Devil's in a Different Dress

by Chris Barraclough

  The afternoon before the fire, I’d nailed the barbed wire back up around the fence, making sure there were no gaps where anyone could slip through. Then just half an hour ago, sat on the rubble that used to be our home, I’d noticed a strip where the wire had been cut clean away, probably with pliers. A strip just big enough for a person to climb over.

  When his hands finally dropped, his face was bright red and his eyes were streaming. “I just wanted to help,” he cried out. “Lisa. She looked just like my Lisa. I couldn’t help it, I had to see her again.”

  “So it wasn’t me you were spying on,” I said, a chill running along both of my arms and down my spine. “It was Hetti.” He just stared back at me, and I realised that he probably didn’t even know her name.

  “The man, he were screaming at her. Then he grabbed her, by the shoulders. I knew he were gonna hurt her, so I got inside an’ I took this knife from the kitchen an’ I ran upstairs. When I got up there, he turned and he looked at me an’ he started saying all these things in German. I told him to gets his hands off of her, leave her alone! But then he just came at me and I had no choice.” He shook his head furiously, his eyes wild. “I had no choice. An’ then, I wanted to tell her…I wanted to say to her, everything’s fine, he won’t hurt you no more. But before I could…” By now he was sobbing, his face gleaming by the light from the single bulb dangling overhead. “She ran from me. She ran to the stairs, but she must’ve slipped. I couldn’t stop her in time. The sound of her falling, god, it were horrible. I swear, I could hear her breaking inside. And when she hit the bottom, I knew she were gone. She were all twisted, her head pointing backwards over her shoulder, an’ oh god, she were staring right at me. I knew then, it were my Lisa. She were staring at me, accusing me. Two times now, I couldn’t save her. I just let her die.”

  Everything inside of me told me to turn around and leave, get out of there as fast as I could. But there was still something that didn’t make sense.

  “Why start the fire?” I asked, choking up. Oliver stared at me, blinking over and over.

  “I just panicked,” he muttered. “I heard they were gonna shoot Turner for strangling that girl, an’ I knew they’d do the same to me. So I poured out the oil from a lamp an’ I set it going with some matches. I never meant for it to spread like that, I thought it’d just make it look like an accident.” He sniffed, fixing his eyes on me. “Oh god, you’re gonna tell them, aren’t ya? Jesus, Christ.”

  Without any warning, he suddenly leapt from the bed and rushed straight at me, his arms stretched out in front of him. Even with his injured leg, he moved fast enough to close the distance in no time at all. A cry of alarm caught in my throat and I jerked around, my hands scrambling for the door handle, but he was already on me. I felt his fingers snatch my hair and he yanked my head backwards, his other arm wrapping across my throat and tightening. My airway squeezed shut, trapping the air in my lungs. The bastard dragged me backwards and my hand slipped from the door handle and instead I reached up and clawed at his arm, desperately trying to pull him away. I knew it was no use, he was far too strong for me, but I kept on fighting, trying anything I could to wriggle out of his grasp. My feet skidded across the floor and already my chest was burning, crying out for fresh oxygen. Oliver twisted around, trying to pull me over to the other side of the room while grunting something in my ear, and my left leg suddenly brushed against a sharp edge. It was one of the beds, wedged up against the wall. I could feel the fight draining from my body, but I had just enough strength left for one last escape attempt. I lifted my legs up, bending my knees and digging my heels into the bed frame. Then, with all I had left, I straightened my legs and pushed off from the bed. Oliver lost his balance with a cry of panic and the pair of us collapsed backwards into a metal table covered with medical implements, which scattered across the floor. His arm released and I rolled away, gasping and choking.

  I didn’t waste any time. The second I was free, I scrambled away from him. I felt his hand snatch at my leg, his fingers wrapping around my ankle, but I kicked back and he yelped and let go, pulling one of my shoes off with his fingertips. He was yelling after me, shouting that he was sorry. I paid no attention, launching myself back to my feet and sprinting for the door. This time I managed to wrench it open and then I was out in the corridor, the exit straight ahead of me at the opposite end, but behind I could hear Oliver staggering up and kicking aside the things that had scattered across the floor. I didn’t waste my breath screaming for help; no one else was here, the whole goddamn place deserted. My only chance was to get out.

