Mercenary

by Duncan Falconer

  Victor’s mind raced. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘A hand grenade, set to go off when the box was opened.’

  Victor looked disturbed. ‘We’ve never had sabotage before, not like this.’

  ‘Where’re my clothes?’

  Victor indicated a pile of fatigues on the other side of the room. They looked like those worn by the rebels. ‘Yours were too badly burned,’ he said, pointing to a charred pile of material on the floor. ‘Your carbine is under the bed, along with your pistol. I don’t think the carbine will work any more, either.’

  Stratton leaned down, pain stabbing his back, and pulled the guns out from under the bed. The M4 was a mess, its plastic stock and butt brittle and broken in places. The magazine was gone and when he tried to pull back the breech it didn’t budge. He dropped it to the floor and checked the semi-automatic pistol. The grip was a little charred but the magazine slid out easily enough and, yanking back the top slide, he found that the mechanism was working smoothly when a round flew out of the chamber. He put the pistol on the bed to deal with later.

  Stratton got unsteadily to his feet. ‘Well,’ he said, stretching his back and ignoring the pain. ‘I don’t think I can take any more of your hospitality.’ He went to the pile of fatigues and looked for a pair of trousers and a shirt that might fit.

  ‘I understand, of course,’ Victor said, noticing that the dressing on Stratton’s back was bloody. ‘We’ll need to change your bandage before you put your shirt on.’

  Stratton pulled on a pair of trousers that were long enough in the leg but big around the waist. ‘My boots?’ he asked, looking around.

  ‘Yours are no good. Try those,’ Victor said, pointing to an open box filled with jungle boots of various sizes.

  Stratton went to the box and rummaged through it, checking the sizes, pulling out a boot attached to another by its laces. He noticed that his wristwatch was broken. ‘I don’t suppose you have a box of watches around here too?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. They’re not a common resupply item.’

  ‘What is the time?’

  ‘Almost six p.m. . . . It happened yesterday,’ Victor informed him.

  Stratton looked at him quizzically.

  ‘The doctor put something in your drip to keep you asleep.’

  Stratton checked his forearms to find the tell-tale puncture made by a drip-feed needle.

  The Frenchman went back to the top of the stairs. ‘I must go. I’ll be back later.’

  ‘Victor?’

  Victor paused to look back at Stratton.

  ‘Can you get me to the border? I want to go home to heal.’

  ‘Oh.’ Victor looked disappointed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I thought you would want to find out who did this to you.’

  ‘No. I just want to go home.’

  Victor nodded. ‘I’ll arrange something for you,’ he said, starting back down the stairs.

  ‘Why are you trying to make me feel bad about going? This isn’t my fight.’

  ‘It’s a struggle between good and evil. I thought that was everybody’s fight.’

  ‘It’s not the only one out there.’

  Victor nodded. ‘True enough.’ He continued down the steps and out of the cabin.

  Stratton sat heavily back down on the bed and lowered himself onto his side. He lay there for some time, fighting the urge to sleep. Fearing that he would lose the battle he sat up, got to his feet and collected together the various items of clothing he’d selected. As he finished threading the laces through the eyelets of the boots he heard the door of the cabin open and close and footsteps on the stairs.

  ‘You’re going to have to check every one of those boxes,’ Stratton said. ‘I’ll show you a way of doing it safely before I go.’

  When he looked up it was not Victor at the top of the stairs but Louisa. She looked different. The coldness in her eyes had gone. She was staring at him in silence as if unsure what to say or do.

  Unable to think of anything either, Stratton picked the shirt off the bed to put it on.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ Louisa said, walking over to him. ‘Victor said your bandage needed changing.’ She was holding a couple of packets of medical lint, a roll of surgical tape and a pair of scissors.

  He put the shirt down and held out his hand for them.

  ‘You’re a talented man but I doubt even you could change that dressing on your back by yourself.’ She walked around the other side of his bed. ‘You were right, what you said earlier. I’m not a whole lot of use here really. But I have learned how to change a dressing. I spend a few hours most days helping out in the clinic. It also allows me some interaction with the people. Sit down, would you, please.’

