Page 9 of No Man's Land

“Well,” Josef sank back into the pillows, luxuriating in the feel of feathers and clean linen, “when you put it like that, how can I say no?”

They ate a delicious supper of beef stew and frites in the chairs by the fire, washed down with Belgian beer, and then rolled back into bed together. This time, they brought each other off at a slower but no less satisfying pace, and, afterward, Joseflet himself sink into a heavy sleep with the warm weight of Alex’s hand on his back.

When he woke, much later, the room was pitch black. Next to him, he could hear Alex’s steady breathing, and for a while Josef lay there, listening to the sound. He hadn’t had the luxury of sleeping alone since he left England, but sharing a bed tonight felt almost as indulgent as solitude.

Outside, it was quiet. Even the guns were silent. But something drew him out of bed, an uneasy restlessness born, perhaps, of working night after night. His natural sleep pattern had been wrecked months ago. Alex didn’t seem to have any trouble sleeping, though, and Josef didn’t want to disturb him, so he slipped from under the covers and groped his way to the window to see whether he could calculate the time.

The room was chilly, the fire burned low, but Josef didn’t steal the blanket from the bed and couldn’t find his abandoned clothes in the dark. He didn’t mind a little cold, though. Without tripping over anything, he reached the velvet curtains and lifted a corner enough to look out. Nobody would be able to see him, but he could watch the street below. From his vantage point he could see the corner of the lane and the wider street beyond, and, to the right, the dark shape of the church. The sky was still night-dark, no hint of dawn on the horizon, and the streets were mostly empty.

A few lights burned here and there, other restless souls like himself still awake, and he spotted a couple of figures walking together further up the road. Soldiers, almost certainly. On leave, perhaps, and looking for company—of the paid or unpaid variety. Much like Josef himself, he supposed. Only his night with Alex hadn’t felt transactional; it had felt mutual. Friendly, even. And, in the quiet of the night, he could admit to himself a certain amount of regret that it wouldn’t be repeated.

Still, you took what you could get and made the best of it. That was true in life, and doubly true in war.

The two soldiers disappeared, into a brothel maybe. Or down an alley to find pleasure together. Or perhaps for some entirely innocent purpose Josef’s gutter of a mind couldn’t imagine. But as he watched, he realised another man stood on the street outside. He looked somewhat the worse for drink, leaning heavily against the building on the corner opposite. But then he turned toward Josef, his eyes catching the light strangely, and for a moment Josef thought he recognised him. His heart skipped, an odd chill rippling over his skin and stirring the hair at the back of his neck. Impossibly, the figure looked like the boy who’d clicked it at the dressing station—same boyish features, same fine hair. Same strange pale eyes.

Josef peered closer, blinking through the dark.

And a hand touched his shoulder.

“Shit!” He jumped, dropping the curtain as he spun around.

Alex stood behind him, hands up in surrender, watching him in amusement. “What are you doing? It’s the middle of the night.”

“What areyoudoing? You frightened the bloody life out of me.” Irritated, his heart still skipping about, Josef turned back to the window. But outside, the street was empty.

Alex crowded in behind him, his body deliciously warm against Josef’s back as one arm snaked around his waist. With his free hand, Alex pushed the curtain back further. “Did you see something?”

“Nah, just a soldier. I thought—” He dropped the curtain and turned around, enjoying the sensation of Alex’s arm sliding around his waist as he moved. “Doesn’t matter. He’s gone now.”

Alex’s gaze went to the window and back to Josef’s face. “Good,” he said, pulling Josef hard against his chest, arms tightand hands roving up and down Josef’s back. “Come back to bed. It’s cold.”

Josef canted his hips forward, rubbing their soft pricks together. “What do you think, Captain? Shall we try for round three?”

He felt Alex’s growl of approval chest to chest, and in the warm pressure of his lips against his shoulder as Alex sucked a bruise into his skin. “I think we should certainly make the attempt.”

When he woke the next time, Josef was alone, and the curtains had been cracked to allow the morning light into the room. He sat up, disorientated and a little disappointed to find Alex gone. On the mantelpiece, the clock told him it was almost seven o’clock. Time enough to catch the train back to the hospital before he had to report for duty.

Sitting up in bed, he looked around for any signs of Alex, but there were none. His clothes were gone; the bathroom was silent and empty. Their plates and beer glasses from the night before sat where they’d left them, on the hearth by the now-cold fire, and the room held a depressing aura of abandonment.

“What did you expect?” he asked himself aloud. “Roses?”

Throwing back the sheets, Josef got out of bed—made good use of the bathroom and its supply of hot running water—and dressed quickly. But when he slipped on his uniform tunic, his heart stopped.

His camera was gone.

Panicked, he put a hand to his breast pocket, but it only slapped against his chest. Where the hell was it? Had it fallen out? He looked around frantically, but there was no sign of it. He checked all his other pockets, flung the sheets and covers off the bed, lay on the floor to look underneath the furniture, but there was no sign of it.

On weak legs, he sank down onto the edge of the bed, reeling. He’d lost his camera, his most precious possession in the world—financially and spiritually.

But no, he hadn’tlostit.

That thieving bastard, Winchester, had stolen it. There was no other explanation.

With a furious cry, Alex kicked out at the nearest chair and sent it crashing over. He’d been a bloody idiot, trusting him. What had he been thinking? Well, he hadn’t been thinking, had he? He’d let his prick do the bloody thinking.

“Fuckinghell.” He dropped his head into his hands, scrunching his fingers into his hair. No camera meant no more photographs, no way to capture this insanity but in his own poor memory, with his own poor words. He felt blinded, muzzled by its loss. Stupidly, his eyes began to burn, his throat growing thick. Had someone lopped off his right arm it would have been less painful. And the fact that Alex had done it, that Alex had tricked and made a fool of him, made it so much worse.

He’dlikedAlex, and he’d thought Alex liked him. But all along… What? He’d been plotting to steal his camera? Why, for the love of God?

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