‘Expectations, expectations, ah, they burn in every breast,’ said Ferenac. ‘Well, there’s time enough.’
‘For what?’ asked James.
‘For a solution.’ Ferenac gestured again. ‘Take them upstairs, all of them.’
‘You are the silliest man,’ said Anne.
Ferenac, stung, shouted at her, ‘You’ll be sorry you said that, I’ll show you who will feel the silliest in the end! Go upstairs, all of you! Do you hear?’
To Anne’s horror a revolver appeared. It glinted in the dim tavern, its barrel snouting from the hand of Dobrovic. He gestured with it and the girls, with James, went through a tiny kitchen, full of heat from a wood-burning stove, and along a narrow passage to a staircase. They climbed to a tiny landing, the stairs creaking. Dobrovic, following on, pushed them into a cluttered bedroom which smelt of old wool and feathers. The angled ceiling was low and there was one small and not very clean window.
Dobrovic said, ‘Stay here and keep quiet.’ He locked the door on them and departed. They heard the stairs creak as he descended.
Sophie, looking around the room, said, ‘This is not the better kind of hotel.’
‘Then James must complain to the management,’ said Anne.
James knew they were both shaken, although they could not have been cooler. He went to the window. It overlooked the rear of the tavern. Chickens scratched around on the hard brown earth. A well stood in the centre of what might have been a garden but looked more like a large, scruffy yard. It was bounded by a high stone wall against which peach trees clung. Beyond the wall were rows of the ubiquitous Bosnian plum trees.
‘Damnation,’ he said. He turned and inspected the room. A brass bedstead took up half the space. On it was an old feather mattress and odds and ends of junk. A table supported a bowl and pitcher and more junk.
‘Those men, they’re mad, aren’t they?’ said Anne.
‘Fanatics,’ said James, thinking of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand.
‘What are we going to do?’ asked Sophie.
‘Frankly, I don’t know,’ said James. He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Damnation,’ he said again.
‘Now, James,’ said Anne. She was alarmed, she was not yet scared. She believed in the goodness of people.
James regarded the view from the window again. Beyond the stone wall on the right he glimpsed a corner of the church. He tried the window. The catch was rusty, the frame dry, the paint peeling. But the window opened. It was just large enough to let them out, except that there was a drop to the ground of about fifteen feet. A man came out from the back of the tavern and threw scraps from a bowl. It was Joja. The chickens rushed and scurried and pecked. Joja did not look up and James did not call. He felt Joja was well aware of him.
‘What did that man Ferenac mean by a solution?’ asked Anne.
‘An answer to a problem. I think we’re the problem.’ James closed the window as Joja disappeared. ‘I suspect they’re going to keep us here until the Archduke Franz Ferdinand has left Bosnia.’
‘What is the archduke to do with it?’ asked Sophie. ‘And what are we to do with them?’
‘I think they’re after the archduke,’ said James. He could have said he also thought they intended for the archduke to leave Bosnia in a coffin, but the girls were worried enough. ‘No, I’m not serious, of course.’
‘Yes, you are,’ said Sophie quietly, ‘you know something.’
‘I only know we’ve got to get out of here.’
The stairs creaked. Someone was coming up. Anne swallowed and Sophie steeled herself.
‘It’s Joja,’ said James.
‘Joja?’ said Anne.
‘The proprietor. Ferenac called him that. He’s weighty on those stairs.’
The creaking stopped. The landing sighed.
‘Quick, please.’ It was a whisper outside the door. James pressed his ear to the panel.
‘We’re listening,’ he said.
‘They have gone,’ whispered Joja, ‘they have seen your car and mean to take it away. But one is still here. I will put a ladder to your window. But when you leave take it, hide it, it must not be seen or it will mean trouble for me. The wall, there is an opening to the church. Go, run, but do not cross the river and go up into the hills, go along the valley by the side of the river.’
‘Good, Joja,’ said James, ‘we love you.’
‘It is bad, bad.’
