I turned away and slumped across to the other side of the room and that’s where I froze, my eyes fixed on another set of wooden figures on a table in the corner. These figures were different. They weren’t soldiers, they were just normal people, staring at me with their tiny pin prick eyes. I knelt beside the table and examined them closely. Each one was different – there were men and women, adults and children, some fat, some thin, some tall, some short. They had different clothes too, painted on with a fine brush. I spotted a pair at the back that looked just like Frau and Herr Lemann. The man was even wearing the same ridiculous hat as Herr Lemann, the one that was always tilted to the side. That made me smile, until I spotted another figure that reminded me of a boy called Otto who lived up in the North end of town. The figure’s clothes were identical, the same shorts and shirt that Otto always wore, and he even had the same ruffled blonde hair.
My eyes rolled over the wooden people, picking out even more that I recognised, until finally I found what I was looking for. A girl wearing one of my favourite dresses, the one with the daisies that was now torn at the shoulder. I carefully turned the little wooden girl over in my hand, a frown fixed on my lips.
“How strange,” I whispered. It looked like he’d carved figures for almost half of the town and there were even some others lying in a box at the back. I replaced the tiny me and then I leaned a little closer and squinted at the unlucky ones all piled up in the box. A couple of them I didn’t recognise, but then I spotted an old man resting on top who looked just like Herr Schmidt, with his little round glasses and tiny tuft of white hair at the front of his skull. I remembered the last time I’d seen that tuft; painted red by his own blood and stuck to one of his kitchen tiles. Beside him was another old man I knew, Herr Reichstig, who had been taken away by the Nazis for conspiring to commit crimes, or at least that was the excuse they used. He’d never been seen again. My heart was pounding by now and I gripped the box and rummaged through with my fingers, searching for two more.
I found them right at the bottom, lying side by side. My mother was wearing a green dress with a black belt, her long, curly black hair draped back over her shoulders, while my father had his suit on, the same suit he wore every day for work. Carefully I pulled them free and arranged them in my palm, so they were staring up at me with those blank faces. My eyes were stinging and my bottom lip curled and I felt a trickle of wetness run down my cheek, before splashing through my fingers.
A sudden banging noise from downstairs like a door slam made me jolt. Both of the figures tumbled from my palm and hurtled to the ground and I held my breath as they hit the floorboards and bounced in different directions, expecting the tiny wooden limbs to crack apart. Quickly I dropped to my knees and snatched up my mother, noting with relief that she was unharmed, then I turned and squinted under Pieter’s bed, where I thought father’s little statue had come to rest. Sure enough, there he was tucked into the corner, hiding behind some dust balls. I hunched down and reached for him, my head twisted sideways and my cheek pressed to the ground. Through a trembling in the floorboards, I was sure I could hear someone climbing the staircase. If it was Pieter, and if he found me touching his things, he’d pummel me for sure. I grimaced and stretched out my fingers, fumbling the figure and pushing him further into the dust. Desperate, I forced myself up against the bed so my shoulder was wedged in the gap, then I tried again, this time taking more care. That was when I noticed the scarf, stuffed under the mattress just in front of my face. For a moment, I forgot everything. All I could do was stare at that scarf and the loose threads dangling from its edges, like thick strands of spaghetti pasta. I knew that scarf. It belonged to Loriett, the woman we’d found murdered in the woods.
My hand shifted from the dust and grabbed the scarf instead, pulling it free. When I eased it out from under the bed, the end unravelled and two things fell out. The first was another wooden figure, this one a girl with golden hair. The second was what looked like a hair clipping, kept together with a rubber band. I stared dumbly at them. Some panicked little voice inside my head told me to stand up and walk to the door and go downstairs and leave the house, but I was already too late. The bedroom door was opening behind me and I could feel him standing there, watching me. He saw what I’d done. He knew that I knew.
