Akk! I published, only to see that my edits didn't come through! Still not good with this interface, couldn't figure out how to fix it. Here it is, for the second time, sorry for any confusion. John and Vera. :-)
John Bates was face down on the bed when he heard a noise he didn't recognize amid the usual sounds of his wife returning home. It was the clank of metal against wood, something she'd set down next to the bed.
"Whazzat?" He asked. He'd taken advantage of her evening at work to spend a few hours with his best friend and worst enemy, the bottle. He turned over.
"Soused again, Johnny?" She said derisively. She held up her trophy. It was an actual trophy, he noticed. 'Riflery, 1879' it said, on the part he could see. Oh, Christ. He knew what it was, and where it had come from. It was like cold water to the face - he felt more sober, even if the drink was still acting inside of him.
He needed to return it. Now. Master Sergeant Brooks would catch it first thing, otherwise, and it would be traced to Vera in a heartbeat. How could she have been so stupid? It wasn't like her at all. He'd need to be crafty to get it away from her, and his head was a bit bleary for that. Maybe once she was asleep? She was wound up with her victory, but maybe a drink or to would calm her down.
He sat up, forming his plan. "You coming to bed?"
"I'm right knackered, but I want to sit and look at it for a bit. This here is going to make me a pretty penny." She glared at him. "And it isn't going for rent money or your drinks, either, me lad. This is mine, and I'll decide the spending of it."
He put a hand up in surrender. "Fine. Let's put it on the table, and we can have a drink on it."
She looked a bit suspicious, but nodded, so they went into the kitchen, and he set up a couple of glasses. His head was harder than hers, he figured, even if he had had a few already.
A couple glasses later, they went to bed, Vera hiding the trophy when his back was turned. He smiled to himself. Oh, yes, you're worried I'll steal it from you, but we'll soon see which of us is cleverer.
A half an hour later, he rose from the bed carefully, dressed and shuffled over to her hiding spot. He pulled the cup out, putting it back in Vera's bag, and crept down the stairs. Outside, he walked to a busy street and hailed a cab.
The barracks were quiet this time of night, with just a couple of sentries on duty. Right, the sentry isn't born that I can't get past, drunk or sober. A few minutes later, he was inside the building. He ghosted through the darkened hallways as best he could, staying near the walls, and dodging the occasional figure. The door to the officer's club was locked, of course, so he set the bag down with a clunk, and thought about how to break in without leaving any evidence.
Vera was going to be so mad at him. He smiled, thinking about how she'd likely carry on. "It's just plate, Vera, not worth pawning," he'd tell her. "Army would be on us quick as you could wink, I did it for you," he said to himself. Or not quite to himself. Someone had come up to him in the hallway.
"Hey! Who's this, then?"
Now he'd really stepped in it, that voice had the smooth accent of an officer. Bates never had understood why they sounded so different from everyone else, but it did make a man stand to attention right quick. He snapped to, ignoring the bag at his feet.
"Corporal Bates, sir!"
"Corporal Bates," the man drawled." It was Captain Graham, worse luck. He was a recent addition to the roster, a man with no battle experience, who seemed to especially hate men like Bates who had distinguished themselves in the recent war. Bates had drawn the captain's attention just last week, and made it a point to avoid his notice after that. Graham leaned in, and gave a snort. "Drunk and disorderly, it appears."
"Yessir. Sorry, sir."
"You're going on report, Bates." He kicked the bag. It made a noise. "And what's this?"
"Nothing, sir. I mean-," Bates tried to think of any excuse that could get him out of this mess, but failed. Abruptly, he realized that he was in danger of overbalancing, and tried to right himself. Now he was leaning too far the other way, and had to take a step to keep from falling. He was disgusted with himself. How had his feet failed him so badly?
Meanwhile, Graham looked in the bag. "Nothing! I'd say this is something, Corporal Bates, and drunk and disorderly is the least of your worries." He pulled out his whistle, and blew. Bates braced himself against the noise, so he wouldn't flinch. Moments later, Sergeant Cook came running up.
Bates remained braced at attention, not giving a glance at his friend.
"Cook, I just apprehended this man, in possession of stolen property, and not just any property, but Regimental property, a silver trophy. He's a drunken disgrace to the uniform!"
Cook's face fell. Bates could see him trying to bridge the gap between the captain's truth, and Bates' truth. It was too large a chasm to span easily. "Sir?" he asked.
