The Lie

  ‘I’ll show you where the tools for the furnace are kept.’

  There are shovels, and curious long pokers with the end at right angles to the stem, brushes, wrenches, pliers, a selection of flue brushes. I hand Jeannie to her mother and go back and forth with the tools until everything I might need is laid out on the stone floor in front of the furnace. There’s a tool which levers open the furnace door. Inside, there’s the dry smell of combustion. I empty everything: Josh has laid the furnace with paper, wood and coal, then coke in a pyramid above it. The paper has caught, but the wood is singed, no more. I riddle out under the grate, and remove the clinker. There’s not much there. I take the flue brushes, the longest first, and angle it up the chimney. I jab it as far as I can from side to side, but there’s no rush of soot, as there was in the cottage. Some dirt falls, again not much. I go back down the passage, to see if Felicia’s waiting with Jeannie, but the cellars are empty. She must have taken the child back upstairs.

  We used to be able to crawl into the passages that led to the hot-air ducts. We could only do it when the furnace was cold, in summer. They were wide enough for a child. And maybe wider than that. I remember us scampering down them like rats, not having to squeeze ourselves.

  It’s cold down here. I hunker in front of the furnace again, and contemplate it. There must be a blockage deeper in the system, which is making the furnace shut down before it’s properly alight. I lift the lantern high. Over in the corner of the furnace room, there’s a gap at the side of the inward air shaft, where the chicken wire that should cover it is broken. The gap is big enough for a rat, or a bird. If a creature came in and flew about, it might become trapped; but where? It would need to be within some sensitive part of the mechanism.

  The furnace sits like a spider in the heart of its web. We used to play games in the tunnels. I remember sitting tight for what seemed like hours, barely breathing, listening for footfalls or the shuffle of Frederick on his hands and knees. The biggest tunnel is opposite the furnace. I don’t know what its purpose is. Unlike the other ducts, its brickwork has no metal lining. Maybe it was built for a purpose that was later abandoned.

  The tunnel draws me to it. I know I won’t solve the problem of the furnace by scrambling about in the bowels of the house, but I want to. Felicia is upstairs, far away. This house is too solidly built for me to hear any sound from above ground.

  We used to put a wooden box beneath the opening of the tunnel, so that we could climb up and then inside. I remember that now. Even for a grown man, the height is awkward. I put my hands on the brickwork, heave and haul myself upwards. It’s much more effort than I remember, and I’m too big. My body fills up the space and my head bangs against the roof of the tunnel. I scrabble for a handhold, wriggle, kick myself inside. Now I’m lying full length, and it’s easier. There’s not enough room to get up on all fours, but I can push myself along, using my elbows. It’s not dark in here, not truly dark. I feel safe. The tunnel doesn’t narrow, but it comes to an angle where my body remembers turning once, easily, eeling with a child’s elasticity around the corner. I can’t do that now. I turn on to my side, tuck my head down and lead with my right shoulder, pushing myself forward with the tips of my boots. I’m moving. I’m going round.

  Halfway, my boots lose their grip. I am wedged. I’m not going to make the turn. I can’t go forward, and as I flail my feet for a grip, I know I can’t go back either. There is nothing to push against. I’m in the wrong position.

  Slow. Slow. Think about it. Don’t let yourself panic, boy. You do that, you’re stuck for sure. Inch by inch, grating the side of my head against brick, I turn my head. The head is the biggest part, you’ve got to get that through.

  O dream of joy is this indeed O dream of joy is this indeed O dream of joy O dream of joy O dream

  Don’t let yourself think beyond the line, Dan boy. Don’t go beyond the line. There’s nothing behind you. Breathe steady now. Go steady. Go on.

  I come round that corner like a fish, as if something’s pulling me. Now it’s dark for sure. The tunnel’s widened out somehow. I don’t remember it being like this. I feel behind me. There’s chicken wire over the brickwork. Or is it brickwork? It feels too cold and damp for that. There’s a smell of rotting sandbags. Damp has got into this house for sure. Maybe old Dennis built it over a stream without knowing it.

  This dugout is like the Savoy.

