Munroe and Stanka_The Beginning Page 2

  I’m not going to stay here forever and his indecisiveness is pissing me off. The old woman is dead. Nothing is going to resurrect her and the boy looks so helpless I’m pretty sure he’ll die without me.

  I need company, someone who will talk to me. The boy can be useful to me in other ways. He can pick up twigs and take care of the fire when I’m resting at night. I’ll leave him in Dover. All the Slovakian people I’ve met aimed for Dover so it’s convenient for him to join me.

  “Burial,” the boy says.

  “For fuck’s sake. Ye want a burial with an expensive coffin and an orchestra? And where do ye want to bury her?” The boy’s eyes cloud with confusion and I know he’s struggling to understand me. I take a deep breath and speak slower, like a fucking Englishman. “We can throw a few stones over her body, that’s all. And what about the horse? Are you going to bury the horse as well?”

  “The horse didn’t want to eat,” the boy says in a barely audible voice like there is no life left inside him.

  “It looks fucking very old and sick. No wonder it didn’t want to eat. You should have shot it dead a long time ago to end its ordeal.”

  The boy sobs like a child and something pricks my heart like a needle. I feel like a bad man. The war is over so there’s no need to behave like an animal. I don’t know though, there is something about the boy, something touching a tiny soft part of me I wasn’t aware I had.

  “Alright,” I growl. “Gather up as many stones as you can.”

  I move closer to the wagon and assess it for a few seconds. The wood is partially rotten. Happy with my discovery, I clamber on to it then kick the top rail with my foot until it breaks so I can grab a long piece of it to use it as a shovel. I jump off and look around. My eyes spot a square piece of muddy ground. I walk towards it and dig my pseudo shovel into it. Working at a steady pace, I manage to create a shallow grave as the boy keeps bringing stones and gathering them into a pile.

  We hold the woman by the arms and legs and move her into the grave. I cover her body with a layer of mud and top the grave with the stones.

  The boy crosses himself and mumbles a prayer, tears trickling down his cheeks. They mark his face with grey smudges of dirt.

  I take the flask from my bike and pour some water onto my hands then onto the boy’s palms.

  “Time to go, boy,” I say.

  Stanka

  He stares at me with his cold blue eyes framed by thick asymmetric eyebrows and I notice three scars stretching across his unshaven cheek. They move as he grins at me, exposing his perfect white teeth. He threads his fingers through his short brown hair. A few greys shine around his temples. Delicate wrinkles mark the skin under his eyes, giving him a strangely alluring appearance. A menacingly alluring appearance. He is a killer. My subconscious can sense his ruthlessness and it causes hair to rise on the back of my neck.

  He grunts like an animal, making me shudder. My eyes slide over his massive frame.

  A gun hangs at the wide belt around his waist. His British uniform has holes and patches of black dirt-the proof that he’s fought in many battles, the proof that he’s killed many of our enemies. My eyes spot more details-the burning touch of the summer sun that has left pale patches on the fabric of his jacket, missing buttons, missing shoelaces in his black boots replaced by two pieces of string. Three war medals. He is a hero.

  No, he’s a dangerous man. A dangerous man who smells like a pig. Well, I do too. Maybe the odour of my sweat will deter him or at least keep him far enough from me? It seems like we’re heading in the same direction. What if he decided to join me?

  No, no good—

  I’m thinking like a human craving the company of another human. Like a human planning to live.

  I’m not a human. I’m a corpse that needs to get that man’s gun. I could use it to shoot myself dead. Vilma let out her final breath many hours ago as did the horse. When this man discovers that I’m a girl not a boy he will do horrible things to me. He’ll do what men did to all the women me and my grandma met on our journey. He will rape me. Maybe he will even chop off my breast or my fingers. Vilma and I have seen the monstrosities men can do to women.

  Those women invited us over for a meal, allowed us to sleep in their stables, smiled at us, gave me clean men’s clothes and small men’s boots, but they were dead even though their lungs moved to breathe in the air. They were widows, sisters, mothers, waiting for their men to return even though those men died a long time ago. Some of them yearned for death. Some of them took a piece of rope and ended their existence.

