shame

6 June, 1944h

On the day they went out to France the world did not shake with the might of men moving at arms, as your dreams had once convinced you. The countryside that day stirred and meandered into the light of the day like any other.  ‘Lady’ cat was sleeping in the morning sun, strewn across the wooden deckboards and smiling in her own way. You took heed of the bold red colours of the sky; still yet in its own way a quiet but fervent warning from the world as to what would be waged across her surface.

The day moved slowly into itself as you made your way packing your belongings for a brief trip to London, though only after finishing a book Paddy had suggested before they had gone as you sat on the stairs of the farmhouse with your feet touching the damp grass of the field below.  

This trip was the start of a long series of stays.  It was to start at a new print agency, and to, when tasked, provide assistance in collecting the newest correspondence on the front, nothing further advised. No more spying, no more shifting and seduction you had thought, pulling a discarded blouse from across the wickered-backed chair which sat by the window in the farmhouse’s bedroom.  Paddy had sat on the chair on occasion, pipe and poetry in hand as the late afternoons had slipped by till evenings and he was called gently to bed by a calm lilt and the promise of whiskey after sex.  

Your travel case soon stood ready for action by the door downstairs soon enough, yet your attaché case still sat open on the small window-side table as you prepared final clippings and notes to carry. Only one pocket in it remained untouched, this by your own ruling.  Within lay two small notes each from Eoin and Paddy, mundane in nature – just short ‘thank yous’ or ‘don’t forgets’ written in their own scribe. 

These, of course, spoke to their character without speech itself.  You adored each one, one with ink refined, neat and charming in its loops and twists across the page, the other bold from a strong hand forged by an even stronger personality.  You were to leave in the morning, one brief last night shared between just yourself and the dear Tabby which the men both adored (although Paddy denied it).  Of course, she was fine by her own for a brief time, no doubt nothing but elated at the prospect of catching field mice to her heart's content and causing mischief at the neighbours cottage.  

A walk to finish the day was common at the farmhouse when it had been the three of you, stretching your legs for once un-entwined of each other out into the countryside.  As a trio you’d pass brooks and into the small forested hollows not yet claimed by farms.  This time your legs journeyed by their lonesome, and had taken you down the beaten dirt road the farm sat alongside.  Your gaze followed the land to its very end where the churchyard stood surveying idly across the fading light of the country below.

Strolling past the wooded graves, you took note of moss and lichen lurching over their inscriptions, eager to take those buried to further anonymity.  It wouldn’t be such a shame all this you wondered. A quiet, soft death.  

If it were to come to your two men though…, would they rest in a sunny clearing? With daisies rising above their faces, ankles?  As their last thoughts had shared in pleasantry the three of your faces?  It was for certain it would be another, stark kind of death.  One rather filled with fire, smoke, and the screaming twisted faces of men dying around them, sinking into mud and rot of the trenches or township battlefields. 

One of a blood-battle fought not for ‘peace, liberty and all’, but the veracious appetites of men holding the power of the world in small uptight fists lacklustre in both love and kindness.  Your own hand, now clenched into a fist, however, held a small quiet power, one indeed of love, one of closeness, and the neverending dance between two men’s devotion for another and each other, despite your own entanglement between them and forged from within them.

London came and went, and no letters were to come either; not for several months that was.  

Between your newest print houses pigeon-hole or the farmhouses’ lonely letterbox the near constant stream of mail in the past dried right up.  You danced between the farmhouse’s quiet homeliness and the weakened yet still bustling city in England.  You didn’t mind the city really, yet you still kept the farmhouse key in your breast-pocket and reminisced of its creaking floorboards and crackling hearth whilst at the small bed-sit in Pimlico which you had been provided with.  It was above a quaint flowershop, and you could picture Eoin procuring you bouquets with a small smile on his face and Paddy arguing prices in a loud bark at his side.

Keeping any mention of what the SAS were up to, their casualties, losses and positioning was a thorough aim of yours despite the overflow of work reporting on the state of London.  The new V-1 bombs were a terror from the sky, the flying bomb they called it, and they came from dust till dawn.  London suffered, and London worked, and London fought.  Whilst back in Newtownards the time passed like any other, and you found yourself picturing what Lady the cat could be up to in the cold mornings or late evenings where she would creep her way into the farmhouse through a cracked window to rest on the empty bed. 

You thought of where on the front might Paddy and Eoin be now, perhaps huddling for warmth in some blown-out village with snow falling down their coats and aching bodies fighting to push forwards. At nights where your thighs fell open lazily across the arm of the armchair in your bed-sit, and you stared into the softly glowing fire, the thoughts wandered alongside your hands to how your two  would be coping with it all in another manner.

Thoughts arose of the two men sneaking off to a place rarely quiet during war, to revel in each other for a break from it all.  Perhaps they would start a fire in the remains of a house, and Paddy would sink to his knees with a firm hand in his hair, willing him forward onto the eager man before him.   Maybe they’d forget about their days in each other and pose the question of ‘what if she was here to see you like this?’ quietly over and over to tease and test one another.

A particularly enamoured fellow home affairs reporter had slipped in conversation one evening at the French House in Soho.  He had become somewhat of a companion to you, Sid was his name.   Sid was a rather strangely handsome fellow you thought, the type of person who gets more alluring the more you look at them. 

