When Henri was forced to turn by one of the Italians I saw the other villains dragging the poor captain’s body away. Even in the dark night I saw his glassy eyes, wide open and reflecting the tiny sliver of moonlight behind the clouds. His corpse was hauled past my vision slowly. I wanted to scream. Henri’s heart beat so fast it was humming as a soldier grabbed him and twisted his arms behind his back. I felt the sharp agony of the violent move as though it was my own body being wrenched into a helpless submission.
I’m still here Henri, I said in my best calming tone, They clearly don’t want to kill you, so just don’t make them angry. It’s going to be all right.
I couldn’t know that, of course, but Henri’s breathing came back to normal all the same at my words. He watched tensely as the other men were being jostled about, the Italians forcing them into a huddle in the darkness where they could keep control of them all. I hoped that this enemy was a civil one, that if Henri was to be taken by them he might just end up locked away like Ieuan. It wasn’t a great prospect, but it was a good deal better than death.
Everything went wrong so quickly that I didn’t have time to register it all at once. A scuffle started with one of our boys at the edge of the huddle, he managed to break out and kick the nearest Iti in the gut, sending him flying into the tent where he became tangled in the crumpled mess of canvas. Shooting broke out and the cluster of men began to scatter. Henri struggled against his captor until they both fell over the body of the unconscious guard that the poor dead captain had knocked out, but Henri got out of it first and scrambled to grab hold of the Italian’s gun before he could get it back.
“Run man, run!”
Bickerstaff’s voice carried over the din of the guns. He grabbed Henri by the elbow and pulled him down against a steep dune where the Italians couldn’t aim, then they streaked out in the valley until it rose back onto the steady plane that would take them back to base.
Keep running, I pressed deep into Henri’s mind, don’t think, just keep running.
There was no time even for fear; the two men were at the forefront of the other Desert Rats as they all bolted back towards the distant promise of safety on the dark horizon. Half the Italians were giving chase when Henri glanced back; the others with the larger guns were taking up positions to fire from farther away. Every thump Henri’s boots made into the sand sent a jarring pain into each rattling bone of his body; I ached as he carried us on through the random deadly bullets that were being fired wildly by the pursuers.
A huge boom broke the sound of heavy breaths and tiny bullets and someone cried out not far behind Henri. He stopped running and turned, other men flying past him as one of the Desert Rats lay bleeding on the ground. The clouds had cleared to shed more moonlight on the scene: his foot was bloodied and he lay in shock where something much larger than a bullet had hit him. Henri looked up to see the pack of Iti’s catching him up, then raced forward to help yanking the shocked fellow to his feet.
“You’re an idiot Haugen!” Bickerstaff shouted as he came to take the man’s other side. He too had turned back at the injured chap’s cry.
“What does that make you?” Henri replied, his usually rich voice wild and terrified.
They pulled the injured man on until he came to his senses and though his foot was leaving a trail of blood, eventually they were all running again. Except now they were at the back of the pack. Another boom hit out, firing a shell that thankfully didn’t find them, but when its echo died out I could hear the grunts and foreign shouts of the Italians closing in behind them. Then it happened, the horror, the thing I was wishing against with every bit of strength I had.
A hand grabbed the back of Henri’s uniform. He struggled to break free but he was pulled to the ground, a mighty hand gripped hard over his mouth so he couldn’t even cry out for help. The man with the crippled foot went charging on ahead of him, the rest of the escapees were already lost to the dark night. But Bickerstaff was looking back. He hauled himself around and started running back towards danger, towards Henri. He had no gun, no way to tackle the man now pulling Henri back up to his feet, just a grimace like a bulldog and a will like steel in his eyes.
