by Chris Yeoh
“Dispatches from the front line in London indicate that all is going swimmingly in the war, where our brave men and women are fighting the good fight against an enemy both too horrible and yet too cowardly to even adequately describe. We are assured of good morale amongst our best soldiers, high spirits and are confident of a successful campaign, even as winter begins to set in its icy tendrils around this blessed country of ours.
“The army, under the command of his Majesty the King is assured that the worst of the fighting is over, and the war itself can be comfortably won by Christmas – the enemy has proved less than handy in its capacity for war-making, and thus its initial, and indeed underhanded sneak attack can no longer carry the momentum of its fight.
“Already the brave men of the colonies are reaching us in their droves; those who formed part of the exodus from London are already beginning to see a quick and healthy return to their homes – just in time for tea!
“And yet, we must all do our part in this war, short though it may be – citizens are requested to continue their generous donations of supplies, food, and kind messages to those grateful soldiers on the front.
“Listeners are advised to stay abreast of these messages. We close this hour’s broadcast now with a Bible verse – Isaiah 5....”
CLICK.
“What a load of shit,” Charlie said, taking his hand away from the radio dial and sitting back down in his bed.
Chapter 13
Something Very Bad
"Dress Shirts Gentlemen," Brunswick said in his best mocking voice. "Ridiculous, after everything that's happened, really."
"What is?" Neven asked. It was the evening now, and he was tying up the collar of a new starched officer's shirt, one that had been provided from some unseen, inner sanctum of clothing which the mansion apparently held. It was uncomfortable and every seam pinched on his body, it felt like a cardboard coffin. It wasn't anything new; he had dressed this smartly most days in the academy, but that was beginning to feel like a lifetime ago. It was also beginning to feel like someone else's life, that of some unworthy whelp called Neven Plumsworthy.
"Playing nice. Like people haven't died. Like North wasn’t killed by some monster. Like Church isn't still out there," Brunswick was being uncharacteristically verbose.
"Corporal," A voice shook them. Neven looked to the door to see Margaret, the former owner of the farm, standing there.
"Mrs. Simpson," he said, surprised. "Come... hold on," Neven looked about the room and then went to the door and out into the corridor.
Margaret did not seem too undone by this compromise, but she did lower her voice significantly.
"What is it?" he said in his most comforting voice. He didn't know where he found the strength, however, as he was significantly tired.
"I don't like it here," she said promptly. "Neither does Enoch. And I don't want the children growing up here. It's too dangerous. There's too much bad blood. I've seen the way the cavalry boys look at us, the way they treat that girl you're sweet on. I think we're better off anywhere else."
Neven couldn't think of a response, but knew he had to make a choice. “We can adjust,” he said finally.
Margaret snorted derisively. "I think wherever Mr. Church ends up will be a hell of a lot better- sorry- than this place."
Somebody began ascending the stairs and she hurried away, Neven was almost tempted to do the same. But whoever was approaching stopped halfway up.
There was click.
There was a clank.
There was a thunk.
And then there was a bang.
Neven came along the landing at lightning pace, and found Tom, slouched against the bannisters, the crown of his skull now adorning the ceiling.
"Oh shit," Brunswick said, hurrying out the room and nearly colliding with Neven. He was fiddling with his own shirt, his fingers dancing around the collar.
"He took the easy way out, then," Private Brunswick continued, crossing himself silently; the briefest of eulogies.
Neven stared down at the lifeless body and decided that it did not look particularly easy to him. The rifle Tom had used would have been significantly difficult to hold up to one’s head while at the same time pulling the trigger. It seemed Tom had put the stock butt-down a few steps below, and, as his single bare foot would attest, taken off his shoe and fired the damned thing with his toe.
He decided to keep this train of thought to himself.
"What the hell was that?" Gifford roared from some cavernous darkness within the house.
Oh dear, thought Neven selfishly, how are we to explain this?
*
That evening, Neven passed through the downstairs corridor and walked by Brunswick, standing away from the door on guard. He still looked itchy and ill-at-ease in his new uniform. He had also been forced to wear a shirt.
