A Game of Soldiers Read online

  ‘What?!’ squeaked Thomas. ‘Me! Sneak up on him?’

  Michael laughed.

  ‘I’m pulling your leg, you twit. I wouldn’t trust you to take a dummy off a baby. Relax.’

  Relax, thought Thomas. Fat chance. He said sulkily: ‘What if he sees us coming, though? What if he shoots us?’

  ‘He won’t,’ said Michael. ‘That’s why I agreed to let Nelly Knickerleg get the food and stuff. We’ll lull him. Make him sleepy. I might even get my Mum’s sleeping pills or something. Put some in his drink to make sure. Or even some rat poison from the barn. That’d be another way.’

  ‘But what if they caught you at it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Michael. ‘They might.’ He reached into his pocket and the knife appeared. He opened the blade and pretended to tickle Thomas’s nose with it. Thomas drew back. ‘They might, and that’s the problem. But I don’t really think it’s necessary at all. There are other ways. A commando knife, for instance.’

  Thomas swallowed.

  ‘Could you knife him, honestly?’ he asked. ‘Groo, I’d throw up. I’d puke.’

  Michael said: ‘I’d stick it in his neck and pull. I’d slice it through his jugular and watch the blood squirt. I could do it.’

  Thomas licked dry lips.

  ‘Hell, Michael. That’s horrible.’

  Michael snapped the knife shut.

  ‘It’s not a commando knife, though, is it? It’s not big enough. No, it’ll be a battering job, I reckon. We’ll have to batter him.’

  ‘What? With a hammer or something? Will you nick one off your Dad?’

  Michael took Thomas by the wrist and squeezed.

  ‘We, Thomas, not just me. No, we don’t need a hammer, do we? All we’ve got to do is give him food and keep him occupied. While he’s noshing, we get behind him with a rock, right? The biggest rock we can lift.’

  Easing his fingers from Thomas’s wrist, he bent over and lifted a rock. He held it at waist height. When he let it go, it hit the sand with an ugly thud. Again, Thomas’s mouth went dry. It seemed a pity, now, that this had happened. It didn’t seem as if killing this bloke was actually going to be much fun. It seemed a pity he’d had to swear.

  ‘And there you are,’ said Michael. ‘We drop it on his bonce. Crunch. A deado. A corpse. Simple.’ He smiled unpleasantly. ‘What d’you think?’

  Thomas’s voice was just above a whisper.

  ‘It…sounds all right,’ he said. ‘We’d…we’d better stand well clear, though. There could be lots of blood.’ An idea came to him; a good idea, he thought. ‘Wouldn’t it…it would be easier, in a way, to let the grown-ups do it, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Chicken,’ mocked Michael.

  ‘No I’m not. No. But…it’ll be hell’s messy, Michael. We’d better stand well clear.’

  Michael gave him another nasty smile.

  ‘Well, you can’t duck out, you know. So you’d better run along, hadn’t you? And get those matches that you’re always on about, and some paper. To light a fire. He’s going to be comfortable when he dies, this one. Dead comfortable!’

  The soldier was more than halfway to the rifle, but he knew he could not make it. He had lain still for five minutes waiting for the pain to go away, but it would not go. He blinked as rapidly as he could bear, to clear his eyes, but they would not clear. He could hardly lift his head to look at the rifle, and he could not focus on it.

  For the moment, he gave up. He allowed the waves of pain and nausea to engulf his senses. He drifted away. The image of the rifle shimmered in his eyes as he became unconscious.

  Michael approached the shelter with extraordinary caution. Near the bottom of the moor he watched and waited for minutes until he was certain there was no sign of movement, then he crawled from rock to hummock on a route which kept him well out of the line of vision from the doorway. When he reached the stone walls he hardly breathed, his face buried in the grass to deaden any sound, until he had his lungs properly under control.

  He considered the idea of climbing up and looking over into the shelter from above. But he rejected that. If a stone should fall, or he should slip, it would mean disaster. But by the time he had crept round to the doorway, his heart was thumping madly and he was sweating.

  Then he was there. Through a crack in the stonework, and then through the door itself, he could see that the outer part was empty. Michael ducked into it, and began the long creep round the inside wall to the next hazard. As he got nearer and nearer the point of maximum danger, he became oddly confident. The place was too silent for danger, he was sure. Something had happened. Something to his advantage.

