The queue for tickets was long but fast moving, this suited Solomon just fine, the quicker we are through, the less chance we will be remembered, she thought. They bought a baked potato each and a fruit pie to share from one of the vendors and took their place on the train amongst the other travellers. Solomon sighed as she relaxed into her seat; feeling suddenly very tired at the thought of the enormous journey ahead of them and the risks they faced. They could have simply flown to Zurich in a matter of hours, enjoying a meal and a film as they went, but flights presented hazards she knew would have been too great. She was starting to realise what life as a fugitive meant and she didn't like it.
Looking out of the window her heart stopped as she saw two Militsiya walking alongside the train on the platform. She stared at them, a rabbit caught in headlights, unable to turn her gaze away even though she knew she must. They continued on, just walking together seemingly untroubled, Solomon let out a breath and then relaxed, just a little, into her seat. Her original intention had been to take the train from Volgograd to Sochi on the coast of the Black Sea, now however she didn't think that to be wise, better not to be trapped aboard a train close to the border.
As the train pulled out of the station, straining to overcome the inertia of the five hundred tons of combined engine and carriages, Solomon breathed another sigh of relief. She had seen no evidence of any Militsiya boarding the train and she had no reason to believe that anyone even knew they are on the train. Hopefully, she thought, if we have been discovered to be missing they are looking for us in Helsinki.
The train gathered speed, moving out of central Moscow and headed south towards Volgograd. The train was busy, packed with people; Solomon took her time to look around at the other passengers. People, she began to think to herself, think of a train as a natural extension to their home or office. She could see people eating, chatting on the phone, working and even knitting in the case of an elderly lady who would probably finish whatever she was working on by the end of her journey. She looked more closely at the woman and started to envy the life she imagined for her. A simple life full of the joys of family, she was probably on such a journey going to see a son or daughter in the southern part of Russia. There to spend a week or two catching up on her child's life, enjoying time with her grandchildren. Now she started to think that the knitting was a baby blanket for a new grandchild. That thought provoked a pang of guilt followed by a feeling of emptiness; she looked at Natasha sitting next to her and started to wonder what kind of life she is offering her, no father, no grandparents, no home and on the run. This was not the life she had had in mind for herself and especially not for her little girl.
17:12 28 October [14:12 28 October GMT]
Volgograd Train Station, Volgograd, Russia.
The train came to a full stop with much more grace than the one from St. Petersburg to Moscow, the train easing itself into the platform allocated for it. Solomon was tired again, tired in a way that sleep alone would not fix. Although she had slept some, the journey being too long not to sleep, it had only been shallow and the nightmares had made tiring. Her body was starting to ache, too much sitting and not having the regular exercise that she normally gave it. The private fitness club in St. Petersburg now a distant memory for her and her body.
Solomon would have loved to visit here under better circumstances. She had learned about Volgograd, or Stalingrad as her teacher had insisted upon calling it, at school and later in the army. The Hero City of Russia that held out against the might of Hitler’s Nazi army from July nineteen forty-two to February nineteen forty-three. It was the bloodiest battle in modern history with nearly two million combined casualties from both sides. Yes, she thought to herself, I could get lost amongst the history here for days, if only I had the time. Instead, we have to shuffle our way to the bus station. She sighed, picked up their luggage and holding her daughter's hand began a slow trudge to the bus station.
The bus station was still open, but the last bus had left. Solomon spoke to a returning driver; tired though he was he gave her directions to a local place the long distance drivers use where she could get a cheap room for the night.
10:43 29 October [07:43 28 October GMT]
Volgograd Train Station, Volgograd, Russia.
Entering the bus station the next morning, it took a moment for Solomon’s brain to register what was wrong. When it did, her heart sank and skipped a beat at the same time. Militsiya. The word rang through her mind bouncing back and forth, each time denting her confidence a bit more. Solomon managed to control most of her fear, and to keep walking. People who stop and turn around are easily spotted. Instead, she and Natasha kept walking, but rather than a straight line, they walked in a large arc, always appearing to be walking towards something in the station until they mixed with passengers who had just arrived and so they could walk out. A person well in front of them dropped a leaflet and now she realised that several people were carrying them. She stopped briefly to tie her shoe, allowing her to pick up the leaflet; she didn’t read it until they were walking again. She turned it over and came face to face with a picture of her and Natasha staring blankly back at her. This time her heart skipped several beats. She kept walking, kept hold of Natasha, kept control of her emotions. I must think, think! What should I do? She decided that the photos were too good a match, something had to be done. And done quickly.
She found a toilet, close to the exit of the station. She pulled Natasha in with her and quickly set about herself. Taking a clip from her handbag, she put her hair up in a distinct ponytail, but high on her head. Her long raven hair now less apparent. Natasha's hair was more of a problem, the same raven colour; it was currently styled in a short bob. This left less scope for styling.
'What's wrong mummy?'
'I want to put your hair up, it's part of the game, but I don't have any clips.'
'Will these do mummy?’ Natasha pulled four pink clips shaped like butterflies out of her coat pocket.
'You' Solomon began, 'are a little star.'
