Neven parked himself upon a pavement, relatively untouched by the chaos around it. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an apple, slowly beginning to chew it.
"You know it wasn't the enemy that made this mess, don't you?" A voice chirruped up, startling him. He turned to see Private Cave, a sickly, young man. Meek and feeble, he had a flower-patterned handkerchief constantly tucked askew in his helmet. He had been asked to remove his glasses by Whiskers, and kept them in a case that bulged from his breast pocket. The indent from where they normally rested emphasised his nose and deep set, mousy eyes.
Without any grace, Cave set himself down beside Neven. A little too close, the latter noticed uncomfortably, busying his eyes with his fruit.
"Don't you?" he repeated. He would not desist.
Neven was awkward. Deep down he knew it was because the two of them stuck out so grandly. The company was otherwise made of the working-class, those with little vocation other than a physical aptitude for wielding wildly inaccurate weaponry. He tried not to stand so straight when around them, or talk with such a noticeable accent.
The worst part was he and Private Cave were more alike than he was happy about. That the two of them would most likely have been thrown into social situations together had they not been ejected into the war.
They were cut from the same cloth. And it was a flowery cloth, tied in a bow and badly hidden in the recesses of an ill-fitting helmet. Better to be that than whatever the other men are, he thought. He eyed them contemptuously, as they did him.
"What do you mean?" he offered an olive branch. In times like these, he supposed finally, one had to make the most of what conversation there was to be had.
"We shelled London," Cave announced, louder now. He wanted to be heard. "Our own country. Scorched earth, like when the Russians retreated from Napoleon."
Neven waited, chewing casually, casting a surreptitious glance about the other men, but they were on the other side of the road, engaged in talks of their own.
"And it didn't work," Cave continued. "Whatever we're fighting is still there." He calmed himself down, seemingly content with such a short amount of words being his eulogy. There was a long silence, which Neven hoped would never end. Cave, however, was in a less generous mood. He shifted closer, which Neven was not even sure was possible at this point.
"When this is all over, I'm going back to officer's academy. I'll take my father's driver, and I'll travel to Sandhearst and I shall tie myself to the bedpost!" He looked positively gleeful, but his voice was a little too loud for comfort. Comfort for Neven was typically at a whisper level, but in this instant it was the sound Cave's mouth made when it shut.
"Will you go back? Do you think?" Cave was incorrigible. "I reckon they'll take you back, you know. War heroes and that. I don't think they'll mind if you can't pay full board."
He stood up, rocked from foot to foot, almost dancing at the thought of returning home.
"I think it was awfully unfair for them to tear us from the academy's bosom at a time like this. I mean, look at us. Knee deep in street muck and dirt, keeping up with these hoople-heads from goodness-only-knows what stock," he nodded towards the opposite pavement, where cigarettes had been broken out and the others were gathering around the one lighter that they collectively owned.
"No, men like us deserve to be in command. I can hardly believe no one pulled any strings to make me higher than a private. Don't you think?"
"I would give anything to get away from here," Neven moaned.
"Nonsense!" Cave practically giggled. "Lead from the front! Man the battle-stations etcetera etcetera, eh? That's what father would want. He was an officer as well, you know. As well as me, I mean. When I finish the acad... Oh, hello. He's back."
Whiskers walked to the middle of the road, put one foot up on a piece of it that mysteriously jutted out. Smythe, his executive officer, beckoned everyone in. He was a shadow of a man. Probably uniquely dangerous, but with an intense brooding that had kept Neven at more than arms length.
"The buildings on this road, despite appearances, are relatively untouched," the Sergeant announced, perhaps having chosen a bad time to strike a pose upon some rubble. "So we'll search here. We have the benefit of a full day's light ahead of us, but also a natural stopping point." He craned his head back he way they had come, took a swig from his canteen.
"Smythe says a fallen house is blocking the way forward about half a mile ahead, so we'll take a house at a time on this road, and then double back upon ourselves at that natural blockade."
