She was told to be proud of her Irish heritage. Of the red hair, green eyes and freckles, Carmen never thought she would come to hate them.

Though Carmen never believed they would be why she could survive within Denbighshire.

Carmen's body kept her afloat in a town full of factories and the central hub for the production of the war efforts since its outbreak. She could pay rent on the one-bed flat she had lived in since her temporary home became a hell she could no longer endure.

Cupping the cold water within the basin, Carmen splashed it across her face. No longer wanting to gaze upon the sullen face staring back from the cracked mirror.

The ugly green tiles of the bathroom floor were cold underfoot; Carmen grabbed a tattered towel and dried her face. Scrubbed the skin until it was nearly sore to remove the cold slickness of a memory still stuck to her skin.

The American soldiers were the highest payers but the worst clients. Rough and almost brutal in their handling of Carmen's delicate body. They left bruises that ached for days, and still, it was what they left that could not be seen that left Carmen feeling dirty and cheap.

Tossing aside the towel, Carmen left the bathroom and went into the narrow hallway. There was a small living room, kitchen and bedroom within the flat but no personality, no warmth.

Kitted out with second-hand furniture and things found on the street, Carmen didn't want to waste her money on anything. Not when she was saving up to move back to London.

If not for the cost of living, even at a bare minimum, Carmen would have fled Denbighshire over a year ago. Not wanting to be left destitute again, Carmen was patient and saved every half penny and crown she made.

Hiding it all in an old soap tin under the loose floorboard in the living room, further secured by the single rickety table that sat atop it.

Padding into the bedroom, Carmen avoided looking at the man still asleep in her bed. He was not supposed to stay, but by the bruise on Carmen's neck, she chose to value her life over her privacy after she asked him to leave.

Grabbing a navy skirt, brown belt, white blouse, and brown heels, Carmen dressed quickly and quietly. Covering the bruises on her neck with a black scarf tied into a bow.

Stockings were almost impossible to buy, so Carmen wore them sparingly. Today, she decided they would not be needed. The weather was warm, and the trick of staining her legs with cold tea and using kohl to draw in the seam was sufficient for most days.

Tucking in the slip to her skirt, Carmen paused when the man stirred.

Heart thrumming at the possibility he would wake before Carmen could leave, she watched as his profile settled and was still. Turning onto his back, the sharp point of his nose buried in her pillow, Carmen swiftly threw on her blouse and crept from the room to the front door, snatching her handbag.

Sure, that he would need to be back upon base by the time Carmen returned, she closed the door quietly and fled down the staircase with a gentle run.

The old building smelt damp, and the stairs creaked alarmingly even under Carmen.

It was downtrodden. Wallpaper peeling and the occasional scurry of rats were heard but not seen; it was quite the eyesore except for the stained-glass windows on the double doors that hid the decaying inside.

Escaping into the narrow winding street of cobbled stone, Carmen swung her bag on a shoulder and searched for an open shop with a quick tousle of her hair.

It was early morning, and the women working the streets were trudging back home. Some with paper bags of fresh bread, others clutched bottles of gin.

The war forced many women out of their homes and into the factories. For some, like Carmen, it forced them to the streets.

They avoided eye contact. Their shame was too heavy to lift their eyes from the pavement. Eyes smudged with mascara either through tears or long hours, Carmen saw herself in every woman she passed.

The only difference was that Carmen had no children at home to feed.

No woman willingly chose the streets, but in the absence of their men, there were few other choices when the payment from the factories a week could be made in a night when the soldiers were home and on leave.

Finding the local newsagents on the corner open, Carmen paused to read the latest headline on an advertisement board.

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Allied forces were defeated. Germany invaded another country.

It was always the same.

Pushing open the shop door and setting off the small bell above, Carmen noticed how the shopkeep stared at her like she wasn't a human but a vermin.

The irony was that those who looked down upon Carmen often were once clients.

"A pack of cigarettes and two current buns, please," Carmen spoke to the man like she was a regular customer, a flattering smile offered even when behind his thick salt and pepper moustache was a sneer.

Carmen refused to let their looks get to her; they were no better.

"That will be two sixpences." His voice was gruff and demanding, exactly how his manner was within the bedroom.

Hand diving into her bag, Carmen placed the two coins in his open, grabbing palm whilst slipping the paper bag with the current buns off the counter. The cigarettes clutched in hand, and Carmen smiled again before turning around.

The shop was small—one set of two-sided shelves in the middle and a wall filled with empty slots.

With rationing only genuinely affecting Wales a few months back, its presence was beginning to be felt. Many shop shelves were empty, and some even closed due to the lack of sales to be made.

