To the surprise of
both of them, he shook the murderer’s hand. The jarring wail of a siren pierced
the damp night air outside of the train carriage. Swift footsteps echoed around
them as parties of half-visible sentries rushed through the tight, foggy
alleyways nearby. Each of the two men felt a dark fear, for their discovery, which
echoed with each heavy sole striking the cobbles around them, like deer listening
to hungry wolves close in.
“You reckon it’s the right idea?”, said the dark shadow
sitting opposite Berg. The figure jittered in the cold, tiny cabin.
“Yes, we split up!” he whispered firmly in reply. He
carefully emptied the contents of a tied plastic bag onto the floor.
‘We have to work together” said the figure firmly. The
whites of its eyes struck fiercely in the darkness as the old train cart, in
which they sat, creaked around them.
Berg ignored the shadow for a long moment as he organised stuff
deftly; using only the light from passing torches as it briefly flashed through
the smashed window above them.
“There was no choice: we had to swim across. I told you;
grow out your hair,” Berg said his stern, unforgiving expression hidden. However,
the rest of his body was, clearly, fair and studded with goosebumps while he
hunched there naked.
The man opposite was barely visible; his clothes, sodden and
darkened, hid him in the corner. But Berg could see one of his hands reaching
for the clothes by his knees, even in his exhausted state.
With the bite of a scolded dog, Berg Whispered “Go! meet me
at the church” his lips formed a straight line as he looked the dark figure up
and down in the fickle light.
“It’s only fair. We both stand a better chance on our own
now.”
There was a long silence as Berg quietly put on the thin,
white top, dark underwear, grey woollen trousers, socks and black boots.
“Go!” Berg said, raising his voice slightly.
“Take that ruined jacket with you,” He snarked under his
breath, losing his patience.
The shadow crawled out of the side door and Berg watched as the
man shambled across the train tracks, which sat parallel to the river. Now he
was dressed, he peeked out of the window and could see men searching each row
of houses. Torchlight began dancing down the streets as the siren wailed a high-pitched
scream. His mind wandered into the furrows of his past….
***
“Francis, it’s your turn to knock,” Berg whispered to his
brother.
‘Which number?’ Francis said immediately.
“42,” Berg replied, holding a sinister tone in his small
voice.
‘The Baker…!’ Francis replied. A look of fear was blatant
behind his eyes as the two walked carefully along the wonky, cobbled street. The
two small children leapt a whole foot off the floor as two people began loudly arguing
suddenly in the top window of one of the houses behind them. The high pitch of
their volatile argument filled the boy’s heads, and the words, unsuitable for
children’s ears, made them both snort with laughter.
“Well go on then,” Berg smiled, as he pointed to the baker’s
door.
Suddenly, his brother was at the entryway and ringing the
bell. The two of them ran off into the
night as, seconds later, the baker shouted profanities while waving his
torchlight into the street bemoaning their wholehearted laughter.
***
His tiredness distracted him, and Berg shook himself off while
running his hands over his face. He picked up and glanced at his essential
documents from the plastic bag. A passport, stationing papers, handkerchief,
hairbrush- it was all there. Then he winced at the last item falling into his
hand. The now useless officer’s serial card.
‘I should have taken the jacket, I knew it’ he thought to
himself regretfully. He knew any member of the hound’s guard seen without their
esteemed jacket and glaring epaulettes: would be met with serious inquiry, so
close to the camp.
He closed his eyes and murmured to himself “MO6345672”. He
let a huge sigh out and dropped the useless card into the mud. Then he climbed
over the railing in front of the train. He moved south onto a quiet backstreet
while sticking to the shadows and watching, intently, for any signs of
movement.
“Blacksmith street”, the sign said above him as he turned
off down the old road, eastward. Shops were boarded up, no produce hung in shop
windows, no smell of food, and not a single person could be heard, singing or
arguing, within the walls of the buildings. The only sign of life was a small
fire through a distant window. Berg paid close attention to the muffled sound
of voices in the distance as he snuck toward the light. It was as though they rode
the air up and over the rooftops and called to him from every nearby crack in
the walls, whispered through every door ajar and tapped him on the shoulder as
he crept. His fatigue made paranoia set in deeply.
