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Robin Saltonstall short story writer short story In Cold Blood   Already the smell is bad. I know that smell. My brother is a butcher. Sometimes the freezers fail. I know that smell. Last night was so cold. Now it is hot. In here it is dark, outside it is light. I try to move. It is no use. I cannot. I go away, it is green, it is cool, water sparkles. She is there. I hear women's laughter. Men call me, my brothers, I see Rahman. There are good smells, piled carpets, spiced lamb. This world shines with gold, silver; and life. I make love with my darling, my wife, but softly - we must not wake the children - she smiles... A terrible pain, and a sickness; I am back , she, life; both are gone. I hurt, I hurt so very much. But strangely I cannot feel them - my legs I mean. That smell - it is getting worse. Flies buzz. I feel sick. I feel faint. But they cannot get to me. I am underneath; I cannot move. Ahmed is on top of me, Masud to one side. I do not know who is to my left. It could be Osama - or Leyla. Flesh that was warm, that's now cool, touches mine. Yesterday they lived. Yesterday they died. I struggle, struggle to breathe. Ahmed is on top of me; he is that weight, dead weight; he is that smell. There is a gap at his shoulder where his right arm should be. Through it a shaft of sunlight has found us. I see his contorted face. It is all I can do to focus my eyes. It is so close. It is just inches from mine. It is as though we are locked in some last carnal embrace. Death mocks us. I wake again. How long has it been? The start, the jump of my body has been all but extinguished by that dead weight pressing down upon me. Far away, so far away that I wonder whether it is in this world or the next, I hear the faint tinkling of a bell. I see sun, rocks, goats - their shepherd, myself as a boy. The shaft of sunlight has moved on. I can see now that there are jagged holes in the white-painted mud wall. Through them other sunbeams are streaming. There is just the suspicion of a draught, a movement in the air. Around us a myriad of empty bullet cases sparkle as the shadows move and are lifted in turn from the bare earthen floor. Above me, through the charred wooden and smoke blackened twisted metal sheeting of the roof, it is there, I can just see it; blood red are the jet trails in a world weary sky. It is no use. I can hold it no longer. I shit. I piss. It gushes from me. Now I have decided I just let it all go, go completely. What does it matter? I will be dead soon. Under my buttocks I feel the warmth of it, my shame, my humiliation; but further down I feel nothing, just nothing at all. The stench forces its way into my mouth, my nostrils. I wretch. I weep. I pray. I pray that death will take me, take me now. It is later. It seems darker. I know that, nothing more. Then I hear it, very faintly at first, but now it grows louder. There is no mistaking that sound. Soon it is a throbbing roar that fills my head. Everything vibrates. I hear the tracks as they grind, clank, groan and squeak. Now the track noise stops but not that throbbing engine roar and snarl. The ground, our world around us, trembles and shakes. It is the infidels. We have no tanks........ NEXT > >