Hoods and Bots: Part Six by Irena Szirtes - inspired by a '555' prompt -

   “They passed Lester’s, the coffee shop on Eighty-fourth where Robert used to take Grace for breakfast sometimes before school.”

 The fifth line of the fifth page of the fifth chapter of “The Horse Whisperer” by Nicholas Evans

credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes

In honour of Wilhelm Imiołczyk, whose name I've taken for this story.

In the living hell of WW2 Poland, his forged papers saved lives.

Hoods and Bots: Part Six 

   I didn’t have much success getting to know Roland. He sometimes asked questions, was curious about Resistance workers who might have defected to the Regime, why that might happen, what our response would be. But he didn’t offer detailed answers to questions about his own life, or how he was feeling. His personality seemed shrouded; I sensed life felt onerous, in slow motion, happening to him, rather than because of him. I still felt uneasy in his presence, sensing brutality sleeping like a cat, not stirring, yet somehow agile and alert.

   A month after that meeting with Bhuresi, Roland surprised me. We were out checking camera traps, ensuring there’d been no Bot incursions near the camouflaged base.  Hercule was way ahead when he suddenly started limping; I instructed him to sit. Roland took off before I had chance to tell him to wait. He seemed uncharacteristically energised and got to Hercule before I did. I observed the calm confidence of an experienced handler, watched him kneel by Hercule’s long muzzle, lift his fore limb, reassure him quietly. Apparently, Roland had never been phased by seeing Hercule ready for action.

“He has quite a... large... inter-digital space,” he said as I caught up. “There’s a stone with... sharp edges... wedged.”  After some manipulating, he removed the stone, and I handed him the disinfectant spray from my backpack, too surprised to say a word. Hercule had always shown wariness around Roland, because he’d reflected my hostility, but like any dog, he instantly recognised a handler with empathy and skill.

“Thank you.” I said eventually. “You never said you liked dogs.”

“Oh, I...”

So fleeting I might have imagined it, the realisation he’d given something away seemed to bloom and fade.

“I worked with dogs...  for a time in my... you know, previous life. Yes, I like dogs. They’re a lot less... trouble, you know...  easier than people, don’t you think?”

 “Less complicated, for sure. But easy to underestimate. Was there a special one, out the ones you worked with?”

“Not really, worked with...  a few. Just one maybe... Bruno. Not... a lot to tell.”

He closed off again, but had I glimpsed something of the real Roland?

There was something else. As he bent over Hercule, a locket chain slipped from under his shirt. I knew it hadn’t been there the day we met at the ancient oak.

“We’re not supposed to wear jewellery on assignment,” I said later, when we stopped to rest and eat. “I couldn’t help notice you’re wearing a chain.”

“Sorry, I forgot... forgot to take it off.”

“May I see?” He shrugged, removed and opened it, and held the picture in front of me. “It’s just a picture of... of my mother.”

I stared at the small benign face. It struck me as odd a man his age should be wearing his mother, rather than wife, children, or lover, but only said, “You must have loved her very much.”

He avoided my gaze, barely nodded, stashed the locket in his pack. But I’d noticed a second tiny fastener, indicating the locket opened at the back too. Could there be hidden technology inside? Maybe I was paranoid, but I still suspected he might be undercover for the Regime.  My job was to observe and report, not confront. I would let Bhuresi know.

    There was one more surprise that night. I couldn’t sleep, troubled by the thought the locket might prove duplicity. Bhuresi had assured me it would be seized and examined, without Roland knowing, and asked me what I thought about his mental health. Then there was Hercule: the way he responded to that hidden Roland bothered me. I climbed out of bed and made a drink, listened to the Gershwin Frank and I had discovered and loved, but found the music only reawakened betrayal trauma. I watched two chapters of my holo-novel but still wasn’t ready for sleep. I stepped out to let the night air caress me, to be comforted by the sight of an honest moon. But I saw them and stepped back into the shadows.

   On the garden bench by the front door of Frank’s parents’ home, were Frank and Roland, engrossed in quiet conversation. I expected surprise to trigger anger, but anger lay sick and sullen. I saw Roland repeatedly shake his head, then drop his head into his hands. I saw his shoulders rock with silent sobs. He looked so forlorn, so small, and Frank continued to whisper to him, arm around his shoulder.  A reluctant stab of compassion had no time to register before I was overwhelmed with pain, watching Frank care for someone in the way he should have cared for me. So often, he hadn’t validated my pain but had expected me to forget it and move on, long before I was ready. I still ached with the overwhelming feeling I was wanting, that any other woman in the world must be more desirable than I. So, I slunk back home and lay full of adrenaline all night, as heartache roused the fight or flight instinct in my brain.