  You’ve never been in the Savoy in your life, you old blowviator.

  ‘Frederick?’

  I shuffle until my back is against the wall. He slumps beside me, head down to his chest. The effort of getting into the dugout has exhausted him. I’ve done most of the work, pushing and shoving, holding him so he doesn’t fall into the mud and water at the bottom of the shell-hole. I’m afraid for his leg but more afraid to leave us exposed.

  I put out my hand and feel the rough brickwork of the tunnel underneath Albert House. I’m in a muddle. Tiredness does that to you. You think you’re doing one thing when you’re really doing another. You even think that you’re awake when you’re asleep. Men have been shot for that. You can march asleep on your feet.

  I’m in the dugout in the side of the shell-hole. I’m under Albert House. Those two things are true, and I go in and out of them. The thing that doesn’t change is that Frederick is here. I shift position, and he also shifts. He’s sleeping, after all the effort of getting here. The weight of him is a real thing, slumped against me. I put my right arm around his shoulders, to support him. He is dense, heavy, cold. This is how I know he isn’t a ghost. You can put your hand through a ghost, and not feel it. He won’t feel it either. But even though he’s so deeply asleep, Frederick knows I’m here. He sighs, and turns his head in towards me.

  Why didn’t I think of looking for him here? Of course a man would come home to his own house.

  ‘Frederick,’ I say again, not expecting an answer, just wanting to say his name aloud. He isn’t ready to speak yet. He only wants to sit here, leaning against me, drifting deep. I hitch myself more comfortably, and get a firmer hold of him so that he won’t slip away. Maybe I’m imagining it, but he seems a little warmer now. Slowly, slowly, the cold of him will give way. It can take as long as it takes. I’m in no hurry. There’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be.

  ‘You’re all right here with me, boy,’ I tell him. ‘We’ll cuddy down, shall we?’

  I can feel him smile against my arm. I know why he’s smiling. It’s because I’m talking like me, not like him. Not like any of those books in the Dennis library either. I hold him as close as I can and rock him, hardly moving him because I don’t want to hurt his leg. I rock him in the same way that blood rocks inside the body without showing on the surface, on and on. All the while I’m opening inside myself, the way I never have before. I don’t know even what there is inside me. Darkness, maybe, more and more of it, velvety and not raw the way it is when you stare into the night, full of the dread of morning. I rock Frederick even more gently. We’re neither of us moving now.

  I don’t think we’re in the cellars of Albert House. The sides of the shell-hole are wet. There’s a hell of a noise outside, like a thousand furnaces exploding. I feel it coming through the earth. Perhaps it’s time for the evening hate. As long as they don’t come to retake their listening post before dark, we have a chance. The whole day has passed and they haven’t come. When it’s dark, we can crawl. I can carry him on my back. I’m strong enough for that. I’ll get him out somehow.

  ‘How’s the old leg now, Frederick?’

  He doesn’t answer. Saving his energy, I know. He understands about the dark coming down again, and that the night is our chance. We can’t stay here. He does smell of blood. It’ll be drying now, crusting over. Down in the water at the bottom of the shell-hole there’s the plop of a rat. It might be a frog. At night you hear them croaking. There are hundreds of them in the shell-holes. Creatures come from all over. They’re perfectly at home, even though this place is like nowher
e the world has ever seen. Frogs and crows, rats and beetles, the fattest bluebottles you ever saw in your life. Cockroaches. As for magpies, the churned-up clods are thick with them. It beats me where they all come from. When you put out your hand in the morning there are slugs all over the sandbags.

  Blanco had a slug trail across his face, right to the corner of his mouth, and the slug was in his hair. You should have heard him yell when I told him. His hands flailed up in his hair. I’d have said a rat was worse. But mostly rats won’t bite a living body. They’ll walk over you but they know the dead from the living.

  Frederick does smell of blood. Better leave it until we can get him to a dressing station. A light wound you can dress. Anything more serious, leave it be unless you know what you’re doing.

  ‘Not long to wait now,’ I say. ‘It’s getting dark. We’ll soon have you out of here.’

