Devil's in a Different Dress

by Chris Barraclough

  I saw him pull back the wire a little further, the wood creaking under the stress, then he closed one eye and peered down the length of the arrow and his fingers snapped away, letting the thing fly loose. By the time I heard the twang of the bow, the deadly metal point was already flying towards me. I had no time to move or try and duck out of the way. All I managed to do was crush my eyes shut and tense every muscle, as if that would somehow make the arrow bounce off my skin.

  The thud as the metal tip struck its target made me cry out. My eyes flew open again and I turned to see the arrow shuddering in the fence, so close that I could reach out and touch the thing. I turned and stared at Pieter and he lowered the bow, a content look on his face.

  “See,” he said. “Told you I wouldn’t hit you.”

  Fourteen (Adam)

  When I unlocked the door to the cells the next morning, I noticed a young woman dressed in a light red jacket lingering close by. She was stood just across the street, near the door of the tiny pharmacy which also doubled as a shoe repair store. The store was still closed and at first I guessed she was either suffering from the squits or in dire need of a boot reheeling, but a little later, when I wandered outside to smoke and feel the sun on my face, she was still stood there. By then the store was open, its front door wedged open to let some fresh air in, yet she was planted in the same spot, staring right at me. As soon as she noticed me peering back, she turned away and started rooting through her bag, maybe just pretending to be busy until I headed back inside. Sure enough, when I returned to the cells and glanced out through the tiny round window, she had finished messing around with her bag and was just staring again.

  Turner wasn’t communicating much at this point, although he was definitely awake and – unless Shaw had slipped him something while my back was turned – a hundred percent sober. That just made his behaviour all the more disturbing. Currently, he was hunched down in his favourite spot, arms wrapped around his legs, rocking back and forth ever so slightly while staring at the wall. I paused by his bars for a moment, then cleared my throat.

  “You want anything to eat or drink?” I asked. He replied without looking over.

  “No. No, thank you.” His voice was little more than a croak, as if he’d just crawled on his belly through a desert.

  “Alright, well, I’ll get you some water and leave it in case you change your mind. I’ll be just around the corner if you need anything. Shout if you need the bucket emptying.”

  For the next five minutes I sat in the bumpy metal chair near the door, reading some old romance novel about a couple stranded on a desert island. It was so lovey dovey and sickly sweet that I thought I might retch into the spare bucket, until miraculously Shaw staggered in through the door and interrupted me. I squinted up at him, framed in the doorway by a haze of sunlight like some cranky hungover deity.

  “Jesus,” I said. “What time is it? Did I pass out and lose three hours?”

  “No,” he muttered back, pushing a hand over his mouth as he yawned. “Just couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d crawl up and see what the morning looked like these days.” He sniffed and scratched his cheek. “Still pretty miserable, then.”

  “I like it,” I replied, closing the book and tossing it down by my side. “Everyone else is still sleeping off the booze and the place is all quiet.” I wasn’t lying, either. I liked the mornings so much that I usually didn’t sink a pill until around noon, or maybe a little earlier if the dreams were worse than usual.

  “Quiet’s overrated,” Shaw said. He leaned against the wall and peered down the row of cells. “How’s our man holding up?”

  “Not too good. He’s just sitting there and sort of rocking back and forth.” I sighed and pushed out of the chair, rubbing the base of my spine with my knuckles. That bloody seat was so hard, you could practically feel your spine re-aligning after just a few seconds. “I’m going to speak with the Major in a bit. Let him make the final decision.”

  “You know what that’ll be,” Shaw said with a grimace. “Remember Walliams?”

  “Aye, how could I forget.” I’d been standing just ten feet away from Andrew Walliams when he turned and fled from a Nazi barricade formed of tanks and grenade launchers. The poor bastard made it all of ten feet before catching a bullet in his hip, but rather than try and pull him back to safety, the Major ordered Moss to put another one in his skull. Walliams had been deserting after all, an offence punishable by death. “But he’s not the same man these days,” I told Shaw. “Just look at us. Where’s the discipline gone? Drinking until dawn, sleeping until noon. It’s all gone to hell and the Major doesn’t even bat an eyelid.” Shaw shrugged.

  “This is different, though. If things turn sour with the locals, it makes him look bad, especially with the bigwigs as he puts it. He’ll want Turner’s bollocks just to stop the town from rioting and to keep the crusties happy.”

  I frowned and shook my head, but I knew he was right. The Major was hacked off with the whole occupation, the sitting around waiting for something to happen, and maybe that was why he allowed a little drinking and gambling and other recreational activities. But this was something else altogether. I was just glad to pass on the decision, because even though Turner had the blood of an innocent on his hands, I don’t think I could’ve ordered one of my fellow soldiers put to death.

  I’d already smoked my one remaining cigarette, which I’d nicked off one of the Lieutenants, but Shaw was kind enough to give me one of my old ones back – to be repaid in full when I had the means, of course. We stepped outside and I was about to light up when I saw that girl again. She was stood a little closer now and she eyeballed us as we emerged, a strange expression twisting her face. I nodded to her but she turned away and immediately started to walk off, head bowed. For a second I watched her go, but my curiosity by now was overwhelming. I grabbed the fag dangling from my lips and slipped it into my pocket as I took off after her, the sound of my boots slapping against the concrete ringing out from the surrounding buildings. Shaw was probably still stood on the doorstep, gawping and wondering what the hell had gotten into me.