The landing squeaked, the stairs groaned. James continued to listen. He heard no voices downstairs. The man left behind was probably sitting outside. Joja would not have come up otherwise. If the man on guard was the pallid one, the one with the gun, he would be dangerous.
They could only wait. They stood by the window. In a little while they heard a small sound. They were too tense to speak, but Sophie managed a little nervous smile as James gave her an encouraging one. Beneath the window outside something scraped the wall. He opened the frame. The top of a ladder appeared. He looked down and glimpsed Joja disappearing. There was no time to waste.
‘Sophie?’
‘You go first, that is best,’ said Sophie calmly.
‘Yes,’ said James. He put a leg over the sill. Both legs. He turned and found a rung with his right foot. Anne held the top of the ladder. He went down. The ladder was smooth and he slid most of the way in his haste. He planted his foot on the bottom rung and looked up.
‘You, Anne,’ said Sophie.
Anne went, agile and quick in her urgency. Sophie was out and on the ladder before Anne was halfway down. They left hats and parasols behind but took their handbags. James had left his sketchbook. The girls reached the ground in a froth of white underskirts. Quickly he hauled the ladder down. It was heavy. He took it to the wall and the chickens scattered as the girls followed him. He found the gap in the wall amid the peach trees, a triangular opening where the stone had crumbled away. He pushed the ladder through. He had to do that for Joja. He climbed, went through the gap, pulled the ladder after him and placed it in the long grass against the wall. He reached into the gap, helping the sisters up and through.
Someone shouted. The man Dobrovic was running from the back door of the tavern.
They hared away, the girls picking up their skirts and flying. Over hard ground and around bushes to the church. There was a wall there too and an old green door. It opened as James pushed. He bundled the girls through. Dobrovic came on in pounding chase. James went through the doorway and nipped behind the door itself. He watched through the crack as Dobrovic came running. Sophie and Anne turned. James gestured to them to go on. Dobrovic saw their whipping dresses and legs through the open door. He shouted again, his expression furious. He rushed at the opening and as he reached it James crashed the door against him. The impact of solid wood against face and body was traumatic. The door shuddered and Dobrovic dropped as if poleaxed, blood pouring from his nose. It gave James a feeling of giddy elation. That was a blow struck for fair virginity if you like! He turned to run, checked, stooped and thrust his hand into the bulging side pocket of Dobrovic’s jacket. He brought out the shining blue revolver, thrust it inside his shirt and went after the girls. He caught them up, they flew over the church path and out into the street. The village was as silent as a graveyard. And every door was shut tight.
Nobody wanted trouble. James sensed the danger of knocking on those closed doors for help. Joja had said to escape up the valley. They crossed the street and took a worn, stony path winding down to the river. Sophie and Anne slipped and scuffled in their white, leather-soled shoes. James put his arms around their waists and took them downwards in a headlong flight in which six feet hopped, skipped and jumped.
‘James!’ It was Anne in heady exultation.
‘I beg you, don’t hang back, girls,’ panted James.
Sophie said nothing, saving her breath for sustained effort. Only a slow-witted person would have failed to recognize the latent menace of those men, and she sensed that what James had recognized was a menace tha
t was frightening. He was intense in his urgency to get her and Anne out of harm’s way. But why? Why should those men want to harm them? James’s cryptic reference to Franz Ferdinand had puzzled her.
They were rushing downwards, the sloping, winding path bordered by bushes and long wispy grass taking them in headlong flight to where the river, littered with fallen rock, danced and sparkled. They reached the smooth stony bank.
‘Run!’ said James. He knew they could be seen from the village above. They had to reach a sheltered way. In the distance the bald bank of the river gave way to bush and tree. They needed the cover it would give them. They ran. He was sweating. Anne’s hair was tumbling loose, Sophie’s bobbing. They gasped for breath as he urged them on. Discarding modesty they picked up their skirts and ran more freely. Anne ran hard and fast, supple limbs flashing. Sophie ran with long strides. Good girls, thought James. God, he had to get them out of this. His was the responsibility, he the one who had wanted to come here. He wondered if he should pray, but since he couldn’t remember when he had last paid reverent devotions he decided that to call on divine help now might be construed as slightly impertinent.
