Bloody Sunset

by Bloody Sunset (retail) (epub)

  Like fate itself, taunting them…

  Slowing, now: and stopped. A lump or two bouncing down: dust partially settling. A contortion of the Count’s nigger-minstrel features, as if he might have been about to burst into tears… Bob said to the orang-utan, ‘You and me now.’ Their turn at the face, the other two clearing behind them – and starting more or less from scratch. In fact there was more than there’d been to start with. And it could happen again – and again. With, incidentally, the risk of noise from the outside coalheap’s subsidence attracting interference – from the back-door sentry, for instance.

  * * *

  Thinking, as he worked – that if that watch had been smashed when he’d killed the guard, that would have been, say, thirty-five or forty minutes ago, and the time now would be about a quarter to ten.

  He’d expected to be out of here half an hour ago, at least. Sunset would have been at about eight o’clock, eight-fifteen. Moonset might not be more than half an hour off now. And this mining operation could be ended abruptly by the night shift coming on duty – or by that outside sentry hearing something… Working like this, making a lot of noise because it couldn’t be done quietly, you wouldn’t have heard even if they’d been battering at the door… But – controlling imagination, and assuming the chute was going to be cleared before any such disaster struck – think about revised timing for the rest of it…

  His own solo job might take about half an hour. Concurrent with the others’ preparations, which he guessed would probably take longer – depending to a large extent on how long it might take Maroussia to locate her donkey and get him back to the coachhouse.

  Another five minutes gone. Coal-dust, sweat, no obvious progress…

  ‘Hunh!’

  Deep grunt from the orang-utan. Name – Franz, Franz Majerle… Gibbering, and pointing into the black void. It did seem to be a void – a hollow, as if there was nothing there now to gush through. Although a couple of times before it had seemed to be like this and each time it had only been congestion which had then been cleared, starting a new inflow.

  But this time – perhaps…

  Bob had pushed up beside him: peering into the black hole.

  Through it. At night sky – still moon-washed – and a glitter of stars… Nick’s voice in a croak: ‘Is it clear?’

  ‘Looks like it.’ Turning back to them: relief already overtaken by the need to get on with it – get out of here. But Nick had to be briefed first. And meanwhile for the orang-utan’s benefit a finger to his lips: explaining to Krebst, ‘Sentries – might hear us, and then—’ miming, pointing outside, touching his ears for hearing, then a forefinger cutting his own throat. Understanding, translation, the orang-utan – Majerle – nodding his ridged, sloping forehead, ape’s eyes gleaming white from the black surround. Ready-camouflaged, in fact, for the next stage… He told the Count – the other two crowding in as well, Krebst visibly concentrating on what was being said – ‘Nick – take these two to the coachhouse now. Don’t leave a trail – when you’re clear, stop and take your boots off, carry them. But there’s a moon, so use the shadows, go very carefully.’

  ‘What will you be doing?’

  ‘Laying a false trail. I’ve thought it through, I know how to do it. Should take me about half an hour. But if I don’t make it, Nick, when the rest of you are ready to go, just go, don’t wait for me – huh?’

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘I’m about to explain that. But this is important – on no account wait for me, just go ahead – d’you understand?’

  ‘Why don’t we both take these two to the coachhouse, then you and I together—’

  ‘No. We’ll do it the way I’m telling you – please.’ He was talking fast, urgently… ‘I’ve planned this out, it stands a good chance if we do it right – but the plain fact – you’ve got to accept this, Nick – is that if I don’t make it there’d be no point waiting, it wouldn’t help me, or anyone else either. What matters is getting the girls out of here, and this is the only chance we’re likely to get. Here’s the scheme now – it’s up to you to explain it to them and get them started, so you have to go with these two to the coachhouse – sooner the better… First – Maroussia – while you three are getting cleaned up and the girls are getting ready – ask them to get some food together, whatever can be spared – Maroussia must get her donkey in and harness him to the telega. Now there’s the remains of an old boat in the coachhouse. Get that on the cart – with the tarpaulin over it. Lash the boat keel-up across the top of the cart – keel up, upside down, in other words… And tell Maroussia – she’s supposed to be barmy – right? – that although that boat’s timbers are all holed and rotten she’s got to have this crazy notion that she can sell it or barter it for food. And if they ask her why she’s setting out in the middle of the night, she can say they make her work all day, what other time does she have, etcetera. She’ll be going north, incidentally…’

  ‘And we’ll be in the cart?’

