Back in Keene’s cabin, after a large quantity of brandy had been poured into a glass and set before him, Victor asked what he’d wanted to ask from the start. Keene knew it was coming.

“Victor. I wish I could give you an answer.”

“Sir. Surely you must have some idea what – happened.”

Keene shrugged, concealed a cough. “I have as good an idea as anyone on this ship, Victor. Sub-Lieutenant Lowe went missing three weeks ago. Once it was clear he wasn’t coming back, we requested a replacement. You arrived. That is all I know.”

“What do you mean, when it was obvious he wasn’t coming back?”

“It’s the sea, Victor. Things happen. Men desert. Some can go mad. Some can - do other things. Or have other things happen to them.”

Victor didn’t want to delve into that.

Keene seemed to wait. Maybe to let it sink in. Then he said; “Evidently, he’s returned now. It’s best not to dwell.”

Victor didn’t know how he couldn’t.

“How did he – get back, sir?”

Keene sighed and shrugged. It was a strangely childlike gesture. “I don’t know,” he said. “We won’t. Take my advice and don’t think about it. Go and get something to eat. The mess bell is about to go. You’ve got last dog, if I’m not mistaken.”

Dogwatch, Victor thought. Glad to match his officer training to something at last. “Of course, sir.”

“Go. You know your way back to the gunroom?”

Victor nodded, unsure that he did but not wanting to admit as such. God, he was hopeless. This was a mistake. All of it. Him being here, him being…. involved. In any way. Here at all, out here at all. Him with access to any sort of weapon. Him on the front line in any sort of way.

He bit the inside of his cheek. Keene didn’t have to notice these things.

“Dismissed,” said Keene. He didn’t appear to have.

Victor made his way back down the corridor. God, this place was like a prison. Newly outfitted, the smell of paint still vaguely permeated. Paint and wet metal. Stale air.

He reached the ladder. Why were they so much harder going down than going up? He kept his hands still. Half of his mind was still on the deck.

He reached the gunroom and considered knocking. Alex had. But then Alex had told him he didn’t have to. Which way would look more professional? Following an example or following advice? He opted to knock. In case somebody was behind. It would serve as a warning if nothing else.

He did so. Then he opened the door. Asserting his confidence as an officer by coming in anyway.

The gunroom was not empty, but it was silent. Some food had been delivered at some point, Victor noticed. It had to have come from somewhere, but there was no sign of who had brought it or from where. Nobody seemed to be touching it. Another man had been added. He looked up and met Victor’s eye, raising his eyebrows briefly in greeting. Victor did the same to him. This would be the fourth sub. There were five of them. There was one left to meet.

Victor took a seat left vacant, which was quickly becoming his customary one.

From down the hall, he heard the beginnings of a ruckus pick up. Schoolground sounds. Men laughing and larking. The ratings’ mess, he guessed. Alex got up and left.

Pete watched him go, his eyebrows raised. Victor tracked his progress to the door, ready to stand in case he was needed. It seemed like someone should follow him. Someone ought to make sure he wasn’t alone. Pete must have sensed it, because he caught Victor’s eye and shook his head imperceptibly.

“Best to leave him, mate. Stew?”

Victor nodded, passing his plate over. The invitation to dinner from Keene seemed to have died along with the discovery of Lowe. Victor couldn’t blame him. The plate was made of hammered tin. There had been a cursory attempt to enamel it. The blue edging matched the tin cup. Perhaps it was deliberate.

Pete offered him the ladle of the stewpot. He couldn’t make out any discernible ingredients.

“We call it ‘brown stew’,” said the new man. “Can’t imagine why. James Hether.”

Victor took his hand. “Victor Darling.”

Pete chewed some meat, considering. “Victor’s a good, solid name. Like a horse’s name.”

“Saint Victor,” said Hether, tipping a mug towards Victor.

“Victor Emanuelle. Pope Victor. Antipope Victor, come to think of it.”

“Victor Hugo, of course.”

“Victor de Broglie. Quite a pedigree you’ve got to follow through on, Darling.”

“Yes. I hope I can be of service,” he said. It seemed like the only thing he could say.

“Oh, we all hope that,” said Hether. “Have as much stew as you like, by the way. It feeds a hundred. The kitchen churn it out like nobody’s business. We get the same as the ratings, but they hope if they leave a pot with us we won’t complain as much. You get a spirit ration, too.”

