The Sleep of the Dead

by Tom Bradby

  Julia looked at her watch. It was one o’clock in the morning. She bit her lip, then descended the stairs quietly, curiosity tempered but not extinguished by fear.

  She dressed in her room, then let herself out of the front door, not bothering to lock it behind her.

  Outside, the village was silent, her footsteps loud as her shoes scuffed the loose gravel on the tarmac.

  She reached the pub, which stood in darkness, then walked on into the lane. The light from Pascoe’s house had been turned off – unless it had come from somewhere else.

  She was about to turn away, when she caught a glimpse of someone – a figure flitting out of sight in the living room beyond the kitchen.

  Her heart began to thump.

  For a moment, she stood still and was about to knock when she thought better of it and climbed up on to the wall at the end of the lane, dropping over the other side into some gorse bushes, before fumbling her way along in the shadow of the trees and climbing back up again above a garden bathed in moonlight. She was clearly visible to anyone looking out of a window inside the house, so an approach by stealth was impossible, but she slipped off the wall quietly then edged towards the back door, which she could see had been crudely forced.

  Julia lifted it carefully and pulled it towards her.

  She stepped inside. Moonlight spilled into the room on the left, but the corridor was dark and the smell of ingrained grease and dirt again caught in her nostrils.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Pascoe?’

  Her voice, like her body, was tense. She began walking down the corridor to the stairs, thinking that anyone waiting for her would be lurking here. She moved swiftly and darted through the kitchen to the front room, prepared for sudden physical confrontation, but no one was there. For a second, she thought a figure might have been hiding in the shadows and flicked on the light. The room remained just as bare and nothing seemed to have been disturbed.

  Julia moved to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Pascoe?’ she called up.

  She could see no light so she climbed carefully up into the darkness above. The curtains were drawn on the landing, so it was gloomier than the hall below and the floorboards creaked.

  ‘Pascoe?’ Julia whispered.

  Her footsteps seemed impossibly loud as she walked forward into a room on her right and switched on the light, but this room, too, was empty. There was a large cupboard and one single bed, which had clearly been slept in. It had a Snoopy duvet cover, and an ancient, scruffy teddy bear lay on top of it. Julia turned and just, for a fraction of a second, out of the corner of her eye, saw the rapid motion of something solid, before it smashed into the side of her head and everything went black.

  Julia awoke. She tried to sit up, but the pain was intense. She laid her head back down and closed her eyes again.

  She waited, then forced herself upright. The room was still light and she put her hand to her head. There was no blood on her fingers or, so far as she could tell, on the floor.

  Julia shut her eyes against the pain for a few moments more, then opened them and slowly stood up. The house was silent. She had been hit with a short wooden plank, which had been dropped on the floor. Beside it, in the doorway, was a chisel with a blue handle. She stooped and picked it up, turning it over in her hand, assuming it had been dropped in the confusion.

  She moved slowly back to the landing then down the stairs. There was a breeze and the back door was banging gently against the wall. She bent to look at the area around the handle and saw clearly that the chisel had been used to force the door open.

  Outside, the lane was still quiet, as if nothing had happened.

  When Julia got home, she took the chisel out of her jacket pocket and put it in the drawer together with the statements given by her parents and the photographs of Sarah Ford being fucked by Adrian Rouse.

  Mac sprinted up the stairs. He was out of breath when he reached the top. The door of his flat swung on its hinges. He looked at it for a moment, then walked forward, pushing gently.

  The flat had been turned over. The drawers of his desk had been taken out and their contents emptied all over the coffee-table, the sofa and the floor. The kitchen cupboards had been rifled; a pot of honey lay broken on the ground.

  Mac walked through to the bedroom. They had turned out the drawers here, too – his clothes were lying all over the bed. He picked up some T-shirts, then dropped them again. ‘Shit,’ he said, under his breath.

  Mac returned to the living room, then went out, pulling the front door shut and jamming it as best he could.

  Outside, he turned left, scanning the street, walking swiftly along the pavement, past the French bistro and the Hart’s convenience store, before crossing the road and stopping to look into the window of the sofa shop opposite.

