By: Harrison Abbott

I’ve never liked Anna in all the years that she’s been my neighbour. Just don’t like her. But I also don’t want her to be murdered.

She doesn’t like me either. That’s why I must be serious when I speak to her. She’s old. She will find it hard to understand: that the soldiers crossed the border yesterday, and our village is very close to the border. I know that the soldiers are going around in packs, looking for people like Anna. And that if they find her then they’ll execute her.

It’s still morning. Last night, I heard booming in the closest town. The town is only a few kilometres away. Meaning the soldiers could be here any minute. I go out of my house, and down the road to Anna’s home. Head into her garden and up to her front door and I knock.

She lives here alone. This is a good thing. It will be easier to save one person rather than a whole family. If it were younger people living here then I would tell them to flee immediately. But Anna is in her 70s. She won’t be able to escape on foot. I have to hide her.

I hear a shuffling behind the door. Then the lock turns, and Anna’s face appears, grumpily. It’s obvious that I’ve just woken her up.

“What do you want?” she says.

“Anna. You need to get dressed, and come with me.”

“Huh?”

“You have to come into my home and hide there. The soldiers are in our country now. And I’ve heard stories that they’re hunting for people like you.”

She blinks. I can’t quite read her expression.

“Please,” I say, “think of it. The soldiers entered the town last night. And they’re searching for people like you, with only one intention. Lots of people know that you live here. Know what you are. And they might’ve told the soldiers where you live. If they come … it won’t be good.”

She nods, slowly. Gone is the irritation in her face.

“Anna, do you get what I’m saying?”

“But what will they want with me?” she says. “What threat am I to the soldiers?”

“They don’t see you as a threat. They see you as something they hate. And I’m telling you, you have to come and hide in my home. We can make it look like you escaped on your own. If the soldiers come, I’ll tell them that. And we have to hope that they won’t find you.”

Never in the fifteen years that I’ve lived next to this woman have I seen her look worried. She is always either morose, or red-faced from wine. And the reason that I dislike Anna is that she doesn’t really treat me like a neighbour: rather as somebody who annoys her. That’s why it’s bizarre to see her scared.

“But where can I hide?” she says.

“I have a cellar. That I can cover up. A trapdoor, that leads down to the cellar. You can go down there. And I can give you food. We can wait for the soldiers to come. And if they do, then I’ll mislead them. Tell them that you left already.”

She nods more rapidly.

“So, Anna – go and get dressed. And take your most important possessions with you. You understand? Take what you would take with you if you had to leave your house in a hurry.”

Anna’s hands tremble. But I’ve completed the first step – to convince her to leave.

“I will go and get my things,” she goes. “How long do we have?”

“Not long. You need to be as quick as you can.”

She leaves me, closing the door softly. And I wait in her front garden. And I look around the vicinity, the village where we live. It’s a beautiful place to stay: there’s a woodland the far side of the road. It is a fine thing to live next to the woods. Because you can hear the owls and bats at night. And the xylophone birdsong in the daytime, like right now.

But I’m not trying to listen closely to the birds. Instead, for further gunshots in the town. Those rash snappy echoes in the sky.

Are the soldiers getting closer?

Anna bumps about behind her door. And then she swings the door open and she is dressed in her best coat and she’s holding a suitcase and she looks up at me with a mixture of fear and faith. She locks the door behind her, and says to me:

“Let’s go and hide.”

We head out of her garden. There’s a strong possibility that Anna will never go back into her home again. I must be mad, trying to protect her. When it would be way easier for me to let the soldiers find her and kill her. Because I know that if they discover that I’m hiding her then they’ll kill me as well. What do I owe this woman?

But this is real life, in the now, and the war is an actuality. Conflict never stops, across the planet. But there are too many people who ignore it, rather than do anything about it.

Anna and I get into my front garden. My house is a little bigger than hers. I think Anna’s always been envious of that, and me always proud.

This childish thought goes through my head as I take her into my home and I shut the front door behind us. Anna’s never been in my house before.  

“Do you have money and clothes in your suitcase?” I ask her.

“Yes.”

“What about a weapon?”

“A weapon? No.”

“Come through to the kitchen. I will give you a knife.”

She follows me through to the kitchen. I select one of the long knives from my drawer. And when I hand her the blade she puts it in her inside coat pocket. I’ve already packed a bag of food for her. In case she needs to stay in the cellar for a long time. Bread and cheese and apples.

