I Am Not Yours to Keep

The bright slam of a door wakes me from sleep. With a start I realise I do not know where I am. The room in which I've awoken does not feel familiar. Bright sunlight pulses from behind the curtains which hang from the only window in the room.

Sitting up, I try and recall the night before and how I got here, but my memories are lost to me, swallowed in a chasm of darkness which refuses to release them.

Climbing out of bed, I make my way to the window and pull back the curtains. A neat, well-manicured back garden stretches out before me. The ground is littered with the fallen petals from a magnolia tree at the foot of the garden. They glow pink in the sunlight like a strange form of snow.

A stiff breeze sets off a makeshift windchime made from the lids of discarded tin cans hanging on the back porch. It’s jangling discordant notes ring out, and I am reminded of my brother, Paul, who made a similar contraption for my mother many years ago.

The sight of the garden does not feel familiar either, and to my surprise when I move to the bedroom door, I find it locked. The handle twists but offers no sense of freedom.

From below I hear a woman's voice but cannot make out what she is saying.

Whose voice is that, I think, and is she speaking another language?

Why am I locked in this room?

Then it dawns on me. I must have been taken prisoner.

The slow-moving beat of a train pulling itself along tracks stirs in the distance, and I vaguely recall an operation to parachute in behind enemy lines in order to disrupt the German’s ability to move ammunitions. My memory is still fuzzy, and I cannot remember most of the details. My captors must have used drugs or gas, I think, or I hit my head when I jumped from the plane. However, in checking my head for bumps and bruises, I find none.

It is then I notice I have been stripped of my uniform and instead wear a pale blue button-down pyjamas.

Think Duncan, I tell myself.

What did your training say about being taken prisoner?

Well, first off don't reveal anything. Just present your name, rank and serial number.

And escape?

That was rather less clear. If there's an opportunity seize it, but don't do anything bloody stupid like getting yourself killed.

Survival and resistance is the key.

I wonder about my men, and what has befallen them. Are they alive, or are they being held as I am? I pray they have had more luck than me and are halfway to completing our mission by now.

The neighbour's back door suddenly opens and a middle-aged woman wearing a pinny and carrying a basket of washing comes outside. I could try and signal her, but she is probably in league with those holding me captive, and so that would be a foolish idea.

Letting the curtain drop back into place I look about the room. A single bed is pushed against the wall, it's sheets a wrinkled map of my sleep from the night before. A solid mahogany wardrobe stands in the corner, while a small desk containing a lamp and photo frame sits just under the window. Picking up the photo frame it holds the image of a woman and a man with two children. They are all smiling, but I do not recognise any of their faces.

There are no obvious weapons in the room that I can see, although the lamp does have a flex. It could make a useful garrot, I think, albeit not terribly effective. However, inducing panic is always an effective way of creating confusion and in confusion one can fashion one’s escape.

The lamp is quite old and with one sharp tug the flex comes loose in my hand. The lamp itself is made of cheap porcelain but might help to stun someone should I need to break it over their head.

Listening at the door I hear more voices, this time a younger man and woman have joined the woman from before, but I still cannot make out their words.

I wonder how much time I have before the soldiers get here; their clumping, heavy boots could come calling at any minute.

Peeking out through the curtains once more I see the woman in the back garden is now gone, her damp clothes twisting and turning in the breeze. Though high, the window is my only means of escape.

In trying to lift it, I find it locked as well. Rubbing the bridge of my nose I am surprised only at my own stupidity in thinking it would be open in the first place. Craning my neck to look directly below, I see a short flat roof extending out over the ground floor.

If I were to break the window and jump to the roof below, I could be away before the people downstairs unlocked the door.

And if they have guns? And bloody shoot you? Then what?

Well, who's to say the soldiers won't have guns and shoot me regardless?

Will the roof hold your weight?

It looks solid enough, but then again, it's only covered in a weather-worn felt.

My choices are wait for the soldiers to arrive, or make my escape and possibly get shot, or injured by falling through the roof.

Not fantastic odds either way.

Ah! There! A bicycle hidden behind the brambles at the bottom of the garden next to the shed.

That would get me on my way.

To where you fool? Dressed in pyjamas don't you think you would be rather conspicuous? Especially cycling through the streets?

