Page 79 of The Words Beneath the Noise

Inside was warmth and smoke and the low murmur of voices speaking in the language I'd learned to think of as home. Small tables scattered through a cramped space, a bar along one wall, a tired-looking man polishing glasses with a rag that had seenbetter days. Maybe twenty people total, all men, all carrying the same carefully hidden weight.

The relief of it nearly buckled my knees.

I found a corner table, ordered a whisky I couldn't really afford, and let myself simply exist in a space where existing wasn't a crime.

“You look like you've had a rough one.”

The voice came from my left. I turned to find a man settling into the chair across from me, perhaps forty, with silver threading through dark hair and kind eyes set in a weathered face. He moved like someone who'd learned to take up as little space as possible.

“Is it that obvious?”

“You've got the look. Like you're running from something.” He extended a hand. “Malcolm. Though most here call me Mal.”

“Arthur. Art.”

“Pleasure, Art.” His handshake was firm but brief. “First time here?”

“No. But it's been years. Before the war.”

“Ah. Lots of that going around. Men coming back to places they thought they'd left behind.” He took a drink from his own glass. “What brought you out tonight? If you don't mind my asking.”

I considered deflecting. Considered the safe, vague answers I usually gave. But something about this place, this night, this man with his gentle questions made honesty feel possible.

“There's someone,” I said quietly. “Someone I can't stop thinking about. Someone dangerous to want.”

Malcolm nodded slowly. “There usually is. What's he like?”

“Solid. Steady. Carries more weight than anyone should have to carry and never complains.” My voice cracked slightly. “Looks at me like I'm worth looking at. First person who ever has.”

“That's a precious thing. Being seen.” Malcolm's expression softened. “I had someone like that once. Tommy. Met him in the trenches in '17. He was a medic. Saved my life twice over, once with bandages and once just by existing.”

“What happened to him?”

“Passchendaele.” The word came out flat, worn smooth by years of repetition. “Went out to retrieve a wounded man and didn't come back. I found his identification tags in the mud three days later.”

The grief in his voice, even decades old, was unmistakable. I didn't know what to say. Sorry felt inadequate. Everything felt inadequate.

“I'm sorry,” I said anyway.

“Long time ago now. But you never really stop missing them, do you? The ones who saw us.” He took another drink. “Your man. He know how you feel?”

“I think so. We've... there have been moments. But we haven't. We can't.”

“Can't ever stopped anyone who really wanted something.” Malcolm smiled, sad and knowing. “The war makes everything harder. But it also makes everything more urgent. You might not have tomorrow. None of us might. So what are you saving yourself for?”

Before I could answer, another man slid into a chair at our table. Younger, maybe my age, with nervous energy that reminded me uncomfortably of myself. His fingers tapped against his glass in a rapid rhythm.

“Mal, you're monopolising the fresh meat.” His accent was East End, rough and familiar. “I'm Charlie. Don't mind him, he gets philosophical after his third drink.”

“I've only had two.”

“Then you're ahead of schedule.” Charlie turned to me. “So what's your story? Work? Let me guess. Something boring thatyou can't talk about. Half the men in here are doing something they can't talk about. War's full of secrets.”

“Something like that.”

“See, Mal? Mysterious.” Charlie grinned, but there was an edge to it. “I'm a clerk. Nothing mysterious about filing papers all day. But it keeps me out of the fighting, so I'm not complaining.”

“Charlie lost his brother at Dunkirk,” Malcolm said quietly. “He's allowed to not want to fight.”