  ‘No – we won’t. Listen…’

  * * *

  He’d given Nick the revolver. ‘Here. I won’t be doing any shooting. Don’t you, either. But we might need it in the next day or two. Go on now, Nick.’

  ‘But what if we can’t find that—’

  ‘Just bloody well have to. Now go on!’

  The Count went first, worming out through the chute. Then the orang-utan, and last the sergeant, with a farewell grin and a nod to Bob over his shoulder before he began to wriggle through.

  Keys: one in a cell door, the other – he checked – in his pocket. Knife on his belt, in Nadia’s sheath. Nick had got his own knife back… Hesitating, whether or not to douse the oil-lamp. He decided to leave it: in an hour or two it would burn out anyway, meanwhile better to leave things looking as they had been.

  The others would be knocking on the coachhouse door by now. Please God. He climbed up the slope of coal, pushed his top half into the aperture, used elbows and knees to force himself through.

  Into clean night air. Silent, moonlit, apparently empty night. A little breeze, and the distant thrumming of the river. The side of the coachhouse – actually of the lean-to kitchen – was directly across from here, across open ground that was palely moonlit until you got over there where there was shadow from the stable block. They’d be inside by now: the girls probably fainting with shock at the sight of them.

  Not Nadia, though. He thought she wasn’t the fainting type. But he was going to put them at some risk now by passing close to them, using that shadow: pass close by the coachhouse and along the stable block frontage – the way he and Nick had gone last night. Starting now, and hoping not to run slap into Maroussia…

  Boots off. Then running – doubled, head down, trying to do it soundlessly. Thinking meanwhile that it would probably be more sensible to walk – upright, even whistling…

  Into the welcome shadow. Bare feet – well, shreds of socks adhered to them still – on cool, smooth cobbles. Same route now, exactly, as last night when he’d followed Nick. Same destination too. Trusting there’d be no fishing-party around: last night having been Sunday, the end of the weekend, with any luck Monday wouldn’t be a fishing night.

  Behind him, as he left the western end of the stables, starting towards the birchwoods, he heard Maroussia calling ‘Don Juan! Hey hey, Don Juan! Gdye tiy, Don Juan?’

  The old darling. God bless her. And save her from what might otherwise be – he guessed – inevitable. Work some miracle for her? He thought, If ever a miracle was deserved… In the thick grass now, where they’d been last night when the owl had hooted. He was ready for that tonight… But only Maroussia calling again, somewhere behind him: she might even have spotted him, if those small, round eyes of hers were busy searching for Don Juan… Bloody moon. Best get into cover before stopping to put boots back on.

  Except – this wet grass – ideal… He stopped, squatting down to wipe them clean of coal-dust. What had been important was not to lead them to the
coachhouse, but here they could pick his trail up if they liked, they were supposed to believe escapers had come this way. A thought arose from that: to come back over the same tracks. Just in case they lasted, into the light of day – even the early morning dew… He had his boots on, was trotting on: a minute later he was in the cover of the birches.

  And around them, in the spinney’s edge, as last night. If he ran into Stukalin’s ghost looking as he was now the poor thing would probably let out a worse yell than ever… There’d been no more yells from Maroussia. Presumably she’d found her donkey. He halted, short of the driveway and looking up and down it, listening. Nothing… He went on across it: glancing left across Stukalin’s meadow at the glowing front of Riibachnaya Dacha – which last night he’d also seen from here; this same view but little guessing when he’d been gazing at it that very shortly afterwards he’d be marching in there with his hands up.