  He moved on, crossing the road again, waiting for a break in the traffic and pretending to be idly looking back up towards his flat.

  At the bottom, Mac turned left into Northcote Road and crossed to the other side, once again stopping to wait for a break in the traffic and looking back in the direction he’d just come from.

  He walked all the way to the end of Northcote Road, then stepped into a coffee-shop by the crossroads, seating himself at a table by the window.

  Perhaps he was just being paranoid, but if they’d searched his flat, then it was logical that they might be tailing him. What worried him was that they might have followed him during his meeting with Julia. Would they make anything of that?

  He could not understand what they had been looking for in his flat.

  Mac ordered a coffee from the waitress, then took out the notebook that Julia had given him earlier.

  Rouse’s handwriting was neat and the pages well thumbed. Originally, he had written directly into the book, but some of the later events had been recorded in a smaller notebook then pulled out and stuck in. There were some rough pencil sketches, too, good ones, Mac thought, and, in this, it was reminiscent of Claverton’s fishing journal. One was of a helicopter flying over a barren ridge, entitled ‘San Carlos’, another was of a line of soldiers walking in full kit across a desolate hillside and was entitled ‘Tabbing’. Both looked as if they had been done after the event, from memory.

  He returned to the start and began to read.

  Wed 7 April. It could be war. Hard to believe. After all that’s happened in Welham, it seems like God’s idea of a bad joke, but then maybe it’s what everyone needs.

  Word we’re going tomorrow. Southampton, then leave on Friday. Cops came to base today to talk to Alan again. Frustration all round with their efforts. Still not found man in leather jacket the old lady saw who seems obvious culprit. Asking everyone offensive questions. Especially fat psychologist. Alan generally silent. Still not certain if he goes tomorrow, or stays. Mike H says Alan doesn’t see point of staying, because Alice is dead and everyone knows it. He’s being given a wide berth. None of the usual piss-taking, obviously. Mike H says good for him to get away.

  Alice is on everyone’s mind. Even the lads remember her and Sarah from events on the base. Sports day etc. There’s gossip in the ranks, but dries up when an officer enters. Most gossip centres around S. Air of unreality all round.

  War or not? Nobody knows.

  More fired up in the afternoon. CO briefing on parade ground. Mitch says def off tomorrow unless w****** change their mind again. Not nec war, but should be prepared for any eventuality. Says not many soldiers get a chance like this. Quite inspiring. Made it sound like the world was going to be jealous not to be in on the action. Everyone more aggressive afterwards. At last, action, not speculation. Busy, now, much to do. Windproof smocks finally arrived. Can’t believe they’ve had this stuff sitting around at HQ UKLF. Probably trying to hold on to it for their skiing holidays. Mitch got on and said if they didn’t f****** release it, he’d go up and take it himself. As usual, emphasis on getting things done and no time for time-serving w******. He’ll never make General. Or maybe he will.

 
; I gave a briefing today in role as Battalion I/O. What a joke. We’ve had int from naval lieutenant who was in South Georgia and a Marine officer who surveyed the coast intending to write yachting guide. Gave best idea of terrain I could, but it’s not exactly extensive. We’ll just have to wait. 9 April. Going. Gone. Leslie not at docks. Glad, in the end. Some of the men were leaning against the rail, playing ‘spot the war widow’, debating which of the men would be ‘buying’ it, if it comes to a shooting war, and parcelling out their widows.

  11 April. Atmosphere generally more relaxed on board. Alan seems to be moving forward, though still silent and keeping self to self. Main complaint of men is restriction to daily intake of two cans of beer, which is seen, not without reason, as arbitrary. Much grumbling about food. Standard good, but queues too long – an hour for each meal. Mitch concerned they’re all going to go soggy, which doesn’t seem likely. General feeling is it probably won’t come to war and Argies will back down and get off our islands, but, if it does, most desperate to get on and ‘kick them in the bollocks’. A lot of enthusiasm for killing some ‘Gooks’. Most can’t understand why the hell islands are ours anyway. Language of some of the men is all Vietnam, Gooks, zapping, etc. They all seem to think they’ll be going in by Huey to the sound of ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ or whatever it was. Suspicion of press men on board, because Yankee press seen as stabbing boys in ‘Nam in the back. Mitch thinks this is good. All men ordered not to talk about Ford case to press. Some grumbling about this, but despite impact back home, now largely forgotten in ranks. Gossip is all on-board stuff. Officers’ mess different kettle of fish.

