Page 4 of The Words Beneath the Noise

You're not there. You're here. It's just noise.

The words helped. A little.

I walked for another hour, mapping the grounds the way I'd mapped every place I'd ever been stationed. Entry points. Blind spots. Positions where a man with a rifle could do damage if he wanted to. Professional habit. The kind of thing that kept you alive when everything else was trying to kill you.

By the time I got back to my room, the sky was starting to lighten at the edges. I'd been walking for most of the night.

I didn't feel tired. I didn't feel much of anything.

I sat on the edge of my bed and cleaned my pistol by touch, the familiar motions soothing in their predictability. Cylinder out. Chambers checked. Barrel wiped down. Oil applied sparingly. Everything in its place. Everything under control.

The sun came up while I was still sitting there, pale winter light creeping across the floor, and I told myself that tomorrow would be easier.

I didn't believe it. But I told myself anyway.

Morning came,and with it, routine.

I reported to Finch at 0700 as ordered, received my patrol schedule and a map of the grounds marked with routes and checkpoints. Davies, the corporal from yesterday, walked me through the morning rounds, pointing out buildings and explaining their functions in the vague, careful way of someone who knew more than he was allowed to say.

“Hut X’s the big one,” he said as we approached a long wooden building near the centre of the grounds. “That's where most of the codebreaking happens. Multiple sections inside, different teams working different problems. Very hush-hush.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Even I don't know half of what goes on in there.”

I studied the building. Single storey, windows blacked out, a steady stream of people coming and going through the main entrance. Men in uniforms and men in civilian clothes, women in WAAF blue and women in sensible skirts and cardigans, all of them moving with the particular exhaustion of people who'd been working too long on too little sleep.

“Shift change is at eight,” Davies continued. “Night shift comes out, day shift goes in. That's when you'll do most of your escort work. Some of them live on the grounds, some billet in the village. Either way, they need watching.”

I nodded, filing it away.

“Right, then.” Davies checked his watch. “Night shift should be finishing up. Let me show you the drill.”

We positioned ourselves near the entrance, and I watched as the door opened and people began filing out. Most moved in groups, talking quietly, clutching mugs of tea that steamed in the cold air. A few walked alone, lost in thought, navigating the icy paths by memory.

And then I saw him.

He came out last, or nearly last, a tall figure unfolding himself from the doorway like he'd forgotten how his limbs worked. Dark hair fell across his forehead, dishevelled in a way that suggested he'd been running his hands through it, and his eyes, pale in the morning light, were fixed on something I couldn't see. The ground, maybe. Or nothing at all.

He wore a shirt and tie under a cardigan that had seen better years, a coat that didn't quite fit, and wrapped around his throatlike armour, a dark knitted scarf. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, and he moved with a strange, careful deliberation, each step precise, like he was counting them.

“That's Pembroke,” Davies said quietly. “The one Finch told you about.”

I watched him reach the bottom of the steps and pause, head tilting up toward the sky. Just for a moment. Just long enough to note the clouds, or the light, or whatever it was his mind was cataloguing. Then he started walking again, that same measured pace, and I found myself tracking his path the way I'd once tracked targets through a scope.

There was something about the way he moved. Something that didn't fit the picture of an absent-minded academic who walked into walls. His steps were careful, yes, but they were also deliberate. Avoiding certain patches of ground. Choosing his route with an attention that seemed almost obsessive.

Pattern, I thought.He's following a pattern.

“Brilliant mind,” Davies was saying. “Absolutely brilliant. But odd, you know? Doesn't talk much. Doesn't socialise. Just works and walks and works some more.” He shook his head. “Between you and me, I think he's a bit touched. Not in a bad way, just... different.”

I said nothing. Different was a dangerous word. Different got you noticed, got you watched, got you pulled aside and questioned about things that were nobody's business.

Pembroke disappeared around the corner of a building, and I felt something shift in my chest. Not recognition, exactly. Something else. Something I couldn't name.

“You'll meet him properly this afternoon,” Davies said, already moving toward the next checkpoint. “Finch wants you on escort duty for him starting today. Keep him out of trouble, keep him on schedule, keep him alive.” He grinned. “Should be simple enough, yeah?”

I followed, but my mind was elsewhere. Still tracking that dark-haired figure through the snow, still trying to understand why the sight of him had left me feeling like I'd missed something important.

It didn't matter, I told myself. He was just another assignment. Another body to keep breathing until someone decided I was fit to go back to the war.

Don't get attached. Don't let anyone in. Do your job and get through this.