Their chance of escaping close pursuit depended on how long it took Ferenac and the other two men to dispose of the car. It was the obvious thing for Ferenac to get it out of the way as quickly as possible. Its presence pointed positively to the fact that its occupants had been in Kontic, and the fact that Ferenac wanted to move it indicated intentions that were sinister.
There was quite a way to go along the hard, shelving bank of the river before they could reach the shelter of the straggling bush and pine. In places the ground was strewn with fallen boulders big and small, and their progress over these stretches was awkward and comparatively slow. The river sang cheerfully on their left, swirling around protruding stone and gurgling over submerged rocks. Farther to their left the hills rose barren, bleak and inhospitable, yet were tempting in the multitude of sheltering crevices they offered. But Joja had said not to go up into the hills.
They sped over a clear incline. The sun was hot, its heat brazenly trapped in the valley. Sophie’s dress and petticoat whipped around her slender calves. Anne, a little more uninhibited, had hers hitched to her knees. White silk stockings were brilliant in the sunlight. James, running protectively behind the girls, experienced a moment of detached admiration amid his worries. Anne and Sophie, undeniably, had shapely legs. He urged them on. He was certain of one thing now. Ferenac meant to assassinate the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, either in Ilidze or Sarajevo, and was not going to be foiled by having anyone inform on him. Hell, thought James, if the idiot would only go back to Vienna and play his violin he would save the situation for himself and everybody else. But no, he had to go on with it and to remove anyone who stood in his way.
And if he could murder the archduke, what were three lesser people?
‘I’m going to fall,’ panted Sophie.
‘No, you’re not,’ shouted James, ‘you’re not an old lady yet.’
Anne was sucking in great draughts of air. James came up with them, took Anne by the hand, patted Sophie on the back and ran with them. The pine trees drew them on. James saw they were sparser than they seemed at a distance and the girls would look like pale summer ghosts flitting through them. He glanced back. He saw no one in the bright valley. He glanced upwards. The village was well behind them now, away up on their far right. But they could still be seen from the place. There would be eyes watching them, for all those closed doors.
Sophie lost a pointed shoe. She stumbled and hopped on one foot. James retrieved the shoe and slipped it quickly back on to her slim stockinged foot.
‘Thank you, James.’ She was darkly flushed, her forehead damp, her hair spilling and her mouth open as she gulped in air.
‘We must go on,’ he said.
‘I know,’ she said and Anne, breathless, nodded. They picked up their skirts again and ran again. James followed. They reached bushes showing shiny leaf and plunged into the shelter of the foremost trees. The ground was softer, there was earth here which was saved from being washed by rain into the river by a ridge of stone that in the distance rose higher.
They ran between the trees until Anne gasped, ‘James, we must rest for just a moment.’ She stopped, sank to her knees and Sophie sank down beside her. James, affected by their physical distress, let them have their break. They were healthy girls but they were not international athletes. They were not trained for a long run.
After a short while he said, ‘We’ll walk for a spell now, we can’t run all the time, I know. So come on, my lovely ones, they haven’t spotted us yet.’
‘Lovely ones? Oh, James,’ said Sophie and laughed a little breathlessly. ‘Have you looked at me lately?’ Her loosened hair clung damply at her temples, her delicate make-up marked by perspiration. Anne was no better.
‘You’re both at your best,’ said James. He helped them to their feet.
‘You’re a great comfort, James,’ said Anne.
‘I don’t feel a comfort,’ he said, ‘I feel responsible. Come on.’
They went on, walking quickly through the sparse woodland, their feet crunching the dry needles, the air hot but finely scented. The hills rose high across the river, and on their right the slope covered with straggling bush ascended to the road.
‘If we could climb up somewhere,’ said Anne, ‘we could reach the road, couldn’t we?’
James shook his head.