  A lesson learnt the hard way. But it could have been harder still. And it wasn’t only luck – this was part of the same lesson – you needed some luck but mostly it was doing the thing right.

  Like killing, when you had to.

  He could see the river. The moon lighting its surface like polished silver a hundred or a hundred and fifty yards out, while closer to this bank the shadows from the trees reached out, their reach extending further as the moon slid down. The steamboat was in sight too now, funnel and superstructure silhouetted against the bright water out beyond.

  At about this point last night he’d told Nick he didn’t need him, that he’d go on alone.

  Assume there were no fishermen. There surely wouldn’t be, two nights running: and to check it out you’d be taking the risk Nick hadn’t realized was a risk – groping through the trees, with sticks and dead leaves scrunching underfoot. Job for a Red Indian…

  Riverbank, then, no reconnaissance of the willow groves. As quietly as possible, but also bearing in mind that you didn’t have any time to waste.

  The steamboat was berthed precisely where it had been. He backed into the trees’ cover, then moved quietly along towards the downstream barrier of timber piles. It was all in shadow there, the deepest shadow being around and between the piles themselves. He’d come far enough. Pausing to listen – for parties bivouacked in the woods, first. But the river’s sounds would cover most of any other, when you were this close to it… He was near-enough certain of total invisibility, right close to the piles, rubbing shoulders with them.

  Cigarette smell…

  Searching – and finding it. Red pinpoint, down on the landing-stage. And the dark shape of a man sitting or squatting on the stage, more or less abreast the steamboat’s stern… He cleared his throat, and spat. He – not Bob… Bob standing as still as the timber pile beside him, examining the landing-stage, riverbank and the steamboat’s deck and stern for any other human presence.

  Just that one. As far as he could tell.

  Knife – accessible, loose in its sheath. He left it there, lowered himself to his hands and knees and started crawling down towards the stage. Grateful for the noise the river made where it sluiced between the timbers and between the stage and the steamboat’s hull. That crewman – watchman, whatever he was – was facing the river. Would be, obviously. Gazing out past the boat’s stern at the silvered midstream flow of Russia’s beloved mother-river…

  Creeping on down, getting close now. Keeping to the deep shadow and his eyes on the as yet unsuspecting smoker. Deciding against using the knife: if it could be done without it. He’d been lucky with the guard in the cellar; he was no knife-man, had no experience of knife-fighting and knew very little about anatomy. But probably more important here was the question of blood. Not out of squeamishness – he’d put that kind of weakness behind him – but with a half-formed thought that it might be better if there was not any mess on the landing-stage.

  Actually that thought wasn’t only half-formed… He was close enough now. Pausing… The thought had been temporarily obscured, that was all, but it was sound enough, it surely would be better not to leave signs of a killing here.

  He went at him in a crouching run, not directly from behind but from the right flank. Crashing into him, hands grabbing at his throat and crushing, the crewman jack-knifed over on to his face by the impact – he’d had no chance, had been taken completely by surprise, the breath knocked out of him and no breath or sound getting in or out thereafter: neck broken, probably – it had felt like it, through his hands – and throat crushed flat.

  Holding on. Making sure of it. Panting: heart going like a piston… Thoughts going back to the girls waiting in the coachhouse, remembering the panic he’d felt for them during the long hours when there’d seemed to be no hope. And of the ropes dangling, those disgusting mementoes of appalling bestiality… And himself in that pitch-dark cell – shaking, in anticipation of Khitrov. Facing it: nothing one could have done but face it: but still shaking, in the dark. The river’s thrum and its gurgling flow between the timber piles were the only sounds outside his own hard, short breathing… A minute: might have been ninety seconds by now: and his father’s voice out of memory, the old man warning him about deficiencies which in the pursuit of a career at sea he might find it advantageous to overcome: You’re a bit of an old softie, you know…

  He let go slowly. The body slumped down and he pulled back, taking his weight off it.