Another boom deafened us all; a wind flew past where Henri and his new captor stood. The moonlight caught Bickerstaff’s outline as the shell whizzed straight towards him. Everything was strangely slow as Henri’s wide; disbelieving stare let me take in the whole gory scene. Bickerstaff tried to leap away from the shell, but the blur of speeding metal was faster than he was. Thanks to his leap it found its mark not in his chest, but in his shin. His leg came away from his body like some great invisible child had snapped the limb off at the knee. I watched in silent horror as what had been his calf and foot flew out into the darkness. He screamed out in agony, dropping to the ground, reaching out towards Henri desperately.
Henri was trying to shout, biting into the hand that blocked his mouth, but the man who held him now wore thick leather gloves. He pulled Henri’s body securely against his, but both of them looked up sharply as a set of shining lights suddenly flashed into life in the dark night. A truck. And then another. British Army vehicles, driving towards the Iti’s at full pelt. The one who had Henri threw him up over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift, finally releasing Henri’s mouth for him to cry out for aid. The Italians took off running as the trucks got closer to where Bickerstaff lay, but he was out of focus with the way Henri was banging back and forth against his captor’s back.
“Henri!”
The doctor shouted, but he could do little more. One of the trucks had stopped beside him but the other was still pursuing the pack of Italians. Henri bashed hard against the back of the one carrying him, trying to reach anywhere he could to batter him, weaken him somehow so that he would be let go. The Italian shouted something in his own language and after a few seconds Henri’s eyes showed me someone else coming into view. The wicked leader with the dark beard had jogged back to the rear of his men, and with a hard thump on the back of Henri’s head; I lost sight of everything going on.
When I returned to my bed, sweating and panting, I knew there was no point going back yet. They had knocked him unconscious, but perhaps the army truck would catch up with them yet. All the images of the carnage in the night flooded my mind, I held my head tightly to try and push them away. The cold dead eyes of the captain and his crumpled body. The trail of blood from the soldier’s foot as he ran on through the sand. Bickerstaff. The way his leg had come away like a loose part. His deafening scream. Henri’s fear. The aggressor’s iron grip, the leather gloved hands he had bitten into in desperation. The cruel, smiling face of the Iti leader as he brought down his fist to make everything black.
I was crying, screaming, tearing off my splints and throwing myself out of the bed to be sick. The sight of it all burned into the back of my eyes, my body shivered with the strain of racing unaided to the basin, everything was too much. I collapsed onto the ground with a hard crack to my back, crying out and sobbing loudly as my limbs bent under me. My fears for Henri’s safety made me shake all over, and now I wished I didn’t know what I knew. Until he came to I would be haunted, not knowing if he’d been recovered or thrown into the hands of the enemy for good.
The whole household was alerted to my terrified sobs, but nobody could help me to calm down. I shook uncontrollably as Idrys and Mam got me back into my bed, Leighton and Ness watched with terrified faces at the door. Most fearful of all was Blod, who sat beside me clinging to my hand. I had news, terrible news, and she knew it all too well. But Mam was fussing far too much to get rid of her; I couldn’t explain anything until she was gone. I wasn’t sure I could even make my mouth form the words yet.
“It’s a night terror,” Idrys insisted, though his blue eyes gleaming with concern told me he was lying.
Mam held me down as I shook and cried. Idrys and Blod left and returned almost instantly with a large bottle of something. Idrys poured a measure of yellow liquid into Blod’s shaking hand
s as she held the glass. She brought it to my lips, forcing the drink into my mouth. It was beastly, sour like glue and it burned my mouth all over. I tried to resist it but Blod pushed my head up and tipped the whole thing into my mouth. I had no choice but to gulp it down before it burned a hole through my head. As it settled in my stomach I gave a great lurch and after a moment my head flushed with dizziness.
The ceiling melted like water above me and my eyes flickered shut, trying to contend with whatever that dose of liquid was doing to me. Every limb felt heavy, like they didn’t belong to me anymore. I tried to speak but my mouth was a limp, slurring mess. I needed to stay awake; I needed to get calm, to tell Blod and Idrys what had happened. I needed to be there when Henri woke up.