  Daily O group at five with Mitch. Various matters. Theft of ship’s property. Use of ladies’ lavatories. Need for medical training – esp gunshot wounds. Also rumour control. Rumours get out of hand in no time.

  Also rumour today, police would be flying to Ascension to interview member of regiment re Ford case. Men think it is Alan. Mitch went ballistic. Total bollocks, he said. Detailed self and Mike H to find who started it – hopeless task. 13 April. South of Gibraltar. O group dominated by int that Russian trawler is following. Men instructed not to throw rubbish over. Responded by jacking off into plastic containers and dumping them over the side. Idea is to dissuade Russians from invading by convincing them we’re the master race. Said to be Danes’s idea – no surprise. Mitch thought it was funny.

  Also, men to be discouraged from standing naked in corridors while waiting for showers. Fears it titillates homosexuals among crew.

  After group finished, Mitch took self and Mike H aside. Worried about whether Alan up to it. He doesn’t speak to his platoon sergeant, Danes. Rumours now circulating about Private Pascoe – came from a letter, apparently. Mitch expressed the view that everything back home, however serious, has got to be forgotten. Always going to be rumours. Anyone caught circulating them will be removed and taken home. Mike H said he thought Alan was improving and capable of controlling Danes and halting the bullying of Pascoe (seen in tears yesterday). Too much time to dwell on the ship. Mike H said they’d pull together in time. Better if news from home that they’ve found the man in the leather jacket and put him inside. Otherwise vacuum filled by rumour. Mitch thinks possible to stop it, but it’s not. Can’t control what people think and say below decks. Sat 17th. Freetown. Sierra Leone. Not allowed ashore. Local Brits gathered to cheer us from the jetty. Men making masturbation hand signals to the women and chucked one of the leftover plastic vials ashore – ‘closest we’re going to get to a shag’. Locals rowed out in small boats to try to sell artefacts. The men dropped various objects over the side, shouting, ‘Remember Rorke’s Drift.’ Danes the ringleader. CO said he wasn’t going to try and stop it. Danes has taken to going everywhere without a shirt and a steward got the wrong message last night and tried to make a pass at him in one of the out of bounds crew bars. Claverton prevented Danes from pushing the man out of a porthole.

  Mon 19th. Crossed equator. Perhaps it is improved weather, but no one has talked about Welham for two or three days. Alan seems more back to normal jovial self. He patted me on the back today. Seems to have platoon more under control. Mike H says he had a set-to with Danes which appears to have cleared the air.

  Mon 19th. It really is war. Helicopter containing members of D squadron SAS got an albatross stuck in its engine and crashed into sea: 22 dead. Sobering.

  Sense of nervous readiness. Only problem is Alan and Danes again. Mitch too busy and preoccupied to notice any more – ‘Time for them to b***** get on with it’, but hope it will not be a problem. Actually, Alan and Mitch hardly ever communicate directly. Mike H spoke to Danes and was told that Alan was an uptight w***** who knows nothing about tactics and couldn’t lead his men out of a paper bag. Trouble is Mike H and Danes and Mitch are all of a type – gung-ho, no bullshit, break the door down, etc. Alan is competitive enough, just a bit more reserved. Less in-your-face. The men say he’s taciturn, but not surprising, given the circumstances. Think Danes may feel Alan should have stayed at home.

  Sense of relief we’re behind Mitch. Was talking to Wilkes today who said he’d not thought about it before but was f****** grateful he had a commander he could respect and not some w***** out to make his career. The men feel Mitch is looking out for them.

