The sound of boots behind him told Quinn that the prisoner was being brought out. Quinn couldn’t see him, but he was able to view his men’s reactions. One by one, they looked over surreptitiously, and then immediately eyes forward again. From the corner of his own eyes, Quinn saw the medical officer, an officer he supposed to be the padre, and then the prisoner, walking between two MPs. The prisoner looked over to the firing party, and he stumbled. The MPs seized his elbows, but he shook them off, determined to walk with dignity.
They went to the post, and the MO took up station on one side with the padre on the other. Within moments the man had been tied to the post. There didn’t seem to be anything special about him; he didn’t look like a coward; he looks like us, thought Reg.
The MO stepped in front of the man, and then stepped back. He had affixed a white square of cloth over the man’s heart. He walked away and took up position somewhere behind Quinn. The padre leaned in close to the prisoner; the man was nodding, perhaps receiving some comfort from the words, thought Holmes. The MPs fastened a blindfold around the man’s head and then they marched off, disappearing from Quinn’s view. The padre finished whatever he was saying, and then he, too, walked out of the way. It was time.
Quinn looked over to the firing party. Every man watched him closely. He nodded, raising his hand, and the men turned to face the condemned prisoner, took a half step back with their right legs, and brought their rifles into their shoulders. The entire courtyard held its collective breath. Quinn dropped his hand, the shots crashed out, and the startled ravens cawed and squawked their alarm, flapping their wings to escape, while the echoes of the volley rang off the walls. The prisoner jerked hard against his bonds, and then fell forwards against their restraint.
The MO walked briskly forward and pressed his finger to the man’s throat, feeling for a pulse. He stood, looked at Quinn, and shook his head. The men of the firing party lowered their rifles, and then following a nod from Jimmy, they stood at ease and watched, spellbound, while their officer withdrew his pistol.
Quinn stepped forward, afraid that his shaking body would betray his inner turmoil. He walked slowly, hoping the man would expire before he got there. He remembered once, when he’d been a young boy, he had borrowed his brother’s rifle and had gone rabbiting. It had been a bitter, cold morning, much like this one, and he had crept quietly out of the garden and into the south paddock, his boots crunching on the frosted grass. He had spotted a group of young rabbits by the brambles, their breath misting in the air. He had taken careful aim, and fired. They ran all different directions, but he knew he’d got one. When he walked up, he could see that it was not dead. He knew he should kill it, knew he must put it out of its misery, but he could not summon up the courage, and he had wept with the shame of it as the rabbit twitched and struggled to hold onto its little life.
Quinn stood over the man and he could see that he still moved, despite the blood pumping from his chest. He extended his arm, his hand still shaking, and placed the muzzle of the pistol behind the man’s ear and squeezed the trigger. The gun roared, lifting his hand back, and the prisoner’s head shattered. The MO put his finger to the carotid. No pulse. He stood back, nodded at Quinn, and turned away.
Without waiting for any orders, Jimmy marched his section back out through the gates and led them away for their breakfast, if any could stomach it. Quinn stood looking down at what he had done. He fumbled when he tried to put the Webley back into the holster. Even after he had achieved this, he still stood over the dead man, mesmerised by the spreading pool of blood.
Reg came up beside him. ‘Come on, Sir, it’s over. We’ve done what we came for.’ And taking his officer’s arm, he started to lead him away. Quinn nodded. ‘Thank you, Sergeant. I’m quite alright. I’ll go and fetch my gear, grab a bite to eat and then I shall join you all.’
Reg watched him walk past the senior officers and snap them a salute. They called out to him, and it was obvious to Reg that they were trying to console him. Quinn acknowledged their inanities, and then left the yard, his headache worse than ever.
The burial detail arrived and took the dead man away. Within two minutes, the yard had emptied. The raven flew down from the wall and landed on its post just as the sun’s rays cleared the eastern wall.
Quinn made his way to his billet. He closed the door and opened his pack, reaching in for the flask. He unscrewed the cap and emptied the contents in three or four swallows. He remembered that his brother had found him in the field curled up next to the dying rabbit. He had lifted the rifle from Quinn’s cold hands and struck the rabbit’s head with the butt; then he’d carried Quinn back to the house.
Taken from 'Farewell, Leicester Square'. Read more: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00IGBRJFE
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