But now, like him, my world was fading into inescapable blackness. Pain surged though me like a knife had cleaved my heart open and slowly, but gratefully, I gave in to the urge to fade away.
When I awoke I had a pounding headache. Someone had put a cold cloth on my brow that flopped down into my lap when I managed to haul myself up. Though my head was raging like a brass band conducted by the Devil himself, I started to push off the tight covers where I’d been tucked in, looking around for my crutches and clothes. It was time to find Blod; she had to know what had happened to Bickerstaff. At first I was relieved that the Army truck had picked him up, thinking that meant that he’d be fine, but slowly the thought of Cooper dying a painful death from infection had crept into my thoughts. The doctor himself had said it would’ve been better to leave him for the Iti’s to shoot. I coughed with a horrible bitterness in my throat, clutching it as I shuffled gradually towards the edge of the bed.
Where do you think you’re going, young lady?
Instinctively I looked around, but I already knew the voice was not in the room.
“Mum?”
Get back in your bed this instant.
Being on the receiving end of psychic words was not something I’d ever thought about experiencing. I knew of course that most teenagers had their mothers’ voices in the back of their minds telling them what to do, but this was taking the concept a bit far. I sat back against the headboard of the bed, letting my head fall against the wall above it with a dull thump. Pain surged from the point of impact.
“Aren’t you worried you’ll give me a fever?” I asked, checking my hands quickly for any signs of the salmon pink rash. I loosened the collar of my nightie, feeling slightly warm.
I’d do a damn sight more than that if I was there with you right now! Mum was fuming; every frantic intonation in her voice came through loud and clear. I told you to stay away and what did you do?
I knew exactly what I’d done, so I bit my lip and ignored her question.
“How do you even know I’ve been using my powers?” I demanded.
Because I was fast asleep last night, minding my own business, when suddenly I was in the head of a crying, screaming sixteen year old who wouldn’t stop raving about the war. Can you guess who that might have been Kit?
Mum’s voice started out in the same angry boom, but gradually I could hear it breaking down into sobs. I had done exactly what she didn’t want me to do, seen things that would burn themselves permanently into the back of my mind for the rest of my life. But though those horrid sights were making my insides squirm even as I sat listening to her words, I knew already that I wouldn’t regret them. Now that the shock had passed, I was all the more intent on doing what I could to end the senseless carnage I had seen.
“Henri told me once that there are two kinds of people in war,” I said, looking down at my hands as they balled into weak fists, “People who run away from the truth of what’s happening and people who want to make a stand and make things stop.” I steeled myself against the heat rising up the back of my neck. “I know which one I am now.”
I don’t care what you think you know, my mother replied, I care about keeping you safe.
“What I think I know?” I answered, enraged. Tiny beads of sweat collected at my hairline. “What I thought I knew was that my mother and father were normal people who didn’t lie to their children!”
There was silence for quite a while, but I knew by the growing heat across my forehead that Mum was still with me. I put the cold cloth back on my brow to try and fend her off.
“Look Mum, people I care about are in real trouble right now,” I snapped, “There’s no way I’m not going help them.”
I’m afraid you’re wrong there, sweetheart, Mum answered sadly.
I raised a weak hand to adjust the cloth, only to find that my old pink rash had formed in the crook of my elbow. I watched as it spread, starting to pant as my mouth ran dry.
“No please!” I cried, “Please don’t! It’s not fair. You’re making me ill, Mum!”
I’m sorry darling, she whispered, and it actually sounded like she was, which made what she was doing all the worse. I’ll try to help Henri for you if I can, but I have to keep you out of the way for now.
My vision grew cloudy as I threw off my covers to see my legs. A salmon coloured blotch the size of a dustbin lid had wrapped itself around one of my knees. I couldn’t move; I sat there staring at my leg as my damp neck grew weary of holding up my head. I was going again, back to the blackness, for how long only God knew. And possibly my mother.
“I won’t forgive you,” I murmured, my teeth sticking to my top lip as I fought to speak, “If someone bad happens to Henri, I won’t-”
I’m sorry, Mum said again, but I have my orders.