  I think I’ve been asleep. Time jumps forward, then it joins up again. My mouth feels swollen. I want water. There’s water in the bottom of the shell-hole, shining. If I go down I’ll never be able to climb back. I’m sure there are rats in the water. They swim with just their whiskers showing, and their eyes. The dugout is high up in the slope of the shell-hole, not far from the top. The Germans have even cut steps up to the lip of the crater, so as to get up and down easily. This shell-hole does them credit. They were listening to us all the while. Telephoning to their artillery the time of our attack. A very thorough approach, as Mr Tremough used to say.

  Frederick’s leg has stopped bleeding. That’s good. If that was the evening hate, it’s over. Time to go.

  I’ve thrown away my rifle into the water at the bottom of the shell-hole where it will be no good to anyone. It was like throwing away part of myself. The knobkerry went a long time ago, I don’t even remember. I never had faith in it, any more than Sergeant Morris had. I’ve still got my knife, and Frederick’s revolver. You can be shot for throwing away your weapons. I can’t carry anything but Frederick.

  We’re over the lip of the shell-hole, crawling through mud. Not too deep, thank God, not the kind that pulls you down. I’m crawling with Frederick on my back, my spine on fire from the weight of him. I keep having to stop and spit out the stuff that gets in my mouth. I can see the flash of guns and the trails of Very lights going up. I’m afraid of going round in a circle so I keep having to stop and check. German lines behind me. Ours ahead. I think I’m right.

  We go on and on. I think we crawl for hours, half a yard, half a yard, half a yard. Frederick groans but he never lets out a cry. I feel as if I’m drowning. As if we’re sinking down to the bottom of the world together. We wallow through the darkness, bumping into things. I don’t know what the things are. I don’t want to know. Posts and wire is all I care about. There are dead men all over, out here in the darkness. This is where they live. You can bury them, but they rise up again with every bout of shelling. That’s someone else groaning, not Frederick. I hear the patter of a voice, reciting to itself:

  ‘Four times fifty living men

  (And I heard nor sigh nor groan)

  With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,

  They dropped down one by one.

  ‘The souls did from their bodies fly,–

  They fled to bliss or woe!

  And every soul, it passed me by

  Like the whizz of my cross-bow!’

  It’s been dark for a long while now. The voice has gone away. Sometimes there’s a chatter of fire. Windy. None of it’s close enough to make that furze-fire noise in the air above us. Maybe it’ll be dawn soon. Stand-to. The morning hate, then the livelong day, and then the evening hate. All in order, like church services.

  I have to rest, just for a moment. I lay my face down sideways, to keep my mouth out of the mud. Frederick crushes me down, but I can’t move him off me. We lie still for a long time. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know, Frederick has rolled away. I dab around frantically, and there he is, lying on his back not two feet away, with rain on his face. I can feel wetness all over his skin, cold. But under it he’s warm, I know he is. The warmth has gone deep inside him, where he needs it. I whisper, ‘Frederick,’ but he doesn’t answer. I shuffle over, dig myself in under him and try to roll him back on top of me so I can crawl on. He rolls clumsily, too far, and topples over on the other side. I can’t get a proper grip on him, he’s so stiff and heavy.

  I’m crying with the frustration of it. He doesn’t hear me. He’s not helping me now, the way he was at first. I know he won’t be able to keep himself on my back. All kinds of stuff surges in my head. The noise of the rain on the gunnera leaves above me. Our wigwam right and tight so we can peer out of it at the rain while we are dry. We could live here for ever, Frederick said. We looked at each other. The joy of it went up like a Very light.

  ‘Frederick!’ I say, covering his ear with my mouth. He doesn’t stir. He’s unconscious, that’s what it is, and no wonder. Better for him that way. I’ll have to go backwards, dragging him. I’ll get a hold under his arms, and shuffle along close to the ground so we won’t be too visible. It looks as if the dark’s thinning out, over to the east where the Germans are. Dawn’s the worst time. Everyone’s jumpy, firing off at anything that moves.

  I feel Frederick’s face again. I thought it was wet with rain but it’s too sticky. It must be mud. His mouth is open. I feel round it for his breath against my hand, but my hand is so cold and numb that I can’t feel anything.

