Page 17 of No Man's Land

“More like pease pudding,” Josef grumbled, chafing his hands together to rub feeling back into his fingertips. “How’s business today?”

Mr Cohen’s smile wilted as he gestured around the empty shop. “Between the weather and the air raids, nobody’s out.”

“Paper says the fog should clear by the weekend.” Josef tied on his apron and stepped behind the polished wooden counter, dropping his satchel onto the floor next to the high stool. “No zeppelin forecast, I’m afraid.”

“Balloons,” Mr Cohen said, with a disbelieving shake of his head. “Who’d have thought they’d drop bombs from hot air balloons? It’s fantastical, like something Mr Wells would have written.”

Josef smiled but didn’t comment. Seemed to him that there was nothing mankind could invent that they wouldn’t turn into a weapon of war sooner or later. “Go and have your tea, sir,” he said. “I’ll watch the shop.”

“You should have yours first. You look chilled.”

“Don’t worry about me—I’m alright. Besides, I prefer my tea stewed.”

Mr Cohen made a face. “That’s true. All right, lad, if you’re sure. Call me if…” He glanced around the empty shop and sighed. “Never mind.”

As he listened to Mr Cohen’s footsteps climbing the stairs, Josef hopped up onto the stool and pulled his satchel onto his lap, keen to start work on the pamphlet May had promised to publish. Retrieving his notebook, he settled himself with pencil poised and stared at the blank paper.

Where to even start?

Unfortunately, he wasn’t as good with words as he was with pictures: he preferred his photographs to speak for him.But this had to be written, and he had to write it himself, while his memories were crisp and his anger sharp. He couldn’t give it over to May or one of her other scribblers to write up second-hand. There was so much he wanted to say, though. It was hard to know where to begin.

Well. Why not begin with the boy?

Josef pulled the disturbing image from the envelope in his bag and propped it up against a jar of nails on the counter, gazing at that ghostly face and the pale eyes staring right into the lens of the camera. At the time, when he’d taken the picture, he hadn’t noticed that the boy’s eyes were open. The distance had been too great, perhaps, or he’d been too focused on framing the shot. But as soon as he’d seen the photograph, he’d realised how that eerie gaze drew you in and became the rending heart of the image.

He wanted it seen. Ithadto be seen. The boy—all the men who’d suffered and died—deserved to be seen, and Josef would do everything in his power to make that happen. Starting with writing the pamphlet.

Sometime later, he was roused from deep concentration by the jangle of a bell as the shop door opened. Startled, Josef looked up to find a gentleman standing in the doorway.

Captain Winchester, no less.

No uniform, though. He was dressed in civvies: a well-made dark suit with an elegant overcoat and a black Homburg, which he lifted in greeting as he closed the door behind him.

Well, well, well.

Josef set down his pencil and sat up straighter. Neither man spoke.

Winchester glanced around the shop, a quick thorough inspection as befitted an agent of the Intelligence Corps. Then his eyes settled back on Josef, just as intent as he remembered, their deep blue as dark as a night sky. An attractive combinationwith the sleek black hair that had slid like heavy silk through Josef’s fingers.

Irritated with himself for noticing such things, Josef said, “Can I help you, Captain Winchester? Or should I call you ‘your lordship’ today?”

After a beat, Winchester said, “Certainly not. The correct form of address is ‘my lord’ or ‘Lord Ralph Beaumont’. But I’d rather you called me Alex.”

“So many names to choose from,” Josef said. “Must be hard to keep them all straight in your head.”

Winchester—Alex—gave a flat smile. If Josef hadn’t known better, he’d have called it rueful. “I owe you an apology.”

“I’ll say you do.”

“It was…difficult to acknowledge you as I’d have liked yesterday evening.” He hesitated. “But I was glad to see you returned safely.”

Josef raised his eyebrows. “Well, thatwasbloody rude, but I don’t expect politeness from your sort.”

“My sort being the blood-soaked bourgeoisie, I suppose.”

“Nah. You’re one of the old, landed toffs still clinging onto power.”

“I see.”

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