Witnesses Read online

  Just before you enter the building – the sliding doors are still functional despite the damage and devastation around them – you glance over to the right. A tall ladder extends from the roof of a fire engine, reaching into the dark sky. At the end of it a figure holds a high-pressure hose, from which jets a white plume of water. There are no flames to extinguish now; the water is cooling the building, preventing further ignitions. You reach into a pocket, withdraw a handkerchief, and hold it over your mouth. Smoke is everywhere.

  The doors swish open and you enter the mall. The still-swirling smoke casts a gloom over the interior of the building. The darkness has invaded this usually brighter than bright domain literally as well as metaphorically. Temporary spotlights have been set up within the mall; you can hear them buzzing like angry bees, hear too the deep throaty roar of the generators which power them. Despite the handkerchief across your mouth you cough. Your eyes water, stung by the smoke.

  Through the twilight created by the spotlights and fumes you see figures milling around. The thought occurs to you that there are too many people here, but it is a fleeting one. The poor light, the swirling smoke is confusing things. And then a familiar face approaches, a colleague from the station. Even in the gloom, and with a mask held over his mouth, you can see the tension in his eyes. Not just tension, though. There is fear evident in his partly visible expression, too.

  He drops the mask from his face and speaks. “It’s b-bad,” he stammers, “the worst I’ve ever seen.”

  This close, you can see the moisture in his eyes, reflecting the spotlights, reflecting his emotions.

  You nod by way of response but say nothing and head on past the man, feeling like Dante at the beginning of his journey through the Inferno. Figures move around you, the smoke and gloom rendering them little more than shadows. But why so many? Who are all these people and what are they doing here?

  And then you see the first body, or rather what is left of it. What you see is in fact only a torso to which is attached a single leg. The remains lie in a pool of blood, the red turned black by artificial light and the smoke-filled air. You feel your stomach lurch, swallow the saliva that has suddenly appeared in your mouth. You feel light-headed and lower your mask to breathe deeply. The smoke you inhale makes you cough, adds to your feeling of nausea.

  You walk on, having to concentrate on the mere physical act, willing your shaking legs to move forwards, having to think about maintaining your balance, preventing yourself from falling. As you make your way through the smoke more horrors are revealed. Bodies, and parts of bodies, lie all around. The ground across which you walk is sticky; your shoes make smacking noises as they stick and release, stick and release. Death, violent death, is nothing new to you, but this is far beyond anything you have ever encountered. Even the worst atrocities carried out by the Salakau are nothing compared to this.

  You stop, pausing to regain some composure. You can hear yourself breathing, the smoky air rasping in and out of your lungs. You hear something else, a low whispering of many voices. You are unable to make out individual words, but the tone of what is being said is obvious. The fear you discern in the mutterings adds to your own; a feeling of claustrophobia creeps into your psyche, threatens to overwhelm you.

  You double over, rest your hands on your knees. Your stomach lurches and you swallow hard to prevent the vomit from spewing out. You take deep breaths, but they do little to calm the queasiness, slow your pounding heartbeat not one iota.

  Something catches your eye. Something small and pale lying on the tiled floor not far from where you stand. An arm, tiny and white, part of a child’s doll. The sight of it brings a lump to your throat with its poignancy, its innocence. You slowly straighten up, take faltering steps towards the small, charred piece of plastic. It is only as you draw close enough to it that you realise the arm is not made of plastic, is indeed flesh and blood (oh, so much blood) and, as the whispers in your head become a cacophony, the turmoil in your stomach becomes irresistible and its contents force their way up your gullet to spatter on the blood-stained floor at your feet.

  * * *

  It was only after half an hour’s ride in Chris’s Dodge Wayfarer that Dilly began to relax and enjoy the day. Breakfast had been a disaster; the nervousness she had felt at the prospect of actually going out on a date had nauseated her, rendered her incapable of enjoying the food she had prepared for herself and Mama. She’d managed to force it down, but immediately afterwards had had to run to the bathroom and be sick.