  A lot of people were celebrating the end of the war though. Some women shot me yearning glances. A few kissed me on the cheek and giggled. They exuded joy, danced, laughed. Those beings filled me with hope. Vilma’s death has just erased that hope.

  I’ve been lucky so far and Vilma invested a lot of effort to protect me. She could pretend to be a really nasty old witch or a hysterical old lady when necessary. It worked perfectly. Now, she’s dead and I’m on my own.

  Death is not such a bad idea. It would save me from that dangerous man leaning over me.

  They’re all killers, damaged by war, insane. It doesn’t matter which side they fought for. The war made them think like monsters. A woman on her own should stay away from every man these days.

  “Come with me,” the man says in a husky voice and grabs my arm.

  His English is coarse, edged with impatience indicating a bad temper. I have to focus to understand him. My English teacher was from London. This man must be from Ireland or Scotland, I’m not sure.

  He’s been talking to me for a while, but it’s been a blur, except a few sentences.

  A hiss escapes my mouth as his fingers dig into my flesh. His scent engulfs me-tobacco, earth after rain, resins. Sweat. He smells like the men in my family home, but needs a bath urgently.

  “You’re very delicate, boy,” the man says loudly, hurting my ears with his accent. “Whit’s yer name?”

  I shake my head. “My name?”

  “Aye. Your. Name.”

  “Mattias.” I lower my voice as much as possible, but it resembles a crow’s screech not a masculine voice.

  “Munroe.” He curses under his breath and says something to himself.

  I understand two words ‘Englishman’ and ‘fuck’. It definitely means he’s not from London.

  I sigh as he drags me behind him towards his bike and my eyes catch the last glimpse of my dear grandma’s grave. I will join her soon. Calm washes over my heart.

  I just need to figure out how to steal the gun from Munroe.

  In the meantime?

  It seems like I’m going to ride on Munroe’s bike.

  Holy shit.

  Chapter 2

  Munroe

  The boy is really short. The top of his head reaches only to my shoulder. His curly blond hair shines like platinum and white gold in the sun’s rays that filter through the gap between two ash clouds. It’s short and looks like a child has chopped it with blunt scissors. It’s too short for head lice to live in it so I exhale with relief. I hate head lice, but I’m good with children. If I ever become a father, I want only sons so I can keep their heads free from head lice. Girls bring head lice and trouble.

  I settle myself on my bike, hanging my bag across my back and pulling it aside then I tell him to jump behind me.

  “How old are you?” I ask.

  “Eighteen.” He clears his throat.

  I burst into laughter. “Yer mother didn’t feed you or what? Ye look like a dwarf.”

  Mattias clears his throat again. “My mother died when I was two.” He clutches the fabric of my uniform as I start the engine.

  Well, happens. I wonder whether he even had a father. Probably not. No man would raise such a pile of shaky mush. He must be an orphan. My throat tightens at that thought.

  I was an orphan. I’ve been on my own since the age of six. Now, I’m a lonely old man. I’m thirty-four years old, but the war turned me int
o an old man on the inside.

  We ride until the sun is low on the horizon and I stop to pour some fuel into the tank from an abandoned lorry. Hills covered with pine trees surround us.

  Mattias watches me as I open the tank and stick a tube inside of it.

  “So, where are you heading to?” I ask.

  “Edinburgh.”

  “It’s yer lucky day. I’m from Edinburgh.”

  His green eyes blaze and a wide smile lifts the corners of his girly full lips.

  “I will take you to Edinburgh, but you have to be useful,” I say.

  He bobs his head at me several times.

  “Put the end of this tube into the bike’s tank,” I say. Fucking hell. He stares at me as though I have three tits and three cocks. “Alright, I’ll do it myself but you have to learn this stuff. Watch me carefully.”

  I roll my sleeves and pump the fuel from the lorry into my bike.

  “Are you going to your family?” I ask.

  Mattias bobs his head and takes out a piece of paper from the back pocket of his trousers.

  I shake my head. “I can’t read.”