Opening the wardrobe, I see a collection of mismatched outfits. Some belonging to a woman; bright flowing dresses and a mauve overcoat with the brooch of a peacock upon the lapel. However, there are also some men’s items. A grey sports coat that feels a little tight when I try it on but will just about do. There are no shirts, but the blue pyjama top I'm wearing could pass for an Oxford shirt if only glanced rather than studied. Trousers are the problem as there doesn't seem to be any. There is a man's navy overcoat present which could hide the blueness of the pyjama bottoms. It's risky but then again what about this plan screams safe and practical?

Luckily, there is a pair of men’s black brogues which are my size. There are no socks but no matter, the shoes will be a huge help in getting across the roof and when pedalling the bicycle.

Pulling on the makeshift outfit, I move to the door and listen once again. The voices from before have fallen silent though I can hear the tinny voice of a radio announcer but again frustratingly the words are lost to me.

Shoving the lamp flex into the pocket of my overcoat, I scam the gardens below for anyone who might alert the people downstairs to my escape, but there is no one there save a pair of pigeons who are pecking in the dirt at the base of the magnolia tree.

Taking a deep breath, I pick up the lamp and throw it at the window. The glass shatters and moving quickly, I reach my hand through the jagged hole and open the window from the outside.

Below, I can hear the sound of footsteps thundering up the stairs and, in my haste, while pulling my arm back inside the window catch it on a corner of the glass and draw blood.

From outside, I hear a woman shout, ‘Open the bloody door for Christ’s sake!’

Knowing I have no time to waste, I push the window up and swing my leg out, feeling the cooling breeze against the bareness of my ankle.

I'm just about to put my other leg through when the door swings open and a man and woman burst into the room. An older woman with grey hair stands behind them, her hands raised to her mouth as tears sparkle in her eyes.

‘Oh my God!’ the man shouts as he lunges at me grabbing my arm and pulling me back inside the room.

Struggling against his grip I try with all my might to free myself to get at the lamp flex in my pocket, but my movements are slow and cumbersome and I wonder if I am still feeling the after effects of the drugs they must have used on me the night before.

‘Dad!’ the younger woman screams, and I imagine she is calling out to the man of the house who must still be downstairs. Maybe he is getting a gun. I double my efforts to escape going as far as to bite the man's hand as it grips my arm.

‘Jesus!’ he shouts letting go, ‘he bit me!’

Momentarily I am free, tasting the victorious metallic hum of blood in my mouth before the younger woman grabs my arm and tries to pull me back inside.

‘Ich gehore nicht dir!’ I shout, drawing upon my rudimentary school German as I tussle with the woman.

‘Duncan!’ comes a piercing scream.

Turning I see the older woman, her face a mask of bewilderment and fear standing in the room. I stop struggling and stare at her, something strangely familiar about her face and the sound of her voice.

Trembling, the woman walks towards me with her hand outstretched.

‘Duncan,’ she says her voice trying to remain calm, ‘it's OK. We need you to come inside now. Look how you've cut yourself. We'll need to get that cleaned up for you, won't we?’

‘Mother?’ I whisper, ‘what are you doing here?’

Pain blossoms within her eyes and nodding slowly she says, ‘It's OK, mother is here now.’

The younger woman turns and starts to say, ‘Mum…’

‘I'm his mother,’ the older woman says silencing the younger woman, ‘now, Duncan, why don't you come back inside and we can get a bandage on that cut of yours?’

Staring at the younger man and woman who have now loosened their grip upon me but not let go entirely, I allow myself to be led back inside the room.

‘Are you being held captive too?’ I ask.

‘No one is being held captive,’ my mother says, ‘it's all just a silly old mistake.’

‘I'm sorry,’ I say ashamed of my actions.

‘It's OK sweetheart,’ my mother says as she takes my hand and kisses me lightly on the forehead, ‘we'll get you fixed up in no time. How about a nice cup of tea and a biscuit?’

Linking my mother's arm I slowly follow her from the room.

Behind me, I hear the younger woman hiss, ‘I told you locking him in the room was a bloody stupid idea!’

‘Well, it stopped him wandering about at night, didn't it?’ the man shoots back.

‘A nice cup of hot tea will sort everything,’ my mother says, as I watch an old man in blue pyjamas nod along from the reflection in the mirror at the top of the stairs.