Lets Drink To The Dead (9 page)

6

“I
HAVE TO
go out.”

Roberta, curled up on the sofa, looked away from the television’s pale flicker. “Fair enough.”

“I don’t know what time I’ll be back.”

She hugged a cushion to herself. Beside her lay a framed photograph of Michael, in his army uniform. “Fine. I’ll be OK.”

“Are you sure?”

“Bronisław, if you need to go out, just go. I’m a grown woman. I’ll be fine. I’m used to coping on my own.”

She’d never used to call him Bronisław; always Bron. Until Michael had left. Bron tried to think of something else to say, couldn’t. “Alright,” he said. “I will see you later. Don’t wait up.”

“Wasn’t planning to. I’m tired.”

“Alright, then,” said Bronisław after a moment, and went into the kitchen. A coat with deep pockets hung by the door. He put it on, then crossed to the metal gun cabinet bolted to the wall and unlocked it. Inside were four shotguns: a .410 for small game, and three 12-bores – an over-and-under, a single-barrel and a side-by-side. He emptied a box of cartridges into his coat pocket, took out the side-by-side, broke it open and hung it over one arm.

Then he went to the kitchen table. He laid the shotgun there and found paper and pen. After a few moments he began to write, printing in big square letters.

I am proud of you
, he wrote.
I did not want you to be a soldier, only because I have seen war. I only wanted to protect my family from such things. But you are a man now; it is not my choice anymore. It is yours. Do what you must.

He stopped, chewed the base of the pen; what he had written seemed stilted and didn’t say what he wanted it to. Words did not come easily to him, not words of this kind.
Look after your mother,
he wrote after a moment, then laid the pen aside and folded the sheet of paper.

“What brought that on?”

Roberta stood behind him, arms folded.

“How much did you see?”

“Pretty much the lot.”

Bronisław nodded.

“Where is it you’re going, Bron?”

“It’s best you don’t know.”

She jabbed a finger at him. “Do
not
talk to me like that.”

“Somewhere dangerous.”

“Bron, I’m your wife. I’ve been your bloody wife for thirty-three years. I married you even though no bugger would give me the time of day after I did and I held my head high till they came round. I have stuck by you through everything, even through driving our son away–”

“I did not drive him.”

“He hasn’t spoken to us since he left, Bron. Do you know what that’s like? Do you feel a bloody thing?”

“You know I do.”

“Do I?” She hugged herself tightly. “He could die. He could die and I wouldn’t hear from him. And now you as well?”

“I will be alright. I will come back.”

“Then why write that? If you aren’t worried?”

“Just in case.”

“Just in case, my arse. Where are you going, Bron? Do not tell me I’ve got no right to know.”

“Alright. I’m going to Ash Fell.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yes.”

“
That
place.”

“Yes.”

“Why? Who are you going with?”

“A friend.”

“Who?”

“Someone I gave my word to help.”

“
Who?
” When he didn’t answer, Roberta snorted. “It’s her, isn’t it? Myfanwy?”

“How did you–”

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

“She asked for my help.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Roberta, wait–”

“Oh, piss off back to your fancy woman.”

“Don’t talk wet.” Bron didn’t use English slang very often; it came out as ‘vet’. Roberta half-laughed, a hand covering her mouth, but her eyes were moist. Bron went to her – held her arms; she twisted in his grip. “Roberta–”

“Get off me–”

“Listen to me–”

“Get
off
me, Bron.”

“Alright.” He released her. “There is... Myfanwy says there are children in danger tonight.”

“Well call the police, then.”

Bron shook his head.

“Why not?”

“The police may be involved.”

“Oh, that’s rubbish.”

“I wish it was. But Myfanwy says they are.”

“‘Myfanwy says.’”

“She has never lied.” Roberta turned away. “Roberta, she may be wrong. Of course she may be wrong. And then that will be an end of things. But if she is right? If children’s lives were threatened and I did nothing? What then? Could you live with such a man?”

She looked back at him; he saw she was weeping. “I’ve lived with you since Michael left, haven’t I?”

He looked away.

“Why can’t someone else do it?”

“Because she trusts me.”

“She trusts you.”

“I gave her my word. Roberta... Roberta, when I came here, Myfanwy was the first friend I had, the first person who would speak to me.”