"Where's the aliens, sir?" one soldier piped up. He was stocky, and stood at the back of a group, he was not afraid to throw his voice however. A murmur followed around the group like a bolt of electricity. Only Neven held his tongue.
Whiskers cleared his throat. "As I have said before, lads, our orders are clear. We are evacuation only."
"I'm going to kill one with my bayonet, slit it from nose to cock" another unattributed voice spoke. Some people laughed. Cave also, but far too enthusiastically, and his thin voice rang out.
"Now listen," the sergeant spoke with urgency, which Neven hoped was from lack of patience and not from nerves. "Forget every single mess hall rumour, and every single thing that prostitute told you while she was down on her knees. I will only have the single-minded idea of completing our mission. Is that clear?"
This was followed by a less than convincing chorus of 'Yes, sir' from the boys.
"Now," Whiskers said, gaining control of himself. "Pair off, and begin your search.” He gestured a big, Scottish hand towards a pretty little terraced town-house.
The top third of it had been painted a deep red colour, striking and pretty without being twee. Had Neven portioned off his vision to view only the top of this house, sunshine and clear blue sky in full view too, he might have been able to forget all of the turmoil both outside and inside him.
"Plumsworthy," Whiskers said. An unknown man sniggered. "You seem quite taken by that house, so you can go there first. You go with him, Church."
Like a naughty schoolchild, Private Jones Church emerged from the pack, and Neven's face fell. Church was not only the most brash of the “boys”, but was the complete anathema to authority – a wild animal that Neven could never hope to control. He was the Joker. 'Sunday service' is what he called intercourse with his various encounters at the barracks: everybody comes to Church. Neven hated him, he was crude and promiscuous. God is not mocked, he thought to himself on more than one occasion.
Now Church shuffled his feet, and moved past the rest. One man pushed him jovially and he stumbled overbearingly into Neven, who tried his best to under-exaggerate the effects. With minimal fuss, they eventually paired away, and Whiskers continued grouping the men.
"Now remember," the Sergeant called before they were too far away. "You're soldiers. And by God, you're British. You knock first, and you take off your shoes if you are so requested."
"You take this one," Church nudged Neven in front of him.
They walked single file up to the house, passing a neat white metal gate swinging freely in the breeze. The curtains of the downstairs bay windows were drawn, but a crack at the top told Neven no candles had been lit inside. It was dark, spare the sun now streaming relentlessly down on it.
Number 21, the brass digits unhelpfully told Neven. He put his rifle down against the doorframe, took off his helmet and adjusted his hair, and knocked three times, sharply.
"British Armed Forces, will the owner or proprietor of this residence please come to the door for immediate evacuation," it was the vague semblance of a commanding voice that he could bring about on cue, one that had impressed his tutors during training, although he winced to imagine what Church was thinking. There was no noise from the house, not even the presupposition of movement, of someone scrabbling to the door, or even pacing lazily to it.
He knocked again, "British Armed Forces, will the owner or proprietor of this..."
"Oh, for fuc
k's sake," Church said under his breath, and barged past Neven, throwing his weight into the wood. It was a surprisingly weak door, it seemed to not even have the will to fight the man's shoulder, and instantly became more kindling-like, which the door seemed happy about.
They peered in, the house was dark. It would seem no natural light had entered any room. It was also musty, stale. They felt like archaeologists entering a tomb; dried papyri replaced by crooked pictures hanging from the walls; and instead of carvings adorning stone surfaces, a mantle-piece stood quietly midway down the corridor. Three pairs of shoes neatly sat at the bottom of the staircase, for mother, father, and child. Slippers accompanied. Where it not for the distinct lack of activity, the house could have been a picture postcard of a quintessential British family.
Church put one huge boot onto the door frame, another onto the mat in the house. He approached cautiously, but with an air of confidence that was hard for Neven to follow. He swallowed, aware that the Sergeant might have been watching, and raised one foot to the house, saluting the hallway with dirt and grit, scattering it like ashes onto the hard floorboards.
