Gordon Ferris - Truth Dare kill

Don’t have much food. Couple of sausages, maybe. Wasn’t expecting company.”

“Tea’s smashing. I don’t want to eat all your rations.”

I fumbled in the little shelf above my two ring stove and found the little package. “Three. One and a half links each. Let’s shove them on. There’s some bread. Brown sauce too.”

I smiled as encouragingly as my head would let me and she got up. I took my jacket and tie off and wrestled with the collar stud until I wrenched it off and dropped it on the chest of drawers. We found the dripping and dropped the bangers in the pan. The rich smell of hot fat quickly filled the little room.

There are few finer sounds than sausages sizzling. I lit two fags and gave her one.

“Ta. What happened?” She pointed at my lip.

“Ran into a fat policeman.”

I brewed the tea and filled two mugs. “Milk? Sugar?” I asked. She gave Churchill’s salute.

We sat there on the bed, supping like a couple of old marrieds, not speaking, just enjoying the sight of each other and the sounds from the frying pan.

Despite my head, and for the first time in a long time, I felt a bit of hope gather. I even felt the black weight lift a little from behind my eyes and wondered if she was some magic talisman against the pain that would normally have begun to incapacitate me.

The bread was a bit stale so we put four slices under the grill. Made two rounds each out of the toast and sausages. Made a bit of a mess with the marge, and the sauce ran down our fingers. Didn’t mind licking it off. Not something I could have done with Kate Graveney. Those white gloves. Not sure I’d want to. The pain was steady now, but bearable. The food helped. Sometimes it does, sometimes it just makes me throw up.

I said between bites, “You should have stayed. This morning I mean.”

She cocked her head to one side, like a budgie. “I shouldn’t have stayed last night. Give you the wrong idea ‘bout me. I’m not that sort. I was cold and a bit fed up. And I’m not used to whisky. God, my head! As bad as yours now, I expect.”

I doubted that.

She looked down. “Look… I needed a pal. Can we be pals? Nothing else – for a bit anyhow. See how it goes? There was a bloke. Bit of a mess. You know.”

I needed a pal too. Needed more than that, but given what I had until yesterday, this was a step up. Was the other bloke still around somewhere? “Fine by me.” Was it? At least she hadn’t closed out other options.

She brightened. “I just want to come and go. As I fancy. Is that all right?”

Shades of Sandra again? Well, I’d learnt; I wasn’t going to get jealous this time. I’d take Val for what she was and what she offered. Friendship and sausages.

“Help yourself, Val.” Then something struck me. “Look, if we’re going to be pals, you’d better know a wee bit more about this.” I indicated the scar.

“Does it hurt?” She reached out. I let her. Her finger was like a mother’s touch.

“Not the scar. Underneath. I was in France. Got caught. They gave me a right belting. The doctors here found a bit of my skull was pushing against the brain.

I can’t remember much since May ’44, and I still have blackouts. I can feel one beginning now. Starts with a headache, then the vision goes… it’s a bit like a migraine, only worse. So don’t be scared if you pop in and find me, you know, lying down…”

She was nodding in sympathy. I could see the curve of her breast every time her arm moved. I felt something well up in me. Not sex. Deeper than that. I had to blink and rub my eyes. A woman’s finger had more power than Wilson’s fist.

“Next time, when I come again, you can tell me all about it. You’re tired. Have a sleep.”

I lay back as I was told. I was wrong about the pain; it wasn’t going away. I felt the now familiar slide begin. The pressure behind my eyes was building up like water trapped in a hose. I wanted to be sick but knew I wouldn’t. That would come when I woke. The panic rose in me as I began to lose all control. I couldn’t stop myself falling over the edge. Vertigo overwhelmed me.

I woke a long while later, alone on the bed, and cold, even though I was wrapped in the quilt. It was daylight. I was in my pyjamas. The fire was out and had been cleared up. New kindling and rolled up newspapers sat under fragments of half-burned briquettes, ready to be lit. Just the way I liked. My head felt like it had been ripped open above my temple. I made it to the sink before I threw up. I felt helpless, like a rag doll, hanging over the bowl.

Slowly I dragged myself back up out of the hole. I looked round. Two plates washed and neatly stacked on the draining board alongside two mugs. How had I got into my pyjamas? That must have been a treat for her. I had a pal. Which was all the relationship I could handle at the moment.

I walked over to the bed and sat down, before my legs gave way. I slumped over into my hands waiting for the kettle to boil. I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was light outside and the clock read 11.30. I assumed it was the morning of the second of January, but I’ve been known to miss a complete twenty-four hours.

On the bedside table was the notebook I kept during my episodes. Sometimes I write in it, trying to talk to my future self, my “normal” self, to give me some clues about what I’d been doing and saying and thinking during my fugue – as Doc Thompson would say. It was always a bad moment. I picked up the notebook – a school jotter – and found my pencil wedged at a point half way in. A new entry.

The kettle whistled and I levered myself up and over to make the tea. I didn’t want to look at what my alter ego had written.

I slunged some cold water on my face, dried it and took a sip of my tea. I felt life slowly creep into my bones. I settled back on my bed and opened the jotter.

The writing was big and jagged, like a child’s. It was new all right. I’d carved out 1 Jan at the top, like a kid leaving his initials on a tree trunk. But my eyes were pulled past my own scribbles to an uneven line of capital letters at the foot of the page. I could see her with clenched fist and jutting tongue.

DON’T WORRY, DANNY. EVERYTHING WILL BE ALL RIGHT. YOU’RE A GOOD MAN. YOU MUST BELIEVE THAT. NO MATTER WHAT.

VALERIE.

I wondered what was so bad that Val had to try so hard to make me feel better.

And what the hell had she thought of my other jottings? I turned back to my own writing. abandon all hope arbeiters – this isnt freedom – its a lie I know its a lie – cold and hunger and arbeit makes you dead – the dead are free they sent the dogs into the hut today – hot breath slevers cold nose sniffing me wanting to make me run and then hunt me down – you had to lie – he maketh me to lie down in green pastures – yet will I fear evil not moshe – moshe didnt lie – was always afraid we were all afraid but moshe wore it like a coat – the dogs love that – they love fear it drives them mad I chucked the notebook down on the floor and stumbled into my office. I pulled out my bottle from my desk drawer and poured a big shot into my tumbler. Then I sat down on my visitor’s chair in my pyjamas and rocked and rocked. In my mind’s eye was a day, two days, all the days in the camp. A double row of wooden huts inside a high barbed wire fence. On the edge of a sleepy little village, a thousand years old, not far from Munich. I often wondered why the villagers stayed there. Afterwards. Why would you want to live in a suburb of hell? The name Dachau tainted for evermore?

I saw Moshe’s chubby face. One of the world’s helpless types. Couldn’t do anything for himself. His mother had cootered him all his days. A big baby. The Nazis loved hurting him. Bullies always picked on the weakest. They kept him alive – just – so that they could go on hurting him. He was so good to hurt.