Out of the blue I get an e-mail telling me "although your story did not achieve a prize, it was long listed as one of the best", and could it be included in an anthology of the best short stories entered in 2008 and 2009.
Well yes, I thought.
And I'm allowed to blog it too! I should say it is not a nice story, and has very bad language in it.
A Woman’s War
I
Mella walked. The city was shelled out and walking the streets she thought it was as if the people had been shelled in, for no one was much in evidence save the soldiers. Strange really, for when the houses were whole, furnished and most of all waterproof, everyone wanted to be out on the streets walking, talking and regarding each other. Now that the houses themselves were shells, everyone stayed inside. That older enemy, the dust, was everywhere and if you did go out in the daytime your clothes would be red before you got home. Mella sheltered and listened: there was never ordinary noise anymore, just shouts, masonry falling and those unholy military vehicles racing around. And even in the day you heard odd, punctuated, screaming. At night the screaming was about all that you heard, though there was the occasional gunshot to remind you this was just war, and not something biblical. She sang in the cellar with her girls to cover the sound, but just as new mothers can pick out any baby’s cry during carnival, it seemed women can always hear the sound of another woman going through that. Maybe they imagined hearing it sometimes. They just sang a little louder in the tight circle, straight into each other’s ears so that their song couldn’t be heard from the street.
The terror continued. She heard that women had taken to dressing as men but that the charade didn’t last long, as the soldiers would just strip you in the street to check. Besides, she thought, it wasn’t much of an idea in the first place as any men left tended to be very old and if they weren’t, they tended to be shot. She had also heard that a group of friends had scoured the tottering convent and then worn nuns’ habits but, as the first woman who had tried this sacred cheat reported (bleeding heavily and just about to die but with the wimple still in place), it had only seemed to increase their appetites. Mella walked past the convent’s remaining walls, glancing inside, and dismissed that whole story. Just another tale to demonise the enemy, when she knew exactly what the enemy were.
Later, the night-time knock on the door came. She had made them dress for this eventuality every evening, as soon as the building opposite could just about be imagined whole if you half-closed your eyes. She let the women sleep in the day whilst she scurried the streets, bartering all she had saved in the busy days before the retreat for the hard bread and soft cheese they lived on now. And the meat, which was rare, and never quite tasted like beef, or mutton, or even pork, she supposed. She tried not to think about the meat.
If you did not respond to the knock the door would be kicked in, she knew this, so as planned she called out her response and they all walked up the cellar steps to the front hall. She called again, “I am coming”, whilst the women went up to the first floor to take those positions so carefully rehearsed.II
Mella blinked twice, set her face, and opened the door. It was the nightmare: at least ten men in uniform, she could smell the cheap alcohol, but, but, but, it was a captain who stood before her, the others all behind him a little.
Confidence, Mella, confidence, and smile. “My dear Captain, do come in, may I be of service to you?”
It had thrown him, she saw. He had not expected this.
"And your men too, of course. All are welcome guests in my house.”
Mella indicated the way upstairs. The captain looked genuinely confused and the men would not do anything without his lead, she felt fairly secure in that. Do not overplay this, he is in charge. She dropped her chin a little, and smiled once again, retreating inside. The captain entered.
“My men ….”, he began confidently now, gesturing extravagantly behind him, showing them he had done this thing before, “…. need satisfaction, after all they have endured. Are there women in this house?”
You know these words, Mella, you have recited them a thousand times.
“Captain, this is a house of women. Women who offer not merely satisfaction, but pleasure. We are not housewife drudges whose cunts are so stretched from childbirth that it takes five men’s cocks to fill them, nor eight-year-old virgins who burst after the first few thrusts. We are professional women, as you are professional soldiers, and if you …”, she glanced to outside the door, “and your men will grace our house then you will have both satisfaction and pleasure, I guarantee it.”
“And do you charge your victors, Madam?” He was not sneering.
“Our services are, of course, free to such as yourselves, but should you wish to bestow any small gift upon me if you find our services to your liking, then Captain, I would not be so rude as to refuse.”
What words! I am surprising myself, and look, my hands do not shake.
She gestured upstairs again and the captain ordered his men to enter. She led the way to the first floor, hearing boot, boot, boot, boot as they followed her upstairs. Be calm, sisters, remember, be calm and smile.
