For Kingdom and Country

by I. D. Roberts

  ‘What do you think it is?’ Fuat said.

  ‘I can’t tell. I don’t think they’re coming this way,’ Lock said.

  ‘I go see,’ Mehmet said, lifting a pushbike from the far end of the ox cart.

  ‘Hey, no. We’ve work to—’ Lock started to argue, but the young Kurd had already pedalled off in a frenzy of pumping knees and creaking metal.

  Lock shook his head irritably and jumped down from the cart. He gathered up a coil of cable and swung it over his shoulder.

  ‘Bedros is making coffee. Ten minutes, then I want the rest of those poles up before nightfall.’

  He pushed past Fuat and trudged towards the main work detail.

  ‘Mister Lock? Mister Lock?’ a soft voice called after him.

  Lock turned about, but no one was there. The ox cart was empty and Bedros and Fuat had vanished. The dust cloud on the horizon had gone.

  ‘Mister Lock?’ the voice called again.

  Lock dropped the cable and spun round. The main work detail had vanished. The road was deserted. He was alone. He shook his head and closed his eyes.

  ‘Mister Lock?’

  It was a woman’s voice, gentle and speaking in English, tinged with a regional accent Lock couldn’t quite place. Lancashire?

  He looked up and started. Staring down at him through a blurred fog was a pair of wide, brown eyes.

  ‘Mister Lock, I’m going to help you to sit up a little,’ the voice belonging to the brown eyes said. ‘I need to change your dressings.’

  Lock felt himself nod as he was gently, but firmly, manhandled into a more upright position. The scent of strawberries tickled his nostrils. He stared until he could bring the woman into focus. She was a young nurse, in her early twenties, he guessed. Her face was as pale as milk and was framed by a white headscarf, which had a bright red cross emblazoned on its centre. A curl of brown hair was protruding from under the band. She had a delicate, small nose and beautiful, sensual lips. They were slightly open and Lock could see her tongue move across the tips of her teeth as she concentrated on what she was doing.

  Lock knew her, remembered her, remembered the same act of concentration when she had … dressed his hand? … Yes, that was it, Nurse Owen. Molly? No, it was …

  ‘Mary?’

  ‘Here,’ she said, and Lock felt the coolness of a glass of water touch his lips. He drank thirstily.

  ‘Steady. Not too fast,’ she said, pulling the glass away again.

  ‘Thank you, Mary,’ Lock croaked. ‘It is Mary, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she smiled. ‘It’s a good sign that you remember me.’

  Lock looked about the stark room. ‘Where am I?’

  Mary frowned. ‘In the Officers’ Hospital. A private room.’

  ‘How …?’

  ‘Long?’

  Lock nodded.

  ‘A week now. You’ve been in a very bad way,’ Mary said, while she fussed around, straightening out Lock’s bedding.

  ‘May I have some more water, Mary?’ Lock smiled. ‘My throat feels like it’s full of sand.’

  ‘Let me change your bandages first.’

  Mary turned to the trolley at her side and picked up a pair of scissors and a roll of gauze.

  ‘Now, let’s take a look at your head.’

  She leant forward and began to cut away and unravel the bandage wrapped around Lock’s head. He hadn’t notice the bandages were there before, but as they came away he could feel the pressure ease and the air rush to his itching scalp.

  ‘We had to clip your hair very short to treat the wound,’ she said. ‘But it will grow back soon enough.’

  As Mary worked, leaning close to him, her body heat radiating out, Lock’s eyes fell on the swell of her bosom and he felt a sudden surge of desire. Had this girl not kissed him once?

  ‘What is it?’ Mary frowned, catching the look on his face, and standing back.

  Lock’s gaze moved to the soiled bandages in Mary’s hands. He could see the dark stain of old blood. His blood.

  ‘Nothing. I was just … thinking about Amy. Have you seen her?’

  Mary looked down at him oddly for a moment, then picked up a fresh roll of bandages.

  ‘No.’

  She began to re-dress his head wound. Lock knew she was lying.

  ‘I thought …’ He squeezed his eyes shut, tensing, as a stab of pain rushed through his skull.

