The Bird"Found a bird in delta." I say. John doesn't stir, so I repeat. "Said a bird flew in. Little scrawny thing, but it got in." "Can't of." "What I thought. But it did." I can hear John stretch out in the bunk above me, the ancient springs groaning as his body and muscles shift across them. "Where's the leak?" "Sally's looking. Be in delta though - can't of got through a bulkhead." "Better not be delta two." I nod, because neither of us want it in delta two. "What sort of bird?" "Little scrawny bastard, don't know. Could look him up." John swings himself off the top bunk, and sits down on the end of my bed to do his boots up. "Nah. Still loose?" "Think so." "Hope he gets out." And then we laugh, because it's just such a normal thing to think, because birds should be out, shouldn't they?
During Murder in the DarkDuring Murder in the Dark, we played our own games. We had a nook in the corner where nobody ever came and wed meet in there for a few moments at the beginning of every round, snatching intimate memories under the cover of darkness. It started when we were children, and was therefore childishly innocent; wed tap out messages on each others arms, using a mixture of Morse code and our own kind of shorthand that made things go faster. We were thirteen when he tapped out, Can I kiss you? I tapped back Yes, and we had a new game. It always was a game. It never failed to send shivers down my spine when, as we prepared to part, he whispered in my ear By the way, youve just been murdered. And I know it was the same for him. Things progressed quickly and within a year I had my hand down his pants as we were making o