The well of lost plots by Jasper Fforde Read Free Book Online Page B

way it had
always
happened. Brought together in the white heat and fear of combat. But as we sat beneath the cover of the birch trees, huddled down in the scout car, the only sound the gentle thrum of the Dingo’s engine, we knew nothing — and were only concerned that the spotter plane that wheeled above us would delay our arrival at the OP.
    “What’s it doing?” whispered Landen, shielding his eyes to get a better look.
    “Looks like a Yak-12,” replied the soldier.
    Six words left and under a minute. I had been looking up with them but now glanced out of the hatch at the front of the scout car. My heart missed a beat as I saw a Russian run and jump into a natural hollow a hundred yards in front of the Dingo.
    “Russki!” I gasped. “Hundred yards, twelve o’clock!”
    I reached up to close the viewing hatch but Landen grabbed my wrist.
    “Not yet!” he whispered. “Put her in gear.”
    I did as I was told as Landen and the soldier twisted around to look.
    “What have you got?” hissed Landen.
    “Five, maybe six,” the soldier whispered back, “heading this way.”
    “Me, too,” muttered Landen. “Go, Corporal, go!”
    I revved the engine, dropped the clutch and the Dingo lunged forward. Almost instantaneously there was a rasp of machine-gun fire as the Russians opened up. To them, we were a surprise ruined. I heard the closer rattle of gunfire as our soldier replied along with the sporadic crack of a pistol that I knew was Landen. I didn’t close the steel viewing hatch; I needed to be able to see as much as I could. The scout car bounced across the track and swerved before gathering speed with the metallic
spang
of small-arms fire hitting the armor plate. I felt a weight slump against my back and a bloodied arm fell into my vision.
    “Keep going!” shouted the soldier. “And don’t stop until I say!”
    He let go another burst of fire, took out the spent clip, knocked the new magazine on his helmet, reloaded and fired again.
    “That wasn’t how it happened — !” I muttered aloud, the soldier having gone way over his allotted time and word count. I looked at the bloodied hand that had fallen against me. A feeling of dread began to gnaw slowly inside me — the fuel gauge was still intact — shouldn’t it have been shattered when the soldier was shot? Then I realized. The soldier had survived and the
officer
was dead.
    I sat bolt upright in the bed, covered in sweat and breathing hard. The strength of the memories had lessened with the years, but here was something new, something unexpected. I replayed the images in my head, watching the bloodstained hand fall again and again. It all felt so horribly real. But there was something, just there outside my grasp, something that I should know but didn’t — a loss that I couldn’t explain, an absence of some sort I couldn’t place —
    “Landen,” said a soft voice in the darkness, “his name was
Landen
.”
    “Landen — !” I cried. “Yes, yes, his name was Landen.”
    “And he didn’t die in the Crimea. The soldier did.”
    “No, no, I just remembered him dying!”
    “You remembered
wrong
.”
    It was Gran, sitting beside me in her gingham nightie. She held my hand tightly and gazed at me through her spectacles, her gray hair adrift and hanging down in wispy strands. And with her words, I began to remember. Landen
had
survived — he must have done in order to call up the airstrike. But even now, awake, I could remember him lying dead beside me. It didn’t make sense.
    “He didn’t die?”
    “No.”
    I picked up the picture I had sketched of him from the bedside table.
    “Did I ever see him again?” I asked, studying the unfamiliar face.
    “Oh, yes,” replied Gran. “Lots and lots. In fact, you married him.”
    “I did, didn’t I?” I cried, tears coming to my eyes as the memories returned. “At the Blessed Lady of the Lobster in Swindon! Were you there?”
    “Yes, wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
    I was