  When I rounded the corner, I staggered to a standstill. The street ahead was empty, no sign of her anywhere. I wondered if she’d just been some kind of apparition all along, a hallucination cast out by my feverish mind, but when I turned to shuffle back I caught a flash of red in an alleyway opposite and saw her back disappear around another bend. My heart was racing by now and I bolted after her again, my jacket catching the breeze and flapping up behind me. Ten seconds later I burst out at the other end, once more slowing and peering around. This time she was in plain sight, her dark hair tumbling down her shoulders and swaying side to side as she hurried towards the main square. Some of the locals had already visited the market and were heading in the opposite direction clutching their meagre gatherings; a couple of carrots, or a lumpy radish. They watched me jog by, shooting me the usual range of looks. One young boy smiled at me, but the older folk either frowned or scowled, at least the ones who dared to glance my way. I ignored them all and caught up with the girl after thirty paces.

  “Hey,” I said, coming around her and stopping in her path. She stopped and stared at me with wide, terrified eyes, one hand crushed against her chest. “I saw you hanging around outside,” I continued, suddenly worried that she was about to pass out in front of me, which would of course go down really well with any spectators.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head and moving to her left, trying to push past me. I stepped to the side, blocking her retreat.

  “Yes, you were stood across the street for half an hour, just looking over.”

  “Not here,” she whispered, peering at another woman who strode by us with a curious glance. “I won’t speak with you here.”

  “Alright,” I said, suddenly desperate to hear what she had to say. “Should we go back?”

  “No,” she replied with a shake of her head. “I’ll be there later. Please, leave me, let me go.” She we
nt to slide by me again and this time I didn’t move in her way. She breezed past and I stood there for a moment, thinking over what just happened, before I started back towards the cells.

  When I got there, Wightman was stood outside with his arms folded and a fag stuck in his mouth. He was wearing the kind of dark expression that suggested he might try and kick a cat across the street, or push an old lady down a particularly steep staircase. I watched the smoke curl up around his cheeks and remembered my own cigarette, still stuck away in my pocket. I pulled it free and lit up, sucking down the nicotine. For a little while we stood at opposite sides of the doorway, smoking and staring at nothing at all. He was the first to eventually speak, mumbling with the fag still perched in his lips.

  “What exciting shite do we have planned for today, then?”

  “I’m going to speak with your stalker friend,” I replied, tapping the cigarette so the column of ash tumbled away and landed beside my shoe. “You can go and speak with Emily Hanna. Apologise for breaking into her back garden and scaring the living crap out of her, then see if there’s anything you can do to help her and the other fire victims.” Wightman grunted.

  “What am I gonna do, build them all new houses to live in?”

  “Well, that’d be a good start,” I said. Wightman shrugged.

  “Just as long as I don’t need to stand within breathing distance of that other prick,” he said, stamping out his fag and most likely pretending it was Shaw’s face. I breathed out sharply through my nostrils.

  “You two are going to have to make up and get along. He doesn’t want to be stuck here any more than you do.”

  “Are you joking? He fucking loves it. He can sit around boozing all day and night and no one gives a shit.”

  “He never used to be like that,” I said, thinking that none of us used to be like this. Not during the war, not back home. Wightman smiled and shook his head, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back again.

  “Well, he’s like that now. Drunken, miserable prick.” He was speaking just loud enough for Shaw to hear from inside and I half expected the bugger to come flying out before lamping Wightman in the face, but thankfully the door stayed shut. “Turner’s completely lost his shit in there,” he continued, rubbing his neck and wincing. “I tried speaking with him but he’s just bobbing his head and muttering to himself. Mental bastard.”

  “You might go a little crazy too if you found out you’d strangled a girl while you were smashed out of your skull,” I said. But then, I wondered, was that really true? Wightman had probably killed as many people as the rest of the squad put together and not all of them had been Nazis toting guns. He was so grenade-happy that he’d taken down at least a couple of poor wretches who’d simply been in a terrible place at a terrible time.

  I was still curious about that girl in the red coat and whatever secret she wanted to tell me so badly, just before her nerves failed her. There was still no sign of her half an hour later, so I sent Wightman off to help with the clean-up operation, while Shaw tried to get some sense out of the catatonic Turner. Wightman grumbled a bit but not too strongly, most likely happy to see the back of us. Meanwhile, I waited outside and watched for the girl. The insects had started crawling around in my belly again, so I stepped around the corner and checked that no one was in sight before sneaking one of my magic pills. The bloody thing stuck in my throat and it took almost a minute for me to force it down, swallowing over and over until finally it crept into my stomach. I thought I was going to be sick from the effort, so I hunched down and sucked in a dozen deep breaths, clutching my head in my hands.

  When the dizziness and the nausea finally passed and I staggered back around the corner, the red coat was the first thing I saw. She was glancing around awkwardly as she crossed the street, but when she turned and saw me she paused, a slightly stunned expression stuck on her face. I dragged a sleeve across my mouth, hoping I hadn’t drooled all down myself, then I headed over.

