam. My name’s Adam.”

  “Ah-dum,” she said, trying it out. For some reason that made me smile.

  “I’ll take you to the doc,” I told her, “get that arm looked at. Where do you live?” Suddenly her eyes grew wide and she turned to her side, hiding the injured arm.

  “I’m okay. It doesn’t really hurt.”

  “It’ll get infected. Don’t worry, he’s a nice guy, he’ll give you something for the pain and get it all cleaned up.”

  “No, I’m okay,” she said, jumping to her feet and running off down the street before I had a chance to grab her. I called after her but she didn’t even look back. She was out of sight before the first truck pulled into the street and roared towards me.

  Devil’s in a Different Dress

  Chris Barraclough

  One (Adam)

  Just when you think the killing’s all done. Just when you think you’ve seen your last buddy seize up, his eyes turning a milky white as the life trickles out of his body, God comes right back and shows you that nothing ever ends the way you think it should.

  I’d been stood in the cold, dark little room with its damp walls and musty smell for around half an hour when the metal door creaked open behind me and footsteps padded in. From the guilty little clearing of his throat, I knew straight away that it was Corporal Shaw. He lingered there in the doorway for a little while, before finally shuffling to my side. Together we stared down at Corporal Lane, still dressed in his blood-spattered uniform. I was thankful that the doc had closed his one remaining eye, hiding away the shock and the horror that was captured the moment before he died.

  Eventually Shaw exhaled and shook his head.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he said. I tilted my head and peered sideways at him. His cheeks were pale and his eyes were raw, the bright red veins popping and cracking all the way to his crystal blue irises. Even before he turned towards me, the stench of whiskey was all too obvious. I knew that I should have been mad. Scratch that, I should have been furious. But it was pointless. Even if I’d taken him along, even if all three of us had been in that room, the outcome would almost certainly have been the same. Perhaps worse. It had all happened so fast, Lane hadn’t stood a rat’s bollock of a chance.

  “Where did you wake up this time?” I asked.

  “Lake.” Shaw sniffed and dragged a sleeve across his face. “I was cold out until one of them gulls came pecking at my arm. Could only find one boot, so I had to hobble back to base. Good job it’s not far.” I watched as he reached out and rested his right hand on Lane’s shoulder. Two of his fingers had been sheared off at the knuckles by a grenade just a few months before the end of the war, so now all he had were rounded nubs between his thumb and his ring finger. Even though I was used to the sight, I still couldn’t help but stare. By rights that mutilation should’ve been his ticket out of here, but that fun-loving God on high had other ideas. Our squad was already entrenched into enemy territory by then. Not only were we desperate for all the men we could get, but getting Shaw out would’ve been a tough operation. The clincher was the hand that got blown apart. The unfortunate twat was left-handed, so he could still fire his revolver and basically function as normal, or at least that was the diagnosis of our illustrious Major. So here he stayed, balls deep in the fatherland with a broken hand and a fresh layer of mental trauma. “They said you got the bastard,” Shaw muttered and I nodded.

  “Fucking handyman gardener. Killed an old man because he wouldn’t share his biscuits and tinned ham. We went to arrest him and he got the better of us. Bowled me over, right before he grabbed Lane’s gun off him. Couldn’t have messed it up any more if we tried.”

  “It’s a bloody ridiculous assignment,” Shaw said. “We’re not detectives, policemen, peacekeepers, whatever they want to call us. Might as well order us to be plumbers or carpenters or bloody engineers.” As usual, I felt a stab of guilt. Shaw still didn’t know that I asked for him personally, when the order came down. As far as he knew, he was just chosen from on high, same as me.

  “I’m seeing the Major when he gets back,” I said. “After this balls up, chances are we’ll be reassigned anyway.”

  We stood in awkward silence for a while, staring at our dead comrade until Shaw turned and walked to the wall, leaning up against it. He crossed his arms and sighed.

  “Poor bastard survived years of conflict,” he said, his painful gaze locked on Lane. “Full frontal assau
lts, endless bloody bombing raids, some proper suicide missions. Comes out the other end unscathed, not a scratch on him. I thought the lad was truly blessed. Then some German gardener puts a hole in his head two months after war’s end, with his own bloody gun no less.”

  “It’s a joke,” I muttered. “And a bloody terrible one.”

  When I stepped into the Major’s office later that afternoon, I was braced for the absolute worst. Major Alastair Stevenson had taken over and led us through the most harrowing depths of hell for thirteen long months and if it wasn’t for his resolve, his determination and sheer tenacity, we’d never have made it to Rottstein and cut off the Nazi’s final supply route. But that spark which had kept us all alive seemed to fizzle out when we took occupation and the boys rang out the bells to signify the end of it all. The mission was over. Nothing left to do but sit and wait, until the order came to move on out. Right now he was half-slumped over his desk with a British newspaper splayed open in front of him and a glass of cognac in one hand. A cigar burned near his other hand, propped up in a glass ashtray. I paused and knocked on the open door and waited for him to finish whatever sentence he was reading before he raised his head and stared at me, expressionless.

  “Come on in, Captain,” he said, leaning back in his chair. I nodded and strode up to his desk, taking the chair opposite only when he gestured towards it. The office had previously belonged to the Burgermeister of Rottstein and the man obviously had a unique sense of humour, plus an even worse sense of taste. Housed above the window were three animal heads, shot and stuffed and mounted on wooden plaques. A fox, a deer and some kind of wild pig with tusks like daggers. They were positioned in such a way that they stared down accusingly at any visitors, like a silent panel judging your every thought. As an empowerment technique, it worked a little too well. I’d suggested to the Major that he might want to take them down, but I think he enjoyed seeing his visitors squirm just as much as the Burgermeister had.