  Louisa’s voice was gentle and sincere. Stratton found it disarming. He sat down and she knelt on the bed behind him, gently placing a hand on his arm to steady herself. Her touch was soft and he had no control over the sudden rush it gave him. The contact weakened him but in the most pleasurable way. Her proximity, the brush of her shirt against him, her breath, they were all sensual to him. He tried to block the feelings, fighting them, but it was like refusing water while dying of thirst. She placed her hands on his shoulders and he quivered.

  ‘I’m sorry. My hands can be cold even in this part of the world.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Stratton said, clearing his throat. ‘Go ahead.’

  Louisa picked gently at the corner of the bandage and started to pull it away from his skin. The wound began to throb but he welcomed the pain as an aid to neutralising the other feelings.

  Her hands began to tremble and she paused. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t do blood very well.’

  ‘You’re not hurting me,’ he lied.

  As she peeled the rest of the dressing away a trickle of blood rolled down Stratton’s back. She deftly stopped its progress with a piece of lint and cleaned the rest from his back. ‘Our medic stitched it very well,’ she said. ‘You’ll have a scar to match the others. I thought you would have more.’

  ‘And you were being so nice.’

  ‘I can’t seem to help it with you, can I?’

  He could sense she was smiling.

  ‘I don’t mean it any more, though,’ Louisa continued, her voice soft and sincere. ‘You risked your life to save people you didn’t even know, people I thought you couldn’t care less about. I knew Miguel. His wife just had a child. A little boy. I helped deliver him . . . I went to see her last night. He’s the first person I’ve ever known who’s died. I mean, someone who I’ve talked to and laughed with. I keep seeing his face. I haven’t been here long enough to have experienced that before. I thought I would be tougher. Will I get tougher, do you think?’

  ‘No. You’ll build walls around yourself. You’ll make yourself harder to get to, but you won’t get any tougher.’

  Louisa felt unable to respond in case she began to cry, which she did not want to do. But she lost control and a tear escaped to roll down her cheek and drop onto his back. ‘I’m crying on you.’

  ‘Don’t wipe it off,’ Stratton said in a low voice. He immediately regretted how the comment had laid him open.

  She looked at the back of his head through tear-filled eyes. ‘I don’t know you at all.’

  ‘Yes, you do. Take away all those things you thought about me and have a look at what’s left.’

  Louisa smiled at the thought. ‘I don’t know what I’m looking for,’ she replied. Without being conscious of the effect she was having she gently pushed her fingers into his hair to remove a piece of ash.

  Stratton closed his eyes as he felt her fingers on his scalp.

  She suddenly realised what she was doing and took her hand away in order to finish tending the wound, placing a fresh piece of lint over it and taping it securely.

  ‘There,’ she said. She picked up his shirt and held it up behind him. ‘Your shirt.’

  He snapped out of his reverie and pushed his arms into the sleeves. She moved closer
to wrap the garment around his chest for him to button it up, keeping her arms there for a second too long. He touched her hand as if by accident while he buttoned his shirt.

  Then, as if realising that she had gone too far, Louisa pulled back and climbed off the bed. A confused stream of emotions ran through her.

  Stratton could sense her retreat and he did not look at her.

  ‘I’ll leave you those,’ she said, putting down the remaining lint and tape.

  He got to his feet to tuck in his shirt as she headed for the stairs.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Louisa asked, pausing at the rail.

  ‘I am, actually.’

  ‘My father asked if you would like to come to supper, if you were feeling well enough.’

  Despite his hunger her presence was the only reason he would go and Stratton thought that perhaps it was not such a good idea. ‘Thanks, but I’ll find something here. Maybe you could tell him I’m still resting.’

  Louisa seemed to accept his answer and was about to walk down the steps when she paused, wrestling with a thought. ‘I’d like it very much if you did come. I’d like you to leave with a better impression, of all of us. Victor will be there.’

