Devil's in a Different Dress

by Chris Barraclough

  “Shit,” he muttered, dragging a hand across his mouth. An elderly woman walked by, giving us a wide berth as she struggled with two baskets filled with cabbages. I watched her go, noticing the suspicious glance she shot our way. “He didn’t even get a trial. A chance to defend himself.”

  “He confessed to it,” I said with a sigh, “what’s the point in a trial?” But King’s words stuck in my mind. Maybe the poor bastard really was innocent. Maybe we shot one of our own for nothing. I was so bloody distracted that I didn’t notice Shaw coming at me until his hands were already on my jacket, shoving me backwards. I staggered three steps, almost slipping over but just about keeping my footing. The bastard came at me again but this time I was ready for him. I pushed off with my right foot and lunged at him, throwing my shoulder into his chest and knocking him back. My arm wrapped around his torso and we crashed together to the ground, rolling across the pavement until he dug a knee into my hip and pushed me away. I landed on my back, snarling. Immediately I kicked over onto my hands and knees and sprang up onto my feet. Shaw stumbled up too, his body hunched and his eyes locked on mine. I was vaguely aware of others hovering close by, watching us, but I couldn’t have cared less. He’d given me all the reason I needed to pound his teeth down his throat and this time there was no King to step in the way.

  “Big mistake,” I grunted, filling my lungs and stepping towards him. I twisted sideways, the way my brother taught me back home. Longer reach, smaller target. My fist shot out, aimed at his jaw, but he leaned back just in time and my knuckles barely even grazed the bastard. The booze obviously hadn’t dulled his reactions much. I jabbed again, catching his shoulder and knocking him away. The look of shock on his face was priceless. My heart was pounding and I almost felt sick at the thrill of what was coming. It was the same feeling I got each time I put down one of those fucking scumbag jerries, a feeling I’d almost forgotten all about. This was the way to do it. Close enough to see the fear in their eyes before you switch their lights out for good. “I’m going to smear your face across the road,” I told him, lunging again. I smelled blood, but somehow he managed to grab my wrists and then he fell backwards, dragging me with him. His boot caught me in the gut and the prick tossed me to the side, where I smashed head-first into the ground and rolled onto my back. The impact stunned me; I just lay there, staring up at the sky and gasping for a moment too long. When I tried to struggle up again, a knee dropped onto my stomach and crushed the breath out of me. Shaw was on top of me, one hand on my collar (the one that was only half a fucking hand) and the other raised high. I knew what was coming and there was nothing I could do. The fist came down hard and slammed my head to the side, bouncing my brain around my skull. I bit my cheek hard on impact, splitting the fucking thing open and filling my mouth with blood. Gargling and spitting, I reached up and tried to push him off me, but he had me good. The bastard had me. The shame of it, the fucking frustration, was a hundred times worse than the pain. I couldn’t even breathe with his weight resting on my torso and the blood was trickling down my throat now, choking me. I peered up at him, his face twisted with rage. He just sat there, staring back at me and shivering, then finally, when I was sure I was ready to pass out, the knee lifted and he climbed off. I jerked to my side and coughed up blood across the grey concrete, sucking back breath after glorious breath. Even then, my only thoughts were humiliation, defeat.

  “Stay the fuck away from me,” Shaw muttered, and when I sat up and wiped the blood and spit from my chin, he was already disappearing around the corner.

  Twenty (Adam)

  The Major’s face was already a deep beetroot red and I knew that any dissent would only make matters worse, but I just couldn’t help myself. I listened to his entire rant about making him look bad, the worries and concerns of his superiors and the growing distrust amongst the locals, then I took a deep breath and made my first mistake.

  “I don’t think Lieutenant Turner killed that girl. I think you just shot an innocent man.” The Major stared back, his nostrils flaring with every long, loud breath. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move at all, except for those nostrils. I felt my cheeks burning up and the room started to close in on me, my peripheral vision darkening. Finally, when I was about to open my mouth to say something, anything, just to break the bloody silence, he leaned across his desk and clasped his hands together.