The small light drew nearer, his ability to see hampered by
drooping eyelids and near-perfect darkness in the moonless, misty night.
Nonetheless, he could now see the sign hanging above the faint light.
‘The Marked Card’
It was the pub. Berg fought down the impulsive urge to smile,
for he knew he could not stay for a drink. Instead, he poked his head through
the open front window. When without warning, the decision to enter held Berg in
place for a long moment. After all, people frequent pubs, especially guardsmen.
He sat eerily still like a beer straddling the window ledge… half-empty.
Then, without warning, the sirens wailed once again, filling
his ears. Shouting and footsteps then rushed through the air in the surrounding
streets, before an isolated but very loud gunshot bounded along the nearby cobbles.
Berg just about managed a fleeting thought for his waterlogged acquaintance as
he dived through the window and scrambled under a table for fear of his own
life. There he froze in place, watching as two tall men in grey ran past the
window and back the way he had come.
He lay under the table, silent and afraid. He drifted away
trying, desperately, to be anywhere else.
***
“Berg, I did it!” Francis shouted with distinct happiness in
his voice as he barged through the door to the tailors.
“You’re looking at the newest recruit of the Great Hound’s Military!”
Francis stood tall and flashed a brazen stance in front of the large loom, which
filled most of the small shop’s workroom. He was brandishing a pair of
beautiful epaulettes, practically screaming his newly issued serial number.
Berg’s bottom lip began to falter immediately on seeing them.
He looked at his broken wooden drill rifle, which lay shattered in his palms.
Looking at his brother, a blur, through a build-up of tears; Berg found only
the words…
“But what will I do without you?”
Berg ran outside, but Francis remained.
***
Sleepily, Berg shook himself back to his senses under the
table of the empty pub. Just then,
laughter and cheers from a group of sentries could be heard.
He was sure they’d got him. ‘The soaking man would not be
meeting him in the church’, he thought to himself.
He quickly stood and took stock of the room using the fading
light from the small fire. The space was filled with plates, tables were set, crockery
was out, cutlery cleaned and beers going flat in the corner. Then, as the smell
of warm bread was filling his nostrils, he smiled. He noticed on the back of a
chair, in the darkest corner of the room, there one sat, the jacket of an officer.
He ignored his senses, blocking out even food and drink to get to it, and slung
it over his shoulders. No sooner had he slid both arms in the sleeves than
someone was approaching.
With his back against the main door, Berg felt hairs
standing on the back of his neck. He was afraid they may push the door open. He
listened carefully. He heard a man whistling as he walked along the pathway
right out front. Berg swore he could feel him standing on the other side of the
door itself.
A crippling tenseness filled the air as both men were
oblivious of the other for the first time.
Just as a cold shiver reached the bottom of Berg’s spine, and
an aching moment passed, the sentries whistling started again, cheerful as a bird,
while his footsteps moved in tune behind. Berg swiped a half-filled light beer from
the footstool by his right leg, and he drank as if his life depended on it. He
felt it did.
With a newfound, slight, confidence the fully dressed Berg
opened the door and watched as the uniformed man walked further down the
street. He swiftly left the Pub and, in panic as much as anything, he began
walking down the street as if nothing was amiss. He had a full disguise. If he
kept his distance, he could walk the three streets to the church and get out of
the city.
He ducked down Dog Shelter alley, took a right at the little
fork. Then walked briskly down the thin road, keeping to the right so he could
scout into the courtyard for guards. He was mere minutes away. He felt a slight
relief fill his head; he exhaled loudly and looked out into the courtyard as he
walked, watching the corner again. When, from the side that he wasn’t watching,
he smashed straight into a man coming the other way.