  He put his head round gingerly, and saw immediately that he was right. The soldier was sprawled face downwards, one leg stretched out, the other bent as if to push himself along. His head rested on one bent arm; the other was outstretched. Michael was much more observant this time. The soldier did not have his gun.

  Michael stood upright and walked quietly into the inner shelter. The rifle was soon beside his hand, and he picked it up. He went up to the soldier, to see if he was dead. No. He was breathing, quite noisily, the breaths not regular. Michael could see his face: grey, sicker than before. He was suddenly afraid that the soldier might die. Before he could shoot him.

  Biting his lip, he searched for the safety catch, thanking his stars that he knew about guns. The safety catch was easy to locate, and it was on. Michael pushed it to off. He seized the short bolt and cocked the gun, trying to do it quietly at first, then giving up. That was impossible.

  As he jerked it back, wincing at the terrific noise it seemed to make, he watched the soldier. Yes, he stirred. Michael watched and waited. He could smell his sweat. The soldier became still.

  Very slowly, Michael raised the rifle to his shoulder. He squinted down the barrel. The soldier’s face was in front of him. Bone of skull, brown, dirty, stubble-covered cheek. Closed eyes, the eyelids trembling.

  Michael pulled his finger until the first pressure of the trigger was taken up. One squeeze now. Just one squeeze.

  ‘I’ll kill you,’ he whispered. ‘You’re the enemy.’

  Chapter Nine

  The nearer Thomas got to home, the more nervous he became. What if his Dad was home? What if his Mum saw him? What if, what if, what if?

  He stood at the wire fence for some time, looking at the lonely little house. There was smoke coming from the chimney, naturally. But there was no other sign of life. No Land Rover, either. Perhaps Mum had gone out to help with the sheep? Perhaps pigs could fly…

  Thomas gulped, and swung his leg over the fence. He kept to the side of the field, so that his mother could not see him from the kitchen window. What would he say if she found him? As he ducked in through the side door, he actually closed his eyes for a moment. He was halfway up the stairs before he dared to breathe.

  A stair creaked, and Thomas turned to ice. But he could hear the radio in the kitchen, with unusual sort of military music coming from it. She could not hear above it, obviously, but he still trod carefully. Only two more creaks before he reached the top…

  Sarah came downstairs with a blanket over her arm, a picnic kettle, and a plastic bottle for water. She would have to smuggle the kettle outside, though – she was not allowed cooking-fires on the moors – and she decided it would be a good idea to keep the blanket out of sight, as well. Milk and sandwiches were no problem. In fact, she had asked her mother for some before she’d gone upstairs.

  She unlatched the kitchen door and went in.

  ‘Hello, love,’ said Mum. ‘Ready to go are you? I’m just finishing the sandwiches.’

  There were plenty of them, because her mother was like that: she did not mind at all making sandwiches for three. Beside them on the kitchen table was a blue and white china jug of milk.

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Sarah. ‘We thought it’d be good fun, you know. A picnic by the sea.’

  ‘You will be careful, won’t you? Your Dad says there might be Army about
, mopping up, or whatever they call it. It was a big do last night, lots of casualties apparently.’ She waggled her eyebrows mock-fiercely. ‘Who knows, you might run into that man Gregory and his gang!’

  They both smiled, then her mother added: ‘Joking aside, though, you haven’t seen anything, have you? Any sign of all that fuss? I know it seems daft with all that empty moorland, but I am a bit worried. There could be danger out there.’

  Sarah shook her head.

  ‘No, not a thing, Mum. And of course we’ll be careful. Even Thomas has been let out with us, so it can’t be that bad, can it? You know what his Dad’s like.’

  Her mother nodded.

  ‘Not just his Dad, either,’ she agreed. ‘I expect a picnic will be a real treat for him, poor little devil.’

  It crossed Sarah’s mind to tell her mother, then, just to come out with the truth. She would know what to do. She would know how to help the soldier. The words hovered on her lips. It would have been nice. It would have got it off her chest, made someone else responsible.

