‘Was he the last man alive who fought in the war?’

‘Oh, no. Good heavens, no. But he was the last one from around here, that’s for certain. The last of the Pals.’

Johnny felt a change in the air.

‘He was a strange old boy. I used to go and see him every year at—’

There was a noise that might be made if a handful of silence was stretched thin and then plucked, like a guitar string.

Johnny looked around. Now there were three people sitting on the bench.

Tommy Atkins had his peaked hat on his knees. The uniform didn’t really fit. He was still an old man, so his skinny neck stuck out of his collar like a tortoise’s. He had an old-fashioned sort of face – one designed to wear a cloth cap and work in the rubber boot factory. He saw Johnny staring at him, and winked, and gave him the thumbs-up sign. Then he went back to gazing intently at the road leading into the car park.

Behind Johnny, the dead filed quietly out of the building, the older ones coming through the wall, the younger ones still using the door out of habit. They didn’t say anything. They just stood and looked expectantly towards the main road.

Where, marching through the cars, were the Blackbury Pals.

¹The ‘E’ kept rubbing off.

Chapter 6

The Pals swung up the road, keeping perfectly in step.

None of them were old. They all looked like their photograph.

But then, Tommy Atkins didn’t look old any more. It was a young man who got to his feet, marched out into the car park, turned, and saluted Johnny and the dead.

Then, as the Pals strode past, he stepped neatly into the gap they’d left for him. All thirty men wheeled about, and marched away.

The dead streamed after them. They appeared to walk slowly while at the same time moved very fast, so that, in a few seconds, the car park was empty even of its ghosts.

‘He’s going back to France,’ said Johnny.

Suddenly, he felt quite cheerful, even though he could feel the tears running down his face.

The British Legion man, who had been talking, stopped.

‘What?’ he said.

‘Tommy Atkins. He’s going back.’

‘How did you know that?’

Johnny realized he’d been talking aloud.

‘Uh—’

The British Legion man relaxed.

‘I expect the lady from the Home told you, did she? He mentioned it in his will. Would you like a handkerchief?’

‘Uh. No. I’m all right,’ said Johnny. ‘Yes. She told me.’

‘Yes, we’re taking him back this week. He gave us a map reference. Very precise, too.’ The man patted the second box he’d been given which, Johnny suddenly realized, probably contained all that was left in this world of Atkins, T., apart from a few medals and some faded photographs.

‘What will you have to do?’ he said.

‘Just scatter his ashes. We’ll have a little ceremony.’