Witnesses Page 6

He re-read the date, confirming that the scrawled numbers were exactly as he’d read them.

  They were, but it didn’t make sense, the grieving mother must have made a mistake. Under the circumstances, that was understandable. The date written on the card was three days ago. How could he have seen the soldier on this very street only last night if that was true?

  Another gust of wind made him shudder and pull his coat tighter around himself.

  * * *

  Steam rose from the mug of coffee as Dave carried it through into the living room. The TV was on, tuned into the news channel. The presenter was currently discussing a new government initiative to deal with anti-social behaviour, but it was almost the top of the hour when the news headlines were due.

  He settled into the settee, took a sip of coffee and then placed the mug on the coffee table, not bothering with a coaster. The interview was rounding off, the government spokesman having successfully managed to avoid directly answering any of the questions put to him by the obviously disinterested, going through the motions, presenter. “It’s eight o’clock,” he said, turning to face a different camera, “and time for the news headlines.”

  It was the third story in the headlines package. A familiar enough one, delivered in the neutral monotone of the TV presenter. Another death of a British soldier in Afghanistan. Gary Wallace of East Lee in County Durham was named as the latest casualty in the on-going War Against Terror. Another victim of a roadside bombing, an IED (and oh, how that acronym was becoming so familiar) just outside of Kabul. Relatives had been informed of the death, which had occurred – and even hearing the words spoken out loud, a confirmation of what he already knew, caused another wave of nausea to spread out from his stomach – three days ago.

  Dave settled back into the sofa. He’d literally been on the edge of his seat listening to the news, and sighed deeply. His mind was racing, trying to find some rational explanation for what was happening. It had been Wallace he’d seen yesterday, he was absolutely certain of that. But how could he have, with the soldier two days dead and three and a half thousand miles away to boot?

  You’re seeing ghosts.

  The thought struck him as entirely rational, adding to his confusion.

  Shit, I’m being haunted by a racist thug.

  He leant forward, picked up his mug and took another sip of the steaming liquid. What the hell was going on? On the TV, the programme had moved onto the regional studios for local news bulletins. As he watched, the stock images onscreen changed to shots of British soldiers patrolling in some generic desert location. It was only to be expected that Gary Wallace’s story would be the first in the regional bulletin. Abruptly, the footage changed to a shot of a familiar location, the high street in East Lee. The reporter was now describing the soldier’s death as the second tragedy to hit the village in recent weeks, following on as it did from the car accident which had killed two local teenagers. And then, when he thought there could be no more surprises, nothing else to deepen the mystery in which he found himself, a photograph appeared on screen of the young couple who had died.

  The mug slipped from his hand and bounced on the floor, the impact throwing hot brown liquid across the room.

  “Oh, dear God,” he said.

  The faces of the couple he’d seen at the roadside shrine the night he’d bumped into Gary Wallace at Ali’s stared out at him from the TV screen.

  * * *

  Dilly stared miserably out of her bedroom window. Even the sight of the distant Blue Ridge Mountains could do little to rouse her from the depression she had fallen into. The date with Chris had been a disaster. She’d become hysterical at the sight of all those soldiers gathering in the field by the river and he’d had to bring her home. She’d cried all the way back. He’d wanted to come in with her, see that she really was okay but she hadn’t let him, had been too embarrassed to even countenance the idea. No, she’d sent him on his way and then run straight up to her bedroom, ignoring the mocking tones of Mama, asking how everything had gone, even though she must have known full well, given the state she had arrived back at the house in.

  That had been a week ago and she’d barely left the house since. Chris had been trying to call her, she knew that, but she’d refused to speak to him, still mortified at the way things had turned out on the date. He couldn’t even see the soldiers. They weren’t really there, she must have been imagining them. She’d dreamed about them every night since, though. Nightmares, actually. The uniformed men were so scary, looming at her, reaching out for her. They were wounded, some of them, terrible battlefield injuries that made them even scarier to look at.