Although he’d made it clear to you that people had found him quite the opposite in passing.  He was elegantly long in the face despite having a cockney prose stronger than a fishmonger to make up for it, like a pretty flower hiding a sharp barb at the centre.  You’d met in the busy halls of Reuters and been quite close ever since, he reminded you of Eoin in a way at times the way he kept you enraptured in conversations.  

Though his hair was lighter, less curly and completely unruly unlike Eoin’s, his height and leanness reminded you of Eoin despite the fact he was without a doubt taller and held a physique of someone seemingly distinctly underfed, running on wine, coffee and cigarettes rather than hardened in the desert.  Despite this, sometimes you brushed away the thought that you could quietly see yourself falling for him in another life. 

He was an odd fellow though, found often walking his shaggy lurcher dog aptly named ‘Baron’ along the Thames or through the heavily-hit streets of Whitechapel in the late hours of the night.  He’d stop wherever to scribble hurriedly in his correspondence journal at passing which he’d pull out of his roughly spun coat with its upturned collar facing the wind.  Sid had a near constant resting expression that he was about to respond to anything wryly, he kept out of trouble in the print houses by mainly writing rather than speaking, and a distinct scar on his lip always caught your eye as his mouth rested in a near permanent smirk when he held his tongue. 

You didn’t quite know how old he was, he still refused to tell you.  Most tended to think he was quite older than he must’ve been.  One time, he’d come into the tea room protesting that he had ‘gotten 40 the other day!’ from a young girl on the street.  Your guesses fluctuated depending on how well-kept or gaunt-looking he was each week you supposed.

Between arguing over the latest dispatches to Normandy the stormy-eyed man pulled his reading glasses off in a hurry, leaning forward away from his open document and almost toppling wine glass to pull you in, pupils adjusting rapidly to the change in vision as he met your surprised eyes.  ‘You’ve heard of the latest SAS moves, have you then?’ He asked, voice hushed as he pulled your own empty glass from your hand, topping it up with the red wine he had somehow smuggled from the barman earlier. The liquid poured smoothly into the glass, almost reaching the top as you tried to gather what you had heard,   ‘That’s certainly enough Sid, quite– yes thank you– I, I must say that no, no I have not,’ you admitted.

‘Well, steamin’ idiots–were, or have parachuted into the Vosges Mountains. If you’d ask me, I’d say that those areas are crawling with Jerry’s.’ He had gotten so close you could almost count the light freckles that sat in number across the pale skin of his strong nose and across his cheeks. Sid always invaded peoples space quite without himself or them realising, though it was always in a gentle manner to emphasise his own devout attentiveness. 

‘’Ave got a whisper that most of the bloody squads gone down, captured y’know.  Most likely off with their ‘eads if you’d ask me. No one’s surviving that.’

Sid tended to become more unintelligible as your nights together went on, Cockney rhyming slang thrown about as he waved his arms and threw various papers from reports at you, he’d often end up falling asleep in your armchair at your bed-sit, cigarette still hanging out of his mouth just as Paddy would do back at the farmhouse.  As you made your way out of the pub, Sid stumbling over himself beside you, the revelation that there was knowledge flowing about the SAS had rightly caught up to you. 

You had left it as wilful ignorance, ‘no news was good news’.  Sid’s briefcase went tumbling from his hand in an almighty thunk, landing at your feet as his cigarette almost slipped from his mouth and fell alongside it.  You took that moment to retest him, picking it up and pushing it against his blue collar shirt, pulling him in.  He looked down at you through widened eyes, face an eerie calm all of a sudden.

‘Sid, please tell me more about the SAS division, anything, please. Are you sure they’re in dire circumstances?’ you asked.

‘I had a butcher’s at the gen, I swear I did–’, he mumbled between a few hiccups and slurred complaints half muffled through the cigarette.

‘–but it’s all rabbit and pork he told me, this diamond geezer. Oh, ‘you can’t trust a word of it down Fleet way I say’ he said.’

He appeared to be forcing himself to keep blinking as he looked at you, he must’ve had nearly two bottles in him.  You pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and finished the drag for him.

In an attempt to smarten himself up, he knocked his hat to a ridiculous angle.  ‘That’s a Hampton Wick I told him, I did Miss, I know what them SAS boys are up-to.’ He tipped to one side, ‘Fuck it, I’m right Brahms aren’t I? Nearly fell off my plate of meat didn’t I.’  He laughed hysterically as he spun back towards you, eyebrows raised and the creases of his smile and eyes painting an absurd shadow across his face. 

You were interrupted when another man brushed you, no doubt a colleague as he shouted upon entering the pub; ‘Sid! What the bloody hell are you doing here?’, the other man stumbled pointing to the ground next to him before stepping over, ‘Well, you see I was over here, like this, but that didn't really work for me,’ he moved back to where he had been leaning against the brick wall, ‘so I thought I'd try over here, but I don’t think there's much future in this one either.’ He said plainly.

The man let out a noise of confused agreement before pushing through the door, the drunk man was now laughing quietly to himself, proud of his own absurdity. 

‘Sid, Sid, please, English.’ you begged, continuing your protest from earlier. 

