Look to the Wolves

by Look to the Wolves (retail) (epub)

  Another shot: but there’d been a longer interval, this time. As if he’d known. Which he didn’t, of course, didn’t have the least idea. Half a minute gone and two magazines emptied, that was all, he was spacing the shots out now to make them last, keeping them high, watching for results… Ibraim inched forward slowly into range, then sprang – left arm clamping around the man’s neck, wrenching his head back. The Bolshevik had had his rifle slung on the right shoulder, and it fell, that arm striking back powerfully but ineffectually with the elbow, and then groping – uselessly, Ibraim had him pinned, body arched back against his own, was reaching around now with his knife arm – crack, and a rattle of debris falling – so as to stab upward from the front, locating the exposed throat between the turned-up points of the greatcoat collar, below his own horizontal left forearm. The first prick of the knife’s point galvanized his victim into a frenzy of resistance – a convulsion of terror, shock – straining to turn away from the blade, right arm flailing… Ibraim held him as in a vice, pressed the knife halfway to its hilt in the bulging windpipe and then twisted slowly, letting him feel it while he died.

  Outside, the rifle cracked again. Seconds passing: two, three, four, five…

  * * *

  Count to ten. Having worked the bolt, pushed a new round in.

  Something had to be happening in there. Ibraim wouldn’t be just standing around. There was – or had been – at least one of them in there: after his own second shot there’d been one in reply, and he’d aimed his third round at the flash. Nothing since.

  Nine – ten—

  Hold it…

  Ibraim, emerging. At least, a dark shape: and any of those others would have been running, not just coming out as if for a breath of air. But a thick, peculiar shape…

  Then he’d dumped the burden he’d brought out with him, spilling it off his shoulder to crash down in a dark heap on the trodden, muddy snow. Standing back with his arms spread, facing this way, identifying himself. Bob lowered his rifle, scooped up the spare and went to meet him. There wasn’t much light at all, by this time. Ibraim saw him coming and turned away, calling, ‘Other one—’ gesturing up towards the loft ‘—also dead. I bring…’

  * * *

  The other one was Maltsev. He had three bullets in him and had had no rifle, seemed to have been used as a sandbag, this other one probably firing over his prone body. Ibraim brought him out and dropped him beside the other. Bob had meanwhile called to Schelokov, who’d started over in this direction but stopped to bank up the fire with more dry timber. It was already picking up.

  ‘Well done. Well done.’ Sombre tone, though, no elation in it. Both of them – all three – grimly aware of what they might face now. Flames crackling behind him as he came on towards them, and the light spreading – lighting a number of bodies behind the fire, between it and the izba, and Bob’s crawler out in the middle, and beyond that the grenade-thrower.

  Schelokov gestured towards the cartshed. ‘In here, I think.’ A jerk of his head towards the izba. ‘I looked in there.’

  Bob nodded slightly, leaving it to him. Ibraim was motionless too, with his knife still in his hand. A moment ago he’d stooped and wiped its blade clean on Maltsev. Schelokov’s right hand moved across his chest to sling the rifle over his left shoulder; then he’d stopped in that shed’s wide entrance – his back rigid, shoulders square – staring in where the dancing firelight would be throwing his own shadow.

  ‘Oh, Christ. Oh, Jesus...’ It was a moan. ‘Jesus, no…’

  17

  Irina had been on her back, naked, and her throat had been slashed from ear to ear, her head lolling back so that the wound gaped open. Green eyes open too, glistening – upside-down, as it were – through a mask of blood. Before they’d killed her she’d been virtually ripped apart. Blood covered her from head to toe, and the details of her injuries had been such that having seen them one might have wished to have been born blind. But you had seen them, and however quickly you looked away or shut your eyes your brain had taken a photograph that would stay in it for life. They’d have cut her throat presumably when they’d decided she’d had nothing more to offer them. That scream would have marked the moment, which for all her terror might in its hideous way have come as a mercy. Not that that word was anything but incongruous here. There’d been none for Avdotya either. Her body, a dozen feet away from Irina’s had been scarlet in its own blood and like a rag doll, all broken. Nothing left unbroken, some joints actually reversed. They hadn’t cut her throat but her neck had been twisted like a chicken’s.

  Riding south, several hours later, having turned one’s back on nightmare in the physical sense but in every other way bringing it along – in the certain knowledge that it would be yours for life – however long or short that might be… While in contrast Nadia, in his thoughts of her now, was a survivor, the one who had been shown mercy.

  Except that perhaps this horror needn’t have come about at all. Then there’d have been nothing for her to have been spared. If one hadn’t come here? Uninvited and unwanted, blundering in?