  “When I came to your office yesterday,” he said, his voice terrifyingly calm, “Lieutenant Turner was locked in one of the cells. Lieutenant Wightman had no idea where yourself or Lieutenant Shaw had got to, but he informed me that your suspect had already confessed to the murder, something which you hadn’t actually bothered to report to me. Lieutenant Turner himself was mostly incoherent. However, he did manage to stop muttering to himself long enough to break down and apologise for what he’d done.” The Major planted his palms on the varnished wood and pushed himself up, his seat rolling backwards. Then he stepped around the desk, never once breaking his gaze. Shadows fell across his face but I could still see his eyes shining through the gloom and I was close to leaping out of my own chair when he stopped at my side. He reached out with one hand and his fingers curled around my shoulder and squeezed tight and he leaned right in until I could smell the coffee and cigars on his breath and see his angry little pupils dilating. “If he didn’t do it,” the Major whispered, “why was he locked in your cell and why did he confess?” I could only stare up at him, gripping the arms of my chair almost tight enough to tear them free, but he didn’t even wait for an answer. “Don’t fuck me about, Captain, or I’ll have you stripped of your rank and set to work cleaning toilets with your face.” He kept his grip for another few seconds before finally releasing me and striding back around the desk. “This is over,” he said, dropping back into his chair. “I don’t want to hear any of this brought up ever again. Get out of my sight.”

  I didn’t waste any time in getting out of that place. When I stepped outside into the hazy daylight, I stopped for a moment and leaned up against the wall and waited for my breath to slow. My hands were shaking so bloody hard that when I lifted them up in front of me, my fingers were just pink blurs.

  “Calm down, for Christ’s sakes,” I whispered to myself. But I knew the shakes wouldn’t stop, not without a little help. There were too many people here, too many soldiers tending to the grounds or simply sat around smoking. I went up to the nearest pair, two kids who looked barely older than seventeen, and I asked for one of their fags. They stared at me like I was an escaped convict, but they handed one over all the same. I lit the thing up as I strode out of the barracks, greedily sucking in the smoke. It tasted better than good, but it was just a small fix to keep me going before the main attraction.

  I finally slipped a magic pill as I walked down Brot Strasse, so called because a family of bakers used to live here apparently. Those crazy, imaginative Germans; not that we were any better with our Station Roads and our Boot Lanes. There was a barn-type wooden structure in the middle of Bread Street where grains used to be stored, until some point during the war. Now there was no grain and no bakers. Just an empty building riddled with bullet holes and half of the roof sat in a pile on the floor. I threw the pill down my throat as I passed, without even ducking out of sight. What was the bloody point? If even Wightman had figured it out, what’s to say the rest of the town didn’t know too? They knew every other sordid thing that went on.

  I kept on walking, southwards from the lake. The southern part of town had taken the worst of the beating when we rolled up two months prior. This was where the Nazis had arranged themselves, ready for their suicidal last stand. As a result, we’d blown it all to merry hell and there were practically no buildings left standing. Just a million tons of rubble strewn across the empty streets. I swear you could still smell the battle in the air, a hint of oil and blood and smoke that somehow lingered and would likely never go away. I kicked my way down one of the desolate roads, my boots soon covered with dust. For a moment I forgot
what I was even doing here, then I remembered. Turner’s final message. My brain kept telling me it was nonsense, but let’s face it, I had nothing better to do, so I made my way towards the remains of the old post office at the far end of the street.

  Where Kelly copped it…

  After we’d smashed through the jerries’ barricades with the help of our tank, I had led the charge down this very street, picking off the remaining enemy who were quickly retreating to the edges of town. Most of the buildings were already broken bricks and dust by that point, but a couple were still standing and the surviving Nazis were using them for cover. I had twenty men with me and I broke the squad up, ordering each separate team to scour every last nook and cranny and deal with anyone still breathing, be it capture or kill. I chose four men to come with me and sweep the final buildings on the East side of the street. Lieutenants James Turner, Michael Shaw and Peter Kelly.