‘I–er– am English!’ he slurred, ‘Yes, sadly!’ you nodded laughing before gathering yourself, pulling his rough hands into your own.  

‘Name, Sid, my dear, dear friend… what is the name?’ you pressed, lifting his clasped hands up and down with each word. Sid also took a moment before mustering himself, the drunken man perked up, ‘My name?! Well you’d know by now my name is Sidney Turner, at your very service.’ He put on a posh accent and attempted to bow, pulling his hands from yours and lurching over to one side against the brick wall of the pub.

‘No– Sid, no.’ you cried out, laughing at the unintended comic. ‘The codename, Sid, of the mission.’ He shook his head, letting out a series of ‘ooooh’s’ as he huffed searching his clouded mind.  Sid didn’t know about your ‘connection’ to the SAS, though you’d wanted to tell him as such, and maybe you would soon.  

A shoulder to cry on when the seemingly inevitable came wouldn’t be too harsh.

‘Loyton.’ Sid said suddenly, and quite soberly, cutting you from your thoughts.

‘Operation Loyton, Miss.’ 

October 30th, 1944

Loyton was disastrous.  Over 30 men captured, unheard from since.

Paddy was not one of the men to go, it was mostly new men he hadn’t even seen, a new division.  But, he had been sent home nonetheless earlier, injured in a skirmish in Operation Houndstooth, relegated to command from Fairford like a ‘proper “senior officer” must do’ before he would be returned to the fighting in the Low Countries. The news of Loyton crushed him like no other, and unlike the refusal of leave for his poor Da’s funeral he felt not rage but instead immense impenetrable sorrow.

Drowning these sorrows was the only way to quieten the screaming voice in his head that told him it was undoubtedly his fault.  He knew who was on the list of men to send to the Vosges, he had penned it himself.  So many unknown names headed by one name which he treasured like no other.  In that moment he had thought Eoin would of course handle it, as he led men so well in the past, he did not consider quite how anything could go so wrong. He was sure he had signed Eoin’s death sentence.  

Stirling had reprimanded him after assaulting several corporals in his usual manner. A few forced words to ‘clean up his act’ merely touched the sides of Paddy’s misery. The drink called and he had found himself thinking of Newtownards and the lonely farmhouse. He hadn’t known where you were, only that you would be making your own way of course, the smart head-forward thing you were. 

The key was left to you for safe-keeping, and Lady was to be looked after. He knew you were safe somewhere on the shores of England, that was the only solace. Soon enough he had seemingly drunk every pub in Essex dry, and a new placement to London called for further glasses to sink and streets to wander at night wondering what went wrong to lose Eoin.

You had been posted to Paris after it had been Liberated, only a month long affair but enough to miss London and the quiet evenings with your new found friends in Sid and Baron the dog.  Sometimes you cursed speaking French with all your might, though it obviously made you ‘useful’ to GHQ when called.  The boat ride over the channel and home was hellish, squalls stirred swells which lashed the side of the boat and you pulled your scarf closer to you in the cramped dimness of the hull, murmurs of other returning soldiers and personnel creating the only human respite in the vast metal containment.  

Taking the time you swept through the letters from Sid and your family, none still from Paddy and Eoin of recent note.  The most recent from your friend noted in his ridiculous use of rhyming slang once more, ‘moved Uncle Ned, dog and bone me once you get hammer and tack, i’ll give you the rat and mouse. Au revoir.’ he’d not wanted the address to be intercepted clearly, and you weren’t surprised considering his recent delvings into possible war crimes in Oradour-sur-Glane in June.

You smiled at the penned words, despite his unique prose you had to admit the rhymes worked quite well in deception.  Stepping off the boat during the last light of the day wasn’t the relief you had hoped, the chill sinking deep into you as the frozen wind whipped around you.  It took longer than usual for the train to meander into London from Dover.  Soon enough you had made your way down the streets of Charing Cross to a phonebox, willing for Sid to answer the other end even this late at night to provide his address and a nodding head to your stream of consciousness once you arrived, maybe a glass or two of that wine he had as well.  

Your own bed-sit could wait.

The lights and merriment of The Two Chairmen could be seen and heard not far from your perch in the phonebox, no doubt it was filled with returning soldiers willing for a night to forget what they had seen on the front.  Perhaps brimming with information of new efforts and scandals.  Sid soon answered the phone, his voice deep and gravelly with sleep despite its comfort to your ears.  ‘Don’t even think ‘ave to ask who this is now, do I?’ he quipped. You could hear the half-smile in his voice.  You traded a few friendly insults back and forth between yourselves as you attempted to get his address out of him.  He complained of your lateness and tried to push you towards visiting tomorrow when he could hold his head upright only to crumble at a few carefully placed ‘pleases’ from yourself.

‘55 Sans Walk, Clerkenwell–Yes! Yes, near where that bloody prison used to be, though that says nothing about my upstanding character, you here?’ he joked.  You laughed whole-heartedly down the phone as he corrected himself, ‘Near the market, let's just say that instead.’ you agreed.  Taking a few moments, just listening to your shallow breathing down the line before you blurted out. 

‘I missed you.’, hand gripping the handle of the black phone tightly in anticipation of his response. He let out a slow breath behind the phone, ‘Missed ya’ too.’ he followed, a certain frustration to his voice you hadn’t heard before.   

