“You know she’s missing, don’t you?”
Harry flung the week-old newspaper at Tom into his chest thank god it was only paper; Harry’s aim was superb.
“Easy, easy Harriet. save the projectiles for the enemy.” No humour, there was a look of despair he had never seen on his mate’s face, not even in their most hopeless scrape.
He didn’t like this at all.
He picked the rumpled paper from its spot on the floor leafing through until he found a page entitled, ‘Heroism at home.’ Centre of the photographic report; Tom Cradling Emily in the rubble of her home. A common enough sight these days. Subject matter aside, the picture was beautiful.
Exhausted Harry, clearly distressed, screaming for aid. The white dust and crimson blood, gave the woman in his arms a china doll like quality, even the lighting, burnt orange of sunset, Goya like. The two emerging from flame.
This was powerful stuff.
Tom recognised the power in this and it’s companion piece, the dazed woman with wide eyes stretchered away, Harry in the dust weeping
with joy.
This was wonderful photo journalism.
A vague instinct.
“Harry, how can she be missing? You both went to the hospital.”
His friend looked up.
“I know, I called her mum up, Em and I were separated for treatment, I was sent home, found out next day the family were gone and Emily apparently didn’t exist. I’ve been looking for her all week, my mam helped. Gone without a trace. I’ve got a horrible feeling Tommy, that she’s alone and scared. I keep imagining her under the rubble in that silent place.”
He clutched his breast pocket, the last letter, poor bastard.
Tom clapped a comforting hand on Harry’s shoulder:
“Chin up, we’ll find her or there’ll be hell to pay.”
Nothing seemed to comfort his mate, that raised his ire. How dare anyone make his friend feel that way? They’d rescued the PM’s son; they had some clout. As usual with his mind a plan formed quickly and broken fragments on the notion of power made him worry for Emily’s safety.
“Two months before next leave, we’ll have more info, hell she might even have turned up by then. If not, I’ll bloody find her and show her the picture of you in the frock and fishnets, I swear it.”
Finally, Harry cracked a smile.
“You best not bloody dare.”
Tom was pleased, for all Harry’s heroism and competence, he had a naiveté about him, God love him, he didn’t understand power and the often corrupting influence it had.
The Photographer understood power, the press did. They’d been searching the ranks for Captain Harold Lyndhurst ever since the paper came out.
The army protected their asset, everyone except Harry seemed to understand that anything he said would be lapped up.
Emily was probably the same, with her family gone there was nobody to protect her, there were uses for mouthpieces. Any number of influential people could have got to her but the hospital or an agent of was the most likely, if his feeling proved true.
From the regularity of their correspondence, the woman was not likely to up sticks without at least dropping a letter to Harry.
The hospital was 16 miles away from home, maybe Sonia and Evey could help.
“Harriet take a swig of the gin and pull yourself together. Swansongs first eh?
On the Emily front I’m calling in the cavalry.”
“Thanks.”
Missed the last instalment of We Six? Find it here: https://theiristribune.co.uk/iron-and-flame/