  But she’d have been dead anyway. Was dead. Which changed the world around one. So – what difference… In this aftermath of nightmare not all one’s thoughts could have been spoken aloud or were truly acceptable even to oneself. Riding – trotting, now – with Schelokov ahead of him and Ibraim behind with the spare horses, thoughts and memories churning to the drumming rhythm of thirteen horses’ hooves on the road’s hard-packed snow, he could just about persuade himself that it would have happened anyway. Or that something like it would have. That Irina had been mad, should have got away weeks ago, irrespective of the condition of her patients. Dr Markov’s bitter comment came to mind: Letuchki have been obliged to abandon their wounded before this… It was all – in that area, extremely confused. Actions, incidents, conversations, details of the past hours’ sickening as well as backbreaking work… In no special or noticeably logical sequence, but probably starting with an exchange between himself and Schelokov, at some point in the early stages – when they’d both been figuratively speaking knocked flat by the initial, visual shock. He’d asked him – but really more asking himself – ‘What kind of men – if that’s what they were—’

  ‘God knows. God knows…’

  ‘We shouldn’t have let them die so easily.’

  A shrug… They’d been in front of the izba, in the fire’s light but upwind of its stink, that shapeless black thing in it. Those were the recalled visual images. And Schelokov’s hands shaking so violently that he’d had difficulty stuffing makhorka into his pipe. Which with all the other things that had been taken from them had been in that same shed, at the back where fodder and stores were stacked. Put there ready for examination by the Cheka, no doubt. Schelokov had muttered, ‘Tell you the truth, Robert Aleksandr’ich, before we started I did have some thoughts of not giving them a quick and easy death.’

  ‘Yes.’ He’d nodded. ‘Difficult, thought – in the circumstances.’

  ‘And one simply wanted them dead.’

  As indeed they had been. Fourteen of them. Three in the stables, six in the vicinity of the fire, one beyond the corner of the izba – a man who’d been trying to outflank Schelokov by working his way round behind the well – and the two crawlers out in the open yard, and Maltsev and his companion in front of the hay-loft.

  ‘So now – what?’

  There’d been decisions to make and then a great deal to be done, and no time to waste. The most difficult – and frightful – decision had been how to dispose of the women’s bodies. It had been accomplished, in fact, half an hour ago. The final sequence in the nightmare: although in point of fact ‘disposal’ might still be in progress. But – to all intents and purposes – it was done.

  Burial would have been the obvious thing, but the ground was iron-hard, deep-frozen, it would have taken all day to excavate a grave even if you’d had tools for it. In fact you had rock-hard ground, no tools and very little time.
And – this had been implicit between himself and Schelokov – there’d been no question of leaving them for others to see or even know about. For the representatives of the Cheka, for instance, when they arrived, or for other cavalrymen to gawp at.

  One solution which they’d discussed had been cremation. In that cartshed with its content of dry fodder – lie them on a bed of it and toss some burning timber in. But the blaze would have been visible from miles around, and Schelokov had pointed out that this could be fatal to their own chances of getting away now. ‘I’ve thought it out, Robert Aleksandr’ich. We’ll get a good start, if we do it right. A day or more, could even be several days – and then we’re clear. Depending on what we run into down there, of course. Here and now the vital thing is to leave no traces of what’s happened.’

  ‘No – traces…’

  Puzzled: gazing around at the sprawled bodies. All of which had bled. Although the freezing temperature did reduce the period of bleeding. But as well as the butchery in the cartshed there’d been blood and other mess in the loft, the stables, on the snow out there in the open, and pooled in the muddy, trampled ground around the fire.

  He’d look back at Schelokov. ‘If we had about a week – and shovels, mops…’

  ‘No. Think again.’ Puffing at his pipe, getting it going… ‘If we get down to it now, Robert Aleksandr’ich – three of us hard at it. All right, we won’t eliminate every trace, but we can make sure what’s left doesn’t tell them anything. Believe me, I’ve worked it out. For instance, the bodies – not those, but those things – we’ll put in the well.’ A nod towards the fire. ‘Including what’s left of that one.’ Glancing at him, then. ‘But I’m sure you’ll agree – not theirs. Not with that filth.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘With luck it’ll be a while before they’re found. As long as it’ll hold them all – I’ve no idea how deep… But – best way to set about it might be to stack them all beside the well first, so until we dump them we’ll have access to water for the clean-up. Fill that trough, too. And where there’s mess in the open we can wash it away as well as we can, then spread snow over what’s left. Come to think of it, same thing inside – using hay, and the litter that’s in there.’

  ‘Well. We can try, anyway.’ Bob had tossed more broken planking on the fire. There was a heap of it, piled against the izba’s front wall. The flames engulfed it at once, lighting the whole place up, and he turned back to Schelokov. ‘What about Irina and Avdotya?’

  This was when they’d discussed the impossibility of digging a grave, and the idea of cremation, a funeral pyre: which in fact was not only impractical in the context of Schelokov’s wider plan, but unsatisfactory because total destruction couldn’t be guaranteed.

  Schelokov had taken the pipe out of his mouth.

  ‘Bob, look here. It isn’t easy, this – problem. But there’s no time for lengthy contemplation. So let’s say we’ll take them with us, to start with. Wrap them – in greatcoats, say – bundle them up. Then – well, we’ve got horses, we’ll be taking all the horses—’

  ‘All?’

