Devil's in a Different Dress

by Chris Barraclough

  I stayed with him until the English took his body away and even then I followed him to the morgue, unsure of what else to do. It was only then that I thought of the fire and what had caused it. Fran from across the street had told me the fire started at the Klingmanns’ place. She’d been drawing the curtains closed when she’d noticed the top floor of the house glowing, just moments before one of the windows shattered and smoke gushed out. Apparently it spread like hellfire and by the time she’d run out and alerted the Klingmanns’ other neighbours, a family with a teenage son and daughter, I was already being dragged out onto the street by Pieter.

  Did I really hear a door slam downstairs, while those two were arguing upstairs? I wished now that I’d paid more attention, but even so I was still certain that the fire was malicious. Over and over I thought of every possible scenario, every way the fire could have started by accident, until my brain ached. Perhaps the fire started downstairs somehow, trapping them both upstairs; but then why did it spread across our top floor first? And they were both young, they could have just jumped out of the top floor window. So what if they really were asleep when the fire started, taking them by surprise? Surely not possible. I’d heard them arguing viciously just ten or fifteen minutes before I noticed the fire had spread to our house. After a row that bad, I doubted they’d both sink straight into a deep sleep.

  All I knew for sure was that I couldn’t depend on the English for help. As far as I knew, it was one of them that started the fire. Trying to add a few more Germans to their kill list. I thought back to that Wightman thug and his friend, creeping into our garden to spy on me, and I pulled my legs up tight to my chest. Perhaps it had been them two again, taking their snooping a step further. I’d seen Wightman’s kind before. The Nazi soldiers who did their duty because they believed in the cause, because they enjoyed their work. I’d seen the same anger and passion in their eyes.

  Sunlight began to creep through the enormous windows at half past six, according to the endlessly ticking clock that was propped on a shelf over Arndt’s check-out desk. But the windows were so filthy that the room didn't get bright until almost eight, just before the rattle of a key in a lock stirred me from my coma. I watched the door ease open and Arndt's face appeared. He looked deep in thought, his brow creased and his mouth twitching, but when he saw me staring back he broke into a wide smile.

  “Hope you slept okay on that old thing,” he said, dropping his keys on the desk. I tried to force a smile back, but it probably looked more like a grimace.

  “I didn't really feel like sleeping,” I replied, pulling the blanket away. The air was still frigid enough to make me shiver. “But thank you for letting me stay. I don't know what I would have done.”

  “Nonsense. You're more than welcome.” He flapped his hands at his side, as if he had no idea what to do. “Would you like a hot drink?” he eventually asked. I nodded.

  “Coffee, please.” He nodded and moved to a tiny kitchen area, tucked away in the back corner of the room. I watched his back through the makeshift divide, formed of old book shelves. The library, until now completely silent, was suddenly filled with the screams of the kettle and the clinking of spoons against crockery. A moment later he returned and handed me a chipped orange mug.

  “I’m afraid the coffee is quite weak,” he said with a frown. “I can only afford a little per cup until some new supplies come in.” I accepted the coffee with a dazed thank you and clutched the mug tight, staring blankly at the floor as the bitter aroma steamed around me.

  Arndt busied himself with tidying away books and mopping the floor and I was completely oblivious until the coffee had cooled in my hands. One of the old books slamming down onto the floorboards eventually roused me from my stupor. I watched Arndt slowly bend to retrieve it and shook myself awake, throwing the lukewarm coffee down my throat and pushing out of the chair.

  "Can I help?" I asked as he replaced the book on his tiny trolley. He peered at me and smiled.

  "Very kind, but it's all in hand." He continued to replace the books on the shelves and I stood at his side, feeling completely out of place.

  "I don't know how to thank you," I finally said. "For pulling me out of the house."

  "Don't thank me," Arndt said with a throaty cackle. "Pieter did most of the pulling. I might be doing okay for my age, but there's no substitute for youth."

  "I'll be sure to thank him too." I cleared my throat and clenched my hands together. "Last night, when you saw the houses were burning...did you see anything suspicious?”

