Free Necessary Evil (Milkweed Triptych) by Ian Tregillis Page A
Authors: Ian Tregillis
family. But as our marriage had withered, John’s shrieking and yowling had transformed the constant reminders of Agnes from bittersweet mementos to instruments of torture. Liv packed away the blanket, and the rest soon followed. It had been so very long since I’d seen or smelled or touched any evidence of Agnes’s existence aside from the single faded photograph—
—my head spun round to stare at the mantel, and there it was: the photo that would eventually go into my billfold.
I don’t know how long I lingered in the den. My face was wet and the blanket damp when I finally stood. I wiped my eyes.
You’re not getting her this time, Gretel.
First things first. I took the stairs two at a time, wincing at every throb from my bad knee. I went straight to our bedroom. Liv’s wardrobe stood tidy in one corner. But she had more clothes than I did, so we shared the closet. I rummaged it, pushing aside shifts and shirts until I reached the very rear. And there it was, pressed against the wall, still hanging in its garment bag.
My naval uniform. His naval uniform.
I opened the bag and tipped it over the bed. The familiar blues of my uniform tumbled out, followed by the headgear. Then I hung the empty garment bag back in its spot in the closet and pushed the other clothes back into a semblance of their original clutter.
I dug out a slim briefcase before shutting the closet. It was almost new; I’d never been in the habit of carrying one. But it would be useful.
He would never miss the uniform. I probably hadn’t laid eyes on it since the day I mustered out and started my real career with SIS. I’d made lieutenant-commander on my way out; a hair earlier than usual, and I was proud of that. Though it had never been the life for me, I’d served my country well. But the rank had counted in my favor when I joined the Firm. As the old man had known it would.
Next, it was back downstairs, through the miasma of austerity stew in the kitchen, and out the rear door. But rather than the garden, my destination was the Anderson shelter. Where Liv and I—and Agnes, in the early days—had huddled during countless bombing raids, listening to the wail of the sirens, the chuffchuffchuff of the ack-acks, the thunder of explosions as London disintegrated around us.
It had been our refuge. And though it was a tight fit, Liv had managed to stock a few supplies in case our house got bombed out. An oil lamp. Candles. A change of clothes. A few tins of food. And money.
We had stashed the glass jar in the corner, under the cot. I had sealed the lid with candle wax after we’d discovered how easily water seeped into the Anderson. It wasn’t quite so musty in the shelter after I had cobbled together a sump pump out of an old bicycle tire pump. But that had been later in the summer, and so for now the shelter floor was damp.
I didn’t have time to count it all, but it was enough to grease the wheels for a while. The paper money disappeared into my billfold. The coins, as well. It wasn’t exactly stealing, I told myself. Not technically.
After that, I stripped out of the clothes I’d been wearing since 1963. The Anderson rang like a Chinese gong when I banged my head against one of the low curved steel sheets that formed the walls and ceiling. I folded the old clothes into the pile on a low shelf, then struggled into the uniform. It didn’t fit as well as it might have; life as a hard-drinking fifty-year-old gardener hadn’t left me as fit and trim as I had been as a thirty-year-old spy. But I managed to pull the trousers, shirt, and jacket on without popping a seam.
Liv had stowed a secondhand shaving kit in the shelter for me; a quick look in the mirror suggested I looked reasonably like a naval officer. The uniform was the man. Unless somebody knew what to look for, it would hide a multitude of sins. My shoes, for instance.
I didn’t take the rest of the shelter supplies. Not yet. There was something else I needed, but it
—my head spun round to stare at the mantel, and there it was: the photo that would eventually go into my billfold.
I don’t know how long I lingered in the den. My face was wet and the blanket damp when I finally stood. I wiped my eyes.
You’re not getting her this time, Gretel.
First things first. I took the stairs two at a time, wincing at every throb from my bad knee. I went straight to our bedroom. Liv’s wardrobe stood tidy in one corner. But she had more clothes than I did, so we shared the closet. I rummaged it, pushing aside shifts and shirts until I reached the very rear. And there it was, pressed against the wall, still hanging in its garment bag.
My naval uniform. His naval uniform.
I opened the bag and tipped it over the bed. The familiar blues of my uniform tumbled out, followed by the headgear. Then I hung the empty garment bag back in its spot in the closet and pushed the other clothes back into a semblance of their original clutter.
I dug out a slim briefcase before shutting the closet. It was almost new; I’d never been in the habit of carrying one. But it would be useful.
He would never miss the uniform. I probably hadn’t laid eyes on it since the day I mustered out and started my real career with SIS. I’d made lieutenant-commander on my way out; a hair earlier than usual, and I was proud of that. Though it had never been the life for me, I’d served my country well. But the rank had counted in my favor when I joined the Firm. As the old man had known it would.
Next, it was back downstairs, through the miasma of austerity stew in the kitchen, and out the rear door. But rather than the garden, my destination was the Anderson shelter. Where Liv and I—and Agnes, in the early days—had huddled during countless bombing raids, listening to the wail of the sirens, the chuffchuffchuff of the ack-acks, the thunder of explosions as London disintegrated around us.
It had been our refuge. And though it was a tight fit, Liv had managed to stock a few supplies in case our house got bombed out. An oil lamp. Candles. A change of clothes. A few tins of food. And money.
We had stashed the glass jar in the corner, under the cot. I had sealed the lid with candle wax after we’d discovered how easily water seeped into the Anderson. It wasn’t quite so musty in the shelter after I had cobbled together a sump pump out of an old bicycle tire pump. But that had been later in the summer, and so for now the shelter floor was damp.
I didn’t have time to count it all, but it was enough to grease the wheels for a while. The paper money disappeared into my billfold. The coins, as well. It wasn’t exactly stealing, I told myself. Not technically.
After that, I stripped out of the clothes I’d been wearing since 1963. The Anderson rang like a Chinese gong when I banged my head against one of the low curved steel sheets that formed the walls and ceiling. I folded the old clothes into the pile on a low shelf, then struggled into the uniform. It didn’t fit as well as it might have; life as a hard-drinking fifty-year-old gardener hadn’t left me as fit and trim as I had been as a thirty-year-old spy. But I managed to pull the trousers, shirt, and jacket on without popping a seam.
Liv had stowed a secondhand shaving kit in the shelter for me; a quick look in the mirror suggested I looked reasonably like a naval officer. The uniform was the man. Unless somebody knew what to look for, it would hide a multitude of sins. My shoes, for instance.
I didn’t take the rest of the shelter supplies. Not yet. There was something else I needed, but it