Delicate Indecencies

by Sandy Mccutcheon

  The burning house was out of his line of vision to the right, but a pall of smoke drifted across the houses in his view. Then the lights of the helicopter illuminated the cemetery. The lone figure of Vladimir, if that was indeed his real name, was signalling to it to land. The small circle of villagers who, just minutes before, had been curious onlookers were nowhere to be seen. Hopefully they were locked safely in their houses, he thought, though the image of Tarasov’s house in flames caused him to wonder if inside was indeed the place to be. The Hind came slowly down into a whirlwind of snow, its blazing lights creating a circle of light that reminded Laverov of the small glass snow-domes that the Moscow peddlers sold to tourists in the markets. You shook them and inside a miniature snowstorm swirled around a tiny model of St Basil’s.

  As the helicopter settled four men armed with machine-pistols jumped onto the snow and fanned out across the graveyard. Laverov sat back, suddenly scared. Obstruction or interference he could deal with — indeed had come to expect — but this was a very different game and one in which he suspected there were no rules. Below him the helicopter cut its engines and he heard the rotors slowly feather to a stop, leaving the village muffled in what now felt like a dangerous silence.

  Twice in the next hour he thought he heard voices and occasionally a sharp cracking sound. His first reaction was that it was gunshots but he then realised it was probably coming from the blazing timbers in the remains of Tarasov’s house. Now that the Hind’s lights had been extinguished the only illumination was the flickering glow through the cloud of smoke that hung like a pall over the village. Despite the growing intensity of the cold Laverov didn’t dare move around so he wrapped his coat tighter and made a conscious effort to move his toes within his boots in order to keep his circulation going.

  For another hour he fought against the cold and his own fears, then he must have dozed off for the next thing he knew he was abruptly awoken by the sound of loud voices close at hand. There were people in the church.

  He heard someone climb the ladder and held himself absolutely still as the person paused on the landing directly outside his hiding place. Then, to his relief, the steps continued up the next ladder to what he assumed was the bell tower. Heavy boots sounded on the wooden floor above before the searcher descended again, moving straight on past him.

  Laverov let out his breath and leaned stiffly forward to check through the observation slit. The smoke from the fire still blanketed the area and light snow was falling from the darkness above. The Hind sat silently, but now the internal lights were on and as he watched a man came down the steps onto the snow and lit a cigarette. He paced impatiently as he smoked and constantly surveyed the perimeter of the graveyard. Then he spotted something and signalled to someone inside the chopper. Another man came to the hatch and stood watching as two armed men emerged from the dark and trudged towards them, their weapons held casually at their sides. With a great sense of relief Laverov realised they were preparing to depart. The engines coughed into life and a few minutes later the machine struggled into the air.

  For what seemed like an eternity Laverov listened until he could no longer hear the Hind and the village had returned to silence in the angry orange light of the burning building. But still he remained seated while his mind played through every paranoid scenario it could imagine. They had left men behind. Another machine was on its way. The zimnik would be under observation and he would be killed as soon as he left the village. For a moment he wondered if he could repair the telephone connection he had so hastily destroyed. But he knew there was nobody he could ring. Given that the Hind had been working if not under the command of then at least with the tacit approval of the police chief in Arkhangelsk, he was the last person to contact. It was probable that Volodarsky was only a bit player in the drama, offering logistic support. Would they send more men by road? They would certainly have decided on some way of dealing with him. And who were they? Under whose command? A renegade group of the armed forces? Such a thing was possible given the low morale in most of the regular units. Many had not been paid for months and conditions were grim, and while there were few who remembered the painful fiasco of Afghanistan there were other open wounds, the Chechen campaign not least.

  There were too many unanswered questions, Laverov conceded. The cold was killing him and he could no longer sit still. But just as he was struggling to his feet he heard a sound down in the sanctuary. He lowered himself onto the seat and waited. Someone climbed the ladder and then the entrance to the hidden space opened beside him, allowing light from a hand-held kerosene lamp to flood in. Holding it was Medvedev, his face drawn and grim.

