The Night Watch

by Julian Dinsell

  On the far side there was a large wood-burning stove. At a table in the middle of the room two men were playing cards. They looked like low-grade thugs. Rumpled layers of cold-weather clothing amplified their natural bulk. Both were unshaven and had vodka-reddened eyes. A pile of empty bottles lay in the sink. Close to them was a pair of Kalashnikov assault rifles. There were more questions than answers. What did it all mean? Could they be holding Anya? Had she been taken elsewhere? Was his guess that this was the place just plain wrong? Should he wait for some kind of opportunity, try a diversion, a bluff or what? He retreated behind the logs and tried to think of what to do next. It was essential to search the house, but he was seriously outgunned and if discovered, would not survive a firefight. On the other hand, he had the advantage of surprise and the effects of vodka on his side. He was sufficiently confident of his aim to be sure that he could eliminate then both before they had a chance to shoot back. But he also knew he couldn’t do it. It simply wasn’t in him to commit cold-blooded murder.

  One of the men got up from the table. Almost immediately the door on the veranda above the log pile opened and a shaft of dim light spread outwards. A pair of heavy snow boots stood within inches of where Darcy hid. A wandering stream of urine made deep yellow holes in the snow. Through the loud music Darcy caught a fragment of a conversation that had begun in the kitchen.

  “They seem to think she’s important, the poor bitch.”

  “Let’s hope neither you nor me become important to ex-comrade Golkov,” the man on the veranda replied.

  The door closed and Darcy felt a surge of exhilaration at the vindication of his judgement. A plan began to form in his mind. First he had to immobilise them. He made his way back to the snow-covered Zil limousine. Groping through his pockets, he found a couple of toothpicks from the hotel, split them into four and jammed one into each of the tyre valves. He knew that in the kitchen, the sound of the escaping air would be drowned by the music. The generator hut stood on the end of a well-trodden path on the dark side of the building. Careful not to leave any new prints, he moved inside and risked using his key-ring torch. He realised that obvious sabotage would betray the presence of an intruder. Instead, he pinched the flexible fuel supply hose closed.

  It was an old motor of the kind that needed to be bled of air before it would restart after running dry. The motor coughed, spat and stopped. The lights went out and Darcy dashed for the house. He heard swearing, collisions with kitchen furniture and the sound of matches being struck. A butane lamp glowed into life, followed by the sound of tools being collected and thrown into a metal box. The two men appeared and set off for the generator hut. As they went inside, Darcy dashed across to the hallway of the house and ran up to the top floor. He reckoned that it would take at least fifteen minutes to find the problem and get the motor working again. But he also knew that his footprints would give him away to anyone coming into the house.

  He went from room to room, his eyes now well adjusted to the darkness. Each was empty or contained derelict furniture. On the middle floor, he came upon a locked door. The sound of distant cursing drifted across the snow. Darcy made a quick decision and put his shoulder to the door. The centre panel pushed out and clattered into the darkened interior of the room. He paused and listened. The angry dialogue continued uninterrupted. He slowly squeezed through the gap. A kerosene heater by the bed created a small pool of light. He could make out a face, heavily wrapped in blankets. He moved closer. It was a woman with long matted hair. Her face looked numb and she stared at him, or through him, in the dim light; he could not tell which.

  “Anya?” he asked. There was a slight inclination of the head. “I am a friend of Jakob’s,” he said gently, fearing she would cry out.

  But there was no response. It was as if her mind was switched off.

  He lifted her from the bed and moved towards the door. It was only then that he noticed the shackle and chain that ran from her left ankle to the wall. The lock looked primitive and Darcy struggled to remember how the tumblers lay in such devices. The search of his memory was interrupted by the sound of the diesel generator starting up. From the window he could see the Russians shambling back towards the house. He knew that as soon as they reached the hallway they would see his footprints. There was less than two minutes to stop them. As he ducked below the windowsill an idea formed.

