Witnesses Read online

  Dreschler said nothing by way of reply, had simply withdrawn his Luger from its holster, placed the muzzle of the gun against the forehead of the man and squeezed the trigger. The sound of the shot was muffled, fired as it was directly into the old man’s head, but still an echo reverberated off the stone walls of the bridge, the sound of it an immediate replacement for the man’s noisy babbling.

  The old man’s body snapped backwards as the bullet drove through his skull, exiting in a spray of blood and tissue from the back of his head. He fell to the cobbled ground and for a few moments his body twitched in a post-mortem dance. Blood gushed from his head in a flood, splashed against Dreschler’s boots, ran between the cobbles in small rivulets.

  Dreschler re-holstered the pistol and turned to face his men. “That’s better,” he said, “a lot quieter!” He wiped sweat from his forehead, turned back to step over the corpse of the old man, and strode into town.

  * * *

  Their work was done in a matter of hours. Beneath the blazing sun of an August morning, Dreschler and his troops made their way through the ancient streets of Aarschot, killing as they went. Shots rang out to echo through the valley as civilian lives were ended. Blade as well as bullet was used in the massacre. We are making a statement here, Dreschler had told his men. They must learn to fear us, we have a reputation to establish.

  By the time the clock in the ancient brownstone church struck nine, one hundred and fifty-six bodies lay in the streets of the town. Men, women and children slaughtered, their bodies left where they fell.

  “Even the children?” Dreschler had heard the question many times over the course of the morning. “Yes.” His answer short, to the point, brooking no argument.

  As the last chime rang out, Dreschler glanced up at the sky, saw once more the crows circling high above. He smiled, took a deep breath. He was invigorated, fulfilled. He had himself taken a dozen lives, revelled in the feel of their lifeforce leaving them. He thought of the woman, old, in her sixties, and the way she had looked at him just before he had killed her. A look of fear, yes, but fear of more than just her imminent death, something deeper, more profound. It was, he thought, a look of recognition.

  “The men are ready, Hauptmann.” The voice startled him, drew him from his reverie. He turned to address his Oberleutnant.

  “Good, good. Then we leave.”

  Behind the Oberleutnant, a movement caught Dreschler’s eye. As he watched, a smile began to play across his lips.

  “Hauptmann? Your orders?”

  But Dreschler didn’t reply. Instead he watched as shadowy figures drifted through the narrow cobblestoned alleys, floated across the open town square. Adrenalin coursed through his body.

  In the sky above crows cawed to each other, gliding through the hot air, circling and wheeling, drawing ever closer to the town.

  * * *

  Dilly heard the roar of the car’s engine long before it turned the corner on Tenth and Main. The Whitter Boys spent every hour God gave them working on that automobile, tinkering with the engine, washing and waxing till the bodywork gleamed, polishing the chrome so’s you could see your reflection in it. Old Laney down at the shop said if it wasn’t for the twins he’d have gone out of business long ago. Lord alone knew where the boys got the money to pay for it all. Nowhere good was the general opinion of folks who knew them.

  Whitewall tyres screeched, left a trail of rubber on the asphalt as the car hurtled around the corner. Across the street from her, Dilly saw Betsy Marshall turn to look at the commotion behind her, her face set in a scowl. Dilly kept on walking, clutching the library books to her chest.

  The noise of the engine grew louder behind her as the car approached, the holes drilled in the muffler magnifying its roar.

  Just keep walking she told herself, just ignore them and whatever spiteful things come out of their mouths…

  The car pulled alongside her, slowed to match the pace of her walking, the din of the engine subsiding slightly.

  “Hey Dilly!” It was Jacob, the younger of the twins by sixty-six minutes, who called out to her. His older brother Joshua was driving, a shit-eating grin on his face that exposed teeth resembling crooked cemetery headstones.

  Dilly ignored the shout, carried on walking.

  “Hey Dilly! I got something to show ya!”

  “Whatever you got, I don’t want to see!” she replied, quickening her pace, clutching the library books even tighter as if that would somehow offer protection against the annoyance that was the Whitter Boys.

  Laughter from the car, then Jacob shouted out again. “Oh, I think you do want to see this, Dilly!”

  And then, despite her determination not to do so, she did look, glanced sideways – only momentarily – but long enough to see the pale white buttocks of Jacob Whitter thrust out of an open window. The sight made her stop, turn away, cover her eyes with her hand. Amid more raucous laughter the tyres screeched once again and the car sped off along Main Street.

  Tears welled up and spilled from her eyes. Quickly, she wiped them away with the back of her hand.

  “You okay, honey?”

  The voice was that of Betsy Marshall, who reached a comforting hand out to rest on Dilly’s shoulder.

  “Don’t let them boys upset you,” she continued, “they don’t have one good brain between the two of them.”

  “I’m okay, thank you,” replied Dilly, “really I am. I just need to get on home.”

  “You sure you’re okay? Wanna go for an ice cream – might make you feel better?” Ice cream was the answer to all problems in Betsy’s world, a fact that manifested itself in her generous frame, the chins that wobbled in unison beneath her plump lips as she spoke to Dilly.

