Guy Smith: The Wood

They were all staring out of the window at the fiery sky, watching, waiting. Carol knew what they would see, any second now. A feeling you got when you lit a firework that you knew was going to go off with a loud explosion, bracing yourself for the ear-bursting bang.

There it is,' she breathed, 'the bomber. Any second it's going to burst into flames, crash. And. he will parachute down!'

They heard the approaching plane and then they saw it, an inferno, disintegrating, showering earthwards until it was lost from view behind the dark outline of the wood, the sky now a blaze of different shades of orange and yellow. A tiny floating figure, his fall so gradual and graceful. There was no doubt that he would drop in Droy Wood.

Carol glanced behind her, her skin prickling when she saw the German still standing there. You're not supposed to be here, you should be out there. How can you be in two places at the same time?

'And still the British resist.' Bertie Hass laughed scornfully. 'See, a lucky shot has claimed one of the Luftwaffe bombers, another crew has died valiantly for the Fatherland. Their Iron Crosses will be awarded posthumously.'

'But, but what about the survivor?' Carol breathed. 'Are you going to try and find him?'

'What survivor?'

A defiant hiss, almost petulant. Childish. No, I don't see anything, daddy, and nothing you can say will make me see it. There were no survivors, an entire crew killed in glorious action.'

'But. one of them parachuted down.' You, but even I can't accept that.

'Nobody parachuted from that plane. If you saw anything then it was an illusion.'

'We must have imagined it,' Andy Dark cut in. He didn't like the way the barrel of the Luger had swung back on to them. Provocation could mean instant death. 'I guess you're right, nobody got out of that plane. They're all dead by now.'

But Bertie Hass was clearly shaken. There was no doubt that he had seen that lone figure drifting down out of the sky. He licked his lips nervously, moved back to the window and stared out, his face briefly against the glass but it did not mist up. Searching the blackness for… himself?

Andy Dark tensed, reckoned he could have jumped the other, almost acted impetuously. If Carol had not been here he probably would have risked it. That wasn't the only reason that stopped him, though. Watching Hass, seeing how the other's features changed, almost as though he did not want to look, was afraid to. Flinching, cowering, beginning to tremble as he followed the course the silhouetted bomber pilot had taken against the fiery sky. Eyes glazing. Bertie Hass felt the rush of cold air, braced himself again for the bone-shattering impact as he struck the ground, hoped that he would be killed instantly, not left a mangled heap of bloody flesh and bones with life refusing to desert him.

A welcome jerk snatching him up, knocking the breath from his body, knowing that he wasn't going to die after all. Exhilaration, a feeling of freedom which only the free-faller and the birds of the air know. Only briefly, though, because already the topmost branches of the wood were clawing for him, trying to claim him for their own; grotesque shapes that were more than just trees.

Down; struggling in the mud, extricating himself from the bog, slashing at his parachute cords to free himself. The mist was thickening, he had come to accept it now. Everything so familiar, an actor on stage for a nightly performance of a long-running play. Almost boring, wishing that you had the courage to change your lines just to alleviate it. But you couldn't. That feeling of being watched again, finding the muddy path and following it, knowing that it would bring him out at the big house, a ruin that would be transformed. His home until the war ended. It would be over soon, the British could not hold out much longer, they were on their knees already. Listening. He could not hear the bombing any more. Glancing up, the sky was dark, overcast. The city still burned though; he could smell the acrid stench in his nostrils, coughed. Frustration, an urgency to forge on ahead, begin the setting-up of his new headquarters in preparation for the coming of the German army but knowing that he had to wait. Because the girl would be coming, naked and beautiful, reminding him of Ingrid, having to fight against a stirring of his emotions because the Fatherland was a priority. The girl would be locked away, a pleasure to be savoured later.

The actor rushing his lines, harassing the other performers because he wanted to get this early act over and done with. A blurred film like a screaming express train on the screen, only slowing down at the whim of the projectionist. Pulse racing, finally sighing with relief, sweating. The girl was a prisoner in the dungeon. Bertie Hass had resisted the temptation to run his fingers over her bare flesh as she hung there on the wall. There would be ample time to indulge in those pleasures later. The trap door thudded shut, echoed eerily down the empty hallway. He shivered, the sound had a note of finality about it. He knew only too well what was going to happen next, the principal actor regretting his haste; he didn't really like this part of the play at all, wished somehow the producers could have skipped it, altered the script. He knew that at any second that oaken door on his left was going to creak open. No, not this time. Mein Gott, no! He slid the Luger out of his holster, trained the barrel on the doorway, a marksman's stance, gripping his right wrist with the fingers of his left hand. The oak door started to open, easing inwards, groaning as if those hinges had not swung back for centuries. The German's finger tightened on the trigger. This time do not delay, fire the moment you see it or it will be too late once again!

A bulky figure filled the widening gap. A florid bad-tempered face with a series of jowls unfolding below the chin, eyes almost buried in the fleshy cheeks yet penetrating, commanding; angry. Strange silken garments, gold buttons straining on a scarlet waistcoat, cream breeches that were laced below the knee, silk stockings, and hide slippers.

Fire now or your chance is gone!

The German's trigger-finger was stiff as though it had suddenly become afflicted with arthritis. He had-to force the joints to move, use every vestige of willpower he could muster, wilting beneath the force of those pig-like eyes. The Luger crashed, bucked, crashed again. Heavy slugs ripped into the woodwork of the door, threw it back, the man still standing there as though totally unaware of what was happening.

At this range Bertie Hass knew he could not miss. The trigger was becoming tighter with each shot, any second it would seize up. Now his shots were finding their mark, tearing into those fine clothes, shredding them, lacerating the fleshy jowls; three head shots but the stranger was still on his feet, not even swaying. He had to be dead, it was only his nerves that were holding him upright. He had to fall any second. A shot disintegrated the top of his head and he appeared to totter, grabbed at a doorpost to steady himself.

'Die!' Bertie yelled, and then the firing pin was clicking harmlessly. Disbelief, watching, waiting but still those eyes focused on him, angrily, mocking him. You can't kill me, German!

You're dead, you've got to be. Then came an awful realisation that had the pistol dropping from the pilot's nerveless fingers, clanging on the floor. Those terrible wounds. they did not bleed!

How long he stood there he had no idea. Daylight faded into darkness and became light again. And now the man in the doorway had moved out into the hallway and that was when Bertie Hass would have run screaming from this place, only his limbs refused to move. Those terrible wounds had knitted, healed, not so much as a scar showing.

'You can't kill me, German.' The stranger's tones were thick and nasal, thin lips twisted into a cruel smile. 'Nobody can die when they are already dead, can they?'