by T. M. Parris
Fairchild looked at him blandly.
The captain raised his hands in helplessness. “I mean, look at it from their point of view. We only have your word for it, that you’re this super-spy with all of this top-secret intelligence. They could be thinking, maybe he only said all of that to avoid getting shot. Maybe it’s all a big story. He’s just stringing us along, and here we are having to keep guard and share our rations, and in fact he’s just a worthless traitor playing us all along.”
Fairchild maintained his gaze.
“Or maybe,” said the captain, “they’re thinking it’s even worse, that this renegade is spying on us! Getting all friendly with the more gullible of our soldiers and pumping them for information, so you can feed it back to the Americans, or whoever it is he works for. Why are you putting up with that? That’s maybe what they’re thinking, the big chiefs. Those idiot troops pandering to a guy who has no evidence, none, that’s he’s anything special, and just sits there staring all day!”
The raised voice had no effect. The captain clicked his teeth and got out his gun. He played with it thoughtfully, checking the cartridge, rubbing his finger along the barrel.
“You know, last time,” he said, “I was going to shoot you in the head. But there are worse places. Yes!” He held the gun up, examining the trigger. “There are worse places.”
His eyes widened as the gun skittered across the floor. Fairchild’s boot knocked the captain’s chin back, and the back of his head hit the wall. Fairchild shoved him down onto his front, bent both his arms up behind his back and pushed the man’s head into the foul-smelling dirt. He didn’t give the guy a chance to cry out. Maybe he was trying to say something but his mouth was full of grit and muck. Fairchild felt an overwhelming impulse to make him convulse with pain, snap off his fingers one by one. He was white-hot, thinking of lying on the tarmac, his eyes closing as the captain’s finger squeezed on the trigger, thinking no, no, not now, not this time, not now there’s somewhere I need to be, something I have to put right.
The captain wheezed, trying to draw breath as Fairchild’s knee jammed down on his back. But there was no time for all this. Fairchild reached forward, grabbed the gun and shot the captain in the back of the head.
He got up and opened the door of the inner room. Everyone outside would have heard the shot. He passed into the doorway of the next room, hovering out of sight of the windows. The door of the building flew open and a soldier made straight for the inner room. Fairchild shot him in the side of the head as he went past. Right behind him was Yuri. Yuri, it had to be Yuri. Their eyes met for a moment. Yuri lifted his gun, but he was slow, the big lout. Fairchild shot him in the shoulder. He fell, groaning and squirming. No one else followed. The other three would have had second thoughts and retreated, finding cover and waiting for him to come out.
Fairchild raided the pockets of the dead men, taking money, ID, cigarettes, another weapon. He crossed the front room past the window, getting a fleeting glimpse as he went by, a reminder of the layout. There were only a certain number of places someone could go. He braced himself, and ran.
The shots didn’t start until it was too late. Three or four seconds and he was in the barn opposite. By then he had a good idea of where two of them were, and an impression of their marksmanship skills. The third, as it turned out, was in the barn. He heard the guy move, heavily, and was ready to fire by the time he stepped out. He shot him three times in the chest. The other two, on the other side of the street, had boxed themselves in a shed with only one door. He ran straight for it, firing without stopping. One of them was already down by the time he got there. The other cowered in a corner, breathing fast. Fairchild finished them both.
The store room. He needed food, water, weaponry. A uniform would help. He found all of this in the most sturdily-built house in the village where the truck was parked. Fairchild considered the truck but dismissed it. He could get further undetected on foot, if he took more care this time. Some charts of the area confirmed what he knew already of his current position. He had a way to go. Back in the trees he could make some progress before nightfall. He stepped out of the store.
“Ivan.” Yuri’s voice trembled but the gun in his hand was steady. One arm hung, the shoulder bloody. “I can’t let you go, Ivan.”
He fired, but Fairchild had already moved, darting in front of the truck. He got out his gun and called out.
“You’re going to shoot me, Yuri? After you fed me all week?”
“You should have taken my gun, Ivan.” He was in pain, weakening.
