He continued to crawl, aimlessly and with increasing difficulty, the mud soft beneath his knees and palms. As the sky began to breathe its first hint of dawn, he accepted that he had no idea where the burnt man and the trench were. He cursed himself for failing him, as he recognised that even if he could find the trench, the chance was he’d be dead by now. He’d have died alone, shivering in shock. Howard didn’t even know his name. Why hadn’t he thought to ask his name? Had this war brutalised him beyond even that most common of courtesies? He had sweat in his eyes, mud in his mouth, despair in his soul. He searched the sky for changes in the degree of darkness and light; if a victory hadn’t been secured by either side, then the battle would no doubt recommence before daylight. The sensible thing would be to head towards the voices that seemed to be increasingly distant. He was going the wrong way. What was the right way? If the voices belonged to stretcher-bearers, they would take him to a medical unit. They would save his life. At the very least, he should creep into a trench or crater and wait until they found him.

He stopped crawling and rolled on to his back.

The action felt like a sigh. It wasn’t that he was giving up, not as such; he just wasn’t going on. He closed his eyes and thought of the Blackwell May Day fair. He thought of pretty girls and women in wide-brimmed hats trimmed with ribbons, lace and such. Did those trivial, attractive things even exist any more? He thought of how there would be laughter and a brass band and the jingle of the carousel. The grass always smelt sweet, cut especially for the day. He thought of being a boy; remembered his thighs stretched across the warm back of a donkey, plodding round and round the green, proud and a bit nervous too. He wondered whether he’d go on the helter-skelter next, or buy candy floss. Too much choice. His sixpence clasped so tightly it left an imprint on his palm. There was a tent displaying fresh cut flowers, cleverly arranged by elegant, clean fingers; another one for light sponge cakes. He’d use all his energy to hurl a ball at the coconut shy, wanting to make a hit more than anything. They used to do such ordinary things. Used to. It seemed inconceivable now. Here where heads fell off bodies like coconuts off the shy. The image shattered his pleasant memories and he wanted to cry, to howl. He needed the horror to leave him alone.

His leg ached tremendously. He felt light-headed. How much blood had he lost? He started to shiver as he tried to dive into another memory, something that would ease his way, not cause him to shudder and panic. There might only be minutes left. Didn’t he deserve peaceful last minutes? Since the war had begun four years ago, he’d been in the thick of it for three. Could he trust his mind to give him a reprieve? He thought of Warrington’s Playhouse and how he loved to be among the snug, golden backstage light, listening to the silky hum of actors doing their voice exercises as he waited with a sense of delightful anticipation for the call of curtain up. He would never feel the heat of the lamps again; never enjoy the swish of the red velvet curtain. Red. It used to be such an exciting colour; now all he thought of was blood and innards.