  Mary hesitated. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘A little dizzy. I …’

  ‘Well, enough talking.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Be a good patient. Hush.’

  She picked something up from the trolley.

  ‘Here, take this.’

  Lock felt a small pill pass his lips and touch his tongue. It tasted bitter and chalky. Mary pressed the glass of water to his mouth and he drank, swallowing the pill down. The bitterness remained coated on his tongue.

  Lock lay in silence as Mary finished dressing his head, his thoughts a tumble of confusion. Where was Amy? Why wasn’t she here, looking after him?

  ‘Has she been to see me? Tell me that, can’t you? Please, Mary.’ He smiled weakly.

  Mary gathered up the soiled bandages, ointments and scissors.

  ‘I … don’t know. I don’t see her much any more, what with her wedding preparations …’ She trailed off.

  The wedding! Of course. Christ, he needed to see her, to get out of here. But just the thought of trying to get up out of the bed made his head spin again.

  ‘I need to see her, Mary.’

  There was a distant banging and Lock saw a shadow at the window.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he said nervously.

  Mary glanced over her shoulder. ‘Just the window cleaner. Do you want me to close the shutters?’ She made to move over to the window.

  Lock tried to shake his head. ‘No, it’s all right,’ he whispered, feeling weaker as the seconds passed.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. About Amy, I mean,’ Mary said. ‘Try to sleep now.’

  She began to push the trolley towards the door.

  Lock nodded and Mary left his field of vision. He heard her open the door and there was a sudden blast of chatter and comings-and-goings from the corridor outside. The door closed again and he was alone in silence once more.

  As he lay there, he could see the top of the ladder resting against the outside sill, and watched as the window cleaner stretched up and began to meticulously wipe the highest pane in slow, circular movements, his damp cloth squeaking against the glass.

  A shout came from Lock’s left and he turned to see that Mehmet, the young Kurd, who had cycled off earlier, had returned from his scouting trip. He was standing in the corner of the hospital room and the rest of the work detail were gathered around him.

  ‘Effendim?’

  Lock glanced back at the window. But it wasn’t a window any longer. It was a telegraph pole and at the top the man staring down at him wasn’t the window cleaner, but another of the Kurds on his work detail.

  ‘All right, down you come,’ Lock said.

  The Kurd grinned, shimmied quickly down the pole, and ran over to his comrades. Lock scratched his brow and passed his hand through his thick, shaggy hair. He pulled his fedora back down over his head, and slowly walked over to the chattering group of men.

  The labourers were all extremely animated, talking excitedly at once.

  ‘What is this?’ Lock asked, rather bemused.

  ‘War!’ one of the Kurds blurted out.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Lock wasn’t sure if he had heard right.

  ‘War, effendim,’ Mehmet confirmed. ‘The dust plume … It is cavalry and soldiers. They are marching from Van to reinforce the garrison at Erçek.’

  ‘War?’ Lock said, aghast. ‘War with whom?’

  ‘Britain, effend—’ Mehmet stopped and his face fell.

  ‘Turkey is at war with Britain? I don’t believe it.’

  Mehmet shook hi
s head. ‘No, no, effendim, with Germany.’

  Lock was even more perplexed. Germany were strong allies of the Turks. ‘I can’t believe it. The Kaiser is a great friend of Enver Pasha.’

  Again Mehmet shook his head. ‘Effendim, Germany is at war with Britain. It is therefore only a matter of moments before we, too, declare war on yo … on …’ He trailed off, embarrassed at his enthusiastic outburst.

  ‘Ah, I see,’ Lock said.

  The labourers fell silent, each man staring back at him. Nobody said anything for what seemed like an age, until Fuat shifted on his feet and cleared his throat.

  ‘Work is over,’ he said, throwing down his pickaxe. ‘The army will need us now.’

  ‘But you can’t,’ Lock stepped forward. ‘The telephone lines need to be completed for the Sultan.’

  ‘Curses to the telephone lines, Kedisi,’ Fuat snarled. ‘We march for the Sultan. Come!’

  The Kurds downed their tools and gathered their belongings together from the back of the ox cart, and set off down the road towards the marching soldiers.

  ‘What about you?’ Lock asked, turning to Bedros.

