dead men 1

richard
pierce

contact

on facebook

bio

dikt

poetry

blog

home

links

Too Far For Dead Men To Walk - Chapter One

They finally found them on the twelfth of November 1912. A frozen stake in a world of white. The tip of a ski. The blistered runners of a sled. Had to dig down to find the tent. Inside, the darkness cloyed despite the cold. Despite the twenty-four hours of daylight outside. No scent. No movement. No life. The gloom of loss. The constant comfort of the wind made that silence no easier to bear. Dead men don't speak.

*

She leans against the train door as soon as it closes. Engrossed in her book. She's got Doc Martens boots on. They make her legs look really thin. She can't be much over twenty. Not that it matters. She's out of my league anyway. Oh, well. The carriage sways and rattles. My head cracks against the handrail. Not so cool.

Hell, I'm bored. Try to see if there are any other attractive women to watch. Nope. So, eyes back to the girl. Still reading in her book. I try to make out what it is, but my tired eyes see only a blur of letters. She raises her head when I'm not expecting her to. And scowls at me. She's very pale. And beautiful. Hell. Not just another girl, after all. The girl. This is what loneliness does to me.

My stop next. Thank God. I'll just swan around Covent Garden until it's time for my meeting. Another bunch of suits. And all they'll talk about is money and paperwork. I don't really want to go. Could do with an excuse not to. But I need to earn a living. However tedious it might be.

I inch towards the doors. Make sure I don't get too close to her. Although I wish I could. Wish I had the confidence to. The train slows. She keels over towards me. My first instinct is to get out of the way, but her eyes are closed. Shit. I catch her. She's out cold. Her book drops to the floor.

The doors open and I stumble out with her in my arms. Kick the book onto the platform as I go. She's really light. Everyone else just stares or pushes past us. No-one helps. Bloody London. I collapse onto one of the benches along the wall. Look down at her thin face. Teeth clenched. Lips thin. Like she's hurt inside. I know this sort of thing only ever happens in the movies, but this is real. My life is real. I have a real, warm, beautiful woman in my arms, and I don't really know what to do. I can tell she's still breathing, but that's about it.

It's uncomfortable sitting here, with my rucksack pushing into my back. The train's gone by now and the platform's empty. Very slowly, I get up, that miniscule weight still in my arms. Turn. Lower her down onto the bench as if it were a bed. As gently as I can. She feels so fragile.

Why am I doing this? I give some of my time to charities for free, to help people who can't help themselves like I can. So it's my duty to pick up this scrap of a girl in trouble. I can't just walk away. That's too easy. I did it once, a long time ago, and I've regretted it ever since. And I suppose part of me's thinking I might at last have found someone who'll want to, need to, depend on me, someone who'll think I'm a strong man. Because, despite everything, my life is empty.

The colour comes back into her face. Eyes still closed. By now, I don't think she's in any real danger. I'll just wait until she wakes up. The platform's filling up again. It's eleven in the morning, and people probably think she's just another pisshead.

She opens her eyes. Tries to sit up. Looks like she's going to throw up.

'Shit. What happened?'

'You fainted.'

'Bollocks.'

'Sorry.'

She puts her hands in her jacket pockets. Feels around. Like a blind woman. She's not with it.

'My book,' she says. 'Where's my book?'

'Hey, steady.'

'I need my book.' She sounds panicky.

Where the hell is it? I get down on my knees, retrieve it from under the bench. The Worst Journey In The World. What's that about? She snatches it from me before I get a decent look at the cover. She's sitting up now.

'Thank you very much.'

It's like she's blaming me for her fainting fit.

'You're welcome.'

'I've got notes in it.' She shows me a page full of underlinings and faint scribbles, then stuffs it, dog-eared, into one of the pockets of her army jacket.

'Understood. ... Are you ok now? ... Want me to call an ambulance?'

'No. I'm fine.'

She tries to get up. Wobbles. Sits down again.

'I don't need this. ... Can you help me get out of here?'

'Sure.' I'm puzzled. 'Where you going?'

'To the Royal Geographical Society. Supposedly.'

'Where's that?'

'South Kensington.'

'A few more stops, then. Erm, I don't think that's a good idea.'

'I need to get there. I've got an appointment.'

'So? You've just fainted. Ever happened before?'

'A few times. Not recently.'

'So why haven't you done anything about it?'

'I don't eat enough. That's all.'

'Go see a doctor.'

'Stuff that.'

She scowls at me again, like in the train. I'm trying not to be too familiar with this scary, skinny thing. I'll get her up to the fresh air and then she can sort herself out.

'Come on, then,' I sigh, get up and throw my bag over my back. Hold out my arm to her. She grabs it and pulls herself up.

'Ok?'

She nods, links arms with me, and we walk off slowly, two invalids in a tunnel, towards the exit. In the lift up to the street, she leans against me. Her short, blonde hair smells of lemons. She's trembling. What the hell can I say? So I say nothing. She pulls away when the doors open.