I tried desperately to say ‘Who from?’, but there was a surge of heat in my face. My body slumped over against my will and soon-after I was gone.
***
Though I didn’t hear Mum’s voice again, the fever plagued me for over a week, which told me she had found a way to stop me from using my powers, however unfair it was. When Mam was in the room I felt clear headed and almost well, but any time that Blod or Idrys came to check on me I almost always went under the fever’s heated grip before I could answer anything more than their first question. I started trying to pass quick bits of the story to them before the fever could take me down, but I wasn’t sure if they were getting through.
“Bickers…” I slurred, my eyes half closed, “S’okay.”
Blod pressed me for more, but I couldn’t reply.
My days in the sickbed were degrading at best after all the progress I had made. I shuddered to think how weak I would be when Mum finally allowed me to come to again, if indeed she didn’t keep me raging like this until the end of the war. The rash gave me sore skin, Mam said she even thought it had got inside my throat and my fluctuating temperature meant that my head spun every time I even adjusted it on my pillow.
But most disturbing of all were my dreams. I knew, sometimes, that when I was half asleep I stepped into other people’s heads by accident, but in the delirium of the fever I couldn’t be sure that anything I saw between my waking moments was real. I thought that Blod was crying in her room at night, which might have been real, but I also had visions of a grim grey place where someone in horrific pain was biting so hard on their lip that they cracked it open. I could taste the blood when I woke. I saw the dark black tunnels under the POW camp, felt the cramped little walls closing in until I screamed myself awake, terrified that they were going to bury me there before I could get out. I dreamt of lying flat and being told not to move whilst the floor beneath me bobbed to and fro like I was riding a huge wave. I dreamt of people in a dimly lit café talking in a foreign tongue.
And I dreamt of running. There was so much running, day and night, a speed so fast that the buildings, fields and forests around me were nothing but colourful blurs. Aching lungs sagged like they were filling slowly with sand, but I kept on running, wild eyes searching in the blur for the next direction to take. A strong, hammering heart raged in my chest, thumping loud in my ears every time I stopped to hide. The hiding was never for long before I took off again, seeking the next target. When I woke fr
om the running I could never remember enough; I lay frustrated and crying day after day.
Until the fever just stopped. It was night time when I opened my eyes and felt that the pounding in my head had finally abated. I sat up immediately, my limbs floppy and raw as they were finally able to obey my wishes. I didn’t have the strength for anything more, so I cupped my freezing cold hands to my face to call out for help. For the first time I noticed that the nipping frost of winter had set in on the dark windows, when I shouted out my breath followed in a stream of condensation.
It was Blod who heard me first; she burst into the room clutching a long letter on bright white paper. I smiled at her weakly and her sparkling eyes lit up. She rushed to sit down beside me on the bed and flapped the letter at me with a fearful, nervy smile.
“He’s home,” she said in barely more than a whisper, “This just got yur. Mam said he don’t have any family, see, so they wrote to us after they asked him.”
I didn’t quite follow her, but I nodded all the same, reaching limply for the letter. She held it up for me to read, her hand quivering so much it took me ages to make out the words. Steven Bickerstaff was in a military hospital in Llandudno, which was about as far north as you could go in wales without falling into the sea. He was recovering from undisclosed injuries and the doctors needed someone to bring him home to the village.
“I didn’t know he didn’t have any family,” I said sadly.
“Neither did I,” Blod answered, taking the letter back to read it again. Her eyes drank in the words and a wicked jealous moment hit me where I wished it was Henri coming home instead.
But then the scenes from the night in Africa replaced my selfish wish, I saw Bickerstaff’s silhouette illuminated by the light of the oncoming trucks, the gut wrenching sight of the remains of his leg flying yards away from his body. I could still hear him screaming. I looked at Blod again. Undisclosed injuries, the letter had said. She didn’t know what had happened to him.
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