Page 11 of No Man's Land

“I know, but it can’t be. Ending the war isn’t the only thing we’re fighting for, Joe. And we can’t impale ourselves on that one issue.”

He rubbed his hands through his hair, still bitterly disappointed. But he trusted May, helikedMay, and deep down he knew she was right. After everything he’d witnessed at the front, ending the war overshadowed all other issues in his mind. But for May, for the countess, and for many others who worked for theDaily Clarion, the struggle was wider: universal suffrage and education, workers’ rights, the advance of international socialism. They were fighting for a future where men and women everywhere lived with dignity and respect, and endingthis imperialist war was only part of their fight. “A pamphlet is better than nothing,” he conceded, and softened his ungrateful response with a smile. “But I want to write it too.”

“Joe…”

He held up a hand to stop her. “I know I don’t write as well as you, but it has to be my words. It has to be someone who was there.”

Her lips pursed, but after a moment, she said, “All right. But the editor gets the last word, and no arguing.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“Good. Now off with you. I’ve work to do. As do you, by the way. I need a picture of this evening’s menu at the Ritz for a piece we’re running about food shortages. Think you can manage it?”

“I dare say I can charm my way into the kitchens.” He smiled, but it felt wan as he gathered his photographs from the table and slipped them back inside their envelope. “I’ll bring a print over tomorrow.”

May stopped him before he left, grasping his arm. “Bring one of your less-shocking pictures with you, too. We’ll run a piece about conditions at the front.”

“And the casualty figures. They’re lying about that, May. And they’re lying about the new weapons, too. The gas and… I don’t even know what. Something worse, maybe.” Something that left hideous, rotting wounds that he could have photographed further if Winchester hadn’t pinched his bloody camera. Which, he suspected, had been the point of the theft. Too bad for the captain that Josef had already dropped off his film with M. Verbeke, because the picture of that boy had been every bit as powerful as he’d hoped.

He thought about it as he stepped out into the foggy evening. Truth be told, he thought about it a lot. For all the deathhe’d witnessed, that nameless boy’s suffering had been the most intimate. And the most shocking.

Winchester’s involvement only made it worse.

Perhaps that was why, as he turned up his collar and headed down Carmelite Street towards the Embankment, he thought he caught the scent of decay in the air. Not for the first time, either, since his return to London. Not ordinary decay, you understand, but the specific putrid rot of those vile wounds he’d seen in Flanders. Today, the stench seemed to linger in the fog. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand as he walked along the narrow pavement, dodging around people as they loomed out of the murk.

The fog was even thicker down by the river, the mournful hoots of invisible ships only adding to the strange sense of dislocation. When Josef was a boy, his father had told him the tale of a docker who’d disappeared one foggy night down at the Port of London. Nobody knew what became of him until, when the fog cleared, the desperate scratches of his fingernails had been found on the side of the dock where he’d struggled to climb out of the icy river before he drowned. Apocryphal or not, the story had terrified Josef. He’d hated the fog ever since.

It was almost six o’clock by the time he reached the Ritz, its golden light beaming into the night as if wealth and privilege could beat back the dark. Maybe it could; it seemed like money could perform miracles. Why else would those who had it fight so hard to keep it all for themselves? Through the windows of the Ritz, Josef glimpsed the men and women within as if visiting an exhibit:The British Upper Class at Play.Colourful, exotic creatures in their tank, separated by glass from the cold, dank London streets. Separated by an even greater chasm from the struggles and fears of people like himself. And from the men dying at their behest in the salient.

Absently, he rubbed his nose. Was he imagining that bloody stink? Maybe it was the river. Eager to be out of the weather, he headed for the staff entrance at the back of the hotel and wheedled his way into the kitchens. He and themaître d’, Floréal Bisset, were old friends. And by friends he meant ‘friends’.

“Josef,” Floréal gushed, kissing him on both cheeks in the continental fashion. “What a pleasure. I did not know you were back from the front.” Floréal had a thick French accent which Josef was sure he actively preserved; he’d worked in England for at least thirty years, after all, but still sounded like he’d just stepped off the boat. “How are you?” Hands resting on Josef’s shoulders, Floréal studied him, and Josef felt warmed by the genuine concern in his friend’s face. A little more lined than before, a little more strained. But so were they all; it had been a hard few years. “You look thin,” Floréal said. Then he smiled, his eyes crinkling. “Mais toujours aussi beau.”

Josef squeezed his arm. “It’s good see you too, Florrie. I’m afraid I’m here to beg a favour.”

“Ah.” Floréal’s enthusiasm dimmed. “Go on.”

Josef explained what May wanted, pulling his camera—his new camera, thank you very much Captain bloody Winchester—from his satchel. “It won’t take a moment, and obviously, your name won’t be mentioned in the piece.”

Floréal rolled his eyes. “I see you’re still fighting the ‘imperialist elite’.”

“I see you’re still serving them.”

Floréal’s shrug was very French. “But every day I dine like a king, and you are very thin, so…Mince, Josef! Come on, I will fetch your menu. And something to eat, too. Put some meat back on your bones,mon poulet.”

And so Josef not only got his photograph of the extravagant and frankly excessive menu, but he got to sample adish of sole and lobster drowned in a creamy white wine sauce. A substantial meal on its own, and undoubtedly the best one he’d eaten since his supper with Winchester, but just one course for those who dined at the Ritz. His hackles rose at the sight of all the cream sloshing about the kitchen when food shortages meant that ordinary men and women struggled to buy a pint of milk.

That was the point of the article May was writing, but when he thought of the tins of Maconochie stew being cracked open at the front by soldiers fighting and dying in a war propagated and prolonged by the men who feasted here… Well, his blood boiled.

Which was when Floréal booted him out to cool down.

“Come back later, eh?” His gaze lingered in that specific, knowing way. “It’s been too long, my friend.”

“It has,” Josef said, reaching into his coat pocket for his fags. Truth was, he’d not been much in the mood for that kind of thing since he got back. Too much else on his mind, he supposed. He lit up and offered Floréal an apologetic smile. “Thanks for dinner.”

“De rien. And stay out of trouble, eh?”

Josef smiled and sketched a short bow as he began to walk away. “I’ll do my best.”

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