  He widens his eyes at me, and his lower lip quivers, then he lowers his head to hide his grin.

  “Can ye read?” I growl as heat rushes up my chest.

  He raises his head and I notice mischievous flickers dancing in his eyes. He nods then spreads the paper, showing me a stamp at the bottom of the letter.

  “Prince Dalimil Kriz and his mother, Aurora Kriz,” he says. “My distant family. They live on the outskirts of Edinburgh.”

  Right. That would explain Mattias’s delicacy and the lack of basic survival skills. He is an aristocrat. He can read and I can’t. I can survive and he can’t.

  “You have to learn a lot,” I say in a firm voice, “before we reach our destination. And by the way, I know that aristocratic dick Kriz. He used to visit the same whorehouses in Edinburgh as me. He’s a dickhead who likes hurting women.”

  Mattias gulps and his face turns red as I close the fuel tank of my bike.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask and dig my hand into my bag, taking out a slice of bread and passing it on to him.

  Mattias grabs it and wolfs it down in an instant.

  I was right. That dandy would have died of hunger without me.

  “How did you manage to get through all the borders and the mountains from Slovakia to the western part of Germany?” I ask.

  “We joined other refugees,” he says. “They had a guide. He knew where the gaps in the borders were.” His hands collapse lifeless. “And he took all the money we had.”

  “You’ve been lucky so far. Russians would have slit your throat if they’d caught you.”

  He nods at me, his eyes wide, glassy. “I’ve been lucky.”

  I don’t want to waste more time so I jut my chin towards the bike and the boy jumps on it.

  We should move fast. There are only two of us and it seems like only I can fight so in case of any trouble we’ll be fucked. It’s better to travel as fast as possible.

  We continue the journey until the sky turns grey and we reach the remains of a field hospital. A few nurses are wandering around two tents and a group of soldiers is sitting around three fires. Their uniforms indicate that they’re Americans. A number of their troops occupy the western part of Germany now. Russian troops have taken over the eastern part of Germany. On my way, I’ve heard many rumours about the true nature of the freedom the Russians are bringing-murders, camps for opponents, burning churches and estates. Not to mention Mattias sitting on my bike like living proof of those dark times.

  I park my bike and jump off.

  “We are going to eat something nice tonight,” I say. “And we’ll have some fun.”

  Mattias looks at me with dread in his eyes. I slap him on the back and he bends forward, coughing.

  “Relax, boy,” I say. “Can you see those women? They mean fun for you and for me.”

  Stanka

  That crude man has almost made me spit out my lungs. I stifle my coughing fit and follow him towards the group of soldiers. Munroe spreads a blanket on the ground as they greet us. I need to pee so I pass two trucks and ask a nurse about the toilet.

  “Behind the tent,” she says, looking at me with suspicion.

  “Thank you,” I mumble, dropping my head.

  I shouldn’t have revealed my true age to Munroe. He may start suspecting something. I should have told him I was younger. He may have pitied me and left me with a good family or something.

  No. That option wouldn’t have worked anyway. I need to get to Edinburgh. Or shoot myself.

  A thought blasts in my head. I could stay here with the nurses and American soldiers. The problem is they’re not going to Edinburgh and the nurses could discover who I am. The soldiers might want to touch me.

  No, I can’t let that happen to me. Munroe seems like the best option for me now as long as he continues to think I’m a boy.

  I buried my grief in my subconscious. My mind is cold. It’s surprising to me how much a human can withstand to survive. I learnt to be a boy a long time ago. I had two good teachers. My two beloved men I forbid myself to reminisce about. Vilma wasn’t very happy with my boy-like behaviour. She wanted me to be a lady. She wanted me to be a marionette with a nice smile.

  My eyes slide over the tent. The main entrance is wide open, the fabric stained with the rusty tinge of blood, and I see a few beds inside, but there are no patients. Two nurses are collecting the equipment and packing it into big wooden boxes. They will leave the place soon, I assume.

