It might be easier if she were a stranger. Or even an acquaintance; someone who inspired no feelings other than vague politeness. As Wilfred looked up at the dingy Victorian brownstone, he ran through the little speech he’d prepared in the cab—then immediately discarded it. There was no easy way to warn her. No words that could keep her from slamming the door in his face. And yet he had to try. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath of cool autumn air. Perhaps she wouldn’t recognize him. It had been nearly fifty years, after all. He had been slim and smartly dressed then. Not handsome, per se, but a freshly-pressed uniform could make up for many other failings. No, most people probably wouldn’t recognize him. But Violet might.
Before he could talk himself out of it again, he made his way up the steps and looked for the buzzer so he could be let in. There wasn’t one. A place like this could at least use a doorman to keep the unsavory sorts out, but there was no sign of anybody working here either. The residents were likely on their own. He turned the knob and was surprised to find the door was unlocked. Somehow this troubled him more than the other signs of neglect. If he could get inside this easily, so could anybody else.
The foyer was no more prepossessing than the building’s exterior had been. One of the cheap overhead lights had burned out and never been replaced, and an unlit, dust-covered chandelier lurked in the shadows like an enormous spider. His sister Peggy was sure the former Violet Smith had married a man named Briggs, but the telephone book had only listed a first initial. “V. Briggs” could have been a man or a woman, and nobody had picked up when he called. Wilfred studied the hand-written directory tacked up next to the door.
103 - Mrs. Violet Briggs
Yes, this was the right place. He let out a sigh of relief at that, but his pleasure was short-lived. Another name had been scrawled in the space below hers, then crossed out.
Jerry Briggs
Surely this couldn’t be her husband. The informality of using a nickname suggested a younger man. Probably a son or a grandson. His own grandson came to mind, longhaired and a bit ridiculous looking. A good lad all the same. But another image followed shortly on its heels; a once-tidy kitchen, a wild-eyed young man, the crumpled form of a dying woman. And God, all that blood.
It wouldn’t happen that way. He wouldn’t allow it. What he saw were only possibilities. Not certainties, no matter how horrifically real they seemed. Even now, there were many things about his gift that he didn’t understand. It wasn’t something he could call on at will, like a stage magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was a sense of utter helplessness, like being pulled under by some relentless current. The only way to survive was to stop resisting; to allow yourself to be carried along until you were spat out on the shore.
Keeping one hand on the railing and the other on his walking stick, Wilfred made his way up the staircase. The steps creaked under his weight. Televised laughter came from somewhere further above, accompanied by a less raucous chuckle in person. Downstairs had smelled musty, but up here it was intermixed with the scent of stale beer. Another light had burned out and never been replaced, leaving much of the upstairs hallway in shadow. Number 103 was right at the top of the staircase, but he stopped just below the landing to listen. Whoever was on the other side of the door moved with light, shuffling steps. Probably just Violet, but he would rather be prepared all the same. He adjusted the grip on his walking stick. It was solid ash, capped with a steel handle. Not intended as a weapon but certainly usable as one. God willing, he wouldn’t have to. Steadying himself one last time, he rapped sharply on the door.
“Who’s there?”
The voice was a little harsher than he remembered, but unmistakably hers.
“It’s… um… an old friend,” he said, trying to keep the quaver out of his voice. “That is… we once knew each other well.”
“And what do you want?” came the wary answer.
“I have something to tell you. It’s very important.”
There was a long pause. Then the lock clicked and the door cracked slightly open. However, it wasn’t far enough to see anything but her shadow and the silhouette of a heavy chain stretched across. After a moment, the door opened wider and she appeared. Her hair had gone steel gray and her face had acquired a look of lined haggardness, but she was nearly as slim and elegant as she had always been. She wore the same pale green frock as in his vision. He tried not to shudder at that.
“I thought I knew that voice,” she murmured, as if to herself. “But I never thought–” Her expression hardened. “It is you, isn’t it? Wilfred Hartley? And I suppose you’ve got a very good reason for showing up on my doorstep at nearly ten in the evening.”
“Yes, it’s me. I need to… well, there’s something important I need to tell you.”
“You said as much already.”
“I… um… There’s no easy way to say it, but I need to warn you.”
“Warn me? Warn me of what?”
“Something terrible will happen tonight. I don’t know just when, but—”
“This nonsense again? My God, you’ve got some nerve to come here! I didn’t believe your lie then and I certainly don’t now. What do you really want?”
Not much of a start. In fact, he was close to losing control of the situation entirely. If she shut the door, it would be nearly impossible to help her.