  He jumped up onto the bed and balanced on the iron frame. In one of his pockets he found a US nickel. He reached up to the light fitting in the centre of the room, unscrewed the bulb and pushed the coin inside. Then he screwed the bulb back into place. The Russians had reached the veranda by the time Darcy got to the doorway and tripped the light switch. There was a loud crack from somewhere below and the lights went out again. The Russians swore and set off back to the generator. Darcy appreciated how close the call had been; the trick had only worked because the primitive wiring had a single fuse for the lighting circuit. The motor kept running and he knew that it would not take them long to realise that the fault was not with the generator but back in the house. Darcy tore at the Velcro fastenings of the hood on his anorak and forced the end of the metal hoop through the fabric. He bent the end of the wire in a segment of the bed frame and set to work on the lock. There were three levers and he managed two quite quickly. The last one he couldn’t locate. Despite the cold, he felt sweat break out on his forehead.

  After what seemed like hours, the lock opened. He lifted Anya from the bed.

  “I am going to take you home,” he said.

  It was a terrible journey. The open space between the house and the trees was a killing ground now fully illuminated by the risen moon. A short burst from one of the Kalashnikovs would cut them in half. Anya’s cold corpse-like weight was staggering.

  Darcy’s breath came in great gasps, and by the time they reached the trees he had to rest. He lowered Anya onto the snow and collapsed beside her.

  He knew he had to regulate his breathing. Training told him that unchecked intake of air at this temperature froze the lungs, agonising and immobilising at best, and often fatal. Though hidden by the trees, their tracks pointed directly to their present position. He could only rest for twenty or thirty seconds more. He used the time to knot one of Anya’s blankets at both ends to form a crude sleigh. He got to his feet and pulled. With Anya’s weight supported by the snow he was able to make much better progress.

  As the Lada came into sight, there were sounds of confusion from the house. Two rapid bursts of fire were followed by the sound of the Zil engine. The battery was low and the starter motor struggled against near-frozen engine oil. It sounded as if the vehicle wouldn’t start and Darcy’s hopes rose. But the large truck-like engine began to fire, on three cylinders at first and then more evenly as the others came on stream. The Zil began to move and Darcy realised the flat tyres wouldn’t slow it down in the snow. He pulled open the rear door of the Lada, raised Anya’s dead weight and laid her across the back seat. Within seconds he had the darkened car back on the track and heading for the main road. In the mirror he could see the lights of the Zil weaving through the trees. If he could get to the road and merge with the traffic without them knowing what kind of vehicle he was in, there was a chance of getting away.

  On the open road, with flat tyres, they wouldn’t be able to follow either far or fast. It was a question of staying alive for the next kilometre and a half. The lights of the Zil came closer and the temptation to floor the throttle was almost overwhelming, but Darcy knew that if the wheels spun he would lose control and slide off into one of the snow banks that lined the track. If that happened, they were both dead. With agonising slowness the main road came into view. The Zil was now closing on them, weaving across the track and throwing up clouds of powdered snow as the flattened tyres sluggishly responded to the steering wheel. There was a flash of gunfire but the unsteadiness of the vehicle sent the shots wide. Suddenly, they were at the road. Darcy turned on the lights and accelerated hard as the wheels hit
the tarmac. He swung the car in front of an approaching timber truck, anything to put space between them and the Zil. It was a near lethal miscalculation.

  The car’s wheels spun on the loose gravel that covered the road, losing precious seconds of acceleration. The lights and horn of the truck came screamingly close. As the moment of impact came he closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable, but nothing happened; the truck had missed ramming them by inches. The car slowly pulled ahead and the gap increased. In the wing mirror he saw the Zil come barrelling out of the track and onto the road. One of the flattened tyres rolled off the rim and the driver totally lost control.

  The heavy limousine spun sideways into the path of a container truck. The Zil took the impact side-on and spun off the road in an explosion of shattered glass and crumpled steel.

