Drawing Blood (6 page)

Chapter Ten

Abigail

Abigail was just about to open the door to the secret shelter when she heard footsteps on her porch. She froze where she was. That was the side of the house not visible from the road. No one used that door; especially not after curfew.

She kicked off her shoes and silently crept through the kitchen then across the quietest of the floorboards in the dining room. The blinds were all drawn, as per curfew rules, but someone was moving around on the porch outside. Abigail peeked around the edge of the blind on the door, and she frowned. It was a man she didn’t recognize … but at least he didn’t have a German uniform on.

She unlocked the dead bolt and swung the door inward quickly. It surprised him, and he swing around with a hand going to his hip.

Gun, she thought, but then his coat swung in to place and she couldn’t see it to be completely sure.  When he actually saw her his look of surprise turned to confusion. “
Dois-je la mauvaise maison? Où sont les Meservieres?
”

Abigail tried to keep up with his rapid-fire questions. The Meservieres might have been the people her father bought the house from, but she honestly couldn’t remember. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “
Parlez-vous anglais?
”

“I do. Who are you?”

“Abigail Spencer. My parents bought this house almost three years ago.”

“I see. They must have bought it from my aunt and uncle. I did not know they moved. I was worried about them.”

Abigail’s internal truth meter gave a ding. Aunt and uncle indeed. This seemed a strange time and place to visit if one wasn’t sure their family even lived somewhere anymore.

She scanned him quickly, noting that the boots he wore looked a lot like army-issue. His face was friendly and the hair style didn’t match. That cut didn’t look like his idea, but it was familiar to anyone in military service. This was a member of the French army, which made him a criminal if he wasn’t in a prisoner camp somewhere.

She didn’t feel any more scared than she had before, but she preferred he wasn’t in her house, either.

“I’m sorry your family moved on.” She threw the thought out there to cover the silence. His smile had changed while she’d been taking note of his boots. He thought she was attracted to him. Oh for heaven’s sake –

“Don’t tell me a lovely lady like you is here all alone?” He moved forward, leaning against the door jamb. She took a step backwards, keeping a hold on the door.

Why was it when a man made a statement like that it almost always sounded like a threat, even though it was delivered with a charming smile and amiable wink?

“It’s not your business if I’m here alone. I don’t know you. I invite you to move along. If you’re really trapped for a place to stay the barn will keep you out of the wind and, by the looks of it, the oncoming rainstorm tonight. But forgive me if I insist on staying with my own company.”

His smile broadened. “I only meant to ask if you desired male companionship,
cherie
. I mean you no harm. I can see by your hand you are taken, however. I thank you for your kind offer. Do you know if the Boulangers are still in that house up on the hill?”

The name was familiar as well. “I believe so. I haven’t lived here long. I’m sorry, I can’t say for sure.”

“Thank you very much,
cherie
. I will bother you no further.”

He lightly skipped down her stairs and disappeared in to the gloom. She shut the door and locked it before turning off the lamp in the living room, too. Then she went back to the door to peek outside.

The stranger stood at the foot of her steps, lighting a cigarette. Abigail frowned, but she wasn’t scared either. This man was odd, yes, but he didn’t seem dangerous … yet. He gave a small wave and she backed up with a soft curse. He’d caught her watching.

Abigail crossed the floorboards to the kitchen, paced for a couple minutes, then returned to the door. He was gone, and she had no idea if he was still on her property or not.

Abigail had heard that there were French Resistance fighters out there, but she’d thought it a rumour the Germans started to keep everyone calm. As time went on the stories went from a secret membership to a swarm of gnats in the south that cut phone and power lines, blew up train tracks, hijacked supply shipments. If Abigail wasn’t mistaken, she had just met a member.

Abigail took the secret stairs to the shelter, knowing the steps from memory. She pulled the door shut by the rope tied to the bottom of the cellar shelf, then at the foot of the stairs she flicked the light on.  She’d taken out three of the five light bulbs in the ceiling, both to conserve light bulbs and for her own preference. It was too bright with all five sockets lit up.

Her book was open on her bed from where she’d left it that morning. She changed in to a flannel nightgown, kept her wool socks on. It was a warm night, but the shelter managed to stay cooler no matter what the temperature outdoors. She wasn’t sure how the air circulated, but it did. She assumed there was no air sealing around either door.

Abigail climbed in to bed trying to read, but her mind wandered. She couldn’t focus on the plot.