“It’s not a lie,” he said as calmly as he could manage. “I don’t want to dredge up the past any more than you do. But I think it’s in my power to save your life, and I can’t just stand by.”
She sighed.
“You won’t take no for an answer, will you?”
“Please, at least hear me out. I won’t take much of your time.”
Her eyes shifted to the stairway behind him. There was nothing there, but the anxiety of her expression had been unnerving. Maybe she had more reason to believe him than she let on.
“Well, you’d best come in, then. I’d rather have you be daft in here than where the neighbors can hear you.”
—
Violet’s flat was not large, but it was tidy and beautifully decorated. Doilies adorned the arms of the plastic-protected loveseat she gestured for him to sit on, and framed needlepoints of flowers were hung on every wall. The air smelled faintly of rose potpourri, but that stale beer scent lingered underneath it like a bitter aftertaste.
“I’ll put on water for tea,” she said. “Then you can tell me all about my terrible fate.”
“Please, don’t,” said Wilfred, referring as much to the tea as to her levity. “Don’t trouble yourself for me.”
“It isn’t urgent, is it? Is the building already on fire but we haven’t caught the scent?”
“No. That is…I… I don’t know. I can’t say exactly when it’ll happen. Sometime tonight, I think. Usually I have a few hours notice. Half a day at most.”
“Then you’d best be out with it”
She sat down primly on the chair across from him, perched on the edge as if she expected to spring up again at any moment.
“There’s a young man. Maybe twenty or so. Brown hair, worn shoulder length. Dark eyes. He has a large cut near his left eye. That part of his face is swollen and starting to bruise. I think he must have been in a fight recently. Have you seen him before?”
She narrowed her eyes.
“You haven’t been skulking around here, have you?”
“No. I’ve never been here before. I found your address in the phone book.”
“My name changed when I was married. How did you find me?”
“I asked my sister. She has a lot of friends and a good memory for names.”
“I see.”
“You do know him though, don’t you?” he persisted. “I can see it in your face.”
“So you’ve imagined someone who looks vaguely like my grandson. That means nothing. This city is filled with…with…”
Wilfred took a deep breath. What he had to say was a risk, but one worth taking.
“He’s hurt you before, hasn’t he?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“No, it probably isn’t. But that doesn’t make it untrue.”
She regarded him silently, her features stony and inscrutable.
“What do you want, Wilfred?” she said at last. “Did you really turn up on my doorstep after all these years just to lie to me again?”
Anger stirred within him, a live ember in a fire he thought was long dead. Taking a breath, he tried to compose himself. This was not the time to bring up past grievances, even if they were unresolved. If he lost his temper, he’d have no chance of saving her. He could say nothing about that cold, formal letter, nothing about lying alone in a hospital bed, and nothing about that damned white feather.
“I never lied to you. Not then or now. It was just naive of me to think you’d understand.”
“What was there to understand? You had a nervous breakdown. Shell-shock, the doctors told me. And my brother George saw the entire thing. Considering what he told me, I think I was more than justified in breaking things off.”
“Did he tell you what I said?”
“That you were screaming at everyone to run for their lives? I’m afraid he did.”
It was all true, at least after a fashion. That he had saved three men’s lives in the process was naturally left out.
“It would have been much easier to stay quiet, you know. It’s what I did all the other times. Tried to pretend there was nothing I could do. That they were dead already. Maybe things between us would have been different if I’d kept it to myself. Maybe not.”
The silence stretched uncomfortably between them. Finally, Violet spoke up.
“I always thought you must have either been mad or lying. But you weren’t mad. Suffering from nerves yes, but the doctors said you were perfectly sane. I suppose you never told them your ridiculous story.”
“No. Only you.”
“Ah, of course. Because only a woman would believe something so utterly stupid.”
“Because I trusted you.”
A tinge of resentment had crept into his voice in spite of himself. It shouldn’t have mattered so much to him. This wasn’t Violet; or at least not his Violet. That woman was only a memory, if she had ever existed at all.
“And so you expect me to trust you now?”
He took a moment to steady himself again.
“I don’t expect anything. What I ask of you is very simple, really. Stay somewhere else tonight.”
“And where would that be?”
“It doesn’t matter to me. Just not here.”
She eyed him again, as if expecting a trap.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“And if I do, you’ll leave me alone?”
“I will.”
“Even if you get another vision about me?”
“If that’s what you want. But I’d do something about your grandson if I were you.”
She gave a short, mirthless laugh.
“Do what? Move away? Throw him out myself the next time he comes by? And before you ask, yes, I’ve been to the police. Many times, for all the good it’s done.”
Wilfred glanced at the spotless kitchen on the other side of the room, where it had been lurking at the edge of his vision since he’d arrived.