  I’m going mad, she told herself.

  Mama had been no help at all. Her ‘I told you so’ attitude was making things so much worse. Not for the first time, Dilly wished she had a normal family. Why did she always have to be the strong one? Why was no-one there for her?

  Except, Chris was there for her, wasn’t he? It was only her own stubbornness (and wounded pride) that was stopping her from seeing him. He hadn’t called for a couple of days now, though, and the fear that she might have lost him completely, because of her own stupidity, was nagging away at her.

  “Dilly!” Mama shrieked from downstairs, her voice shrill, querulous. “Get down here now, girl!”

  What did she want now? She couldn’t have long finished the lunch Dilly had prepared for her. Surely she was capable of taking the dishes into the kitchen? It would be too much to expect that she might actually wash the dirty plate and cutlery, but at least she could manage to take them through to the other room.

  Dilly didn’t reply. A token resistance, to be sure, but one that was fuelled by her current state of mind.

  “Dilly!” This time the call was even louder, and a slightly hysterical note had crept into her mother’s voice.

  “Coming, Mama!” She broke her gaze away from the distant mountains (oh, how she wished she were walking amongst them right now) and made her way to the staircase.

  “‘Bout time, keeping me hanging on like that…”

  Dilly sighed and began her descent of the stairs. She made her way to the front room, where she’d left Mama her lunch of scrambled eggs and toast. The women stood at the large window overlooking the street, her figure silhouetted by the light outside.

  “He’s back,” she said, without turning or otherwise acknowledging her daughter’s presence. “That boyfriend of yours, parked out yonder in that fancy car of his.” Disdain dripped from every word.

  A shiver of excitement ran through Dilly’s body. Chris was here, her fears at having lost him, pushed him away, were unfounded. Like a knight in shining armour he had come to rescue her.

  “I hope you don’t think you’re gonna go out with him now?” Mama had deigned to turn away from the window to address her. As she stepped forward, away from the bright light that streamed through the glass, Dilly saw the look of contempt etched onto her face, the red and bleary eyes that told of an early visit to the bottle, no doubt as an “accompaniment” to lunch. Dilly took a step backwards, the act involuntary, automatic. She felt tears welling in her eyes.

  “Well, do you?” The onslaught continued. Mama began to shuffle towards Dilly.

  “I, I… I don’t know Mama, I wasn’t expecting him to come here, I didn’t ask him to…” The tears spilt over, as much a result of her shame at kow-towing to her mother as the anger she felt towards the interfering old—

  “Well, you’re not going! I won’t allow it. I’m Mrs Nobody since you met that man, you just don’t care about me anymore.” She stopped shuffling, raised the back of her hand to her brow in a theatrical gesture of distress. “How could you treat your poor, sick mother in such a way?”

  Dilly now stood in the doorway. The aura around her mother erupted with flashes of red, her anger the real thing, and for a moment she felt sorry for the woman. Only momentarily, though. She could feel something else boiling up within her, something new. For possibly the first time in her life,
Dilly Chambers was feeling angry.

  “I am going”, she said, and was surprised to hear how calm her voice was. Forceful, but calm. “You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Mama. I’m thirty-two years old and I’m not a child. If anyone’s being childish here it’s you.”

  She momentarily felt guilty at seeing her mother’s expression change to one of dismay at the words she’d just spoken. It didn’t last, though, as a new-found confidence filled her. “My whole life revolves around you, Mama. I’ve never had a chance at a life of my own, but now I do.”

  “Dilly…” Her mother’s voice was strained, her face a picture of abject sorrow. Slowly she raised her arms to reach out to her daughter.

  “No, Mama, it’s been a long time coming but I’m drawing the line, here and now. Don’t worry, I’ll still look after you, but it’s gonna be on my terms now. You have to let me do this, Mama. I want a life outside of here. I need a life outside of here.”

