Chapter 19: Home - The Night Market

The hills rolled like bruised knuckles beneath a grey sky, wind rushing over them in long, restless sighs. The old farmhouse sat nestled among them, whitewashed walls smudged by weather, the chimney coughing soft plumes of smoke that curled into the wind and vanished. Grass swayed like it had something to say but no voice to say it with, and the stone path leading to the door was slick with earlier rain. Night had set the valley black, leaving the windows warm and inviting.

The world had buckled under the war, but Wales, home, seemingly remained untarnished.

Laik stood at the gate for longer than he meant to, the travel-heavy satchel hanging from one hand. His uniform was battered, boots worn thin, the cuffs of his coat stained with old dirt and older blood that could be mistaken for the former. He had imagined this return more than once. In dreams, maybe. In fits of fever. But standing here, breathing the damp air before the farmhouse was real in a way dreams weren’t.

The door opened after he knocked. His mother gasped, hands flying to her mouth, tears already in her eyes. She threw her arms around him. He barely returned the hug, the motion stiff and hesitant. Her proclamation of a miracle went unanswered. Over her shoulder, he saw his father, standing in the doorway behind, taller, broader, weathered. A man who had lived with his hands in the soil. He joined their embrace.

The warmth of the house hit him all at once: the peat smoke, the stew on the stove, all things he had fantasised about. The dog asleep in the corner sprang up and ran over for attention, but received too little, lending to the animal whining. His brother appeared from the back room, sleeves rolled up, hands still dusted with the stain of field work. Mid-twenties and thick through the shoulders, a far cry from Laik’s stockiness. He froze when he saw Laik, almost convinced that a ghost was among them.

They sat down together at the kitchen table that night, the lamp casting a soft, flickering glow across their bowls. Steam rose from barley and meat, and the talk turned to the war – as it always did back then. His father boasted about the old days, pushing the Kaiser back, as if the world had only known the one war, despite the latest having been over for just a few months. His brother chimed in that nobody else from the village had made it back, suggesting that God was only looking out for Laik and none of the others. That their mother’s prayers were answered.

Laik spoke little.

He held his spoon loosely, barely ate. He felt the eyes of his family too difficult to meet. Their faces would shift from joy to concern far too quickly for his liking. His mother would squeeze his hand, testing to make sure he wasn’t an illusion. She left her seat and returned clutching a small wooden box. Inside was a black-and-white photo of him smiling, the first time he had worn the uniform. Inside was something metal, which he dangled from his fingers to the lamplight.

His dog tags.

An official-looking letter was the last thing inside.

They were told he had died somewhere in the south of France. Because of course they would. They weren’t completely wrong.

It was hell, Laik stated. That’s all.

His mother looked at him. His father did too. Even his brother, usually too rough-hewn to show much concern, fell silent. There was something off in his tone, in the way he scrutinised the tag without recognition. Something about his eyes, how they didn’t quite focus, like he was watching something none of them could see.

His parents exchanged a concerned glance across the table.

Their son had come home. But clearly not all of him.

Laik slept during the day.

At breakfast, he was always absent. When asked, he said nothing more than what little sense it made: that his unit had marched at night, that he was used to the dark, that they moved under cover on account of German planes overhead and sleeping in the day was habit now, not sickness. The curtains in his room stayed drawn, the edges pinned so not even a ribbon of light could seep through. His mother fussed at first, insisting he got up, setting out bread and jam on the end of the bed, but Laik would murmur something about migraines that came back with him from France.

It sounded true. Or true enough.

But in the village, word began to travel. First in the corners of the chapel, where old women clutched superstitions tighter than reason. Then in the markets, where murmurs passed between hands exchanging vegetables and eggs. There were things whispered behind closed doors. One neighbour said she saw Laik walking through the fields past midnight, even though the rain came down hard that night. Another swore she watched him stand outside the capel rwyfedig on the hill, just staring at the broken steeple.

He’s not the same, his mother confessed once to the priest, hands folded tight in her lap. The good Father tried to assure her, said the world was restless now, and it took time for the soul to settle.

The locals were not so forgiving.

The war takes its toll, aye, but this one, the only one who came back, came back wrong.

Her husband, a man of hard years and little sentiment, was less forgiving of the unknown. And her eldest son, brimming with the strength of someone who had always known where he stood in the world, didn’t like the idea of danger beneath their roof.

They spoke about it. Not in the kitchen, not at the table, but in the barn, where the guilt could be abandoned. Their voices lowered, not in fear of being overheard, but because the weight of what they were saying made volume feel blasphemous.

He doesn’t eat, the father said.

He barely talks, the brother added.

He watches things like they’re going to crawl. Sneaks out into the night. Looks a world away.

Their mother refused to hear it. She shook her head, a crack carving through her faith. That’s your brother. That’s my son.

But the brother saw it in the stupor. The father saw it in Laik’s eyes – how he didn’t flinch when they found a fox dead and mauled by the henhouse. How he didn’t seem to blink when they buried it, just stood there, arms by his sides, watching the dirt fall.

There’s something wrong, the father said. The secrecy was a concern. The dried blood and rogue bullet hole over his army jacket confirmed it.

Evil had hold of their son, the father stated, watching his wife break down in agreement. And he told his eldest to prepare himself for tomorrow morning. At dawn they would do what had to be done. Do what God himself would condone in this perilous moment.

They would beat the Devil out of him.