Free Devastation Road by Jason Hewitt Page A

entertained them with tales of his daredevil deeds and near scrapes as a fighter pilot, making
the sound effects of the FE2 as it dived, and pumping his arms as if they were guns.
Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat
.
    Don’t believe a word of it
, their mother had said.
Your uncle’s a perennial liar. If you’re not careful, he’ll be telling you next the pope was his
co-pilot
.
    Wingman, actually, sis
, Uncle Archie had said.
Douglas Fairbanks was my co-pilot – as you damn well know
.
    Strange how memories were breaking through as if he’d slipped under ice and now there were patches of it starting to melt so he could see snippets of the life he’d once had on the
surface. Just when he thought his memory was improving, just when he thought he could retain the events of a day, something always disappeared in turn. Such as where the pistol had come from, or
the button or the map or the worn-out shoes he was wearing. It was this circular churn of losing and finding and losing that he found hardest to comprehend. It was as if everything was stored in
his head; he just didn’t have the light with which to see it all at once.
    It was getting cold and Owen poked at the fire. Janek was sitting on the window seat cleaning the dirt from his fingernails with the tip of his knife. Owen still didn’t
understand why the boy was with him but he was too nervous now to ask. Janek said that they were
brat ř i
, which Owen took as ‘brothers’.
    ‘You and me?’
    ‘
Ano
. And Petr.’
    Ah, yes, Petr.
    Then, slipping the blade away and slithering from the seat, Janek brought his bag over and sat on the floor beside Owen in front of the fire. He unbuckled a pocket and pulled out a wallet. It
was battered and empty but for a handful of photographs, each folded twice.
    He handed Owen a grainy black and white photograph and pointed. The man staring back appeared to be quite a few years older than Janek, and stood proud and handsome in a soldier’s uniform.
He looked dignified and bear-like, not gangly like his brother, with dark hair, his chest puffed and thumb hooked and heavy in his pocket. He had the same sharp jawline as Janek, the same slender
nose and intense deep-set eyes that seemed to stare the cameraman down through the lens.
    ‘Good man,’ said Janek. He thumped his chest and Owen wondered whether he had meant ‘strong’ or ‘loyal’, or maybe even ‘brave’.
    ‘He’s a fine-looking chap.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And he is in Germany?
Deutschland?
’
    Janek nodded.
    ‘How do you know?’
    ‘They take him.’
    ‘The
Deutschen
?’
    He nodded.
    ‘Where?’
    The boy shrugged. ‘
Deutschland
.’ He gave Owen a look as if to say, where else? ‘I look for Petr. We look. Yes?’
    ‘Well . . .’
    ‘You and me. Two lives. Yes?’
    He had no idea what the boy was getting at. ‘Yes, of course, but do you understand, I need to get home?’
    He passed the photograph back, but Janek seemed to have misunderstood.
    ‘Good. Brothers,’ he said.
    ‘No, I didn’t mean that,’ said Owen, but the boy had already pulled out another photograph and handed it to Owen.
    This one was a man and woman sitting together with straight backs, both of them grey-haired and plump in their Sunday finest.
    ‘
Moje matka. A m ů j otec
,’ he said, pointing. ‘Yes?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Owen. ‘I see.’
    In the photograph they were holding each other’s hands, the man’s focus fixed on the camera, professional and businesslike, unlike his wife who looked awkward and distracted,
glancing from the corner of her eye at something that was happening out of shot. Again the same nose, there in the father. His mother had a larger-boned build. Owen nodded and tried to hand the
photograph over but Janek shoved it back.
    ‘No. Look. You look.’
    ‘Yes. I’ve seen. They must be proud.’
    ‘
Podívejte se!
’ he said.
    Then he snatched the photograph away and pushed it back into the wallet. For some reason Owen had irritated him, and with a