  However, feel there is danger of falling victim to a ‘cult of personality’. Mitch doesn’t stand bullshitters or arse-lickers, but equally doesn’t really listen to a word anyone says. Any criticism is ‘negativity’. Sucks people in like a vortex. Personality so strong it can be overpowering. It’s ‘Mad’ Mitch all right, but sometimes a little less force might produce more considered results. Still, rather him at this point than anyone else. He doesn’t leave you much room for doubt.

  From now on, the pages were pasted in.

  Landing. In the landing craft. Can’t believe this happening. Strong sense of complete madness of my life and incomprehension as to how came to this point. Mitch steadied everyone. Again, good to have no time to think or room for doubt. Pushed off in blackness and landed without incident, though all a bit amateurish. Argies should have responded, but didn’t. Water freezing.

  Little contact, but retreating troops above San Carlos shot down a Gazelle. Air crew escaped and bloody bastards started shooting at them in the water. Mitch says that tells us all we need to know about the f******.

  Then we were into air attacks. Got to hand it to the Argie pilots – flying so low we could see into their cockpits. Brave.

  25 May. Atlantic Conveyor sunk, with helicopters on board. Three Chinooks, six Wessex, a Lynx. We’re going to have to bloody walk. We got out the maps. Sixty miles, difficult terrain. Making this up as we go along.

  26 May. Tired. Endless walking across totally featureless terrain. Feels like a Boy Scout outing gone wrong. Thank God for mountain-climbing experience – sod all use, but did bring fleece and gaiters. Kept warm and kept out most of the wet.

  29 May. Goose Green taken, with loss of ‘H’ Jones and others. Mitch briefed us and said his action f****** brave. Indicated Argies had shot some of our boys while they were waving a white flag. No more info as yet.

  3 June. Mitch gave advance-to-contact orders, then brass flew in and all reined back in. ‘As you were.’ Danes said he’d shoot Mitch if he tried that again – consensus was that we need more rest and planning. It’s been bloody cold. My guess fifty/fifty decision. Boss’s argument was that we’d made good time and element of surprise might allow us to split apart their defences, whereas if we wait for air support and the whole cavalcade, they’ll know we’re coming. Maybe right, maybe wrong. Ballsy as always. Same thing, though. Cult of personality. Forceful. Only Mike H dared say he might be wrong.

  When he had finished reading, Mac stared out of the window. The last of the evening sun fell fully on his face and he closed his eyes for a moment. He could see more clearly now why Mitch had exerted such a hold over his daughter, even in death.

  He sipped his coffee, which had arrived while
he’d been immersed in the notebook.

  The remark about Danes threatening to shoot Mitch appeared only to have been made in jest. He couldn’t read anything serious into it but he did wonder why the diary had given no details of the battle. It was not extensive as a record of a war, but it seemed odd to have gone to the trouble of writing it without bothering to fill in the punch-line.

  Perhaps Rouse just hadn’t felt like it, after the trauma of battle. He could understand that but, then, why not junk the whole thing? The line drawings and the stuck-in pages suggested he had gone back to it at a later stage.

  Mac stood and looked at his watch. It was getting late, but he wanted to try to track down Wilkes, whose address, but not telephone number, had been supplied by a tearful Mrs Danes. Like Sandra Claverton, she seemed to have been kept in the dark about her husband’s past, but at least Wilkes’s name appeared in his address book.

  Mac turned out on to the street, his eyes moving in an arc from one side to the other. He did not think he was being tailed.

  Half an hour later, Mac walked up a dull, decaying concrete staircase, before stepping on to a long balcony, a series of yellowing doors to his right, the skyline to his left. It was dark here. There was a strong smell of stale urine – the acrid odour of London’s concrete underpasses and corridors.

  Mac realized he was on the wrong floor, retraced his steps to the central stairwell and climbed up another flight. It smelt of urine up here, too, more strongly if anything, or perhaps it had simply lodged in his nostrils.

  The flats looked appallingly run-down. The yellow paint on the doors had faded to a dirty green and one or two of the frosted windows were broken. He found number forty-nine and his heart sank. The two panes on either side of the front door had holes punched in them and the window above had been completely knocked out. He tapped once, waited, then tried again. There were no lights on inside.