‘Right then, now get going, Baron’s woken up and she’s not happy to see me nabbing to you on the phone than in person.’ You agreed and gave your farewell,  ‘See you soon, love.’ he resigned.  You’d never gotten used to the average Tom, Dick and Harry on the street calling you that despite most of your life spent in the UK, and your heart panged slightly at the thought of your real and truthful ‘loves’, wherever they were.

A great clatter suddenly brought your attention from hanging up the phone on its hook towards the pub's lights.  Four men were tossing another out into the street, a pint glass still swinging from the man's hands.  Despite the danger, perhaps this was an opportunity to collect his frustrations of the war on your way, some fresh information to share once you got to Clerkenwell.  You swung the phonebox door open in a hurry, pace quickening to catch up with the lurching man, clack of your Oxfords echoing around the empty street and bag swinging haphazardly beside you.  The man was not much taller than yourself and his back faced away from you as he moved down the street, though his figure became increasingly familiar as you drew closer.  

‘Excuse me, Sir–’ you began, the man spun around in a burst of coordinated vigour, his fist raised in a sudden lunge. 

‘Get tae fuck–!’ he began before stopping dead in his tracks.  

Despite the dark blonde hair tousled over his face you could see that snarl on his face you had come to know and love. 

Paddy Mayne stared back at you, eyes afire in the dim streetlight.

You had flung yourself into his chest immediately, draping your arms around his neck as he outstretched his own in an attempt to avoid getting the remains of his pint and cigarette ash on you.

‘Easy now, you’re going to knock us both over.’ He huffed. You pulled back, reaching for the glass in his hand and tipping back the contents to his surprise.

 ‘What did you do this time to get sent home, Paddy?’ You questioned, voice full of smug joy knowing that despite his rank he’d prefer to be without fail in the midst of it all in war than on the streets of London. He took a heavy drag of his cigarette not answering before you jabbed him in the rib with your index finger, ‘Didn’t write to me either Paddy,’ You reprimanded him.

‘and where’s Eoin? I haven’t gotten any letters from him either.’ You continued, placing the pint glass on the gutter ledge for the pub to collect later on.  Looking up at him from your stoop you could see the sudden emotion in his eyes, with Paddy it was always rage primarily with an undertone of sadness or other such negative feeling. 

‘I don’t know,’ He admitted.  

Your heart sank as you recalled what you had been told over that table of empty wine bottles before you left for France.

‘Something— it didn’t go quite as we had planned.’ Paddy admitted. Your eyes widened as your hand came to grab Paddy’s own.  He reached into his coat pocket with the other, ‘His ma–she gave me this letter.’  The letter was worn, as if it had been opened over and over again, no doubt in disbelief. 

Dear Mrs. McGonigal:

This letter is to confirm my recent telegram in which you were regretfully informed that your son, Staff-Sargeant  Eoin McGonigal, attached to the airborne troops, has been reported missing in action in Vosges, France since 14 August 1944.

I know that added distress is caused by failure to receive more information or details regarding the matter.

Therefore, I wish to assure you that at any time additional information is received it will be transmitted to you without delay, and, if in the meantime no additional information is received, I will again communicate with you at the expiration of three months.

The term ‘missing in action’ is used only to indicate that the whereabouts or status of an individual is not immediately known, It is not intended to convey the impression that the case is closed. I wish to emphasise that every effort is exerted continuously to clear up the statue of our personnel.

Under war conditions this is a difficult task as you must readily realise. Experience has shown that many persons reported missing in action are subsequently reported as prisoners of war, but as this information is furnished by countries with which we are at war, the War Department is helpless to expedite such reports.

The personal effects of an individual missing overseas may be held by his unit for a period of time but are unfortunately likely buried with the soldier in the case of a death or confiscated by the enemy.

Permit me to extend to you my heartfelt sympathy during this period of uncertainty.

Sincerely yours,

Lt. Col. W. Stirling  

The letter had that manufactured signatory to it that made you grit your teeth, Stirling likely barely even glanced at it as he signed himself away, or better yet, one of his assistants in London forged it away.

The name ‘Loyton’ brushed your lips again.  He was lost, as Sid had told without even knowing it.  

‘I already knew.’ he said aghast, ‘signed them myself…, his orders to lead those men.’ Paddy confessed, he had lit another cigarette whilst you had read, puffing the smoke to the side in a deep exhale, looking up to the scattered clouds in the dark sky.  You reeled backwards, pausing as an overwhelming desire to react physically against the man in front of you arose.  You struck him clear across the face, surprising your own self as much as him before gripping his coat collar as he hissed in pain, the cigarette fell from his lips to the damp ground.  As you moved closer you came to realise just how much he stunk of whiskey and who-knows-what other concoctions. 

Drowning his sorrows no doubt.

‘Are you daft Paddy Mayne?!’ you cried out in his face.  Despite your outrage he almost immediately began to frog march you backwards towards whence you came, a firm hand on your shoulder. ‘How could you– could you not have foreseen the mission was– I don’t know! Impossible? Dangerous beyond even your suicidal mind?’ You blurted out as you stumbled over yourself as the immovable force behind you pushed, voice echoing off the brick walls of the street as he moved you back past the doorstep of the pub. 

