This i hope, will be a series of stories/drabbles about what, to Mitchell, is a four letter word. Beginning with love, i hope to visit other four letter words (and not necessarily that one either but it may rear its ugly head). Set in the past and the present, all errors are my own. The characters of Being Human belong to Toby Whithouse and other associated peoples. I just love the show and especially writing about John Mitchell. As always, would love to hear your thoughts.
A Four Letter Word.
Summer 1919...
Love.
Everything is new to him.
His new state is like a bright shiny penny and he's dazzled by it. He wants to go out and experience. He also wants to forget what he once was.
He used to be a soldier and a slave to its discipline.
Once upon a time.
Some of it still remains, just a trace. Slowly and irrevocably his rebirth is changing that part of him.
So many men died during that conflict, the war to end all wars.
Until the next one.
He tries not to think about back home but of course he does, in the quite times when he isn't out learning. In his more peaceable moments he thinks about his mother back home in Ireland. He's an only child and its hard for him to think of her grieving for him, fallen in battle, listed as missing in action. It's better for her to grieve that loss instead of discovering the truth. She'll be praying for his eternal soul in heaven when in reality, his new existence should place him in the very depths of hell.
He remembers his ma's face. Her smiling brown eyes, the dark curls that she always struggles to contain in a proper manner. If he closes his eyes then he remembers her perfume, the soft subtle scent of rose water.
He's making this journey back against Herrick's explicit instructions, but he has to, he has to see her. Just one more time.
The influenza epidemic is rampant. It doesn't discriminate; it kills the young and the old equally. Its swift, stealthy and its victims don't realise that death is upon them until its too late. He recognises the parallels to vampirism all too clearly. He made his choice on that warm June day, to sacrifice himself for the sake of his men. He was a sergeant, a leader of men and he had to lead by example. It was the only thing he could do.
His first kill had been Arthur, his second in command.
The boat trip is rough and he struggles with sea sickness. They don't miss that extra deckhand the ship had employed; he's at the bottom of the Irish Sea somewhere, drained of blood. Herrick tells him that he still needs tutoring in the ways but his need to see his mother is much stronger.
He arrives back home under the cover of darkness and he's cautious. Everyone in the village knows that Sarah Mitchell lost her only son back in France so it wouldn't do to show up at the house in the middle of the day and scare the neighbours.
He stands in front of the front door and looks up at the dark windows. He takes a deep breath as he remembers the day that he left to go to war. For King and Country. He remembers the pride on his mother's face as he stood there in his uniform. How she's smiled and straightened the collar of the jacket. He can still feel her kiss on his cheek. He takes a deep breath and he takes the key out of his trouser pocket. He stares at it and wonders whether he'll still be able to enter. He lifts it to slot it into the lock and he freezes when the door opens.
"Well don't stand there all day" the voice drawls. He stares up at him in shock.
"How did…"
"How did I know? When I recruit, I like to know who and what I'm dealing with; it helps with any nasty surprises. I like to know these things"
"What did you tell them?" Them, meaning the neighbours who would be taking care of his mother, people who would not cope with the idea that John Mitchell was alive, well and…immortal.
"That I was your Commanding Officer, come to pay my respects. Then they all but tripped over themselves to be accommodating" he smiles but he's learned that there is never any real emotion behind those snake like eyes.
"A nice family you have here…" Mitchell takes an experimental step across the threshold.
"They're not my family…" he begins and then stops. Actually they are, of a kind. Not blood family but close enough. He's glad that he doesn't see them or vice versa.
"Good to know. You do know that you don't need permission to enter your own home don't you?" Herrick snaps at his young protégé in a tone that rankles with the younger man.
"She's…"
"Still hanging on…she hasn't got much…" his voice tapers off as Mitchell heads for the stairs.
The air in her room is heavy and oppressive. His new senses tell him that Herrick is right. Death is nearby.
She barely makes an impression in the wide bed. For so long there has only been the two of them. He doesn't remember who his father was, he was just never there. His ma had devoted her life to her only child, making money where possible, skivvying, washing, ironing and repairing other folks' clothes. She never aspired to anything, was happy with her lot. Slowly he approaches her bedside. He can hear each intake of breath rattle in her chest and she struggles with the effort. Curls of dark hair stick to her tired face and she gleams hotly with fever. Mitchell's eyes widen at her fragility. This is his ma, his beautiful ma. There's a chair left beside her bed and he slowly sinks down onto it.