  He shrugged. ‘Armenians are not really welcome in the Ottoman Empire, effendim. More so now there is war, I fear.’

  ‘Then you’d best head back to the city and to your family. Take the ox cart.’

  ‘And you, effendim?’

  ‘I think I may have an appointment elsewhere, don’t you?’ Lock flicked his stubbly chin back up the road.

  A group of riders had left the main body of the march and were rapidly approaching. Lock imagined that most foreign nationals of the enemies of Germany would be put under house arrest sooner rather than later. He needed to get away and fast.

  Bedros shifted nervously on his feet.

  ‘Go on,’ Lock snapped.

  The Armenian began to gather up the discarded tools and pile them into the ox cart. Lock lit a cigarette and stood waiting for the riders. He could feel the ground rumble beneath his feet as they got nearer, and soon the sound of clumping hoofs filled his ears.

  There were five horsemen, all smart in khaki uniforms with silver-grey collar patches, polished leather belts and riding boots. Leading them was a stiff officer with two stars on gold shoulder epaulettes and full silver-grey collars. He was sporting the obligatory upturned moustache favoured by the Young Turks. All the men rode typically tough, but small ponies that were adept at coping with harsh terrains.

  With a jangle of bridle and bit, and a creak of saddle leather, the cavalry officer pulled up sharply and glared down at Lock. He waved his hand, indicating for his men to search the ox cart. The four riders with the officer dismounted, shoved Bedros aside, and clambered up onto the cart.

  ‘How can I help you?’ Lock said, exhaling tobacco smoke.

  ‘Papers,’ the officer demanded, holding out his hand expectantly.

  Lock stalled by making a show of patting his pockets, until the officer snapped his fingers down at him irritably. Lock smiled and, pulling out his documents from his inside breast pocket, handed them up to the officer.

  ‘You are … Kedisi?’ the officer said, frowning.

  Lock sighed. ‘No. My name is Kingdom Lock. I—’

  ‘You are German?’ the officer interrupted, leafing through Lock’s documents.

  ‘No, British. Well, Australian actually.’

  The officer’s piercing hazel eyes flicked up, and he scowled.

  ‘You can see, Yüzbaşi, that I am in charge of a work detail,’ Lock said, using the officer’s correct rank of captain, ‘laying telephone lines for the Société Ottomane des Téléphones.’

  The yüzbaşi leafed through more of the documents, and slowly shook his head.

  ‘The dates on these papers are invalid.’ He looked at Lock. ‘You are a spy, a khafiyeh, and an enemy of the Sultan.’

  ‘I am an engineer and have been working for the Sultan for nearly two years!’

  Lock was beginning to lose his patience. If there was one thing he hated more than bureaucrats, it was military bureaucrats.

  The yüzbaşi folded the papers up and stuffed them in his tunic pocket, then opened his holster and drew his pistol.

  ‘Çavuş, place this man under arrest.’

  ‘What?’ Lock protested, but he remained rooted to the spot. The yüzbaşi was pointing his gun directly at him.

  The cavalryman with one band on his shoulder straps, indicating that he was a sergeant, jumped down from the ox cart and levelled his rifle at Lock.

  ‘Hands on your head!’ he ordered.

  Lock glared up at the yüzbaşi. ‘I am not a spy! Ask my men.’

  The çavuş jabbed Lock with the point of his rifle. ‘Up!’

  Lock did as he was told.

  ‘Yüzbaşi, please, there is some mistake—’

  ‘You are to be taken back to Van for questioning,’ the officer added. ‘As for “your men”, they are Mehmetçiks, soldiers, now. Except this one.’ He waved his pistol at Bedros, who had all this time been standing, frozen, watching wide-eyed as the cavalrymen ransacked the ox cart.

  ‘Armenian?’ the officer said.

  Lock nodded. ‘Yes, but wha—’

  A deafening crack cut him short.

  Bedros didn’t even have time to move as the yüzbaşi shot him dead.

  ‘You bastard! You murd—’ Lock screamed in English, dropping his hands and lunging towards the cavalry officer. But he didn’t get more than two paces before a blow to the back of the head knocked him to the ground. A surge of pain shot down his spine and then he felt himself spinning and falling, deeper and deeper into a black pit of nothingness.

