Page 16 of These Old Lies

“I haven’t yet.”

“I was going to finish my wine, unless you’ve drunk it all, and read a book.” Ned put on his most posh accent. “Pages with words. You may be familiar.”

“All this just to read a book. You really are odd.” Charlie moved over in the bed. “Come here, that chair doesn’t look like it will support you much longer.”

Ned grabbed the novel from his bag but glanced uncertainly at the bed.

Charlie patted the space beside him, reassuring Ned becoming strangely important. “I know how to keep it in my trousers. Now, what’s this book you’re reading?”

Ned moved towards the bed and let himself lie down a good foot away from Charlie. “I’m not re-starting from the beginning.” He opened the book as if it were assumed he would read aloud.

“I’ll catch up,” Charlie said. With the same wordless understanding, he topped up Ned’s glass with the remainder of the wine.

Ned began to read what Charlie could only consider to be a ridiculous novel of posh people doing little of consequence. Charlie had never been a man for novels, much preferring factual descriptions of the world to melodramatics. Still, this book of Ned’s wasn’t unbearable.

They lay side by side, not touching on the lumpy bed, sipping the best wine Charlie had ever tasted in his life. Ned in his silk robe, his eyes done up, Charlie in his uniform khakis with two days' stubble. It should have been wrong on every level, but it felt more right, and more perfect, than any other moment Charlie could remember in his life.

After two chapters, Charlie offered to take over the reading. At some point after that, Ned rolled closer to him. By the time they had switched to Ned reading again, Charlie had his arms around Ned, who was tucked against his side, head against Charlie's shoulder.

Charlie found himself getting increasingly lost in the Italian adventures of Lucy and George, so it was only at a chapter break that he noticed Ned’s breathing had become deep and regular. He looked down to see that thebastard had fallen asleep against his chest.

Ned had the longest eyelashes, which were black like his hair. They didn’t need the mascara, Charlie thought, they were perfect just as they were. A lot like the man himself, the elegant and delicate eyelashes contrasted to the solidness of the rest of his face. Charlie let himself enjoy the weight of the other man’s body, the way he could feel Ned’s chest pushing against his own each time he took a breath. With a trembling hand, he lightly traced Ned’s face with one finger, a gentleness that would never, ever be possible in their normal encounters.

Charlie felt in a somewhat detached way the wetness on his cheeks and realised he was crying.

Ned shifted and put his own hand to Charlie’s face. Without opening his eyes, he twisted around such that it was Ned who had his arms around Charlie, and he started to run his hands through Charlie’s hair. Charlie lay there and wept silently, feeling both more whole and more lost than ever.

7 Heroism

London, 1923 / Ned

London could be particularly magnificent in the summer, with the sun bright and a soft breeze rustling through the trees. Ned strolled towards Hyde Park, the weight of a small book in his pocket, equipped should he wish to stop in a pub for a drink. There was no better way to spend his afternoon.

Lost in these thoughts, Ned turned tightly around a corner towards the park’s main gate and almost tripped over a beggar on the pavement.

Perhaps beggar was the wrong word. The man had a thin sheet laid out in front of him with a collection of odds and ends for sale. Mostly mementos and souvenirs from the war: carvings in limestone, vases and etchings made from shell casings, lines of medals. Heroism for sale.

As Ned righted himself, an object at the edge of the sheet caught on the edges of his peripheral vision.

A gas mask.

Ned hated gas masks. Hated the way they smelled, of rubber and sweat and somehow of shit. He hated how the lenses fogged up, reducing his vision to shadows. Even when he hadn’t been wearing the mask, he’d hated the constant weight thumping against his side as he ran over the top.

Where was his mask? Had he forgotten it at home? Ned searched his pockets frantically, throwing his book to the ground. What use was that?

Gas! Quick, boys, quick! There was hardly any time. Ned wouldn’t let himself end up screaming and floundering on the ground as the green clouds crept across the fields.

GAS! Ned needed a mask. Once, he’d taken a mask from a corpse when his own had cracked.

Ned began to choke on the toxic fumes. He was too late. He squeezed his eyes shut even as he knew it would do little to protect him against the acidic air that would blind him.

Ned couldn’t imagine a worse way to die. No enemy to fight, no opponent to outsmart, nowhere to run. Only the wait for your body to be burned and destroyed.

“You alright?” A soft Irish accent penetrated through Ned’s terror. “I think you dropped your book.” The slim volume was pressed into his hands. Did the man not understand? Ned didn’t have his gas mask.

“I think we best sit down.” The hand gripped Ned’s elbow and guided him to a stone kerb, where Ned collapsed, his legs sprawled out in front of him. “Can you feel the sun on your face? Seems like summer is finally here.”

Sun. Yes, Ned could feel the sun. He nodded.