Conflict Under Conflict

A patch of mould slowly creeps up the arched ceiling.

Mice tentatively scuttle around the sleeping bodies in search of crumbs.

The sounds of snoring ripple down the tunnels from mouth to mouth in waves.

And there sits Samuel R. Whitaker, his back up against the side of the tube station platform. Samuel R. Whitaker: an artist. Well, not like he used to be.

His vision slowly drifts around the dingy space. There must be hundreds of people down here. Some sleep, and some don’t, but this late nobody talks. Samuel turns a page in his small black notebook, and scribbles down what he sees. Anything. Last night, he’d seen a rat drinking the dribble off someone’s face while they slept, and it made him think twice about closing his eyes, even ‘just for a second’.

Samuel stretches out his writing-hand and wiggles his wrist. Nine pages. Could be enough. He’s made art with less. A while ago, he had decided against drawing down in the London underground. It felt wrong. Inhuman. It felt like he was exploiting its new inhabitants, somehow. So, for every night since, Samuel has spent his nights hiding from the blitz above, describing life and drawing it later. It’s more abstract, but the War Artist’s Advisory Committee seem to like his stuff.

He might only get £5 for this piece. Not the sort of living he’s used to. He misses life before the war, where he had the pick of the litter; on any day he might have tens of revolving commissions to choose from. Now, this is it. It’s miserable. But, tonight, at least, it’s quiet. Nothing flying overhead.

Samuel closes his notebook and, with a grunt, picks himself up and begins the long ascension to ground level. He steps over the snoozing public, scattered over the stopped escalators, and nods to the warden on his way out onto the street.

The dark street. A thin moon in the sky makes walking possible, though tripping on the vast piles of rubble is something Samuel has done all too many times. He walks cautiously, taking in the fresh air; a welcome break from the horrible stuffiness below. Aimless rambling. He’s tried to draw the beautiful and stark structures left behind by the axis bombing before, but it’s never sold well. It’s not what they’re after. They want emotion – they want people – because that’s what resonates most.

Samuel strolls and strolls, tiredness creeping in. He takes a seat near a bombed-out building, and looks at the unrecognisable city that surrounds him. He scribbles a couple of notes down, the pale moony shadows and jagged, torn bricks reminding him of some fancy sculpture he might have otherwise thrown his nose up at in a museum.

As he scans around, something catches. Oh God. He takes a deep breath as he stares upon the sad sight: a hand sticking out from under the rubble. Poor thing.

Samuel approaches. He lifts away some of the debris and gets a better look at the man, who lies face down, carrying a bag. Presumably full of clothes. At least, now, someone proper might find the body. They’ll know what to do.

Without really thinking, he reaches for the bag and slides open the zip.

At first, through his drowsy eyes, it looks like a bag full of paper.

And then… Holy shit.

Samuel reaches in and pulls out one of many wads of cash, his heart fluttering with adrenaline. He drops it back in and rummages around, looking over his shoulder. The bag’s full. He shakes his head. There’s gotta be $20,000 in here. Life-savings sort of money.

The sort of money you might want to keep close whilst your city gets bombed to hell. Samuel’s hands shake. He looks down at the body and considers its story. Someone with a family. Someone whose money this still belongs to.

But who knows? This could be the last of that family, destined to be found by some other stranger. Someone opportunistic.

No.

Samuel zips the bag back up and leaves it, his heart still pumping hard. To take it would be inhuman, he thinks. To rob a dead man…

Samuel walks back to the station empty-handed. As he descends back down to the station platform, a thousand thoughts cross his mind. If he just…

No.

But, what it could do…

He sits back in the same vague spot he sat in before, dreams swirling around his head, and he drifts…

And drifts…

And falls asleep.

But the flash of darkness in his head lasts only moments before the station fills with the sound of planes overhead. And the screaming of bombs as they fall. And the rumble of the platform as the world above begins to explode.

Samuel’s eyes grow wide, the commotion inside now loud and fearful, the terror on the streets relentless.

And yet, Samuel thinks of the man laid down in the rubble.

And of the bag.

The bag that would soon be lost again under a fresh layer of dust and bricks and plaster.

But why should he care? Why does he care?

Samuel looks around him at his new world. This damp horror. Unlike the galleries he used to haunt, or the landscapes he would paint, these are endless dark tunnels and endless harrowed faces. Him among them. That promise of a future eating away at him. With every bomb that drops, his anxiety rises.

He shouldn’t.

He stands quickly and rushes back through the station, his movement lost amongst the buzz of the worried public. Up the stairs, through the gates that haven’t been closed, and onto the street.

He clasps his ears at the roaring blitz, the once serene junkyard now ablaze with flames. He runs down the long street in search of the bag.

And there it is. Right where he left it.

He grabs it firmly and yanks it from the dead man’s locked grasp.

But the planes continue to fly, lit up by searchlights, anti-aircraft bullets zooming through the air. Samuel sprints, his legs turning to jelly in fear.

And then, above him, a German Dornier Do 17 releases one of its ten bombs, which gladly accept the pull of the earth and hurtle down to the ground.

Samuel has no time to react as the bomb makes contact with the building beside him. If only for a few more strides, he thinks, as the upper stories topple down onto the street below.

Onto Samuel, whose head takes the brunt of the debris.

The artist falls to the ground, buried, dead, his hand still clasped tightly around the money bag. Destined to be found by some other stranger.