  ‘Nurse, help me get him back into bed.’

  Lock felt himself being lifted and laid gently back down again. Something was placed over his body up to the chest and then a sudden coolness enveloped his face.

  ‘How long has he been like this, Nurse?’

  ‘Most of the night, Doctor. Tossing and turning, calling out … Sometimes his eyes are open, but he doesn’t see … He was calm for a while when I was reading to him, but—’

  ‘Good, good. Well, keep bathing his forehead. We need to break the fever. I hope the wound isn’t infected. He’s strong, but we may have to operate again and I’m not so sure if he will survive the trauma to the brain.’

  ‘… with the offer to abstain from alcohol in order to encourage armament workers to do the same.’

  ‘Who’s abstaining from alcohol?’ Lock blearily opened his eyes. His vision was filled with Amy’s face and it lifted his heart. She was sat in a chair next to his bed, reading from the Daily Mirror.

  ‘His Majesty, King George.’

  ‘Why on earth would he want to do that?’

  Lock struggled to lift himself up. Amy folded the newspaper away and moved to help Lock sit up in bed.

  ‘There’s a belief that alcohol consumption slows down production,’ she said.

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘You’re clearly feeling better,’ Amy said.

  ‘I didn’t think you would come.’

  ‘Mary said you were asking after me.’

  Lock studied Amy’s face in silence. He enjoyed looking at her, he always had. Her face, framed by a ring of chestnut red hair just visible beneath her nurse’s cap, was still as soft and as white as snow, if a little harder around the mouth. Her full lips were as moist and as sensual as when he had first seen her. Lips to kiss. Yet her eyes, her beautiful emerald eyes, had lost some of their defiant sparkle, a light Lock found so captivating, so inextricably drawn to. It was a light that illuminated his very being, brought brightness to his darkest moments. And that brought despair to his joy at being close to her again.

  Amy sat back down.

  ‘I’m glad,’ Lock said.

  ‘Glad?’ Amy said.

  ‘That you did.’

  The room fell silent again.

  ‘I miss you.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘What does “kedisi
” mean?’ she asked after a while. ‘You kept mumbling the word in your sleep.’

  Lock smiled. ‘Do you remember me telling you about the cat in my prison cell? After I was arrested? When Britain declared war with Germany, and excitable panic broke out across Turkey?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It used to climb in through the barred window looking for food.’ Lock laughed softly, remembering. ‘Funny little creatures – the type of cat, I mean. They’re called kedisi and are native to Van. That’s a city in Turkey, in eastern Anatolia.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course you do.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Lock had drifted off momentarily, reaching back into his memory. ‘Oh, well, the kedisi cat is known for three things: a love of water—’

  ‘Really?’ Amy raised a soft brown eyebrow.

  ‘True. I saw one swimming once. For fun. It was trotting along beside a stream and just jumped in. Paddled about a bit, then got out again.’ Lock smiled.

  ‘Non. I do not believe you.’

  Lock ignored her cynicism. ‘They are always white and …’ He paused, lifting his hand to his face, ‘… they have two different coloured eyes; one blue and one amber. So I was often referred to as “Kedisi”.’

  ‘But you have … a greyish blue one and … a green one,’ Amy said, frowning and leaning forward as if to make sure.

  Lock held her gaze and was filled with an overwhelming urge to kiss her. Whether she could sense what he was thinking, he didn’t know, but she blushed and quickly sat back.

  ‘Please don’t,’ she said.

  ‘Why? Damn you, Amy. I love you and I bloody well know you love me. Stop lying to yourself. Ah—’ Lock sucked in his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his hand to his temple. The sudden burst of anger was making his head throb.

  Amy got to her feet. ‘Mon Dieu. This is why I didn’t want to come. I knew you would do this—’

  ‘What? Tell the truth?’

  ‘I don’t love you, Kingdom. I love Casper. And we are going to be married. And I wish you could just be happy for me.’

  Lock could see the tears welling up in her eyes as she spoke.

  ‘Marry me, Amy. Marry me.’

  ‘You just don’t understand.’