Drawing Blood (12 page)

Chapter Twenty

Abigail

She hadn’t slept much the next night. The power had come back on the evening before, which was fortunate. She was able to have a quick shower and some toast with the Boulangers’ jam for supper before climbing in to bed tired and sore from head to foot. She burnt the clothes she’d been wearing.

Fighting for your life was very strenuous. The nightmare of what happened kept her up. She couldn’t relax, even hidden under ground. It was more than what happened in her kitchen. There were more planes passing overhead each day. Abigail was spending more and more time underground, likely the reason she couldn’t sleep. All she did was lie around.

Her neck had bruised, so she didn’t want to go out. She didn’t trust being around people at all anymore.

The next morning the captain had returned bearing gifts, of course. Bossong gave her another bottle of champagne, chocolate, and flowers. She’d sat stiffly while he continued apologizing. He had even paled when he saw the marks he’d left on her neck, cheek and lip. She hadn’t responded with so much as a blink, and when he resigned himself to the fact that all she would give him was a wooden stare he gave up and left.

As the door closed behind him she had deflated, literally. She’d collapsed to the floor, unable to breathe, in full panic. She realized then she’d been waiting for him to attack her again, the whole time he’d been sitting there smiling at her.

Abigail shouldn’t have been surprised by what had happened. She had known his intention was to be her … beau? Boyfriend? Lover? She also knew he was violent. It covered him like a greasy coat: he was dangerous. For four years she’d been fortunate, she knew that now. At any point he could have snapped and killed her. Her protection courtesy of his affections had been on borrowed time.

The champagne was fantastic, even if accepting it was just encouraging his attentions. She’d carried the open bottle around all day, making the rounds of the house dozens of times. That night Abigail slept just fine, mostly due to the bubbly. Then explosions had woken her, a headache already blooming.

The sounds were very close. The ground below her bed shook. It sounded like it was coming from the west, towards Calais, where the Allies were advancing.

She lay in the dark, head pounding as the sounds of mortar fire, muffled slightly by distance and the earth overhead, beat out an unsteady rhythm. Otherwise the night was so still she imagined she could actually hear the pop-pop sounds of distant gunfire, too, but that would be impossible. They’d have to be frightfully close to her back door. And the explosions were much further away than that.

At some point she dozed off. When she woke and climbed out of her hideaway, it was almost noon. She’d actually slept in.

The windows revealed a day bright with sunshine. No gloom, no rain. It was mid-September, she should harvest the vegetables from the garden. It would be nice to do it without rain pouring down, making the garden one big puddle.

Bruises momentarily forgotten, she pulled on trousers, a sweater, and her rubber boots, taking a large bowl out to the garden with her. The carrots and potatoes were ready to come out, and she pulled and yanked angrily at them, amassing a pile much larger than the bowl she’d brought. But she had to get them all out; it was all she had to do that day.

The smell of the soil brought back terrible memories. Her mother’s grave, then her father’s. The dirt was cool on her hands, getting in to all the cracks and around her nails. She didn’t care. The vegetables had to come out.

Richard Petit was her nearest neighbour to the west. She could see him on the road, loading wood in to a truck. He was looking at her as she worked. Then she became aware that his wife was on their porch. Even as far away as she was, she could tell that his wife was also staring at her.

Abigail sat back on her heels, stomach sinking. The eldest son of the Boulangers, Gregore, was with Richard Petit. They both paused to watch her. The hair on the back of her neck stood up, but she didn’t feel like she was in danger. Not yet.

Richard Petit got behind the wheel of the truck, setting off in a cloud of dust. He slowed and turned in to her driveway.

Abigail got to her feet, keeping the gardening trowel in her hand. The truck stopped next to her house and the man climbed out. Without a word he started unloading the halved logs, piling them just one step away from her kitchen door. When he’d unloaded about three winter days’ worth of wood he stopped in front of his truck, touched the brim of his hat, then climbed in the cab and continued on his way.

Abigail frowned. She usually chopped her own wood; she was certainly capable of it. Their generous gesture was warming.

She took her share of potatoes and carrots inside, storing them, still dirty, in the root cellar. The rest she piled up on the stoop leading up to her kitchen door.

Another knock came at the back door as she was scrubbing the dirt out from under her fingernails. When she pulled the door inward she was surprised to see Madame Boulanger and one of her daughters.  The older woman handed over a basket, and when Abigail lifted the linen napkin bundled inside she saw fresh rolls.

