by T. M. Parris
53
“Fairchild! What are you doing?”
Rose was right in front of him. Looking at him with disbelief on her face. Fairchild lowered his gun. The Russian soldier on the floor was sobbing like a child.
Fairchild already knew she was there; he’d been in the town several days, working from street to street asking about a British woman, or when that didn’t ring any bells, any foreign woman at all. One rumour had pointed him here and he’d lurked, catching sight of her in the street. She looked gaunt, pre-occupied, but she was alive, thank God. If she’d been dead already, if he’d got here too late, it would have crushed him. Now she was standing here eyeing the gun in his hand. The Russian had wet himself; he could smell it. The soldier was curled up, shivering.
“Did you know he was Russian?” he asked Rose. “What’s he doing here? What’s he doing right here, under your nose?” He could hear something like hysteria in his voice.
“You think he’s a threat? Look at the guy. He’s terrified. I’ve not seen him before. He’s been barricaded in that flat the whole time. It’s him I’ve heard crying in the night.”
She was right, of course. She bent and put her hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Your name is Boris?” He jumped and looked at her. “Boris, it’s okay. This man isn’t going to hurt you. Please, go back inside.”
She helped him to his feet. Fairchild stood aside feeling like a spare part. He stowed his gun while Rose guided the Russian to the door of his flat. Behind the closed door came the sound of furniture being piled up against the door, and the occasional sob. They looked at each other.
“He’s broken,” said Rose. “Like everyone else here.”
“You seem okay.”
“Do I?” There was something in the way she said that. “Well. Maybe I just haven’t reached breaking point yet. It’s only a matter of time.”
She didn’t ask about him.
“So it’s time to get out?” he said.
“That’s what you’re here for, is it?” She frowned. “How did you get in?”
Fairchild was going to answer but stopped. A girl had appeared at the doorway, six or seven years old, messy blond hair, wide blue eyes. She looked up at him shyly.
“It’s a long story,” said Rose.
Fairchild crouched. “Hello,” he said in English. The girl stared.
“She only speaks Georgian.”
“Do you speak Georgian?” Fairchild asked Rose.
“No.”
“Then how do you…?”
Rose rolled her eyes.
“What’s your name?” Fairchild asked the girl in Georgian. She didn’t answer but looked straight at him, curious.
“Her name’s Katya,” said Rose. “I don’t have your flair for languages but I’ve picked up a little. Come inside.”
The flat had avoided the worst of the shell damage. At least it was secure. Boris Egorov’s barricading of the front door was irrelevant given how easy it was to climb up the remains of the frontage straight into his bedroom.
“I think I can manage tea,” said Rose, busying herself with water bottles and a stove. He could see supplies of food.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“No.”
It was a lie; he hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours. She looked at him and passed him a packet of plain biscuits.
“We’ve got enough. Don’t expect a feast. But I’m sure you weren’t, coming into a town that’s been cut off for almost three weeks. Did it take you that long to find a way in? Or did it take Peter that long to have the idea of sending you?”
Fairchild put a biscuit in his mouth. It was the easiest way of not answering. Convenient that Rose was assuming Peter had sent him; it saved him having to invent another reason. Or tell her the truth.
Katya sat on the sofa and watched him eat.
“Is this your home?” he asked. She shook her head sadly. When Rose appeared with tea, she sat on the sofa and Katya curled up against her.
“You’ve made a friend there,” said Fairchild.
“Not really. I’m all that’s left.” Rose stroked Katya’s hair as she told Fairchild the story of the girl’s family and everything else that had happened. Her voice was low and strained.
“This Grom character lured me here. It was a trap. And I fell for it, like an idiot.”
“It was Grom,” said Fairchild, “who had my parents killed.”
She stared at him. “You found the monk? The Russian?”
“Dimitri told me everything. But now he’s dead.”
“Dead? How?”