“Friend. Bit more than that, if I remember. You were her bloody toy-boy.”

“It was not for long. And then we were only friends again. And Roberta, I have never hidden that from you. Have I?”

“No,” she said at last. “No, you haven’t.”

“I gave my word. And...” Bronisław picked up the shotgun. “I grew up on a farm like this. You know that. And as any farmer’s son must, I grew up with this too. So with it, as a boy, I killed. Birds, rabbits – for food or to protect the crops. I took no pleasure in it. It was just something that had to be done. But it stood me in good stead when we fought the Germans.”

Roberta lowered her arms. “You know, you’ve never spoken about that.”

“It was something I wished to forget. I was with the Home Army, in the Mokotów district of Warsaw, during the Uprising of 1944. I saw many friends die around me. I fought with a rifle, a sub machine gun. Hand grenades. Once, I ran out of ammunition and used my rifle as a club. I beat a German soldier to death with it.”

Roberta put a hand to her mouth.

“Did I take pleasure in that? I don’t know. But I took human life, not once, but often. And came to do so without thought, because you cannot think of such things. Not at the time.”

“But after?”

“Yes. That is why I did not want Michael to become a soldier. I did not want him to see or do such things. I did not want to, ever again. But now, I must. Because somebody must. Or more innocents will die terrible deaths.”

“I’m coming with you, then.”

“No.”

“Sounds like you need all the help you can get.”

“You are brave, Roberta. I’ve always known this. But there is still Michael.”

“Bron–”

“It is better to lose a father and still have a mother. Believe me, I know this.”

She stared at him, lip trembling, then drew a breath. “Fine then.”

“You will see that Michael gets the letter, if... anything happens?”

“Alright.”

Silence.

“Roberta–”

“Aye, Bron.” Her face had softened. “I know.”

He nodded, turned.

“Bron–”

“Yes?”

“If you don’t get your arse back here in one piece, I’ll kill the bloody pair of you.”

He smiled and gave her a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

Bronisław Stakowski went out without looking back. He put the shotgun in the back of the Landrover, climbed behind the wheel and took out the keys. For a long time he looked straight ahead; then he turned to look back at the farmhouse and the one lit window where his wife stared unseeing at the television screen. He took a deep breath then turned on the engine and drove.

7

I
T WAS TWENTY
to eight when Bron turned off the headlights and pulled the Landrover in behind the burnt-out farmhouse on Dunwich Lane. The engine cooled and ticked; above them loomed the black, bristling bulk of Ash Fell.

“What now?” asked Bron.

“We’d better get going,” Myfanwy said at last.

Bronisław nodded. “You should stay in the car.”

“I’m coming up there with you.”

“It isn’t safe.”

“I’m not sending you up there on your own and then bloody waiting.” It had been bad enough doing so back in the war, seeing her husband to the station and then waiting, waiting. Until the telegram of condolence from the War Office had come. “And you’ll need my help up there, in case.”

“In case of ghosts?”

“Yes.”

Bronisław breathed out. “Alright. There is never any point arguing with you.” He went round the back of the Landrover and took out two torches. “Take one of these. Do not switch it on yet, though.”

He hung the shotgun, broken, over his arm and thumbed two cartridges into it.

The night, again, was clear, the moonlight shining on the road as they crossed it. Only the farmhouse seemed untouched by it when Myfanwy looked back; a black, house-shaped hole cut into the winter sky.

“Hold onto my coat,” said Bron, and she did. Across the road and off it now, and the ground was uneven. The ground dipped into a hollow path that rose steadily up among the trees.

“This way,” Bronisław said, and they followed the hollow. The trees closed around them, narrow and bare; the naked branches meshed above them and the moonlight faded. Bronisław switched his torch on, keeping it aimed low. “Keep hold of my coat and watch where you’re stepping.”

Myfanwy did as he said.
You stupid old woman. What do you think you’re doing, out here at this hour? So easy to trip, and you’re not young anymore. Hurt yourself badly, even die.
She took a deep breath, poured it out into the night as white vapour, and followed him up the slope.

“The ground isn’t as bad as I’d thought,” whispered Bronisław. “It’s almost like a path.”

