...Gone (Open to one person)

[Nathan Whyte]

Country: England, London to be precise
Current Time: 1653
Weather Conditions: Snowing

The London pub was very dark. Well, the corner Flight Sergeant Nathan Knight was sat in was atleast. Boisterous shouts came from the bar as the locals revelled in the season. Christmas afternoon was a booming time of trade, but the lone New Zealander wasn’t in the mood for anything, save drowning his sorrows. He reached into a pocket and pulled out an envelope. His name and Division were type-written on, a neutral, but impersonal font used. With quivering hands, he pulled it open, preparing himself to re-read the contents. Every time he went for the paper, he hoped it had changed, as if magically what had happened ceased to have happened. Throwing some alcohol down his neck, he unfolded the paper.

Dear Mr. Knight

The letter was hand-written, but the way it was rushed and messed meant you could instantly tell how little the writer cared,

It is with great regret, that I inform you on the night of the 23rd of December, 1944, your brother (Sergeant) Jack Daniel Knight passed away in the care of the Royal Hospital Corps. During a procedure to attempt to re-attach his severed foot, he fell into cardiac arrest and died on the operating table.

You have our sympathies,

Doctor Jonathon Roebuck

Nathan felt a single tear roll down his cheek. In the past two weeks, one of his best friends and his brother had died in military-related incidents. What’s more, each on could have been prevented if he had been in the air nearby. He could have pinned down the ruthless William Luther in Africa and saved Rhys Bevan, and he could have spotted and destroyed the artillery that caused his brother to be wounded. He raised the glass to his mouth, but began sobbing before any of the liquid could go down. He must have looked a state, eyes red, tears freely rolling down his face sat alone in an unfamiliar London pub. He was still in the white woollen turtleneck jumper he flew in, and his hand fished into the pockets of his trousers, extracting the dag-tags his brother wore, and a photograph of the man. He looked so proud, so strong. The picture had been taken the day he had been promoted to Sergeant, one of the happiest days of the young man’s life.

He stopped their staring at the picture. His mind raced with memories at the times he had spent with his brother growing up. It was never going to happen again. Never. The bitch of the war had stolen his brother from him.

[Niamh Dunlevy]

It were days like this that the Pavee woman still wished Drummer was with her. The snow was falling gently now, but before the came, it would probably be a blizzard, covering London in a heavy layer of powdery white. Then again, she'd heard the winters around the infamous city were mild, and she was just exaggerating. Niamh did that when Drummer wasn't around; the horse seemed to give her extra dose of common sense. Poor thing, with that infection in his hoof...he deserved a rest, the farrier said it would be a while before Drum could be ridden again...

Ahhhhhh, my saving grace, thought Niamh suddenly, glancing up at the nearby pub with a happy sigh. Despite what some might have thought, one didn't drink just because one was Irish. In fact, it was actually a bad idea for her to drink. If you got on a horse and you were as drunk as a seagull in a vat of whisky, needless to say, you'd end up on your rear end on the ground faster then one could say, "Ouch." It had happened before, unfortunately.

The door swinging open after giving in to a hard shove, Niamh took a deep breath, inhaling the scents of cigarette smoke, cheap alcohol, burning wood and sweaty patrons. Without bothering to look back, the woman pushed the door shut behind her, and took a seat in the corner of the bar - there was only one man over there, in a turtleneck and overralls. A barkeep came over within minutes.

"What will it be, little lady?" he said carefully, eyeing her suspiciously. Niamh snorted, but not in a bad way.

"Relax, buddy. I'm nearly thwenty. Justh a glass of hoth cider, not'in' more."

"An Irishwoman not drinking whisky? I'd never thought I'd see the day," said the barkeep incredulously, lifting an eyebrow with a smile. He hurried off to fill the order, and Niamh looked over at her company, wincing when she saw the tear trickling down his cheek. She scooted over, taking a moment to read what had in his hand over his shoulder -

"Oh...oh dear God..."

...And without warning, wrapped an arm gently around the older-looking man, frowning slightly at him.