  The look of sorrow on the older woman’s face slowly transformed into a snarl of anger.

  “Why, you ungrateful little bitch!” she shrieked at Dilly. “I’ve given you everything and this is how you treat me!” She advanced on Dilly, arms still outstretched, though now as a lunge rather than an embrace.

  “Mama! No!” Dilly retreated out into the hallway, the confidence she’d so recently conjured from God knows where slipping away rapidly to be replaced by genuine fear, fear that her mother had finally tipped over the thin edge she had so long been clinging to and was about to do her real, physical harm. Her words had no effect, though. The older woman continued her advance towards her.

  “I’m going out!” she screamed, defiantly, turning on her heels and running to the front door. Without looking back, she pulled the door open and stepped out into the warm sunshine. Across the road, Chris had stopped by the car, a bewildered look on his face.

  “I’m coming! Get back in the car!” Dilly ran across the road, her step faltering as she heard an anguished scream from behind.

  “Then don’t bother coming back, you little hussy! You’re not welcome in my house!”

  Dilly yanked open the car door and slid in beside Chris. “Everything okay?” he asked, a smile playing across his lips.

  “Just drive,” Dilly commanded. “Get me as far away from that mad woman as you can.”

  Chris nodded and smiled again, turned the ignition key. “Anywhere in particular, ma’am?” But Dilly didn’t reply. Instead she buried her head in her hands, her shoulders hitching as she sobbed into them.

  * * *

  I have just returned to quarters and am still at somewhat of a loss at the day’s developments. I have, it must be said, mixed emotions at the orders I have just received from Major Llewellyn. I am unsure as to whether to be proud at having been selected for such an important mission or disappointed, and upset as to the reasons why, that I have been relieved – for want of a better word – of my duties here on the front line. Have I done something wrong? Failed somehow in my responsibilities, to such an extent that it has been deemed necessary by higher powers to remove me from the situation?

  I tell myself this negative interpretation is simply paranoia, a lack of confidence in my own abilities, perhaps exacerbated by the stress of the recent weeks and my own concerns as to my health. Certainly, there was nothing in the manner in which Major Llewellyn informed me of my new role to suggest any disappointment on his, or by extension the Top Brass’s behalf at my performance. I probably am simply over-reacting.

  I have been given a mission, a ‘secret’ mission, for all intents and purposes. It seems I am in for a spot of guerrilla warfare. Reports have been received of atrocities being committed in Belgium. Attacks are being made on villages – of no strategic value to the Germans – in which the civilian populations are being, for want of a better word, massacred. The first was Aarscot, then Andenne and Tamines followed. Over seven hundred dead, according to our Intelligence Corps.

  I am to take command of a Platoon of fifty men, track down the monsters responsible for these atrocities, and put an end to the massacre of the innocents.

  I was, of course, horrified to hear of these terrible events, that horror a result of the acts themselves (children skewered on bayonets, the elderly killed and maimed) but also the thought that a fellow soldier, albeit in an opposing army, could be capable of such things.

  I leave tomorrow at dawn. The men in the platoon have been picked for me, but I am assured they are of the highest quality. I am to head for the town of Dinant on the River Meuse as all indications point to it being the scene of the next massacre. God-willing we will be there in time.

  I will meet the men in my command tomorrow morning, immediately prior to departure. This is not ideal; I pride myself on the good relationship I have with the men under me. There is of course the likelihood that some of the men I have already commanded will be drafted into the platoon, I sincerely hope this will be the case.

  My ‘condition’ remains undiagnosed. No doubt the M.O. has had plenty other work to keep him occupied since our retreat from Mons, and so the auras are still a part of my life, a constant reminder of whatever illness lurks within me. My own observations of what I can see have allowed me to form some theories of my own, however. The colour of the aura seems to depend on the emotional state of the individual it surrounds. Red, I am now certain, is a sign of anger. This ability of mine will, in a way, make my job easier with regards to commanding a group of men, most of whom I have never met. I will be able to gauge their feelings, to know what they are thinking merely by observing the shifting colours around them.