  Her words were enough to persuade him. ‘How can I say no?’

  ‘See you in a while, then.’ She continued down the stairs and Stratton sat back on the bed as the door of the cabin closed. He wondered what had just happened. It was as if they had skipped an entire chapter in their lives. But wars had that effect on people. It made them less diffident. There wasn’t the time to be otherwise.

  Weariness took hold of him and he lay down on his side and brought his feet up onto the bed. This time he did not try to stop the wave of sleep from enveloping him.

  It was dark by the time Stratton walked along the path towards Sebastian’s cabin. The stars were unable to penetrate the heavy clouds that hung low in the sky, threatening rain. A group of rebels on guard duty clustered around the defensive position on the other side of the courtyard, sharing cigarettes and conversation.

  Stratton stopped at the door of Sebastian’s cabin. The anticipation of seeing Louisa grew and he shook his head at the strangeness of the situation. He had never experienced feelings quite like this. How ridiculous, he thought. There he was on the other side of the world, in a country that he would be leaving in a few hours, never to return - and he goes and meets Louisa.

  He knocked on the door. A moment later it opened and she stood in front of him, looking as if she knew now that there was a secret between them.

  ‘I thought you were standing us up,’ she said.

  Stratton walked in, feeling self-conscious.Victor and Sebastian sat at the table. They had already eaten. ‘I’m sorry. I fell asleep and . . . I don’t have a watch,’ he explained.

  ‘The transformation is complete,’ Victor announced. ‘He wakes up a new man, with a new wardrobe and a new reputation.’

  ‘Please. Come in,’ Sebastian said, gesturing for Stratton to take a seat.

  Victor reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. ‘Before I forget, this is for you.’

  Stratton opened it to reveal a wristwatch.

  ‘It’s my spare,’ Victor said. ‘The one I’m wearing will go on for ever, anyway.’

  Stratton accepted it. ‘Thank you,’ he said, removing it from the box and putting it on.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Sebastian asked.

  ‘Better than I should,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry about the others.’

  The old man nodded and they all observed a solemn and quiet moment. Victor broke the silence by reaching for a jug of wine and filling the glass in front of Stratton. ‘There. That’s the best medicine you can have now. It must be good for you. It tastes so goddamned awful.’

  Louisa brought a plate of food to Stratton who felt suddenly famished and dug into it.

  ‘Tell me. Are you from generations of British folk?’ Sebastian asked.

  ‘I’ve never traced my family tree. But I remember my father seemed to think that we had ancestors who fought at Waterloo.’

  ‘Which side?’ Victor asked.

  ‘The winning one . . . sorry, Victor.’

  ‘No need to apologise. I wasn’t there.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know if any of them fought in the Spanish Civil War?’ Sebastian asked.

  Stratton gave Louisa a surreptitious look and caught a hint of a smile on her lips. ‘Not that I know of, sir,’ he replied.

  ‘The British were a great help to my grandfather during the Spanish Civil War. Do you know much of the fight against the fascist, Franco?’

  ‘Not much,’ Stratton said, wanting to carry on eating but feeling that he should be polite.

  ‘You should read about that war. You would find it interesting. Almost two and a half thousand of your countrymen volunteered to fight in it. Men and women. All ordinary working-class people. Almost five hundred of them were Jewish.That was before the Second World War had even begun, remember.’

  Victor could not ignore the way Louisa was looking at Stratton. He detected a new connection between them. There was certainly none of the conflict that had existed before.

  A large painting on the wall caught Stratton’s attention. It was a battle scene, a panorama of explosions and of men on horseback.

  ‘It’s from one of the battles of the Jarama Valley,’ Louisa said as if reading his thoughts.

  Stratton shook his head, none the wiser.

  ‘The painting belonged to my father,’ Sebastian said. ‘He was there . . . not fighting, of course. He was only six years old. Some say it was the last great cavalry charge in Western Europe. You see the white horse in the centre?’