She looked up in surprise, but the woman and her daughter were smiling and leaving.

“Please,” she said, and the young girl turned then tugged her mother’s hand. They both looked back to her. “Do you need any vegetables?” She motioned her hand down. “
Aide-toi ... s'il vous plaît.
”

The daughter looked at her mother, and her mother nodded. The girl ran back, grabbed a handful of carrots and quickly darted back to her mother’s side. Then they were gone.

Phillipe turned up a few hours later at her front door, handing her a small pill bottle. It was a few pain killers. She could have wept at his kindness, even though she had plenty of the same kind hidden away in the shelter.

“What’s happening, Phillipe?” She asked, putting water on to boil. “People are staring at me like they’re waiting for me to sprout a second head. Has something happened?”

Phillipe sat at her table, shrugging. “I don’t know.”

“I think you’re lying.”

He took a deep breath, avoiding her gaze as he sat at the kitchen table. “I told them about the Captain. I’m sorry,” he rushed on when she let her face show what she was thinking. “I told them how even though he was … you told him nothing. And I told them how you tried to protect me, too.”

Abigail sat across from him, sighing. “I don’t think I can keep doing this,” she revealed, voice cracking. “He terrifies me Phillipe. He might be okay for a week, maybe two. Then what?”

Phillipe reached out and took her hand. “Cherie,” he whispered as her face crumpled. “You are keeping him away from all of us. As long as he is obsessed with you, he leaves everyone else alone. I don’t know how you do it, but you’re keeping him in line.” He squeezed her hand to get her attention. “Cherie, we will do whatever we can to protect you from him if you do the same. And it’s just a while longer. Use his guilt for just a little while longer. The Allies are moving on Calais. If they capture that port, they can get more supplies here. More weapons, which means the Germans will be pushed out, yes?”

But how long before Bossong’s gone, she wanted to ask. That’s the one I’m the German I’m most worried about.

“And I’m sorry for … for what I did too,” he said, clearly ashamed. “I don’t know why I did it. I saw the pain on your face. I can’t imagine what this has been like for you.”

The kettle screamed from the burner, so she quickly got up and turned off the gas. She put a new tea bag in the pot, pouring hot water over it. The conversation was making her uncomfortable. True, she was angry he’d nearly kissed her. But she was still angrier that he hadn’t helped her.

“Will the Resistance be joining the Allies soon?”

“There are some factions that already have. Some started fighting back in June.”

She nodded. Their conversation faltered until she poured the tea in to two mugs. Then she handed one to him.

He smiled and took a sip, looking surprised. “This is good. Where is it from?”

Abigail felt her heartbeat falter. Shit, she thought. This is from Father’s stock.

“I found a box in the cupboard the other day,” she said, sounding more confident than she felt. “Father was always moving things. It was behind the plates.”

He laughed with her, accepting the story. She didn’t let her relief show at least. That was the first time she’d really slipped up. Good lord, let her not mess it all up when the end might actually be close.

He left soon after finishing his tea. Abigail continued on her wanderings throughout the house. She tried to shove down those lifting spirits, but if the Allies truly were this close, and they were showing no signs of giving up, it might soon be over.

Abigail might actually see home.

Chapter Twenty-One

Elliot

Birds were singing. He tried to remember the last time he’d heard such a thing, but he couldn’t. Elliot opened an eye and all he saw were spots of light in thick darkness. He tried to turn his head, and that was a mistake. A headache came on like a surprise rugby tackle. It hurt so badly he closed his eyes and cried out.

He could wiggle his fingers, even his toes. Where the hell was he? He couldn’t remember going to sleep. He turned his head and the pain returned but he had no choice. He felt a bout of nausea, waited, and it passed. After another painful moment he knew he was on his stomach. The ground was cool against his cheek. He could feel his cheek. This was all good news.

He raised his upper body to a certain point before he couldn’t rise any further. Something was on his back, and it was heavy. He lowered himself and turned over. It was a tree. Boughs were scratching his face. He wiggled upward on his back, clearing his legs. Then, still sitting, he surveyed where he was.

In the trees. He’d been in a depression in the forest floor, which is why that tree hadn’t killed him. But it had to have hit his head. He touched his crown, under his hair. It was tender, swollen. When his fumbling hand applied pressure the world spun in front of him. He closed his eyes, breathing through his mouth. Didn’t make any difference; he had to throw up.

