Chapter One, ‘The Journalist’
You’ll have to listen to me, if we’re going to get anything out of this worth keeping. I’ll explain it all as clearly as I can, and then you can leave me out of it, as far as I’m concerned.
I don’t want anyone to know I was there.
It’s stupid, really. I wanted the war to come, for better or worse, and you’ll think that’s an awful statement to make, and you’d be right. It was interesting, vindicating, rushing, thrilling—watching everybody get distracted over other things when the real news came in. And when the worst hit, that was my proof of human behaviour: out of everything, what mattered to me most of all was that, quietly, silently, I was right all along.
I knew what would happen, down to the last inch of land being defended by a useless, frightened group—the only exception was that I didn’t know that any of it would happen to me.
You’re quite sure you want me to continue?
I’m not used to talking so much—about this, or anything else; I’m quite a recluse nowadays. Maybe you’ll find out why, once I’ve told you what happened.
It’s strange, all this, explaining away what’s been in my head for years—but you’re only a stranger, and young at that, and once we’ve parted ways, you can write your little story and then we can be done with this for good.
They never tell you what it’s like to fight for your country—and it was never my country, really—but in the few preceding weeks that dragged us into it, I knew I only had one real option. I had to stay and fight, even if it killed me. They invaded us, you see, and with that can either come the furious terror of leaving everything behind, or the equal, confusing terror of holding off an army that you can’t even see in its entirety—much less comprehend.
There were so many of them, you see. They were still sending people in until the very end, but by then we were almost done in completely. I don’t know what turned the tide for us, but it certainly wasn’t anything that I was part of: I only remember being surprised—dazed, even—that I, out of all the people I knew from that place, had made it so far.
I grew up there, that town where all of this nonsense started. It took ages, but I managed it, and it was uncomfortable being the only English girl in the year, but there you are. Through some unimaginable twist of fate, those people had my loyalty, although I never had theirs. You try growing up English in a Scottish school, and see how you fare. Maybe it’s better now, but back then it was brutal. My parents didn’t even look up the schools when we came up, I was just sent to the one that looked the least shit.
Anyway. I’m getting off track.
Let’s step inside my head a bit, and I’ll show you around. We’ll go right back to the morning it began: I think that’s the best way of showing you what it was really like in those days.
You’re still with me, aren’t you? Walk up to the crossroads with me, and I’ll point a few things out: we can go anywhere in this town; it’s not here anymore, of course, but I can see it clear as day, and maybe if I describe it well enough to you, you’ll be able to know it as well as I do. These are the streets where I’d hang around after school, waiting for my mum to come out of the pharmacy. I couldn’t be seen dead looking for prescription stuff, creams and vitamins and all the other things I never took an interest in. She once caught me looking at the condoms, but if I can speak in my defence, it was only out of curiosity. It’s not like I was ever going to buy any for myself.
Speaking of condoms and people who actually need them, my brother didn’t want to fight. None of that mattered, though, so he’s away somewhere on the north coast on the look-out for enemy planes. I don’t know why out of all people they chose him, but there you go. He got dragged out of his front door from what they tell me, but I’m not so sure about that: our family has always been the type to exaggerate our stories. From what we could gather in the papers, they wanted to position people up there in case they attacked from the sea, and they were right, but I guess whoever was in charge decided that my home town would be a great place to fight over… well, whatever it is, I don’t really know. We’re not right on the coast – about 10 miles away – but they got near enough to try and take over the entire village, and we had to find some way of stopping them getting to the central belt. We didn’t, in the end, but it’s alright—I think asking a few hundred local people to do that kind of thing on behalf of a defeated army is a bit of a stretch, to be honest.
We had a discussion amongst the few of us who stayed, whether or not we should rename the streets (code names, that kind of thing – maybe we could confuse whoever came in and change them all overnight and it’d give us an advantage, or maybe that was a stupid idea), or whether or not we should get rid of the signs altogether.
It took all evening to get the decision straight, because we weren’t the best at organising ourselves – and no one listened to me, anyway. None of us were paid to do it, you know. Even the railway staff at the station left, and the army blew up the lines and everything once they retreated, so we sort of had to fend for ourselves. My immediate group was made up of cleaners, shop assistants, and one guy who stayed behind to close the bakery. Someone else used to operate a forklift truck, so we gave him mechanical jobs to do because we assumed that he liked that sort of thing. Me and this one guy from the next town over (we never actually worked out what he used to do, but he turned up one day and offered his help) got up onto the wall during the night and tore all the road signs down. When the other side arrived, they tried to replace the signs with some names of their own, but we shot down the first guy on the ladder pretty quick and no one ever attempted it again.
There weren’t many of us. We really had to struggle to get together the numbers, but there were just enough of us to hold the town; it’s not like we were a real army.
***
There’s not much that scares me, and you can laugh at me for saying that, but it’s mostly true. The only time I remember really being afraid was when my best friend stayed back with me when it all started, and we’d decided to fight together that afternoon. That was before we realised how few of us there were to defend the place, but we would have continued no matter what because neither of us could imagine leaving; Emily snuck me into an empty room in one of the abandoned flats and we were all shadow and she kissed me slowly into the corner, and we were waiting, waiting, waiting…
“I don’t think they’re coming,” she jokes, and her nose bumps into mine. “Don’t get scared.”