  The sweep couldn’t have gone smoother until we reached the old post office. It was a majestic building, standing four stories high and with a red façade that stood out in a sea of grey and brown. We filed in one at a time and then slowly scoured the ground floor, checking that no one was squirrelled away behind the counters or in any of the storage rooms. We repeated the move for the second and third floors, all office space, before finishing on the top level. The place had obviously been vacated for a long time. Every surface, even the walls, were smothered with dust and cobweb remnants and most of the windows had been smashed in. I had to squint through the gloom, leading the way across the open floor by the fog of light trickling in through the broken glass. The place was still and silent, just like the other floors. I could actually hear my own heartbeat, or perhaps it was just the blood pumping through my skull, over the crackles of gunfire seeping in from the street. Somehow the place felt roasting hot too, getting hotter as we ascended to the top, and by now I had beads of sweat tickling their way down my temples and into my collar, itching my skin. I clutched my rifle in front of my chest, the barrel aimed at the ceiling but ready to pull down the instant I saw any movement.

  We’d almost covered the whole floor, creeping silently between the abandoned desks and overturned chairs, when a noise to my left made me twist around and slip the rifle against my shoulder. I stared down the barrel, seeing out of the side of my eye that the others had all done the same. We stood there for a moment, waiting for something else to happen. Eventually I nodded to Shaw who repeated the gesture to the others and all four of us stalked forwards. Our presence was marked only by the occasional floorboard creak, but even the tiniest noise seemed to crash around the empty space and make my heart thunder against my ribcage. This wasn’t the first time I’d noticed the barrel of my gun trembling back and forth, but the shakes had been getting worse. I just prayed that the other three didn’t notice and kept on advancing.

  Up ahead, beyond a pile of cables and plaster that had been torn out of the ceiling, was a door. Most likely just a cupboard or small storage area. I headed straight for the door and paused just in front, waiting for Shaw, Turner and Kelly to line up against the wall beside it. When they were in position, I aimed my rifle at the dead centre and nodded at Shaw. He nodded back, then he reached out with one hand and cautiously twisted the knob until there was a soft ‘click’. The instant I heard that sound, I reared back and slammed my boot into the door. It flew inwards, smashing against the wall in what turned out to be a coat closet. The place was almost pitch black, but I could tell there was someone hidden inside. I heard an intake of breath when the door swung open and then a scratching noise, like something hard rubbing up against the corner of the closet.

  “Nicht bewegen,” I yelled, jabbing my rifle into the darkness. Without turning, I called for a torch to be shone inside. Shaw was the first to comply, firing up his pocket torch and aiming the narrow beam into the closet. Shivering there in the corner was a young German soldier. His eyes were stretched wide but they snapped shut as the light hit them and he started to jabber on, one hand raised to shield his face. I kept the gun trained on him and I ordered him to stand up and move out of the closet. He either didn’t understand or he didn’t hear me over his own manic spluttering, because he didn’t budge an inch. I repeated the order, this time louder. Slowly he lowered his hand, still muttering and shaking his head. He was even younger than I realised, maybe only fifteen or sixteen. He stared back at me, pale-faced and trembling, and I slowly slipped my hand from the barrel of my rifle and reached out to him.

  The next thing I heard was a gunshot, screaming out as loud as hell from somewhere close behind. I felt something warm and wet spatter across my left cheek and then hands were roughly shoving into my back, forcing me into the closet. More gunshots echoed around the deserted office and I twisted myself around, seeing Shaw crouched at my side. He leaned around the door frame and returned fire with his pistol, screaming something as he unloaded his entire clip. I didn’t do a damn thing. I’d frozen up, sprawled there beside the cowering kid with my rifle wedged awkwardly underneath my body. When I did finally move, it was to raise a hand to my cheek and wipe away the blood that belonged to Lieutenant Kelly.

  Finally the shots ended and Lieutenant Turner appeared in the doorway, crouched down low. He stared at us wide-eyed.

