by Mark McKay
Then they were given a lecture in Russian by an officious looking man in uniform and allotted to their barracks, ten men in each. Nick assumed they’d just been read the rules and regulations of the place, but was none the wiser for that. He followed his fellow convicts into his barracks, where there seemed to be an immediate issue over who would take the lower bunks. The first five men through the door had the initial advantage and immediately took up residence. Then words were exchanged and one of them gave up his position to an older man. Another pair began arguing; a boy of about 19 and a thick-set man with a scarred face, at least 20 years his senior. Voices were raised and then punches thrown. At that moment four guards with rifles burst in and marched the two of them outside. They were methodically beaten with coshes for at least five minutes until they lost consciousness. When they came round they had to be assisted back inside by the very guards who had beaten them senseless. The younger man took the top bunk, with help. There were no more arguments.
Nick decided to bypass the dominance ritual and indicated to the man already on the lower level of the last bunks with a vacancy that he would sleep up top. The man, who was in his thirties and had a shaven head and numerous tattoos visible on his neck, said something.
‘English,’ said Nick. ‘Sorry.’
The man grunted. He turned to someone who spoke his own language and Nick was left to his own devices.
Nobody else spoke to him once they realised he couldn’t talk back. They spent two days at wherever this place was. After breakfast they were marched into the forest and made to chop wood. Trees were being felled with an electric saw wielded by a closely supervised convict, and then the rest of them would cut it up with axes. It wasn’t the most efficient way of working, but it kept them occupied. Nick looked for any opportunity to slip away, but they were being too closely watched. On the third day, another train arrived and disgorged ten new prisoners. Everyone was then put back aboard the original train and their journey continued. It seemed the mini-concentration camp had been no more than a transit stop.
Back in the confines of his carriage cell, the tedium continued. He was a model prisoner, meekly submitting to the handcuffs for the toilet breaks and obediently passing his eating utensils to the guard through the bars of his cage, after meals. In truth, there was no scope for anything but model behaviour. He felt well enough, but knew the bland mix of porridge, soup and tea had caused him to lose weight. He was mentally still sharp; he felt the lethargy amongst his fellow prisoners, born of their incarceration. Over the next few days it became contagious. The guards, who were normally so zealous in performing their duties, began to get a little sloppy.
On the fourth day out of the mini-concentration camp, they ran into a thunderstorm. It started early afternoon and didn’t stop. Nick could hear the rain battering the carriage and the crash of thunder, and found it a welcome diversion. It was still thundering when the evening meal was served. About an hour after the dishes had been collected, he was escorted to the toilet, handcuffed as usual. But just as had happened this morning, there was only one guard accompanying him. His friend hadn’t been seen all day.
The toilet was at the junction of two carriages, where the exit doors were. Through a barred window, Nick could see the rain pelting down and flashes of lightning splitting the sky. As per usual, he was unshackled and allowed to go inside alone. The door was then closed and locked behind him. He was supposed to knock when he was ready to come out and then present his hands, ready to be cuffed again.
Once he was inside, he thought about the next few minutes. The storm must have made visibility difficult, the train had slowed down. That would help. There was little point in thinking about what would happen afterwards, that was no help at all. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. Then he knocked on the door.
The guard opened it, handcuffs at the ready. With one sharp exhalation, Nick drove the heel of his hand directly into the man’s chin. His head snapped back into the wall behind him and he crashed to the floor. Nick could only hope that the sound of the storm had muffled the noise. He felt for a pulse and was relieved to find one. He hadn’t intended to kill the guard, but he wouldn’t stay unconscious for too long. He moved fast; removing the man’s boots and jacket and then cuffing his hands. He dragged him into the toilet and then shut the door and locked it. Once he’d got boots and jacket on, he picked up the man’s discarded rifle. Then he tried the door to the outside world.
It was unlocked. He pushed it open, to be met by howling wind and rain. The storm had darkened the early evening sky, but there was still enough light to see the forest passing by. He paused. The train might have slowed, but it was still moving hazardously quickly and he no longer had a choice. He held the rifle tight in one hand and forced the door open as wide as he could, with the other. Then he jumped.
He had his legs pulled up to his chest and he let go of the rifle and wrapped his arms around them, tucking in his head as best he could. There was hardly any clear ground between train and trees, but his leap had taken him in the same forward direction as the train. He rolled parallel to the forest, through shrubs and bracken and hard earth, and when he finally came to a stop the breath was knocked out of him. He stayed on hands and knees, waiting for it to come back. He felt the rain on his back and saw that the sleeves of the jacket had been badly ripped. He put a hand to his face and it came away wet, but with water and not blood. Miraculously, no bones were broken.
After a while he began regular breathing, again. He got up and went looking for the rifle, which he found about 30 yards away. When he looked up the track, the train had gone. He was alone. In a thunderstorm in a Siberian forest, with nowhere to go. He moved out of the rain into the cover of the trees. He decided to walk into the forest a little way and find somewhere to spend the night. He had no idea what sort of animals frequented these parts; there might be bears or wild cats roaming around. At least it was warm enough to sleep outside, all he had to do was make sure he wasn’t eaten during the night. He set off into the fading light, looking for shelter.