“I’m on watch.”

“All the more reason to have one. You’ll get it after. You’ll need it.”

Victor thought of his brandy from earlier.

As if on cue, Pete – or Clayton, as Victor should probably start calling him- casually brought up Victor’s pre-dinner activities. “Heard they found Lowe.”

“Heard they found more than they were bargaining for,” said Hether, reaching over for more stew. Victor felt a pang of indignancy on the dead man’s behalf. He wondered if he should say something. He would like to imagine someone would speak up on his behalf if it was him who had died like – that.

“Ah, so you heard about that as well?”

“From the horse’s mouth. Who told you?”

Clayton waved the question away. “It’s all over the place. Two-Tongue Harry Lowe. Imagine what you could do with that, eh?”

Victor put down his knife and fork more decisively than he intended.

Both looked at him. Hether’s face softened marginally.

“You’ll get used to it. People live and then they die. You get used to taking it lightly.”

Victor felt his expression stay exactly the same. Maybe he should try to look more understanding. Even though he didn’t, and hoped he never would, understand.

“Well, not lightly,” said Hether. “That was a poor choice of words. Of course you never take it lightly. You just – deal with it, I suppose. Make out that it isn’t that scary. It’s only death.”

A beat.

“But that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t deserve some dignity. You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Victor didn’t mention that it wasn’t him who had said the comment in the first place. Although Clayton, to his credit, had the good grace to look sheepish.

“Do you know how he got back on board?” he asked, seeming more dignified. Victor hoped it wasn’t just for his benefit.

“Yeah, that was bloody strange. Reckon he’d just been lying doggo for a bit?”

Clayton shook his head, his mouth full. “Not like that. Something had to put him there.”

“Just flop him on board like a landed fish?”

“Why not? You head stories. Had a cousin in the infantry. He says you can hear them, out in No Man’s Land. It’s the shell holes they like.”

“I’ve heard the pilots get a rough deal,” said Hether, conceding the point. “Some of them won’t go up any more. Heard of at least one who was shot for it.”

“Everyone’s heard of at least one pilot shot for cowardice because of it. I heard about Jerry crucifying a Canadian and nailing him to a door.”

“Seems like we’re getting off lightly,” said Hether, with little trace of humour. Clayton smirked wryly.

“See anything on your way up?” asked Hether, inviting Victor into the conversation. Victor rather wished he wouldn’t. There wasn’t anything he could contribute. Certainly not in a meaningful way.

“No, I can’t say I did.” Then, “what sort of things do you mean? To look out for?”

Hether shrugged. “Knowing’s half the battle, I suppose. Sneaky bastards.”

“Them or Jerry?”

“Oh, both of them. Who knows. We’re going to end up on the receiving end of one of them.”

“But why bring him back?”

“Scare us, I suppose. Wait and return him the day of his replacement? That’s got to be deliberate.”

Victor’s spine got colder.

Hether carried on regardless.

“Bloody alarm frightened the life out of me. Thought I was going to shit myself.”

“Some spanner wanker panicked and let the whole ship know.”

“Who found him?”

“God knows. Nobody’s come forward. Hawes’s in medical isolation, though.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Hawes. That must have been the man who had touched him. It. Him. Was he a him, still?

“Knew it would be bloody him. The man can’t do anything without getting gung-ho about it. He thinks he’s Rob Roy. You met him yet?”

This last question was directed at Victor.

“I – yes. Briefly.”

Hether nodded, appearing satisfied. Victor almost broached the subject of the mysterious fifth officer, while they were on the subject of other officers. He didn’t have to, however, as someone he assumed to be the man himself sat himself down. He seemed very vaguely familiar.

He didn’t make any effort to introduce himself to Victor. He barely made an effort to avoid him. The other two had fallen more or less quiet.

“Where’s your mate?” the newcomer asked Clayton at last. He had the pot in front of him. He was eating out of it. Victor wondered if this was standard practice for the last man at the table. Perhaps it saved on washing.

“I don’t know,” said Clayton.

“Course you bloody don’t,” he said under his breath. “And you are?”

“Darling,” said Darling.

The fifth sub-lieutenant looked at him, full in the face. “Darling. Blow a lot of horns, do you?”