The man felt like a steel lamppost against Berg’s ribs. He
did not move, as steadfast as a stone wall. Berg fell to the side and hit the
floor with a loud crash.
The guard’s sharp gaze widened, and the surprise lifted from
him as he noticed Berg’s grey uniform.
“Who are you?” asked the officer, a shocked expression clear
in his eyes.
Berg immediately took out his stationing papers and identity
card and handed them over.
He did his best to bury the panic deep down in the pit of
his stomach, just as the man scanned them using a small pocket light. ‘How
could I have forgotten? How could I not have read the serial number on the
jacket?’ Berg thought to himself before he thought of the panic in the pub,
forgiving himself a little.
Meanwhile, the man in black looked Berg up and down, his
eyes piercing in the darkness, the whites of his eyes glowing.
The officer spoke sharply as he handed back the documents
“very well, move along”.
Without sparing a second thought, Berg looked to step away.
“Serial number?” the
man tapped twice expectedly on the number, which was customarily stitched to
each epaulette.
Berg sighed deeply and lamented his mistake.
Swiftly and violently, he pulled the tip of the rifle away
from the two of them, but the officer lifted it upward. He was strong, but Berg
forced one hand over the man’s mouth and fought with the other to push him
against a wall, using the rifle. The butt of the rifle smashed down against the
officer’s groin, and he let out a yelp as he fell to one knee. The two men locked
eyes briefly as the officer’s free hand then pulled the trigger. A deafening
shot fired upward into the night sky. In horror, Berg pulled the rifle, span on
the spot and bashed the butt into the man’s head, knocking him unconscious.
Berg sprinted, ears ringing, down the street. He couldn’t
hear the footsteps and sirens heading toward him. Terrified, he randomly dived
through the doorway of the small tailors that sat at the corner of the
courtyard. He hid against a fireplace in a tiny, dark room with open windows. Through
which he could see the steeple. He slumped against the wall and with his eyes
closed. Such as he was, even now, tiredness then took him.
***
“This is indistinguishable from the real thing,” Francis
glared at his brother, as the forged ID papers were held up in front of him.
Fury filled his face and his cheeks ballooned, “You cannot
impersonate a military officer… brother or not!” The words seemed to fill the
air around them. Berg stood, looking at the floor.
“No matter how convincing a signature may be, how well
you’ve stitched a uniform together, how long you’ve spent perfecting etiquette
in addressing superiors… you’re not a soldier!” Francis was red in the face. He
stormed out of the room and signalled with a sharp movement to two of his men
outside.
“Don’t do this!” Berg shouted while he was dragged out into
the street.
“I was looking for you.”
They threw him into the giant steel wagon.
***
Suddenly, a huge explosion shattered the silence in the old
tailor shop where Berg lay, sleeping. He jumped to his feet and looked out into
the courtyard. Darkness was, only just, giving way to sunrise.
He watched as a figure, deep in the smoke and debris left
behind by the noise, gasped for air. Berg rubbed his eyes and watched the
figure stare frantically in multiple directions while walking, at a brisk pace,
in a deeply uncertain fashion. He was in uniform, without a jacket.
He seemed to be sneaking through the streets, in the dim
light Berg could see tints of blonde hair atop a tall, slim build. As the man
reached a corner, he cautiously looked down one of the streets. Berg could not
stop watching. He felt much like the man in every way except literally.
Suddenly, a gate directly opposite the man was kicked open
by several guards. They wore their grey uniforms and two of them dragged a dark
figure with them. His arms slung over their shoulders, and a white bandage
wrapped around his head. Their flashlights immediately shone on the man Berg
had been watching. The soldiers began shouting!
“Freeze!” they yelled pointing weapons at him. He stopped
running.
In the dim morning light, Berg squinted to discern what was
going on. The wounded officer was pulled right up to the face of the mystery blonde-haired
man.
Berg strained to hear!
“That’s him, take him to the church”. The injured man said
in a stifled cough.