  “No, thanks, really… I’m okay. I need to get home.” Dilly pushed past the large woman, the threat of more tears prickling her eyes.

  “Well pardon me for being concerned!” Betsy watched Dilly hurry along the sidewalk. Never amount to anything that one, she thought, such a strange girl. Little wonder she ended up being the butt of jokes from the likes of the Whitters. And fancy turning down an ice cream! Still, that was too good a suggestion to waste entirely. She turned, began walking back the way she’d come. She’d resisted temptation on the way up past the parlour but her little interlude with Dilly Chambers had weakened that resolve. One good deed deserves another – it wasn’t her fault the girl had refused her offer of help. Pistachio, she thought, or maybe just plain old vanilla. All washed down with a nice glass of Coca-Cola.

  * * *

  The Chambers house was a mail-order foursquare from Sears. Her parents had been one of the first couples to buy a piece of land on the lot some two miles out of the town centre back in ’21 – lucky enough to be in a position to afford their dream house, nestling in the countryside, views to the distant Blue Ridge mountains one of the many selling points of the location.

  The mountains were still visible from the house now – but only just. Over the years, the Chambers had seen the town expand outwards, drawing ever closer to their home until eventually it had drawn level with them and then moved onwards, encircling them and turning their little community into just another suburb.

  The encroachment of the town had broken her father’s heart – or so her mother would have her believe – so profoundly that it had killed him back in ’32. Dilly knew better, knew that it was cancer that had taken him away (the tumour spreading, taking over his body the same way the town had done to his home) but played along with her mother’s more romantic version of her father’s demise.

  The broken heart – if any – belonged to her mother. The year her husband died was the year she suffered the breakdown that had changed Dilly’s life forever, the year she went from the Student Most Likely to Succeed, with the promise of a scholarship at the State University, to being a full-time carer for her mother.

  Dilly glanced at her watch – ten after twelve, Mama would be getting hungry. She picked up her pace, rounded a corner onto Pine -
the street on which the house that had become her prison, rather than her home, stood.

  “Oh no…” The Oldsmobile belonging to the Whitters was parked at the kerb half-way between where she now stood and the house.

  There was no time for her to make a detour, to take the side streets instead and approach the rear of the house. She could imagine her mother, still in bed, growing ever more anxious – and angry – at her daughter’s absence. Just ignore them, she told herself for the second time that day, don’t look at them, just get past that damn car.

  She stopped in her tracks, felt her heart sink as she saw the car doors open, saw the Whitter Twins get out to lean against the chassis. Jacob folded his arms, leered at Dilly. Joshua thrust his hips towards her, rubbed a hand over his crotch. “You want some of this, Dilly?”

  Dilly felt tears prickle her eyes – born more from frustration than fear – as she began to walk again. Just do it…

  “That’s no way to talk to a lady.”

  The words had come from behind her and she stopped in her tracks. Spoken in a voice that was calm and collected, no trace of anger in it, commanding and exuding authority. Slowly she turned to see who it was who had spoken.

  The man was young – a lot younger than she had expected from the sound of his voice – handsome in a film-star kinda way, dark hair slicked back, features she would describe as chiselled or rugged, wearing a black tee-shirt (from the sleeves of which extended toned, muscular arms) and faded blue denim jeans. A cigarette dangled nonchalantly from his mouth, a Lucky Strike taken from the packet that nestled under the sleeve of his tee shirt.

  Dilly gasped.

  “Why don’t you just get back in your car and leave this young lady alone?” Her rescuer (her hero) began walking towards the Whitters. As he passed by Dilly he winked at her, a gesture both flirtatious and reassuring.

  Dilly gasped again and a host of butterflies took flight in her stomach.

  She watched as he approached the car, saw the twins size up to the man, all aggression and swagger. Concern filled her that a fight could break out, that her knight in shining armour could get hurt, all on her account. “Please…” she began, but bit her tongue as she saw him place a hand on Jacob’s shoulder, watched as he talked to the twins (in that deep, commanding voice of his) his head moving from side to side as he addressed both of them. Watched, in amazement, as the twins got back into the car, a sheepish look on both their faces.

  With a squeal of tyres, the Oldsmobile pulled away from the kerb and drove off down the street. The man watched them go, waved at the car and its occupants as it turned at the junction of Pine and Fourth.

  Dilly’s heart hammered in her chest.

  “That’s that, then,” her rescuer said before taking a long draw on his cigarette. He dropped the butt onto the pavement, crushed it beneath his Chippewa engineer boot.

  “Th-thank you,” Dilly stammered, blushing profusely.

  “My pleasure, miss.” He took a step forward, extended his hand to shake Dilly’s. “Let me introduce myself, I’m Chris – Chris Dean.”

  Dilly took Chris’ hand, had to concentrate on breathing to avoid fainting and managed to splutter, “And I’m Dilly, Dilly Chambers…”

  “Real pleased to meet you, Dilly,” said Chris.

  * * *

  The MO opened the door almost immediately after I had knocked on it, giving the impression that he had been stood behind the huge slab of oak, waiting for my arrival. His room was at one end of a long corridor, the walls of which were lined with dark wood panels and along the floor of which was laid a plush wool carpet covered in (faux I presumed) Persian designs. The BEF had appropriated the Town Hall in Mons as its headquarters, and the MO – a lowly captain just like me – was sharing the premises with the top rank of the army.