  ‘Look – these uniforms – Red Army… Be a bit stained and some’ll have holes in ’em, we’ll just pick the best that fit. And as I say, we have good horses here. You can be sure they’ll have been fed and watered, incidentally – but Ibraim can see to that, he’s a horse-handler, it’s his job. And you see – we’ve got uniforms, and horses, rifles to sling on our backs, swords at our sides. I’ll show you how a cavalryman wears his sword. We’ll be leading this bunch of remounts – thirteen of ’em, three under us and ten running with us. All cavalry formations need remounts – replacements for animals killed or lamed – and we’ll be bringing these to some unit that’s supposedly down there ahead of us. This way we can move in daylight – use the roads, or follow railway lines – d’you see? I doubt anyone we meet will think of asking to see our papers… Get the idea?’

  ‘Well – yes…’

  It seemed – so easy. A natural… Not that it came anywhere near answering the question about the women. He’d nodded, though, postponing that. ‘We should get along pretty fast – with spare horses too.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Take Mishka along with us?’

  ‘No.’ He’d frowned. ‘I hate to say it, but if she’s alive it’ll be a miracle. I heard wolves up there – didn’t you?’ Glancing at him, catching the uncertain nod, then looking down at the former NCO’s watch. Conscious of the passage of time… ‘Anyway, we must see to her. If she’s got away with it, we could bring her down to the road and turn her loose for someone to find. But—’ a shrug – ‘we couldn’t take her. She’d never keep up, for one thing.’ Pushing the watch back into his pocket. ‘Have to get up there, anyway, I don’t want to leave that Lee-Enfield. And we can take them up with us.’ He’d thrown a glance back towards the cartshed, and now his grey eyes held Bob’s. ‘If you follow my line of thinking?’

  He thought he did. Staggered, initially, by the enormity of the proposal: but facing also the lack of alternative.

  And the certainty that the girls themselves would have chosen anything rather than to have their remains left either with their murderers’ or where they’d later become objects of interest to others of that same kind.

  ‘As I said, this isn’t easy, Robert Aleksandr’ich. Don’t imagine I think of it without – extreme reluctance…’

  They’d wrapped them in their own coats – Schelokov’s well-worn Imperial Army greatcoat and his own naval one. Having already selected the best of the dead cavalrymen’s outer gear for themselves. Most of the hard labour had been over by this time: fourteen bodies piled beside the well, and the mess cleared up everywhere else. They wrapped the girls’ bodies and carried them out of the shed, leaving them out there while they applied themselves to the worst job of all, cleaning up inside. Bob at any rate working with his eyes open – and the firelight from outside for illumination – but with his brain, as it were, shut off. Meanwhile Ibraim had been seeing to the horses, putting saddles and bridles on all of them. There’d been minor tasks as well, such as packing rations, ammunition and a minimal amount of cooking and camping gear into the saddle-packs. Then when the cartshed was as clean as they could make it and they’d also cleaned themselves up, had no further use therefore for the well, they’d dumped the fourteen bodies. Including the half-burnt one, which was tipped in from a plank. Fourteen thudding splashes. Also ten swords and nine rifles, and various other unwanted gear. Ten saddles would have gone in too, but with the corpses already in there a quantity of saddlery would surely have been visible above the water-level. The basis of Schelokov’s plan was that whoever came to occupy the farmstead now would find it deserted, the patrol out on some military duty – with their horses, obviously, the only way a cavalry patrol would be out. The messenger who’d been sent to contact the Cheka knew there’d been three prisoners here, but it was hardly likely they’d guess those prisoners could have taken over – causing the entire patrol to vanish, along with its horses. The assumption would be either that they’d taken the prisoners with them or that the prisoners had escaped and they’d gone after them. But at least there’d be some passage of time before they began to suspect the truth; and meanwhile the Cheka visitors could drop that bucket in on its rope and draw water to make their tea, if they were so inclined.

  The saddles would be dumped somewhere along the way, wherever there was a ditch deep enough to hide them. Remount horses came bare-backed and in halters – headstalls and leading-ropes – Schelokov had said. There were no halters here, so these nags would be bridled but only saddled temporarily. And setting out from the farmstead, down the track and on to the road and turning south there, one horse had the two wrapped bodies tied on its back. There’d been no moon, not even a hint of it behind the clouds; and the fire would die down quickly enough, untended, although it had still been throwing its light across the empty yard behind them as they’d ridden out – with about two hours of
darkness left at that stage. Schelokov had been leading the burdened horse from his own saddle, Bob following on a very large black gelding – over sixteen hands, Schelokov had estimated – and Ibraim behind them with the other nine in tow. Then after a few hundred yards they’d turned off the road into the straggle of trees at the foot of the hill, and Bob and Schelokov had dismounted, leaving Ibraim with a dozen animals to look after while they climbed into the wood with the thirteenth and its load.