The Sister(30)
‘Once the inquest is over, you are to put it all behind you. You can do that, can’t you?’ He crossed the classroom to the door and held it open.
Miller stepped past him and, once outside, turned back and said, ‘I’ll try, sir.’
Watching him go, Kirk whispered under his breath. ‘That’s the spirit, boy.’
Chapter 22
North Korea – 27 April 1951
Kirk opened his eyes. Out from the darkness of a sleep devoid of dreams, he looked up into a dense canopy of green. Dawn. The dew from the covering mist collected on the broad leaves, accumulating until it bent them, running off the edges as they tipped under its weight, peppering the ground around him. For a moment he wasn’t sure where he was. A large splat dropped down on him, wetting his face, waking him into reality. His bones ached from the damp and cold.
He struggled to recall. How long is it since I lost the others – one night or two? Exhaustion loosened his grip on the passage of time.
Once he made it to safety, he promised himself he’d sleep for a week, but in the meantime he must go on. He raised himself to his feet through sheer force of will. The sound of sporadic gunfire cut through the air, along with enemy shouts and voices he couldn’t understand. Maybe they were talking about him. Do they even know about me? Maybe they were looking for other escapees.
Out of the babble of voices – quite clearly and unexpectedly – a Chinese rendition of a cut glass English accent said, ‘We are going to find you, English.’ A bullet smashed through the foliage next to him as if punctuating the statement, followed by the unmistakable single crack of a sniper rifle and raucous laughter. The vaporised sap from the shredded leaves reminded him oddly of fresh-mown grass and Sunday mornings. He shivered and then taking his pistol out; he checked it – four rounds left.
Folding a leaf into a chute, careful to leave it on the stem, he directed a few drops of dewy water into his mouth before moving slowly through the undergrowth.
In those two nights and three days, he lived his whole life with a burning intensity and brightness of being he’d never again experience. Apart from his pistol, he possessed only a machete, a length of piano wire and the clothes on his back. Unsure which way to go, and guided by little more than intuition and the growth of moss on tree trunks, he took the road less travelled by.
He went south away from the river. His heavy heart told him if he kept trying; he would eventually get away.
Kirk opened his eyes, drenched in sweat, and in his own bed.
By day, he was a teacher. At night, sometimes, he was a lost soldier again. Over the years, the frequency of his wandering nightmares had diminished, but he avoided talking about his experiences. He knew if he did, it would trigger a series of unpleasant dreams that could go on for days. In Miller’s case, he rationalised it was worth it.
A murder of crows entertained him from the trees. Cawing and calling, squabbling and scrapping, reluctantly roused from their roosting places, circling out and away finally, on black wings opened against the brightening grey light of dawn.
Kirk watched the birds in the morning, and he watched them at dusk when they arrived back at the tree; carrying out the procedures of dawn in reverse, governed by instinct, trapped in the loop of the cycle of life.
Gritting his chipped teeth, he wondered where in the nightmares his dreams would dump him tonight. He thought about Japan.
You just can’t get away from some things.
Chapter 23
Mid-September 1975
Two months after the tragedy, the newly renamed Miller attended the inquest in a daze.
The following day, the local newspaper billboards carried the headline: Drownings at Devils pond: Coroner Records Accidental Death Verdict.
Kirk sat with a newspaper arranged in his lap, a cup of coffee in one hand, turning the pages with the other. He was searching for the article with the vested interest of someone who had been involved and wanted to read the reporter’s perspective. Steamy tendrils rose on the thermals from the surface blackness of the hot liquid and drew his eye. He stared through the steam absently, reflecting on the proceedings of the day before.
A crowd of news reporters had crammed into the courtroom, easily dwarfing the group of relatives and friends. However, if the journalists expected new developments, they were disappointed.
Kirk recalled how Miller had taken the stand to give evidence. At the start, he’d appeared oddly detached, distracted even, leaving sentences to trail as his thoughts wandered. Several times, the coroner had to prompt him to continue. By the end, he’d broken down. As he made his way unsteadily to his seat, his father rushed to help him.
Next, an expert witness delivered a lengthy report on his findings. ‘High levels of exposure to hydrogen sulphide gas would have resulted in a rapid loss of consciousness. Actual deaths from breathing large amounts of this are quite well documented, but most of these have occurred in work settings.’ Several people exchanged looks as the expert hit his stride, needlessly going into finite detail. ‘In places like sewers, animal processing plants, waste dumps, sludge plants, oil, and gas well drilling sites, as well as tanks, and cesspools—’
The coroner interrupted, ‘I think we get the gist.’