“Hey,” Pieter hissed, crossing the room in three strides and grabbing me by the arm. He tugged me aside and I fell backwards, tensing up as I hit the ground. Now he was stood over me, his eyes big and bright like a wild animal’s. His gaze went from me to the scarf and then back again, over and over. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving as if he was having a fit. “What are you doing,” he said, crouching to snatch up the scarf. He tucked the hair and the figure back inside, then he wrapped the scarf around itself and held it in his fist. “Why were you looking under my bed?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, still not believing what I’d just seen. “I dropped something down there and I saw Loriett’s scarf, and I didn’t know what it was so I pulled it out.” I was talking without even thinking about it, the words just falling out of my mouth. It wasn’t until the words were already out that I realised, I shouldn’t have called it Loriett’s scarf. I should’ve pretended I had no idea, maybe even pretended I hadn’t seen the hair. Just acted like normal. It probably wouldn’t have worked; I was trembling by now and my horror must have been all too obvious. But maybe I could have convinced him just long enough to get out of the house and disappear into the night. Pieter just kept staring at me, his mouth hanging open like he’d forgotten what he was about to say, but his fists were shaking now. I knew if I tried to stand up and run, he would just knock me back down again. So I stayed where I was, peering up at him. “Why do you have it?” I asked, my voice breaking up a little.
“She gave it to me,” he said. “It was a present.” The lie was obvious, but I was too scared to argue back.
“A present?”
“She loved me,” Pieter said. “She loved me, so she gave me that. We were going together, in secret. I used to go around to her place and we’d fuck like dogs and no one else knew!” His voice was rising with every word until he was practically bellowing and I dug my fingernails into the floorboards and crushed my teeth together. I prayed that his father heard him yelling and came up to see what was happening, but there was no sound from downstairs and I realised that his father was probably out in the garden, tending to his crops. That was why I heard the door slam. That was why Pieter was shouting, why he wasn’t afraid of being caught.
“What happened to her?” I asked and Pieter shook his head furiously.
“Are you stupid? The English killed her! They’re the devil, they ruin everything!” Now his eyes were flipping back and forth again, but I was distracted by the lump resting against my belly. Suddenly I remembered. I’d dropped the craft knife in the pocket there when Pieter tossed the bow and sling of arrows into my arms. The thing was pathetic, just two inches long, but it was sharp enough to slice through wood. Just knowing it was there made the tremble in my voice disappear.
“What are you going to do?” I asked. He was still panting, his face turning bright red. I’d seen him angry before but I’d never seen him like this.
“I don’t know,” he muttered, then he reached into his hip pocket and brought out his pocket knife. With his thumbnail, he pulled the blade out. Then he just let it dangle at his side, while he peered down at me. I watched the knife sway just in front of me, my stomach crunching up.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I said, “about you and Loriett. Just like I didn’t tell anyone about the bow and arrow. Twenty punches, right? Twenty punches if I tell?”
“Twenty,” he replied, but his eyes had glazed over and he looked like he was in a trance, swaying slightly side to side. I wondered if this was my chance to get to my feet, but then he focused on me again and a strange look crossed his face. His free hand shot out and grabbed my hair before I could react and I cried out, my scalp burning as he tugged me to the si
de. I stumbled and flailed my arm, my fingers slapping the corner bed post. I couldn’t hold on, collapsing onto my hip and scratching my nails across the floorboards, desperately trying to right myself. Suddenly I pictured his knife against my throat, the blade cutting into my skin and muscle, opening up my windpipe. This was it. I had to do something right now, or I’d be his next victim. I fought back the panic and I fumbled my left hand into my pocket, curling my fist around the handle of the craft knife. My thumb pricked against the edge of the blade, peeling back the skin on the tip, but I barely even felt the flash of pain or the hot blood squeezing out across my fingers. Pieter jerked my head back so I was staring up at him and our eyes met, just a second before I swung the knife into his leg as hard as I could. I felt the blade sink in and saw his face stretch with the shock of it. He blinked twice and then his fingers opened and I fell away, pushing myself backwards.