“I should have killed you. But I didn’t. Because this is all nonsense. This whole thing, right? What are we even doing here? I’m not a spy, Yuri. I don’t care about this war. But I need to go now. I need to look after my own.”
He waited, tensed, then rose up on the other side of the van, closer to Yuri, gun in hand but pointed upwards.
“Just let me go, Yuri,” he said softly.
Yuri swung and fired. Fairchild moved. The bullet whizzed past his ear.
“I can’t do that, Ivan!” Yuri was almost crying. “I’m a soldier! We do as we’re told! I tell you, I —”
Fairchild stood and shot him in the head. He walked up to the fallen body, emptied the bullets out of the dead man’s gun and pocketed them.
He glanced at Yuri’s open eyes, and walked off towards the trees.
47
Rose ran from doorway to doorway. It was starting to get dark but plenty of light remained for the distant snipers. Her darting movements generated no ack-ack of gunfire, but it could happen any time. She followed the road as it wound down to riverbank level. She needed to be quick. This was the first of three or four places Ilya could be, these lookout points as he called them. A long concrete block rose up as the road bottomed out, amorphous apartments facing the river. The roof was ripped off, walls missing, floors and staircases exposed. Around bent metal window frames the front of the building sat at an angle. A giant lump of concrete dangled from metal pins. This was the front line, immediately facing the Russian barrage. That Ilya was hanging out in a place like this was horrifying. He’d barely been at the flat since the solider came with his news.
Rose walked along its length. The basement windows below the level of the road were barred, all except one. She crouched next to it.
“Ilya?” Her voice echoed. She heard shuffling, shapes moving. She sat, swung her legs round and let herself in feet first. The gap was only just big enough for her. She lowered herself to the floor of the room.
Eyes were looking at her from all directions. It was a long, low room with little natural light. As well as Ilya, four or five other children were sitting or lying around. Next to the walls were old cushions, mats, sleeping bags and blankets. On the floor were magazines, bottles of water and sweet wrappers.
“Who are these kids, Ilya? This isn’t a safe place for you to be. This building’s dangerous.”
Ilya was standing in the middle of the room. “Everywhere is dangerous.”
“You’re right on the front line! They’ll be watching from over there day and night. They’ll shoot anything that moves.”
“They can’t shoot us in here.” Ilya pointed to the river-facing wall. No windows, just high narrow slits for ventilation. This basement must have been a storage area only, not living space. “They can’t shoot through those. They’re not that – crack-shot.” Ilya’s English was heavily influenced by comics and TV action drama. He had a comic book in his hand. He was right, though; the children wouldn’t even be visible. Hell of a view from those slits. Rose could see how observations from here might be valuable up at the fort.
Some of the children turned back to each other, talking, reading, whatever they were doing before.
“They’re sleeping here?” she asked Ilya.
Ilya pointed. “Those two, their dad was killed by a bomb and their mother was shot in the street. The three there were in a cellar, with strangers, but they ran away. It was…” –
his face went dark – “not very nice. It’s better here. Safer.”
Rose was about to ask what everyone was eating when she caught sight of a bag of sweets that she herself had lifted the night before. She’d been wondering where it had gone. Ilya was looking out for these people.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“Looking for you. Seeing where you’re spending so much time.”
“What does it matter to you?” He was hostile, hurting. And he was right. Rose had no calls on this young man. At least, not until this morning. Now, maybe, she did.
“It’s time to come back, Ilya.” He scowled, sat on the cushions and picked up a comic.
Rose sat on the floor next to him. The children kept glancing at her. They ranged in age from as young as Katya to older than Ilya. Ilya’s eyes were on the page in front of him, but he wasn’t reading.
This was a lot to throw at a twelve-year-old, but what choice did she have? “Your mother went for water this morning. She hasn’t come back.”
Now Ilya looked at her. Rose had tried to persuade Marta not to go out. She was distracted, unfocused. But she’d insisted. She just seemed to want to walk, some space to herself maybe.
Ilya’s eyes were wide. He was working it through in his head. “Where’s Katya?”
“I left her on her own in the flat to come and find you. She needs you, Ilya.”