The man was struck with several weapons and screamed as he
was dragged off under the tall, menacing steeple of the church.
A long while had passed before light flowed into the room, like
the morning singing of the birds. Berg could see clearly for the first time in
days. There was a loud silence; nothing stirred in the town. Quickly, he began
wandering the building and upon finding the bathroom, he cleaned himself up. Taking
out his stashed handkerchief, he washed his face and cleared all dirt from it. Then
brushed his hair into a side parting. He fastened his top button, cleaned his
boots and straightened his epaulettes.
After a long process of checking his documents were all in
order and giving his adopted signature several practices with his cold hands,
he finally stepped outside and headed toward the church.
The streets were empty for the most part. That was until he
came to the courtyard outside the church. He could not see for the sheer number
of people glaring across the street. People were waving newspapers in the air,
singing nationalist songs, laughing and jumping up and down. He worked his way across
the wide street, at a crawl, with his head down. He was pushed numerous times
in the wrong direction and even became disorientated in the pandemonium for a
brief moment.
Then, as if God himself had intervened, he looked upward at
what was drawing the commotion from the crowd surrounding him. Backlit by the
rising sun was the blonde-haired man… hanging from a noose.
In the pit of his stomach was a pain unlike anything he had
ever felt; Berg struggled to stay on his feet, and he began to sweat.
Suddenly, he was pulled to one side by a man in a grey
uniform. They stared at each other, for a moment. The small, sheepish man
looked at Berg’s epaulettes.
“What’s your serial?” a stern smile hung on his whole face.
Berg straightened his back and fought the urge to throw up. A
few people around them seemed to take notice.
“MO6345672,” said Berg with a lifeless tone.
The man shook his hand and said with a strange excitement,
“It’s got to be difficult sir? It’s a frightening likeness, even for identical
twins”.
Berg looked visibly ill.
“They said he wasn’t wearing a jacket; that’s how they knew.
Covered in dust, he was… filthy. No officer would present themselves like that.
Dark hair and muggy eyes – nothing like you when they found him.” The man
snorted as Berg struggled to keep his composure. He pictured his brother
wandering through the explosion again. His heart sank.
“How else would you differentiate identical twins ey?... ey?”
The man lost interest when Berg didn’t answer and simply meandered away.
He felt a colossal emptiness working its way from the very centre
of his head, down to the ends of his toes. He stood looking at his once beloved
brother as he was pushed to the steps below the church. Their eyes were blank, they
held no feeling.
“Good show sir!”, Shouted another soldier from behind him as
he walked beneath the steeple.
The table was set up outside, with lines of people holding
luggage. He was helped to the front of the queue, as a man in uniform would be,
by a patriotic crowd.
In the soundless vacuum of his head, Berg heard a voice.
“By chance could…” He saw himself picking up a random jacket
in the pub. His brother’s jacket.
“What are the odds!” the voice faded away and suddenly he
saw the clerk for the first time.
“What are the odds I can get your serial number?” asked the
thin clerk waiting in uniform, behind the table. His expression was expectant.
A moments silence passed, and the man began to look puzzled.
“I said…”
“Francis Mohan… that’s my name” Berg interrupted.
“Serial…”
“Francis Mohan!” Berg quipped with a raised voice, anger deep
in his eyes.
The clerk nervously looked Berg up and down. He was
beautifully presented, blonde hair glistening. He looked every stitch his
brothers equal.
“Papers then?”
Impulsively Berg missed the rehearsed pocket he had so
carefully prepared, and instead, he slid his fingers into his brother’s custom pocket.
A small, stitched zip on the inside lining. He handed over his brother’s ID
card.
“Sign here?” the now annoyed clerk snapped.
The little man watched intently as Berg flawlessly forged
his brother’s signature and slid the papers across the table, matching the ID
card perfectly.
“Go!”, said the clerk.
Berg turned and walked into the church.
He had become more than what he always wanted: he had become
a soldier and his brother.
He felt a deep sadness.