  “I think I got him,” he whispered, “but Kelly’s copped it.” I could only stare back at him, trying to comprehend what had just happened. I’d been in situations like this before, shock attacks that come out of nowhere, but there was something different about this one. It was one of those moments where you feel like you’ve just woken from a terrible nightmare. Confused, disoriented, nauseous. I took three deep breaths and shook myself out of it as best I could.

  “Take Shaw and finish the sweep,” I muttered. “Make sure no one else is hiding anywhere. I’ll stay with the kid.”

  Turned out it was just a lone German soldier, who’d been hiding behind an overturned desk in the far corner. We would have found him if the kid hadn’t made a noise and diverted our attention. That’s not an excuse, though, god no. The honest truth was, I fucked it up royally. I should have sent one or two men to cover the cupboard while the rest of us finished the sweep of the room. That little mistake resulted in Lieutenant Kelly’s skull being all but obliterated by buckshot from the hidden soldier’s shotgun. When I saw his headless corpse lying just beyond the cupboard, my entire body went numb. I could still feel his blood on my cheek, drying against my skin. Eventually Shaw had to shake me out of my stupor and when I turned to him, his face was creased with concern.

  “You okay?” he asked me and I nodded dumbly.

  “Thanks,” I told him. “For what you did back there. I don’t know what happened, I just…”

  Now I found myself standing in that exact spot again, staring down at the ground where Kelly’s body came to rest. Our boot prints were still surprisingly fresh in the dust, even after two months, while the floorboards were stained a coppery colour from the spilled blood. I made a sign of the cross and said a silent prayer in my head, the first time I’d done that in a while, then I swept the torch beam around the room again. Why had Turner mentioned this place before he was taken away and shot? Was it some kind of torment, a final fuck you to the arsehole who locked him away and proclaimed him guilty, because that was the convenient solution? Or did he just want me to remember?

  There’s nothing worse than being forgotten...

  I breathed in the musty air and leaned against the wall, then I slumped down onto my arse and rested my head in one hand, the other idly rolling the torch beam over the dust and grime. That was when I realised, not all of the footprints were quite so fresh. Most of them were a little faded and only two sets really stood out: my own, carving a zig-zag path across the room, and a second set, leading past where I was slumped and finishing at the cupboard door, before returning back the same way. Slowly I rose, my eyes following the second trail. The footprints were much closer together and a little scuffed leading up to the door, then spaced quite
far apart on the way back.

  Almost like they were struggling at first, and then hurrying away afterwards…

  I stepped up to the cupboard where we’d stumbled across the young German soldier and cautiously reached for the handle, the same way Shaw had two months earlier. But this time, I didn’t kick the bloody thing aside. Instead, I eased it open an inch at a time, aiming the torch through the narrow crack. At first I saw nothing but empty space, but my stomach lurched and I almost stumbled backwards when I pointed the beam downwards and the light fell on a human hand, lying motionless on the ground. Gripping the door so tight that my fingernails cut into the paint, I pulled it back another two inches and peered in. The hand was still attached to a body, and the body was most definitely not alive. It was a young man, his mouth hung slightly open as if he were about to speak, but his washed-over eyes and a thick gash across his right temple proved that he’d already uttered his final words. He was slumped in the corner, still fully dressed in a raincoat and boots. Something was jutting out of one of the coat pockets.

  “Jesus Christ,” I said, my words echoing through the empty room. I turned and pointed the torch back across the empty space, checking that I was still alone, then I stepped carefully inside the closet and knelt beside the dead man. He smelled strange, like old almonds that were well past their best, but there weren’t any obvious signs of decomposition. First, I pulled the mystery object from his pocket. The thing unfurled in my grasp and I saw that it was a funny little hat. Not much help, so I set it aside and tried his other coat pockets. Finding nothing except for some cigarettes and a box of matches (both of which I shamelessly pocketed), I moved onto his trousers. In the left pocket, I found what I was looking for. I pulled out the brown leather wallet and fumbled inside, pulling out his identification card. When I read the poor bastard’s name, I realised that I should have already guessed his identity. “Theodor Lemann,” I whispered, staring into those dead eyes. “Beater of wives. Looks like you didn’t run off for a booze and whore session after all.”