The Day Before Tomorrow (4 page)

He drew on his cigarette (he had taken up smoking recently – taking care of his health seemed pretty pointless now) and sucked in the cold air between his teeth. 

He threw the cigarette down and began to write. He was still writing as the streaky dawn drew across the sky. 

* * *

Tamar threw the letter to the floor.  ‘He writes as if he’s going to die,’ she said. 

Tristan looked sympathetically at her.  ‘Well, he
is
in a war,’ he said.  ‘Doesn’t mean that he
will
die, just that it’s on his mind, dontcher know?  Men in combat and all that’

Ophelia floated past and cocked her head to listen.

‘We’re
all
in a war,’ said Tamar.  ‘It’s no safer here, any more than it is over there, but
I’m
not giving up.’

‘Oh Tamar Darling,’ tinkled Ophelia, ‘you always did have a head full of magic,’ she said this without having the least idea what she was talking about – which was her usual way of going on.  

Tamar bristled.  This was a colloquialism that her (Ophelia’s) mother had been fond of.  It meant that Tamar was “not quite with it”, or was being unrealistic – “away with the fairies”, so to speak.  It was an insult if you like, even though it was partly true.

But now, Tamar wondered about this.  It had never occurred to her before, but people had always used these strange, magical-related expressions to describe her. 

For example, her beauty had always been described, not as “radiant” or “luminous” or anything other than always “enchanting”.   Almost every time, that was the word used.  She was an “enchantress”. Admirers spoke of her “casting spells” on them, or “weaving enchantments on their hearts’. 

When she thought about it now, she realised that modern men were not usually given to overblown expressions of this type.

Jealous girls had referred to her, not as a “bitch”, but more commonly, a “witch”.   

And there were other examples of this strange circumstance.  The most peculiar being her French teacher’s habit of calling her a “genie”.  She was trying to express the idea that she considered Tamar a genius of course, but her grasp of English had not been as impressive as Tamar’s grasp of French.  And Ophelia’s mother had always said that she had “a head full of magic”.  Never ever did she say: “oh she’s off on another planet.’ Or even, simply: ‘She’s a daydreamer’.  It was weird now she came to think about it; it was weirder still that she had never noticed it before.

It was almost as if the universe was trying to tell her something.

She left the letter behind when she left the room and Tristan picked it up curiously.  He read:

Dear Tam

I wonder how many of the enemy feel just like I do about –––  we  –– and I think about how they probably don’t want to any more than I do.  After all, they’re just men like us really, probably just like us.  I bet they’d much rather be at home, just like I would.  I don’t want to kill anyone.  I bet they don’t either.  But I will, and they will too, because we have to.  Nobody asked us if we wanted to.  It’s ridiculous, if we all just said no, what could they do about it?  But we won’t because we know the other side won’t say that and so it’s them or us, I suppose.  How did it get like this?

It’s almost dawn. I have to go, I hope this letter reaches you. 

Promise to go on, Tam, don’t give up whatever happens.  I put my hope in you now.  After all, if it’s not for you, then what am I doing this for?  You are the reason, the beginning and the end.  If you survive this, then that is all I ask for.  As for me, just keep me in your heart.  I know you will. 

I love you always

Denny X 

Tristan sighed to himself as he put the letter down. ‘Oh to love like that!’

* * *

When Morris was blown to bits beside him, something changed in Denny forever.  He learned, in that moment, how to hate and how to kill without remorse.  The enemy had come upon them just before dawn and taken them by surprise. 

Now Denny lay in the trench, spitting and swearing bloody murder, wreathed in smoke from the machine gun and totally unafraid, as bullets hammered into the sandbags around him, watching the lines of grey figures approach out of the early morning mist.  Hundreds and hundreds of them.  Not men any longer, they were just “The Enemy”. 

Through the mist in his head, Denny could vaguely hear his comrades shouting: ‘Load!’  ‘Cock – Range?’  ‘Reload.’  ‘Fire!  Fire!’ All was desperate panic and confusion. The Captain had been right; these boys just weren’t ready for this.  Denny shivered.  With a cold fury, he shot, and not five yards from him, a man fell and another and another.  Beside him, Private Jones fell with a cry, Denny continued to shoot.

