Her eyes idle on the bleary gloom of a morning occluded by a cold fog. Nothing is out there, not yet, but she strains her vision against the blank veil as if waiting for something to appear.
In the day, the war machine awakens. There are skirmishes after the fog settles. In the distance, the tell-tale whip-and-crack of gunfire echoes across the naked rooftops, disturbing the dust of the broken city.
At night, she pulls the blanket over her brother and nestles herself in the corner beside him. There’s a collapsed heap of redbrick beside them, sloping into a burst floor. They have made a den from any splintered furniture they could find. Empty cans of food are taken far away, lest their scent linger.
The distant boom of artillery shakes the bones of the earth. Its magnitude sets a terror in her, while its rhythm is oddly comforting. But it is not the flash violence of the war that occupies her thoughts this night.
There are other things, out in the dark. Things no soldier, no civilian, would ever think to speak of.
A lot of corpses are made in war. Something has to clean them up.
She extinguishes the lamp.
Paddy Dobson
24th July 2020