Infernal Revolutions by Stephen Woodville Page A

do have difficulty securing my release, I can always take my twenty days’ leave immediately, and spend the time in consultation with the finest lawyers money can buy.’
    â€˜Oh no, you won’t get them immediately. The generals must be sure that you aren’t going to desert before they grant you even one day. Twenty days’ leave eventually, I should have said.’
    â€˜I see, and what about the other benefits? Immediate or eventual?’
    â€˜Immediate. So you can
write
to your lawyers, by all means.’
    I groaned, and made another attempt to rise. This time I was more successful, and managed, after some minutes, to achieve a sitting position on the bed. I shaded my eyes against the sickly sunlight oozing through the smeared window panes, and squinted at Mr Tremblett. He was a florid, bull-necked man with glistening ratty eyes very close together. Everything about him, from his hair to the apron he was wearing, shone with astounding greasiness. I was surveying the rest of the room – the home of three soldiers by the look of the wooden cribs all tightly squeezed together – when the door burst open loudly.
    â€˜Oysterman, eh?’ roared a huge redcoated bruiser of man with a piece of paper in one hand and a bayonet in another. ‘Called that because you’re cheap and plentiful, no doubt.’ He crumpled up the paper in his hand, threw it across the room, and looked down sneeringly at me. I had never seen a face so choleric in my life, and I could not help but give an involuntary squeak. ‘Not easy to prise off your bed in the morning, is that it? You know how I get an oyster off its bed? Like this!’
    Eyes starting out of his head in fury, bad teeth bared, face muscles screwed up to snapping point, he proceeded to attack the fireplace with his bayonet.
    â€˜JAM IT IN – TWIST IT – STICK IT IN – RIP IT OFF – RIP IT OPEN – CHURN ITS FUCKING GUTS ROUND – LIKE THIS!!’
    The imprecations were fearful enough on their own, but the terrible grunting noises that accompanied them, the gnarled expressions of hatred on the man’s face, and the flying chunks of plaster and wood quite subdued me, and decided me against bringing up the subject of my ill-treatment by Mr Axelrod. Instead, I regarded the shredded fireplace with awe, and tried to stop my hands shaking.
    â€˜Hard shell, soft centre, eh Oysterman?’ said the panting Bedlamite, stepping back to gaze with satisfaction at the damage
    caused.
    â€˜Soft shell, soft centre, Sir,’ I quivered.
    â€˜Really? Well, we’ll soon change that. My name is Sergeant Mycock. Some know me as Stroke Mycock, not because I do, but because I’m a great believer in the efficacy of the cat. Cross me, and I cross your back a hundredfold in return. Understand?’
    â€˜A-aye,’ I swallowed.
    He turned to glare at me, anger visibly rising again.
    â€˜AYE WHAT, SCUM!!!’
    â€˜Aye, S-Sir.’
    â€˜STAND UP WHEN YOU TALK TO ME!!’
    I stood up quickly, oblivious to all my former pains.
    â€˜Damned close to your first thrashing there, Oysterman. Now, Mr Tremblett, get this dog ready for war. I want him presentable for Corporal Tibbs at two o’clock sharp. You know what’s required.’
    â€˜What about the bill for the damage, Sir?’ said Mr Tremblett, considerably braver than I.
    â€˜Send it to the usual address. They’ll settle it.’
    And off he stormed, stomping down the stairs in maniacal search of other souls to terrify. Recovering my breathing as the sound of his boots died away, I collapsed back onto the bed.
    â€˜You didn’t speak to him about your predicament,’ observed Mr Tremblett, going over to the fireplace to inspect the depth of the bayonet wounds, seemingly unruffled by the wanton destruction of his property.
    â€˜Next time perhaps,’ I answered. ‘For now, please be so kind as to let me have a pen and some