by Dave Duncan
Jones nodded, wondering what lay behind the sudden vehemence. After being through what this boy had been through, why should he brood over the guilt or innocence of a schoolboy chum? After seeing so much death, why become so agitated over one long-ago death? It had been three years. It had happened in another world, a world that was gone forever, butchered in the mud of Flanders.
The mood passed like a lightning flash. Smedley slumped loosely. He leaned his arms on his knees and reached for his cigarette with the wrong arm. He cursed under his breath.
Jones waited, but he would have to run for the bus soon or he would not see his bed tonight. Nor any bed, if he got trapped in the city. Not the way London was these days.
"Why?"
"I don't know,” Smedley muttered. He seemed to be counting the litter of butts around his feet.
Nonsense! The man needed to get something off his chest. Well, that was why Jones had come. He crossed his legs and leaned back to wait. He'd slept on station waiting room benches before now. He could again.
"Shell shock, they call it,” his companion told the dishes on the table—slowly, as if dragging the words out of himself. “Battle fatigue. Tricks of the mind. Weeping, you know? Facial tics, you know? Imagining things?"
"Maybe. Maybe not. Man has to trust something."
"There's lots here worse off than me, you know?” Smedley jerked his thumb over his left shoulder. “They call it the morgue. West wing. Don't know who they are, some of them. Or think they're the bleeding Duke of Wellington. All lead-slingers and scrimshankers, I expect."
"I doubt that very much."
Smedley looked up with a tortured, frightened grimace.
Jones's heart began to thunder like all the guns on the Western Front. “So?"
"There's one they call John Three. They have a John Two and there was a John One once, I expect. No name or rank. Doesn't speak. Can't or won't say who he is, or what unit he was in."
Jones sucked in a long breath of the chilling air.
"I'd forgotten how blue his eyes were,” Smedley whispered.
"Oh my God!"
"Bluest eyes I ever did see."
"Is he ... Is he injured? Physically, I mean?"
"Nothing major. Touch of gas burn or something.” Smedley shook his head. With another of his abrupt mood changes he sat up and laughed. “I expect I was imagining it."
"Let's just pretend you weren't, shall we? Did you speak to him?"
"No. He was with his keeper. Being exercised. Walked around the lawn like a dog. I wandered over. He looked right through me. I asked his keeper for a light. Said thanks. Trotted off."
Of course Exeter would have enlisted as soon as his leg had mended. It was impossible to imagine him not doing so. False name ... Tricky, not impossible...
"One thing you should know,” Smedley said shrilly. “He doesn't look a day older than he did in Victoria Station, three years ago. So a chap really has to assume that he's just a little bit more shell shocked than he hoped he was, wouldn't you say? Imagining things like that?"
"You're all right, man!” Jones said sharply. “But Exeter? Amnesia? He's lost his memory?"
Smedley's eye had begun to twitch again. He threw down his cigarette and stamped on it. “Oh no! No, no, old man, that's not the problem at all. He knew me right away. Turned white as a sheet, then just stared at the horizon. That's why I didn't speak to him. Chatted up the keeper to keep him busy till Exeter got his color back, then left without a glance at him."
"He's faking it?"
"No question. Unless I just imagined it."
"You didn't imagine this!"
"Oh, I wouldn't say that!"
"Don't be a fool man!” Jones snapped. “Have you had other delusions? Seen any other ghosts?"
"No."
"Then you didn't this time. He can't reveal his name without going on trial for a murder he didn't commit!"
The eye twitched faster. “He'd better find himself a name pretty soon, Mr. Jones! Very soon! I've been asking a few discreet questions.” The twitch had spread to his cheek. “He turned up in the front line under very mysterious circumstances. No uniform, no papers, nothing. They think he's a German sp-p-py!"
"What!"
"That's one th-th-theory.” Smedley was having trouble controlling his mouth now. “So he's got the choice of being hanged or sh-sh-shot, do you see?"
"My God!"
"What'n hell're we going to do, Ginger? How can we help him?” Smedley buried his face in one hand and a sleeve. He began to weep again.
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