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Authors: Jason Hewitt
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knife. One of the huts had been burnt to the ground and was now nothing but charred timber. In another they found a pile of empty food containers, and in another loose faeces
that were fresh and looked human.
When they reached Hut 105, the door was open as if it was already summer. The place, like the others, had been turned over: bits of burnt wood, discarded books and an overturned pot of nails
that were hard beneath their feet. Janek picked a magazine out from the debris, the pages one by one curling away from his fingers.
Owen had been in the end room. Teddy Williams, the son of an artist, had bunked above him. He lifted the stained and shallow mattress, and then Teddy’s too, seeing, as he knew he would,
that each bunk was missing a plank. They had taken one out of each to craft wickets and cricket bats from.
It was then, staring at the bunks, that he realized that his head was hurting and it had been for some time, as if he were being cracked and prised open. Names came tumbling in and, with them,
faces: Joe Hallam, Guy Fletcher, ‘Bugsy’, Moe, Mitch Hamble . . .
He unlatched the window and hurriedly pushed it open, leaning out into the empty compound, trying to breathe, his eyes welling. As he felt Janek’s hand on his shoulder he was hit by a
sudden flash of images. He thought he was going to be sick.
They found him scuffling around at the back of one of the barracks on the west side of the camp. All the shutters were closed and, with no more than the finest cuts of light
breaking in, he was hardly visible, shuffling about in the gloom like a troglodyte among the desks and upturned filing cabinets. He was bent double, gathering scattered papers from the floor with
long bony fingers and murmuring to himself as he held them, pinned to his chest as if they were precious to him.
Without straightening he turned to look at them and, as he took a step into the light, they saw that he was a small-framed man in uniform with round-rimmed glasses. He stared, the untidy pile of
papers slipping from his grip until a couple of sheets fell carelessly about his feet.
They held still in the doorway and Owen fumbled for his pistol, thinking for the first time that he might not have shot anyone after all and now, of all times, might find himself incapable.
From behind his thick lenses the little man blinked and darted his eyes about the room. What once must have been a smart uniform was now dirty and sodden. The wire spectacles had been bent and
reshaped many times. His hair was short with a once neat parting still greased into place and flecked with debris, and his jowls bristled with stubble.
A man gone to the dogs
, Owen’s
father would have grumbled, who had come across such creatures in his hospital work; tramps and vagabonds and general no-gooders, he had said.
‘What do you know about this place?’ said Owen.
The man seemed surprised by the question.
‘Do you speak English?’
He nodded.
‘Who are you?’
‘No one,’ the man said.
Janek stiffened. The man’s English was articulate but his accent was German.
‘What are you doing here then?’ said Owen.
‘What are
you
doing here?’ he asked back.
Owen hesitated. ‘Looking for someone.’
‘Who?’
He paused then motioned with his head to Janek. ‘His brother.’
The man’s eyes flicked across and back again.
There was a click as Owen lifted the safety catch on his pistol. ‘So what are you doing here?’
‘What everyone is,’ he said. ‘Hiding.’
‘What do you mean?’
The man poked the glasses further up his nose with his finger, the other hand still clutching the papers to his chest.
‘A reckoning is coming,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
The man didn’t answer. Instead he hesitantly bent his knees, lowering himself, his eyes never straying from them, until his outstretched fingers could blindly reach around his ankles for
the renegade sheets and gather them up into his pile.
‘What are they, anyway?’
that were fresh and looked human.
When they reached Hut 105, the door was open as if it was already summer. The place, like the others, had been turned over: bits of burnt wood, discarded books and an overturned pot of nails
that were hard beneath their feet. Janek picked a magazine out from the debris, the pages one by one curling away from his fingers.
Owen had been in the end room. Teddy Williams, the son of an artist, had bunked above him. He lifted the stained and shallow mattress, and then Teddy’s too, seeing, as he knew he would,
that each bunk was missing a plank. They had taken one out of each to craft wickets and cricket bats from.
It was then, staring at the bunks, that he realized that his head was hurting and it had been for some time, as if he were being cracked and prised open. Names came tumbling in and, with them,
faces: Joe Hallam, Guy Fletcher, ‘Bugsy’, Moe, Mitch Hamble . . .
He unlatched the window and hurriedly pushed it open, leaning out into the empty compound, trying to breathe, his eyes welling. As he felt Janek’s hand on his shoulder he was hit by a
sudden flash of images. He thought he was going to be sick.
They found him scuffling around at the back of one of the barracks on the west side of the camp. All the shutters were closed and, with no more than the finest cuts of light
breaking in, he was hardly visible, shuffling about in the gloom like a troglodyte among the desks and upturned filing cabinets. He was bent double, gathering scattered papers from the floor with
long bony fingers and murmuring to himself as he held them, pinned to his chest as if they were precious to him.
Without straightening he turned to look at them and, as he took a step into the light, they saw that he was a small-framed man in uniform with round-rimmed glasses. He stared, the untidy pile of
papers slipping from his grip until a couple of sheets fell carelessly about his feet.
They held still in the doorway and Owen fumbled for his pistol, thinking for the first time that he might not have shot anyone after all and now, of all times, might find himself incapable.
From behind his thick lenses the little man blinked and darted his eyes about the room. What once must have been a smart uniform was now dirty and sodden. The wire spectacles had been bent and
reshaped many times. His hair was short with a once neat parting still greased into place and flecked with debris, and his jowls bristled with stubble.
A man gone to the dogs
, Owen’s
father would have grumbled, who had come across such creatures in his hospital work; tramps and vagabonds and general no-gooders, he had said.
‘What do you know about this place?’ said Owen.
The man seemed surprised by the question.
‘Do you speak English?’
He nodded.
‘Who are you?’
‘No one,’ the man said.
Janek stiffened. The man’s English was articulate but his accent was German.
‘What are you doing here then?’ said Owen.
‘What are
you
doing here?’ he asked back.
Owen hesitated. ‘Looking for someone.’
‘Who?’
He paused then motioned with his head to Janek. ‘His brother.’
The man’s eyes flicked across and back again.
There was a click as Owen lifted the safety catch on his pistol. ‘So what are you doing here?’
‘What everyone is,’ he said. ‘Hiding.’
‘What do you mean?’
The man poked the glasses further up his nose with his finger, the other hand still clutching the papers to his chest.
‘A reckoning is coming,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
The man didn’t answer. Instead he hesitantly bent his knees, lowering himself, his eyes never straying from them, until his outstretched fingers could blindly reach around his ankles for
the renegade sheets and gather them up into his pile.
‘What are they, anyway?’
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