Fresh cold air hits, November cold, and she trips. I pull her up by her hand. It's a naked, small hand, long-fingered and strong. Hot. I let go as soon as I can. Don't want her knowing what I'm thinking. Touch talks.

'What now?' I ask her. She still looks unsteady on her feet. 'I think you should eat something.'

'I can't be bothered.'

'Look ... I don't know you, but you're being stupid.'

She shakes her head.

'You don't understand,' she says. 'I have to get there. It's important.'

'You'll never get there if you don't eat.'

I scratch my head. Why am I getting involved? I've sorted her out, haven't I? She'll be fine. I've got a meeting in an hour. But I can't forget that child in my head, that beggar child in Rome that I walked past all those years ago. An hour later, on the way back, all I saw was a pool of blood on the pavement. My fault. Someone else's mercy killing.

'How long since you had something to eat?'

'Dunno,' she shrugs.

'There's a shop over there,' I point. 'Go get yourself some food. You've got money, I presume?'

She nods.

'I'll come with you if you want.'

'You don't have to.'

'I want to make sure you do eat something.'

She doesn't look at me. Just trudges towards the place I've pointed at. I walk a pace behind her. Even in her state she moves with grace, with a loose-limbed poetry I envy.

I want to see this thing out. Maybe I'm just being nosey. Maybe. Maybe something else. I watch her shape. The narrowness of her. A breeze tugs at the skirt over her leggings. I want to be here. I catch up with her. Open the door for her. Still she doesn't smile.

She rips the packaging off the sandwich before she's even paid for it. Starts wolfing it down.

'Why did you keep eyeing me up on the Tube?' she asks, her mouth full. 'I hate that.'

'I like watching people. I wasn't eyeing you up.' Of course, I'm lying.

She shrugs.

'Seemed like it to me. ... Anyway...'

'Yes, well, if you're ok, I'll get going then.'

She shakes her head.

'No. Come with me. Just to make sure I get there. Please.'

What have I got to lose? Everything. I should get a grip.

'Why ask a total stranger?'

'Why catch a total stranger fainting in a train?' Is that a half-smile?

'No-one else did.'

'Oh well. I suppose I should be grateful.'

She drops her shoulders.

'You don't have to be grateful, or anything else,' I say. 'I'm glad I was there, that's all.'

A nod is all I get this time.

'Do you feel well enough to get back on the Tube? We could get a cab.'

'It's gotta be the Tube. It's the fastest way to get there. I wouldn't get there in time otherwise. I'm just freaked out by fainting, that's all.'

'Can't you phone them and cancel or something?'

'No ... no. It's today or not at all.'

'Fine.' There's no point asking questions. It's not like she's going to answer them.

My mobile burrs in my pocket. I look at the screen.

'R u going 2 b on time?' Obviously not, now. Damn those accountants. They don't just want you to be on time; they check that you're going to be on time. Well, I love to disappoint them. I hate this time of the year. End of the financial year. Make sure you've done your sums right. They should be doing the effing sums for me, not the other way round.

'No can do 2day,' I text back. Stuff them.

'2morrow then?' the message comes back.

'Mayb. Emergency.' That should put them off for a couple of days.

'Still got time?' she asks. 'Couldn't help noticing your furrowed brow.'

'That's because texting's not my forte. Yes, definitely got the time. A meeting I don't want to go to.'

'Good.'

'By the way, I'm Adam.'

'And I'm Birdie.'

We don't shake hands. There's still that awkwardness in the air that hangs between unknowns like a sheet of glass. Our intimacy in the immediate aftermath of her fainting fit doesn't count. Tomorrow she'll think it's been a dream.

'Interesting name.' I specialise in afterthoughts.

'I'll explain it to you on the way.'

The trip on to South Kensington is swift and uneventful. The train's crowded again, so I insist she sits in the one spare seat. She does. I stand, sway along with the carriage. Except this time I don't play my usual game of counting the attractive women in here with me. Stare down at Birdie and feel a confusing degree of tenderness. She ignores me. Fascinates me. Draws me to her. We only start talking again when we're back up at street level.

'You were going to tell me about your name.'

'Was I?'

'Apparently.'

'Do you know anything at all about the Antarctic?' she asks.

'What's that got to do with it?'

'Answer the question.'

She's all strong again. Can't we just talk about us? Obviously not. I'm starting to feel a bit used. Story of my life.

'Erm ... just what I learned at school. Amundsen beat Scott to the South Pole. Amundsen got back. Scott didn't. Oh, and it's bloody cold out there, and dark most of the time.'

'Great summary. ... Well done. Go to the top of the class.'

She's shaking her head again. Where is this going? I get the feeling she's making fun of me. And how far do we need to walk to get to this place? I thought she said it was at South Kensington tube. I hate walking.

