The Casualties

by Nick Holdstock

  When Sam felt it—the cooling, his skin’s brief frown—he wondered if he was mistaken, but only for an instant. Then he put his hands on the side of the bath and stood, an older man’s precaution that gave him momentum, too much, because he slipped and hit his elbow on the side of the bath. It was an excellent collision. A different angle and lesser force would not have damaged the nerve. Pain streaked the length of his arm, and he almost passed out. Even under the tepid water he broke into a sweat. Not until the shower was cold did he dare sit up and consider whether his arm was broken. He moved it slightly. He did not think so. But there was a worrying tingle between his elbow and wrist. It felt as if some change had taken place.

  Just because the queue is small doesn’t mean I have to go in. There will be other days.

  It took longer to dress himself using only one hand. There was time to think. Would Sinead have a funeral? If so, who would attend? Her mother? Toby? Yes to the latter, because Evelyn would want to go. She’d probably find it satisfying.

  And who says I need to go in? It won’t tell me anything I don’t already know. It’s not as if I’ve forgotten.

  He forced sockless feet into shoes and then was out the door. His hand felt brittle, electrically charged, but at least he was moving. He didn’t stop when he reached the bridge.

  Mr. Asham’s was the only shop open. Sam had expected this, and in fact preferred it. The oil that destroyed the place would come from its own shelves. Afterwards, as Mr. Asham looked at the black and twisted metal, the ruin of three decades of work, he might remember Sam smiling broadly when he came to the counter. Whatever his suspicions, they were sure to be eclipsed by the slow, depressing work of rebuilding, those many unhappy weeks when Mr. Asham would struggle to believe the damage could be undone. Only after the shop had reopened and there was hope of better days, a new beginning, would he receive a postcard with a drawing of the queen that depicted Her Majesty throwing a Molotov cocktail.

  My legs hurt. I want to rest. Something is wrong with my ears. They keep popping as if the pressure is changing too fast.

  But as usual, Sam’s mind was split. Although he wanted to see Mr. Asham, the prospect was terrifying. If you have never been badly beaten, you may think it is like being hit or kicked several times, something most people can imagine, even if they have never been attacked: We have all slipped and fallen or been hit in the face with a ball. A proper beating is like this to the degree that a normal bowel movement can be said to resemble dysentery. Whilst the same parts are involved, the fear and pain are so intense as to be unrelated. It cannot be imagined. It is a death you survive.

  My ears are no cause for worry. They are my body’s version of an excuse. To call its bluff I stop and take deep breaths. I swallow. I yawn. If my Eustachian tube was blocked, it is clear now.

  But instead of Mr. Asham there was a short grey-haired woman wearing a green sari behind the counter. Her presence made Sam relieved and suspicious. Just as people forgot that Mr. Asham was a man who wore tweed suits, so they forgot he had a wife called Rabia. Although his son often worked in the shop, she was rarely seen. I don’t know whether this had to do with Mr. Asham’s beliefs about the role of women in the workplace, or a wish to keep his home and work life separate, but the result was that every time Rabia appeared there was an instant of disbelief. She was incontrovertible proof that he was more than a Pakistani man who stood behind a shop counter wearing a blue coat. He was a father, a husband, someone who was loved.

  Although I haven’t made my decision, I still join the queue.

  Sam went to the shelves of cleaning products. He looked at soap, detergent, furniture polish, then washing powder and bleach. He could not see anything that would catch fire. When he asked Rabia if they had any oil for lamps or heating, she said, “Not until winter.” The only flammable item Mr. Asham sold was the liquid people used in their cigarette lighters. Although there were three cans of it, they wouldn’t be enough. There would be no fire.

  We step forward. Wait. Step forward again. I watch as a young woman, less than thirty, steps out of the queue. There are many reasons why she might be leaving after waiting half an hour. That she has had second thoughts is only one possibility. As for the two young men in front, they don’t seem worried at all. They have their arms round each other’s shoulders and are singing together. I don’t know all the words—my Urdu is pretty thin—only that it is a song about heaven. I think it’s meant in a general, non-religious sense, because it’s also about love. I’m guessing they are here for the same reasons most young people come. They think it will be funny to see themselves looking that way, just as people at funfairs used to enjoy seeing their images distorted by mirrors that made them look taller or fatter.

  “Is something wrong, dear?” Rabia’s tone was warm, solicitous, wholly genuine. He managed to say, “No, it’s fine,” but then his voice cracked and he was crying in a desperate way that made Rabia step back.

  I want to tell these young men they should reconsider. I don’t know them; I can’t guess how they’ll react. They’ll probably find it amusing. There’s even a chance it will help them in some subtle way. Add a little caution to their confidence.

  “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  But I fear the old cliché about knowing the future is true. If we are to be hanged one day, let the knowledge come gradually—in the beam of a telephone pole seen on the way to work, in the overhead lines of a railway crossing—so that over years, decades, we build a sketch of the scaffold, become familiar with that image.

  Sam swallowed. “No, I’m fine. But thanks.” Rabia was a kind, maternal figure who hopefully had no idea about the person she was married to. Not that this was impossible. There are always excuses.