So instead she hugged her pillow to her chest and closed her eyes, imaging it was James. She’d had three months of waking up next to her warm-blooded husband, and it was easy to get used to having access to strong arms, a broad chest and warm mouth whenever she needed it.

Good lord she needed him right then.

With her eyes closed she called up his face. In her mind he always had that cock-eyed private smile that was just for her. Under the right circumstances that grin made her blush all five shades of hell.  It also made her thrill in places below her belly button … which it was meant to do.

He was the only man she’d ever been with, and she had no inclination to wonder if that caused her to “miss out” on anything. He was more than she could have wanted. She hadn’t waited for their wedding night, she couldn’t. James kissed like the earth was about to shatter apart and he couldn’t die without tasting every last part of her first. Abigail had read about great romances in books, and being with James made them seem like thin fairy tales.

She missed the scratch of his beard on her cheek, or her neck when he would kiss her shoulders, her throat. He shaved every day but by mid-afternoon the beard would return, red-brown and two tones lighter than his hair colour. His eyes were always warm, and as she lay naked next to him in bed, not embarrassed in the least, she swore she’d been able to feel his gaze on her skin, warming and yet causing goose flesh to rise wherever his eyes roamed. It made her ache for him without him even touching hand to flesh.

When he did touch her, it was always soft at first. Then as the kisses would deepen and his passion would rise the touching became grasping, and he would hold her so tight sometimes the next day she’d see marks on her back or hips from where his fingers had bit in. Abigail had never minded. From the first time they’d ever made love she’d never gone to sleep unsatisfied. Wearing the odd bruise from him was a point of pride given the circumstances that had rendered it. The only time she’d been terrified was her first time with him, but she’d been no less eager than he was. The pain worried her, having his weight on her. And what if she didn’t like it? She’d never worried that he’d force her or hurt her intentionally. Abby trusted James with all her body and soul.

“Don’t go,” he’d begged as they made love the night before she left for France.

She had closed her eyes, so close to reaching the peak of her pleasure she couldn’t answer.

“Please just stay ‘ere as long as possible.” His teeth grazed her collarbone as he said it.

Her orgasm had been exquisite, and it was fading she held his face between her hands. “All right,” she whispered. “I’ll stay with you.”

He’d kissed her again deeply, rocking his body against hers urgently and frantically. She couldn’t catch her breath, she couldn’t keep up with anything but the rhythm of his hips. His hands held her lower back as he cried out, face against her pillow to swallow the sound. The walls were thin and their neighbours weren’t above asking them to keep it down.

He was shaking as he raised his weight up to his arms again. “They’ve decided to send me to Africa, Abby.”

Abigail’s heart had dropped. “Africa? When?”

He shrugged and dropped to the bed next to her, tucking her against his side under his arm. “I don’t know for sure. In the next month.”

Abigail listened for his breathing to steady. “Is it dangerous?”

He squeezed her tight and kissed the top of her head. “No’ at all.” He said it only to make her feel better but it didn’t work.

“Then I won’t leave until you do.”

She was crossing the Channel to make sure her mother was going comfortable in her final months. He was heading off to fight in a desert. Their world completely changed in the span of mere seconds.

James was gone in two weeks, leaving her to settle up their flat alone and then head for France. Before his deployment she’d received a few letters. His last had come a month before her mother died, before the Germans arrived. He wrote it from the troop ship, and it got to her well after it had been penned. She didn’t have the slightest idea where he was. She didn’t even know if he …

Abigail wouldn’t let herself think that way. He was alive. She refused to be a widow until she had his bones back home to bury.

Chapter Eleven

Elliot

“I’m sorry, Sergeant Murphy. I am so fucking sorry.”

Elliot cringed as the medic closed another stitch on his left bicep. Either the process of getting stitches hurt or it was Derrick Stroburgh’s constant apologizing getting on his nerves. He was feeling a bit cranky but Derrick’s earnest regret kept him in check.

“Stroburgh; it’s fine. Don’t worry.”

The medic rolled sympathetic eyes up at him. “As long as it doesn’t get infected.”

“You’re not helping, Wilkins.”

The medic chortled to himself as he started the last stitch. Stroburgh hovered around like an overbearing mother the whole time.

Elliot watched the medic work, realizing the situation was so laughable it belonged in a Laurel and Hardy movie. He never thought he’d get wounded by a friendly-fire bayonetting before they even left the continent.