“He was murdered. Brutally. With the aid of the FSB. They had a go at me on the train on the way back to Moscow, too.”
Rose fell silent, pouring tea. “Grom and Khovansky. Are they the same person?”
“I believe they are. How did you get that name, by the way? Khovansky?”
“It was written on a piece of paper. Which I found at the Morozov house.” Her face was a picture of innocence.
“A piece of paper in the pocket of my jacket, maybe?”
She shrugged. “You were in no state to argue.”
“I was paralytically drunk. That piece of paper is the reason you’re here.”
“I’m the reason I’m here. I stole the name from you and passed it to Peter. He got all excited about the idea of such a big name wanting to turn. That’s why he authorised it so quickly. The man played both of us. Whoever he is, I hope I live to thank him for the experience. Sounds like you have some issues with him too.”
“You could say that.” Fairchild could have said a lot more given what Walter had told him in Moscow. But here in the middle of a siege, a story of old scores from long ago seemed unimportant.
“This place seems doomed to me,” Rose said. “Every day more shelling, more shooting. Less ammunition, less food, more injured, more dead.”
That was Fairchild’s reading also. “The Georgians have done well to last this long. Their artillery has held off a ground attack and their anti-aircraft capability has deterred Russia from coming in by air. But they’re cut off here.”
“Do people outside know what’s going on here? The shelling is completely indiscriminate. They’re not even trying to avoid civilians.”
“I’ve been a little out of touch. I ran into some difficulties getting here.”
“How did you get into the citadel, anyway? There can’t be many options. Two heavily guarded bridges and Russian troops sitting on every inch of riverside all the way round.”
“There’s always a way in. Boris got in, didn’t he?”
“I suppose so. You still think he’s some kind of Russian GRU type, sent here for me?”
She made it sound like a stupid idea. Over the last few days he’d perhaps become a little over-vigilant.
“I guess not. But he must have got in, somehow.”
“By accident, I expect. Maybe he was part of the first offensive that was pushed back. Or else he was trying to desert.”
“You think he crossed enemy lines to get away from his own side?” asked Fairchild.
“You must have heard the dire stories from conscripts in the Russian army, the hazing that goes on. Hard to know if he’s sitting here hoping the Russians will gain entry, or dreading it.”
“Well,” said Fairchild, “getting out will be more difficult than getting in. How’s your swimming?”
“My swimming’s fine,” said Rose, “but if we’re going to get out, it needs to be all of us.”
Fairchild looked at the sleeping girl whose head rested on Rose’s lap. Ideas spun through his mind.
“That might be do-able,” he said.
“No,” said Rose. “I mean, all of us.”
54
The lookout point was busier. Eight of them were there now. Word was spreading. Judging from the sleeping bags and blankets, it was becoming more of a place to sleep and shelter than just a hangout. On the way, Katya started talking to Fairchild, quietly. Rose listen
ed to her little voice, which gradually became more confident. Every now and then Fairchild would tell Rose what the girl was saying. It was nothing profound – observations about the streets they were passing through – but something tightened inside Rose when she saw how Katya was drawing towards Fairchild. Already, the girl had found another person to cling to.
Fairchild struggled to bend himself enough to get into the basement room, and seemed too tall inside it. The kids were fascinated that he spoke their language although most of them knew a fair amount of English. Fairchild’s main interest, though, was out of the window; he peered out across the river for quite some time. Outside, he went down to the riverside and disappeared. When he got back he was covered in dirt.
Rose had some special skills training but was happy to leave the planning of an escape like this to Fairchild; she’d read his file. He kept his thoughts to himself until they were back at the flat.
“The boat I used to cross is still there. It’s not big enough for all of us, though. And we can’t go over in the open, like I did to get in. It won’t work in reverse. Certainly not with these numbers.”
“Well, we need another plan, then.”
“The best I can think of is a raft. Launch it on the bank underneath the bridge. Tow it after the boat. Stay right under the bridge all the way out. There’s enough wood and plastic lying around to knock something together.”
