The Night Watch

'It's ages till July,' answered Duncan. 'Anything could happen between now and July. We'll probably get blown up, by July!'

Alec shook his head again. 'We won't,' he said bitterly. 'I know we won't. I wish we would! Instead, it's kids and old ladies and babies and stupid people who die-stupid people who don't mind the war. Boys who are too stupid to mind being soldiers, too stupid to see that the war's not their war but a load of government men's… It's not our war, either; we have to suffer in it, though. We have to do the things they tell us. They don't even tell us the truth! They haven't told us about Birmingham. Everybody knows that Birmingham 's been practically burned to the ground. How many other towns and cities are like that? They won't tell us about the weapons Hitler's got, the rockets and gas. Horrible gas, that doesn't kill you but makes your skin come off; gas that does a thing to your brain, to make a sort of robot of you, so that Hitler can take you and turn you into a slave… He's going to put us all in camps, do you know that? He's going to make us work in mines and factories, the men all digging and working machines, the women having babies; he'll make us go to bed with women, one after the other, just to make them pregnant. And all the old men and old ladies he'll just kill. He's done it in Poland. He's probably done it in Belgium and Holland, too. They don't tell us that. It isn't fair! We never wanted to go to war. There ought to be a place for people like us. They ought to let the stupid people fight, and everybody else-everyone who cares about important things, things like the Arts, things like that-they ought to be allowed to go and live somewhere on their own, and to hell with Hitler-'

He kicked at one of Duncan's shoes; then went back to walking about and biting at his hands. He bit madly, moving his hand when one patch of skin or nail was gnawed, and starting on another. His gaze grew fixed, but on nothing. His face had whitened again, and his red-rimmed eyes seemed to blaze like a lunatic's.

Duncan thought of his father again. He imagined what his father would think if he could see Alec like this. That boy's bloody crackers, he'd said to Duncan more than once. That boy needs to grow up. He's a waste of bloody time. He'll put ideas in your bloody head, that boy will-

'Stop biting your fingers like that, will you?' he said uneasily. 'You look dotty.'

'Dotty?' hissed Alec. 'I shouldn't be surprised if I go off my bloody head! I got so worked up tonight I thought I was going to be sick. I had to wait for them all to go to sleep. Then I thought there was someone in the house. I could hear men, moving about-footsteps, and whispers. I thought my father had fetched the police.'

Duncan was appalled. 'He wouldn't do that, would he?'

'He might. That's how much he hates me.'

'In the middle of the night?'

'Of course then!' said Alec impatiently. 'That's just when they do come! Don't you know that? It's when you least expect them to-'

Abruptly, they stopped talking. Duncan looked at the door-remembering his mother's illness again; feeling weird again; half-expecting to hear the sound of people creeping about in the hall… What he heard instead was the steady throb of aircraft, the monotonous crump-crump of bombs, followed by the slither of soot in the chimney-breast.

He looked back at Alec; and grew more unnerved than ever. For Alec had lowered his hands at last, and seemed suddenly unnaturally calm. He met Duncan's gaze, and made some slightly theatrical gesture-shrugged his narrow shoulders, turned his head, showed his fine, handsome profile.

'This is wasting time,' he said, as if casually.

'What is?' asked Duncan, afraid. 'What do you mean?'

'I told you, didn't I? I'd rather be dead than do what they want me to do. I'd rather die than have them put a gun in my hand and make me shoot some German boy who feels just like I do. I'm getting out. I'm going to do it, before they do it to me.'

'But, do what?' Duncan asked him, stupidly.

Alec made the theatrical gesture again-as if to say, it was nothing to him, one way or the other. 'I'm going to kill myself,' he said.

Duncan stared at him. 'You can't!'

'Why not?'

'You just can't. It's not fair. What- What will your mother think?'

Alec coloured. 'That's her hard luck, isn't it? She shouldn't have married my oaf of a father. He'll be pleased, anyway. He wants to see me dead.'

Duncan wasn't listening. He was thinking it through and growing tearful. He said, 'But, what about me?' His voice sounded strangled. 'It'll be harder on me than on any of them, you know it will! You're my best friend. You can't kill yourself and leave me here.'

'Do it too, then,' said Alec.

He said it quietly. Duncan was wiping his nose on his sleeve, and wasn't sure he'd heard him properly. He said, 'What?'

'Do it too,' said Alec again.

They looked at each other. Alec's face had flushed pinker than ever; he'd drawn back his lips, unguardedly, in a nervous smile, and his crooked teeth were showing. He moved closer to Duncan and put his hands on his shoulders, so that he was facing Duncan squarely, only the length of a curved arm away. He gripped Duncan hard, almost shook him. He looked right into his eyes and said excitedly, 'It'll show them, won't it? Think how it'll look! We can leave a letter, saying why we've done it! We'll be two young people, giving up our lives. It'll get into the papers. It'll get everywhere! It might bloody well stop the war!'

'Do you think it would?' asked Duncan-excited too, suddenly; impressed and flattered; wanting to believe it, but still afraid.

'Why wouldn't it?'

'I don't know. Young people are dying all the time. That hasn't changed anything. Why should it be different with us?'

'You chump,' said Alec, curling his lip, drawing off his hands and moving away. 'If you can't see- If you're not up to it- If you're windy-'

'I didn't say that.'

'-I'll do it on my own.'

'I won't let you do it on your own!' said Duncan. 'I told you, you're not going to leave me.'

Alec came back. 'Help me write the letter, then,' he said, excited again. 'We can write it- Look.' He stooped and picked up one of the torn-off halves of the call-up paper. 'We can write it on the back of this. It'll be symbolic. Give me a pen, will you?'

Duncan 's leather writing-case was on the floor, beside the bed. Automatically, Duncan took a step towards it; then checked himself. He went instead, as if casually, to the mantelpiece, picked up a pencil, and held it out. But Alec wouldn't take it. 'Not that,' he said. 'They'll think a bloody kid wrote it, if I use that! Let me have your fountain pen.'

Duncan blinked and looked away. 'It isn't in here.'

'You bloody liar, I know it is!'

'It's just,' said Duncan, 'if a pen's any good, you're not suppose to let other people use it.'

'You always say that! It doesn't matter now, does it?'

'I don't want you to, that's all. Use the pencil. My sister bought me that pen.'

'She'll be proud of you, then,' said Alec. 'They'll probably put that pen in some sort of frame, after they find us! Think of it like that. Come on, Duncan.'

Duncan hesitated a little longer, then reluctantly unzipped the writing-case and drew out his pen. Alec was always badgering him for a go with this pen, and he took it from Duncan now with obvious relish: making a business of unscrewing the lid, examining the nib, testing the weight of the pen in his hand. He took the writing-case too, then sat down on the edge of the bed with the case on his knee, and he smoothed out the paper, trying to press the creases from it. When he'd got it as flat as he could, he started to write.

'To whom it may concern…' He looked at Duncan. 'Shall I put that? Or shall I put, To Mr Winston Churchill?'