‘Aye, we’ll have none of that.’ Paddy said coldly and soon enough you were being pushed through the flown open door of the phonebox, arms only catching yourself last minute against the glass. His demeanour had shifted, from a drunk, clearly emotional one to one of a stone-cold commander.

‘Don’t speak.’ Paddy told you. 

‘Don’t fuckin’ say a word now, just do what I want.’

You turned, eyes widening at his clear intention.  He nodded slightly towards the ground and it didn’t take long for you to sink to your knees, the rough concrete of the phonebox catching on your stockings as you lent your head against Paddy’s thick thighs.

‘I missed you.’ you whispered.

‘I know.’ he replied as the sound of his belt unbuckling filled the cramped space.  It never took much for him to be aroused, he had an astounding virility despite his clear qualms with his own indiscretions.

You helped him to pull himself out of his trousers, taking the heavy weight in your hands as a marvelled look took your eyes as his darkened eyes met your own.  Even after the time passed, the veins and weight of him had imprinted their way into your mind, lips, tongue, and no doubt throat as you brushed your mouth along the thick, familiar length of him.

You took your time in teasing the already dripping thick head of him, popping it lightly from your mouth and swirling your tongue across the sensitive surface, dipping your tongue into the slit of it and watching the way tension seemingly drained from the man above you.   Soon, you relented to his growing huffs of frustration and your nose brushed the patch of hair at the base of him as you took him in your mouth.  

It took some muscle memory to kick in to relax your throat further to allow for his hand to push and pull your head back and forwards on his unforgettably thick length. With a jaw already aching as you shifted on your knees, you moved your fingers to glide gently across the remaining soft skin of what you couldn’t take down.  His head rested against the glass of the phonebox door, eyes closed as he fumbled with his cigarette case from memory and lit one in the small space, smoke flowed from his mouth to cloud the phonebox further as its already fogged glass of the heat from your bodies obscured what was inside.

Paddy relished in your skilled mouth for some time before he interfered, pushing you roughly backwards still buried to the hilt down your throat, hands clasped together at the back of your head stopping from cracking it against the thick glass of the phonebox.  Your knee scraped painfully against the floor and the no-doubt hole ripping in your stocking reminded you quite of the ridiculousness of the situation. 

What might a passerby have to endure?  Your head was bracketed between the glass and his thick thighs still holding the back of your head now with one hand he pulled out, tapping the thick weight of himself against your puffed lips and outstretched tongue before pressing back in. He began to lazily thrust into your mouth, your jaw protested as you stretched it as wide as you could.  You closed your eyes in concentration, trying to control your breathing.  He clicked his tongue, ‘Need those pretty eyes on me girl. Don’t you dare fuckin’ stop looking.’ he rumbled from above as he snapped his hips forward roughly into your mouth. 

You missed the way his breaths would get rough and ragged in these moments, almost like some animal huffing in beastly exertion.  It felt like an eternity before he was holding your jaw open further and pushing deep into your throat as he came.  In your concentration your eyes had slipped closed again as you savoured the heat of him and the salty taste filling your mouth.  You hadn’t paid attention to his face,  now it was obvious that his face was stained with tears as your vision focussed.  The great fearless dog that was Paddy Mayne was a broken man.

‘I’ve got nothing now,’ He spat out, chest heaving as he came down from his high and rubbed his forehead with his hand, mouth twisted in anguish.

‘Hey!, I’m still here!’ You replied, mouth hardly able to form the words as he slipped from it.  Your head was quickly yanked back as he pulled your hair roughly, almost lifting you off your knees from where you knelt. 

‘You know my feelings towards you are still for nothing but to get my cock wet, despite whatever I might say.’ He said harshly.

‘I doubt that, do not act like you neither want nor need me in your life Paddy when you’ve admitted the opposite.’ Came as a brave warning from your slightly trembling lips still wet with spit and the salty taste of him.  You had never seen him in such a state.

You stood calmly and  brought your hand up to gently guide his face to look at your own,  ‘Now. Now, of all times do we need each other most, for us. For him.’ You nodded at the letter now clutched back in his hand, his eyes flared with fury, yet he leant into the touch, like some wounded animal wanting to fight its saviour, and he closed them.  

‘There is no real war left for me to go out in…, no point to it all.’ He slowly began bizarrely as he opened his eyes again. You shook your head, amazed at his clear drunkenness which had seemingly returned, you reached for your briefcase and stood, holding it out to him. 

‘There is most certainly still a war Paddy, this is why I am still here…, though I can see you’re not in the state to read any of my recent reports.’ you replied, frankly embarrassed by his mighty fall from his usual temper.

‘Oh I’ll read, read nought but poetry till the day I die, nothing more,’ he slurred out, hand unintentionally clasping over your own against the briefcase pushed to his chest.

‘But the day I die may be quite soon, aye…,’ He swayed, resting himself leant against the door of the phonebox as he continued, ‘ no point without him fighting by my side.’

‘Paddy now is not the time for half-arsed poetry, you simply cannot be serious, you are needed in Europe. Eoin- he’ you tried to refrain from choking up yourself, ‘He’ll be alright somewhere,’ you said hopefully.

