1. A Step in the Dark

Harry Platt woke suddenly, thinking for a second that he was under fire, looking for a muzzle-flash, reaching for his tin hat, heart racing, mouth open, gasping for air.

Then he realised he was at home. On the sofa.

Safe.

The war was over.

He breathed a sigh of relief and sank back against the sofa cushions.

Click, click, click . the things he knew settled gently into place like dominoes being stacked: one - the war finished long ago, two - he was alive (still), three - his name was Harry Platt, four - he lived in . Cherringham, yes the village of Cherringham.

He looked around the sitting room.

He knew it was the sitting room - that was good. It was good that he knew this room, that he could name it. Always easy that one - it was the room he was sitting in and it was called the sitting room.

Ha! Ask me another!

No flies on Harry Platt!

I am in the sitting room. This is the house I live in. It is called Bramble Cottage. I am ninety-two years old. I live on my own.

No, that last bit wasn't right. He lived with someone. He was married.

But who to?

"Peggy!!"

He heard his own voice shouting out the name of his wife. And wasn't that the damnedest thing - as if his voice knew more about him than he did!

My wife's name is Peggy. I have children. Two? Or is it three? Their names are .

But he couldn't remember the names of his children, and anyway what the hell did that matter?

Buggers never came round to see him, so who cared what their bloody names were? They could go hang.

Anyway, there was more important stuff to think about. For example .

It's too dark and I'm hungry and what the hell is going on around here?

"Peggy! Where the hell are you?" he called into the darkness.

He fumbled at the side of the sofa and found the switch for the special reading light. He clicked it on and the white light dazzled his face. He looked away - the damned thing was so bright! You could pick out a bomber in the night sky with that!

"Peggy! I'm hungry!" he shouted again in the general direction of the door.

He peered at the clock on the mantelpiece - nine o'clock, it said. No wonder he was hungry - he hadn't had his supper. Or had he? He looked over at the little plastic table that the carer put on his lap.

The carer.

Hmm. That foreign woman. Spy probably. Careless talk costs lives. He didn't say much to her.

The plastic table seemed clean enough. And there was no left-over mug of tea.

But who was to know? Maybe he had already had his supper and they'd cleared it all away.

Hmm . the place smelt of fish.

Whatever. Didn't matter. Didn't matter how many times he ate. If he was hungry he could damn well have supper again! He could have as many suppers as he wanted.

It was his bloody house - wasn't it?

And he had to put up with enough crap from everybody. People wiping his face, his hands, his . everywhere.

Need something to eat - now!

He waited for someone to come. But nobody did. Maybe Peggy had gone to bed. Maybe she'd died! Popped her clogs! Ha! That'd teach her to leave him sitting on his own in the dark!

Hmm, if that was the case, he was going to have to get his own supper. He fumbled around the sofa for his walking stick, then levered himself up into a standing position and got steady.

His toes hurt, his feet hurt, his knees hurt, his hips hurt.

It was like taking a roll call. Easier to ask what didn't bloody hurt.

Slowly he edged away from the sofa, and making sure to take small steps, headed out of the sitting room into the hall.

Well, he guessed it was the hall - because the lights were off here too and he couldn't see anything.

Damned strange, this. Nobody about. No lights on anywhere.

He shuffled over to the light switch on the wall, flicked it on, and looked around.

Yes, this was the hall.

It was empty - just the phone table and chair and a rug on the wooden floor. The hall had smooth banisters and broad stairs that curved and went up. Harry remembered sliding down those banisters when he was a boy.

He'd come off once and banged his head right there against that wall .

Ooh, that had hurt.

To his left there were three doors that led off the hallway - and each one was closed.

For the life of him, he couldn't remember what lay beyond each door. He had a feeling one of them was his bedroom - though it seemed odd to have a bedroom downstairs.

Grown-ups have bedrooms upstairs, don't they? And I'm a grown-up so that'll be where I sleep.

He heard a noise from one of the rooms above. Was that a voice?

He went to the foot of the stairs, peered up into the darkness and called again.

"Peggy! What are you playing at? I'm hungry!"

Nothing. His stomach growled.

There was a light switch on the wall. He flicked it on - immediately the upstairs landing lit up. He couldn't see any movement up there - and when he held his breath to listen, there wasn't a sound.

Must be imagining things.

He turned and saw a door that opened into another room with no lights on - aha, yes that was the kitchen, he remembered now.

Bingo!

He crossed the hall, clicked on the light by the doorway and went into the kitchen.

*

Harry picked at his teeth trying to get a piece of ham out. It shouldn't be that difficult; he only had a few teeth left, how could food get jammed in there?

He counted his teeth with his tongue. Eight. Hmm.

Got it!

Nice piece of ham that was, all sliced and ready on a plate, sitting in the fridge. Shame there wasn't any pickle. Who was doing the shopping these days? Should get 'em on charges!

He looked around the kitchen, so bright from the big long bulbs on the ceiling. All the worktops were bare. Everything clean and tidy, ship-shape.

Except the table in front of him, all smeared with margarine. He must have dropped his sandwich, but he didn't remember doing that.

His plate . empty - so he must have finished it.

He looked up at the big clock on the wall.

Nine-thirty it said.

Well, this was a pretty kettle of fish.

Was somebody going to come and put him to bed?

He had a vague memory that was what normally happened, though he didn't know what time it was supposed to happen.

Maybe they'd all decided he was well enough to do it himself now? Well, that would be a good thing, now wouldn't it?

And why not? He'd just made himself a ham sandwich. He didn't need these bloody carers anymore - Madame Sharkski or whatever the hell her name was .

He heard a voice in the hall.

Definitely somebody there!

He listened, aware of his own breath rattling through his chest.

Harry .

Yes, there it was again!

He picked up his stick, pulled himself up from the kitchen chair, walked towards the hall, and paused at the foot of the stairs.

What was he doing here? He concentrated hard. It was dark outside. It was late. He must be going to bed.

But .

Now he'd forgotten where his bedroom was again. And it seemed a bit strange to be going upstairs. But all houses had the bedrooms upstairs - obviously.

Like I said, that's where the grown-ups sleep.

He looked around again for any sign of Peggy, then spotted a telephone on a small table.

Aha!

Maybe before he went to bed he could phone somebody and tell them that Peggy wasn't there. Why then they would go and look for her. They'd find her and bring her back, and then she could make him a nice cup of tea and cook his breakfast in the morning.

Hmm, bacon and egg. Tomatoes, fried bread .

He fancied that now.

There was a small chair by the telephone. He walked over to it and sat heavily, nearly tipping over as he half fell into it-

Whoa! Careful soldier!!

Then he picked up the phone.

But who to ring? Who did he know?

He couldn't think of anyone. Surely he had some friends? He used to have lots of mates, back in the day.

Yes! His old mate Bill! Bill Sides. He would know what to do!

It had been a while since they were de-mobilised. War over and home at last!

But come to think of it, it had been a few years since he'd seen Bill at all. No matter - he knew Bill wouldn't let him down.

He wasn't sure of the number, but he took a guess anyway and started to dial .

*

Harry put down the phone.

Fat lot of bloody good they were, he thought. And manners - what had happened to people's manners?

He hadn't managed to get through to Bill on the damned phone.

So he'd tried a few other numbers. But the other people he talked to didn't seem to understand what the problem was. Some of them had even got nasty, so he'd damn well got nasty back with them.

Ten years in the army, he knew...