  ‘Come,’ he said shortly. ‘They’ve gone for the moment but I don’t trust them not to return.’

  ‘Who were they? Army?’

  ‘Not the army I used to be in.’

  He preceded Laverov down the ladder. Waiting at the foot of it were the priest and the farmer Laverov had met earlier in the day. Medvedev introduced him simply as Dimitrov. Without explanation they plunged out into the dark and cut across the graveyard.

  ‘What happened to the body? Did my driver manage to dig it up?’

  ‘Your driver was one of them,’ the priest said. ‘They disabled your truck and took him with them. They took the body as well.’

  ‘I needed to see it —’ Laverov began.

  ‘No. I saw it before it was buried. Nobody needs to see such things.’

  ‘And had he shot himself?’

  ‘In the back and in the neck? Hardly,’ the priest snorted.

  ‘But why? What was Tarasov to them?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Medvedev said as they came out of the graveyard into a lane behind a row of houses. ‘Tarasov was just an old man. Forget about him. It’s you they’re after.’

  ‘Then why did they stop searching?’

  ‘Because one of our young men went for a long walk into the forest. They followed the footprints for a while and decided you wouldn’t survive the night. There’s nothing out there for hundreds of kilometres. Nikolai doubled back through the trees and was home long before they were.’

  They had come to a stop at the rear of one of the houses and they waited as the farmer climbed the steps and knocked gently. The door was opened and a plump woman let them in and ushered them through to a large kitchen. It was a relief to Laverov to be out of the cold, but more welcoming was the sight of the food and vodka on the table. The woman left them and for a while the men ate and went over the night’s events.

  The thing that struck Laverov most was the intense dislike of outsiders in general and the authorities in particular. Eventually he felt compelled to ask why they were assisting him.

  The farmer, Dimitrov, having eaten was rolling a cigarette. He paused and looked at Laverov with a broad grin. ‘If you were one of them we would take you out in the snow and let you freeze to death. But these people want you dead so much, it seems you must be one of the angels.’

  Some angel, Laverov thought as he helped himself to a shot of vodka. Fool, yes. But not an angel. ‘I take it they’ll keep an eye on the zimnik?’

  Medvedev nodded.

  ‘But I can’t stay here . . .’

  ‘Where do you think you could go?’ There was something in the priest’s tone that sounded as though he were scoffing at this outsider. He had been drinking quite heavily since they had come into the house and now was sunk back in his chair looking decidedly morose.

  Laverov ignored his remark. ‘I have to get back to Moscow and I figure there is no way to do that other than through Arkhangelsk.’

  ‘You could get to the railway station at Lomovoje — ’ Medvedev began.

  ‘How? Your angel has wings all of a sudden?’ The priest rolled his eyes. ‘Or maybe he could ski?’ He turned on Laverov. ‘You ski, do you?’

  Dimitrov waved his hand in a placatory gesture. ‘There is another way.’

  Medvedev grinned. ‘My thought exactly. I take it you have some warm clothes our ange
l can wear?’

  Laverov didn’t know whether it was the vodka or the warmth but he sensed he was missing something. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Come, I’ll show you.’ Dimitrov picked up a lantern and led the way out the back of the house to a small shed. He slid a piece of timber out of the way, swung the door open and indicated that the others should step in. The place was obviously used as a storehouse. Garden implements competed for space with a couple of fuel drums, an old rotary hoe and some horse tackle that looked as though it belonged in a museum. The farmer stepped through the clutter and started to toss aside a pile of sacks at the rear of the shed. There was a chuckle from Medvedev as he uncovered a shiny black Lynx snowmobile.

  The priest exploded. ‘That’s the one that was stolen from the timber company.’ He grabbed Dimitrov by the shoulder and angrily swung him around. ‘You swore to me that nobody in the village had anything to do with it.’

  ‘Calm down, Father.’ Medvedev pulled them apart. ‘Nobody in the village knows about it except us.’