“Bitch,” he screamed, collapsing back against the table filled with the tiny figures. I saw the handle of the craft knife jutting out just below his knee and the little wooden people tumbling to the ground, but by the time the figures hit the floorboards and scattered everywhere I was already scrabbling to my feet, aiming myself towards the door. Pieter was still hissing and spitting like an angry cat when I tore out of that room and ran to the staircase, taking two steps at a time. My chest was heaving, but somehow I still felt out of breath.
I was halfway down when my heel bounced off the corner of one of the steps and my leg jerked to the side and everything inside of me lurched. I didn’t even realise what had happened until I was already crashing down the staircase, tumbling over and over so I couldn’t even tell which way was up. It felt as if I was surrounded by people punching and kicking me, over and over. Somehow I don’t think I cried out, even when my shoulder slammed into the edge of a step and my entire arm went sickeningly numb. My head bounced off the final step, turning everything dark, and then finally it was over.
My vision came back slowly and at first everything was grey, but I was still awake enough to remember what was happening. I moaned, wriggling my aching limbs until I was back on my belly, then I pushed up onto my knees. A spot above my right temple throbbed viciously and my shoulder was racked with pain now, but I tried not to think about it. I could hear Pieter stomping down the stairs so I knew he was close, even though he sounded so distant. I had to get out, right now. With all my might, I slumped against the wall and forced myself up onto my feet. I thought right then that I was going to be sick, but I swallowed hard instead, over and over. Pieter was limping down the steps to my right, one hand clutched to his leg and the other steadying himself on the bannisters. He was yelling at me, screaming that he was going to kill me, but his words were muffled, like he was shouting up at me from the bottom of a lake. I turned away, pushing myself down the hallway. Had to get out. Had to go find Captain Adam King. Why was walking suddenly so hard? I couldn’t keep my balance, not even long enough to move in a straight line. Immediately I crashed into a table, knocking some old vase to the ground where it shattered apart with a muted crash. My shoe crunched one of the pieces into dust and I kept on going, but when I glanced up again, Pieter’s father, Arndt, was stood just in front of me, a horrified look on his face. I stopped still, breathing and shaking hard.
“Help,” I muttered, struggling to keep my eyes open. “Pieter’s gone crazy. I need to go.”
“What in the name…” Arndt said, staring down at the shattered vase and then back up at me again. I tried to push around him, but he caught my arm and steadied me. “What’s going on?”
“She knows!” Pieter yelled from somewhere behind me. “She knows everything!”
“I don’t…” I started to say, then my legs gave way and I dropped to the ground, sitting there with my chin resting on my chest. I heard Pieter and his father talking, then everything turned black again and the pain was gone.
Nineteen (Terry)
When King finally showed his face at the cells that morning, I was actually glad to see him, mostly because it meant the Major could give him an almighty arse ramming instead of me. He had his usual squinty look, like he was thinking really hard about something that was just beyond his grasp. No sign of Shaw, of course. He was probably sleeping off his hangover in a fucking ditch.
“Where did you get to?” I asked, pushing myself out of the knackered old chair. He glanced down the row of cells and sighed.
“Kungsbrucken. Tracing Turner’s movements the night of the murder.” He turned back to me and I noticed a nice little bruise under his eye, like someone socked him good.
“Hohhhh,” I said, “what happened there? You and Shaw have a tiff?” For a moment he seemed kind of dazed, then he touched his cheek with two fingers.
“No, I just…walked into a tree or something,” was his reply. He stared at me in a strange way and shook his head. “Look, I don’t think he did it. I don’t think he killed her.”
“What are you on about?” I asked, scratching my temple.
“It just doesn’t make any sense. Turner didn’t even know Loriett, why would he murder her? He was out of his head, but he’s not a killer.”
“But he confessed,” I said and he shook his head again.
“He didn’t confess, he just thinks he saw her. He doesn’t know what the hell happened. It could’ve been a bloody hallucination for all we know.”