  There was a holstered pistol. He took it, pushed it inside his own belt, leaving the holster because there wasn’t time for that. Having to check the steamer now. And boots off, first: then into her stern, boarding just where he had the previous night. Stem and side-decks were empty: a glance up each side was all that took. Wheelhouse, then – also empty: so back to the stern.

  He crouched, listening: heart still thumping…

  No snores, tonight.

  But a sleeper didn’t have to snore. And seconds, not minutes, counting now: with a body lying in the open and even chances of other crewmen coming back aboard for the night. Not to mention the half-hour he’d allowed himself, the fact Nick might do as he’d been told… He stooped into the companionway, crept down inside.

  Empty cabin: lit by moonlight reflected from the river through ports on the outboard – starboard – side… Relief was – considerable… But now, get on with it – while the luck held. He went up, and forward, found the engineroom hatch – boiler-space, then engine-space abaft it, and in there two iron deckplates giving access to the bilges. Up on deck again and back over the stern to the landing-stage: hoisting the body across his shoulders, carrying it on board and below, finally sliding it into the bilge-space head-first; he had to fold the legs in before he could get the cover properly reseated.

  They wouldn’t check in there immediately. The little steamer would be found somewhere down-river – with good luck, a long way down. They’d find her deserted, and assume that whoever had taken her – escaped prisoners, surely – had either been content to let the river carry them downstream, or so ignorant of the principles of steam propulsion that they’d boarded and cast off in the belief there’d be some way to start the engine. When they’d realized their error – or grounded on some bend or mudbank – they’d abandoned her.

  But that would be the way they’d gone. Even if she was only carried a few hundred yards before she stuck. Not even Lesechko would doubt it – for a day or two.

  On the landing-stage he cast off the bow mooring rope first, then leant his weight against her stern to start her swinging out. A start was all it needed: the stream took charge then, pivoting her on her stern, which was against the stage, held by the after breast. Then judging his moment, he threw the turns off that bollard too, lobbed the coils of line into her stern, and watched her go.

  14

  He knocked on the door – panting, having jogged all the way back from the river – and his double rap was answered immediately with a whisper of ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Bob.’

  ‘Glory to God…’ Nadia’s hissed murmur,
as the door creaked open; then he was inside and she was pushing it shut and fastening it behind him. Bob taking in the lamplit scene: Don Juan standing between the telega’s shafts, that wreck of a boat on top of it, Nick and Krebst looking up from securing the tarpaulin over it with rotten-looking twine. He checked the time – on Nadia’s little watch: ten forty-two… Maroussia beaming at him, her old fingers working at the donkey’s cheek-strap, Irina coming from the kitchen with a bundle wrapped in cloth – food, no doubt. Both the girls were wearing trousers and wool jackets. Nadia whispered, brushing at herself where he’d touched her when getting at her watch, ‘You’re filthy!’

  ‘No time to wash, either.’ Smiling as he turned to her. ‘Sorry. Later, I’ll—’

  ‘You’re also brilliant. Truly.’ Irina pushed in between them, similarly welcoming, and Bob smiled at her: ‘Irina. Sorry we gave you an anxious time.’ Nadia continuing, across this, ‘Nick’s told us all about it, Bob. We owe you – everything…’

  ‘Owe Maroussia, not me.’ But he wasn’t thinking much about who owed what to whom: for the moment there wasn’t time to think about anything except the essentials of this evacuation. Although as it were in the same short breath he was conscious of a surge of – well, elation – astonishment in it too – at what he’d read – was still reading – in her face.

  Lovely face. Having then to wrench his eyes off it, and using Maroussia as an excuse – although he meant this anyway – ‘Maroussia, how can I thank you? There aren’t words…’

  ‘Who wants words?’

  ‘But I think you’ll have to come with us now. They’re sure to guess – in time.’

  ‘In time, I’ll be dead. What did you do with the key?’