  ‘That’s not the point. It is theft and, in case you’ve forgotten, it’s a sin.’

  ‘The timber company hasn’t paid us for last summer’s work. So we liberated it. If they want to play the new age capitalists then they must accept everything from the capitalist system, not just the bits that they like.’ Dimitrov shrugged himself free and began to clear a path for the machine.

  ‘Property is theft.’ Medvedev chuckled wickedly. ‘This is property — we stole it.’

  But the priest was not to be placated and, rather than become an accomplice, chose to stomp off. But he didn’t go far; when they returned inside to complete their preparations they found him muttering to himself and nursing the vodka.

  It was just before midnight when they set off. There had been a coin toss to select who would drive Laverov, the decision falling in favour of Medvedev who seemed pleased with the outcome. Warmer clothes were found, extra fuel strapped on board and the storage compartment under the double seat was packed with provisions. By the time everything was judged to be in order Laverov was exhausted and beginning to feel dubious about the entire undertaking.

  Dimitrov, attempting to set his mind at rest, pulled out a map and pointed out the route he and Medvedev had been discussing. ‘See, you’ll stick to the rivers — the Kuloj, the Pinega and then from Ust’ Pinega cross-country to Lomovoje. There’s a train station there and you’ll be on the express to Moscow before they realise you’ve left Kimzha.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘The going is flat and, apart from snowdrifts, should allow you to maintain well over fifty kilometres an hour.’

  ‘Have you ever travelled that far on one of these things?’

  Medvedev let out a throaty laugh. ‘Never. It will be a real adventure, yes?’

  Laverov was still unconvinced. ‘Won’t they be watching the rivers?’

  ‘Why should they? They don’t know we have the Lynx.’

  Despite his disapproval the priest gave them a drunken blessing and the quiet of the winter night was shattered as the Lynx roared to life. They could hear the damn thing in Arkhangelsk, Laverov thought grimly as he pulled a pair of goggles over his eyes, adjusted the scarf around his mouth and clambered on behind Medvedev. He didn’t have time to wave goodbye because the snowmobile lurched forward and as they accelerated along the road all he could think of was hanging on for dear life.

  They seemed to be travelling far too fast for safety and he felt that it was only a matter of time before Medvedev lost control of the machine. Yet the man appeared to know what he was doing, slowing each time they came across larger snowdrifts, and though they tilted alarmingly as they descended the bank of the Kuloj they didn’t come to grief. Once on the frozen river Laverov began to relax and found, to his surprise, that he was actually enjoying the motion of the machine. The ice was covered by wind-compacted snow which rippled across the surface much like the desert sand Laverov had seen in travel documentaries. For a while the ripples caused the snowmobile to rock gently, but as Medvedev grew accustomed to the conditions and increased their speed the rocking stopped and they sped through the night, leaving a cloud of snow crystals in their wake.

  He hadn’t realised that he had fallen asleep until Medvedev shook him gently.

  ‘You want to stay outside and freeze, Comrade?’

  Laverov, suddenly aware of the silence, looked around. They had stopped by a small wooden hut in a clump of birches just up from the river. From inside the structure came a faint yellow light.

  ‘Where are we?’ Laverov asked.

  ‘On track and on schedule — just south of the Kuloj settlement. I did a large arc around it and picked up the river again.’

  ‘I mean . . . here. What’s this place?’ He got groggily off the machine and suddenly realised how cold and stiff he was. He stumbled and Medvedev took his arm.

  ‘A loggers’ summer hut. There’s everything we need.’

  Within fifteen minutes they had the potbelly stove roaring and laid out a couple of tattered mattresses they had found on the hut’s single bunk. As they sipped coffee and wolfed down several slices of bread and jam, Medvedev talked glowingly about the snowmobile’s performance, expressing surprise at its fuel economy.