"Hello again, Corporal."
He was talking over the noise of scraping; a harsh brushing noise that was going straight to Neven's teeth and making him shiver. It was the sound of Enoch and Charlie scrubbing the staircase of the detritus, brains and blood that Tom had deposited there. A picture which had taken the brunt of the blast had been taken down, brought to the landing above and turned against the wall so that it might not upset the children, who in turn had been sent to their room. The knock-on effect of death is that it never just affects the person in question.
"Hello," Neven replied. He was procrastinating, not wanting to turn the handle of the door and enter the world inhabited by the officers, not wanting to pretend that everything in the manor was fine. That all things weren't coming crashing down.
"Major Vernon's in there already, and Sergeant Swinton. And a few of... them," Brunswick was scratching his face. His whole attire made his disposition uncomfortable. "Also there's a new chap in there, haven't seen him around before."
"Brunswick," Neven said, his body possessed of something unknown to his brain. He was not speaking freely any more, but was being an instrument rather than an agent.
"Yes, sir?"
"Leave your post. Go and find Thornhough, and make sure you can account for all of the civilians."
"Excuse me, sir?"
Neven remained fixated upon the door handle.
"Go now. I need you and Thornhough to be ready."
"... For what?"
Neven turned and looked at him finally. He smiled.
"I don't know," he said jovially. "I don't know. Oh, and go and get a gun, and make sure it has bullets in it."
Neven did not wait for a response, the door handle turned easily even within his sweaty grip, and he entered the room, not even waiting to take a breath.
"It's polite to knock, corporal." Major Vernon said, beckoning to a seat next to his own.
Neven did not say a word; instead he crossed the room to his allocated seat. The dining room was ill-lit, but he could still make out the faces of many in the room. Major Vernon was there, of course. His second, the fat man Swinton sat some way around the circular table. He was flanked by the angry Cavalry Sergeant Southampton. Opposite to Neven's eye line was the immovable Lieutenant Gifford. Beside him sat the man who had originally opened the gate to the farmhouse survivors, Sergeant Gower.
The cavalrymen were already tearing through their meals, giving little thought to etiquette or courtesy - though that fact gave scant surprise to Neven. Major Vernon seemed to care very little for the manners of his hosts, and he sat about the table as though nothing were wrong, attempting light conversation and a few meagre jokes every now and then. Neven thought he wore the air of a man who knew his prize ship was sinking, and yet pretended the new sudden influx of water was merely a teething problem.
It was sad, he thought, as he brought his chair about to the table, tucking himself in next to the Major, that this man who so clearly deserved respect was so deluded. He daren't worry, however, as the prize for the most insane at the dinner table was being fiercely contested.
He looked to his left, and curio
usly saw that a dinner place had been set for someone who was not yet present. Wine had been poured and the meal had been set. He glanced up one more place to the left, and found himself looking at an unfamiliar sight.
It was the Baton of Britain, as Neven had never seen him before. Dressed head to toe in the garb that he had worn in his photographs and posters, he barely looked a shadow of a man who had stood proudly on the cliffs of Dover. Neven understood finally what had been in his suitcase the entire time. His eye mask, a figure eight of black cloth, was stretched out thinly across his tired features and barely disguised the beginnings of what were likely tears. His tunic was rich red for the breast and deep blue for the long sleeves, a diamond of yet more blue adorned his chest. His cloak, now a dirty and distressed white, was slung over the high back of his chair as though he hung from it.
He sat hunched up, leant forwards, and nibbling on a piece of bread with both hands clasped around it. He looked up, and Neven saw his beady eyes meet his own. As he began to shrink away, Neven smiled, so the Baton became a little less defensive. They were both still well aware, however, of the multitude of glances that the costumed man was soliciting.
Gifford spoke up finally. “I know it hasn't been an easy day, but I believe that better times are upon us in this New Britain."