“I’m not in the habit of blowing my own,” said Victor. The man’s face didn’t change. Maybe he hadn’t understood the joke.

The other man turned away with an air of dismissal that grated, despite Victor having known him less than a minute and liking him far less than that time would usually permit. Victor opened his mouth to ask the man’s name, but the man was already speaking.

“You look like a twat.”

Victor blinked, startled.

“I’m sure – appearances can be deceiving,” he managed to stutter out, unsure why that is what had sprung to mind first. Clayton got up and left quietly. Victor wondered if he’d just admitted to looking like a twat.

The other man grunted. Victor sensed that the conversation was over. He exchanged a glance with Hether. The man grimaced. “Come and give me a hand with these plates, Victor.”

Victor stood, managing to maintain eye contact with Hether. He did his best to look questioning. Hether pressed three plates to him, and two mugs with the remnants of lukewarm tea. Victor emptied them into the pitiful sink.

Hether stood at the door, one foot propping it open. “Come on now, Mr Darling,” he said, ostentatiously loud. “We don’t want to keep the galley waiting.”

Victor piled the crockery on top of each other into some semblance of order and followed Hether out the door. Hether was holding a clutch of forks in his hand.

“Isn’t there a-” he managed to ask, before someone tall came barrelling down the hall and took the forks off Hether.

“Thank you very much, sir,” he said with a trace of bitterness. “I do love to know I have assistance where my job will allow.”

“Apologies, Styles,” said Hether, gesturing for Victor to hand over the plates he was holding. “Victor, this is Styles. You’ll be seeing a lot of him. Styles, Sub-Lieutenant Victor Darling. He kicked you out of your berth.”

Styles looked Victor up and down. “So you did.”

“Didn’t mean to do your job for you, Styles,” Hether continued. “Simpson’s arrived and he’s in a foul mood.”

This seemed to have some sort of meaning for Styles. He nodded sagely. “Say no more. I’ll go to my quarters and come back with a pistol.”

“Would that you could, Styles.” Victor picked up and undercurrent of decided bitterness. “That would save us all a lot of time and effort.”

“Had a go at you, has he sir?” Styles asked Darling.

Had he? Darling thought back. Being called a twat wasn’t tantamount to what he would call ‘having a go’, necessarily. He seemed to inspire that reaction in people. He’d almost grown used to it.

Hether huffed air out through his gritted teeth. “He’s being generally unpleasant. You know how he is.”

“All too well, sir. I’ll check in on His Nibs and see if there’s anything I can do to him. For him.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Take care, sir.”

“And you too, Styles.”

“And you, Mr Darling,” Styles said, rounding on Victor. “You seem rather his type.”

 Victor was beginning to think that perhaps he wouldn’t be able to maintain his carefully constructed unflappable demeanour for much longer. “James, what the devil did he mean by that? Is there something I should be aware of?”

James sucked his cheeks in, visibly. He was schooling his features. Victor was all too aware of the signs that gave away that particular school of acting.

“It’s nothing, Victor.”

“I have to say, that didn’t seem the case.”

“It seemed-” He broke off, then sighed heavily. Silently inclined his head back to the gunroom. “He’s - difficult. He’s the oldest sub here. He’s got more experience than all of us, almost put together. He knows how things should be done, and he knows he knows that. Fancies himself the authority. And I don’t know how true this is, but reading between the lines the impression I get is he has a chip on his shoulder about rank. The whole temporary gentleman routine. Look, if I were you I’d just keep mum around him around the bloke and let that be that. No need to go provoking.”

“I wasn’t-”

Hether held up a pre-emptive hand. “I know, I know. You aren’t to know. It’s just… a fragile subject.”

“I hadn’t guessed,” said Victor, attempting to be dry.

“It’s nothing to… worry about. Don’t let it hang over you.”

Don’t dwell, thought Victor. Of course.

“Should I consider this a word of warning?” he asked.

Hether sighed. “Yes. Alright. If you must. You’re on last dog?”

Victor nodded.

“I’m on First. I’ll come and relive you. Port or Starboard?”

“I don’t know. Captain Keene asked him to report to him first.”

Hether bit the inside of his cheek and nodded. “Last dog. You’re with Alex. He’s usually Second Port.”

“I’ll…. see him on the deck, then.”

Hether nodded tightly and tried to smile. Victor turned smartly on his heel and left up the ladder.