“It’s the old branch line,” Myfanwy whispered back. “It’ll take us straight up to the railway station.”

Things crawled and skittered in the undergrowth as they climbed. Bronisław shone the light on the ground to ensure the way was clear. Myfanwy fought to keep her balance and wished she’d brought her stick.

The trees thinned out. A little. To the left of them a concrete ramp rose from the ground and then flattened out.

“The station platform,” Myfanwy whispered.

Bronisław switched his torch off. Moonlight filtered down and lit the concrete. He pocketed the torch, snapped the shotgun shut and started up the ramp. Myfanwy crept after him.

Heavy, naked trees overhung the platform; there was an empty shell of a waiting room and a squat low cottage-like building whose roof had fallen in. Moonlight lapped along the concrete.

“What now?” Bronisław whispered.

Myfanwy bit her lip. What indeed? She could think of nothing, except to wait – wait for something that might never come. It all felt foolish, suddenly. “I–”

Bronisław raised a hand. “Wait. Listen.” She did. And she heard what Bronisław must have: the soft, muffled weeping of children. Where–

Bronisław turned, pointing across the platform towards the waiting-room. “There,” he said, and walked over.

Myfanwy hurried after him and they reached the shelter together, both saw its contents at the same time. A little fair-haired girl no older than nine or ten years of age, and a black boy of about twelve, both bound hand and foot and gagged. They were sparsely clad in T-shirts and shorts and plimsolls: God knew how long they’d been left out here in this, like sacks of rubbish for collection. Already they were shaking with cold. As Bronisław loomed over them, the girl let out a muffled, frightened cry.

“I won’t hurt you.” Bronisław broke open the shotgun again and laid it aside.

“We’ve come to save you,” Myfanwy said. “We need to get them back to the car.”

“Yes.” Bronisław unfolded a knife, at which the girl squealed in fright through the gag.

“It’s alright,” soothed Myfanwy, crouching close by and gripping her small, frozen hand. “It’s alright, he’s just cutting you free.” Bron freed the girl’s feet first, then the hands. The child fumbled the gag out of her mouth and fell sobbing into Myfanwy’s arms. Bronisław set to work on the boy’s bonds next. The boy scrambled to his feet and pressed back against the waiting-room wall, looking from face to face, fists raised. He was quite tall, his hair in a rumpled Afro, an attempt at cultivating a moustache on his upper lip. He had one foot forward, one foot back; Myfanwy guessed he boxed. His teeth were clenched.

“What’s your name, love?” Myfanwy asked him.

His eyes darted from her face to Bronisław’s. “Wesley.”

“I’m Myfanwy. That’s Bron. We came to help you.”

Wesley let out a long breath, lowered his fists. He was shaking.

“Everything’s going to be alright now,” Myfanwy said. “We’ll get you to our car and then we’ll go to the police.” Which police, though? Not the ones in Kempforth, that was for certain. And there was the matter of how they’d explain all this. But that could wait. She loathed Ash Fell at the best of times, and this was far from that. “And what’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Tammy,” said the girl.

“Alright, now, children. You’ve all been very brave, you just need to be brave a little bit longer. You’re safe now.”

“Are they?” said a thin, cold voice.

Bronisław spun, snatched up the shotgun and threw it to his shoulder, aiming down the platform. Tammy screamed and gripped Myfanwy tight around the neck; Wesley raised clenched fists.

A small, hunched figure in a knee-length black coat was advancing along the platform. The moonlight limned him, glinting off his bald head. The black leather of his coat and gloves shone like an insect’s carapace; his round spectacle lenses caught the light and shone, pale and ghostly, as he came forward, patent-leather heels clicking on the concrete. He carried a briefcase at his side.

“I beg to differ,” said the man. “I say they belong to me. I say they’re mine, bought and paid for.” He put the briefcase on the ground and spread his arms. There was a soft purring sound as the seams of his gloves began to give way, then a ripping sound as the leather split, and then the gloves fell away and his long, thin fingers were uncoiling to their full length. Each must have had a dozen joints, and each tapered to a needle-sharp point; fully extended, they were between two and three feet long. They coiled and uncoiled, flexing.

In the moonlight, Myfanwy saw small, sharp teeth glitter, bared in a smile.