"The 'Nothe', huh?" said the woman in a low voice. "So sorry, buddy. Really...I am."

[Nathan Whyte]

Nathan folded the letter up, as he felt an arm settle on his shoulder. It looked quite pale, china skin, and felt cold through the thin fabric. Her low voice, one of a soothing quality, spoke into his ear. He had half a mind to throw her off, knock her to the ground and shout at her to piss off, but something stopped him. Her soft Irish accent enticing him as he twisted his head, looking into her peculiar eyes, one bright amber, one brown. Instead he gave a weak smile. ”Thank you, I guess.” His voice was hoarse; the tears had sapped his throat.

”I don’t think I’ve met you before. I’m Nathan.” He stopped here and swallowed some of his drink. When he carried on, his Kiwi twang came back into his voice almost instantly. ”And you are? I don’t want to be rude, take a seat. Please. I think I need some company tonight.” His eyes focused again on the dogtags of his brother, and the photograph. He smiled at them slightly, before lifting them up and slipping them into the pocket of his Prussian-blue jacket, slipping it back over the seat as he pulled down on the white woollen turtleneck that he wore when flying. He whipped his eyes with the itchy sleeve before looking back to his guest. She was beautiful, that was sure, at a guess, he’d put her about twenty. Dark hair framed her face as he looked at her. Maybe their could be some interesting conversation tonight.

[Niamh Dunlevy]

"Welcome, laddie," said the Pavee, pulling her arm away from the man and giving him a little space. He looked...bad, now that he was facing a little of the light. His face was heavily stained with tears, and he was red in the cheeks, his somewhat drowsy expression giving Niamh the impression he was nearly drunk. Death was a hard thing on people - she could remember what happened when one of her father's favourite horses died. The poor man had actually cried, something unheard of for Fionn Dunlevy, and drank himself silly for two days. It was one of the reasons why Niamh had sworn herself off alcohol - there had been several...embarrassing events, to say the least, that had taken place during that time.

”I don’t think I’ve met you before. I’m Nathan,” said the man, taking another sip of his drink before speaking again. ”And you are? I don’t want to be rude, take a seat. Please. I think I need some company tonight.”

"Noth ath all, lad. T'e name's Niamh," said the Pavee, settling herself down into the seat to the right of the Nathan character. He had an odd accent - British, almost, but longer drawn out in some spots, sounding similar to what a plucked guitar string would produce. His face was worn, as if he had strained his eyes several times, and his skin was tan. He must have been from a country farther south, although Niamh had never heard his accent before and couldn't think of a country to match it...

Suddenly, she thought she saw some sort of glimmer in Nathan's eye, but it disappeared just as soon as it came. Glancing down at his drink, Niamh slowly reached forward and grabbed it, bringing it up to her face. She took a couple of sniffs, then wrinkled her nose.

Yep. Definithely sthrong.

"Thake ith easy, buddy..." the woman said slowly, putting the glass back down, but out of Nathan's reach. "T'at's sthrong sthuff you goth t'ere. Don'th keep chuggin' ith like yer doin', or you'll never gith home wit'outh someone draggin' ya t'ere."

[Nathan Whyte]

"Niamh." He repeated the name, feeling it in his mouth. It felt as if it fitted perfectly, filling up the grooves of his mouth like a comforting drink in the cold times.

Nathan looked at this glass. Was it half-empty, or was it half-full? Well, at the moment, the question was more along the lines of 'Was it two thirds-empty or a third-full?' He looked up. One of life's great dilemas, second only to 'The Chicken or the Egg'

"It ain't that strong," he began, indicating his drink, "It's only lager. Not like that Cider shit you're chugging down!" A joke. A smll one, but a joke nonethelss. This Irish girl must be good for him. He looked up, and gave the brief hint of a smile towards the lass sat opposite him. Comfort sometimes came in the most unusal places, and the most unexpected times. One of the last things Nathan expected to find was a strange Irish girl walking up to him in a pub in the middle of London.