“What would happen on the other side? Even at night it’s busy over there. Possibly even more than during the day.”
“Some places further along the bank are less well guarded. We’d have to walk along the beach on the other side and come up in the right place.”
“And then? The whole area’s being held by the Russians.”
“Steal a truck. Load everyone in and hope we don’t get stopped. From the viewpoint you can see where their vehicles are over that stretch, so we’d know what we were aiming for.”
Rose shook her head. “That sounds like an incredibly risky plan, Fairchild. A huge amount could go wrong.”
“I agree. It would also take a few days to organise. I can’t think of anything else right now, though. Is it better than sitting it out? That’s the question.”
As if on cue, a whistling noise stopped abruptly overhead, followed by a heavy thud not far off.
“The bombardment’s getting worse,” said Rose. “They’re preparing to come in, aren’t they?”
“Maybe.”
They fell into silence. Katya appeared around the side of Fairchild with a book in her hand. She was asking him to read to her. Marta used to do this. The books lying around in the flat were too grown-up for Katya to read, but okay if someone read them to her. Fairchild looked up at Rose.
“Go ahead,” she said. “I need to go out and find food now it’s dark. I don’t like leaving her on her own.”
She stepped out of the flat, glad to be gone. Why did she feel like such a spare part? Ridiculous, to be so put out by the wavering attentions of a traumatised six-year-old. Of course Katya connected more with someone who spoke her language. Was that the whole of it, though? Or was Katya instinctively picking up on something about Rose? Was she cold? Unmaternal? She’d never worried about this before; her career had always been enough. So what was bothering her now?
She was pocketing her keys when a click behind her made her jump. Boris appeared at his front door. No scraping of furniture: he must have been waiting there. His face was calm, but red and blotchy.
“Hello Boris. Are you okay?” If Rose couldn’t be motherly, she could be neighbourly.
“I am okay. I am okay.”
“I’m sorry about my friend. He thought you were some kind of spy.”
“That’s all right. No problem. I want to ask you something.”
“Of course.”
“I have a letter. To my girl. Back home in Russia. Well, she’s not really my girl, but I always hoped, you know. That I could do something to make her notice me. I have written to her, about everything that’s happened. Will you take it? Will you make sure she gets it?”
He held out a thin white sealed envelope with a handwritten address on it.
“Of course I can take it,” said Rose. “But why are you giving it to me?”
Boris gave a tremulous smile. “Well, your friend, he will get you out of here, won’t he? That’s why he’s here?”
“What makes you say that?”
“He came into the town, through the enemy lines. He must have a reason. He knows how to get in and out of places. Like my flat. I think you are leaving. I hope you are leaving, and you take my letter with it, so Tatiana will receive it. Will you take it?”
Rose took the letter. “Yes, I’ll take it. I’ll do my very best. What are you going to do?”
“I will wait here. I believe my countrymen are coming. You think so too? The nights, they’re terrible.” His voice cracked. “They will come in, and I will explain what happened. It was an accident, me being here. I thought I was going to die in the river. I often wish I did. But – I am alive. There must be some purpose to it. So I will wait here, and see what happens.”
Rose nodded and wished him luck. He flushed suddenly, and went back inside. She listened for the sound of furniture being rammed behind it, but heard none.
The shelling was incessant, raw flashes and shattering explosions everywhere, a great overhead battle. Every place she went she found burning, fresh destruction, people running, people crying. Something really had changed. She came back empty-handed, thinking that they needed to give Fairchild’s idea a try however risky it sounded. But that all went out of her head as she rounded the corner into the street.