  These young men definitely shouldn’t go in together. Whether we are in love, or lust, it is only with the person who exists in the present.

  “O-kay, dear,” Rabia said. For a moment Sam felt a flash of anger; she was being patronising. As if he needed her permission to feel fine.

  When they next kiss their lips may not feel as soft. Their hands may feel rougher, far less nimble. As if they belonged to someone else.

  Sam saw fire on the shelves, the floor; the windows cracked, then broke.

  They step forward, as do I. There are only five people ahead of them.

  But there was going to be no fire. And fire was not enough. Fires happened all the time. They were accidents. They were not a judgement. People would look at his burnt-out shop and say, “Poor Mr. Asham. What a shame. Such a nice man.”

  There are four people ahead of the couple. Two old women, a teenage girl, and a middle-aged man. I wonder what he will choose, if he will choose at all. Apparently the machine can decide.

  Outside the shop Sam looked in both directions, wondering which way to go. It didn’t really matter. He’d have to wait till three or four in the morning, when the street would be deserted, before he could do anything. As he entered the park the air smelt of smoke and cooking meat. He heard a guitar, a drum, several shouts, some laughter. He walked toward the nearest light till he could see their faces, orange and partial. Sitting with them would be a nice way to spend his final hours in Comely Bank. They might be interested in where he was going; if they asked him why, he’d tell most of the truth. Everything except Malea. Everything except Sinead, Mr. Asham, his parents, what he was going to do when they were in their beds. He stood a moment and listened, heard talk of a protest, a party at Josie’s. They were laughing at her new haircut when he walked away.

  Now there are just two old women in front of these young men. They do not seem to be together. The woman in the very front hasn’t turned; if the one behind her has spoken, she has done so in a whisper. To me, this isn’t surprising. Though some might think these two women—both old enough to be Survivors—must have a lot to talk about, in my experience such similarities often have the opposite effect. We have little to say to ourselves.

  There was no one by the pond. On th
e water he could see a ghostly blur of swans, moving without sound or effort, pulled by invisible strings. He sat on the grass and watched them drift, apparently without purpose, sometimes drawing near but never colliding.

  The first old woman enters the tunnel. The other, now first in line, turns to the young men. “I don’t know why I’m bothering. All I need to do is look in the mirror.”

  Sam’s head was heavy. He lay on his side. The swans were liminal.

  She says this while stroking her cheek. The gesture is so self-adoringly coquettish that the young men don’t know how to react.

  He saw lighter patches of dark.

  They are wondering if it is possible for her to be so sweetly deluded about her true age. If so, what should they say? Surely it can do no harm if they agree.

  They were not separate.

  She lets them doubt a little longer. When she laughs, they quickly join in, no doubt relieved. It would have been a small lie, a white one; but many people of their generation seem unskilled at this.

  Not—

  “I guess this is time travel,” she says, and we laugh immediately.

  When Sam woke it was because of the pain in his ear. The lobe felt as if it had just been pinched, but by something stronger than fingers. He sat up and there was a hiss, and then part of the darkness was hurting his legs, and though he moved quickly it got him twice before he was out of range. Then the hiss returned, but it was now accompanied by the snapping sound of a sail being bullied by wind. The swan was furious.

  The green light comes on over the door. “See you in the past,” she says, and disappears inside. The couple dutifully steps forward, one of them whistling the tune they had been singing. “Skip to the next track,” says his friend.

  Sam ran and did not look behind because there was no point. He couldn’t run any faster. His ear was bleeding and maybe his legs, and if he had the chance he’d kick that bird to death.

  “Which one? ‘Best Boy in Kuqa’? Or ‘3099’?”

  He ran until he reached the gate.

  “What about something older?”

  He stopped and put his hand to his ear. He wiped the blood on his sleeve.

  The young man thinks then starts to whistle a tune I know so well I join in. Though this makes him falter, he does not stop. He whistles four or five bars more, after which he turns to me slowly, eyebrows raised.

  Sam didn’t know how long he’d slept. Although it was still dark, he thought dawn was near. He looked down the road and saw the face of the clock on the church. It was just after four; little time was left.

  “Are you a fan?” he asks.

  Sam walked quickly to the bookshop. He took two cans of paint from the back office, searched through drawers until he found a brush.

  “I have to be,” I say. “She’s my friend.”

  A last look at the office, the shelves; then he was on the street and walking towards Asham’s shop.

  “Really?” they say, and sound as thrilled as if I, not Shun Li, had written the song.

  The street was deserted. No cars passed. Every window was dark.

  “That’s amazing. What’s she like?”

  He opened the can of paint, and it was so white it glowed. He dipped the brush in, wiped off excess, drew a vertical line.

  “Don’t ask him that! That’s private.”

  Next to it he drew another line, then joined the two to make an A.

  “Oh no, it’s fine,” I say.

  He made a mess of the S. The H was slightly better.

  A proper answer would take much longer than the time that remains.

  As was the second A.

  “She’s wonderful,” I say, then add, “but she’s so competitive! She even hates losing at cards.”