  As if that wasn’t bad enough, Mama had made things so much worse. Dilly had harboured a forlorn hope that her mother might have been pleased, happy for her even, but the reality had been that the news of her date had sent her into a funk, made her angry – and that anger was always directed at Dilly.

  “Go on then,” she had shouted, flashes of red erupting around her. “You just go and enjoy yourself, don’t you worry about me! Oh no, I’ll be fine, I can look after myself, I don’t need you!”

  And Dilly had almost faltered, had almost called Chris and cancelled the date, but something within her – something new within her – had prevented her from so doing. Her mother’s guilt-trip strategy was not going to work, not this time. This is what normal people do, she told herself. Normal people have fun, enjoy life. The tears that had sprung to her eyes when she’d had those thoughts further strengthened her resolve. “I’m going, Mama, and you can’t stop me. It’s not like I’m leaving home, it’s just a date – I’ll be back later to look after you.” The anger she felt as she spoke the words had come as a surprise. That’s because finally you’re getting to experience real emotions, her inner voice told her, the voice that she had always suspected was her true self, waiting to break out. What the voice told her was usually negative, dripping in irony. This was the most positive thing it had ever said to her, albeit a little sarcastic.

  Mama had retired to her bed straight after breakfast (which, Dilly noted, she’d had no trouble at all in consuming) and hadn’t been there to see Dilly leave. She’d had to call her goodbyes up the stairs when Chris had turned up. As she’d gotten into his car, she’d glanced up at the window of Mama’s bedroom and smiled as she saw the curtains twitching. “I don’t get to meet your Mom, then?” Chris had said. “Oh, I’m sure you will, in the fullness of time,” she’d replied, adding a deep sigh for good measure.

  So now they drove through the Virginia countryside, the road winding through lush forests that covered the land as far as the eye could see. The day was bright and sunny and the top was down on the Wayfarer. Dilly relished the feel of the air rushing over her face. She glanced over at Chris, his right arm casually draped across the top of the steering wheel. He made no acknowledgement of being aware of her looking at him, instead kept looking ahead, concentrating on driving. They’d made small talk when the journey had begun. He’d told her the location of the picnic he’d planned, but the conversation had soon dwindled. Nerves, she thought, that and simply trying to talk above the noise of the car. They’d be fine once they got to the river; there was so much she wanted to know about him and yet there’ll be so little you can tell him about yourself. Her inner voice had rediscovered its usual negativity. The smile she’d worn since Chris had turned up at the front door began to fade a little. Turning away from him, she rested her head on her shoulder and closed her eyes.

  * * *

  The drive had taken forty minutes, but they were here now. They’d left the Wayfarer at the side of the road and the car was still visible from where they sat, on a tartan rug, under a small copse of trees next to a stream that meandered slowly across the field they’d scrambled down into.

  “This is beautiful,” Dilly said, tilting her head backwards, feeling the stretch in her neck, basking in the hot sunshine. “Thank you for bringing me.”

  “Why it was nothing, ma’am,” Chris replied, in his best country bumpkin voice. The blade of grass he held between his teeth, on which he had chewed slowly since he’d p
icked it on entering the field, added to the impression.

  Dilly giggled, shuffled down on her elbows to lie flat on the rug. She closed her eyes. Not for the first time the question of whether Chris would try and kiss her popped into her head. And what will you do if he does? a familiar voice asked. Even through the heat of the sun, she could feel the warmth of the blush as it spread across her face.

  A clink of glass distracted her from her thoughts, and she opened her eyes, propped herself on one elbow to see Chris lift a bottle of beer from the hamper. Putting the neck of the bottle in his mouth, he bit down hard on it, screwed his eyes shut, and twisted the bottle. A slight hiss accompanied the removal of the metal top. Spitting the top out onto the rug he turned to face Dilly, winked at her, smiling.