  I will also be able to gauge the success of the mission even before we set off. I have coined this “the curse of the black aura.” It took me a while to make the connection, but now I know that this phenomenon is a predictor of death. Whereas all the other colours I see are related to how the individual is feeling at that precise moment in time, somehow the black aura hangs around those who are soon to die. Exactly how this can be I have no inkling. An understanding of the auras in general is difficult to achieve, but is surely more explicable than this. Whereas the “mood” auras reflect a current condition, the “present”, as it were, the black auras can somehow predict future events.

  I call it a curse, and so it is. How is one supposed to react, to interact with a man you know will soon be dead? Within the Hell of war, I have found my own private version.

  * * *

  Chris finished off the last of his root beer and, despite the fact that Dilly hadn’t even touched hers, asked if she wanted another as he had a “raging thirst” and was going to have a second.

  “Oh, oh no, thank you. I still have some left.” His question had returned her from the trance into which she’d slipped. Chris had attempted conversation with her on the drive into town and here in the diner, but had received no response.

  “What’s up, Dilly?” he asked, taking the opportunity now that communications had been re-established. “That old bat causing you grief again?”

  “She’s not…” Dilly bit her tongue, terminating the defence of her mother. The words had come to her automatically, had done so in many previous conversations with people who’d actually met the woman. You don’t believe it yourself, that’s why you can’t say it… “Yes,” she said, “yes she is.”

  Chris put a hand on her shoulder and she leaned into him. He halted the approach of the waitress with raised eyebrows and a quick shake of his head. She gave him a knowing look and turned to take up residence once more behind the counter, glancing over at the diner’s only other customer, an elderly man sat in a corner booth.

  “She’s just a bitter old woman,” he said. “She doesn’t know how hurtful she can be, all wrapped up in her own world of misery. A world she’s created for herself.”

  Dilly gave no reply. What Chris was saying was horrible to hear, and yet she found herself unable to argue with him, actually agreeing with what he was saying. “You don’t have to put up with
it,” he continued, “you really don’t.”

  “Someone has to look after her. She can’t do it herself.”

  “But it doesn’t have to be you, hon. There are people who can do that, people whose job it is. I bet the old bat is loaded.”

  Dilly smiled. “She certainly seems to have plenty cash for liquor!” She found that just saying the words actually gave her a thrill, the first stirrings of rebellion a not entirely unwelcome sensation.

  Chris kissed the top of her head. “I foresee big changes a-coming in your life, Dilly Chambers, big changes…”

  Dilly sat up, pulling away from Chris as she did so. The plastic of the booth seat squeaked as she moved. “And do you feature in those changes, Mr Dean?” Even so few words proved a struggle to get through, her voice wavering and almost cracking by the last one.

  Chris grinned, a big old shit-eatin’ grin that lit up his face. “Why, Dilly—”

  A loud screeching followed by a huge crash from outside interrupted Chris. Screams followed, a high-pitched wailing, and then the prolonged blaring of a car horn.

  “Oh, dear God!” The waitress screamed, running to the large window at the front of the diner. The old man in the corner booth looked up, strained to see what was happening outside, but he remained in his seat.

  Chris leapt to his feet, made for the door. Dilly followed closely behind. Once outside the diner it was clear to see what had happened. Two cars were involved, a Chevy and a Buick. Somehow, the two vehicles had collided on a junction, although it was difficult to tell who had pulled out in front of who as the impact had spun both vehicles around, tipping the Buick onto its side. Passers-by were running to the scene of the crash. Some stood by already, shock, concern and horror in their expressions.

  As they approached the crash, the sound of the horn gradually dwindled before petering out completely. The screaming too had stopped, but the sound of voices, some raised, barking instructions, filled the air.