Free In Pieces by Nick Hopton

Mary,’ sighed Mrs Donnelley, ‘now why have they gone and done that?’ A tear ran down her cheek and she left the room.
    There was always a lot about Mrs Donnelley’s reactions to things that the Sleeper didn’t understand, so he thought it best to say nothing. But he was confused, and when he got down the pub later he agreed with Eamon behind the bar who said what a shame it was to have given up the fight and to have fallen into the English trap.
    The Sleeper knew that Eamon and all the other so-called “patriots” in the pub were all mouth. What had any of them ever done in the war? What right had they to be slagging off the leadership?
    â€˜But,’ the Sleeper said, ‘maybe they know what they’re doing. A trick, you know, or something, to deceive the bastards…’ He noticed that Eamon and the others had gone quiet and were listening carefully. He decided to back off. From then on he only went to the pub occasionally, Saturday nights, normally, and he kept his mouth shut.
    But he still heard nothing and began to get angry. Perhaps they really had decided to give up.
    â€˜Stay down and don’t do anything to attract attention to yourself. Try and live a normal life and blend into the community. We’ll be in touch.’ That’s what they’d said. But that was before the cease-fire, and he wondered if they’d forgotten about him.
    Only a couple of months after his arrival, just as he was beginning to think he’d found his feet, Mrs Donnelley turned his little world upside down. ‘Sorry, love, but we’re going to have to find you somewhere else. My son’s coming back from America and he’ll need that room.’ This was a bolt from the blue. He’d expected to stay in her spare room until he received instructions. Now he’d have to move.
    â€˜â€™S all right, Mrs Donnelley, I understand. No problem.’ He smiled to show no hard feelings. His ma would have been proud of his self-restraint and politeness. Inside he was boiling.
    â€˜Good lad. So you’ll be out by the weekend, then?’
    â€˜This weekend?’
    â€˜That’s right. Didn’t I say? Oh sorry, love. But my Davie’s back on Monday and I’ll need time to clean up.’
    â€˜Right… Aye, of course, Mrs Donnelley.’ The Sleeper made to get up from the tea table. He’d miss Mrs Donnelley’s teas more than anything. She made great fry-ups. He supposed he might miss her too. She’d been a bit like a mother to him, and he didn’t really have any friends in London. If he was honest with himself, he felt lonely a lot. But then he told himself to belt up ’cause he’d always known there would be hardship. Fighting a war wasn’t like real life.
    â€˜Oh, and one other thing.’
    He stopped in the doorway, leaning on the lintel. He scratched at a grey patch where the white gloss had chipped off revealing the undercoat. ‘Yes, Mrs Donnelley?’
    â€˜Could you settle the rest of your rent tomorrow as I need to do some shopping for Davie’s arrival?’
    â€˜Sure, Mrs Donnelley. No problem.’ At least he didn’t have to worry about money so long as the money held out; despite the cease-fire, he was still able to draw from the bank account. It was the one thing that kept his spirits up and reassured him that this was no surrender, just a tactical move as part of the leadership’s long-term strategy. Otherwise, he told himself, someone would surely have been in touch and the bank account would have dried up.
    The Sleeper went up to his small bedroom and sat on the bed wondering what to do next. He looked at the peeling, yellow-stripe wallpaper and the cracked mirror. Behind it he knew there was a patch of damp, which no doubt accounted for the musty smell. A garish orange rug with shaggytassels covered the boards at the end of the single bed, which sagged in the middle; also, one leg