Free Hero by Paul Butler Page A

His voice is neutral, rather dry.
    Some night creature drops from a high branch on the garden’s perimeter. The night hushes to our words. Each dying leaf, each burrowing creature, it seems, is listening.
    â€œI know,” I whisper.
    â€œYou must have been relieved,” he says.
    I see now that his eyes catch the soft light because they are wet.
    â€œWhy?” An edge of impatience has come into my voice. “Why on earth would I be relieved?”
    He doesn’t reply at first, and his gaze drops to the darkened turf. I pull the collar of my gown tighter around my shoulders, feeling embarrassed suddenly that we are standing facing each other, no way forward, no way to retreat.
    â€œThey think I’m a hero at the tannery,” he says.
    â€œYou are,” I very nearly say, but hold back. Some instinct tells me I have saved myself in the nick of time. I say nothing and just look at him, waiting.
    He gasps as though in pain. I see his jaw working like that of a cat trying to bring up a fur ball. “I’m a murderer,” he says at last, and something like a smile passes over his lips, a moment of relief perhaps. “I’m a murderer and a coward.”
    Something fires in my blood and I hear him gasp. I feel closer to him suddenly. I have caught a glimpse of what it must be like for him, a sensitive man who has turned wives into widows, robbed families just like ours.
    â€œI want to understand,” I say softly—so softly I wonder whether he could have heard.
    The smile comes again, bitter and harsh. The pale blue light now touches his cheeks and is caught upon his chin in a single hanging drop.
    â€œNo you don’t.”
    It feels like a wall of steel coming between us. A long silence ensues as I listen to his breaths, uneven and strained. I remind myself of the stoic queen, and that this is my part in the war—patience, waiting, repetition.
    â€œBut Simon,” I say, faltering from this perch immediately, suddenly rather angry, “what can I do? You come to me, then you push me away.”
    â€œI can release you from any obligation if you want.”
    It sounds cold and careless, despite the tears, and I was half-expecting it. I want to say yes, and almost do. But this is frustration only, a desire to pinch his arm and bring him to. “Why would I want such a thing, Simon?” I ask, trembling with a new kind of irritation. “I have been waiting for you for so long.”
    He turns and looks off towards the tree stump, his shoulders sagging in a kind of defeat.
    I watch this change. What answer did he wish for? My thoughts burn around the question, then around the whole tangle of unanswerable puzzles that have returned in Simon’s form.
    I urge myself to go to him as I did last night, but am held back. Then he was in a chair and I could scoop down into his lap. As risky as it was—and as awkwardly as it had turned out—I could at least picture the action in advance. How does a woman converge upon a man when both are standing? My arms ache at the thought. I can imagine him recoiling, running from me, from the ugliness of the attempt.
    We are both silent and I notice a pale mist I hadn’t seen before hanging near the far hedgerows. I wonder whether dawn might be breaking somewhere beyond the cover of cloud. He seems to notice it too, and it brings him to. His head jerks self-consciously as his gaze returns to me. In the clearer light his face seems suddenly drawn, hollow at the cheek.
    â€œYou should know I’m not the same as when I left for France.”
    I’m relieved by the statement, by its honest simplicity. I smile weakly in reply, allowing my sadness to show. He seems to relax.
    â€œI don’t know what to do,” he mumbles, “about anything.”
    â€œI know,” I say softly.
    His face seems much calmer, and for the moment everything appears to be warm and resolved. But the dawn breeze tugs gently at the