The term “war game” was a misnomer. Sure they needed them for training, but when real weapons were involved, and in this case, real sharp-edged bayonets, everything was dangerous. Stroburgh had tripped and fallen next to Elliot while they were duck-running across a clearing. His bayonet caught Elliot’s arm, ripping a hole through his shirt and skin. Looked like about seven stitches were needed to close it.

The last stitch was in place, and Wilkins snipped the long threads away. “Keep it clean, covered. If it starts to get red and puffy come see me. If it starts to itch that’s a good thing. Don’t pick at it.”

He taped a square of gauze overtop of it and Elliot shrugged his combat blouse back on. The hole in the sleeve was rimmed with his blood. It had bled quite a bit, actually. Luckily he’d never been squeamish and it would take more than a bit of blood to make him lose his lunch.

Not so for Stroburgh. He saw the dried blood on the fabric and turned away, making that face everyone makes when they’re close to throwing up. Wilkins got to his feet, helping Stroburgh on to the stool he’d just vacated. “Sit down and put your head between your knees. Breathe deep. If something smells weird it’s just your balls.”

“Jesus Wilkins.”

But Stroburgh was laughing, and that was likely the goal. While he was distracted Elliot took his leave, not bothering to button his shirt. He had to go find another one anyway.

Out in the hot sunshine he winced. The artificial light of the infirmary didn’t prepare him for it. A large contingent of his company was streaming past him in dress uniforms, smelling of too much cologne and testosterone. They’d all been there when he’d gotten stuck and now they offered their sarcastic condolences for his misfortune. Elliot thanked them dryly one by one, watching them make for the gate and waiting bus.

He could join them, too. But it was Saturday, and he wanted to call home instead.

Cleary was the last one in line, fixing his wedge cap in place. Elliot wished him well but to his surprise Cleary stopped him. “Sarge, I wanted to say thanks.”

Elliot frowned. “Well, you’re welcome. For whatever it is I did.”

“The girl at the bar. She’s … amazing. She’s the most … uninhibited girl I’ve ever met. I’m going to see her again tonight.”

Elliot laughed. “Well, congratulations.”

“Can I ask you something? Kind of … kind of embarrassing?”

Elliot crossed his arms then thought better of it when he felt the sharp pull on his stitches. “Go ahead. We’ll see.”

“How do you know if … I mean, how can you tell if the girl has … you know.” He raised his eyebrows as though that might help.

Elliot shook his head. “If the girl has what?”

Cleary looked to see if they could be overheard then leaned forward, voice low. “You know. An orgasm .”

Elliot tried to keep his face straight because the kid was being so earnest. “Ummm … well, they usually have some way of letting you know.”

“That’s what I thought. But this girl isn’t like … a loud performer, if you know what I mean. I think the other girls I’ve been with might have been … pretending. Now I don’t know if I’m making her happy. You know?”

He could never teach human biology; as it was he felt himself starting to flush with embarrassment. “Honestly, you could ask her if she wants you to do anything different. That’s tricky if you’re not comfortable with her. But the actual event itself … well, you should be able to feel it.”

“Feel it how?”

Elliot sighed. “Jesus, Cleary.”

“Please, Sarge. I feel like I could learn how to do this right, and this is the girl that could … maybe teach me how to do it right.” Cleary was honestly asking in all seriousness.

“There’s … like, a muscle spasm. It’s not super intense but … you should be able to feel it.”

Cleary continued nodding. “Okay, good. Now I know. I, ah, I need to know how to do this before we get sent overseas.”

“Why?”

“So I know I was able to in case I bite it.”

Elliot frowned. “You’re a weird kid, Cleary.”

“Hey, you’re married, and clearly you know what you’re doing now. This might make a man of me … of sorts anyway.”

Elliot was at a loss for words. “Well, go get her, Cleary.”

“Right.”

The guy took off like a man on a mission, leaving Elliot to smile to himself as he made his way back to his barracks to change his shirt. He honestly couldn’t remember being unsure of himself in that way. Perhaps that came with only have been with his first girlfriend. They’d both been thoroughly inexperienced. That honest intimacy was what built their relationship.

Once he was in a fresh shirt he headed back to the mess hall, making his weekly call home. Janet answered after a couple rings, out of breath.

“Hello?”

“Hey, honey. What were you up to?”

“I was in the basement, sorry. I had to run to get the phone.”