"So, which part of Ireland do you hail from, where are you now?" He opened his palms as he said this and looked her up and down, expressing his honesty that he wanted to know to her. He was letting down his personal barriers as he felt the tear flow stem. A queer feeling began emerging in the pit of his stomach, one that he hadn't felt for years, his time spent in schools, being bored half to death as he looked among the fellow students. He tried ignoring it, but it wouldn't go. It just burnt brighter.

[Niamh Dunlevy]

"Yes, ith is. Yer thalkin' to t'e same woman who's ridden a horse drunk b'fore," the girl said pointedly, raising her eyebrows as she tucked her journal back into her coat pocket. While Nathan had been preoccupying himself with the pronunciation of her oddly-spelt Irish name, she had jotted down a quick entry, mostly about him. It was...something to note. A new experience...yes. That explained her sudden need to write. She had always been a curious girl, wanting to know this and that. How ironic it was, then, that she didn't even finish her schooling.

"So, which part of Ireland do you hail from, where are you now?" the man then said, turning her attention away from his drink. The Pavee went to say something, her mouth beginning to form around the shape of her word, but all that came out was an, "Uhhhhhh..." Pavees weren't exactly from anywhere; they were semi-nomadic. Niamh had been born in the back of a wagon, after all.

"Errrrrm...t'e coast," said she suddenly, remembering the day her mother had told her they wouldn't be moving around anymore. Her parents still lived on the old farm, her father training horses, both having given up the Pavee lifestyle after Niamh's mother, Sheila Dunlevy, had expressed her feelings about it. "M'father works wit' horses. I do t'e same. I'm here fer a drink, t'en I'm going tho see 'bouth some horses t'at need shoein'. T'ey came from t'e fronth lines - waaaaaaith a minuthe!"

She then remembered Nathan saying something about her choice of drink. Realizing he was thinking of the alcoholic drink, the Pavee threw her head back and let out a loud bark of laughter.

"Not t'at cider, silly!" the girl boomed, her Irish lilt obvious with the tone she was using. "I mean t'e wathered-down sthuff the Yanks an' t'e Canucks drink! T'ey're servin' ith special t'is year!"

The woman then pointed at the bottom of the drink list hanging on the wall. Sure enough, in big bold letters, it read:

+ THIS CHRISTMAS ONLY +
Authentic North American Apple Cider
Non-Alcoholic, Great For The Non-Drinker
1 Pound

[Nathan Whyte]

Niamh talked on about the coast, and her family. Farriers, horse lovers. He'd met quite a few of them in his time in Britian, notably Steven Colly, a little Private that had confided in Nathan when he was mourning for Edward McMillan. He turned his thoughts away from that. It seemed he was closing several doors in his head, but opening up others.

"Horses, eh? I used to do a bit of riding back in En Zed. Haven't been on a horse for years now, I do enough riding in the sky." He left that open, to see if she wanted to build on it. She seemed quite quiet, but Nathan was desperate for some conversation, to keep himself occupied. Christmas was going to be quite lonely, he didn't have much to look forward to at all.

"Non-alcoholic Cider, eh?" he said, looking at the sign, and digging into his rear pocket for his elusive wallet, "I could probably give that a go." He opened it up, and had a fish around, before emerging with a note, and draining his lager glass. Was it empty, or just not full? He stood up, excusing himself quickly, and waited for the bartender to serve the drink. His Kiwi accent boomed over the bar, and his tanned skin and obvious muscles made him an instant target to some of the locals. He heard a few mumbled insults, a threat or two from the drunken yobs sat in a corner, and he felt glad to have his Colt strapped to his belt, the wine-coloured holster half hidden by his jumper. He took a last look at them and turned for his seat.

"So, Niamh, anything about you particularly interesting I should know? You're not actually a bloke underneath that, are you? There are some queer folk from around here." Another joke, in just as many minutes. My, oh my.

[Niamh Dunlevy]

"S'really good. M'Fat'er had a friend make ith for 'im lasth Christhmas, when I was back visithin'. Issa much betther t'en t'e hard stuff."