  Stratton nodded as he studied the painting more closely. The horsemen were led by a man on a powerful white horse, all charging towards a river with defensive positions beyond.

  ‘That was his father. My grandfather. Louisa’s great-grandfather. My father watched him die that day. He led five hundred horsemen. Flesh and blood charging tanks and machine guns. It was described as a foolish act by many. They rode without the support of artillery. Sixty per cent of them were cut down before they were even halfway to their objective. My grandfather was not one of the first to die even though he was at the head of the charge. All those around him were killed or wounded but he rode on alone, regardless. Who knows why? Perhaps it was the madness of battle. I like to think it was an act of defiance, a message to the Nationalists. He wanted them to know they would not take the valley while men like him still held it. He was right in that, at least. The Republicans had lost many battles in that war but they denied Franco the valley and, in so doing, Madrid too. We lost the war but not our pride.’

  There was silence while everyone saw obvious parallels between that war and this.

  Sebastian got to his feet. ‘I have work to do so I’m going to bid you all goodnight,’ he said.

  ‘Goodnight,’ Stratton said, getting to his feet and offering his hand.

  Sebastian took it as a final goodbye and smiled. ‘I hope to see you again,’ he said. He shook hands with Stratton and left.

  Silence hung in the air only to be broken by the sound of a sudden downpour outside.

  ‘This chicken is very good,’ Stratton said as he sat back down.

  ‘I thought it was rabbit,’ Victor said.

  ‘It’s guinea fowl,’ Louisa stated.

  Victor raised his hands in disgust at his lost ability to recognise a taste. ‘I am no longer French.’ He took a cigar from his pocket and lit it, blowing the smoke at the ceiling. ‘Marlo has left us,’ he said matter-of-factly.

  Louisa saw the implications of the news immediately. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked.

  ‘With his two lieutenants, Carlo and Fernandez.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Yesterday. After the explosions,’ Victor said.

  ‘Why?’

  Victor shrugged. ‘He does not confide in me.’

  ‘But you must have your susp
icions.’

  ‘Marlo is the kind of man who would jump from a ship if it was taking water before going below to see if he could fix it.’

  ‘Do you think he had anything to do with the booby trap?’ Louisa asked.

  Victor shrugged again as he drew on his cigar. ‘My gut reaction is no. Marlo was never really one of us but I don’t think he would do anything like that.’

  ‘Where would they go?’ Louisa asked.

  ‘Perhaps they are waiting to see what happens.’

  ‘I didn’t trust him anyway.’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ Victor said. ‘He was respected by many of the men as a good field officer. It will affect morale. Many have had cause to lose confidence these past few days.’

  ‘Have you told Sebastian?’ Louisa asked as she removed some plates from the table and took them into the kitchen.

  ‘I was going to tell him tonight. I’ll leave it until tomorrow. It doesn’t make much difference. We are set on our course. People will either come with us or get off the bus.’

  There was a loud knock on the door.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Victor said, getting to his feet.

  As soon as he opened the door a jovial voice boomed ‘Victor!’

  Victor was mildly shocked. ‘Colonel Steel.’ He stepped back to let the man in. ‘This is a surprise.’

  ‘Good to see you again. How’ve you been?’ Steel asked as he walked in, his hat and poncho dripping all over the floor. He was a big man and looked even larger in his cloak and headgear. He removed his hat to reveal his thick head of white hair. ‘Louisa!’ he cried, grinning broadly as if he were a much-missed uncle. He reached for her hand, pulled her towards him and gave her a kiss on each cheek.

  Louisa smiled politely while trying to disguise her discomfort. ‘This is indeed a pleasant surprise.’

  ‘You look even more beautiful, if that’s possible.’ When he saw Stratton, Steel did not look remotely surprised at the operative’s presence. ‘You still here, Stratton? I thought you’d be on your way back to good old Blighty by now.’

  Stratton forced a smile of his own.

  ‘Well, this is all nice and cosy. Do you mind if I join you?’ Steel asked, tossing his hat on a chair by the door.