“Sorry.”

“Well, how could you know?” There was a pause, and he imagined her sitting at the kitchen table. “Everyone’s been talking about the German advance in Russia.”

Elliot just nodded. He didn’t want to talk about war, not right now. “Remember … remember senior prom?”

There was a pause while Janet got on the same track as him. “Well … well, yes I do. Hard to forget.” She gave a soft laugh.

“I miss you. So much. In every way.”

“I miss you, too. I hate going to bed alone every night.”

“There’s a kid here that just asked me how he can make sure his woman is enjoying their sex life.”

She giggled. “How old is he?”

“Maybe twenty.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him to ask her if he wanted her to do anything differently.”

“Mmm. Well, that worked for you.”

Elliot smiled into the mouthpiece. “Did it?”

“Yes. It got much better after that.”

He laughed. “Stop, really. You’re making me blush.”

“It’s not fair that you’re giving him advice. You’re incredibly attentive. I don’t think all men are like that just by nature.”

Elliot felt his smile slip. “I’ve always made you happy, not just in that way. Right?”

“You know you have. I am the luckiest woman on earth.”

“I hope so.”

“Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m feeling old here, I have to be honest. These kids … I can’t remember being that young. I was married when I was their age.”

“I know. We keep seeing them lining up to catch the trains … they look like babies, Elliot.”

“They are.” Their conversation lulled. Elliot swallowed, wanting to keep her on the phone but not sure what to say. “I just got stitches.”

“What?”

“Seven. On my right bicep. Accident today during training. A kid got me with his bayonet.”

“Elliot … does it hurt?”

“Little bit. Shock’s wearing off now. I’ve never needed stitches before.”

“Poor baby.”

“I know. It hurts more than a paper cut, I can tell you that.” She laughed and he smiled. “God, I miss that laugh.”

“I’m right here, sweetie. Anytime you want to hear it.”

Just as her voice trailed off, he heard a popping sound. He frowned, head instinctively swiveling to the source of it. The women in the mess hall stopped, looked to each other, then at him.

It sounded like a gunshot.

“Honey? I got to go.”

She was surprised. “Umm … okay.”

“Something just happened. I … I gotta go. I love you.”

“I love you too.” He hung up sooner than he’d wanted. He stood, and the women in the hall all huddled close to the kitchen pass-through. They were watching him.

He crossed the room, and at the door he gave them a hopefully not-too-sinister, “Stay here,” before heading out in to the late afternoon sun. People were streaming towards the infirmary, and Elliot joined the tide. “What’s going on?” He asked a Sergeant he didn’t recognize.

“We just heard a shot. Like you.”

At the infirmary Wilkins was at the door, telling everyone to stay out. He waved Elliot forward. “Let Sergeant Murphy through.”

Elliot’s stomach sank. He didn’t want to hear about one of his men being hurt.

The sea of khaki uniforms parted, a few turning concerns and young-looking faces. Just like the women in the mess, come to think of it. Elliot ascended the wooden steps, and Wilkins opened the door, leaving it gaping behind him. Elliot passed through and shut the door behind him.

He could smell the gunpowder in the air, and something else below it. Copper. Blood.

Elliot followed Wilkins to the ward on the right, and Elliot’s footsteps slowed further. His brain was screaming No! but he made his body move anyway.

The handgun was on the floor where it had been dropped. A pale hand was draped over the edge of the cot above it.  Terence Clark’s face was gone, blown open by one round delivered, apparently, to the roof of his mouth. Wilkins stood at the foot of the cot, hands on hips. His face was still. He was in shock; all he could do was stare.

“Where’d the gun come from?” Elliot said softly, the room alarmingly silent.

“I don’t know. I was cleaning up from doing your stitches and then … the shot.”

Elliot looked back to the ruined young man on the cot. It was just a heart murmur for Christ’s sake.

“He said joining the Army was the only thing he’d done to make his dad proud. His dad told him he’d finally done something a man would do.”

Elliot turned from the bed. Waste of life, all because he couldn’t go overseas and get killed there? What a goddamn laugh.

He kicked the nearest empty cot, delivering a loud “Fuck!” to go with it.

“We need to let the General know.”

Elliot nodded. “I’ll go find Chamberlain. Don’t let anyone else see him.”

Wilkins nodded, not moving.

Elliot left the room abruptly. He didn’t want to see dead bodies … not yet.