Then somebody lobbed a shell into the trench; everybody dived out of the way as the ground around them sprayed upward like water.  Everybody seemed to be screaming.  There was fire everywhere. Denny was flung backwards by the force of the explosion.  He was lucky – he was still alive.  He just had time to let this thought register, before everything went black. 

* * *

Tamar had been sat in the same position for five hours now, ever since she had opened the letter from the Army Liaison Office. 

When she had read the opening words, a pit had opened up beneath her feet, and she had slid into it, down and down. She felt it close over her head and understood that she would never come out again, not as long as she lived. 

Denny was dead.  How was she ever going to live without him?

How indeed?  It had to be faced; it is not for any of us to say how long we shall live.  Too late, she realised that she had put too much of herself into him, that she could no more live without him without agony, than she could cast aside her right arm.  Too late for even the bitter solace of telling him this.  That he did not know, would never know now, for she had never shown him that he meant as much to her as she had to him. 

Had – had!  Oh God! The black years of emptiness that stretched before her, she could not face them – she could not!

 She had feared to show him the truth in case she lost him.  Had feared even to face it within her.  What a fool she had been!  To think that she could protect her heart by denying it.  And now she must pay for her folly, as for a crime.  

After a while – she never knew just how long – she hardened her will. She would go on.  It was what he had wanted.  She was heartbroken, but she was also free.  Nothing else could ever hurt her again.  She was steel – rock – impenetrable.  Now she was finished with love (or love was finished with her) she would try ambition.  

She made her way to Tristan’s room. 

~ Chapter Nine ~

I
nvasion!  In her mind’s eye, she saw them.  The faceless hordes storming across the county, lines of tanks crawling before them.  They had marched across Europe and across her nightmares.  Now they would march across her home.  Followed by the SAS.  Knocks on the door.  People dragged away.  Firing squads.  For the unthinkable had happened.  They were here, and more were coming every day.  Britain was now an occupied county.  

Tamar was packing up what little she had; they would be leaving tomorrow.  There were troops heading this way.  Ophelia was in a flap, as was to be expected, she wanted to pack up everything they owned and Tristan could not seem to make her see sense.  She could not bear the idea of those dirty soldiers touching her beautiful things.  It wasn’t “nice” Darling.  Tamar wanted to slap her, but Tristan was feeling guilty about his affair with Tamar and was being especially gentle with his wife.  And Tamar judged that it was too soon to start acting up with him, so she kept out of it, even when Ophelia suggested that they could make more room in the car by leaving some of Tamar’s things behind.

She said nothing, just narrowed her eyes. Tristan was becoming more and more enamoured every day. It would be Tamar’s turn soon enough. 

‘Then everything will be paid for,’ she thought.  Every gloating remark, every selfish impulse, every insult.  Everything.

* * *

The first robbery had gone according to plan, to Cindy’s mingled relief and dismay. 

Mack was now moving his operation further down the country. The big country houses would be better, he said.  More pickings and less security.  And cheaper living.  This was what appealed to him about crime.  The easy rewards, the quick money and free spending.  Clothes, comfort, girls.  Mack was a hedonist, not a master criminal. 

Now they were doing a job a week, living high and to hell with the future. 

Tonight they were planning a big one.  A large, isolated county house, Mack told them. Belonged to some peer.  A big payoff. They should be able to live off this one for a couple of months at least …  

* * *

It was just before dawn when Tamar awoke with the feeling that there was something wrong. Downstairs she could hear noises, the faint, but unmistakable sounds of people moving about.  ‘Soldiers?’  No, whoever it was, they were trying to be quiet, more likely it was burglars. 

Tamar slipped her robe on and went downstairs.  Nobody could move as silently as Tamar when she wanted to; thus she took the intruders by surprise. 

There were two of them, a man and a woman with bright blonde hair, who stood wringing her hands while the man calmly emptied the safe. 