"Corporal," Church spoke sharply, turning around and looking past Neven. "Rifle."
Neven almost fell back out of the house, scampering to recover his weapon. Something inside him thought it was probably just as useful there as it was in his hands. But he kept that thought to himself, and recovered the gun, as was protocol.
Church shook his head dismissively, and stepped past the mantle piece, caring not for the sounds his boots made on the floorboards now. Neven followed suit, attempting to breathe in some of the confidence his compatriot was exuding. Instead he snagged his uniform on a nail jutting loosely from the corner of the shelf. It tore away a tiny square, exposing his pale flesh.
Church turned to the first door, just beyond the mantle piece. The bronzed knob was faded from years of use. A plaque etched out of fine cedar wood read, 'Mr and Mrs Oakley'. It became clear that the house had been divided into flats and lodgings amongst its many floors. He twisted the golden orb in his hands, and the door popped open, under the tension of a poorly-planed door frame. The noise was startling, but at least it was explainable.
Neven realised that he was lingering around the corner. "Anything?" he asked.
Church did not reply at first, merely put a foot into the room, to little disaster. Given that, Neven felt safe enough to enter himself, and strolled into the room with such vigour he almost barged into Church.
"Nothing," Church's eyes fell across the room. It was hard to see given the light, so Church went to the window and brought the curtains open. It illuminated little more than they already knew, save for a one fixture.
A half-packed suitcase waited, confused, for an owner who would never satisfy its appetite. It lay on the bed, while another matching trunk sat next to a high-backed chair. The second was packed, locked, and tagged, awaiting its brother on the floor.
"Must have already left," Neven offered, but he didn't believe it.
"Yeah," Jones Church accepted. "In a bloody hurry."
"Maybe they heard the warnings on the radio broadcasts," now Neven was just making conversation, unsure what to do next. Maybe that was what was holding him back at the academy: lack of initiative. But what else could he do? They weren't here to evacuate luggage.
"Next room," Church half-commanded, dismissing the previous.
They walked back into the corridor. The shadows cast by the sunlight coming through the front entrance pitched their silhouettes upon a door at the far end of the hallway. This time, a hand painted sign, sweetly adorned with birds black and blue alike, nestling upon flowers twice their size, told them that this room was: "The Kitchen".
There was a thump. Not a loud one, one that existed in vibration mostly, but it had come from upstairs. Neven and Church froze. Neven's worst fears had been realised, Church's icily cool demeanour dissipated for the slightest of moments.
"Go," Church whispered. The walked briskly up the staircase, Neven fought the urge to drag his feet. The Sergeant's words played over in his head: Simple, nothing to be worried about. They reached the landing.
"Here?" was all Neven got to say.
"One more," Church passed him again, pipped him to the next flight, his pace slowing gradually as he took each step one at a time, as though more and more weight were being added to him. They arrived at the top of the stairs, the end of the journey through the house. Above them was only a loft. There was only one door, and it hung ajar.
Church lowered his rifle to his hip, pointed it forwards like an arrow. Gradually, the tip of the barrel and the door met, and he pushed forwards slowly with every step. Neven began to clutch at his own gun as a baby to a bottle, holding it upright, both hands on the stock, to ensure that he would be completely incapable of acting should the worst happen.
The door seemed to take note of the tension, and took its own time in opening. It met resistance as something pushed back from the other side. Church took a final glance backwards at his colleague, and Neven readjusted his grip.
Neven could hear the big man breathing, and unless he was imagining it, his heart beating. He didn't know what to do, so he just did what came naturally in the officers handbook.
"British Armed Forces, will the owner or proprietor of this residence please come to the door for immediate evacuation?"
The seconds turned to mud. Church dared not turn back again, but Neven could tell he was seething. When nothing happened after what had seemed like an age, Church breathed, "I hate you." The door was finally open, revealing a large room. The theme was white. White sheets, white, undecorated walls, and white wooden furniture. Beyond the large bed at the back of the space the red trim of the window boxes reminded Neven that he was on the third floor of the house. The whole thing was unkempt, clothes and possessions were strewn about, a complete antithesis to the prim and properness that one saw from outside.