  It was after three a.m. when they got to Jakob’s flat. Darcy parked the car a block away and opened the rear door. The car’s feeble heater had been sufficient to release a fierce animal stench as he unwrapped the blankets that cocooned Anya’s unconscious body. Her clothes were filthy and her face marked by smeared make-up and heavy bruising. As there was no hope of making a furtive entry to the flat, Darcy decided on a high-visibility disguise. He took her arm and hauled her from the car. He kicked the door closed and pulled her upright with her arm across his shoulders. With his other hand he held her round the waist. He launched into a loud patriotic drunkard’s song and staggered towards the street door of the flats.

  *

  Later, Darcy was to look back on the next eighteen hours as the most important of his life. Yet the events were not spectacular and took place in a simple, logical progression. It was the sum of their impact upon him that was remarkable.

  Jakob’s apartment was cold, the result of another breakdown in the building’s ancient heating system. The most urgent priority was warmth; without it he knew Anya would not survive. A hot bath was the fastest way of restoring body temperature. He turned the hot tap at the head of the bath but the water was cold.

  In the corner was an ornate water heater but he had no idea how to make it work. After several attempts, he gave up his efforts. Instead, he dragged the mattress from Jakob’s rumpled bed, put it in front of the fireplace and lifted Anya onto it. He tore the pages of an old telephone directory and crammed them into the grate. Gathering a pile of torn canvases and broken furniture that Jakob had wrecked, he made a heap of them on top of the paper. But all his matches were gone, and he had nothing to start a fire with. In near panic he searched the flat, scattering Jakob’s collection of pipes and tobacco onto the floor. Eventually, in a corner of the kitchen, he found a matchbox. There were only two matches inside and both felt damp. He knelt beside the fireplace and willed himself to move carefully. He tried to dry the matches on his shirt, but the only result was that they left long sulphur streaks on the fabric. Holding his breath, he struck one of them on the side of the box. It spluttered and seemed as if it would peter out, but the flame reluctantly grew, the paper burnt and the oiled canvases quickly had the wood blazing. The effect of the fire on Anya was near miraculous. In a few minutes she began to stir and then to shiver.

  A half-hour later she slowly began to wake. What touched Darcy was that it wasn’t an awakening from sleep, more a struggle to escape from captivity. His mind drifted back to a schoolboy memory of a butterfly fighting to be free of its chrysalis. Similarly, Anya began to metamorphose from a chemical carapace into a magical human being.

  Her returning circulation deepened the heavy bruising around her eyes. As time passed, he sat watching her by the light of the fire and tried to analyse what was happening to him. He had had plenty of women. Once, during a wakeful night in a bleak hotel room in some forgotten city, he had tried to remember them all. But it was like counting sheep and he eventually fell asleep. For many years it was the kind of thing he boasted about. Now he saw that most of these encounters had merely been matters of mutual exploitation. Two long-term relationships had nearly gone on to marriage but in neither case had there finally been sufficient devotion to make the commitment. Now Anya’s struggle to be free of whatever she had been drugged with stirred a strange magnetism in him, something that was entirely new. He tossed more of Jakob’s broken furniture onto the fire. As the flames lit up the room he thought how pitiful it was that the detritus of Jakob’s life should illuminate the emotional wreckage of his own loveless past.

  *

  “Cold.”

  The word jolted Darcy into activity. He twisted a piece of newspaper, lit it in the fire and carried it into the kitchen. The remaining match was too valuable to be used to light the gas stove. He quickly made coffee and in a cupboard above the sink found a bottle of Napoleon Brandy; Jakob lived well. When he returned, Anya lay gazing at the fire and appeared to be fully conscious.

  “Jakob?” she asked as Darcy put the mug of black coffee down beside her. She seemed unwilling or unable to face him.

  He moved closer and realised that her eyes were not yet focusing.

  “I am his friend,” he said.

  “No.” She said the word softly, her eyes trying to find focus. Then she screamed, “No! No! No!”