Tamar thought swiftly and matched her actions to her thoughts.  She picked up a heavy lamp and brought it down on the man’s head with a crack.  The woman screamed.  The man, although dazed, got to his feet (It’s a lot harder to knock someone out than Hollywood would have you believe) and glared menacingly at Tamar.  He raised his fist, but Tamar was quicker, she spun low and kicked his legs from under him, then kicked him in the head where he lay on the rug.  He subsided.  The scream that the woman had let out had evidently alerted an accomplice of some sort, who had come in by the open patio doors, for Tamar found herself grabbed from behind by strong arms.  Her arms were pinned to her side.  Instead of struggling futilely, she allowed herself to go limp.  The man loosened his grip almost imperceptibly, upon which, Tamar threw her head back violently, breaking the man’s nose.  As he raised his arm instinctively to his face, he freed Tamar’s right arm, and she slammed her fist into his crotch, and he doubled over, as you might expect.  She spun fast and kicked again, she hit him in the ribs; it made a horrible sound like a butcher chopping meat.  Then she rained blows on him anywhere she could reach face, ribs, whatever.  The man was on his knees now, covering his head with his hands.  Only when he fell sideways silently, did Tamar stop shocked and confused. How had she done that, when had she learned to fight that way?  She had no time to wonder, she turned and glared at the woman who looked – it could not be relieved?  It must be the light in here.  The dawn was breaking fully now, and, through the deep window space, the room was lit by a dreary half-light.  Tamar and the woman stared at each other in shock now, each for their own reasons, which were very different. 

Eventually the woman spoke.  ‘They made me do it,’ she said.  ‘Please don’t hurt me.’

Tamar nodded.  ‘Who are you?’

‘My name’s Cindy.’ 

Tamar nodded again. ‘I – I know,’ she muttered. 
How
did she know?

She rallied. ‘All right, all right,’ she said ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’  She glanced out of the window at a sound from the garden.  ‘They might though,’ she added gesturing outside. 

Cindy followed her gaze.  The garden was full of soldiers. 

* * *

Denny opened his eyes and looked straight into the eyes of Captain Stiles, who smiled at him.  There it was again, that feeling of a memory half grasped, slipping away; it was terribly frustrating.  He had to get to the bottom of this.

 ‘Nice to have you back son,’ Stiles said. 

Denny blinked, the captain was adorned about the head with a sparkling white bandage and Denny himself was lying in a fairly comfortable bed.  He put it together.  He checked his extremities; they all seemed to be intact although he was badly burned here and there.  He reached up to his face. 

‘Don’t worry son,’ laughed the captain, ‘you’re still beautiful.’

‘Blimey, they really
can
do miracles these days,’ grinned Denny.

 ‘It’s a good job I was here, you know,’ said Stiles ‘I had a hell of a job getting you transferred.  You seem to have lost your dog tags.  Very careless, soldier.’ 

Denny groaned. ‘Morris had them. It was stupid really. He thought they might bring him luck.  I guess it didn’t work.  – What?’

 Stiles was frowning at him in consternation.  ‘Morris had
your
dog tags on?’ he asked.

 ‘Yes sir.  Look I know it was a stupid thing …’

‘And Morris is dead?’

‘Yes sir, I …’

‘Wearing
your
dog tags?’  He waited for Denny to work it out.

Denny’s face fell suddenly.  ‘Oh, no!’

Denny struggled to a sitting position. ‘How long have I been here sir?’ 

‘Long enough,’

‘I have to write to her sir, I have to let her know I’m alive.’ 

Stiles sighed; this was not going to be easy.  He had hoped to put off telling him until he was stronger, but now there was nothing else for it. 

‘She’ll never get the letter son, Britain’s been invaded.’

Denny’s answer was automatic. ‘So, what else is new?’ Then his face fell. This was no time for flippancy.

 Stiles glanced at Denny’s stricken face and hurried on. ‘She may not have got the first letter, even. It’s possible.’ 

‘But not very likely,’ said Denny. 

He looked down at his injuries.  They were serious enough for a discharge.  ‘Will I be going home sir?’ 

Stiles shook his head gently. ‘Home isn’t there anymore, son,’ he explained

* * *

It was as Tamar had feared. The soldiers, having wasted no time taking over the house, rounded up the men (there was only Tristan and the two intruders) and shot them.  Tamar had covered her eyes when Tristan had been shot. Ophelia had become predictably hysterical, but Cindy had seemed indifferent when the other two men were shot.