Then I take her to the end of the house, where the cellar trapdoor is. I open the trapdoor, and cold air whooshes up.

“All you need to do is be quiet, Anna.” I say. “Here are the keys. You can lock the trapdoor from the inside.”

Her whole body’s shaking. You know when somebody is panicking, and it makes you panic too? Well, to be frank, I am more terrified than she is: I’m just trying not to show it.  

“Come, Anna, come down the stairs with me.”

I lead her down. There isn’t much in my cellar. Nothing fancy. Stuff that I don’t want upstairs. In the corner I have prepared some cushions for Anna. And there are candles by a little table. I light one of the candles.

“You can sit here,” I say. “Do you have books in your bag? You got a book to read?”

“Yes.”

“Good, that’ll be something to pass the time with.”

“Right.”

“I will leave you here for just now. If the soldiers come today, I will do my best to fool them. If that works, then I’ll come back later on. I’ll knock on the trapdoor and call. So you know it’s me.”

“Yes, I see.”

“I’ll go now. And you lock the trapdoor after me.”

I make to go. Still imbalanced on how much of a risk this all is.

When I’m half way up the stairs, Anna says my name. She rarely ever calls me by my name. Then she says:

“Thank you for doing this.”

“No problem.”

I leave the cellar and close the trapdoor. Shortly after there’s a trinkling and a clunk as Anna locks it. Then I pull the thick carpet over the trapdoor. It’s a simple disguise. But I figure that if the soldiers come in here to the house then the simplicity might hoax them.

Then I go back to the kitchen and I put the kettle on the fire. I take my pipe out, load it with tobacco, and light the bowl. The nicotine helps, and when the kettle’s done there’s a sense of humanity in the steam that puffs from the snout. I figure I’ll take the tea and pipe out into the garden.

When I enter the daylight, the colours and brightness of the world have enhanced. I smoke. And blow rings in the air and drink the tea. And I keep thinking to myself, ‘Today will be safe. Today will be safe. We will get through this.’

My house is quite high up on the land. This being a hilly country. To get here, there’s a road that snakes up the hillside. And so from here, I can see down the length of the road.

I hear a rumble, from down the hill. Then I go to the end of my garden, to look down. And at the bottom of the hill, I see a black jeep, crawling up towards my house. I gulp.  

That’s them.

I figure the best thing I can do is to stay here with the pipe and tea. So that it might seem natural. Like I’ve just had breakfast and have gone outside for a morning smoke.

I watch the jeep gurgle up the hillside. The snarling engine grows in a slow crescendo. And my pulse pounds.

It’s unlike any vehicle I’ve seen before. I go up to my front gate, thinking, ‘I can either try, or I can fail.’ And my pipe bowl is getting a bit ashen. So I pop the embers out and then fill it anew. Just as I do so, the soldiers spot me.

There’s a man standing on top of the jeep, manning a machine gun. With two other soldiers inside, one driving, one in the passenger seat.

I suck at the pipe.

The jeep rolls up to my house and crunches to a halt. The man behind the machine gun ogles me curiously. And his gun is trained right on my face. He is a young man. Maybe twenty years younger than me.

The other two men, when they get out of the jeep, are also way younger. One of them looks like he might still be in his teens. The other has acne on his cheeks.

But they’re also clad in black uniforms and boots and are holding rifles.

“Hello there gentlemen,” I say.

“Who are you?” the one with the acne says.

I tell him my full name.

“Can I see your identification papers?”

“Yes.” I have my ID in my pocket. And I take it out, as the man with the acne walks towards me. He reaches for my papers, snatches them off me, and reads them. Then looks up at me. I hold his eyes.

“Who do you live with?” he says.

“I stay here by myself.”

He then looks across to Anna’s house.

“We are looking for your neighbour. Is she in?”

“No.”

“She’s not in?”

“No. She left yesterday.”

“Why did she leave?”

“She got scared. And went into the forest – along that trail,” I point to the woods across the road, to the path that leads into the trees. “She took a suitcase with her and left, yesterday afternoon, and I haven’t seen her since.”

The soldiers study the forest. Then me.

Have I ever been a good liar? My lips flicker when I draw from the pipe. And I try to hold it steady.

