One Man's Flag by David Downing

Author:David Downing
Language: eng, eng
Format: epub
Tags: Crime Fiction
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2015-08-24T18:46:49+00:00

Seven-Inch Hems

The Marmora was not one of Peninsular & Oriental’s more modern vessels. It was comfortable enough in an old-worldly sort of way, but as the ship sailed westward across the Arabian Sea, the captain seemed disinclined to push its speed much beyond ten knots, and even this caused the engine to clank alarmingly. After complaints from high-ranking passengers that their beauty sleep was being interrupted, an even slower pace was set at night.

McColl’s fellow passengers were a mixed bunch—Indian Civil Service retirees returning to their homeland, businessmen and government employees, young men who had finally decided, for who knew what reason, that it was time to join the colors. There were a few wives, but the only single women McColl noticed were a couple of nurses intent on pursuing their vocation much closer to the front. The company as a whole seemed almost equally divided between those determined to uphold prewar standards of dress, decorum, and social precedence and those who saw the war as the perfect excuse to leave all that nonsense behind. When a crew member dared to dance with a passenger, some threw their hands up in disgust, others in jubilation.

McColl found himself angry with all of them, angrier than seemed sensible. He was also having trouble getting to sleep, though not on account of the engines—his mind was either racing or seething, and the cabin seemed claustrophobically small. After a week’s worth of nights spent pacing the deck, he found that even the moon was making him angry, and he consulted the ship’s doctor. “Something that’ll put me to sleep,” he urged the young Anglo-Indian.

The doctor was not so biddable. Before dispensing pills, he was keen to learn some personal history and, after listening to an edited account of McColl’s recent experiences, asked him if he’d had a major shock.

“No . . . well, yes, I suppose so,” McColl admitted. “Someone aimed a gun at me and pulled the trigger, but it didn’t go off. I suppose that was a shock.” Sitting there, he could feel a coldness spreading through his chest.

“Two, perhaps,” the doctor said. “The first that you were about to die, the second that you weren’t. This is delayed shock that you’re suffering from. You’re probably in a constant rage.”

“Well . . .”

“I’ve seen it before,” the doctor told him. “My sister was attacked in the street. Quite badly, but it looked for all the world as if she’d put the whole business behind her. Except she hadn’t—she’d just buried it. These things have to be dealt with. And if your conscious brain doesn’t do it, then your unconscious will find some way to punish you.”

Which made some sort of sense. McColl decided not to complicate matters by telling the doctor how angry he’d often felt before the incident outside Cuthbertson & Harper’s. “So what do I do?”

“Think about what happened. Feel it, relive it. There won’t be a blinding flash, but if you stop repressing the feelings, they’ll lose their power over you.

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