  ‘You’ll be all right, boy,’ I tell him.

  I hadn’t reckoned on the wire. I know we cut ours. We went sideways down the line afterwards, like you do in the sea when the current’s dragging you to the diagonal. This wire hasn’t been cut and it’s thick as hell. There are gooseberries in it too.

  I let Frederick down on to the earth. I know that I can’t drag him all the way back up to where we cut the wire. I’m done in, shaking, my skin pushing out sweat that freezes me. I turn my head aside to throw up on the earth, away from Frederick, choking out mud and vomit.

  I suck in some deep breaths and then take my cheek off the earth, and wipe myself. I reach for Frederick and feel him all over to be sure he’s safe. I try to settle him close to the ground like I was settling him in a bed. I make sure his face is turned up out of the mud, and his mouth and nose are clear. He’ll be all right here. No one can see him. The wire hides him from our front line, and there’s no reason for Fritz to know he’s here.

  ‘You’ll be all right now, boy,’ I whisper to him. I tell him I’m going to crawl as fast as I can around the worst of the entanglement. There’ll be a way cut through it somewhere, for patrols. Once I’m through, it isn’t twenty yards to the fire-trench. I’ll be close enough to call out for help before they shoot me. Can’t call too soon in case a sniper finds me. Can’t call too late in case our sentry thinks I’m a dawn raiding party. Frederick’s head is on one side, facing towards me. I put my mouth back where his ear’s got to be.

  ‘Can you hear me?’ I say, the same as he said to me in the garden. ‘You’ll be all right, boy. I’ll be back with the body-snatchers before you know it.’ He doesn’t reply, but I’m sure he’s heard me. When a man’s unconscious, he’ll say afterwards that he remembers every word you said.

  I move quickly without him, like a rat darting from hole to hole. I’ve got to get help. I must go as fast as I can, away from him. I keep my head down and close to the wire, and pray for a gap. I don’t think I’m anywhere near where we cut it, but I come to a place where it’s been shelled and I shove myself through it, under it, my arms around my head to shield it. The wire lashes and catches me but I tear myself away. I wriggle from post to post on my belly, the wire scourging me, my whole skin prickling for fear of bullets. And then I’m through, crawling on, downhill now and so quick and light I can barely believe myself, as if a hand is behind me, shoving me. I cry out:

  ‘Don’t shoot! For Christ’s sake don’t shoot! I been out here all night!’

  I’m scutt
ering over the open ground on our side of the wire and nobody’s firing at me, and then I’m falling over the parapet, and still no one’s firing at me, and I’m alive as I bump down against the sandbags and crash into the water at the bottom of the fire-trench.

  There isn’t time to wait for the body-snatchers. It’s still dark but it won’t be for long. Maybe there are dawny streaks here and there. There’s no chance they’ll find Frederick without me. Two men say they’ll go with me. I gulp rum as the order to hold fire goes down the trench. They know the way. We scuttle back, canted low to the ground, ducking this way and that through the wire. It’s getting lighter by the second and the lumps of darkness are turning into dips and shell-holes.

  I see Frederick, twenty yards ahead. He hasn’t moved. If you didn’t know he was there you’d never find him. You’d think he was part of the earth.

  ‘There!’ I whisper, pointing. ‘There he is.’

  ‘Where?’ They turn to me, their faces grey and grainy now. I see how much the darkness has weakened.

  ‘There!’

  I remember that. I don’t see or hear the shell-burst. One minute I see Frederick. The next I am punched into the earth.

  We survived, the three of us, because there was a slight ridge in the ground between us and Frederick. So I couldn’t have seen him, even though I was right about where he was. It was the blast that threw me back.

  If I’d dragged him even a bit farther, a few yards, twenty yards, Frederick would have lived too. He’d have been over that little ridge. I can’t remember why it was that I left him just there, exactly in that place. Why did I do it? I crawled away from him so fast, like a rat flicking from hole to hole. I was fetching help for him.

  For a long time after the shell-burst I didn’t hear anything. I felt the rain of earth, not cold but warm, sticky to touch, going on and on. It pattered down all over me.