  “Come in, Captain Church!” As he opened the door he stood to one side, ushering me into his office with a sweep of his arm. He wore his white coat on top of his uniform. A stethoscope with a brass end hung around his neck to complete the picture of medical efficiency. He was a small man, balding, in his fifties – a career soldier. His medical qualifications had been his ticket straight to captaincy – luckily for him, as I would imagine ascent through the ranks would have been improbable, if not impossible, for such a frail looking fellow.

  “Please, take a seat.” A huge oak desk stood against the far wall of the room, a chair either side of it. As I made my way across the room, dark stained floorboards visible around the edges of a huge rug of similar Persian design to the hallway carpet, I glanced out of the large window overlooking the town square. The medieval clock tower was visible as a silhouette in the hazy August sunshine beyond the square, which was filled with hundreds of troops. The men under my command were among them, relaxing in the warmth of the day, preparing themselves for the hostilities that lay ahead.

  The MO followed me across the room, having closed the door behind him. As I settled into the chair in front of the desk, placing my cap on its highly polished top, he made his way around it to occupy the other. “So, Captain,” he began, “tell me how I can help.”

  At his prompt, I felt once more the surge of embarrassment that accompanied every occasion on which my “condition” came under scrutiny. A man of thirty-two, I was still able to be embarrassed by it. I felt my face redden, felt the warmth spreading downwards to bring me out in a sweat. I cleared my throat.

  “I’m seeing things.” And, there, just saying the words made it easier to continue, like the walls of a dam had been breached. My secret was out. I had mentioned this to no one, simply fretted over it myself, too ashamed to discuss it with anyone else but scared, too, that admitting to it, by letting my superiors know, my military career would be in jeopardy. I could hold it in no longer, though. Something had to be done. “I see lights, shining from people, like haloes but around their whole body, not just their heads.”

  The words had come out in a rush, eager as I was to finally share this strange burden with someone else. The flurry of words was met by a protracted silence. The MO said not a word, merely looked at me. To give the man his due, I could see the effect my words had had on him, could almost see the cogs and wheels inside his head spinning dangerously fast, and yet somehow the expression on his face was a slight smile, comforting and yet showing just the right degree of concern. Lord knows what he was expecting me to say: a nasty rash, uncontrollable shits maybe, but not, so I imagined, this…

  “Doctor?” I felt the need to break the silence.

  Still a second or two passed before the MO responded. The trance onto which he seemed to have descended was terminated with a small shake of the head, a slight widening of his eyes. His smile, impressively, never faltered.

  “Lights, you say, around people?”

  I nodded in assent.

  “And you see these… every now and then? All of the time?”

  “All the time,” I confirmed, “but different colours.”

  A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth was the only indication of a slip in his professional demeanour. He nodded slowly, most likely buying a bit more time in which to process the bizarre information he was now privy to. He leaned back into the chair, steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “And how long have you been seeing these auras?”

  My heart skipped a beat at hearing those words – or, more precisely, that word. These… hallucinations, whatever they were. He knew what they were. He had a precise word for them. That meant he could help me. Surely.

  “Auras?” I repeated the word, made it a talisman.

  “Mm. The best word I could come up with. Bit mumbo-jumbo but it seems appropriate.”

  He must have seen the crestfallen expression on my face as he immediately leant forward again, reached out a reassuring hand. “Apologies, that wasn’t very professional of me, and I wouldn’t for one moment want you to think I’m not taking this seriously.”

  I nodded, managed a wan smile. “You’ve come across this before?” I asked, hop
eful.

  Slowly, the MO shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Chances are, though, it’s one of two things causing the problem.”

  I leaned forward.

  “It’s either your eyes or your brain,” He seemed pleased at his differential diagnosis; I could not share his enthusiasm. “Your eyes may be faulty and sending the wrong signals to your brain, or the signals are fine and the brain… well, the brain is getting confused when it’s trying to interpret them.”

  I leaned back. Slumped.

  “Do you feel nauseous when you see these… auras?”

  “No, not at all. I see them all the time but I feel fine otherwise.” From outside came the distant tolling of a bell, audible above the hubbub from the square below.

  “So, you can see one now? Around me?”

  I nodded.

  “May I ask what colour it is?”

  I stared at the doctor, watched the air around him shimmering like that which hovers over a road on a hot day. He was surrounded by a pale blue glow every now and then interspersed by brief flares of green. I described what I could see to him.

  “Is my aura the same colour as yours?” he asked.

  “I don’t have one,” I replied, “or at least, I don’t see one around myself.”

  “Hm. Interesting. I have no idea if that’s of any significance, but it’s interesting nonetheless!” He leaned over to one of the desk drawers and pulled it open. He reached in and withdrew a medium-sized wooden box. Placing the box on top of the desk he reached back into the drawer and took out a strap, to which was attached a round mirror. “I can’t do much about the brain,” he said, smiling in an attempt to be reassuring (and failing), “but at least I can check your eyes.”