'But you know that's the Natural History Museum?' she asks. Points at the Gothic monstrosity. Now she's patronising me.

'Yeah. Course. It's got dinosaurs and things in it. I've been there once.'

'But do you know what it's got to do with the book in my pocket?'

'Should I care?' I ask. This is tiresome. A bit. But she is gorgeous, so I'll forgive her.

'That's why I asked.'

'So tell me. I'm not the world's most patient man.'

She stops. I hadn't noticed that she's out of breath. But at least her face is flushed. She has to crane her neck to look me in the face. She smiles for the first time. I smile back at her brown eyes.

'Then learn to be.'

'Hell, woman, what about the book?' I'm taking liberties now, I know, but I don't really want to talk about a book.

'Written by Apsley Cherry-Garrard.'

'Who?' I nearly start laughing. 'Sounds like a character from a sitcom.'

'He was anything but funny,' she says, smile gone, tiredness back. 'The book's all about him and two others walking over 130 miles in the pitch black Antarctic winter to find and bring back some penguin eggs. They managed to bring back three eggs, and they're in the museum there.'

'And the big deal is?'

'One of the two men with him was Henry Bowers, also known as Birdie...'

'You've got a man's name?'

'Let me finish. Birdie Bowers died on the way back from the South Pole with Scott and Dr Edward Wilson.'

'You're related to him, then?'

'No, he didn't have any kids, as far as anyone knows. He still lived with his mum when he went on Scott's expedition.'

'So, why? Name? How?'

'My parents. They were obsessed with the whole Antarctic thing. Dad reckoned one day he'd find out that he was the son of Birdie's love child. So I'm still hoping.'

She starts walking again.

'Anyway, they christened me Henrietta Birdie Bowers in honour of their great hero. Fantastic, eh?'

'Are you being serious or sarcastic?'

'A bit of both, I suppose. Henrietta's a crap name, isn't it?'

I laugh out loud.

'Now that's funny. You chose Birdie as the name people should call you?'

'Yeah. What's wrong with that?'

'Nothing, I guess. ... Didn't people laugh at you at school?'

'Not as much as if they'd known I was called Henrietta.'

'Ah, ok. ... So, why are you going to this Royal thingy place?'

'Just call it the RGS.'

'So, Henrietta, why are you going to the RGS today?'

'I persuaded one of the people there to show me stuff they've got from the Scott expedition.'

'Why?'

'Because I'm interested.'

'You've got to be more than just interested. Otherwise you'd just have put it off.'

'No way.'

What is she on? Maybe I should have taken her to a hospital. She's out of it, totally. In my rational man's opinion. I just wish she'd get to the point. Maybe we could start talking about something interesting then. Maybe she'd let me ask her out, or something similarly uncomplicated. Sort of. How would I ask? Anyway...

'So, these things you're going to see...'

'The thing is ... there's a mystery.'

'And?' This is hard work.

'Bowers, and Scott, and Wilson were stuck in their tent for 10 days on the way back from the Pole.'

'Oh, really? So what?'

'That's why they died.'

'So why didn't they just get on up out of there and carry on?'

'Scott said there was a blizzard.'

'Aren't there blizzards out there all the time?'

'Yeah, but they only last 3 or 4 days, normally. Dad was never convinced they could have been stuck in that tent for ten days. He always reckoned something else must have happened.'

'Surely, others must have asked the same question?'

'Lots of people. But no-one can explain away those 10 days.'

'And your dad tried to find out more about it?'

'Sort of. He was obsessed, but he never got round to doing any proper research.'

'So you're doing it for him.'

'Yes.'

I can hear her clench her teeth. Just like in her faint. Lips gone thin. Face even more pale.

'What's wrong?' I ask, worried she's going to faint again.

'Oh, nothing, really. ... Just ... just ... Dad died last year ... and I really wanted to do this with him.'

'I'm sorry.'

I think about putting my arm round her, but give it up as a bad idea. Although I'd really like to. She's very huggable. Lovable, even, though God knows why. Giving me the runaround like this.

'Did you ever think about finding out more about it before he died?'

She nods.

'But?'

'We just never got round to it. Too many other things to do. Always something else to do. You know what it's like.'

'Life just passes me by.'

She ignores my flippant comment.

'So I'm doing it now. ... Sort of catching up for lost time.'

'And you think you'll get your answer today?'

'Who knows.'

She stops outside a set of metal gates.

'We're here.' she says.

'Looks like this is it, then. Good luck.'

'Why don't you come in with me?'

I hadn't expected this.

'It's not really my bag.' I can't believe what I'm saying. I'd do anything to spend more time with her. But women have never been my strong point. I start to turn away. Never could go through with anything. A coward deep down.

'Come on, Adam. You might even get obsessed.'

By you, I think.

She starts to drag me along through the gates. I don't really resist. How could I?

'Why not?' I give in. To her. To myself.

It's the twelfth of November 2006. My birthday.

next chapter