  Dilly smiled back, nervously, unsure as to whether or not to she should be impressed. From this angle, the sun was behind Chris; a golden aura surrounded his silhouette. There, you look normal now, she thought. It hadn’t been until much later in the evening following her encounter with the Whitter boys, and her first meeting with Chris, that she’d realised what was different about him. He had no aura. The light she saw around everyone else, the way she knew for sure exactly what they were thinking, how they were feeling, wasn’t there. Somehow, this added to his allure, made him all the more attractive, though why this should be she could not comprehend. Love, she thought, is strange – and then immediately blushed, felt mild panic spread through her at the mere thought that she might be encountering that emotion for real, not just vicariously through the novels she read.

  Chris took a long swig from the bottle, released a deep sigh of contentment as he removed it from his mouth. He too leant back onto the rug and Dilly was momentarily blinded by the sun as he moved. Lying beside her, he moved his arm to the side. Palm up, he spread his fingers open, inviting her to take his hand. Her heart was racing as she slowly stretched her arm and placed her hand in his. A frisson of excitement ran through her body as they touched. Gently, he squeezed his fingers together, tightening the delicate grip.

  I have died and gone to heaven, she thought, relishing the warmth that spread through her body. Suddenly, not talking seemed like the most natural thing in the world; just being together, holding hands, was all she needed.

  “I’m hungry”, Chris said, interrupting the moment, “let’s eat!” He released his grip on Dilly’s hand, sat up. Dilly lay there a while longer, savouring the moment before slowly sitting upright again.

  A movement caught her eye at the bottom of the field, down by the stream.

  A figure stood in the shade of the trees. Tall and thin. A man.

  The shock of seeing the figure turned to disappointment that they were not alone in this idyllic spot. That disappointment soon turned to concern. What was the man doing there?

  Not taking her eyes from the distant figure, she reached out to grab Chris by the arm. “I think we have company,” she whispered, “down there, by the stream.”

  Chris made a show of looking where she had indicated, rolling his shoulders, straining his neck forward to obtain a better view. “I don’t see anything,” he said. “What can you see?”

  Dilly’s heart was beating hard again, though this time for different, far less enjoyable reasons. “A man, just stood there, looking at us.” She could hear the faint trace of panic in her voice.

  Chris stood, held his hand above his eyes to shade his view. “I’m sorry, darlin’, I can’t see anything.”

  “But you must be able to…” She too got to her feet. “Right over there, under the…” The words caught in her throat as she saw more figures appear from the trees. “Oh God…” She looked to Chris and was surprised, shocked even to see a smile playing on his lips. “You must be able to see. There are more of them.” Instinctively she took a step towards him, put her arms around his waist. He hugged her protectively around the shoulders. “There’s nothing there, darlin’, I don’t know what it is you’re seeing.”

  Men. Men in uniforms. As she watched, more and more figures appeared, milling around the trees. All were looking at the two of them, looking but making no movement towards them. Men in the uniforms of the Confederacy…

  This was a battlefield. She’d recognised the name when Chris had first suggested it as a venue for their date. Maybe it was the sun messing with her mind, some kind of sunstroke. She wasn’t thinking straight and her mind was getting befuddled, getting stuff all mixed up, stuff she knew, stuff she was seeing, stuff she thought she was seeing…

  “Oh, Chris, I don’t feel too good,” she said. “I’m scared.”

  “Don’t you worry, darlin’.” He stroked her hair to emphasise his reassurance. “It’s okay, you’re safe with me.” He held her tight, his smile widening as he watched the soldiers fill the bottom of the field.

  * * *

  My hand is still shaking as I write this, I fear my writing tonight will be illegible to anyone other than myself. The tremors are a combination of nerves and tiredness, but I must resist the temptation not to write as the events of this day, August 23rd, 1914, are the most important I have ever had to record. It has been a day of days, and I must record its events now whilst they are still fresh in my mind, but must overcome the feeling of disappointment at what has occurred in order to do so.