The hair re-arranged the best she could they popped back out into the world, Solomon thinking that they would need a chemist to do a proper job of restyling themselves. A busy or a back-street one.
She was at a loss as to what to do. Public transport over any great distance was out of the question. So too was hiring a car, too many questions and paperwork. The only way forward she decided was hitchhiking. This came with its own attendant risks. The most obvious being out in the open for any passing Militsiya to notice them. Then there were the risks of placing themselves in the hands of strangers. Not a pleasant thought.
We need to know where we are going, somewhere far from here in the right direction, but not so far that it would raise questions. What I need is a map, she thought to herself. This now meant two shops, twice the risk of being spotted or remembered; she didn't like it but there was no alternative. At least Volgograd is a large city, many people to be lost amongst.
She found a bookstore close by, and to avoid suspicion purchased a novel and a cookery book at the same time as the Atlas. It was a large hard-backed edition but this was the best she could find with the detail she needed. As they walked down the street, the two surplus purchases went in a bin. Solomon becoming acutely aware of her diminishing financial resources.
It would have been easier to ask the bookseller about finding a chemist, but that would have left a trail. Instead, a couple of blocks from the store, she asked a mother of two young children. The chemist's shop was almost hidden, obviously the kind of place that didn't rely on passing trade. She purchased two bottles of hair dye, one a mousy, mid-range brown for herself, the other a light dullish blonde for Natasha. A pair of hair scissors, a cutthroat razor and some toothpaste.
In the street outside the chemist's shop, she found a public toilet. This toilet, she thought to herself, has to be smelt to be believed. Despite its drawbacks, it was a quiet place and she found a sign inside saying, “Out of Order”. Solomon placed the
sign on the outside of the door and closed it; that should give us some privacy…. They emerged sometime later, Solomon with short brown hair and Natasha's dark blonde styled in a very short crew cut like a boys. They had to venture another conversation with a stranger.
'Excuse me,' she asked a man dressed in an unkempt fashion, 'is there somewhere I could find a place to stay. I have very little money you see.'
The man stood perfectly still, looking at them both. It seemed an age before he spoke, as if he was deciding whether he should help them. He told them about an area of the city to the south where rooms were available for a small sum and on a daily basis. He said that it was a bit of a walk, but that the bus could take them there for a small sum. To think I would have judged that man on his appearance. Now I’m homeless, with no job or income and fast running out of cash and on top of that, I am a fugitive. So too was Natasha she realised, looking down at her daughter she wondered again why this had happened to them.
As they sat on the bus, Solomon pulled out the leaflet, as she read it her mind tried to take it all in. Wanted for the Murder of Professor Dorän and the theft of state secrets. It also gave their ages, height and weight. Murder, she thought, what murder? Who was this Professor Dorän? Solomon was starting to realise that they were in much more trouble than she had realised. For murder, we will be hunted throughout the entire country. The theft of state secrets means being hunted outside Russia too. Following her mother’s story, she desperately hoped that it would lead them both to safety. She couldn’t understand how her mother had the foresight for all of this nine years ago.
The southern area of town proved to be everything Solomon had hoped for. Edge of the city, run-down, and no questions asked. Although she hadn't intended for them to take a room, she couldn't think when they had last slept in a bed and the prospect of it beckoned to her. The room was small, dark, and bare. The bed was old, the mattress having past the throwing out stage years before. Neither of them cared. They both lay down and slept. The day passed into night and the night into morning.
The sun found their room and entered uninvited. It moved around casting shadows in its wake, until it found the bed and its occupants. Natasha awoke, unaware of where she was; she shook her mother’s shoulder until she was awake.
'Mummy I'm hungry.'
'OK darling we'll get something out.'
Breakfast came courtesy of a small cafe that catered for people who had no home. A couple of inquiries here proved fruitful in identifying the best area to hitchhike south.
A truck stopped, the driver inquiring where they were headed.
'South towards Svetlograd.'
'I'm going to Yashkul, I can take you as far as Elista, hop in'
The lorry driver was used to people on the road, he didn't inquire into their circumstances, thinking it none of his business and believing they would probably lie anyway. Everyone has their reason, he figured. He had a baseball cap with Cubs on it and plonked this on Natasha's head.
'There you go little fella.'
'I'm not a fella, I'm a girl.'
'She's at that awkward age.’ Solomon said smiling.
They talked about the economy, politics, and life in general, Solomon not having much to say, she just agreed with him, realising that the guy just liked company and the sound of his own voice. They parted ways at Elista, the driver insisting that Natasha keep the cap, as it looked better on her that it ever did on him.
They had to wait over an hour for their next lift. A couple travelling back home having visited relatives in Volgograd. The conversation was not so easy this time, the questions came thick and fast, who are they, where are they from, where are they going, why? It took all of Solomon's concentration to maintain a coherent story. Eventually the questions died down and then came the inevitable monologue as the woman explained who they were, where they had been, where they were going, and a veritable movie of photographs were passed to the back for the expected appreciative comments.