  But she did not tell. If she did, and something went wrong…If her mother felt, because Thomas was involved, that his parents must be warned… No. For the moment, the secret must be kept. It was safer that way. Even for the soldier.

  Two minutes later, Sarah left the house. When her mother had gone back in the kitchen, she’d filled the bottle at the standpipe, screwed the top down hard, and gathered up the blanket. The jug was difficult. She might spill a drop or two.

  But she would manage.

  Thomas, creeping about his bedroom with an armful of comics, was getting deeper and deeper into panic. He had never realized before just how much his floorboards creaked, just how easy it was to hear things from one part of their house to another.

  Downstairs, he could hear his mother clattering about, and even over the wireless – turned down very low, and still churning out the strange music – he could hear her muttering from time to time. She talked a lot to herself, his Mum did – there was no one else to speak to most of the time, she said – and he liked it. But today, it was getting on his nerves.

  Moving over to his chest of drawers, Thomas started to pull the bottom drawer out, without putting down the comics. Standing there, he began to root through socks and underpants with his free hand.

  Funny. The matches were not there. But he was positive that was the drawer, positive. Thomas was trembling. At each new noise downstairs he became more tense. It was the bottom drawer. Positive.

  Ah! No, he’d – Thomas pushed the drawer in and jerked the top drawer out. Halfway, it stuck. He paused, almost whimpering. The noise he must be making! She’d hear. She’d have to hear. Gritting his teeth, and still holding the bundle of comics in his other hand, he tried jerking the drawer, that way and this. Come out, he whispered. Come out!

  It did. On a sideways, backwards jerk, the drawer flew free. lt slipped out all the way, and fell to the floor with a bang. Thomas still had hold of it, but he was not strong enough to keep it off the ground.

  Amid the shirts and school shorts were the matches. The box was half open and they were everywhere.

  Thomas waited, petrified. His mouth was open, his heart was fluttering in his chest. After what seemed like an incredible pause, he heard the kitchen door pulled open. Another pause.

  ‘Thomas?’ His mother’s voice was puzzled. ‘Is that you, Thomas? What’s going on?’

  As he heard her footsteps on the stairs, Thomas, hopelessly, tried to cover up the matches. Every time he picked a few up, though, the others spread wider. As the door handle rattled he pushed the comics in among the clothes, hoping that they would hide them.

  ‘Thomas?’

  He closed his eyes.

  ‘Thomas, what are you up to, you bad boy? Why are you at home? Thomas, just look at this mess!’

  Thomas looked.

  ‘I was… I was…’

  His mother’s voice changed.

  ‘What’s that in your hand? Are those matches? You bad boy, Thomas. You wicked, wicked boy!’

  On the pillow of his bed, Thomas spotted Red Bear. Oh, help me now, he thought. Please help me…

  Sarah had been leaning on the fence above the Wyatt house for fifteen minutes before she began to worry that he might not come. He could never be relied on to be on time, because you never knew what might happen if he met one or other of his parents. But he usually made it in the end.

  She checked her watch for the umpteenth time.

  ‘Come on, Thomas,’ she said, half aloud. ‘Let’s be having you. Oh, the useless, useless boy.’

  Sarah shifted the blanket higher over her shoulder. She thought about what her mother had said, and panic fluttered in her stomach.

  Oh come on, Thomas. You must hurry.

  Thomas was lying with Red Bear now, and he had stopped crying. As he sniffled though, he was still determined. He would run away from home. When this rotten war was over, he was going to pack his schoolbag with bread and stuff, and a bottle of lemonade, and he would go. He wondered how difficult it was to stow away on a ship.

  Thomas’s resentment at being found out gave way slowly to a resentment that he would be missing all the fun. Even now, he guessed, Sarah and Michael would be feeding up the soldier, and watching him as he settled down to sleep. Then – the death.

  He sat up angrily and flung Red Bear to the floor.

  It wasn’t fair. Why should they do all the good things and he be stuck in his room until his Dad came home? That might be ages, in any case. And his Mum had said he must not move till then. Under any circumstances.

  Another, worse, thought flew into Thomas’s mind. If he did not kill the soldier, he would not have been a patriot. And all the bad things would be ten times worse. But if he did help them – if he did do his part of the swear – his father would be really chuffed with him for once. Oh it wasn’t fair.