  We had deployed along the length of the canal, the waterway presenting a natural line of defence. Just outside the town was a bend in the line of the canal, and it was there that a salient was established. A risky strategy but one in which we had no choice, the ground had to be defended. The troops holding that piece of ground would be exposed, surrounded by the Germans, but to have not deployed those men would have allowed our enemy a direct route through our lines.

  The horse has long since bolted from that particular stable, and I feel as if I am trying to justify our actions as if I were stood in front of a court martial panel. In retrospect, perhaps the decision was a bad one – given the outcome – but hindsight is a wonderful thing. At the time, in the heat of battle as it literally had been, the decision was right.

  The morning belonged to us. Every attack from the Hun was repulsed, the rapid firing of our Lee-Enfields sounding like that of machine guns, our marksmanship far more devastating than that of the German gunners, whose opening artillery salvo had done far less damage to our numbers – and morale – than they would have been hoping for.

  As the day progressed, however, the tide slowly turned. We had been outnumbered from the off, our French allies still engaged at Charleroi, and that advantage slowly but surely began to impress itself upon the situation. In the face of such overwhelming odds, retreat was the only way to prevent the slaughter of hundreds more men.

  Retreat. It is hard even to write the word. The act itself goes against the grain of every true fighting man, and yet retreat is exactly what we did, what we had to do. I still find it hard to believe that we did but looking at the houses in this small village as I write these words rather than out over the field of battle is proof enough of it.

  I am dismayed at the outcome and yet, though it distresses me to admit as much (and this journal must be honest and truthful, else it is worthless), I am also relieved. Today was my first battle, the first time I have been put to the test. And did I pass the test? Time will tell. I performed my duties, met my responsibilities to the very best of my ability. The practicalities and logistics of combat provided no problems. Indeed I relished my role, enjoyed even applying the training I have received in a practical way. I feel I have acquitted myself well.

  But what of the emotional side of things? The shaking in my hands is from tiredness, yes, but I know that it is also a reaction to the things I have seen today, the things I have experienced. My training has prepared me well for the duties I had to perform, but – it is my considered opinion – no amount of training can adequately prepare a man for the horrors, and I do not use that word lightly, of the battlefield.

  Today I have seen Hell. Death has been my constant companion
. All around me men fell, thousands must have perished this day, violent deaths for little, in fact no, glory. Such a commonplace thing, exposure to the loss of life has rendered one immune to its consequences. No time for sorrow here, and no time for fear. Not then, not in the heat of battle. But now… Time for reflection is not such a good thing. Even as I write these words, images fill my head, distracting me. Images of death and destruction. So much blood. The damage a bullet can do to a man… I have blood on my uniform. Some of it is mine, most of it belongs belonged to others. I am drenched in it.

  I feel unable to write more. Word has come that the Germans are building pontoons across the canal. They mean to pursue us. This day, it would seem, is far from over.

  * * *

  Drizzle hung in the air – creating a mist that lent an air of mystery to the redbrick buildings of the university – as Dave made his way down to the bus station. The moisture in the air beaded the lenses of his glasses with small droplets so that he was constantly having to remove and wipe them, an action that did little to improve things. The drops simply changed to streaks across the plastic surfaces of the lenses.

  The meeting with his supervisor had gone well, or as well as could be expected. Dave could tell he’d been on edge, angry even; the small red flares within his aura had been proof of that, but it was apparent that the source of his irritation wasn’t Dave himself. It was just that he was bearing the brunt of it. If nothing else, the meeting had served to re-focus him. Whilst still not enthusiastic to get on with his research, he was a little more motivated than he had been this morning. They’d talked about DB Cooper and Flight 653, deciding between them that it was a line of research worth pursuing. The latter was clearly on his mind, unsurprisingly given that he’d been reading up on it so long into the early hours, and had surfaced in his dreams. Maybe you’re overdoing it, he’d thought, then actually laughed at the absurdity of the notion.