The man excused himself for a minute, most likely to relieve himself of the lager that was probably going straight through him, or just to get the blood flowing back into his legs. As he left, the Pavee felt a twinge of nervousness; some of the locals seemed to be...in a dodgy mood, and the alcohol was getting to them. Unpleasant memories went through Niamh's mind, and she made a mental note not to let anything slip.

Eventually, Nathan came back to his seat, just as the bartender was serving their Christmas special. Niamh took a sip, savouring the sweet taste of the cider, and placed her drink back down, just as Nathan spoke.

"So, Niamh, anything about you particularly interesting I should know? You're not actually a bloke underneath that, are you? There are some queer folk from around here."

Niamh laughed - it was true, she didn't look very feminine. There was always straw in her hair, and because half the people she met either were scared of her or wanted to shoot her with a gun, she couldn't always rent a hotel bath to clean herself up with. Smiling, she said simply, "Naaaaah, I'm justh a lil' ol' Pavee. Not'in tho worry 'bouth - "

"OI!!"

Niamh stiffened, and her head whipped around. A drunk was staggering towards her, bloody murder in his eyes as he held a half-full beer bottle in his head. Uneasily, Niamh inched away from his general direction - she realized what she had just said.

"...Whath, ya ol' coot?" the woman snapped, glaring at the man with her odd-eyes. "Leave me an' m'friend alone. We goth no throuble wit' ya."

"FEH!" the man boomed, spitting to the side before fixing his drunken gaze back on the Pavee. "I heard ya t'ere...yer a Gypsy. A thief."

"I AIN'TH A GYPSY!!" the woman roared, leaping to her feet. "I'M A PAVEE!! T'ERE'S A DIFFERENCE, AND DON'TH USE T'E WORD 'GYPSY', FOR T'E LOVE O' - "

Niamh had no time to finish her sentence as the beer bottle came flying at her. She yelped, diving for the floor, the bottle crashing onto the counter where she had just been. Indignant shouts chorused throughout the bar, and Niamh suddenly found herself the target of several objects, all thrown with surprisingly good aim.

If only the door wasn't across the room.

[Nathan Whyte]

"Pavee. Can't say I've heard of them, you'll have to-" Nathan was cut off mid-sentance by some half-drunk yob. Niamh stood up and started moving as the man shouted the odds at her. Nathan stood up, and slipped his RAF jacket over his sleeves, to make it obvious he was military.

"Hey, mate, leave the lady, along, alright? She's done nothing to hurt you." He placed both of his palms on the small round table infront of him, and flashed a smile at the man.
"Shut up, ya bastard!" was the only reply he got, apart from a fist straight to his nose, throwing Nathan over backwards onto the ground.

"Shit," Nathan groaned as he lay on the ground, his hands flying to his nose. It was bleeding, but it didn't feel broken. He'd has worse knocks in Rugby, really, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt. He climbed up to his feet, the drunkard had turned towards Niamh, and Nathan struck back, smashing the crooked forearm of the man towards his chest, smashing the beer glass in the hand against his hard forehead. Shards of glass peppered his face, and Nathan walked over to Niamh, protecting her with his body from the rest of the bar.

"Does anybody else have any problems with her? Anybody at all?" His fists were bunched, and he realised in the brief scuffle his pistol holster was now clearly visible to the inhabitants of the room. He slowly looked around. "Nobody?"

[Niamh Dunlevy]

Because Niamh's heart was hammering so hard in her chest, the blood roaring so loudly in her ears, she didn't realize that things had stopped being flung at her. It was only when Nathan's voiced boomed over the bar that she looked up, her eyes wide with awe.

He was protecting her. Protecting her. No fists sent her way, nothing smashed over her head...but protecting. Defending. A true soldier, and not one with bias.

Her mouth could not help but form a little "o" of shock.

The drunk, meanwhile, was muttering curses, staggering towards the pub's door with a few other men. Those who had stayed slunk back to their tables like whipped dogs, eyeing Nathan's pistol nervously. Breathing shakily, Niamh waited until they retreated to their respective tables, then slowly stood up, brushing bits of glass off of her.