The soldier with the acne says:

“Aren’t you going to offer us some tobacco?”

His comrades chuckle behind him.

“Do you want some?” I say. “I don’t have cigarettes. Only a pipe. I’m old fashioned.”

Acne man shakes his head. And then he takes out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, slips one out, pops it in his lips and ignites it. He inhales a long gust. And then blows it back at me.

“How old is your neighbour?” he says.

“She’s 72.”

“So how would she cope on her own, in a forest?”

“Maybe she won’t. But that’s where she went. Along that trail.”

“What did she say before she left?”

“She didn’t say anything.”

“Hmm. Do you know what religion this woman belongs to?”

“Yes.”

“So you know what she is?”

“Yes, but I don’t care. It’s nothing to do with me.”

“Do you like her?”

“No, I don’t.”

This is the first truth I’ve said to the soldiers. The acne man turns around to his comrades and he judges them; he’s wondering what they’re thinking. They gesture between themselves.

I speak the same language as these men, but our accents are totally different.  

Acne man turns back to me. And goes:

“I think you’re lying.”

“Why would I lie? I’ve never been a fan of that woman. She’s not a good neighbour. I saw her escape into the forest yesterday. That’s it. I don’t care what happens to her. Go into the woods if you want to follow her.”

“You’re lying. She’s hiding in her house, isn’t she?”

“I’m pretty sure she didn’t come back.”

“Lads!” Acne man barks at his comrades. “Go and search her house. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

The gun turret man jumps off the back of the jeep and he, along with the teenage-looking one, go along to Anna’s front garden. They kick the gate open. And when they get to the front door, bang on it.

“Open up!” they yell.

Acne man watches me the whole time.

After continued silence from the house, they try to barge the door open. They can’t. So the teenage soldier smashes Anna’s living room window with his rifle butt. He clears the rest of the glass away with his gun, and then climbs into the house. And the other soldier follows him. Acne man then speaks to me:

“We know that lots of them are hiding. The scum. They know we’re coming. As a race, they’re valuable for nothing … and they’re crafty when it comes to sneaking away. But we’ll catch them.”

I’ve long since stopped smoking my pipe. And my mouth has gone dry. Acne man lights another cigarette.

“Here,” he says, “why don’t you come out of your garden.”

“Why?”

“I’m asking you to.”

“I’m fine right here.”

“I am telling you to. Get on out of there – get in front of the jeep.”

He flicks his gun at me. I flinch. And then obey: I step out of my gate, and stand on the road next to him.

Inside Anna’s house there is banging and crashing. And what sounds like laughing.

Acne man has his rifle on me. But he’s looking at the house. And I think, madly, ‘Should I push him over and run away? I’m 45 years old, but I’m bigger than him.’

But if I do that, he’ll most likely shoot me as I run away. I’m not that fast a runner.

BANG! There’s a gunshot. Inside Anna’s. It makes me jump. Acne man notices me twitch, and he guffaws.

The soldiers come back out of the window. They’re holding items in their hands. Anna’s items. “We got a load of fancy stuff, chief!” one of them shouts. Indeed, they have found Anna’s jewellery and money. They greedily carry it back towards the jeep with pink faces. They drop some coins, but don’t go back for them. And when they get to the jeep, they throw Anna’s loot inside the doors. All seem satisfied with the theft.

With the doors still open, the teenage one takes out a bottle from the jeep. He uncorks it, and drinks. Then passes it to his comrade, who does the same, who passes it onto acne man, who drinks in front of me.

I had actually thought, before, that they were drunk. Just by the rough way acne man was speaking. I get a sharp whiff of the vodka when acne man breathes on me. He comes up to my face, and says:

“I still think that this man is lying about something. What do you know?”

“Only what I’ve told you already.”

“Don’t get cheeky.”

“I’m not.”

Acne man heads back to the jeep with the bottle. He rummages inside the vehicle; I can’t see what he’s doing … until he brings out a coil of rope. He gives that to one of the other men. Then he walks up to me quickly. He turns his rifle around, and smacks me clean in the face with it.

The blow knocks me over. Splat.

“Well!” Acne man declares. “Let’s put him to the test! To see if he’s lying. Bring that rope along, boys. Let’s sling him up one of those trees.”

I’m lying there, dazed, on the floor. When the soldier with the rope nips up to me – and ties it around my throat. Then he begins to drag me across the road with it. Like I’m his dog. The rope jabs my windpipe. I cough.   