  The idea of running away came back to him. Why not now, though? Why not leave the bedroom now, and go to kill the soldier? If his mother found out, she would murder him – but that might be ages. By then – who knew ? They might have… they might be…heroes!

  Thomas, filled with excitement, got carefully off the bed. This time there would be no mistakes and no noise. No matches, either; but…

  He thought of Sarah, and the things that he had told his mother. The secret things. But she had not left the house, had not dashed out, so… In any case, if he was quick now… He took a deep breath and tiptoed to the bedroom door.

  If he was quick it would still be all right.

  Everything…

  Sarah set a cracking pace, and she was furious. Thomas, trying to carry the milk jug and keep up, was whining at her.

  ‘Slow down,’ he fretted. ‘I’m spilling it, slow down.’

  ‘We can’t slow down,’ said Sarah, over her shoulder. ‘There isn’t time, we’re late already.’

  ‘Fat lot of good it’ll be if there’s no milk when we get there,’ said Thomas. ‘Fat lot of good tea is with no milk.’

  Sarah said bitterly: ‘Fat lot of good tea is without a fire, Dumbo. We might as well give up before we start. One piddling little thing we ask you to get and you don’t. A little thing like matches. And it was you who said you had some. You little liar.’

  ‘I’m not a liar,’ Thomas panted. ‘My Mum must have taken them out of my drawer. She must have found them. Honestly.’

  ‘Yah, you’re full of excuses you are, Thomas Wyatt,’ Sarah replied. ‘You’re useless. Come on, lift your feet up.’

  Another big white slurp of milk escaped over the rim of the jug onto the windblown grass. Thomas stopped.

  ‘What’s the hurry, anyway?’ he demanded. ‘Sarah, I’m spilling it.’

  Sarah walked back and looked into the jug. She sighed.

  ‘The hurry,’ she said, taking his arm and pushing him forward, ‘is because we haven’t got much time. Before much longer, Thomas, there’ll be soldiers everywhere. That raid last night, the battle. There was
lots and lots of damage, shot down planes and things. There’ll be soldiers everywhere, looking for stragglers and that. My Mum didn’t really want to let me out, she was dead against it.’ She pushed him harder. ‘And then you go and hold us up, and you haven’t even got the matches. I don’t know!’

  Thomas moved faster, but he was on the verge of sulking.

  ‘What does it matter, though?’ he said. ‘Why the heck should we care if he’s cold or not, or has a cup of tea? We’re only going to kill him. Get it over with, I say.’

  Sarah was already way ahead.

  ‘Don’t be so ruddy daft, kid,’ she said. ‘Just lift your feet up and shift.’

  Thomas stopped so suddenly that he spilled a lot more milk.

  ‘What do you mean don’t be so ruddy daft?’ he said, suspiciously. ‘Are you saying we’re not going to kill him now? Are you—’

  Sarah sprang angrily to save the milk. Thomas slipped, the jug fell. It rolled, empty, on the grass. She looked at him in disgust.

  ‘Oh God, Thomas,’ she said, ‘I just don’t know about you. Look, how do you think we’re going to do it, then? Poison him? Set fire to the hut? He’s got a gun, you fool. He’s got a ruddy rifle. He’s a soldier.’

  Thomas said eagerly: ‘But it’s all worked out! We’ll lull him into a sense of false se…thingity. We’ll give him tea and blankets. We’ll make him go to sleep. And then…and then…’ His eagerness began to fade. ‘We’ll drop a rock on him. Michael said so. We’ll smash his head in. He’s got it all worked out.’

  Sarah put the jug onto a large rock, where they could find it later. She hoicked the blanket firmly over her shoulder, handing the sandwiches to Thomas.

  ‘Come on, you take these. We’ll leave the jug, it’s pointless empty. We’ve got to run.’

  Thomas still hung back.

  ‘But we’ve got to kill him,’ he said desperately. ‘We swore an oath. We’ll make him warm and comfortable and then we bash his head. Michael said so.’

  Sarah started to walk, briskly.

  ‘You’re disgusting, you are. That would be cold blood. Murder in cold blood. I sometimes wonder if you’re thick or not, Thomas Wyatt. Michael’s a little monster.’