Free The Wages of Desire by Stephen Kelly

policeman and needed here,” Vera said in a forthright way that made Wallace believe that she was sincere, which made him feel grateful. “Not everyone can go off to war. If they did, the country would collapse.”
    â€œYes, but when you’re a man my age, people wonder. They want to know: Why are you here and my Johnny isn’t? ” He looked at her. “It’s especially bad with women, by the way. They hate that their husband or son or sweetheart has gone away while you’re still here drinking tea and reading the Sunday papers.”
    â€œWell, I’m not that way,” Vera said simply.
    The women in the field left off from their labor as Wallace and Vera neared them. Wallace wondered where the other women in the camp were and guessed that they must be employed indoors at domestic labor, cooking and cleaning. Walton had said that Ruth Aisquith and the other women were members of the Land Army. Wallace didn’t know much about the Land Army, though he’d thought that the girls who joined it did farm work. The women had been clearing away underbrush that a bulldozer had churned up, which, he thought, probably was close enough to qualify as farm work. Both wore denim coveralls, brown leather boots, and thick cotton gloves. The taller of the two wore a yellow bandanna on her head. She held a cigarette firmly in her lips and squinted at Wallace and Vera through a haze of drifting smoke. The other woman was shorter and heavier.
    â€œGood morning, ladies,” Wallace said. “I’m Detective Sergeant David Wallace of the Hampshire police.” He nodded toward Vera. “This is Auxiliary Constable Lamb,” he said, endowing her with an official rank that he made up on the spot. “We were wondering if we might have a word.”
    The taller woman removed the cigarette from her mouth. “About what?” she said.
    She was, Wallace thought, in her mid to late twenties. She was slender—skinny really—with curly, disheveled, shoulder-length brown hair that had tiny bits of hay stuck in it. The smaller woman had straight, silky brown hair, cut short at the ears, and large green eyes. Wallace noticed the smaller woman glance at him, and then quickly look away. He concluded from the taller one’s question that neither of them knew the fate of Ruth Aisquith. He thought that there was nothing for it but to plunge in.
    â€œI’ve some bad news, I’m afraid. Ruth Aisquith was found dead this morning in Winstead.”
    Both women appeared to freeze; neither of them spoke for several seconds. The smaller one looked at Wallace with an expression on her face that seemed to say that she hoped that the news he’d just delivered to them was part of some bizarre joke. “What do you mean that she’s dead?” she asked quietly.
    â€œShe died this morning,” Wallace said. Something in the disbelieving way the smaller woman looked at him—almost as if she were a child for whom the fact of death still was alien—pierced Wallace and he decided that he must be gentle with her. “Can you tell me your name please, miss?” he asked her.
    But the taller woman answered. “Her name is Nora Bancroft; I’m Marlene Suggs—Corporal Suggs, Women’s Land Army, officially. How did she die—Ruth?”
    â€œI’m afraid that she was shot.”
    â€œOh, no,” Nora whispered. She drew her arms tightly about herself; Marlene put her arm around Nora and said, “There now.” Nora put her face in her hands and began to cry. The two women stood together for a minute, saying nothing, while Nora cried. Marlene squeezed Nora. “There, there,” she repeated. She coaxed Nora into revealing her face and pushed a moist strand of Nora’s brown hair from her forehead. Vera stood by watching, transfixed but uncomfortable. Nora seemed to have cared for Ruth Aisquith, she thought.
    â€œI wonder if you’re