"T'ank...you...Nathan," she almost squeaked, feeling her eyes sting. No, no, she was not going to cry, not at all...just because he was one of the few that hadn't tried to throw something, it didn't mean she had to get all dramatic...ah heck, she was!

Snap outtha it, Niamh! You're a big girl; quith making a fuss!!

The woman sighed unevenly, and shook her sleeve off to remove any more glass before wiping her eyes. "Sorry...sorry about that," she said softly, frowning a little. "I didn't mean for that to happen."

[Nathan Whyte]

Nathan took a final sweep of the room with his eyes. The occupants were turning back to their tables, already raucous chat was resuming, people forgetting what had happened just as quickly as it had occured. Nathan turned around, flicking his jumper down to cover the pistol and did up the button on the front of his jacket. The bartender has disappeared seconds before the fight, and Nathan knew the shit would hit the fan the second he returned.

He placed a gentle arm on to Niamh's shoulders and started guiding her towards the door. "S'alright, but I think our welcome may be expired in this place." He flashed another brief smile as he held the door open for her. "Now, I think the least you could do is explain to me what that whole 'Pavee-Gypsy' thing is. To be completely honest with you, I've never heard of Pavee, so I think that's a good a place as any to start."

Outside, a gentle blanket of snow was dropping down painting London white, as Nathan looked both ways down the road. "Didn't you say somethign about seeing a bloke about a horse? Which way is that, do y'know?"

[Niamh Dunlevy]

Niamh let herself be guided out of the pub by the man, and flashed him a smile of her own as he opened the door for her. "T'ank you, Nat'an," the woman said happily, giving the man's shoulder a gentle squeeze on her way out. He was such a gentleman; all the soldiers she had met so far seemed to be nothing more then a filthy-minded bunch, especially under the influence of alcohol. Whoever was his mother must have been proud.

As the pair walked away from the pub, snow beginning to cover all of London as the day faded into Christmas Eve, Niamh's companion asked about the job she had mentioned before. The girl pointed eastward.

"T'at way, Nat'an sir. I'm in no rush, t'ough; goth a few t'ings t'do before I go, and visith someone."

The girl smirked at those last few words, thinking of her horse. She then began to slowly walk in the direction she had indicated, speaking as she did so.

"As fer t'at lil' scuffle in t'e pub, lottha people don'th like m'people. Pavees, we don'th s'ay in one place, y'see; lottha us thravel 'round, doin' t'ese odd jobs an' sthuff. Thravellin' in wagons t'at we make our homes in, workin' on a loth of sthuff, but t'ere's a loth of us t'at work wit' thin, an' dogs an' horses, thoo. 'Cause of t'at, lottha people call us 'thinkers'; we, o' course, call ourselves t'e Pavee. T'e ot'er names are justh some all t'e not-Pavees, t'em counthry folk, gave us."

The woman paused, turning around to see if Nathan needed to catch up. She would then continue with her explanation.

"Buth lottha people like tho t'ink of us as 'Gypsies'. Gypsies are differenth; t'ey call 'emselves 'Roma', an' t'ey didn'th come fro' Ireland. T'at name's justh somet'in' someone gave 'em, and ith's sthuck. We mean no throuble, an' t'e Roma, t'ey ain'th t'at bad, either. I've thravelled wit' 'em."

++++++++

OOC - When Niamh says "thinkers", she means "tinkers", which is an alternative name for the Irish Travellers now considered derogatory. The word "thin" is also supposed to be "tin", but her accent made it sound different.

[Nathan Whyte]

Nathan attempted to translate the Irish into something understandable as the pair walked down the darkening streets of London. He just nodded politely as he kept in step with Niamh. He let the fiery Irish girl lead the way as he kept an arm upon her shoulder. She was just a bit smaller than him, and it was quite a comfortable height to keep it at.