Regardless, Churchill told them all to keep calm and carry on. That all would be well again soon.

Leaving the shop, breaking off a little of one current bun, Carmen popped it in her mouth, chewing slowly as she crossed the road and headed for the bus stop in the square.

The war was ongoing and showing no end in sight, no matter how hard the papers pressed the agenda that it would be over soon.

Carmen experienced the cost of war three years ago when all she ever knew was destroyed in a single night. Ever since, Carmen's life was only ever temporary.

Nothing was certain except Carmen's dream to leave Wales and return home.

London was the only certainty in Carmen's life and her determination to reach it.

Without further thought, Carmen left the paper bag with the other current bun beside the crumpled heap of blankets within the bus shelter. A bird's nest of matted grey hair poking out the top, and the blankets lifted as a shaky, gnarled hand snatched the bag.

Mad Polly was what the locals of Denbighshire called her. A drunkard abandoned by everyone, no one ever stopped to offer even a smile for Polly. She has never offered a crumb for her starving lips. She slept at the bus stop, and if she was not there, she was found by the river watching the ducks. And she was screaming at them.

Still, Carmen made an effort to show Polly some kindness. Something to let her know she mattered and someone was thinking about her.

With that same thought, Carmen took the rocky slip road between the bus stop and old blacksmiths, the cigarettes in hand for herself and the man behind the chain-link fence. He didn't ask for them, but Carmen noticed how he lit and put out a single roll-up when they were speaking. They spent only an hour with so few words shared, and he lit up four times and put it out three.

So, she hoped offering something would make him more relaxed and willing to engage with Carmen's questions.

Carmen refused to give her name, so he denied it. At first offended, Carmen supposed it was a fair exchange. A name for a name was not much, yet all the same.

It was personal. Too personal for a stranger to know, let alone an enemy soldier who was at the root of Carmen's current woes.

A part of Carmen held him responsible, while the other reminded her he was just a cog in a giant machine following orders.

Unlike the first two occasions, the walk to the area fenced off to keep the prisoners within its confines was more pleasant—this time, she was not running or rushing. Upset or angry, Carmen wasn't fuelled by any emotion beyond curiosity.

No promises were made to meet again, and purely hope drove Carmen onward that he would be there again like he had been the morning before.

Carmen paused, breath trapped in her throat, coming through the point where the trees thinned again.

Leaning on the fence with one arm and staring almost like a wild animal spotting its prey, Carmen met the eyes that were somehow clearer than water but were neither grey nor blue, but something between.

The fence chinked as he took his weight from it. Swaying and rippling, he placed his hands in the pockets of his trousers. The black boots that stopped below the knees polished; he looked more put together. He tried to appear better presented than the first two times they met.

Hesitation giving way to curiosity, Carmen stepped in time with throwing the cigarette packet. The fence was at least ten feet, and she needed to be sure her throw would clear it, so she put effort into it.

The packet glided over, and he followed its flight; hands held open, they landed with a slight bounce in his palms.

Instead of staring at the packet, he didn't look at Carmen. Caught between surprise and uncertainty, he eventually closed his fingers around the package when Carmen spoke.

"Carmen." She offered her name with a faint smile, settling on the grass and adjusting the bow around her neck. It felt tight as her breathing became short. The sense of curiosity gave way again to doubt as he crouched behind the fence, staring at Carmen through the gaps.

A tiny smile lifted one side of his mouth "Falk." He responded with a soft nod and shake of the cigarettes. "Danke." Spoken sincerely as he took one out and lit it, eyes closing as he savoured the taste.

Smiling back, almost involuntarily, Carmen was thankful that Falk missed it due to his eyes closing. Shaking off the odd sense of ease that came over her when he spoke, Carmen stroked back her hair, tucking it behind an ear as she readied herself to ask the first of many awkward questions.

Ascertaining that Falk understood English and could speak it reasonably well on their second meeting, Carmen took a deep breath and asked: "Do you enjoy being a soldier?"

Falk's eyes snapped open, holding Carmen with such velocity that she almost got on her feet and ran.

Looking away after a second, Falk's jaw clenched, and his teeth grit audibly as he pinched the end of the cigarette tight enough that it was almost flattened.

"Do you like living in veer?" Falk responded; his lips pinched. His accent was heavier.

Carmen knew that he meant to say fear, but the meaning behind the question and the odd force he asked left her unable to do more than shake her head.

No one enjoyed living in fear. Not one.

When Falk didn't say a word further, Carmen understood that she had answered for both of them. But also that Falk had said a little more.

He did not want to be a soldier—an instrument of death under someone else's orders.