‘We can’t show ourselves yet,’ he said, ‘we must keep to this valley for as long as possible. Ferenac and his men probably know every rock and blade of grass in this area, and they’ll realize we’ll need to get up to the road. Damn,’ he said as the filtering light changed a little way ahead to glaring brightness. They broke from the trees and found themselves on a stretch of hard, sloping bank. The ridge on their left had fallen away, they could see the river again, a swirling, running flow. But there were more pines two hundred yards away. All the same, thought James, they would be out in the open for that distance. ‘Damn,’ he said again.
‘Shall we run, James?’ asked Sophie.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and now, like the devil.’
They ran, the girls’ shoes clicking over the smooth shelf of stone, the afternoon sun burningly plucking at their heads. Slender legs gleamed. James kept behind the girls, constantly urging them on. Two hundred yards, that was all. But the sloping shelf and the feeling that there must be eyes on their backs made the distance seem so long. When they reached the trees Anne and Sophie were gasping again. James turned and looked back. He squinted through the bright light, over the wooded stretch they had left and taking in the rising line of their retreat beyond. He caught his breath. Well beyond the vegetation a humped ridge showed like a sharp, undulating black line. Movement was breaking the line. A tiny silhouette showed. Then another.
‘Oh, hellfire and brimstone,’ breathed James. He joined the waiting girls. ‘Good,’ he said cheerfully, ‘you look fine. We’ll need our second wind.’
‘I think I’m on my fifth,’ said Sophie.
‘Well, make good use of it,’ said James, ‘because we need to run again. Go on, pick your feet up.’
Sophie and Anne did their best but the trees were thicker and brush hampering. They skirted bushes and ducked under low branches. James took the lead, breaking or holding a way through for his companions. They ran where they could and where they could not they at least had a respite from lung torture. The heat closed in on them and twigs reached to pluck at frisking skirts. James knew they were going as fast as they could and did not ask for more. The river seemed to be farther from them, hidden by another rising bulwark, yet it came louder to their ears, rushing and tumbling. Its insistent noise pounded at the hammering heart of Anne. She saw James kicking and savaging his way through tangled undergrowth in front and she was sure he was making demands on his repertoire of international adjectives.
The pines increased in density. They were hidden
from any pursuers now. But that did not mean they were safe.
The skirt of Sophie’s dress tore.
‘Now that is tragic,’ she gasped.
‘I’ll buy you another, Sophie, I promise,’ said James, ‘so come on.’
They went on, they struggled on and at times they ran on. The pines began to thin. He hoped they were not going to lose their cover again. No, the wooded area stretched on. Even so, there was a weakness in the course they were taking. Ferenac and his men would know this was the only way they could go unless they emerged and climbed the dizzy slope to the road. And if they did emerge they would be seen. And they could not count on stopping a passing vehicle. Not in this area. Two carts a day along that road would be a good average. One motor car a month a high average. In any case, Ferenac would ensure that that avenue of escape was watched. The hills on the other side of the river were a temptation again, the huge boulders, the dips and ledges, and the crevices, affording hiding places.
Sunlight dappled the pines and the earthy ground as they hurried on, Sophie and Anne breathless but unwavering. James felt proud of them. To their left the stone ridge petered out and there was the river once more. It was bright and foam-flecked, running fast. The earth became harder, the growth poorer. James stopped objectively, the girls thankfully. Perspiration soaked them all. James wiped his forehead with his hand.
‘I should rather like to sit in a heap of snow,’ said Anne.
‘Oh, sweet winter,’ said Sophie.
James looked at the river. It curved at this point. It spanned a wide course, fifty yards or so. The opposite bank rose to merge with the foothills. There was a profusion of jammed boulders and the foothills themselves were split by dark, triangular fissures. But the river, how deep was it? The flowing waters sucked around the shallows, rushed and foamed around central islands of boulders.
‘What do you think, shall we cross?’ he said.
‘In a boat?’ said Sophie, dabbing at her face with a tiny handkerchief.
‘James, are you sure they’re behind us?’ asked Anne.
The Longest Winter Page 10