  ‘Of course we travelled pretty slowly, but I reckon we got about one hundred and fifty kilometres out of the tank . . .’ He went on for a while about the Rotax 580cc engine but all Laverov could think of was how delicious the jam tasted and how inviting the mattress looked. Eventually they blew out the light and, despite having slept on the journey, Laverov went straight into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  The morning was over when they woke. What there was of the sun had begun to slide from the sky and to the north a bank of clouds looked as though it was marshalling its energy for an assault on them later in the evening. They decided to move on immediately.

  It was just as the sun was about to set that they ran into the problem. There was no warning. They didn’t hear a thing. Coming round a slow bend in the Pinega River, Laverov, who had been nestled in behind Medvedev, knew nothing about it until the machine suddenly turned sharply, slid sideways and came to a halt.

  ‘Fuck!’ Medvedev yelled.

  About a hundred metres in front of them a storm of snow was backlit by the sun, creating a rainbow halo of flying crystals. It would have been beautiful if not for the fact that the halo had a malevolent heart. At its centre was a helicopter gunship.

  Laverov glanced along the river banks, but there was no way they could make a dash for it. Any forest that may once have been there had long ago been clear-felled. And it was a pretty good bet that beneath the snow lay a maze of tree stumps and old logs. There was nowhere to run. Medvedev had come to the same conclusion and with a shrug of resignation switched off the engine. They sat and watched as the gunship came slowly towards them and then settled on the ice. The hatches opened and a man in civilian clothes stood in the hatchway while three armed men dropped down into the snow. The men fanned out and advanced towards them, their weapons raised.

  ‘Fuck,’ Laverov said quietly.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Jane? He peered at the faded photograph. Yes, it was definitely Jane. Just when he had stopped thinking about her, Teschmaker had found her amongst some personal papers tossed into one of the packing cases during his whirlwind cleansing of the house — his exorcism. Now, sailing on calmer waters, he had started to investigate just what had survived the massive clean-out. Putting things in order, he told himself. Cleaning up my act. There had been the normal collection of unfiled but now useless expenses claims — a hotel phone bill in this country, a currency exchange charge from another. Jane had come as a surprise.

  For a moment his memory still refused to divulge her surname but then it came to him. Morris. Jane Morris. What had become of her, he wondered. Had she made something of herself, as his mother used to say. Teschmaker laughed bitterly. Successful self-creation was a rare skill
indeed. He slid the photo onto his desk, intending to come back to it, but his imagination was hooked. Jane Morris. In the picture she was fourteen or fifteen years of age. And — he looked at his child-self — so was he. Their birthdays were only one week apart and it was because of this special bond that he and Jane had fallen in love. It had been a short and painful affair lasting probably no more than six or eight weeks. ‘My first girlfriend,’ he said out loud. Of course there was Ginger, but he had only been seven. He stored away the memory of Ginger for later retrieval.

  The love affair had started at Jane’s birthday party and lasted until the school holidays and a protective father took her away from him. He remembered the party and her mother’s inappropriate fare — individual jelly rabbits with strawberry ice-cream, bread-and-butter triangles sprinkled with hundreds and thousands. Did such things still exist? Jane had been mortified and only regained her composure by raiding her mother’s drink cabinet and adding a large quantity of gin to the otherwise innocuous fruit punch. It was a sleep-over party and they had, after the parentally supervised ‘lights-out’, played spin the bottle. Kissing Jane — not his first kiss, but the first one during which he tasted anything. The first one in which his tongue had been electrically engaged by another. Jane was a good kisser. Late in the night, when the other kids were asleep, she had sat down on the floor beside his sleeping bag and, emboldened by her consumption of gin, taken his hand and slid it inside her nightie so that he could feel how big her breasts were. The illicit nature of the experience had burned itself into his subconscious and even now, so many years later, he liked nothing better than the first touch of a woman’s breasts while she was still clothed. A week later, at his own birthday party, they had another opportunity to further their new-found passion for bodily exploration and during the course of a late-night rendezvous Teschmaker had experienced his first spontaneous orgasm. It had been a revelation to both of them. It might have gone on if not for Jane’s father . . .