He had fixed his trousers and pushed open the phonebox door, letting a rush of cold air in which refreshed your hazy mind.  You followed him, leaning against the door of the phone box opposite him. 

‘Come on,’ You said, guiding him to the crisp outside air to sober him up.

‘I suspect the troops are greatly disheartened by your discharge?’ You asked, scuffing your heel against the cobbled street knowing reasoning with any man, let alone Paddy in this state would likely amount to nothing.

‘Bill Stirling can command as he wants, the bastard. I was never much of a leader anyway.  I’ve taken up more success in commanding the pints in my own hand than any men lately.’ he waved behind him in the vague direction of the pub.

‘I’ve nowhere to stay.’ he confessed, ‘Only came here to drink expecting I’d make the train back to Gloucestershire, but knowing I wouldn’t.’ he admitted. You squeezed his hand ‘I’ve got a friend we can stay with tonight, he’s closer than my place, I was headed there anyway.’ you adjusted your own coat with the other.

‘“He’s?”’ Paddy asked, eyebrows raised. 

‘Don’t be daft Paddy.’ you replied, a vibrant red flush of embarrassment warming your cheeks.

‘Oh, I’ll be whatever you’d have me tonight just this once, so I will.’ he replied sarcastically. 

The walk to Clerkenwell went by quickly as you attempted to fill each other in on life since D-Day and Paddy thoroughly sobered up, rain began to fall as you neared the darkening bricks of the address you had gotten over the phone.  The black wood door of the building required a shove from Paddy to open and the wrought iron railings of the stairs left a mark on your hand as you made your way to the fourth floor. 

Sid’s hair had gotten even longer since the time you saw him last, reaching almost to his collar in such an inopportune fashion, a ridiculous ensemble of  facial hair messily covered his jaw and above his mouth. 

He smiled so widely as you opened the door, enough to show the gold crown on one of his teeth that he usually tried everything to hide.

Seeing your eyes widen at the sight of him he immediately began to explain, ‘Apologies…, bout’ the state of me that is,’ he muttered. ‘Just been cooped up here working for months, hadn’t even looked at myself– who’s this then?’ He cut himself off and pointed towards Paddy behind you, the torn threads of his black jumper hanging down from his hand.

‘I believe this is a dead man walking Sid.’ you mused, ‘This is Paddy.  He is in the SAS.’ you stated, lacking any sense of covertness.

‘Paddy…’ the man mused, scratching at his head, he jumped slightly soon after with a quick inhale, ‘Mayne?! He’s a sure terror he is, he is? Isn’t that right?’ he asked hurriedly into the space between the two of you.

‘Only when wee’ boys like yourself get in my way.’ Paddy responded for you.  The man on the other side of the door stooped despite his height, bowing his head slightly in nervous acknowledgement contrasting a wolfish grin on his face.  He looked at you, a ‘boy!?’ he mouthed, a mischievous sparkle in his eye shining as if he was rejoicing in the fact he had been referred to as younger for once.

‘Welcome in then,’ he cocked his head. ‘Welcome, welcome make yourselves at home, don’t mind Baron she’s had his forty winks now and a pig's ear to keep her company.’ he grinned.

‘Hate dogs.’ Paddy huffed, brushing past the other man as they filled the doorway in front of you.  You all moved into the space in silence, you were grateful to be anywhere after your marathon of a day, even in the somewhat messy bed-sit with a dog snoring by the coal grate.  The dwelling was practical, homely in Sid’s rag-tag way, with old paintings he’d collected from flea markets stacked in all corners of the room, books and bric-a-brac filling any spare surface. 

It was larger than your own with a set of strangely ornate glass doors with mis-matched stained glass separating the main room from a small sleeping alcove to the left.  The wallpaper was peeling in some parts and stained with coal smoke in others.  A coat rack stood by the door, most of its arms broken leaving one holding the owner's unmistakable wool coat.  The wooden floor had several mismatched extremely worn rugs covering it, perhaps Persian in origin, though Eoin would likely tell you otherwise; no doubt procured from a flea market in Sid's travels in Morocco or some other place he claims to have visited.  Between these were fine scratches in places, of furniture shuffling in the past and fresh ones from the clear sign of a dog's claws.

By the door in the corner was a small kitchenette, a kettle still steaming sat on a small gas ring, above, a couple of cast irons hung from hooks haphazardly plunged into the brick behind. 

You placed your briefcase on a low-table seemingly acting as his work desk.  It was filled with books and papers and a half disassembled well-used Kodak Brownie.  Notably, your friend had always kept his typewriter on the kitchen bench, he’d always said he found the most inspiring words coming to him when cooking or brewing coffee.  

Snapping you from your observations of the room Sid spoke,‘Ain’t you a dog yourself? That’s what they’re sayin’’ He said in his dangerously curious tone, he clearly  couldn't help but continue the conversation from across the room as he still lingered by the now closed door, pointing from his hip at the soldier as he stood by the window at the other end.  

‘Aye, and she’ll have me playing fetch with your mop-head in a minute if you don’t shut your gob.’ Paddy warned, cocking his head in your direction.  Sid turned to you with a faux surprised look on his face as if to say ‘he’s only gone and said that in my own house, has he?’ You waved him off and made your way over to gently pat the fast-asleep dog.