The journey ended at the couple’s home town of Svetlograd, with the couple wishing them a safe trip to Stavropol and Solomon thanking them for their kindness at giving them a lift. It was time to eat again. The bar seemed to be the only place to eat that was open. She pushed hard against the door, holding it open for Natasha to enter, following her close behind. It was dark inside, their eyes taking time to adjust, leaving them exposed to the glare of the patrons. This was not the sort of place for a mother and her daughter. The clientele, if they could be referred to as such, were almost entirely men, working men. At least they do food, Solomon thought, trying to raise her spirits. They took a booth against the sidewall. The waitress sidled over, her face, aged well beyond her years, hadn’t seen a smile in months. They ordered two of the day's specials, which proved to be anything but. A lukewarm broth with bits of flavourless meat; they both cleaned their bowls mopping it up with a fair amount of the local bread.
Solomon felt a large, cold shadow looming over her. She looked up and didn't like what she saw. The man was huge, over six and a half feet tall and built like a construction worker, considerable muscle combined with a vast amount of bulk. He swayed slightly on his feet, and when he talked, it was with the diction of the poorly educated. His breath smelt heavily of drink.
'You wanna dance pretty lady?'
'No, no thank you.'
'Arhhh sure you do.' The man grabbed her hand. His hand was like a huge vice of flesh and bone. Solomon didn't like where this was heading. The man stopped. Another man stood by his side having tapped him on the shoulder for which he had to reach up.
'I don't think the lady wants to dance.' The second man said simply.
The man had turned to stare down at the second man. He released her hand, the passion suddenly draining out of him.
'I didn't mean anything by it; all's I wanted was a dance.' He lurched back to the bar stool where he had been sitting.
'Thank you, thank you so much.' Solomon gushed to her rescuer.
'You’re entirely welcome. I'm Sergei'
'I'm Solomon and this is my daughter Natasha.' Solomon immediately realised her mistake, we should be using false names. However, it was too late now and this gentleman had just saved her from a nasty fate.
'Well it's nice to meet you both.' He turned back towards his own table but Solomon, forgetting her current circumstance, didn't think a simple thank you was adequate.
'Would you like to join us?'
'Thank you.'
They talked for a while, Sergei providing much of the conversation. He said he was an architect headed south for a job in Georgia. Divorced, he didn't get to see enough of his children; he showed her a photo of two young boys playing happily on swings. Solomon invented a new story, that they were headed to see relatives in Tblisi. Sergei happily offered them a lift as he said that was where his new job was. Sergei had quite a good car. Architects must be paid well, she thought, conscious for the first time in her life that people with jobs are paid according to what they do. Although she had been in the army herself, she had never even thought about her pay, it hadn't made any material difference to what she spent, as her allowance had always been very generous. Now she was starting to realise how most people live. Why they strive to get a good education for their children, something else she had never considered. Solomon, immature in so many ways, was finally starting to grow up. They were making good time, the roads were quite clear.
'Look out for a turning on the right coming up. There is a good short cut, one of the truckers told me about.'
Sure enough, a right turn appeared soon and they left the main road to follow it. About a mile in, he pulled over to the side, turning off the engine and lights. He opened his door.
'I won't be long, just a call of nature which won't wait I'm afraid.'
Solomon smiled at this, men and their bladders have a curious relationship.
She didn't worry at first, true he had been a while, but the place was deserted so he should be OK. Time ticked on, she
looked at her watch, he had been ten full minutes at least, and it must have been five minutes before she had looked at her watch. Fifteen minutes, I should go look for him, see that he is all right.
She walked around the car trying to see any sign of him. Nothing, like he never existed. She tried calling out, 'Sergei! Sergei!' No answer.
She fell to the ground before she even felt the blow to the back of her head. On all fours she could barely focus, a hand grabbed at her, pulling her onto her back, she tried to look up but all she could see were shapes of light and dark. One of the dark shapes was pulling at her clothes; her jeans yanked down to her ankles, blouse ripped open. She struggled for breath; the shape had its forearm over her throat. It was inside her now, grunting back and forth, like a rutting animal. She managed to get the shapes forearm from her throat 'Sergei!' she screamed, hoping he might be in a position to help her. She was rewarded with a vicious slap across the left side of her face. The blow was so bad the little vision she had regained returned to its previous blurry state. Sergei did not come to her aid; the shape finished and got up. She heard the car door open and then the sound that turned her anger and confusion into blind rage.
'Mummy!'
The shape had hold of her daughter, pulling her from the back of Sergei’s car. Solomon scrambled towards her handbag, hand delving inside, searching for the cold smooth article she had purchased the previous day. She lunged at the shape, slashed at his protruding organ with the open cutthroat razor. He screamed in pain, his groin on fire. He turned on her, blood spraying as it moved. He raised his right leg, the large boot aimed straight at her head. Solomon's training finally arrived. She dropped the razor, and grabbed the boot with both hands turning it through one hundred and eighty degrees, the shape span round and crashed to the floor. Solomon crawled on top of him, clasping her left hand over his mouth as she drew the recovered razor across his throat. He gargled for a minute then fell silent.
Dark Matter Page 14