"Bags," Church said, stupidly poking his head around the door. In the intervening time, Church had decided to go on regardless, and Neven found himself soliloquising in his own head, eyes glazed over.
"Blimey," Church exclaimed. "They must have fallen from that cupboard. Cor, I thought someone was behind there." Neven noticed that he almost tripped over the last few words and said 'something' instead.
He walked up to the window. He stared out, put one hairy hand on it and let his rifle swing back on its shoulder strap. Neven walked in, confirmed the fallen suitcase theory for himself. Then he glanced about the room.
"Must be a girl living here, look at all these clothes," Church smiled. He turned and swept his hungry eyes along the floor at all the various seasonal and unseasonal garments. "Young too, blimey look at them knickers. Women are.." He paused, and lit a cigarette. His eyes were looking for Neven's.
Instead, Neven was fixated upon the bed. Under a pile of covers lay a tangled mass of bedclothes that he had assumed was just the sign on an unmade bed. Except it was moving.
Quivering, to be precise.
Neven had never seen a man so big leap so high. Or react so quickly. Like a shot, Church's rifle was to his shoulder, and he managed to use one hand to readjust his skewed helmet.
"Hands up!" He yelled. "Hands up!"
There was a long pause. And then, some slender fingers, followed by slender wrists, and slender arms, all prostrated out of the top of the covers. They were shaking, bone like, but still elegant in their own way. Church looked over at Neven, gun still trained on the bed. He nodded with his head, encouragingly. Then a little more enthusiastically.
"Get the cover," he announced finally.
"Oh," was all Neven could muster. He pondered pathetically what to do with the rifle for a little while, but eventually shouldered it. He walked to the bed, and put a hand upon the top of the cover, trying to avoid making contact with the protruding arms.
He swept the covers back, dramatically.
Lying there, crying, was a woman, red from tears and
fears. Perfectly naked, she was semi-curled up, and lay still except for when she shivered out more tears and snot. She made no noise except for a tiny whimper when Neven had pulled back the covers. With eyes as wide as humanly possible, she regarded the two assailants.
"Oh, um," Neven was instantly bashful. He relinquished his grip on the covers and took a step away. His hands shot down to his sides, palm up, as though he were trying to use them to paddle backwards.
Church took a little longer to react, studying the newcomer a bit more than was gentlemanly, but that did not surprise Neven. He put a hand to Church's rifle and gently pushed it downwards, reminding his cohort to refine his manners.
"Hello," Neven spoke to the bed, avoiding any gaze lingering on the woman for longer than necessary. The glances he snatched were edifying.
Her long blond hair was matted, and a little dirty. Some of it was plastered to her forehead, while other strands were caught around her ears. Her skin was grubby, but otherwise unblemished and unhurt. She looked fairly healthy, but was clearly starving.
"Miss," Neven was speaking in short words, having completely lost the ability to form full sentences. "Are you okay?" he erupted finally.
She said nothing, silent as the grave.
"We're British Army Soldiers," slowly but surely he was finding his voice. Church was all machismo and brash gestures, but handling people in a diplomatic and comforting way was something Neven happily took charge of.
"Am..." she began, quietly. "Am I in the way?" she asked so meekly, so slowly and softly that the words could have been carried away in the breeze had she not been the fixation of the two men's complete attention.
"We're here to evacuate you," Church finally said something.
"Would you please get dressed and come with us?" Neven proposed, still finding it hard to meet her gaze.
A scream broke up the palpable amounts of disquiet that existed in the room. The faint ripple of gunfire now arose into a roar, increasing in intensity and volume.
While Neven was debating the proper conduct of the situation with himself, Church was already at the window. A gunshot followed, just below them, on the street below. It was followed by sounds that Neven did not recognise. He crossed to the windows as a symphony of noise played for him. It sounded so animalistic; he imagined it was not unlike a rainforest in the middle of its night-time chorus.