These men are going to take me over to the woods and hang me on one of the trees. And I need to think up a way to avoid this happening, fast.

“Listen!” I bellow. “My neighbour Anna left yesterday and I don’t know where she is. She might have died in the woods last night. From the cold. She probably froze to death. What do you want with me? I’m not lying.”

Acne man kicks me in the head from behind.

I’m dragged over the road and into the dirt. The trees of the woods get closer and closer. They stop under a birch tree. Acne man takes the other end of the rope, and he throws it up and over a branch above us. He then takes hold of the dangling rope and wraps it around his arm.

“Lift him up by the waist,” he orders the others to do.

They pick me up. Holding me off the ground. Acne man tightens the noose on my neck. The rope is long, and the branch above me sturdy enough to hold my weight. Acne man has a firm clutch of the rope. If they drop me, I’m dead.  

“Please,” I say, trying not to whimper. “Please don’t hang me. Shoot me instead.”

“You’re asking to be shot?” Acne man goes. And the other men laugh. The laughter sounds forced and strained and alcoholic and it reminds me of being in school when I was a boy: the way boys use mirth in a witchy way.

“If you want to kill me, just shoot me,” I plead.

“But why would we kill you, if you’re innocent?” Acne man goes.

“I am innocent. Never hurt anybody in all my days.”

This is another lie. And I wonder whether this scene might be vindication for all of the people that I’ve hurt throughout my life. I should have been a better man.

“We’re not going to waste a bullet on you,” acne man says. “This is your last chance to tell us the truth. Or else we drop you.”

My bladder has been threatening to burst since they put the rope around my throat. And I can’t control it any longer. It bursts.

I piss myself. The urine floods down my trousers and then it comes out at the bottom on my boots. When the soldiers see the piss, they gasp. Acne man then shouts:

“Drop him, boys!”

They release me. This is it …

But instead of being hung by the rope, I fall on the floor.

Acne man lets go of the rope at the same time as they drop me. And all three men shriek with giggles. Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha. It was a trick. They just wanted to scare me. Acne man takes the noose off my head.

“Ha.” he says, “We got you. Come on, lads – he obviously doesn’t know anything. Let’s go. At least we got that woman’s horde.”

The other soldiers walk back to the jeep. Acne man curses me, and kicks me in the stomach. I suppose that’s his way of saying goodbye. Then he joins his comrades in the jeep. They switch the engine on and they drive away. The man on the gun turret waves to me as they go. The jeep growls away, bulging out grey fumes, down the country road.

Then I’m left on the grass with wet trousers. A bit confused as to why I’m still alive, or why the last twenty minutes of my life happened at all. I wait until the sounds of the jeep have long perished.

Eventually I get up. My whole head pumps; the blood drumming in the ears. I walk back to my house, and I shut the gate behind me. Go into the house and lock the front door. My boots squelch on the floorboards. I’m a little embarrassed that I wet myself. That hasn’t happened since I was about eight years old. My pipe is still in my pocket. I can’t think of anything else to do at the present moment. So I fill the pipe up and light it. There’s blood on my fingers. I don’t know from which cut. Then I think about Anna. She will have heard the calamity. Now that there’s only silence, she might think that I’m dead.

I go along to the trapdoor at the back of the house. To the simple hiding place. Which the soldiers were too stupid to look for. I pull the carpet away. And I knock, softly, and call:

“It’s me, Anna. The soldiers are gone. You can open up.”

Skittering sounds underneath, and then a satisfying clang of the lock being turned. I lift the trapdoor up. And Anna is perched on the stairs, holding a candle in one hand, and the knife in the other. My kitchen knife that I gave her earlier on. It shakes in her right hand.

“They’re gone, Anna. The soldiers have left. You’re safe, for now.”

She puts the knife down.

And then her expression changes. When she sees what the soldiers have done to me. You know how I said earlier that I’ve never seen her worried before? Well – I’ve never seen her empathetic before either.

“You’re bleeding,” she whispers.

“Yes. But I’ll live with it. We’ll live with it, Anna.”

###

Harrison Abbott is a published poet, short fiction writer and novelist from Edinburgh, Scotland. He has several books out there, available here: Amazon.co.uk: Harrison Abbott: books, biography, latest update