  The M was just so-so. He wasn’t sure about the next word. HITS or HURTS?

  In truth, I’ve never seen her play. I just like the idea of this becoming a rumour.

  It had to be the latter. Someone might add an S to the start of HITS.

  “No!” they say in unison.

  ASHAM SHITS WOMEN was not much of an accusation.

  “Oh, yes. She’s awful when that happens.” They shake their heads in scandalised delight.

  He painted the H, the curve of the U, and then he saw the lights.

  Behind them, above the door, the bulbs are blinking green.

  The car was far in the distance. It was travelling slowly, and there were three junctions where it could turn.

  “If I win, I have to leave the room because she just loses control. She’s not herself.”

  The car passed through the first junction, stopped at the second.

  “One time she broke a vase. Just threw it at the wall.”

  They grin and say, “Incredible!” They do not believe me. They like this because it’s gossip, not because they think it’s true. Anyone who has seen an interview with Shun Li will know better.

  The car passed through the junction. If they hadn’t seen him, the reflection from the letters, they would do so in seconds.

  Only in Shun Li’s earliest work is there anything resembling a solo. Everything she’s done since then is scrupulously cooperative, not just in how it’s presented—as the work of the Nanjing Ensemble—but also in her interviews (always with at least one other ensemble member). As for the music, though the guqin is always present, its voice is often the quietest.

  The car lights caught the paint.

  Such a person does not break vases after losing at bashi fen.

  It was a white car with blue and green squares down each side.

  Even if they believe me, they’re thinking of someone else.

  On the front of the car, above the lights, was the word POLICE.

  And though the point is made, the joke is done, I say, “And you should see her when she’s getting a taxi!”

  Sam stood, paintbrush in hand, above the defaced pavement. And saw the car glide by.

  They smile, but do not laugh. Their eyes start flicking away.

  He watched its lights recede.

  Before I can make up something else, the man behind me speaks.

  When they vanished he bent and put the lid on the can of paint.

  “Excuse me,” he says. “You can go in now.”

  He picked the can up by its handle, drew his arm back, then swung the can at the window. In the quiet the sound of breaking glass was greatly amplified.

  They turn and see the green light. They rush to the door, enter.

  He wanted to hear it again. To repeat the sound ten or twenty times.

  “Are you all right?” the man behind me asks; why, I do not know. I’m sure he’s many things, but not a mind reader.

  He ran to the place where he had lived. He scrubbed the paint from his hands. Then he got his bags and left without shutting the front door.

  It takes a few seconds to realise what the man means. It’s only a small thing. I just need to step forward.

  Sam walked until he saw an orange light approaching. He held up his hand and the taxi stopped and he got in. “To the airport,” he said, and then the taxi was going fast through the unpeopled streets. The buildings were dark, their windows blank. There were no bright rectangles where people stood holding signs with his name.

  My foot must have gone to sleep. Despite me telling it to move, it is like a stone.

  He rested his head on the door and listened to the taxi’s engine. Though the hum of it rose and fell, it had a regular throb.

  “Sorry,” I say, and the man behind me says, “Take your time. No rush.” And I think he means it.

  The throb of the engine grew louder. Was he already on the plane? Moving eastward, crossing time zones, headed for the day.

  I press my foot into the floor and will the blood to move.

  Where would he be at sunrise, over which city? Certainly in Europe. Probably Germany or France. Places he had never wanted to visit, but now that he was leaving, about to travel, they seemed possible. He and Malea would go t
ogether on their honeymoon.

  The light is green. My foot is dead. The man behind me coughs.

  Sam opened his eyes—but briefly, so there was a flash of shops, a petrol station, a leap of flames. His eyes closed; when they reopened there was only dark.

  “You better go first,” I say. The man hesitates, then does.

  “Kids,” said the driver. “Like bloody animals. Running around in packs.”

  Either blood or something equally vital returns to my foot.

  “Doing God knows what in the park.”

  I raise my foot and move it forward. When I place it down it feels like hundreds of spines are pushing into the flesh. It is that special variety of pain that makes you laugh in embarrassment. As if your foot had committed some ludicrous act you wanted to distance yourself from.

  “Off somewhere nice?”

  But the only way to make this go away is for me to lift my foot, put it back down, feel the hurt again.

  “Manila.”

  Three, four steps.

  “Beautiful. But watch out for the lady boys!”

  Then I am at the door.

  “Me, I won’t get a holiday. Not this year.”

  Turning to look at the queue, I see thirty people waiting. About two-thirds are elderly, the rest quite young.

  Next thing Sam knew they were in a place of light and glass that seemed to be from another time.

  The one person who meets my gaze is the jovial woman who has just emerged from the tunnel. Her eyes are red; she holds her throat. I cannot read her expression.

  “Where are we?” Sam asked.

  It may be a look of warning, even reproach. As if I should have talked her out of something that I mean to do.

  “The end of the road,” said the driver, and laughed at his non-joke.

  Except this is what I want to see. And I’ve never been good at reading faces. Upset, anxious, guilty: To me they look the same.

  Sam rubbed his eyes. People were hurrying, pulling suitcases. A sign read: DEPARTURES.