Neven shuddered at the way he said it; as though it deserved a capital noun. Vernon had not noticed, the Major seemed to have switched off completely in fact, but the Corporal and Sergeant Swinton shared a glance.
"But why don't we have a little light entertainment, to raise the tone. If you would be so kind," Gifford turned to face the Baton of Britain, who could not react fast enough. There was a good, long period of silence.
"..." The Baton of Britain barely gurgled. The gnawed crust in his hand was still for the first time.
"If you would, please, Baton of Britain. Rouse us with an inspirational speech, perhaps some war poetry that I believe you are so fond of," Gifford either knew exactly what he was doing, or was entirely ignorant.
Oh no, Neven thought. He saw Southampton and Gower look to each other and smile. A secret joke shared between bastards. Soon to be a public joke, shared between even more.
"I... I..."
"Yes, speak up," Gower could barely contain himself. Southampton giggled.
"Stand up, lad," Major Vernon insisted, hissing behind Neven's back at the risk of losing face in front of the Lieutenant.
The Baton did as he was told, and he looked no taller than a schoolboy.
"Sir," Neven began. "I don't know if this..."
"Come on!" Gifford ignored him. "Lead us in a chorus, something splendid and robust! What do they call you the Baton of Britain for? This is pathetic!" It was a strange sort of tough love, or the worst kind of bullying.
The Baton wavered. "Muh... muh... my name is Peter."
"Jesus Christ lad, you're stuttering like a loon!" All of the cavalry officers laughed.
"Stand Proud, Britain!" Gower shrieked, and threw his head back and laughed again. “Ohhhhhh,” he sang a low baritone.
“Ohhhhh,” Southampton chimed in, slightly higher and more nasal.
“The French they think their clever!”
“The Germans think they're strong.”
“The Eye-ties weep, the chinkies bleat!”
“When they all meet! (When they all get beat)”
“Byyyyy The Baton of Britain!”
“Ha-Ha!”
The three cavalry officers, Gifford, Southampton, and Gower, were beginning to sing now, chanting their mis-remembered limericks with intense ecstasy upon their faces. Neven, Vernon, and Swinton were silent, aghast. The Baton was beside himself with gathering grief.
“The Polacks will get hammered!
“The Russian's will get smashed!
“And the Nips get snipped (and every girl)
“The blacks eat shit (around the world)
“When they meet! (Is out of luck)
“When they all get beat! (Will get fucked)
“By the Baton of Britaaaaaaaaaain!”
The Baton was weeping openly. He rushed out of the door, slamming it shut behind him.
"You stupid prig!" Southampton yelled towards his retreating back.
"Now see here!" Swinton roared. "That's quite enough of that talk."
"Oh shut up, Sergeant," Gifford waved his hand at Swinton.
Swinton looked towards Vernon for support, but none was forthcoming. The argument was over, so was the fight. It was as futile as the resistance that the country had put up against the invaders. The cavalrymen laughed themselves out, and the three soldiers held tight lest the overflowing ire spill upon them too.
Grin and bear it, Vernon and Neven had decided silently in unison. It's better than the alternative. Even this is better than that.
The door swung a little open again.
"Ah!” Gifford said with some enthusiasm. “Our final diner, he's been working in my office for the past few days, so he hasn't been properly introduced. And he's been to thank for this wonderful platter." Gifford explained, not that anyone cared. "Private Cave!"
The words echoed around Neven's head, and struck a chord which would have rung perfectly clear if he wasn't so tired. Out walked one of the most familiar and least recognisable faces Neven could have hoped to see.
Private Cave of the Fortieth Rifles, glasses, handkerchief, spots and all strode out into the darkly lit room. Neven's eyes widened and his body shrank, though no one noticed. For possibly the only time in his life, Neven wished that Church was by his side.
Cave rounded the table from Gifford, who placed a lingering hand on the young officer's shoulder. He looked as untouched as the day he gone with Neven into Great Portland Street. He walked past Gower first in his anticlockwise circumambulation, and then came to the place that The Baton had previously occupied. Then he found his own place, next to Neven.