  “Suspicious?” He paused, a stack of books clutched between his hands. A troubled expression crossed his face. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted, squeezing the skin between my eyes. A throbbing pain pulsed through my brow, sharp enough to make me wince. “Did you see any of the English soldiers, maybe pass them just a little earlier?”

  “Emily,” Arndt said, slipping the books onto a shelf and dusting his hands on his trousers. “You think the English started the fire?”

  “I really don’t know. I just heard some things, a few minutes before the fire spread. And if it really did start at the Klingmanns’, why did they not get out? How did they burn to death in there?”

  “It’s strange, for certain,” he replied with a shrug. “But why would you think the English are to blame? I don’t like them being here any more than the rest of the town, but would they really do something like this?”

  “They’re animals,” I said, teeth clenched. “I caught two of them spying on me the night before. And there’s rumours that it was a soldier who murdered Loriett Schmidt. I wouldn’t be surprised if they killed her grandfather too and just blamed it on Herr Jurgen.” Arndt stared back at me, his nostrils flaring with every raspy breath.

  “Be careful who you say these things to,” he told me, his voice taking a sinister tone. “You don’t want to make them your enemy. I think you’re right, I think that they’re reckless and they’re capable of almost anything. So saying these things, it only invites more problems.” He glanced down at his trolley and let out a long sigh, suddenly looking even older than his fifty five years. I folded my arms tight across my chest, clutching my own shoulders.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I need to find out what happened. All night I sat awake, pouring over it again and again. I know I’ll do the same tonight and the night after that, until I find out who killed my father.”

  “And then what?” he asked, glancing towards the door as if someone might be listening. “What if it was one of them who started the fire? Or several of them? What will you do?”

  “I’ll find a way to give my father and the Klingmanns justice,” I replied. “I don’t know how, but I’ll make sure the ones who did this pay.”

  “This sounds rather like a flight of fancy, my dear. Don’t forget, justice is a very different beast in the eyes of each man. The English, they think they stand for justice and freedom and now here we are, supposedly living free, but nothing has changed. We still have our masters. We still live under laws that we did not choose.” He leaned against the trolley and ran his tongue over dry, cracked lips. “We’re nothing to them, Emily, nothing but a pest. And if we show any discontent, they’ll use their justice to break us, just like the Nazis did. Your father wouldn’t want that for you. He’d want you to just live your life.”

  Inside, a storm of emotions was tearing me apart; rage, hurt, despair, all hot and bitter in my belly. I wanted to reach inside and pull out the dark feelings that crept through me like decay, rotting my innards. Sickened, I clutched my stomach and dug my fingernails in, battling down the nausea.

  “I know,” I gasped, “I know you’re right.” All of my tears were already spent, so I just stood there, trembling slightly, before finally turning and grabbing my coat from the floor beside the chair. “I need to go out, walk a little and clear my head.”

  “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need,” Arndt said, his voice sof
t. I forced a tiny smile, thanked him and then hurried out.

  Thirteen (Katherine)

  Pieter raised his fist and held it in front of my face, the grazed knuckles shaking just two inches from my nose. He left it there so I could get a good look at it, then he made me swear again.

  “I swear,” I told him, scowling over his hand. He’d only made Thomas swear the once, on his mother’s life, but because I didn’t have a mother, Pieter had thought up something different.

  “Twenty hits,” he said, leaning in. His breath smelled like stale old meat, hot and salty. I wrinkled my nose.

  “Twenty hits, as hard as you like. Come on, what is it?”

  “Follow me.”

  He took us around the back of his house, to the yard where his father grew turnips and potatoes. Herr Mikelson - or Arndt as he made us call him - was already at the library, so there was no chance that he’d catch us snooping back here, but I still couldn’t help glancing over my shoulder at the darkness behind the windows. I kept expecting a face to appear, gazing silently out at us.