He survived the night under the canopy of a huge cedar tree, but he didn’t get much sleep. There were noises in the forest, unseen creatures moving around. At one point he thought he heard wolves howling, but it came from far away. When the morning came he knew what he wanted to do, and that was walk as close to the railway track as possible, until he found a river. Then he’d pick a direction and follow it till he came to a town. At some point on a river’s flow, he’d find people.
The land was thickly-forested, but there was plenty of space to move between the trees. In fact, it was a beautiful landscape. Had he not been so preoccupied with hunger and thirst, he would have appreciated it more. He found a little stream an hour after he started walking and managed to slake his thirst by drinking water with cupped hands. Later, he saw birds eating bright red berries and decided that they must be fit for human consumption. They weren’t very filling, but they were tasty and made a welcome change from soup.
It wasn’t easy to stay close to the railway track. He thought that if they were to come looking for him, they’d probably come down that track, so he moved further inland. After three days, he found the river. It was broad and clear and the water tasted divine. He picked his direction and started following it, in what he thought was a north-westerly direction. At nights he slept close to its banks. Sometimes, when he got up in the morning and waded in to splash water on his face, he would catch sight of a fat fish or two. They were too fast for him to catch, and he wasn’t going to try and shoot one.
It was warm, the height of summer, it seemed. The heat and his tiredness were disorienting; he saw people through the trees who melted away at his approach. At times, he thought he could hear a flute playing. He could smell jasmine, but there were no jasmine flowers here. He talked in his head. Sometimes to Lauren, about their child who never was. Then to Kamiko, about the secret she would never tell him. Neither woman replied. And the river stretched on, inte
rminably.
He went on in this fashion for two more days. On the morning of the third day, he set off as usual. On a bend in the river he almost walked straight into a huge brown bear, with his snout in the water. It was difficult to know who was more surprised. The bear waded into the river and then stood up on its hind legs and roared at Nick. He nearly froze, but with a seven-foot-high angry bear only yards away, he had enough presence of mind to fire a shot over its head. He figured that if he actually shot the creature it might not be enough to kill it and would just antagonise it further. The bear lumbered up the bank in fright and ran off into the forest. Nick sat down rather quickly, his heart pounding.
An hour later he ran into something else, but this time it was human. Two men dressed in hunting gear and brandishing rifles came out of the forest. He was surprised that he hadn’t sensed them coming, it was a mark of how exhausted he must be. They were both tall and broad-faced men, one young and one much older. Father and son duo, he guessed. The older man looked at him in something approaching wonderment, and spoke.
‘English,’ said Nick. ‘Don’t understand.’
The two men had seen the prison overalls and no doubt drawn their own conclusions. They weren’t expecting an Englishman to be wearing them, however. They looked confused. The younger one took over the dialogue.
‘I speak some English. You’re an escaped prisoner.’
He could hardly deny it. ‘Yes. Before you turn me in though, I would like to make a phone call.’
This statement was translated for the benefit of the older man. There was some further discussion between father and son.
‘He wants to know who you want to call,’ said the son.
‘British Embassy. Moscow.’
The father took the pack off his back and reached inside. He produced what looked like a portable phone from the 1980’s, with a thick black aerial.
‘You mean there’s a signal out here?’ asked Nick. ‘What is that thing?’
‘Satellite phone,’ said the young one, pointing skywards.
Nick sat down, totally exhausted. ‘Can you get the operator? Translate for me?’
‘Sure.’ Both men seemed fascinated by Nick’s appearance. He supposed that escaped prisoners were something of a novelty round here.
After a few minutes, the younger man handed Nick the phone.
‘Can I help you?’ asked a male voice, with perfectly modulated English vowels.
‘Yes. I’m an English national stranded in Siberia. Do you think you could get me out of here?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Webb, Nick Webb.’
There was a short pause, and Nick could hear someone talking in the background. Then the first voice was back.
‘You were reported missing almost two weeks ago, Mr Webb. Good to hear from you. Just tell us where you are and we’ll see what we can do.’
‘Right.’ He looked at the young Russian. ‘Where am I?’
Chapter 15
The nearest city was Tomsk, some 50 miles away.
‘There’s no British consulate in Tomsk,’ said the embassy man in Moscow, whose name was Philip Cooper. ‘Not a problem, though. Just what have you been doing for the last two weeks?’
Nick told him. ‘I’ve got no money, and I’m dressed in prison overalls. And a uniform jacket of the Russian prison service. If anyone sees me like this, they’ll report me. I don’t know what these two men I’m with now have in mind, either.’
‘Let me speak to one of them,’ said Cooper.
Nick passed the phone to the older man. After two minutes of rapid conversation in Russian, he passed it back again.
‘I’ve told him you’re a British subject and asked him to help get you to Tomsk airport,’ said Cooper. ‘He’s not totally convinced you’re not a criminal, but he’s agreed. For a price.’
‘I can’t pay him.’
‘I can sort all that out. Now listen, this is what you do once you get to the airport.’ Cooper outlined his plan of action. When he’d finished, he made Nick repeat it back to him.