“Does he have a key?”
“No. Not anymore, at least. Why?”
How could he tell her what he’d seen? It had been the work of an amateur, clumsy in a way that made it all the more cruel. A fate he’d never have wished on her, not even when he’d hated her most.
“He can get in. I don’t know how exactly, but he can. And will.”
“Then he’ll kill me? Is that it?”
“Yes.”
He thought he saw that faint shiver of fear again, but then it was gone, replaced by flinty disdain.
“That’s all of it? Your warning, I mean?”
He nodded. She didn’t need to know the gruesome details of it all. The important thing was that she didn’t stay here.
“Then you’ll forgive me if I don’t offer you tea after all. Since I’m in such mortal peril.”
She rose from her chair and headed back into the kitchen, where she reached for the telephone.
“Please, don’t let me keep you.”
“Shouldn’t I wait with you, in case he–”
No,” she said sharply. “You shouldn’t. I think I’ve been more than patient. I’m doing as you ask, even though the only thing you’re saving me from is a good night’s sleep.”
“This hasn’t been easy for me either. I could have said nothing.”
“And yet here you are.”
Something within him snapped, some final vestige of self-restraint he hadn’t known he possessed. There was nothing more that he owed her. He had warned her and had told her how to save herself. And she had repaid him with a scorn that had been undulled by the nearly fifty years they’d been apart.
“Then take this,” he said, holding out his walking stick. “Use it to defend yourself when he comes for you, if you don’t have the good sense to leave.”
She eyed it for a moment, as if suspecting some kind of trick. Then she snatched it from his hands.
“There, I’ve taken it. Now, will you please go?”
“Gladly. Best of luck to you, Mrs. Briggs.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Hartley,” she replied, unlocking the door and gesturing towards it with a mock flourish.
He had barely made it a few steps past the threshold when he heard the door shut behind him, then the metallic click of the lock being engaged. This time it was followed by the scrape of a chain being slid into place. Whether that was for him or for her grandson, he didn’t know. Either way, he wasn’t getting back in. Wilfred made his way back down the stairs, holding on to the railing to make sure he didn’t lose his footing. He spared only a single glance back towards the top of the staircase as he stepped out into the night.
It shouldn’t have bothered him so much. Perhaps it wouldn’t have if Anna were still alive. If he didn’t know he was coming back to an empty flat. It had been three years since his wife’s passing. For the most part, he had weathered it well. As well as one could. But the grief still caught up with him sometimes, like the rupturing of a scabbed-over wound. He wondered if he ought to have told her about his gift. Maybe Anna would have understood, if he had given her the chance. There had been so many times when he’d come close, but then he thought of Violet and the words died on his lips. It was the one part of himself he couldn’t share with anyone, not even the person he loved most—
He’s in the flat with her.
The thought came to him with stomach-dropping certainty. He glanced over his shoulder. The brownstone had already receded into the fog, hidden rather than revealed by the oily light of the streetlamps. There was no sign of a telephone box, and the police would never get there in time anyhow. Violet’s neighbors were too much of an unknown quantity to be relied on. He was alone, not particularly strong even in his prime, and armed only with a pen knife and a gift that frightened him as much as it protected him. And yet there was no time for hesitation. Violet had deserted him when he needed her most, but he wouldn’t allow himself to do the same to her. He would be a better man than that. Better than she deserved.
It had been years since he last tried to run. His own speed surprised and frightened him all at once. He was not as resilient as he had once been. One misstep, one fall, and he might never walk unaided again. He ran on in spite of this, ignoring the sharp stitch of pain in his side. Streetlights flashed by, revealing patches of treacherously wet pavement, but he paid them no mind. At last, the brownstone loomed up at him again. He dashed up the steps and threw the door open.
The lobby was deserted. Wilfred made his way to the staircase, pausing on the landing. If he could just get Jerry out of the flat, Violet could shut the door behind him and call the police. If she’s still alive. No, she must be, even if he had only a vague feeling to prove it. But then he’d be left alone with a would-be murderer. He looked around for something he might use as a weapon, but the lobby had already been stripped of anything that might be carried away. There was his penknife, of course, but that wasn’t much against a man of Jerry’s size and strength. At least, not in a fair fight. He started up the staircase again, walking on the sides of the steps so that they wouldn’t creak, something he remembered from a detective novel he’d read years back. All the while, he listened for the telltale signs that he was too late. The silence was almost worse.
