Read Online The Eyes of the Dead by G.R. Yeates - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: G.R. Yeates
Ads: Link
the road behind them. It was hanging back, keeping pace, stalking them. The body was low and long. It wasn’t a man.
It was one of the dogs.
Wilson looked away. It was not a dog. His eyes were playing tricks on him. He was imagining things. That was all. Christ, he wished they were at the station already and that he was off this bloody stretcher and on his way. It would be dry and warm and well-lit in the train. No wild dogs in there.
What was he going to do?
Say something to the bearers?
No. they’d just think he was doolally from his wounds.
He looked again.
There it was, following. It hadn’t attacked them. Maybe it was okay. Maybe it wasn’t wild. Maybe it was just a normal stray. Hungry and hoping they would lead it to food. Wilson didn’t believe that for a second. He lay back on the stretcher and began to sing to take his mind off it.
“Pack up yer troubles in yer old kit bag and smile, smile, smile. Pack up yer troubles in yer old kit bag and smile boy, that’s the style.”
Spitting out the rain as it landed on his lips, he thought only about the next line that was coming, belting it out.
“What’s the use of worrying? It never was worthwhile. So pack up yer troubles in yer old kit bag and smile, smile, smile.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Wilson watched the shape in the rain following them. It did not shrink back as he sang, nor did it move to attack. Whatever it was, it kept on coming. Dim points of lights broke through the gloom in front of them. Wilson felt his heart skip a beat. They were nearly there, at the station. He heard the chunter of a train pulling in. A whistle blew. A flare burst overhead, illuminating the face of the rear bearer.
It was Smithy.
His broken jaw hanging open. The head of the black rat poking out of his ruined mouth. The skin on his head was mottled and loose, coming away from the skull. Bulges rose and fell underneath the shredded cloth of his uniform as more rats foraged in his guts. The black rat hissed at Wilson. The obsidian gems of its eyes staring deep into his own.
Wilson looked to the head bearer.
Brookes turned his head and leered at Wilson. His torn throat flapping open. The dead boy grinned, gurgling, pointing to the battered sign hanging over the station entrance.
Wilson read the words on the sign.
Halfway There
Brookes and Smithy were laughing.
It was an awful sound.
Chapter Fourteen
Madeleine jerked up from her cot. Standing in the shelter of the shadows, they were always there, always with her. She could feel them but not see them, watching her. They did not speak. She was glad of that. She knew that it was not the done thing for the living to speak ill of the dead, but she did wonder if the dead spoke ill of the living. She talked to them every night. Telling them about her day, how Kitty was doing and what she had read in the newspapers about the war effort. She would ramble on in desperate whispers, hoping to placate the restless spirits. As each night passed into the early hours of morning, she would weep. She wrung her hands in penitence, begging them to go away, leave her in peace.
Mother, father and Uncle Albert.
Father and Uncle Albert died at The Somme.
Madeleine remembered receiving the letter. The official buff-coloured envelope with OHMS printed on it. They might be sick or wounded, she thought at the time, swaying on her feet, aware of little else but the feather-weight of the dour envelope in her hands. It was cool and smooth. She knew what it was going to say. She tore the envelope open. Snatching out the contents, casting the tattered envelope to one side, she read what was there. A standardised form headed by a short sequence of letters and numbers.
B.104-82B
She read a little more.
‘It is my painful duty to inform you….’
She bit her lip.
‘….sympathy of their Gracious Majesties…’
The tears were hurrying down her face as she read on.
‘….sincere regret of the Army Council…’
They were
It was one of the dogs.
Wilson looked away. It was not a dog. His eyes were playing tricks on him. He was imagining things. That was all. Christ, he wished they were at the station already and that he was off this bloody stretcher and on his way. It would be dry and warm and well-lit in the train. No wild dogs in there.
What was he going to do?
Say something to the bearers?
No. they’d just think he was doolally from his wounds.
He looked again.
There it was, following. It hadn’t attacked them. Maybe it was okay. Maybe it wasn’t wild. Maybe it was just a normal stray. Hungry and hoping they would lead it to food. Wilson didn’t believe that for a second. He lay back on the stretcher and began to sing to take his mind off it.
“Pack up yer troubles in yer old kit bag and smile, smile, smile. Pack up yer troubles in yer old kit bag and smile boy, that’s the style.”
Spitting out the rain as it landed on his lips, he thought only about the next line that was coming, belting it out.
“What’s the use of worrying? It never was worthwhile. So pack up yer troubles in yer old kit bag and smile, smile, smile.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Wilson watched the shape in the rain following them. It did not shrink back as he sang, nor did it move to attack. Whatever it was, it kept on coming. Dim points of lights broke through the gloom in front of them. Wilson felt his heart skip a beat. They were nearly there, at the station. He heard the chunter of a train pulling in. A whistle blew. A flare burst overhead, illuminating the face of the rear bearer.
It was Smithy.
His broken jaw hanging open. The head of the black rat poking out of his ruined mouth. The skin on his head was mottled and loose, coming away from the skull. Bulges rose and fell underneath the shredded cloth of his uniform as more rats foraged in his guts. The black rat hissed at Wilson. The obsidian gems of its eyes staring deep into his own.
Wilson looked to the head bearer.
Brookes turned his head and leered at Wilson. His torn throat flapping open. The dead boy grinned, gurgling, pointing to the battered sign hanging over the station entrance.
Wilson read the words on the sign.
Halfway There
Brookes and Smithy were laughing.
It was an awful sound.
Chapter Fourteen
Madeleine jerked up from her cot. Standing in the shelter of the shadows, they were always there, always with her. She could feel them but not see them, watching her. They did not speak. She was glad of that. She knew that it was not the done thing for the living to speak ill of the dead, but she did wonder if the dead spoke ill of the living. She talked to them every night. Telling them about her day, how Kitty was doing and what she had read in the newspapers about the war effort. She would ramble on in desperate whispers, hoping to placate the restless spirits. As each night passed into the early hours of morning, she would weep. She wrung her hands in penitence, begging them to go away, leave her in peace.
Mother, father and Uncle Albert.
Father and Uncle Albert died at The Somme.
Madeleine remembered receiving the letter. The official buff-coloured envelope with OHMS printed on it. They might be sick or wounded, she thought at the time, swaying on her feet, aware of little else but the feather-weight of the dour envelope in her hands. It was cool and smooth. She knew what it was going to say. She tore the envelope open. Snatching out the contents, casting the tattered envelope to one side, she read what was there. A standardised form headed by a short sequence of letters and numbers.
B.104-82B
She read a little more.
‘It is my painful duty to inform you….’
She bit her lip.
‘….sympathy of their Gracious Majesties…’
The tears were hurrying down her face as she read on.
‘….sincere regret of the Army Council…’
They were
Similar Books
