Evie Wyld - After the Fire, A Still Small Voice

When it finally fell quiet they heard the beats of the dustoff helicopter, but Clive was dead. The medics carried him on a stretcher, his face covered over. ‘Would’ve been dead straight off,’ one of them said, ‘went through the head pretty bad.’

No one else had anything the matter with them and as the helicopter took off, spraying dirt beneath it, they were left with a black patch of ground that Clive had bled into. Pete shucked fresh dirt over it, a look of disgust on his face, his bottom lip poked out like a sulky child and he turned away from the rest of them with his hands on his hips. ‘And then there were five,’ he said and gave a little snort.

The dead Cong they lined up neatly and searched, patting down the warm bodies, dipping into pockets and down sleeves. Leon gave the machine gun to Rod for the while, his hands raw from gripping it, he couldn’t look at the bastard thing.

‘Oi, oi, someone’s over there,’ Daniel called, pointing his gun towards a dark-stained wooden house.

There was a face in the window, a boy, his mouth a black O. They had their guns ready and aimed at the door and Pete called, ‘C’mon out.’ There was no noise from inside, so he shouted ‘Out!’ his voice busting from him hoarse and angry. The front door opened slowly and an old man stepped out, a woman and a young boy right behind him. The woman held a baby. Cray looked at the floor.

‘Why haven’t you gone already?’ asked Pete, not to the family particularly. He sounded tired. ‘Better have a bit of a look in there, I reckon.’

Leon took Clive’s rifle and went inside with Cray. He felt like a dry river, like all the commotion was gone and nothing could happen now. He wasn’t ready for it, he didn’t want it. Inside it was dark; there was a smell of incense and dust and cooking, a strange smell of life, nutty and sharp. The wooden roof creaked. Cray nodded at a trapdoor in the floor of the kitchen.

Down through the trapdoor was stone silent, like all noise had been sucked out with a straw. Three chairs were turned over and a bag of rice was spilled across the table. There was a bad smell, a meal left to rot. Bowls were laid out on the table with spoons, they must’ve been getting ready to eat: so close to having a sit-down dinner, to sharing a normal talk, having a drink, maybe, and laughing. Eating out of a bowl, not out of a packet or your hands.

The silence was split by a high whine and Leon heard himself clench. There was a low door he’d assumed was a cupboard, the only place to hide in the cellar. It was the kind of noise kids made, playing hide and seek, excited and needing a pee, trying to hold in the urge to shout, ‘Here I am! You fuckin’ didn’t see me but here I am!’ Cray moved towards the door, stepping gently like a ballet dancer. From the look on his face the smell was worse the closer he moved to the door.

Leon’s lips felt like fish scales. ‘He’ll be armed,’ he whispered and Cray nodded. An inward count of three, and Leon trained on the door, then Cray raised his boot and kicked it open, firing into the space. A body twitched with the impact of bullets, a gun in his hand fell to the floor unfired, and Cray put his wrist up to his face and yelled. Leon thought for a terrible moment that he’d been shot in the face, but he carried on yelling and the smell hit him too.

‘Fucking hell!’ shouted Cray. ‘Fucking fucking crappy hell!’ He spat and turned away from the open door, his eyes streaming. The dead man had lost his foot and the flesh off his leg, but the bone remained. His torso teemed with small things that ate at him.

‘What is it?’ came a yell from above ground.

‘It’s all right — one dead Cong,’ Cray called back up.

‘Close the door,’ said Leon quietly, but it stayed open.

‘We should check in there,’ Cray said, breathing into his elbow.

‘I’ll go,’ said Leon, because Cray had a son at home. Cray stepped aside uncomplaining as he pushed the door with the tips of his fingers. Maggots made the man’s chest move up and down. It’s just meat, it’s the same as rotten road kill, nothing unnatural about it, he thought and tried to keep his eyes above the level of the man’s heaving chest. It was a wonder he’d been alive, still been able to hold a gun, even if he couldn’t fire it. A chain held him by his good ankle to an eyelet in the wall. The room was bare, a small table held a cup of water and propped against it a photograph of a woman and a child. The heads had been ripped off them, their identity kept a secret, but still they stood on the man’s table, like any bedside table in the world, a glass of water and a picture of your wife and child. All that was missing was a bedside lamp and a dog-eared novel. Empty boxes dotted the floor, a pair of pyjamas hung on the back of the door. That was it. He turned to leave, but even headless, he felt the horror of the man’s family as they looked down on him, maggoty and dead. He picked up the photograph and slid it into his pocket. ‘Clear,’ he said as he closed the door.

Outside a few men smoked while the family huddled softly nearby, looking uncertain, the old man muttering low to the child, the woman holding the back of her baby’s head.

‘The guy was chained to the wall,’ he told Cray. ‘Must have done something.’

‘Old matey down there would have been too hurt to go with them. They get chained so they have to fight to the death.’

He looked at the family. The man’s knuckles gripped white on the boy’s shoulders.

‘You need to leave,’ said Pete, turning to face the man. He pointed at the jungle with his gun. ‘Go on. Get.’ The man said something back, something angry, but the boy looked up at him, the face of a soft moon, and held on to the man’s finger tightly. The man shook his head and the woman made to go back into the house.

‘Nup,’ said Pete, pointing to the forest. ‘Go-On-Get-Going. Fuck off out of it!’ The woman made a pleading gesture. Pete shook his head. She waved her arm, pointing at the baby, and Pete shouted, ‘Get Away!’

Leon pointed his gun at the woman. She looked stunned and the old man gently held her shoulder and turned them towards the jungle. He muttered something to her and she relented. The old man looked at him and he felt a jab in his guts like he’d swallowed a pen. I would never have shot , he thought, I would not ever have shot, it was just to move you along , but the cold maw of the thing told him he was not so sure.

A southerly blew at the marina and brought with it the sweet smell of tarry old fish. A few blokes had long sleeves on, and Bob had a scarf that he wound round his head so that it covered his nose and lips. ‘Can’t take the smell of that fuckin’ wind,’ he said with his palms on his temples.

‘Pretty changeable up here, eh?’ said Frank, wishing he’d brought something warm. The sun-white hairs on his arms stood up like cactus spines and he felt girly rubbing them down.

‘Yeah — we catch all the dud weather as it goes past.’

Frank nodded as if this were well-known scientific fact.

‘You hear about Pokey?’ Bob looked at him with one eye, protecting the other from the wind with his hand.

‘Nup.’ Frank pulled on his gloves.

‘Some joker got him last night. Hurt him pretty bad if you want to know the truth. He ain’t talking, though.’ An engine started up, guttering and loud, and they had to shout over it.

‘Christ. He’s all right?’

‘Yeah, he’s around — probably shouldn’t be, but what you gonna do?’

‘Do we know who did it?’

‘Nup. He’s giving out that he’s gonna find who did it himself. Find ’em with a hook.’ Bob picked up his bag from the floor and pulled the scarf from his mouth. ‘You ask me though, mate, he’s just a scared old man. I wouldn’t mind finding the culprit meself with a shovel on my side.’