Ilya blinked and swallowed. He was too young, too young to grow up like this. He put the comic book on the floor and got to his feet.
“So let’s go,” he said.
She let him lead them back; he knew the best route by now. She didn’t tell Ilya that she’d left Katya alone once already that day. She’d gone out earlier to retrace Marta’s steps, and found no sign of her except their water bucket, punctured and twisted, lying by the side of the road. Where were they taking the bodies?
Nearing the flat, to avoid a sniper spot they cut through a narrow alley made up of steps, high walls on either side. It was almost dark now. Footsteps and an animal roar made them jump. A man lunged at them, in his hand a shard of glass, half a jagged bottle. He’d come up behind them, cutting them off. His clothes were grimy, like everyone’s; it was the wildness in his eyes and quickness of his movements that sent Rose’s heart to her throat.
He swept the shard in front of them. They were backed up against a wall. He smelled of alcohol and the stale air of the cellars. He uttered something.
“What’s he saying?” Rose asked.
Ilya’s voice was steady. “He says, give me what you’ve got.”
“We don’t have anything.”
Ilya answered the man. He growled back.
“Does he want money?” Rose asked.
“Food, clothes, fuel. Anything.”
The man stared at them both. He grunted and brought the sharp edge right under Rose’s chin. He seized her wrist, a strong grip, a grip of desperation. She knocked the shard aside and twisted his hand to grab his arm and twist. He cried out. She kneed him in the stomach. He yelped, clutching himself, and staggered. The bottle dropped with a crack. She pushed him to the ground and kicked. He rolled down the steps, coming to a halt face down, unmoving.
Rose bent over him. Something wasn’t right. She pulled his shoulder back and turned him over. His coat fell open. His shirt was a mess of dried brown blood and yellow pus. It smelled rotten.
“Shit.” She could see fresh blood soaking into the shirt. Ilya stepped up beside her, his twelve-year-old eyes watching this.
“What should we do?” he asked.
“He needs treatment. If it isn’t too late. But how do we get him there?”
The man was stirring. He started mumbling. His eyelids flickered. He gave a low moan. His eyes opened wide and he looked straight at Rose.
“Waaargh!” An aggressive growl. They backed off. He was struggling to his feet now. He bent and picked up the broken bottle, grabbing the sharp edges in his palm. Blood oozed from his hand.
“Waaargh!” His eyes were huge, unfocused. He charged towards them holding the bloodied shard out like a rapier. They turned and ran.
They pelted up the steps and along the street at the top, and stopped at the next doorway. They looked back. No sign. He hadn’t even made it to the top of the steps.
“Not a well man.” Rose’s statement was obvious; less obvious was whether his problem was mental or physical. Either way, they couldn’t help. They carried on in the usual stop-start way. Ilya looked at her from time to time, with something like curiosity or even respect.
“Where did you learn that?” he asked.
“Self-defence classes.”
“Really?” He didn’t sound convinced.
“It’s nothing to be proud of. The guy’s as desperate as everyone else.”
“Can you show me that?”
She hesitated. The way things were going, it wasn’t a bad idea. On her nightly scavenges she’d had to fight once or twice to keep her findings. Too many people, not enough food. Too many close encounters with death, too much of this callous everyday suffering that could turn anyone’s mind inside out.
“Do any other adults know about that place?” she asked.
“Only the soldiers.”
They seemed vulnerable in that wreck of a room, blocking it all out with comics and sweets and each other’s company. She thought about it, silently following Ilya darting through the streets.
Katya was asleep by the stove when they got back. Ilya squeezed quietly next to her, snuggling down, appeasing her somehow as she half-woke, persuading her back to sleep again. The morning would bring terrible scenes. Rose sat sleepless on her cushions and waited for Marta to return, while knowing already that she wouldn’t.
48
Nothing much was happening. Night-time fireworks, as usual. Stubborn, these Georgians. Same old story for weeks now. So it was no surprise that the two Russian conscripts on night watch lying on the sloping riverbank were taken by surprise by the man’s appearance. He just seemed to materialise, him and his gun and his neat efficient move which managed to disarm the two of them. The confusing thing was, how did he get this far? Over the road and through the blockade and through the whole encampment?