The messy-haired man raised his hands above his head in an exasperated stretch before clasping them together, with eyes closed for a moment in an attempt to compose himself.  ‘Well, it’s just the one room, but I can put a couple of blankets down for you or whichever you’d like.’ the journalist said, smiling kindly. 

‘Or we could take your bed and you can sleep on the floor.’ Paddy said roughly.

‘Or…,’ Sid grinned, ‘I could set the dog on you, and we’d see if you’re really a dog yourself.’ he scoffed, ‘She’d rip the balls of you, son.’ He said darkly.

‘Fuckin’ sayin’ that to me in me own house,’ Sid mumbled, barely audibly, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and placing it in his mouth, ‘ridiculous.’  he muttered.  Your head was already in your hands at the immediate posturing between the two.  The air settled between the two soon enough, and they even bonded over a shared love of some of the romantic poets and Greek epics into the early morning. 

Paddy gradually sobered up once and for all and Sid became increasingly drunk in his harmless manner on gin despite the time, you were dozing off cramped and contorted to fit in one of the mismatched chairs by the window, Paddy sat beside you in the other, eyes falling to the way your long skirt had bunched up to reveal your thighs and worn winter stockings.

Eventually the Englishman, tired of trying to pull any dramatic stories from the soldier, disappeared to the small bedroom to the side of the main room and returned with an armful of roughly spun woollen blankets. He spread them out by the dying fire as the dog had stirred awake and was now roaming nervously between the armchairs, brushing her thick wiry hair against Paddy’s trousers and your hand hanging off of the chair.

‘Right, I’m off then. C’mon ol’ girl, get to sleep in the bed tonight you lucky’un.’ he clicked his tongue in a practiced tone and the dog and she strode across the room to follow the man.

Paddy watched as you slept for a while before corking the bottle of rum he had been provided with firmly. Placing it on the table beside your briefcase he quietly lifted you from your chair.  You stirred awake just enough to be helped from your skirt and stockings, leaving just your long blouse for modesty, Paddy stripped swiftly, uncaring about his nakedness in another man's home as you curled up between the two blankets.  He soon came to realise that lying beside you was the only comfort he had experienced in mouths, and he felt grounded away from the mindset of ‘kill or be killed’ which had overtaken him ever since he had been separated from Eoin, and especially since the news that he was missing had come through.

After a few hours, birds chirping outside and a distant ‘all clear’ siren had stirred you both awake as dim light flooded through the still-open blinds of the room.  Paddy’s arm lay heavy across your side and chest, keeping you flush against his warm body under the blankets, your hips already ached from the hard surface below but you were grateful for somewhere to at least rest your head.

You roused against him, pressing your clothed behind to his crotch in an absentminded test.  Without fail the Paddy you knew was there as after a few moments he roughly grasped your hip.  A hand was brought to your mouth, ‘Spit.’ his gravelly voice commanded quietly.  Your eyes shook awake at that, turning your head over your shoulder to look into his blank face.  There wasn’t much of a debate when it came to doing what Paddy wanted usually, it would happen one way or another.  You moved your head forwards as you still reluctantly gave in, letting a small puddle of spit stream from you mouth onto his hand as your eyes searched his own and face for any emotion.

‘On your front,’ he continued, a gentle hand lightly pushing on your shoulder despite his domineering tone and initial harsh grab of your hip.

‘I’m not going to fuck that needy cunt of yours,’ he said casually still quiet in the small space.  His weight shifted from beside you as he sat up to straddle your thighs, holding the hand with your spit up to his own mouth to spit harshly against your own.

‘Though…, I don’t doubt that she's been begging and dripping for me since you saw my swift exit from that pub.’ he accosted.

You gasped as he smothered your thighs in your shared spitHe began slowly moving against you, hands moving to press on your lower back as he set the pace. 

He pulled out from your used thighs with a slow, drawn out breath.  With a single moment he flipped you over onto your back, taking a moment to reach down and rub your clit with two rough fingers before dipping into your wetness and pulling it across his spit covered length.  With the three liquids gathered on his finger he brought his fingers to his mouth savouring the taste.  Your eyes widened, but he wasn’t finished,  pulling the finger out to reach down, pulling at your own mouth to open he leaned down and let a string of spit fall from his own mouth to yours.  It hit your lip and rolled into your mouth with a taste of a mix of salty skin and heated pleasure. He continued to move downwards, pulling you into a rough kiss to finish the fourth taste he was craving, tasting everything you could give him.

‘Come on Paddy, before he wakes up.’ you whispered against his mouth which had formed a wolfish grin barely touching your own.  He let out a rough noise deep in his chest as he flipped you back over, cock slotting roughly between your thighs once more.

‘Has he had his way with you then yet?’ Paddy said suddenly through gritted teeth against your ear as his full weight pressed you through the blankets and against the hard wooden floor below.  The slick drag of his cock soaked in your combined spit and the wetness now accumulating on your thighs made you impossibly needy.  

Your eyes widened from their blissed out half-closed state, ‘No, no we– not really, I–.’ you whimpered out quietly, ‘Not really?’ Paddy growled, voice raising to a fierce question.  His hand moved against your head to push your face against the rough woollen blanket as he sped up.

