The Village King by Eddie McGarrity Page A

nodded, though she looked
a little unsure about the last part. Robbing dead soldiers would gall her,
Stephen knew, but she agreed anyway. “Any more orders, sir?”
    “Yeah,” said Gary, asserting his
new found position. “Get your men to sort our defences out. We’ve got a gate
and a cattle-grid but it’s just embarrassing when you ride around them.”
    “Yes, sir,” Pullman said firmly.
She stood up, careful not to startle them. She saluted. After a pause, Gary
jumped to his feet and saluted her back.
    Stephen didn’t trust himself to
give a convincing salute, so he pushed the silver pistols across the table.
“Jump to it, Colonel.”

28
     
    S tephen
listened from the
kitchen. He could hear a young girl’s voice. It was Karen, talking to Alana as
the younger girl got ready for bed. Despite not hearing any actual words, it
was good to hear Karen’s voice for once coming from the other room. Alana said
something in reply and then called out, “Stephen?”
    He walked through to the front
room. Karen was lying on the couch, under the blankets while Alana kneeled to
the side, stroking the girl’s hair. In the firelight, she looked beautiful as
she smiled at him. “Karen would like to give you something.”
    Silently, and without looking at
him, Karen held up a soft sheet of paper. Found in a box under the sofa, along
with some crayons and pencils, the paper had a drawing on it. After an
encouraging look from Alana, Stephen took the paper from Karen. He looked at it
and his heart melted. Karen had drawn herself and a horse. It was the drawing as
if done by a much younger child; green grass along the bottom of the sheet and
a strip of blue for the sky. Unmistakable though was a man and woman to the
left of the horse; he and Alana. Underneath, in a childish scrawl was written
“thank you” copied from more grown up letters above it.
    “Thank you very much, Karen,” he
said. “You are very welcome. May I keep this picture?”
    Still not looking at him, Karen
turned away and made like she was sleeping. Alana spoke for her. “Yes, keep it.
Maybe put it on the fridge.”
    Before he left the room, he told
Karen it was a very good picture and went through to the kitchen. The manse was
otherwise empty with Phil and Gary pulling a night duty guarding the soldiers, who
had their boots and coats returned to them. In the morning, the soldiers would
begin trenches around the village by day and patrol the perimeter at night. All
would be organised into shifts, in the belief that keeping the men busy kept
them disciplined and out of trouble. Stephen had already put the fear of God
into them and a first night in a draughty church would help.
    A small wood fire burned in a pot
perched on the electric stove. Using it for light, he found the fridge where a
couple of magnets held old notes. Stephen rearranged the magnets, stuck the drawing
up, and thought of another picture which had once been made for him; Jack’s
painting of his Mum and Dad. Stephen had placed that other picture on another
fridge using different magnets.
    Alana came in. He had made tea
and she poured herself a mug and slumped down on the chair. “Not many of these
tea bags left,” she said.
    “Enjoy them while they last.”
Stephen leaned back as he tried to square the picture on the fridge. “I think
you’re taller than me in this picture.”
    She chuckled softly and sipped at
the tea. He sat down across from and asked, “What do you make of our new
Colonel?”
    “I think she’ll be fine. Lucy
Pullman will rise to the rank.”
    Stephen sighed and looked at the
roof. “Three more deaths today,” he said finally.
    She looked at him straight on.
Her tone was cold, like a clear mountain loch, but not without compassion. “Why
not kill them all?”
    He shrugged and blew out a sigh.
He could feel regret building behind his eyes. “Same as Phil, I guess.”
    “Yes, same as Phil,” she said, her
tone soft but insistent that he should listen and not