Violet’s door was the same as he had left it. Jerry must have gotten in another way. Probably through a window. The short section of hallway nearest to the door remained completely dark. It had unnerved him before, but now it felt more like an ally. If he could time it just right… He reached the top of the landing, then stopped. There were heavy footfalls somewhere in Violet’s flat, more unsettling for their attempts to be quiet. He’s there. My God, he’s right there. It wasn’t too late for him to leave. If he crept back down the stairs and out the door, nobody would be the wiser. It would be the sensible thing, really. He could even call the police, once he was a safe distance away. If he was lucky, they would find Violet in time. Or find Jerry before he could get too far from the scene. But he would know. He would see her face in his dreams every night, the lone woman among the crowd of men he had failed to save.
“Jerry Briggs! I know you’re in there, and I know the awful thing you’ve come here to do!”
Wilfred’s voice was sharper, sterner somehow than he had anticipated. An authoritative tone from a man who’d never been an authority on anything.
The footsteps stopped.
“The police are on their way. If you leave now—”
“Who the fuck are you?”
The voice was harsh and slurred slightly. Drunk enough to be belligerent but not enough to lose all coordination. A dangerous combination.
“Listen to me. You need to leave before the police arrive.”
“Fuck you.”
Heavy footsteps again, then a metallic scratching that must have been the latch. Wilfred stood perfectly still, knife clenched in one hand. Waiting. He would have one chance at this. So would Violet. Where was she? The vision replayed itself in his head. Maybe she was already dead. Maybe he had changed nothing and was about to be killed for his efforts. No one was coming to save them.
The doorknob rattled. He tensed, wondering if his muscles would obey him when the time was right. It was one thing to shoot someone from afar. Terrible, but necessary. There had been only once that he’d been forced to kill a man face-to-face. The look in that poor fellow’s eyes as he collapsed—
There was a terrible, meaty thunk.
Jerry screamed.
She must have hit him from behind.
Wilfred rattled the doorknob. Still locked.
Thunk. Another scream. Something heavy fell to the floor.
“Violet!?”
Thunk. A wet, gurgling cry.
“Violet, stop this!”
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He had killed before. It ought to have been his burden, not hers. All she had to do was—
Thunk.
“You don’t have to kill him! I can help you. Just open the door. Please.”
For a long time, there was only faint, ragged breathing. And then, a low sound that could have been either a laugh or a sob.
“Please,” he said again. “There can’t be much time left.”
Something clattered to the floor. The door was unlatched, then swung open.
Violet stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the warm light of the kitchen. There was no trace of the cold, self assured woman of twenty minutes before. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her frock was spattered in blood. The walking stick lay at her feet where she had dropped it.
He looked past her, to the man who lay dying on the cold white tiles. In the war, he had seen men survive wounds that cracked jaws and shredded faces, but he’d seen enough to know there was no surviving a skull fracture like this. It hadn’t mattered how strong Violet was, not with a weapon like that. All she had needed was courage and a good aim.
“He would have killed you, Fred.”
Her voice was hoarse; barely a whisper.
“We need to call an ambulance. Will you let me do that?”
“It’s too late.”
“I know. But it’s the right thing to do.”
Slipping past her, he went to the kitchen and picked up the receiver. Violet made no move to stop him. It was as if she’d been rooted to the spot. The rotary clicked, then whirred as he dialed the number. These were the only sounds that remained. Even Jerry’s labored breathing had stopped.
“I should have believed you.”
He wanted to feel vindicated, but such a victory was hollow and meant nothing to him now.
“No,” he said bitterly. “You couldn’t possibly have known.”
This story is set in the UK during the early 70s, but at its core, it’s about a relationship shaped—and eventually broken—by World War I. There was an enormous amount of pressure on young men to enlist, and not only from official sources. Some women would give a white feather to any young man who wasn’t in uniform. The feathers were considered symbols of cowardice, so it would be an especially cruel thing for Violet to put in her letter. Wilfred was lucky to have been too young to enlist in the first year or two of the war, as the effects of PTSD (then called shell shock) weren’t systematically addressed until several years in. Before that, soldiers who refused to fight could be court martialed and in rare cases even executed.
I was inspired to write this story by Adam Hochschild’s book “To End All Wars: A Story of Loyalty and Rebellion, 1914-1918”, although it ended up taking a very different turn than I expected. If you’re interested in learning more about WWI, I would also recommend Dan Carlin’s excellent in-depth podcast series “Blueprint for Armageddon”.
Saw this as you’d submitted on another’s site. What an amazing story. Held me from the beginning. Well done! I just put up my very first short story, a metaphor of sorts. If you happen on over to read it, I’d love any feedback. I’m new here in Substack, but already loving it! Keep up the good work! Will you continue with this, as in a book? Just curious. I’d definitely buy it😉.
Marvelous story! The characters are beautifully drawn.