  I rush to find the toilet. Three shed-like constructions stand below the crown of an oak tree. I enter one of them. The toilet looks very tidy even though it’s just a hole in the ground. No cobwebs. No spiders. I guess the nurses here despise them as much as I do. I use the toilet and return to Munroe. A woman is sitting beside him. She is clinging to his arm. Heat rushes to my cheeks as I settle myself at his other side.

  He strokes my head in a parody of sympathy. “My dandy.”

  The soldiers erupt into laughter and the woman shoots me a curious glance as Munroe passes a slice of bread on to me.

  “He’s really pretty,” the woman says, correcting the low bun made of her blonde hair. She’s a nurse like all the women here. “Too pretty for a boy.”

  My throat tightens. “I got my looks from my mother.”

  The nurse chuckles. “Lucky you, pretty boy.”

  The soldiers laugh as I notice four doctors among them.

  “Dandy is pretty and useless,” Munroe says, evoking another wave of laughter.

  I pull my knees to my chest and enjoy the heat of the fire. The flames are dancing, swallowing the wood, red sparks shooting into the sky. Streaks of mist slither above the ground and mix with the yellow aura dispersed by the fire, creating an unearthly scene like we’re in a fairy tale. Human chattering mingles with the murmur of the night. The people are happy, relieved and so am I for a brief moment.

  I’m relaxed until the woman starts kissing Munroe’s cheek and puts her hand on the front of his trousers.

  Anger surges through me then panic sits on my chest as Munro rises to his feet and the woman loops her arm through his. Then something jabs my heart like thorn. All the women around us are shooting Munroe curious glances. Those glances piss me off for some mysterious reason. The woman clinging to Munroe wakes an urge of murder inside me. Thoughts fly through my mind like bullets. I wish Munroe had scabies and infected the woman. I wish he smelled so horrible she threw up onto his chest. I wish she vanished.

  Munroe is my companion. My very own companion.

  I scold myself for that thought in my mind. He is my means of getting to Edinburgh. I shouldn’t have any weird feelings towards him. I shouldn’t have any feelings towards him.

  Munroe winks at me and tilts his head towards another nurse as though he wants to say something important to me and steps forward.

  “Where are you going?” I ex
plode and pull myself up.

  Munroe looks at me as though my stupidity is endless then leans over me. “Have some fun, boy. Relax.”

  “Don’t leave me,” I squeak.

  “Are you two together?” the woman hanging on him asks as sarcasm coats her voice.

  An awkward silence hangs above all the gathered people and they stare at me like I’m a monkey from a circus.

  Munroe growls with fury then frees his arm from the woman’s. “Dandy is very cowardly.”

  “You should look after him then,” the woman says as her face sharpens.

  “Well,” Munroe says. “You may be right.” He sits down beside me and shoots me an angry glance as the woman walks off, waving her hands. “Finish eating. We’re going to bed,” he hisses into my ear.

  I put the rest of bread into my mouth, almost choking, and I wash it down with a few sips of water. We rise to our feet. Munroe looks at me and shakes his head.

  “Sit down,” he says. “We’re sleeping here.”

  I nod at him and lie down on the blanket, curling up into a ball as he rushes towards the toilets and returns after ten minutes.

  The soldiers talk, drink beer, and laugh. Munroe tells them about the battle of Dunkirk and silence layers everyone like a black veil used to wrap around the corpses in the olden times.

  “They were just kids,” Munroe says. “Kids who died. Kids like my fucking useless dandy.” His voice falters and the soldiers murmur words like ‘yes’, ‘fucking unfair’, ‘war’, and shoot dark glances towards me.

  They despise me. I’m a coward to them.

  I’m not a coward. My family helped a Jewish family survive.

  I sit up and clear my throat. “My family saved the lives of six Jewish people. We hid them in our basement for two years. My older brother was a partisan and fought against the German occupation. He died as a soldier. We’re not cowards. We just helped in a different way.”

  Munroe nods at me, a grin crossing his face. “Sleep, dandy.” He lies down a step away from me.

  The soldiers look at me with cold eyes and don’t comment on my monologue. Then I’m as invisible to them as a piece of glass.