Jay has no desire to follow him into a stranger’s home, nor has he been invited, so he walks on to the square, where a small group sits talking over coffees outside a café. He sees a man about his own age walking purposefully by. Two young women with babies, talking. The buildings, the tables and chairs in front of the café, even the monument on the square, are real, undamaged. He wonders at the normality of the scene as he waits for the people to stop and stare. One or two of them watch him, but there is no menace, merely the curiosity of ordinary people wondering what a stranger is doing in their village. They do not form a hostile crowd, do not surge towards him to take their revenge.
Not yet. He wants to smile at what he sees. He wants to feel happiness that things are finally as they should be. But he can’t trust it. He quickens his pace, eager to leave them to the business of getting on with their lives before he can make a wrong move to spoil it. He hurries away from the square, down a different road from the one he came down, but it’s all right, he knows his way around. His spine tingles with the feeling of being watched, the anticipation of worse.
As he walks he sees now what he wasn’t ready to notice as he approached – the fields are also being coaxed back to life. A crop is being harvested. The sound of sheep bells reaches him on the wind. A couple of farm workers pause to look at him, then go back to their work. The road winds through the scrubby, undulating landscape until the village is out of sight. He thinks he recognises the woods ahead where they were ambushed, and realises he has taken the wrong road. His scar itches with the faint memory of pain. But when he tries to turn it is like swimming against a strong current. He yields and continues walking. In any case, he can’t face the thought of seeing the people in the fields again. They have their hardships, far too many, but they are working together. He knows the people on the square have suffered, but those who have returned – and he still feels his share of the guilt for those who have not – are rebuilding their community. He pauses as if to adjust a heavy load on his shoulders, and continues down the road. Alone.
It is around here that he always sees Zora. This time there is no sign of her and he is disappointed – he had been looking forward to telling her he’s free now. But he’s here, so how can he be free? Up ahead he sees a woman talking to a man and his heart jumps.
Polly shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t want to bring her here, doesn’t want her to have to see any of this. But wasn’t it wrong to keep it from her? He loves her and can’t help smiling as he approaches. Ivan has a bottle and three small glasses. He pours, they raise them, and down the rakija in one. Ivan claps him on the shoulder and thanks him, though he doesn’t say what for, and walks away, leaving him alone with Polly. She takes him by the hand and leads him to a patch of shade beneath a tree. They sit in silence for a few moments watching the hot sun mottled by the swaying leaves, then she says, ‘You will come home, won’t you? However long it takes. I’ll be there, waiting for you.’
He wants to say, I will, of course I will, but the words don’t come out. It doesn’t matter; they are comfortable in each other’s silence. He leans his head on her shoulder and dozes in the warm shade. When he opens his eyes she is no longer there. He knows which way she has gone and starts to follow, preparing to face whatever is lurking in the trees. As he becomes aware of the sounds of war, the smell of diesel and gunfire, he remembers something he once said: you don’t stop feeling fear; you simply get used to it. And he walks towards it. That’s the way forward and he won’t go back to the village.
This time it is different. He knows she will be waiting. He remembers her face as she told him that, back in the dismal interview room, and he knows she meant it. He winces as he recalls telling her not to make silly promises – he fears it will take a long time and he needs her to help him face it. He breaks into a run, bracing himself against the terror that crouches, ready to pounce, in the trees. His tension begins to lessen as he realises the woods are quiet, the only sounds the cicadas and the rustling of a light breeze in the leaves, the only smell the herby scent of grass beneath his feet.
But he carries on running because he has to get home.
Alison Layland is a writer and translator. Raised in Newark and Bradford, she lives in mid-Wales with her husband and two teenage children. She studied Anglo-Saxon, Norse and Celtic at Cambridge University, and after a brief spell as a taxi driver worked for several years as a chartered surveyor before returning to her first love – languages. She was Welsh Learner of the Year in 1999, and in 2001 won first place at the National Eisteddfod with a short story written in Welsh. She translates for various publishers and agencies from German, French and Welsh – works of creative fiction and specialist information texts – and has been teaching herself Croatian while writing her first novel, Someone Else’s Conflict.
For further news and information see www.alayland.uk
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First published by Honno Press in 2014
‘Ailsa Craig’, Heol y Cawl, Dinas Powys, South Glamorgan, Wales, CF64 4AH
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Copyright © Alison Layland, 2014
The right of Alison Layland to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
The Author would like to stress that this is a work of fiction and no resemblance to any actual individual or institution is intended or implied.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Published with the financial support of the Welsh Books Council.
ISBN 978-1-909983-19-9
Cover design: Graham Preston
Someone Else's Conflict Page 29