He remembers when she would sit with him when he was feverish, her hand stroking his forehead slowly and lovingly. She'd hold him close and sing quietly to him or tell him fantastical stories of myths and legends. Oh ma, be careful what you wish for. It had comforted him then. Now he knows some of those legends are real, the ones from the shadows, talked about in fearful whispers. He knows because he is one.
He turns his head and sees the white enamel bowl on the bedside table. It contains a little water and there's a cloth beside it. He picks up the cloth and he dips it into the water. He looks back at her.
Her eyes slide open when she feels the cool cloth against her skin. He freezes when those eyes focus and fix on him. He waits for her recognition.
"Johnny…" Her voice is a hoarse, breathless whisper. He can't answer her; his throat is dry, choked up. He slips off the chair and falls to his knees as her hand comes up and her palm rests against his cheek. Emotion surges and his eyes fill. Tears slip out and over her fingers.
"My darlin' boy. Are you here for me?" she asks him and it takes him a second. He inhales sharply and then nods.
"Yeah Ma" he confesses softly and he wipes the tears away. He remembers her telling him that big boys don't cry.
"Well I'm ready…ready to be with my boy" she whispers, her gaze fixes lovingly on his face. His face changes as fat tears swell again.
"I don't want you to be scared…you'll be going to a much better place" he tells her, his voice struggling to hold back the sobs. He feels her thumb feebly brush the new tears away.
"Will I see you there Johnny? Will you be waitin' for me?" He just nods, he can't speak. One day. He hopes.
"I love you ma" he murmurs.
She slips away before dawn. He sees her standing beside the bed and she looks like how he remembers her. They exchange a look before the door beckons. He watches her leave with a broken heart.
"I've got something to show you" Annie looks at Mitchell in mild surprise. He's been very quiet recently, more quiet than usual.
"Oh…" she closes her magazine, interested. Mitchell isn't forthcoming on most things. She watches him roll off his bed and head towards the dressing table. He opens one of the drawers and she sees him take out a small battered cigar box. It's ancient, battered and much repaired but so obviously precious. The surface is faded and worn in parts.
"What's that?" she enquires. He looks at the box for a moment before looking back at her. She watches him cross the room and sit down on the bed beside her. He opens the box and her eyes widen when she sees the photographs. They're old, post card type pictures from the turn of the nineteenth century. Her mouth goes dry. He picks them out and he stares at them for a moment. He hands one of them to Annie and she looks at it. Her eyes widen in recognition.
"Oh my God. That's you!" she exclaims in surprise. She looks at him and he just nods.
"My ma saved for months so that she could have a photo of us together. I was six... nearly seven" Annie looks back down at the stiffly formal shot.
"That's your mum?" she gently traces the smiling face.
"Yeah, that's my ma…Sarah.." She looks at him again.
"You look like her" A brief smile drifts across his face.
"So people used to tell me. I never knew my Da; he fathered me, married her and then left" Annie watched him. Then he shrugs.
"There was just me and my Ma…"
"Against the world, huh?" She looks down at the little boy with Mitchell's eyes. He's not smiling, in fact he looks distrustful, and those curls, even back then he had curls that no comb could ever contain. She stole another look at him.
"Hey. I'm in my Sunday best, told to be on my best behaviour and I'm six. You try smiling when you're also being told not to move and let's see what you can do" he informs her with a wry smile. He passes over the second picture, of just his mother. The edges are worn and creased with age.
"They've come everywhere with you?" He nods. He'd taken them from her room after she'd died. He'd had to leave before the neighbours arrived and discovered her and him for that matter. He'd watched her burial from a distance, the plain wooden box lowered into the unmarked grave witnessed by only a handful of mourners.
"What happened to your mum?" Annie asks and he snaps back to the present with a blink.
"She died of the Spanish flu, it was virulent after the war, killed millions" she hands the pictures back to him and he stares down at them for a moment or two.
"You loved her" He looks at her.
He nods.