  The shouting stopped, and she rose on one arm and stared at him. Her face came to life and her whole body was suddenly energised. He could not tell if her shivering was from cold or fear. Part of the answer came quickly. The slow pain of returning circulation caused her to sob convulsively. Darcy went to the kitchen, took a towel and dampened it with the remains of the hot water in the kettle. Gently he began to wipe away the mess of mascara, lipstick, tears and grime. It seemed to give her the strength to deal with the pain. She relapsed into a daze and Darcy took a pile of cushions from the sofa to support her back.

  As they sat silently watching the fire, a wave of exhaustion swept over him. He knew he had to sleep and at last thought it safe to close his eyes.

  *

  When he woke, he was shocked to find that the sun was up and Anya was staring fixedly at him. She was icily calm, as if the cold from her warming body had retreated into her mind.

  “Who are you?” She spoke as if from a great distance.

  “You went to London. Jakob sent you to get help. Do you remember?” She nodded slowly and Darcy continued. “You saw a man called Thornhill, on the steps of a church, after a concert. He’s my boss.”

  She shook her head in disbelief. “But you haven’t helped us. Look around you.”

  Darcy couldn’t find an answer.

  Anya’s coldness was suddenly transformed into fiery accusation. “Where’s Jakob? What have you done with him?”

  “You’ll see him soon.”

  Her mood swung from anger to despair. “Away, they took me away,” she said.

  “Do you know why? Do you know why they took you away?” Darcy asked.

  She ignored his question. “They did this?” Her eyes travelled slowly over Jakob’s smashed treasures.

  “No, Jakob did it. He was distraught when he thought he’d lost you.”

  She was unable to comprehend what had happened. “All these things, they were part of him,” she said. Then her mood changed again. “Wolski,’” she said sharply, “they took me because they wanted to know where Wolski had gone.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “They gave me an injection.”

  “Anya, this is very important. Can you remember what you told them?”

  She collapsed onto the mattress and her answer came in a succession of gasps. “I told them nothing … everything.” She began to panic. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

  Darcy lifted her gently and cradled her head against his chest. “It’s okay, he’s safe. They can’t get to him now,” he said reassuringly. “But I won’t deceive you. The people who did this to you are still out there. They may be able to trace the car we used to get here.”

  Anya ignored the warning. “Find Jakob, bring him here. Bring him back to me, he’s all I have, I can’t live if he we
re…” She collapsed into sobbing which racked her whole body.

  Darcy held her closer. Slowly, the spasm subsided.

  “Soon, very soon,” he said in a whisper.

  *

  Darcy slept until mid-morning. When he woke, the grey winter light was still laden with the aggressive chill of the previous night.

  “Clean.”

  Darcy looked up to find Anya standing over him. She seemed unsteady on her feet, but her eyes were clear and she had a look of stern determination. Darcy, still half-asleep, did not understand her.

  “I want to be clean, I want a bath.”

  “There’s no hot water.”

  “You forget, this is my second home. I have clothes here. I know how to make hot water.” Darcy stifled a smile. Her English was excellent but occasionally an idiom sounded odd.

  “I’ll help you.”

  “No. Alone, I must do this.”

  She disappeared into the hallway, opened a number of drawers, returned with an armful of clothing and then disappeared into the bathroom. The door closed and Darcy heard the click of the bolt. He gathered up the filthy blankets and fed them slowly into the fireplace. They were damp with sweat and began to smoulder slowly. He crossed the room and opened a window. The fire sucked in the cold air and once more began to blaze. From the bathroom there came the sound of the water heater coughing and grunting into reluctant service.

  Darcy was still looking at the dying embers of the fire when Anya returned to the room dressed in a heavy Icelandic sweater and jeans. Her long hair was still wet. She seemed at peace with herself and spoke very formally.

  “Thank you. Did you save my life?”

  “I believe you may have saved mine.” Darcy’s words were out before he realised what he was saying. He was astonished. He’d never heard himself say anything of the kind before.