GRU, the man said. Special Ops. That would explain it, then! Those guys could do anything. It looked like a standard issue uniform, though. What do you expect, he said. We have to blend in, don’t we? And how did he know about the boat? What boat, one of them asked, getting a slap for it. Well, on an army salary can you really blame people for doing a bit of business? Everyone was at it, anyway. Take me to it, he said, and I won’t report it to my superiors. It seemed fair enough. It would help the war, he said, this secret mission he was on. So this achingly boring siege would be over sooner. Just don’t tell anyone. It’s top secret. He even gave them cigarettes.
Shortly afterwards, in a lull in the barrage, Fairchild drifted downriver on the tiny craft, lying down, an occasional sweep of his hand nudging himself shorewards. He’d seen which stretches of the bank were undefended by Georgians. They’d largely fallen back to the fort, but were ready to come out again to repel an offensive. Still stalemate, for a while anyway. So he slipped between them, these warring forces, unseen by anyone who was going to say anything.
In shallows he stepped out, his feet sinking into mud. He pulled the boat up into swamp and reeds and sank it out of sight. A flash above and an echoing report accompanied his arrival. Fairchild slipped along the beach and up into the streets of the citadel.
In no way could he have prepared himself for what would happen there.
49
Boris was in the bathroom, levering tiles off the wall with a penknife. Hundreds of tiny tiles, maybe a thousand. One by one he dug underneath and pulled them away. He tried to stop thinking about food, or vodka, or Tatiana. It kept him moving, helped with the cold. Oh, it was so cold now! Even wrapped up with blankets in the tiny room, his fingers and toes were like ice.
He didn’t want them seeing him
. What are you doing here? they’d ask. You shouldn’t be here. You should be dead. You should be on the other side. You should be in Russia. And he knew that, he knew. But somehow he was still there. He thought he was dead when it happened, the roaring that came bursting through, light and wind and smoke and dust! He was asleep in the bed, then he was on the floor. When he rolled over he saw, but couldn’t believe. The street outside, the building opposite, they were right there! The whole room, opened up for people to see him. He didn’t want that. So he moved into the bathroom. He was invisible there.
He only came out to eat. To sit and eat every evening with Tatiana. We must be careful, he said, as he served up some tiny portion. We’re running so low, so low. I’m sorry, my love. Could you not bring something back for us? Maybe one or two places have something to sell? Just a few juicy red tomatoes, a couple of pale cucumbers? I would make us such a refreshing salad, so cold and crisp. Or how about cheese, one of those rounds of strong salty pale cheese that we used to have? What a feast it would be!
But then he remembered that her chair was empty. He sighed and cleared up the plates which served nothing but the minutest tin of meat, one less from the dwindling supply. Then he went back to the bathroom and shivered and yearned for her warm body.
You should go out, Tatiana seemed to be saying. Call yourself a soldier? Call yourself a man? Just go, down the stairs, into the street. No one will turn their heads even. But the thought of it made him sweat, and churned up his stomach and took his breath from out of his lungs. They were okay inside. They could live. They had what they needed, for now.
No vodka either. His hands started to shake by the middle of the morning. He could feel the cold rim of the bottle at his mouth, smell the fumes, taste the liquor. He clutched at himself and doubled over, eyes clenched shut, and stayed like that, sometimes for hours maybe.
Tatiana made him cry. Everything made him cry. He had never loved anyone except Tatiana. When he first caught sight of her in the schoolyard with her hair tied into a long plait and her broad smile, he wanted to stare at her all day. He watched her as they grew up, and as she turned into a beautiful woman he knew that he wanted to marry her and be with her forever. He felt a sob of happiness rise up inside him and his neck and face started to glow. He always let his emotions show. His stupid pale face that flushed at the smallest thing, how they teased him in the battalion! But now it didn’t matter. He could sit here and cry all day if he wanted, until they arrived. But Tatiana wouldn’t like that.