Elliot rolled on to his side, vomiting days-old stew in to the grass and dirt. He didn’t really feel that much better, but when he sat up his stomach wasn’t rolling over anymore. That had to be progress.

This time when he looked around he saw more. Bodies. Only a few, which showed some of his company had gotten away. But they’d clearly been on the run, and they hadn’t come back for him.

He could always head back the way he’d come, hoping to come across some friendly faces: British, Canadian, American, Free French, he’d take whatever he could get.

In a minute. He was exhausted. So he lay back down, staring up at the trees and blue. A bird flit across the sky. More singing. It was almost peaceful.

“Mmmm … uuhhh … what the fuck?”

Elliot frowned, sitting up again, headache forgotten. He knew that voice.

“Fuck. Oh … fuck.”

He got to his feet slowly, circling around the crater. The tree was right across it, covering most of it. It would actually make a nice, cozy hiding spot. Come to think of it, it had been. He’d slept at least twelve hours in it.

“Who is that?” He called out.

“Sir? Sergeant – I mean, Lieutenant?”

He could have laughed out loud. “Cleary?”

“Present.”

He pulled up on a few branches, bending and breaking them upward. Cleary was on his back underneath, and the sight of him made his smile fade.

He was bloodied, and it was pooled and dried in the hollow of his throat. He was as pale as Elliot had ever seen a man. He was certainly bleeding somewhere else.

He squatted down next to him, pushing more branches away. “Cleary? I’m going to move you. I’m pretty sure you’ll weigh less than this tree.”

No answer. Elliot checked his face, and he was out cold again. That might make this easier.

He could tell the tree wasn’t pinning Cleary down any more than it had been pinning Elliot down. It rested about a foot above his chest. Elliot hoped his back wasn’t broken.

He pulled Cleary on to flat ground, yanking him out by his armpits. The younger man groaned again but didn’t wake. Elliot patted him down, finding a bullet hole in the upper right chest, but that had stopped bleeding already and it was a clean shot: through and through. He patted downward, and when he got to the right thigh he stopped.

“Oh Christ,” he whispered. The fabric was torn, and when he pulled up on the tears they were soaked through with blood. Still wet, sticky and warm.

He took off back to where they’d been squatting when the attack happened. He found a backpack, it might have been his. He dug in with one hand while running back to Cleary. There was an extra belt inside. This was definitely not his pack.

He tightened the belt around Cleary’s thigh above the wound. Then he continued foraging in the bag. He found a First Aid kit, ripped open a sulfanilamide pack and poured it in the wound the best he could, working around Cleary’s pant leg. He also stuffed a bandage under the fabric, and tied it around his leg with a length of gauze. Then he tried to think of a plan.

Elliot relieved every backpack he found of its rations, First Aid kit, and he emptied a few nearly-drained canteens in to his own and Cleary’s. The sunshine was warm and before too long he was sweating from his scavenging. He hiked the pack up on to his back, and fastened two water canteens to his belt. As he had been pillaging his men’s supplies, he noticed that their tags had been taken. That was a good sign. That meant that, even though they were on the move, the company had time to take the tags as confirmation of the men’s deaths. The last man he found was Clyde Walton,  on his back, sightless eyes upward, trained on whatever it was only he could see. Elliot crouched down and closed the boy’s eyes. The skin was cold and clammy.

The sun was lowering in the sky by the time he hauled Cleary up sitting then somehow on to his shoulders in a crouched position. When he stood he almost stumbled, but after some adjustments the weight was balanced. Elliot took off walking for the tree line, heading to the houses they’d already passed.

After an hour he found a road. It was likely a bad idea to follow it, out in the open like this, but the field and forest were far too uneven and he didn’t want to risk falling. He wouldn’t be able to pick Cleary up again.

Houses were shuttered up. A few had lights on inside but they all had blinds drawn and no one was watching as he made his slow but steady progress. He could smell wood smoke from fireplaces. It smelled comforting, so much like autumn back home.

His leg muscles were burning, but he wasn’t stopping to drink water until he knew he was in a place where they could spend the night safely. He finally saw a house that was dark; not so much as a porch light on. He made for the door on the side, realizing this was the only house he’d seen that faced away from the road. As an after-thought he circled around, finding a painted porch on the front of the house.  He put Cleary down on a bench on the porch then tried the door. It was locked, of course. He reared up one leg and kicked the door inward. It gave way but pain shot up his leg all the way to his hip. He’d never kicked a door in before and he wasn’t very good at it.

