The Heart Beats Like a Drum by Amy Kitcher

The drum rests beneath a spotlight, behind a wall of glass. Painted regimental green and embellished with golden banners listing battles honors, the instrument was a source of pride, once. But its tension ropes have gone slack. And the faded unicorn and chipped-crown lion flank a long defunct coat of arms.

A hunched old man, clad in a navy, moth-eaten pea coat, hobbles across the marble floor at a speed approaching continental drift. His long march deserves fanfare, but the brass bugles arrayed in the ‘Military Music’ display remain silent. Instead, the wheeze of his corrupted lungs provides an offbeat rhythm. The death rattle has accompanied him since dawn and he knows the sneaking, creeping bastard who stalks him down the long corridors of the nursing home wants to hand him his discharge papers.

One final mission awaits.

Under the yellow gaze of a taxidermied goat (a.k.a. Lance Corporal Jenkins), the man smashes the drum’s display case with a ball-peen hammer. The cheapest tool in the hardware store performs its job admirably and a twinkling glass galaxy spreads under the vandal’s feet. A shrill burst of alarm fills the air.

He is oblivious to both. His focus is as unwavering as a rifleman’s.

A security guard approaches, rendered hesitant by the row of medals glinting on the man’s chest. Tomorrow’s headlines ain’t worth the minimum wage. There’s nothing valuable in the broken case, even the Victoria Cross in the next aisle is a replica.

The old man removes the instrument from its resting place, caresses the drumhead with a trembling hand. A contented sigh escapes his lips.

‘Played it did you, sir?’ the guard asks, edging forward. Up close, the man’s clothes betray pride and poverty. Crisp ironed shirt, the collar tips rubbed through and frayed. Ancient shoes polished to a high shine. Knotted tie and much-mended patches on his elbows. The guard’s own uniform, though new, looks shabby in comparison.

‘Not it,’ whispers the man, tears filling his rheumy eyes. ‘Her.’

‘Her. Of course,’ the guard nods. Poor guy, trapped in memories. A cruel fate for war veterans.

‘Celia. Most beautiful girl in three counties. Everybody said so.’ Speech costs him his breath. He gasps. And gasps, again. ‘She cried when I signed up for a drummer boy. Didn’t want to leave her either, mind. Couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else touching that milky soft skin.’ The old soldier bows and presses a lover’s kiss to the taut, freckled drumhead. ‘So I took her with me. Together, we kept the boys marching.’

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Amy Kitcher has camped in the Sahara, lived in a Parisian apartment haunted by a monk and survived being run over by a pensioner. When she’s not writing, she’s eating vegan cake. Find her on twitter twitter.com/@amykitcher.

Photo: James Toose

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