“Well, it doesn’t really matter anymore,” I told him. “You missed all the fun. While you were swanning off yesterday doing your investigations, the Major swung by and gave me a royal bollocking. He wanted to know why Turner hadn’t been ‘dealt with’. His exact words. He was fucking furious.”
“I just need more time,” King said, turning and striding up to the first cell. When he saw that it was empty now, he froze and his squint came back. “Jesus Christ, where is he? Where’s Turner?”
“Like I was saying, it’s been dealt with. The Major had him taken out and shot at dawn.”
I folded my arms and watched his expression roll through pretty much every emotion, starting with disbelief and ending somewhere between fury and misery. He grabbed the bars with both hands and pushed his face between them, his eyes crushed shut.
“Why didn’t you stop him,” he whispered. “Why didn’t you do something?”
“What the fuck was I supposed to do?” I shot back, grinding my teeth. “Tell the stuffy old prick to do one?”
“Stall him, tell him we were chasing up leads, anything!”
“How the fuck was I supposed to know you were ‘chasing up leads’, you didn’t tell me a fucking thing before you buggered off!”
“Christ,” King snarled, pushing away from the bars and sticking his nose up to mine. I actually thought the bastard was going to lay his hands on me, maybe even swing for me, but he just blasted hot air and spit into my face instead. “He could have been innocent! We might have just shot an innocent bloody man! One of our own, for god’s sakes!”
“Listen to yourself,” I said, “you’re fucking mental. Been popping too many of those pills, mate.” The mention of his meds seemed to douse that fire in his belly and he stared back at me, confused. “Yeah, I know all about your little habit,” I told him. “Wasn’t too hard to figure out. I’ve seen you get the sweats and disappear off god knows how many times. Those things are fucking with your mind.” I tapped my temple and he turned away again, his hands pressed to his face.
“There’s nothing wrong with my mind,” he said, sounding like he was trying to convince himself more than me. I just leaned up against the wall and sighed. I’d seen a fair few lads get the habit since the start of the war and it always ended up the same way.
“How many you taking a day?” I asked. He sucked in a deep breath and his shoulders slumped.
“I don’t know, it’s been getting a little worse lately. Usually a couple.”
“You need to stamp that out,” I told him. He started to nod, then he turned and hurried away from the cells.
�
��I’m going to see the Major,” he mumbled over his shoulder, but I called after him.
“Hey, Turner gave me a message for you.” King stopped and glanced back and I licked my lips. “It’s probably just more deranged ramblings, but he said to tell you: ‘where Kelly copped it’. That was the whole message.” He frowned and mulled it over, then he muttered a thank you and disappeared out of the door. I watched him go, before turning back to the bars and staring through them at the spot in the corner, where Turner had spent his last two days. King’s words started to sink in a little. The poor bastard had been a wreck, shivering on the floor like a crazed animal and muttering to himself non-stop. When they came for him earlier, he’d almost looked relieved. He stood up when ordered and let them tie his hands behind his back, before walking out of there with a creepy, calm expression. No fuss, no begging. He only paused to give me that message, the only words he’d ever said to me. I stayed in the cell block while they executed him, the shots ringing out at 7am exactly. One more damned, wretched soul put down for good.
Suddenly I felt a pressing need to get the fuck out of there. I went back to the chair and pulled on my coat, then I stepped outside and closed the door behind me. I had no idea what to do or where to go, so I just started walking. I guess I was a little lost in my thoughts because I didn’t notice that bastard Shaw until I almost bumped into him, just by the junction with the main street. He peered at me through slit eyes, treating me to that delightful little pout of his.
“Off to spread good cheer?” he asked, his tone like acid. I grimaced, my hand already clenched into a fist. Just one excuse, shithead. That’s all I’m asking for. One little excuse.
“You’re hilarious, Shaw. By the way, Turner’s already been shot, so you might as well just crawl back in a whiskey bottle and stay there.” I could have laughed when his rosy fucking face went through the same range of expressions as King’s.
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