Maneuvering his head to your other ear he dragged his tongue across your neck in a rough claim of the sweat-dewed skin there. ‘Is he good? Tell me?’ he began questioning, scoffing at you as you grimaced beneath him.  Your face filled red with embarrassment as you unintentionally squeezed your legs tighter against him.  This to no doubt spurred him on as you felt his sheathed cock heave in a mighty twitch as he paused pressed flush against you.  He waited a moment further for a response, to which there was none you could muster. 

‘Seem’s we’ve an eye for the same sort,’ he cooed mockingly as he started to move at a vicious pace, the sound of his thighs slapping against your own was sure to wake the man next door you thought.  Let alone was the floorboards beginning to complain in a low creak and groan under your combined weight.  

You shook your head, hair failing over your face, ‘Oh…, aye, I think we do.’ Paddy chuckled mockingly.

‘Should I have a ride of him too?...’ he questioned into the air beside you, anger and jealousy flooding into his voice, before gritting his teeth ‘since we’re all fuckin’ havin’ a go, aye?...’ Tears had begun welling in your eyes at the desperation building in you, he was so close to giving you what you wanted, to pounding you into the floor and making you forget about everything that was coming down around the both of you. 

The blankets under your chest had bunched up, the harsh fabric brushing against your sensitive chest as the weight of Paddy rocked against you.  ‘...Since we’re all fuckin’ goin’ about the town whilst your men are away, fighting–, fuckin’ dying in Hell right here on Earth?’ He continued his tirade.  ‘Please, Paddy!’ you begged quietly.

‘Oh, I think I’ve gathered quite well a sense of your true character.’ he mocked.

‘Fuck it,’ he grumbled, sitting up to roughly spit between his own thighs and onto yours with precision.  You stuttered as you felt the liquid hit you, part of your mind relishing in the filthy treatment, the other 

just wondering if this was another quiet outcry for anything to distract Paddy from Eoin. 

‘Would putting my cock in you set you right then? Remind you of the only thing that can satisfy you?’ he asked.

You nodded your head at an attempt of a response to his question as his hand gripped the back of your neck firmly to steady your movements, holding your head face down as your hips and back began to ache at holding your thighs together and arching your back slightly.

The muscles of his back shifted as he completely crowded over you as he returned to his pace.  ‘Just a desperate fuckin’ whore.’ he grunted, ‘No, no, I’m not, I swear–’ you whimpered.  You could tell how much his words were working himself up if anything as he began to ramble against your neck.  Growls and grunts of ‘Aye, oh, you love it don’t you.’ and ‘There’s a girl.’ came tumbling from his parted lips as he reached between the blanket and your body to pinch at your hard nipples in the cold air.  You were in bliss even without him being inside you, just the rhythmic movements of the strong man above blanketing your body and watching him work himself at the thought of you desperate for him was enough to make you squeeze your eyes shut in pleasure.

Paddy soon lost his composure entirely as he sat up on his haunches over you.  He scooped an arm under your knees, shunting you upwards as he and pulled your hips up to access your knickers which had ridden up as he used your thighs. The shine of your skin glistened from the dull blue light filtering through the windows as he marvelled in the sight.  He quickly pulled the thin silk fabric to the side, twisting it inside out as you squirmed at the fabric pulling even more taut around your hips. 

His spare hand had moved along his cock in long pulls in a steady practised rhythm all the while as you tried to squirm against his grip.  You reached your hand backwards to try to grip at his thigh, nails scratching the skin as you moved against the rough blanket below you, trying to get any sense of friction and release of your own.  Paddy, in seeing your desperation let out a low rasp of curses, moving forwards against you to coat the material of your knickers still twisted in his fingers in thick ropes. He released the material with his mess added to your own and it fell back into place between your thighs.

He hunched over you further, trying to control his ragged breaths, ‘You’re going to keep those on just like that…,’ he patted your still aching cunt now with a flat hand.  You jumped as his movement pushed his own hot release against your now cooling wetness.  

‘and you’re going to stand in front of that eejit and not say a word about it.’ he told you. His head fell back as he moved to stand, spent cock still thick hanging between his thighs as he pulled both his hands through his hair darkened lightly by sweat.  You watched as he crossed the room to the kitchen, admiring his strong body in the gloomy light.  He brought a tea towel over which had hung from a low cupboard, kneeling to wipe at your thighs yet leaving the mess beyond the thin fabric above. Returning you watched in disgust as he wiped his hand and still wet cock uncaringly on the towel before returning it to the spot from which it came.

‘It’s still early,’ you breathed as Paddy gathered himself to lie again at your side. ‘Aye, a few more hours of sleep maybe for you.’ You hummed in agreement, uncaring of the cooling mess against your still heated body.

Still coming down from the sight of the man you had missed in his full nakedness despite the depraved act he had just worked out on you, exhaustion eventually took over you again as you tried to slow your mind. The sweat now dewing coldly against your body was quickly wicking into the blanket Paddy draped across you, and your eyes fell shut in satisfaction as sleep took you. 

Paddy began slowly to track his lips against your shoulder once he recognised your breathing pattern allowing him to admit into vulnerability, taking his time to muster the words from deep within he whispering against your skin;