‘Good,’ said Cooper. ‘Now, with a little good fortune we’ll soon be seeing you here in Moscow.’
The younger hunter introduced himself as Viktor, and his father was Anatoly.
‘We heard a shot,’ said Viktor. ‘That was you?’
Nick nodded. ‘I met a bear.’
Viktor looked around. ‘He got away, then. Your rifle, please.’
Nick handed it over. He got shakily to his feet. ‘What now?’
‘We have a car, maybe one hour from here. Can you walk that far?’
‘Of course. Just tired.’
They set off, away from the river and into the trees. Viktor explained that they’d come after wild boar and had been surprised to hear the shot. Not many people hunted out here. Their resulting curiosity had led them to where they’d found him.
‘The bear was lucky for you,’ said Viktor.
There wasn’t much talk on the way to the car. Nick hoped Anatoly wasn’t having second thoughts about this. He looked distinctly uneasy when they reached the parking spot. He beckoned the other two to stay out of sight and then carried out a thorough inspection of the area, before whisking Nick into the back seat of what looked like an ageing Lada. It seemed to Nick like an overly-cautious manoeuvre; the Lada was the only car there.
Anatoly’s mood improved once they were on the way. He produced a flask of something from the glove box, and took a drink.
‘Stolichnaya,’ he said. ‘Vodka.’ He passed the flask to Nick. After days of nothing but berries and water, the alcohol hit his throat with a vengeance.
‘Shit,’ he murmured, coughing with the shock of it.
The two men up front laughed. Viktor grabbed the flask and took a long drink.
‘What do you say in English? Cheers!’
‘Cheers,’ rasped Nick.
The ice had broken. Nick looked at the road ahead. They were the only people on it, currently. And if Anatoly didn’t empty the contents of that flask in the next hour or two, they’d stay on it long enough to reach the airport. He felt a smile coming on. He might just get out of this mess, after all.
They took Nick to the Skyline hotel, close to the airport. Anatoly went inside and re-appeared ten minutes later, with jeans and a shirt. And a fistful of roubles. There was another man with him, wearing a navy-blue jacket with the hotel logo emblazoned on its breast pocket. He introduced himself.
‘I’m Stanislav. Mr Cooper told me you were coming. I hope the clothes fit.’
Nick got changed in the back of the car. The jeans were a little loose, but they fitted well enough. He gathered up the prison overalls and the guard’s jacket. Stanislav gave him a curious look.
‘Evidence,’ explained Nick. He shook hands with Anatoly and Viktor and then followed Stanislav into the hotel.
‘Will they say anything to the authorities about me?’ he asked Stanislav.
‘No. They’ve taken money, for which I have a receipt. They will keep quiet.’
‘It’s good of you to do this. How do you know Philip Cooper?’
‘He was a guest here. When I told him my son wanted to study in England, he helped me with applications and visas. I trust him.’
Stanislav was a large, barrel-chested man with a handsome face and dark, curly hair. If he was concerned about taking in an unknown guest who’d arrived wearing prison clothes, he hid it well.
‘I have a room ready for you,’ he told Nick. ‘We can probably find more clothes, too.’
‘What about the flight to Moscow?’
‘All arranged. I have a boarding pass printed and the flight is at 10am tomorrow.’
‘I don’t have a passport, or any other ID.’
‘Mr Cooper emailed a document that you can present to the airline staff and passport control. It will get you to Moscow.’
‘Thanks. Now, if you don’t mind I’ll go straight to my room. I need a bath and some sleep.’
‘Here,’ said Stanislav, pressing some money into Nick’s hand. ‘You’ll need this for the taxi to the airport. I’m here till 8pm and I won’t see you tomorrow morning. Order whatever you like, within reason. I’ll leave a note for the check-out staff. You won’t need to pay anything.’
Nick shook hands with his unlikely saviour. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’
Stanislav smiled. ‘My pleasure. And good luck.’
The following morning he woke early, before the alarm went. He felt almost reborn; it was amazing how rejuvenative a hot bath followed by a hot meal could be. Stanislav had found a jacket and a pair of jeans in his size and some shoes to replace the guard’s boots. He’d also provided a small suitcase, into which Nick stuffed his prison garb. He wondered if the airport had been alerted about an escaped Englishman and if so, how far his diplomatic documents would get him. At least if he was re-arrested, the embassy would know where to start looking for him. There was nothing for it but to bite the bullet and try to board his flight. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door; breakfast had arrived. He looked at the tray. On it there was cereal, fruit juice, an omelette and sausages, and a pot of English tea. He decided to take his time over it. The prospect of being incarcerated again and fed porridge and watery soup till god knew when meant he would enjoy every last morsel of this feast. He might even have another hot bath.
He needn’t have worried. Although his documents caused the official at passport control to raise his eyes and consult with a colleague, he was admitted to departures without fuss. When the flight took off as scheduled, he was relieved to see the city of Tomsk receding beneath him. Four hours later, they landed in Moscow.
Cooper was there to meet him. He wasn’t alone, either. Nick recognised the tall, elegant form of Mariko Mashida standing next to him when he came through arrivals. The last time they’d met in person was in London, shortly before Nick was smuggled out of England.