  “This way,” Pieter said, leading us past the vegetable patches and the small hand-drawn cart filled with old blankets, until we came to a rickety shed. The thing looked about ready to collapse, but Pieter climbed up onto a barrel and then hoisted himself onto the shed’s roof with a kick of his legs. Thomas and me gawped at him from below. I had this familiar sickening feeling, where part of me wanted the whole thing to collapse with Pieter on top. I imagined him dropping inside and the wooden walls folding down on top of him as he screamed and yelled, and us dancing around the ruins and mocking him. But my daydreams scattered when he tossed down an old brown sack that landed with a clatter just a step away, then a moment later he was clambering down again with something big clutched in one hand. He dropped down next to me and held it up with a grin.

  “What do you think?” he asked. I stared at the thing, trying to figure out what it was. It looked like nothing more than a curved stick with some wire tied between the two ends. But if I told him that, he'd probably thump me and give me a dead arm. So I just pretended to study it and waited for Thomas to speak up.

  “Does it work?” he eventually asked, a mix of excitement and nervousness. Pieter didn't seem to hear him. He was just flexing the wire with that stupid faraway look on his face. I watched him for a little while, then I reached down and picked up the bag. The thing was quite light and it felt like it had nothing more than a bunch of sticks in it, but when I opened it up I saw a row of metal points aiming up at my face.

  “Careful with them,” Pieter hissed, reaching in and plucking out one of the sticks. It was long and thin and it had a spiked metal tip wedged at one end and feathers stuck to the other. It looked like some kind of torture device. I pictured him tickling Thomas with the feathers, then turning it over and jabbing the point into him over and over. But instead he rested the feathery end against the wire and then pulled back, pointing the spiky end at the old hand cart. He paused for a second and then let go of the wire. The stick shot out at a terrifying speed with a sharp whistling sound and the tip buried itself in the wooden wheel.

  “Woyyyy!” Thomas barked in delight, his eyes as big as two moons. “Can I have a go?”

  “Let's go somewhere else,” Pieter said. “Sometimes my father closes the library and comes home for lunch.”

  “Why don’t you want him to know about the bow?” Thomas asked and Pieter snorted.

  “He thinks I’m inside all day, reading books. I haven’t really read a thing in weeks, I’ve been making this instead. If he knew, he’d try and kick my arse. But I’ll use the bow to catch us some meat and then he’ll see, it’s a good idea. Can’t catch a bird or a rabbit with books.”

  “So where can we go?” Thomas asked.

  “We could go to my garden,” I offered and they turned and stared at me. “It's big and no one ever comes by.”

  “Okay,” Pieter said, tucking the bow into the sack and gripping the whole lot under his arm. “Let's go.”

  Already it was gone eleven according to the rusty clock stuck in the side of the rathaus, so the town platz was busy with people buying and selling. Of course, there were only half as many market stalls as there had been before the English arrived. Some of the travelling traders hadn't returned since the change, or if they did, they only had a few scraps to sell.

  I was so busy watching two old men curse and argue over a small bag of tomatoes that I almost walked straight into Fraulein Hanna. I skidded and stopped just in time, before stepping back and apologising. She dropped her head and started down at me, but it felt like she was looking right through me, like I was a ghost she could only vaguely sense. Pieter had told me all about last night's fire and how he'd dragged Fraulein Hanna out of her burning house. Her father too, but he'd already been dead. I’d have been boasting all about it to everyone I saw, but he’d told me like it was some boring thing he did every day, as dull as putting on trousers or picking his teeth.

  “Sorry about your house and your father,” I told her. The sad eyes blinked twice, then swivelled and focused on Pieter.

  “I never got a chance to thank you,” Fraulein Hanna said, pulling her hair out of her face and sweeping it behind one ear.

  “What for?” Pieter asked and Fraulein Hanna frowned and shuffled her feet.

  “For last night, for getting me out of the house.” Beside me, Pieter shrugged.

  “It’s nothing. If I hadn’t done it, someone else would have.”

  “Well, thank you, all the same.” Fraulein Hanna looked a little nervous, chewing on her lip as if she had some terrible secret and she wasn’t sure whether to share it or not. Finally she sighed. “This might sound strange, but did you see any of the English soldiers hanging around last night, before you saw the fire?”

  “I don’t remember,” Pieter replied and I could tell by his tone that he was getting impatient. Fraulein Hanna didn’t seem to pick up on it though.

