through and lit another one – herself – using a silver lighter with the power of a flame-thrower. I could see her hand tremble a little this time. Her eyes stopped meeting mine. Unpleasant didn’t sound nearly enough.
“I think I’ve killed a man.”
TWO
It was a bad start to a new year. Not that I could say ’45 had been much of a year either. Not for me. Or maybe that’s being ungrateful. They gave me a medal and said I was a hero, that I nearly died for my country. I don’t know; literally I don’t know. All I want is a year of my life back. Some days I wake and don’t hurt too much and then it doesn’t matter. Like a scratch on a record.
The needle jumps and I miss a word or a beat. Then I catch up with the song, and I’m back with the melody as if nothing has happened.
Other days, bad days, when the ache wakes me, and it takes till midday and a big shot of scotch to make it go, it feels like the song will never be right, not with that missing piece, and I can’t bear it to go on. They’ve done all they can, but I’m left with just the bass line, not knowing if the singer has paused or gone.
In the meantime I have to live. Heroes don’t get paid any more than cowards. And jobs don’t come any easier if your trade is subterfuge and you can only ply it on good days. I’m a copper. Was a copper. Now I’m a thief. I steal people’s cover from them. I pull them blinking into the light and nick their happiness, those libertine days and nights that the war permitted. I hand them back to their loved ones to exact their revenge in small cuts every day until they’ve had their pound of wayward flesh. Which explains why I was sitting here, flustered by a pretty girl’s smile, on this night of all nights.
At least I was alive. Sort of. A lot of blokes like me didn’t make it. I should have been out there rejoicing with the rest of the world. The war was over, it was New Year’s Eve, and though London wasn’t much more than a pile of rubble, there were enough pubs still standing to make for one helluva party. And like VE day (I was otherwise engaged for that, but I’d seen the newspaper photos of folk hanging off lamp-posts) the streets would be jammed with hugging and kissing strangers.
There was a sense out there that the world had changed forever. For the better of course, was the official view. And in truth, it had to be an improvement over the Blitz. But we’d lost something too: an identity, a purpose. Like a really good party that had gone on too long and we were all creeping home in the cold daylight, embarrassed at how we’d let our hair down. Days of reckoning when we had to stomach the hangover and explain the inexplicable pregnancies and challenge the evasive eyes until our infidelities were soaked from us in great confessional homecomings.
Maybe tonight of all nights, I should have gone home after all. Caught the overnight sleeper back to Glasgow, then the branch line down to Kilpatrick.
Tracked down my old pals and got blind roaring drunk like we used to. Three days of parties, everyone your friend. No doors closed. Maudlin tears for the old year and Celtic fear for the new one.
I remembered the last time, just as we turned into the year when our lives jumped the rails. Me and Archie and Big Tam rolling a barrel of beer down the Foregate. We mowed down other drunks in high good humour. And we got to Kilpatrick Cross and set up our barrel and tapped it and toasted 1939 in with a singing, dancing bedlam of new friends. I was twenty-four. I’d wangled leave for Ne’erday by doing the Christmas roster at Castlemilk police station in Glasgow.
The youngest detective sergeant in the force. On target for inspector and then who knew?
But I couldn’t go back. Not yet. Have you ever wondered what it would be like to lose every recollection of a whole year of your life? To wake up and be told you were a year older, with nothing to show for it except some startling scars and blinding headaches?
It’s not an unbroken gap; occasionally a flake of memory from the missing time floats to the surface. I grab at it, straining to hold on to it and lodge it in some mental archive, like portraits in a grisly art gallery. I feel if I can get enough pictures, and in the right order, then I have a story. Doc Thompson tells me not to expect too much. There’s no saying where these images are coming from.
They might even be false. That scares the shit out of me. I’ve got a loose enough grip on reality thank you very much.
I came back from my own particular war in pretty bad shape. I’d lost every single reference point after leaving England for France in May 1944. All I remember is a round man called Gregor with a huge moustache, and his hard-handed compatriots. And how I briefly led these faction-riven amateurs and melded them into a fighting force. Then there was a huge hole in my head until the moment when I stuttered back into life in April this year, on a bunk bed in a small town called Dachau in southern Germany.
“Is this one dead?”
“Cain’t hardly tell. Help me lift him.”
Somewhere in my head I realised the voices were American. I thought that was nice. Americans always sounded hopeful. Heaven should have slow Southern accents. But I didn’t want them to disturb me. I was quite happy being dead. It was… comfortable. And being alive recently hadn’t been. Not for a while. So when I felt rough hands on me and my body being hauled out of my little wooden coffin I rebelled. That is, I did the only thing that my body was capable of; I groaned.
“He’s alive. Get the medics. Christ, he smells!”
What did they expect? From somewhere a shard from my broken memory surfaced and I remembered being appalled at how my bunk mates stank when I first arrived.
Then the smell went away. There were other things to worry about. Like the beatings. I can’t recall much about the people doing it – they all looked like wolves -but I know it was me on the receiving end. I guess the Americans hurt me when they pulled me out because I don’t remember any more of that bit either.
Later, the pain came back, with the light.
I tried to explain this to my mother when she came to visit me in the hospital in Hatfield, four hundred miles from home and her first time south of the border. She looked old and bewildered when she came through the door of the ward. She’d always been small, but now her best coat sat too big and too long on her tiny frame. I hadn’t noticed how white her hair had got and how lined her skin was, despite the make-up. She never wore make-up. It made her look like my Aunt Jeannie, last seen in her plush-lined box, victim of the undertaker’s embalming arts.
Mum was rooted to the floor, twisting the handle off her handbag. She scanned the faces on the beds looking for mine. Her scared eyes slid over me, not once but twice. The bandage round my head didn’t help, but neither did the sunken cheeks and rictus grin, my feeble effort to smile at her. Then she found me and through the greetin – no English word has quite the sense of heartfelt sobbing – she told me about my pals and how lucky I was.
Big Tam hadn’t made it. He died on Gold beach with half his regiment during the landings. And Archie was missing presumed dead according to the telegram to his mum. Somewhere over Germany. His plane falling out of the sky into the cauldron they’d stirred up. I wondered how he’d felt, the air shrieking over the fuselage and the tracers coming up, diving into their self-made funeral pyres. Was it like our boyhood suicide runs, free-wheeling and screaming like banshees down the forty-five-degree slope in Burns’ Park? Archie and Tam and me on bone-shakers with no brakes? Death or glory? Seems I got the glory, but it didn’t feel like it. Not with a steel plate in my head.
And now I’m scared to go home to Scotland. Scared of what I’d find and who I wouldn’t find. Scared of how they’ll look at me now, those glad girls from my boyhood. Scared that I’ll see in their eyes what my own don’t want to tell me.
That the head wound goes deep. That I’m no a’ there, as they’d put it. So, I’m here in London, prowling my last haunts, looking for clues to my lost time, asking the folks round about who I was. Seeing in their eyes the wariness of the sane for the demented.
“I think I’ve killed a man.” The words sat between us like a newly dealt card in a game of poker. Call or raise. But the blonde had said it as though she was reporting a broken nail.
I did up the bottom button of my cardigan and sauntered over to the fireplace. I tapped the dying briquettes with my toe to encourage more heat and put another one on for show.