"Hello, Corporal Plumsworthy," he said. He was smiling at the same time as baring his teeth.
Neven realised what had happened. This was a sting operation and he was the bait. He worried for himself first, but couldn't help be nervous for Swinton and Vernon, who were beginning to look like collateral, ensnared in the same net. He swallowed nervously.
"Hello, Private Cave. It's... a pleasure to see you again."
"Private Cave has been informing us that you two are well acquainted," Gifford said.
Vernon leaned in.
"Plumsworthy," Gifford said. "Would you mind explaining to my men and your fellow officers why you considered yourself worthy of dereliction of your post?"
"What of what?" Neven was visibly sweating.
"In Great Portland Street!" Cave grew suddenly angry, spitting with every word. "You and Private Church left us boys to die. I'm the only survivor. Well I thought I was, I suppose."
"It's not like that," Neven said. "I'm sorry, but it's not."
"I'm afraid that's not good enough, lad," Gifford rose, as did his cohorts. "I'll have to place you under arrest. Desertion is serious crime."
"Now listen here," Vernon was beginning to have enough. He rose, shakily, to his feet in order to find the common ground with the cavalry officers.
"Sit down, Major Vernon, or I will arrest the two of you as well."
"The hell you will," Swinton rose, in a more aggressive stance.
Neven felt the temperature of the room rise significantly.
"That's it!" Gifford drew a pistol, shifting the balance of power in the room somewhat. "Private Cave, please place these three men under arrest and lock them in their quarters."
There was a gunshot.
And then another.
Neven winced, before he realised that it had come from outside. Gower went to the window, drawing his own gun.
"Gower, Southampton. Go and see what that was," despite his rage, Gifford would not remove his eyes from his captives.
His two subordinates did as they were told, and the number of guns in the room, by Neven's
count, was reduced. That is, at least, until he felt the cold steel of Cave's revolver against the nape of his neck.
*
Out in the garden, Phillipa crept around, two fully-laden satchels swinging about her. The soft grass brushed daintily against the bare soles of her feet and almost made her forget the world in which they lived, both inside and outside the manor.
The sky was dark now, a crisp moon, whose only competition for the light was the muffled windows in the dining room, shone brightly. She could hear singing from inside as she advanced purposefully away from the house.
She dared not admit her plans, even to herself, as though somehow her cavalry overlords might be privy to her thoughts. It was silly of course, she knew, but it stopped her mind from wandering to Neven, whom she was leaving behind.
She crept towards the one part of the grounds that was now unfamiliar to her. This was the one part that they had not been allowed access to, nor had they sought it, for the forcefulness of their captors was so overbearing.
"Oh dear, we asked you not to go to the stables, didn't we?"
She stopped, dead in her tracks. The mind-reading perniciousness of the cavalrymen rose in the deepest, darkest places of her thoughts. She looked about herself once, twice, thrice.
"Didn't we tell you not to go? You stupid old man, look at what you've done."
She breathed easy, and un-crouched her twisted and coiled body. It would seem that another had been taken with the same idea as she. Was it Neven? Who knew, but she was keen to find out.
She continued creeping towards the stables, and noticed a distinct lack of noise save for this one hate-filled voice.
"Ha-ha!" it was Garden. The hated Garden; his voice was almost sing-song, and wholly coated in vicious triumph. She hugged the wooden frame of the outer wall, slowly rounded the doorway and poked her head inside.
In what the moon would reveal, she could discern several shapes. The cavalry man, Private Garden stood over Anthony's body, wiping his bloody knife clean upon old hay. Hay that looked like it had never been used, and was rotting away. The old vet's blood began to clot amongst the straw and shit on the floor, culminating in a large pool by his throat. He had died with a look upon his face which did not denote pain, but rather shock.
Now that Phillipa's eyes had a chance to adjust to the scene, she could see why. The stables had been turned into an abattoir. The horses from the Simpson farm which had so faithfully carried their loads to the manor had been slaughtered, butchered, and strung up.