  “Okay. It’s just, I thought I heard someone maybe breaking into the house next door, just before the fire started.”

  “The Klingmanns’ place you mean?” I asked. She turned back to me and nodded, her hair falling out of place again and tumbling across one eye. That seemed to make something in Pieter’s brain click.

  “I did see that crazy Jenna sitting alone in the square,” he said with a snort. “She was crying or something.”

  “She’s been acting all funny the past couple of days,” I added, trying to be helpful. “I think her and Herr Klingmann had a falling out.” Fraulein Hanna’s eyes narrowed and she shook her head.

  “You mean Jenna Lemann?”

  “Yep,” I said with a nod.

  “How did she know Friedrich Klingmann?” Fraulein Hanna asked. She sounded confused and I guessed she hadn’t heard all the gossip that had been going around for the past couple of days.

  “They were…seeing each other,” I said, feeling my cheeks heat up. “But I think Jenna’s husband Theodor found out.”

  “Right,” Thomas said, nodding enthusiastically. “He was steaming mad. He ran off to Kungsbrucken to get away. He’s probably drinking with whores and getting his own back.”

  “Sweet lord,” Fraulein Hanna whispered. “Friedrich was having an affair with that girl?” She shook her head and sniffed. “Him and Hetti always seemed so…close. So in love.”

  “We’ve got to go,” Pieter said, cutting in. He nodded at me and Thomas, then he started off without waiting for a goodbye from Fraulein Hanna. She seemed so trapped in her own thoughts that she didn’t even notice us wander off and when I glanced back over my shoulder, she was still stood in the same place, her shoulders hunched up and her head bowed.

  I forgot all about it when we arrived back at my house. We headed straight for the garden and Pieter pulled out his bow and piled up the arrows, about a dozen in all.

  “What should we use for a target?” Thomas asked, bubbling with excitement again. I glanced around and my eyes fell on a
bent old pail sat half-buried in mud near the fence.

  “How about that?” I wandered over and pulled it free, scraping the mud off with my fingers and taking care not to get any on my dress. Pieter’s lips crept up at the edges, until he looked like a startled wolf.

  “Put it on your head,” he told me, stooping to grab an arrow before sliding it into the bow. I paused, the pail gripped in my hands.

  “What?”

  “Put it on your head.” He flexed the wire, pulling it back a little until it was tight before lifting the bow and aiming the arrow straight at me. My stomach lurched and I tumbled backwards, my back slamming against the fence.

  “Don’t do that,” I yelled, twisting my body sideways and lifting the pail so it half covered my face. The metal tip of the arrow trembled over his fingers and I knew that any second now he’d release the wire, either deliberately or not, and that point would stab its way into my flesh.

  “Pieter,” Thomas said and he started to protest, but Pieter shut him up just by turning and scowling at him.

  “You want to wear it instead?” he asked and Thomas shook his head and clamped his mouth shut. Pieter let his gaze linger a little, then he turned back to me and sighed. “Go on, I won’t hit you. I’m a great shot with this thing.”

  “Piss off,” I hollered back and I tossed the pail to the side, where it bounced across the hard dirt and nestled in the trench beside the fence. Pieter’s face hardened but the bow didn’t come down. That arrow was still pointed at me, the tip quivering even faster now and I wished I’d never brought him here. I didn’t even want to touch that stupid bow, what good was it anyway? All I wanted to do was sprint inside and slam the door shut and keep him away, but I couldn’t convince my body to move. So I just stood there, staring back at him and breathing so hard I thought my chest might explode, praying that Katz would suddenly leap out through the hole in the fence and dig his teeth into Pieter’s arm and rip it off at the socket. I felt Herr Jurgen’s grip tighten around my throat again, crushing me against his chest and I smelled the stink of sweat pouring from him. Pieter suddenly wasn’t Pieter any more, he was Adam King, English Captain. He was there to protect me, to rescue me. My heart was pounding fast, far too fast, making me sick. Then Adam King was gone and it was just Pieter again, that angry look still burning bright.