There was a hole in the middle of the apartment building. In place of the stairwell was a pile of smoking rubble. No entrance door, no stairs, just jagged edges of flooring and hanging floorboards. Some fist squeezed her heart as she looked at the huge heap of tangled metal and stone. It was pitch black. People were standing in the street muttering, moving away in groups to seek safety elsewhere, or just staring. A man and a girl. A man and a girl, she needed to see, somewhere amongst these dusky figures. But she couldn’t. Where were they? Please, don’t be in that pile of rubble, that huge pile that kept drawing her. She stumbled trying to climb on it. Panicking, breathing too fast, it was foolish what she was doing, but she couldn’t stop herself. Her foot gave way and she fell, grazing her face on the rough stones. Someone put a hand on her shoulder. She turned.
It was Fairchild, and he was carrying Katya, her arms draped around his neck. Something inside Rose came undone, became untethered. She couldn’t control it.
“We’re okay,” he was saying. “It missed us. We climbed down. We’re okay, Rose.”
She barely heard him. She was crying, maybe. She wanted to hug Katya, but the girl’s arms were firmly clasped around Fairchild as she stared silently about her. Fairchild patted Rose’s arm awkwardly. She took a breath.
Pin it back down, Rose. Hide it away. They’re okay, after all. They’re okay.
They sheltered for the rest of the night on a narrow set of steps leading down to a locked cellar door. It was much like the first night, with Marta and Ilya as well, but without the snow. This had to, this absolutely had to be their last night here. Rose couldn’t take any more of this.
55
As soon as it started to get light, the three of them headed for the lookout. Its occupants had multiplied, either due to rumours of an escape plan or forced there by the heavy bombardment. Fairchild sent them, bleary-eyed, searching for planks of wood, metal barrels, rope, plastic containers, anything that might float if tied together the right way. Others were sent for supplies: easily portable food, water, torches, tools if they could find them. Rose took some of the older ones with her; she could get them into places they couldn’t otherwise access. Rose also found a good place to assemble their craft: a secluded yard away from prying eyes, but close enough for their constructions to be carried down to the waterside after nightfall. And
there would need to be more than one, looking at the number in their gang now. They were all hungry and tired and stressed; some had minor injuries. But the day’s purpose gave everyone a quiet energy; they were nervous but excited. Fairchild had given them hope. That made him nervous. Rose too, he could tell, although they didn’t stop to talk about it. It was only the increasingly hopeless situation here that could justify such a risky enterprise.
They didn’t talk about last night either. All was business-like and focused, but Rose’s display of emotion when she turned and saw them there marked him somewhere deep. He was under no illusion, though; it was Katya who had drawn the tears, Katya she’d been so moved by the sight of, not him.
From the slitted basement vents, he watched activities on the other bank. He was starting to rethink the idea of stealing a truck. It couldn’t be done quietly or quickly now, not with the numbers they had. A better plan would be to identify a thin part of the line, a place that would be dark, away from the action. He’d have to come back later to check on that. Rose and he could take out some of the guards and provide cover. He had guns and ammunition for them both, though only one silencer. Only one Russian army uniform as well. A diversion was what they really needed. He’d been up to the barracks when he first arrived, tried to make conversation with a couple of grave-faced smokers outside the gate, but was met with suspicion and a kind of defensiveness. He suspected the situation up there was worse than people thought.
Mid-morning he left the lookout, deserted now, and went up to the yard. The kids had done well; spread out across the ground was a collection of mismatched pieces, the widest possible interpretation of his instructions. Grouping them together in ways that would result in floatable objects was a team effort, with Rose and some of the older children pitching in with good ideas. They worked with purpose, everyone doing something, taking turns at keeping guard to distract curious passers-by. Katya overcame some of her shyness and trotted round offering water to people as they struggled with fixings and rusty metal. It was warm enough in the sun to break into a sweat. The barrage seemed to be on hold for some reason. The expression on Rose’s face when she looked at Katya did something to Fairchild. He knew she was imagining this girl, paddling and drifting silently in the dark, right into the midst of a hostile armed unit. It was unnatural, counter-intuitive. He felt it too. But the rational part of him said otherwise. They had to get out. She’d said so herself.