  “Hi,” I called out, raising a hand. The girl stared back, twitching as if she were about to turn and sprint away, but instead she checked over her shoulder and then nodded at the door.

  “Can we go inside?” she asked, her voice hushed.

  “Of course, aye, let’s go.”

  I led her inside the building and shut the door behind us, buzzing with anticipation. The pill was already working its magic, calming my stomach and laying down a nice, fat layer of fuzz across my brain. She peered at Shaw, who was sat on the crooked metal chair in front of Turner’s cell, then she stepped into the corner, out of the way, and pulled nervously at the sleeve of her coat. I swiftly joined her, turning my back on the cells.

  “So, first things first. I’m Captain Adam King, and you are…”

  “Jenna,” she said, shuffling her feet. “Jenna Lemann.”

  “What can I do for you, Jenna?” I asked, crossing my arms. She chewed on her lower lip for a moment, maybe still arguing with herself about whether to tell me or not, before finally taking a breath and launching into it.

  “I heard some things,” she said, glancing up at me for a second before her eyes dipped again. “About what happened to Loriett. The whole town is talking about it.”

  “What are they saying?” I asked, cursing whatever slack-mouthed bastard was feeding information to the locals. You couldn’t even miss your morning bowel movements without the entire population somehow hearing about it.

  “They say,” she began, then she faltered, turning her head and crushing her eyelids shut. “They say she was raped and then strangled.” Her voice was just a whisper now, barely loud enough for me to make out. I tapped my foot and thought carefully about my reply.

  “It’s true,” I finally told her. “We’ve got the man who did it.” She raised her head and stared me in the eye and her jaw trembled.

  “No,” she said. “No, it’s not him.”

  For a while, all I could do was stand there, most likely with some kind of gormless look on my face. Eventually I shook myself out of the stupor and smiled.

  “Sorry, what?”

  “It’s not James Turner,” she said, her hands clenched into fists. “He’s the wrong man, he couldn’t have done it!”

  “How do you know?” I asked. My heart was pounding again, the comforting layer of fuzz dissolving away.

  “I just do,” she replied, eyes glistening. I sighed and shook my head.

  “You’re going to have to do better than that.” She looked truly terrified now, like a trapped animal ready to fight for her life. I shuffled back half a step to give her some breathing room. It took a moment, but finally she broke and the whole story came pouring out.

  “I’m married to a man I don’t love,” she began, an unexpected start but she had my attention. “We fight all the time, sometimes bad fights. He grabs my hair and pulls it hard, slaps my face. Usually he throws me down.” She wrapped her arms around herself and I noticed her fearful look twisting into something closer to bitterness. “Usually he waits until we’re alone in our home, but a few nights ago he decided he was brave enough to hit me in public. He thought we were alone, but James Turner was there. He saw it all.” Now a flicker of a smile crossed her lips. “He came straight over and without a word he punched my husband in the gut. The bastard went down without a fight.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I said. “But what’s this got to do with the murder?”

  “James Turner is a good man,” she replied. “He wouldn’t do these things to a woman, raping and killing her.” I frowned, wondering just how much I should tell her.

  “Look, I understand he helped you and you think he’s a good person, but you can’t tell me he’s innocent of murder just because he beat the crap out of your abusive husband.”

  “But I know he’s innocent,” Jenna insisted, clutching her hands in front of her chest as if she were praying. “I know it!”

  “He’d had a bit to drink that night, he wasn’t thinking straight-” I said, but she cut me off
.

  “After he dealt with my husband, James Turner took me home.” Her whole body was trembling by now and a tear slipped down her cheek, nestling on her top lip. “I wanted him to know how much it meant to me. And I wanted to get my own revenge by having another man in our bed.”

  “So you two…” I started, but I trailed off when she shook her head.

  “No. I made him come inside the house and I tried to convince him, but he had no interest. I thought maybe he had a woman back home, he was trying to be faithful. But I don’t think he does.” She shook her head again and sniffed and I raised an eyebrow.

  “Wait, are you saying you don’t think James Turner was interested because he might be gay?”

  “I’m sure,” Jenna said and I had to bite my tongue. The lady was clearly confident in her sex appeal. “But even if he wasn’t gay, does that sound like someone who would rape and kill a woman, drunk or not?”

  “But he was there,” I muttered, my mind churning almost as fast as my heart. “There’s a lot of evidence that says he’s the one who killed her.” Jenna stared back at me, the tear trail still shining on her cheek.

  “I just needed to tell you,” she finally said, then she side-stepped around me and hurried out of the door without another word. I turned just as the door clattered shut again, my mouth hanging wide open.

  “Shit,” I whispered, running my fingers through my hair and pressing down on my skull. So it wasn’t over, not yet. What if Turner really wasn’t the murderer? What if he’d just somehow stumbled across the murderer disposing of the body? Or some other tragic circumstances had led to him being there, at that exact moment? How the bloody hell could I march into the Major’s office and present the evidence, knowing that it’d send a potentially innocent man in front of a firing squad?