Under The Cover Of The Blackout

As he walked through the mahogany doors and entered the hall, the glitter ball spun, winking its thousand of eyes. The couples who were entwined within each other, like furious hissing snakes knotted together in a passionate embrace, hopped and skipped on the newly-waxed dance floor. The vicious whirling of the many colours from the twirling of the feminine skirts showed the fast pace of the Jitterbug that raced round the room. The smiling faces and the magical glints in the eyes of the joyful pairs, the curvaceous figures of the women and the smart, slick uniforms of the men, were all captured in a mesmerized onlooker's eyes.
A strong smell of tobacco drifted around the room, lingering around the shoulders of the groups who created the continuous murmur of chatter and sudden outbursts of hilarity. The whole room was filled with the gentle sounds of Glen Miller and the contented vibe masked the constant worry of war that had been forced to the back of everyone's mind during this blissful night.
The body lay limply in the centre of the dance floor: the pool of crimson that had only just stopped trickling from her head glistened in the poor light. Her satin, scarlet dress pressed neatly against the lifeless body and the cascade of brunette curls dangled off her shoulders. The pain had left no mark on her pale, porcelain face and the gentle rouge of her cheeks gave the appearance of life, but that was soon dismissed. As he looked down at her body, he saw the knife that was jammed into her abdomen, the huge slash that gawped in the light. The hole smiled evilly back at him. The ricochet of his footsteps broke the eerie silence of the murder scene. As he marked the site with police tape, he straightened his tie. This was going to be a long night.

Private Albert Warsop watched two other soldiers of his regiment whispering guiltily in the corner of the dimly lit barracks. The soldiers were Private William Roberts and Private Samuel Gregory and unbeknown to Bertie, they were conversing about their deeds of the week: the grim memories of her screams for help; the look of fear that dwelled on her face as they each took it in turns to force themselves upon her; the ferocious motions that she made to try and lift their heavy weight of her fragile and innocent body which gradually got weaker and weaker; the fruity smell of her perfume, the smeared scarlet lipstick that had raced up her face and the pearly white teeth that were gritted in pain were thoughts that rested on their minds but there was no shame shown from either. Bertie strained to hear the snippets of conversation that drifted over from the opposite side of the room so much that the springs in his thin, limp mattress gave a loud squeak, making the other two turn around and see him. Outside the barracks, the muffled yelps of Bertie, as his face was mashed and twisted by their vicious knuckles, escaped from under the door.

She looked over her shoulder to see her own reflection staring back at her as she carefully attempted to draw the dark brown seam line on the back of her freshly stained legs, with a blunt eye pencil. She pulled the emerald green dress that she had spent weeks saving coupons for over her head, careful to avoid ruining her freshly pinned Victory roll hairstyle that had taken her the last half an hour to set. She applied a fresh coat of rich, scarlet lipstick and headed out of the door, grabbing her coat on the way.
She stepped out into the icy air and headed towards the town hall, which enticed her in with the distant humming of the upbeat rhythm from The Andrew Sisters. She gathered with a cluster of women who she knew from the WVS or from her work at the munitions factory. All of the girls, who had left their dull, grey, colourless appearances at home along with their uniforms now displayed fun, joviality and every shade of the spectrum in their attire, and entered the hectic hall together.
After sharing numerous dances with numerous servicemen, she was approached by a pair of smart, slick, smooth men who came over with the predictable flirtatious banter and took it in turns to dance with her. She was overwhelmed with the attention she was receiving and could feel herself being charmed by the duet. As Private Gregory leant over and whispered sweet nothings in her ear, she didn't notice Private Roberts skulk off outside. The suggestion that she should 'get to know' Private Gregory better sounded good to her. She craved attention as she got so lonely in her small rented room. She had no-one. She knew the girls from work gossiped about her, but she wasn't a tart, she just wanted to be loved.
The girls from the factories were all dancing on the floor, the sipping of sherry and sweet wine going straight to their heads. In between the ferocious twirls and spins, the onlookers saw the young beautiful girl leave with Private Gregory and saw his sinister wink, that sent a shiver down the spine, as he turned to his fellow friends in a boastful fashion.

Bertie stood outside the pale blue door with the small bunch of carnations held in a hand that was moist from nervousness. He rapidly banged the knocker of the dark house and the door opened to let him in before the ARP warden could complain of the chink of light being a target for the Jerries. The sight before him astounded him. The curvaceous hips, the plump promiscuous lips that engrossed him and the torrent of chocolate coils that settled on her shoulders. Lizzie Drew, the girl he intended to marry. After he asked, she responded with a yes and wrapped her arms around him. As they embraced, Lizzie tried to push the thoughts of the past few months to the back of her head: the ferocious pushing of those two soldiers, the blank canvas face of the still-born child conceived that terrible night that she had had to bury down the garden, the tears that streamed down her face as she drifted off to sleep. Bertie would do her good. He was sensible, down to earth and a good soldier, what else did she need?

"Lizzie Drew?! The girl who has rounded heels because she's been on her back so many times? The girl who knows what she wants and how to get it? The girl who's lost count of the notches on her bedpost? What do you wanna marry her for, Bert? These were the voices swimming around his head. Since their engagement had been announced, he had found out a lot more about Lizzie. He flicked through photographs of their trip to Blackpool, the ecstatic faces that stared back at him all seemed like one giant lie. Did she even love him? Or had he been a safe bet for a better life? The tears of anger and heartache dripped down his face, leaving a salty taste on his thin, chapped lips. He heard voices enter the barracks, Bertie looked up. The smug faces of Private Gregory and Private Roberts appeared and Bertie felt a wave of fury wash over him, he clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. He'd heard that Lizzie had been with both of them. How could the bitch have done that to him when all he'd done was love her? She was a dirty tart, a disgusting lush. He hated her for doing this to him. Something needed to be done. He wiped his tear-stained face and stormed out of the door, heading to meet Lizzie at the dancehall. He approached the huge mahogany door in his well-groomed khaki uniform. He turned the cold, steel handle as thoughts of Lizzie's excited screams of joy as she lay under another man, the jubilant smile plastered across her enticing face and a jab of pain screeched through his heart as these thoughts entered his head. He ambled through the archway, leaving the door wide open. As he approached the hall, all that could be seen from the dark, blacked out streets was the intense, vivid golden light that escaped from the open doorway, bringing an air of uneasiness into the shadowy and murky darkness of the night.