On the first floor the women were arranged as rehearsed. They were all either sitting or leaning, because Mella knew any tremor is easier to hide when the body is supported. She looked, and felt some small, sinful, pride. Neither Sheba nor Salome could have arrayed themselves better, though her eyes flicked to Maria, her most fragile, to see if she could withstand this. Yes, she was right to have placed her sitting, and next to Magdalena (Magdalena!), for some strength was passing from the fallen to the risen.
Mella stretched her smile, looked at each one of the eleven and then turned around to face the Captain, gesturing behind her, “Captain, gentlemen, may I introduce you to my ladies.”
III
And she named them in turn, and as each name was spoken the named rose, or stood erect, and turned slowly.
"Now Captain, please be seated, and your men also. May I offer you refreshment?"
As arranged, Magdalena walked to the sideboard and fetched the tray, taking it first to the Captain and then to the men. Mella fetched the bottle and followed behind her. It was brandy, the glasses were small, and as Mella served them she counted; one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. The Captain and nine men. She noticed the captain's pistol holster, and the nine rifles now leaning against chairs and the enormous ottoman. And she smiled whilst doing this.
She was amazed by the silence of the soldiers. They shuffled their feet, murmured to their neighbour, but that was all. It is as it ever was, she thought. I am in charge in this house.
The plan, so carefully written, then rewritten, then changed again to ensure their best possible chance, proceeded as if the men had already learned their parts. The choices were made, the request to leave all weapons (...... for I have heard terrible things, gentlemen, of women shot but no bullet holes being visible.") acceded to, and all retired to their separate rooms within the space of a quarter hour. She was left in the salon with Therese, whose brow was only now becoming shiny. Mella felt her own: it was cool and dry.
Obtaining a weapon and ammunition in wartime is not hard and Mella had had choices to make over what to use. A pistol, obviously, but she knew the silencer would be far harder to source, and so it had proved. To secure it had required much, but she had secured it, and then she had shot, and shot, and shot every type of dead flesh she could. She knew the gun now, the gun knew her, and she had cleaned it, and nursed it, and her feelings for it had slowly changed: though you could not call it affection, she had become respectful of this thing that was nothing of itself but which became potent in the hand of one who would use it. She had made sure she was able, and prayed that she could.
Mella removed her shoes and gently made her way to the first room. The women also had their parts to play and this, their monologue, was to be spoken when their door shut; “Sir, I can be your lover, your wife, your mother or your daughter, or some stranger you have never met before. Who do you wish me to be?”
The first room, as arranged, was Maria’s for she was the most vulnerable. As Mella entered she saw her with the soldier cradled in her arms. He had his back to the door, and was crying. Mella, do not think, act, simply act. So she walked to him and as he turned his head Mella shot him through it. Maria, now blood-spattered, pressed her hands to her mouth, as rehearsed, but her eyes were terrible in their sadness and, moving her hands slightly, she said, “Mother. He only wanted to talk.”
IV
Of the remaining nine, three others only wanted to talk, and though the rest were in some state of undress nothing had yet happened. Every death was very quick, though Mella would not use the word clean to the women because there was an awful lot of blood. Through the night they worked quietly, and once the soldiers had stopped seeping so much the women washed the bodies then redressed them in the collected civilian clothes before the final stiffness set in. They could be left in any building of the city and within a day sufficient dust would cover them to make them as any other casualty of the war. Magdalena had volunteered to help Mella with that. They were the strongest. The rugs and sheets could be dumped during Mella’s daytime journeys.
Though the women spoke quietly to each other during that night, the sounds of the screams were all they really heard. For this night, Mella thought, forgive me, I am glad of them. Dawn came, sudden, and it was time to sleep. Mella said only this; “We have done nothing good this night, but you are intact. You may pray for their souls.”
Once the captain and his nine men had finally left them, their routine returned to what it had been. The door was never knocked on again in the night and Mella was thankful, for although they intended to play the same trick she knew it could never be repeated successfully, because they knew the ending now.
Within two months the uniforms of the soldiers changed, the screaming stopped and the women were able to return to their usual habits. The first mass was said, and at confession prior to this the priest had absolved Mella from the mortal sin she had committed not once, but ten times. “It was”, he said simply, “war, Abbesse.”
And Mella thought of the story of the woman who had dressed as a nun, and then thought it was I who was right though, the only people who survive such times are the liars, the cheats, the thieves and the whores.
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