  I was halfway down the corridor when I heard the surgery door creaking just behind and footsteps booming towards me. Even with one shoe, I knew I could make it out before he caught up with me. I just knew it. But then, in one cruel moment, my last hope died. Straight ahead, through the cracked and chipped windows in the double doors, I saw the other soldier, Wightman, striding towards the building. He was close, his hands already outstretched to push his way inside. I slowed and almost stumbled, my heart slamming into my ribs, but then my eyes fell on an open doorway to my right, leading to a darkened room. I didn’t know what was inside, but I twisted and threw myself inside anyway, choking as I tried to breathe.

  Although a pair of thick curtains were drawn across the window at the far end of the room, from the crack of invading light I could just make out the silhouettes of a pair of beds, both with empty wooden cots positioned next to them. A privacy curtain on wheels had been rolled to the right side of the room, out of the way, and I headed straight for it and ducked behind, pressing myself into the narrow space between the curtain and an enormous cabinet. My eyes scoured the cabinet, looking for anything I could use as a weapon. The thing was filled with all kinds of junk, books and glass bottles mostly. In desperation, I reached up and grabbed one of the bottles. It was heavy and half-filled with some kind of liquid that sloshed around inside as I clutched the thing to my chest.

  Out in the corridor, I heard the two men talking.

  “Mick,” Wightman called out, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. “What you doing up?”

  “Terry,” Oliver replied, his voice filled with panic. “You’ve got to help me!”

  “Help you, what you on about? I thought you were supposed to be laid up with that leg?” The footsteps halted and I could hear panting right outside the door. “You been able to walk on that thing the whole time?”

  “Terry, look-”

  “Answer me, Mick! Were you out the night that fire got started?”

  Silence, except for the panting and the hammering of my own heart, until suddenly someone cried out and a loud bang like a gunshot made me shudder and almost drop the bottle. What the hell was happening? I wanted to see but I was too terrified to move, so I stood perfectly still and willed my heart to slow. For a moment, nothing happened. My ears were still ringing from the gunshot but the two men had fallen silent. But then I heard what sounded like someone weeping; frantic sobs and snivelling, followed by a sharp intake of breath. And when he spoke again, it made my stomach crush up tight.

  “Look what you made me do,” Oliver muttered. “Look. Look. Oh god, I didn’t want this to happen!” Now he was screaming and I crouched down, staring at the wall and praying for him to leave. But then I heard him move and the floorboards by the doorway creaked. He was coming into the room. He must have been limping badly, because his steps were uneven; it sounded like he was dragging his injured leg behind him, the edge of his boot scraping across the floor. I clutched the bottle tight and carefully turned so I was facing the curtain. The thing was just a flimsy piece of plastic but I couldn’t see anything through it and I didn’t dare glance around the edge. All I could do was listen. “I’m sorry,” Oliver said, his chest heaving. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want this.” He paused, sniffing and muttering to himself, then I heard that scraping sound again. He was heading towards the curtain. Towards me.

  I closed my eyes and steadied myself, then I sh
ifted the bottle to my left hand and gripped the privacy curtain’s metal frame with my right. I waited just long enough, until he was close enough to hear him panting and cursing on the other side of the screen. Then I screamed with all my might and charged forwards, throwing the curtain ahead of me. The screen rolled forwards and I was glad I kept low, as another gunshot screamed around the room and the curtain flapped as a bullet tore through before passing an inch over my head and exploding one of the bottles behind me. A half second later, the curtain hit Oliver and jerked to a standstill. He swept it aside with a roar of frustration, his gun ready to fire again, but I was already on him with the bottle raised high. I brought it down as hard as I could, slamming the thick glass into the top of his skull. The thing cracked apart and fell in large chunks to the ground and Oliver went with it, not making another sound as he collapsed and lay still.