"So," he said, drawing in brath and making i seem like he had come to a massive conclusion, "Pavee and Gypsies, sorry, Roma are completely different people. Neither are bad, but you don't like getting confused?" He gave an encouraging smile to Niamh to try and get her to say "Yes!"

"This horse of yours then, what kind is it? I'm warning you, though, my knowledge of equine has come down to about big and little, black and white." Another genuine question, as Nathan shuddered slightly when a large grouping of snow slipped down the back of his collar. He adjusted his jacket a bit, to tighten up the collar, before replacing his arm to it's slot.

A small military lorry drove past, flicking up a small cloud of sleet as the occupants, members of the Spotting Corps by the looks of things were moved to their places for the nights watch. Hopefully, they wouldn't see anything tonight apart from Santa. German bombers hadn't been in the air for months, but you couldn't be too careful, especially in the country's capital. Nathan stopped and saluted them as they drove past, the Officer in the front seat mirroring the gesture. Nathan smiled as he spotted large red sants hats poking out of the back, after being pushed over the helmets to give a slightly more festive feel to the event. If those poor sods could enjoy Christmas, then why couldn't Nathan?

[Niamh Dunlevy]

"So, Pavee and Gypsies, sorry, Roma are completely different people. Neither are bad, but you don't like getting confused?"

"Yep," Niamh replied, a wide grin of her own adorning her face. The man was catching on, thankfully enough. "S'like sayin' t'at t'e Briths an' t'e Aussies - t'em boys fro' way down sout' - are t'e same, 'cause t'eir accenths soun' alike. Buth in realithy, t'e Aussies live in a deserth-ish, land, righth, and t'e Briths are from a land where ith always is a-rainin'. Geth ith?"

She liked where this was going. Unlike many-a-person who would simply snort and say, "You Gypsies are all the same," he was listening. Listening, and asking questions, trying to learn so he wouldn't be so ignorant. Niamh liked people like that; they made good friends.

Very good friends indeed.

"This horse of yours then, what kind is it?" Nathan asked as they walked along. "I'm warning you, though, my knowledge of equine has come down to about big and little, black and white."

Niamh laughed. "'Tis all righth, I understhandth," said she. "Anyhow, he's a big boy. Big boy. Four hundred an' t'irthy-one centhimethres at t'e shoulder, reddy-orangey wit' nice, black legs an' mane an' tail. He's got big splothches of whithe on him, thoo. An' he's goth lil' socks, thoo, and his legs are all poofy and furry. He's such a sweethie, acthin' all human..."

Nathan suddenly stopped as a lorry came around the corner, saluting to an occupant, who saluted back. Niamh giggled at the sight of the Santa hats the brave men were wearing; apparently, they had a sense of humour too. These soldiers weren't that bad after all.

[Nathan Whyte]

Nathan carried on meandering through the snow. He pursed his lips and blew out a single note, letting it echo around his mouth. He carried on walking, bobbing into silence momentarily. The horse had nice back legs, eh? He took a small discreet peek at Niamh's lower limbs. He certainly wasn't the only one.

Nathan carried on, feet crunching the snow underneath, his thick socks and leather boots insulating his feet. If anything trapped under the jacket thick woolen jumper, he was quite hot. He spoke down wards "You cold, Niamh?" Without waiting for an answer, he pulled slightly tighter on her shoulder, keeping her close to him. As if to provide a reasoning for his movement, a group of spotty youths came from around the corner, talking loudly in their cockney accents. Nathan raised his eyebrows at them, giving them a look shouting out for them to avoid them. The boys brushed past, jabbing elbows and pushing roughly. Once they passed, he heard a few Wolf Whistles, and encouraging laughs from them.

As they walked around the corner, large shadows were being thrown over the buildings from the scarce lighting, but he could make out when light coming from one building, illuminating a "Farriers" sign. He pointed it out to Niamh. "Is that your place, then?" He realised, the slight problem was that he could tell it was closed. "Do you want to come back in the morning? I'm staying about a block away, if you don't have anywhere to go. I've got a lovely spare room in the flat, and a great coffee peculator. Sound good to you?"