Graham produced a key, unlocked the door, and returned the trophy to it's place of honor, next to a half dozen others on a shelf. Cook leaned into Bates. "What the hell happened?", he whispered.
Bates just blinked. He couldn't draw attention by moving, or nodding his head. Even if he could move, or speak, what could he possibly say? He'd been caught red handed, so he could only plead that it was all his wife's fault. That would just bring down more trouble.
Meanwhile, the officer returned. "Sergeant, take this man to the lockup, and set a guard on him for the night."
"Yessir."
Out of sight of Graham, Cook tried to pursued Bates to run. He offered several different ideas, as they approached the cells. "Look, you don't have to hit me, just take off, I won't catch you. After everything we've been through, Bates, I owe you this much."
"Can't," Bates replied. He sighed. "I've been caught, for good and proper. I can't get you in trouble for my sins."
At that, Cook gave a sharp nod. "That's it, isn't it. You're got here trying to fix someone else's mistake. You - " he stopped. Both men remembered quite well how Bates had once led the enemy away from a wounded Cook, pretending to be easy prey himself. An inexperienced young private had given away their position, but Bates shrugged off the error, and then spent several hours off on his own, playing cat and mouse with a Boer patrol so the rest of the men could get Cook to safety. Bates must be doing something like that, right now. There wasn't any other explanation that made any sense at all, to Cook.
Bates shrugged. "I'm drunk, fair and square, and I'll not deny any other charges. It was my own stupid fault."
In his cell, Bates' head slowly cleared. He cursed at himself for being so stupid. How could he have thought that he could break into the officer's club while plastered? He still had a high enough opinion of his abilities to think he might have succeeded, if he'd only waited until he was sober, or, better yet, if he'd gotten Cook's help, instead of barging in on his own. Of course, he would never have asked Cook for help, because then he'd have had to admit what Vera had done.
There was just no way around this mess, Bates thought. All day, his mind veered from one harebrained notion to another, but he rejected them all. No more wild ideas, he told himself, just take the simplest path.
His arrest caused quite a stir, and several of his friends came to visit. Someone, Bates was never sure who, had decided to hold him over at the barracks for a day, before involving the police. Master Sergeant Brooks spent a half hour pleading with Bates to tell what had happened, but Bates refused all offers of help. There was just no way he could see to explain things without either involving Vera, and that was something he refused to do. She may have done wrong, but she was still his wife, and he couldn't be the means of her downfall. It was all over the barracks that Vera must have stolen the trophy, as she'd been seen leaving with a carryall, so he knew that his silence was all that kept her from prison. Another mate came by to let him know that Vera was cursing his name to her friends, and claiming that he'd taken it. Of course, from her point of view, that was what he'd done, he thought.
The worst moment was when his mother arrived, late in the afternoon. She brought a blanket and a loaf of fresh-made bread. "I don't think Vera is likely to be thinking of your comfort, John," she stated. She sighed at him, and he could hardly meet her eyes, thinking about how disappointed she must be. She nodded, and patted him on the shoulder. "I see you are not much for talking today. I'll be back tomorrow, then, if you're still in here. They must come to their senses soon, and let you out." She looked as shocked and saddened as he'd ever seen her. It took him another few hours before he succumbed to his hunger, eating the bread, and then wrapped himself in the blanket to sleep.
He was awakened the next morning to the sight of two bobbies outside his cell.
"So, this is the bloke who stole the silver?" he heard one say.
"He didn't-" the private guarding the block started to say.
"I did." Bates surprised himself. Up to this point he'd been silent, but now he was leaving the army's custody. It was another impulsive move, but he didn't want the private, or any of his mates to get into trouble trying to save him. It was his fault, he'd been caught with it, and it would be simpler all around if he just admitted it.
"Aye, that's what-" the bobby checked his papers, "Captain Graham says. He caught you breaking into the officers' club. "Right. Give us your hands, and we'll be off, then."
Bates wasn't sure of the procedure, but he extended his arms, and they were swiftly manacled. The quieter bobby took him by the shoulder, and they walked out. Traveling through the barracks in handcuffs was the hardest thing Bates had ever done, as soldiers he knew stopped, in ones or twos, and watched his progress. Some of them murmured encouragement, a few nodded, but most just stared in disbelief as he passed.