Free Heart of War by John Masters

the fly wheel … another, to use still narrower tyres on the front wheel, and that, according to the technical papers, improved steering as well …
    The tap at the window made him start violently, for he had forgotten he had put the picture there. He lowered the light and opened the door. The girl who slipped in was about four feet eleven inches tall, pale skinned, lank haired. She was wearing a dress a little below her knees, torn but carefully patched in half a dozen places. On her feet she wore a pair of men’s boots, several sizes too large for her, with no stockings. As Bob closed and locked the door behind her, he felt a powerful stirring in his loins … there were breasts budding under the thin material of the dress, but they were not yet big enough to put him off. It was still a girl. He was fully erect and straining inside his trousers. It would be there, the slit, dark, mysterious, hairless, pouting from the bulge of flesh that curved down between the thin thighs. He reached out and lifted the dress. She was wearing no drawers, and as the dress rose, the girl saying nothing, her loins came into view. Bob stared, trembling, uncontrollable ecstasy flowing out from him as though from a gaping wound. Oh God, the slit was half hidden by hair, and there was a little patch of it on the mound above. His erection drooped and faded as he let the dress drop. ‘You’ve grown,’ he said accusingly. He turned away in disgust and disappointment. This was a woman, not a girl.
    His back to her, he heard her say, ‘I’m going to ’ave a baby.’
    He held onto the bench for support, listening, her voice a mile away.
    â€˜ … I ’ad the bleeding twice, before I ’ad any ’air … then I come ’ere … and I didn’t bleed no more … three months … I’m in the family way.’
    â€˜How do you know?’ he said, the words wrung from him.
    â€˜Garn!’ she said. ‘ ’Fink I don’t know all about it? Wiv all the kids muvver’s ’ad?’
    He felt that the shed was swinging slowly round him, andclung more firmly to the work bench. How old was she? Eleven, twelve, just, perhaps? He groaned aloud as the girl said, ‘Well, wot are you going to do?’
    â€˜Who have you told … talked to?’
    â€˜No one, ’course. But me muvver’ll guess soon.’
    He turned and stared at her. It had had to come and now it was here. One anonymous letter to Jane, warning her that her husband had young girls, he had intercepted before she had seen; and for a while after that he had fought off the compulsion to do it. Also, he had all along told himself that since God had laid the curse on him, it was up to God to decide his fate … gaol, or a miraculous release from the compulsion, or more years of shuddering relief in their thin, formless bodies.
    He said, ‘Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got to think. Find someone …’
    The girl said, ‘Me granddad’s Woman gets rid of babies.’
    â€˜Who’s that?’
    â€˜Probyn Gorse’s Woman, down to Walstone.’
    Bob said, ‘I’ve heard of him … poacher, he is …’
    â€˜That’s right.’
    â€˜I’ll go and see her. With you. Next Sunday, we’ll go down, eh? Look, here’s two bob. Take the first train down, Sunday. Tell your mum you got the money running errands for the men at the factory, and you want to see your granddad … I’ll be on the same train. But we don’t talk or anything, see? I’ll ask my way and when I turn up, you go out and play … Your granddad’s Woman could do with some money, eh?’
    â€˜â€™Ow much?’ she said.
    â€˜Ten quid.’
    â€˜You can give ’er five … and five to me,’ she said, holding out her thin hand.
    â€˜On Sunday,’ he muttered. His head was splitting and he had an overpowering need to vomit. The