We go way back, her and I—is that a stupid thing to say? It’s only now that I start to think about all the times she’d be waiting for me outside the shop, or my hanging around on her doorstep while she explained to her mum—again—that, no, she was not ‘seeing any boys lately’. It was always, only ever, us, and I got such a thrill from the two of us chasing down to the town park and clambering onto the wrought iron roof of the bandstand, swatting at the ducks if they wandered too close for my liking, that I forgot to ever think about what might come next. All that’s done now, of course, and the bandstand is gone, but I’ll tell you everything as if it was happening right now, and I can write away from my own little corner into a story that no one will ever see.
“I’m not,” I tell her, and I sort of believe myself, and we waste away a few moments more against the wall.
I think I’m ready for what’s coming, and if not, then I’ll just have to deal with it when it does. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t dreamt of this moment, that quiet silence of the ‘before’, the strength of her hand in mine as she works her way down my cheek, that we’d both be gearing up to do our best and see what comes out of it: we’re the ones that stayed behind. This is real honour, and I know it.
I’m not as much of a dreamer as you’d think, though: like I said, I know what happens in a war. We’ll get separated, most likely, and if either of us is lucky—or unlucky—enough to make it to the end, I’m hoping it’s her—or am I? I don’t think either way will ever make a good story. It certainly won’t make a life worth living, and I think I speak for both of us there.
But let’s say for now that I’m the one who goes first—I know what the likelihood is: that she won’t get to know where I am, or even that I’m gone at all, and she won’t be likely to get my body back and that’ll just be that; and it’s always safer to imagine that it’ll be over something small and insignificant, stupid, humiliating, the way my whole life has gone before this. Isn’t that how wars always go? I’ve read enough of the books from the people who came back, but I still feel like there’s something I’m missing. I think that’s what I fear the most. It’ll be just my luck to get shot in the arse, or end up dying in the least cool way. I just hope it happens quick enough that I won’t know I’ve embarrassed her, going down like that. She might be able to forgive me, but I never could.
Yeah, alright, no one wants to know how they die, or when, but I fucking do. At least it would make matters easier.
I’m thinking all of this through (you can tell that I’m a fun person to be around…) as I touch her.
“We should get going,” I say, and I keep my voice gentle. Emily’s right up against me, her head is buried into my neck; my lips brush against her hair and I press them hard, and she’s so warm—I hate the fact that I’ve said anything at all.
She doesn’t move at my words: she even swears at me to stop talking. I’m thrilled at the obstinance. This is exactly what I needed. Just tell me I’m wrong and that the whole thing is an awful joke, and then we can stay here forever; I’ll make sure we get home.
But I know we’ll have to arm ourselves. It feels stupid to even think that. We’re not supposed to be doing any of this, we’re supposed to be off for a drive around the country at this point, roaring up the hills and telling our jobs to have at it while we fuck off for a week and take in the blank heat of the sun as it chases us up the coast. I give it one good thought, like I’m forcing all my effort onto this one moment, then I begin to release my grip. “Emily,” I say, and she knows what I mean—because she pulls me in so tight that her shoulder jams into my throat; I squawk at the contact, and we have to laugh it off and come apart for a stupid, wasteful second to readjust.
“Just a little bit longer.”
“Mm—”
“We won’t—have much time after this…”
Oh my God, she’s going to kill me: her hands are everywhere, I can’t tear myself away, we’re going to end up fucking and there’s a fucking war coming, she’s touching the front of my jeans and holy shit—
“Emily!”
“What?” She’s endearingly rude about it, but her hand withdraws to my waist, and she slips back into the same old pout that she usually does.
I admonish her with a look, breathing somewhat heavier than before, but I’m not so sure that I want to continue with this war business. I think we’d be just fine on our own, if the world would let us do exactly what we want.
And what I want, what I want… “I know.” I say it too forcefully, and repeat myself, deliberately make my voice soft, warm, low, so she doesn’t suspect that I’m actually scared as hell. Damn you, I think, and I feel the sick of panic at the back of my throat as she pulls me in again. You’re not getting any tears out of me, not for this, not while I have a say in it. “For God’s sake, I know.”
It seems to work, because she’s murmuring something about staying, or running away altogether, and the hard edge in her own voice shakes me into giving her what she really needs; what both of us do.
“I’m not going to leave you,” I swear—I have to say it, in case she doesn’t know—and I grab her hand to make sure she hears me. For a moment, I’m furious: I jerk our clasped hands to my chest, and I kiss her hard again, and it’s the only real word of honour I can give. When we pull apart, I can see the shifting light through the window from the corner of my eye, and it almost distracts me. “I’ll make sure we stay together, alright? I’ll look after you.”
The words march out of my mouth and I cringe: it’s so easy to say things like that, and now I wish I never had—it’s so easy to make yourself look like the good guy when you’re the only one left to tell the tale of what happened. All you do is tweak the details, explain your intentions, and mix it all up with the truth—enough that no one can ever tell what you actually did.
***