He held his rifle at the ready, entering the house and circling around a room that was crowded with a sofa, piano, arm chairs, and side tables. The room next to it had a fireplace and bed bare of any sheets or blankets. That was a strange spot for a bedroom. Behind that room was a stairwell leading up, and to the right of that a kitchen. Nothing moved as he took the stairs one at a time silently. The first room he assumed was a bedroom, even though it was completely devoid of a bed. Must be where the one downstairs had come from.

The next room held a disheveled bed and a few items of women’s clothing thrown on an armchair. The only other door upstairs was a bathroom. The house was completely silent.

He returned to the porch, picking Cleary up in his arms this time and carrying him through the door then in to the main-floor bedroom. He laid the young man out on the mattress and finally dropped his pack. His shoulders felt rock-hard. He took a moment to drink down half a canteen as Cleary rolled a bit on to his side, moaning. His throat sounded dry to Elliot.

He raised Cleary to a sitting position by the shoulders, which likely hurt like a bitch. He put the canteen to his dry lips and Cleary reached out, grabbing the canteen and Elliot’s hands at the same time. He drank long and deep then looked around as Elliot eased him down to his back.

“Sir, where are we?”

“A house. Thought you might like to try a mattress tonight.”

“How’d we get here?”

“Don’t you remember? You carried me.”

Cleary frowned, gave another grunt of pain before replying, “That doesn’t sound like me.”

“I’ll be right back. I’m going to see if the water works here. We gotta make sure you’re not getting infected.”

“Are people living here, sir?”

“I think it’s abandoned,” he called back, heading for the kitchen.

“Then why does it smell like toast?”

Elliot stopped, and as soon as he heard Cleary say it he smelled it. Toast. Someone was living here.

“Don’t get me wrong. It smells good. It’s actually making me hungry and I haven’t been hungry in … a long time.”

He found the sink in the half light, and turned the taps. Water came out, nice and cold. He refilled his canteen, then pulled his flashlight out of his belt. He shone it over the counter, nothing seeming strange. If the house had been abandoned, it was recently; there was no dust. A tea cup on the counter, rinsed but not washed. A plate with crumbs.

He went to the ice box, opened it. A jar of jam. Bowl with a couple eggs in it. Nothing else. He shut the door again then went upstairs. He pulled the blanket off the upstairs bed and carried it back to where he’d left Cleary. He’d passed out again.

Elliot tucked the blanket around his shoulders and sides. His skin felt clammy to Elliot, and he was terrified about how much blood the kid actually lost. The night felt cold to him, too. Elliot remembered the firewood he’d seen by the side door. Did he dare build a fire?

Yes. He had to. He used the flashlight to find the kitchen door, playing the beam over the doorframe. Someone had kicked this one in, too. They’d done a better job than he did on the front door. He eased the door open slightly, darted down the two wooden stairs, grabbed a few logs and slipped back inside. He needed some kind of kindling.

Back outside. Around the outside of the porch he found some smaller twigs and a handful of leaves. He carried his woodland mess back inside, piling the leaves in the middle of the fireplace grate. He made sure the flue was open, then took out his last box of matches. He emptied the matchsticks on the hearth, lit one match and touched the flame to the box, made sure it caught, then put them both on the leaves before piling the little sticks on that.

Cleary was mumbling, head moving back and forth. Elliot made sure he was still out then returned to where the flames had grown to engulf the twigs. Elliot added one log, the one with plenty of dried bark on the outside. He put that side down in the flame and waited.

In minutes he had a respectable fire going. He didn’t need it to last all night he just wanted the room to warm up.

Elliot took Cleary’s boots and socks off then covered his feet again. He then took off his own boots and socks, glad to be free of them, truth be told. He’d been wearing them since June fifth.

He took off the battle blouse, throwing it to the floor. He had to lie down. He was going to be sick again and he just wanted to sleep.

He pulled the covers up and slid next to Cleary, snuggling right up to the other man. He was shaking and cooking at the same time. Elliot’s touch seemed to calm him down.

Strange the effect a real mattress could have on a person who’s slept outside for four months. He fell unconscious within minutes, thinking,
A mattress at last.