  I was almost certain that he was out cold, but I didn’t hang around to check. I just grabbed the gun from his hand, uncurling his fingers from the grip, and then I ran out of the room and back into the corridor. I’d forgotten all about Wightman, so I stumbled and almost tripped over his body when I swerved right towards the exit. He was sprawled there in the middle of the hallway, flat on his back. Oliver had shot him in the chest. His uniform was soaked with blood and a small puddle was forming at his side on the bright white floor.

  “God,” I muttered, stepping around him. I was about to sprint for the exit when a noise stopped me, a grunt so quiet that I almost missed it. Unbelievably, the noise came from Wightman. I turned and peered down and saw that his eyes were open and swivelling side to side and his lips were moving. He coughed violently and a few tiny drops of blood speckled his cheek.

  “Miserable bastard,” he groaned. “Shot me, with my own fucking gun.” His eyes locked on me and he released a long, throaty breath. “Oh great, it’s you,” he said.

  “Shit,” I whispered, shifting the gun to my other hand. What could I do? Leave him here to die? Put another bullet in him? I swept a hand across my brow, wiping away the sweat that was dripping down my skin, then I cursed again and knelt at his side. The wound was just to the right of his breast bone, a finger-sized hole that oozed blood through his jacket. I pulled a hankie from my pocket and pressed it over the hole and Wightman winced, his lips pulling back over his teeth. “Stop squirming,” I told him and he glared back at me.

  “Fuck that, just get the doctor!”

  “I don’t know where he is,” I yelled back, a second before the front doors swung open. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the English doctor stop dead at the end of the hallway, a pile of books wedged between his arm and his torso. He was staring at me with his mouth hanging open. “Quick,” I screamed at him, “he needs help!”

  “What the bloody hell,” I heard him say, before he dropped the books and came running. He staggered to a halt just a few steps away and I wondered what he was waiting for, until I realised that he was staring at the gun in my hand.

  “I didn’t shoot him,” I said, shaking my head. “It was the other soldier, in there!” I nodded at the room and the doctor frowned.

  “Bugger me, what on earth did I miss?”

  Twenty Four (Katherine)

  First thing I felt was a tingly sickness, deep down inside my stomach. Or maybe it was the sharp, nasty taste that started in my mouth and went right to the back of my throat. I swallowed hard as my eyes opened, hoping to wash it all away. Right then, I still didn’t know where I was, or what had happened. I groaned at the throbbing pain in my head and wondered why my arms were so stiff, but then I focused on the dirty yellow wall in front of me and I realised that I wasn’t at home. That was enough of a shock to wake me right up. But when I tried to move, I realised that I was stuck in place. I was sat on a chair and my arms were twisted back behind me and I felt something rough tied around my wrists, pinning them together and securing them to the chair. My feet were the same; I leaned forwards as far as I could, which wasn’t far, and I saw that my ankles were tied together with a piece of old rope, which was also wrapped around the legs of the chair.

  That was when I remembered what happened. Pieter, the scarf, those creepy little wooden figures. He had tied me to this chair while I was unconscious. I was his prisoner.

  I twisted my head back, my chin resting on my shoulder, but all I could see was more yellow. By now I was wide awake again. The throbbing headache was still there but I barely even noticed it. I was too busy wriggling my arms, trying to wrestle one of them free. Everything I tried was useless. After five minutes, my wrists ached worse than ever and the rope was cutting into my skin even tighter. I ground my teeth together to keep myself from screaming in anger and instead I tried rocking from side to side, squirming back and forth across the chair. The thing was solid and heavy, so I barely managed to lift the legs more than an inch at first before they slammed back down onto the floor, but I kept at it all the same. Finally I got the rhythm and the legs lifted a little higher with each shunt, then with one last jerk I got the chair over. I didn’t have much time to brace myself as I toppled over and the force of smacking into the floor almost stunned me. That headache rushed back, worse than ever. I let out a soft moan and tried again to squirm free, but the stupid chair hadn’t broke in the fall and I couldn’t move at all. The sickness came back and I threw up across the floorboards, shaking so hard I thought my neck might just snap.

