Disclaimer: I don't own Harry and his world, obviously!
The Compton Diary
Thursday, 14th March, 1998.
I have locked the door.
The past few hours have been a haze of images. Only now can I refrain from retching. Bernard sleeps soundly enough, but I sit huddled at my desk, the pen trembling across my page.
The day dawned brightly enough, though the windows were covered with an icy condensation. For a moment I relaxed, but then there creeped in through the crack under the door - an air of misery, suffering and ill thoughts. I remebered a third presence and shuddered.
The boy came to the kitchen after breakfast. I had resolved to check on him before then, but my intuition told me not to. He ate well, though I cannot see how any amount of food could put meat back on his famished bones.
As he walked to the counter, I noticed he walked in an odd manner, bent over slightly on his right side. I told him to lie on the couch. He went to do so, but as he moved he grimaced in pain. He stretched out on the soft materiel as I decided what to do. I pulled his bedshirt upwards to examine his ribs. What I saw made me gasp in horror. The lower ribs on his right were pushed in at an angle - there appeared to be an indentation. Purple bruises covered this area, and several long, fresh cuts streaked across his skin. He tried to see the cause for his discomfort, but lay back, wincing.
I wrapped the wounds as best I could, but this injury requires a surgical procedure.
We spoke little this morning, and after my amateur examination I helped him to bed, knowing that he was in no fit state to do anything else.
Bernard was in good form today. He spoke about soccer, and he remembered the boy, remarkably. He was, however, dismissive of the boy's condition, or indeed his origin.
"In his own good time, Alice," he told me, "His sort always sort themselves out."
I do not yet know what "sort" Bernard was referring to.
I did, however call the police, as the boy clearly has been attacked. I explained the situation but had to admit that the boy had not yet identified himself. The police told me there was little they could do but they said they would send someone out from the nearest village tomorrow to investigate.
I went to the boy this evening with soup, knowing that he would need sustanance, but of a liquid kind, I thought, owing to his condition. He was glad to see food, but there remains something of a distrust about his eyes. He was sitting up in bed and appeared comfortable. I lingered in the room, under the pretence of taking back his bowl, though for the sole purpose of observing the boy.
He ate hungrily, yet allowed no splash to touch the bedsheets. The duvet creased over where he ate, and between one of the folds I thought I saw a narrow stick. Then it was gone, and now I feel sure that I imagined it.
When the bowl was scraped clean he wiped his mouth, looking again weary. I took the bowl from him and he didn't look at me. Instead, his eyes flashed to the chest of drawers in front of him, to a framed black and white photograph on the surface. His expression seemed, for a second, astonished, as though he could draw some deeper meaning from it. All at once his expression closed again. I could not comprehend why this happened, but didn't question it.
"How are you feeling, now?", I asked nervously.
The boy looked startled, as though awoken from a stupor.
"Much better, thank you.", was his reply. I was taken aback at his politeness.
I hesitated, not sure if I should question him. Then the words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.
"Who are you? What is your name...?"
I suddenly noticed the strange jagged scar on his forehead. His head whipped around and he stared at me. For a split second I absorbed the vibrant green of his irises. Then I was lost.
It was a whirl of images. The first, a scar - his scar, reflected in a mirror. The next, two giant red lights, hungry lights, staring into me. There were corridors, long dank corridors, with giant narrow figures marching in their ragged cloaks. Then there were bars, a cell, and darkness. Finally, last night's fog, surrounding my own house.
I resurfaced with a jolt. The spoon and bowl were clattering in my hand. I was still standing in the bedroom. My skin now felt cold and my body nauseous. The boy now had his chin on his knees, staring blankly ahead. I turned quickly, and without a word, my feet carried me out the door.
As I, in a dazed fashion, placed the dish in the sink, I noticed the framed photograph in my hand. I do not remember taking it out of the room, but it is still with me, staring at me on this desk. Hours later, and I still cannot fathom the mystery of it. I will try to keep the boy's images from my mind and study the details of the picture.
The photograph is old. It was taken of Bernard with a member of his regiment in 1943. Bernard stands next to a man, also in uniform, who looks to be about his age. The poor quality of the image means that details are hard to come by, but I can see that this other man has dark hair. He is slightly shorter than Bernard, and he is smiling. I try to examine his features, but fatigue blurs my eyes and all I can focus on his his short, yet very messy hair.