Page 73 of Besieger
When he had finished tidying, the man came and straightened the sheets, shifting piles of clothing and newspapers aside. He perched on the edge of the bed, wise enough not to sit too close, but near enough to lean in and inspect his handiwork. He brushed his fingers against the bandages around Victor’s ribs.
Victor hissed and again made to swat at the hand, but pain shot through his shoulder and he clutched at the sheets, grinding his teeth.
“Bones are harder to heal,” the man told him. “Of all your injuries, your face was the easiest to fix.”
He tapped a finger against Victor’s splint, eyes narrowed as he examined it.
“Who are you? Why is theSchutz—?”
“I am your friend, Tobias,” the man’s whisper was no more than a trickle. “You know me.”
Shivers ran down Victor’s body. A pair of hands brushed at his neck, touching, prepping the wounds and bandages on his chest, pulled at the cast, ensuring his arm could not slip free and cause the bone to heal wrong. The hands caressed his face, brushed back his hair; fingers touched the bruises under his eyes and nose. The man pulled up Victor’s blankets, tucking him into a cocoon of confusion and warmth.
Victor stared into the man’s face and could not recall where they had met. Perhaps during the training, perhaps the same regiment. Or had they worked together in the office? The way the man gazed down at Victor—his whole face open, mouth set in a faint, empathic smile—he looked like one of the lads from The Secretariat. The day before the funeral, before…
The man’s irises were so dark, they seemed to consume the pupils. The longer that gaze held him, the calmer Victor felt. The shadows in the room shivered, trembling like the wings of insects.
Yes, he knew this man.
If only he could remember his name.
Victor drifted in and out of the wails of the sirens. The furniture, the whole world, juddered with each bomb that found its mark; each scream, each crash that reverberated through the fragile windows. If he woke up during the day, a jug with water and a plate of stale bread were laid out on a makeshift tray. There was no sign of the man.
When the sirens woke him with a sudden jolt and he found himself alone, Victor thought he had dreamt it all—his mysterious saviour who had addressed Victor by a dead man’s name. He did not know what day it was or how many days had passed since Tobias’ funeral. Were they looking for him? Would theWerwolfstill have use for him when they found out how he had run? Like a coward, a deserter?
Of course they would. They were mobilising everyone.
Propping himself up against the pillows, Victor looked around the room. It lay in a chaotic disarray. A wardrobe had fallen over, spilling its contents like entrails made of silk and wool. Once upon a time a vanity table with a large mirror had stood across the bed. Now only its ghostly outline marked the wall, while shards of glass sprinkled over the floor, crushed to sand by many boots, like flour on a baker’s board. Even the curtains had taken some kind of damage: they were torn and scorched, a patchwork of mismatched fabrics. But they held the world, and the light, at bay.
Victor must have dozed off because the next time he came to consciousness, the tray had been cleared and his bandages changed. The man was in the room, moving in the dark. It was the sound of glassware that woke Victor; the gentle clicking of glasses, like champagne flutes making a toast. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Victor saw the man at the dresser, hisshirtsleeves rolled up. It was cold in the room, however he was standing in nothing but his trousers and shirt.
As if sensing that his patient was awake, the man turned and walked over to the bed. He had thrown his heavy greatcoat on top of the blankets, using it as a makeshift quilt to keep Victor warm as he slept.
“Drink while it is still hot.” The man offered Victor a tiny cup.
“What is it?”
“Medicine.”
As if it could be anything but. Victor accepted the cup and looked at the dark, blood-red liquid and gently swayed the cup, swilling the contents across the porcelain walls. The liquid was thick as broth. And yet he wanted it; the faint smell made him hungry. It tasted raw, the salt of it enough to make him gag, but he forced it down, ran his tongue over his teeth and lips, desperate for more.
“A thimbleful at a time,” the man said, as if reading Victor’s mind, and took back the cup.
There were times when Victor woke, and not even the fires and bombs kept him company as he waited for the stranger to return. Day turned into night, and night into day, and still Victor lay in bed, too tired to move, unable to turn without his broken ribs screaming at him to rest.Rest, rest! He reached for the jug and drained the stale water, seized by an unquenchable thirst. A newly-cut slice of old bread and an apple waited untouched. He doubted he could stomach food, no matter how hungry he was.
The next time Victor woke it was not from the sound of the sirens, he had long since grown used to them. A clicking brought him to the waking world, snipping at the fabric of his dreams. Hepropped himself on his elbow and peered about, the light of a candle startling him.
The vanity table had been righted on its crooked legs, and the few surviving shards of the mirror now reflected the light of the candle and the man sitting before it. The stranger was running a pair of scissors through his hair. The metal flashed and sparkled as it cut the long locks, clippings drifted to the floor, disappearing like specks of dust, incinerated into nothing. When the man was done, he ran his hands through his now short hair, smoothing it back, giving the illusion of a put together officer, off to do his duty.
“I did not mean to wake you.”
The man studied himself in the broken mirror, turning his head from left to right, judging his work. He brushed at his clothes, patted them clean.
“I thought you were a dream,” said Victor
“A pleasant dream?” the man asked offhandedly, his back still to Victor, lingering at the vanity a little longer before he finally turned around and walked over.
“One of the nicest ones I’ve had in recent years,” the words spilled out before Victor could stop them.