  The effort of tipping the chair had taken all of my energy. I lay there, my throat burning from the vomit, trying not to cry or whimper. I hoped that they’d left me alone in the house, but now I could hear footsteps just outside the room and then the hushed sound of the door creeping open behind me. I clenched every muscle, wishing that I was still passed out, wondering what they would do when they saw me lying on my side with sick all over me. The footsteps came towards me and I closed my eyes and held my breath. From the wheezing alone I knew that it was Pieter’s father, Arndt. I could barely believe it, but he must have known what Pieter did and he must be helping his son to cover it up.

  “What have you done to yourself,” he croaked, shuffling up next to my head. I kept my eyes shut, even when he bent down and grabbed me roughly by the shoulders and tried to pick me back up again. He barely got me off the ground before he lost his grip and I dropped back again, my skull bouncing hard enough to make me cry out. I bit my lip and opened my eyes, peering up at his wrinkled face.

  “Why did you tie me up,” I asked. He stared at me, sucking on his cheek the way he always did when he was thinking.

  “I can’t let you go,” he finally replied, his voice soft. “You know too much.”

  “So you’re going to kill me?” I asked, and I couldn’t keep my voice from trembling. He crushed his eyes shut and nodded slowly. “Then why tie me up?” I spat, my vision blurring. “Why not just kill me?”

  “It will be dark soon,” he said, glancing at the window and pushing his glasses up his nose with a fingertip. “I’ll…do it soon. I just need a place that’s more discrete than those woods.”

  “I’m not going to tell anyone. I won’t tell anyone about Pieter and Loriett.” I knew that pleading was a waste of time but I didn’t know what else to do. Arndt shook his head and sighed.

  “You know I can’t take that chance.” He walked away and I thought that he was leaving, but then he returned a moment later clutching another chair. He placed the chair in front of me and eased himself into it with a groan and brushed the dust from his trousers. “It wasn’t Pieter who killed Loriett,” he told me with a frown. “It was me. It was these hands.” He lifted his arms and stared down at his trembling fingers. “The same as you, she knew too much. I really didn’t want to, she was a sweet young girl, such a sweet young thing, but I had no choice.” He sniffed and stared at a spot on the wall, his eyes misting over like he was playing it over in his head.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, struggling once again to free my hands. “What did she know?”

  “That boy of mine,
” Arndt said. He coughed into his fist, his whole body shaking, then he rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “He was obsessed with her. I saw it every time she came into the library. He would stop whatever he was doing and just stare at her, like she was the only woman in the whole of Germany. At first he wouldn’t speak with her, but then he worked up the courage and…she seemed to like him, too. That was when I started to worry. He can’t keep his mouth shut, no one can!” Arndt gripped the arms of the chair and rocked back and forth, just ever so slightly, and the sight of it made my stomach shrink even more. He looked like he was possessed. “Just like Schmidt, the old fool. He caved as well. I had to deal with him before he spilled out everything to the English. He was my friend and he turned on me, just like that!”

  “You killed Herr Schmidt too?” I stammered, my stomach cramping. I thought back to him lying face-down in his kitchen, his blood covering everything around him. The force it must have taken to crack open his skull. Arndt sighed again.

  “He let his guilt take over. He was about to confess and drag me down with him.”

  “Confess what?” I asked, my wrists burning as the rope cut into my skin. But I didn’t stop trying to force my hands free, even when I felt a trickle of warm blood run down my palm.

  “We were working with the Nazis,” Arndt said and the breath caught in my chest. He stared at me with a grim expression and shook his head. “We had no choice. At first they asked us to spy for them, to let them know what was happening in the town behind closed doors. Paranoid, delusional sociopaths. They thought that because we served our country once before, that we would do whatever they wanted. But when we hesitated, they threatened us. They said they would burn every last book I owned, and worse besides. But of course, once we begrudgingly accepted, they expected results. They wouldn’t believe us if we said we knew nothing at all. So if we had nothing to report, we just made it up. We pretended that someone was secretly homosexual or a Jew sympathiser.”