The Forest of Souls

by Carla Banks

Mama shook her head. ‘How can we? And Zoya says that times are hard there, too.’

  As the spring became summer, Marek’s face grew thinner and more drawn. Eva worked, and slowly, Mama’s health improved.

  ‘She must rest,’ Marek warned Eva.

  ‘I know.’ She was mending a seam that had worn away on one of Marek’s shirts. ‘Marek?’ she said.

  ‘What is it, little one?’

  ‘Is there going to be a war?’

  ‘Why are you asking me?’ he said. ‘I just…’

  ‘Marek. I know what’s happening. And Mila…’ Mila was her friend. ‘Mila says she’s afraid of what they will do if they come here.’

  He sighed. ‘Yes. And…Eva, it will go badly for people like us, too, like Papa, like me–and maybe for you and Mama. I want you to listen.’

  She pulled the thread tight to make the seam strong. Marek was talking to her, telling her things. ‘I’m listening,’ she said.

  ‘The fascist armies–if it comes from the west it will be the fascists. They hate the Jews–that’s why Mila is afraid. And they hate the communists, like us. Papa thought that we should try and cross the border, go to Zoya in Minsk. You’ll be safe there, you and Mama.’

  ‘And you? And Papa?’

  He laughed, but it didn’t sound like his real laugh. It sounded sad. ‘I would join the army. And Papa.’

  Eva looked across to the chair by the fire where Mama was asleep. ‘But Papa’s in prison.’ She kept her voice low.

  ‘Don’t say anything yet, but he may be coming home,’ Marek said. ‘We’ve been doing some work. But if not–Eva, I think we will have to go to Minsk. It won’t be safe here.’

  But the year wore on, and Papa didn’t come home.

  Then one night in August, Eva was waiting in the house. Mama had caught a bad cold that had left her with a cough she couldn’t shake off. She was resting. Eva had collected wood from the shed before the light went and stacked it by the stove. She fed the hens and secured their cages. Marek had gone out hours before. He hadn’t said where he was going.

  The autumn storms had come early that year. The day had been heavy and oppressive, and now the evening was filled with a sense of waiting. The air was still and breathless. Mama was dozing in her chair. Eva sat by the window, mending some shirts and watching the light fade into the summer night as the moon rose. Black clouds were gathering in the sky, and the air was electric. She could smell the storm coming. Marek was late. It wasn’t safe to be out in the forest in the storm.

  The clouds rolled in across the moon, and then something split the night from top to bottom in a dazzle of white light that faded to blackness, and then the thunder crashed. The winds came with a roar. The trees were whipped and tossed, their branches lashing through the air. And the rain came, chilling the warm night like death. And somewhere, in the wildness of the storm, in the deep glades of the forest, something raised its head and tested the air.

  Baba Yaga was waiting.

  Eva put the lamp in the window to guide Marek home, but the rain fell in sheets through the black night. The thunder roared again. Mama’s eyes opened and she murmured, ‘Stanislau…?’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Eva got her shawl and wrapped it round Mama’s shoulders. ‘It’s…’ She went to the window and peered through the shutters again, aware of Mama stirring behind her.

  The rain was a continuous drumming on the roof, and the roar of the wind drowned out any sound. Eva and Mama looked at each other. ‘Marek?’ Mama said.

  ‘He hasn’t come back.’ Eva’s whisper filled the room in a moment of silence.

  Mama stood up. ‘Where’s my coat?’ she said.

  ‘You can’t,’ Eva said. ‘You can’t go out there. I’ll go. I’ll find him.’ She was pulling on her boots as she spoke, throwing open the door.

  And then the thunder and the lightning came together in the loudest crash of all, the white light coming straight down out of the sky, turning the night into stark day. And in the yard there were two people, huddled together, frozen in the instant before the light went and the blackness returned.

  Mama stood quite still, her hand to her throat. Her eyes were huge.

  Eva stood in the doorway, and out of the night, the two figures stumbled: Marek, tall and strong, supporting the other man who breathed hard as though he had run a long race.

  Papa.

  Marek had brought Papa home.

  ‘Stanislau!’ Mama said. For a moment, her voice shook, then she was herself again. She brought blankets. ‘Marek,’ she said. ‘You too. You’re soaked, both of you. Here, by the stove.’ She wouldn’t sit down, but pushed them into the warmth. The movement made her cough.

  ‘We have to go,’ Marek said. ‘Before they find out.’ As he talked, Eva realized what he had done. He had arranged with a sympathetic policeman for Papa to leave after his visit to the police headquarters, as though he wasn’t already an imprisoned man. ‘They are so pressed, they may not realize, they may not even come after him, but I have to get him away.’

  ‘I know some people,’ Papa said. ‘But wait.’ He put his arms round Mama, and round Eva, and hugged them. ‘Marek will go with you to Minsk, to Zoya,’ he said. ‘I’ll get there. You mustn’t worry.’

  Papa was back. Marek had brought him back. Eva wasn’t worried.

  They were going away. They were going somewhere safe.

  16

  When Faith arrived at work on Tuesday morning, everything seemed so normal that she thought the events of the previous week must have been a dream. Groups of students assembled in the lobby, talking and laughing, a new display of posters brightened the noticeboards. The receptionists sat behind their glass window, answering phones, working at keyboards, getting on with the routine of the working day. It was as if time had split open and she had fallen through the gap, as if none of it had happened and it was all still to come, Helen’s death, the police, Grandpapa’s roses, cut to the ground, the opaque waters of the dam shattering into dancing reflections as the stone hit the surface, Finn’s voice: I could have talked to her. She walked through the lobby towards the lifts, answering the usual morning greetings with a nod and a smile that felt frozen on her face.

  When she got to her room, it was just after nine. The first thing she did was to phone Grandpapa. These days, she found herself checking up on him more and more frequently. ‘I am well, little one,’ he said in answer to her query. ‘And you? You sound tired.’

  ‘I am a bit.’ She hadn’t told him about Helen, and she wasn’t going to. ‘I’ll be all right.’

  ‘You are coming tonight?’ he said. ‘I make you something nice and we have the wine.’

  He’d forgotten. ‘Tomorrow. We said tomorrow, Wednesday.’

  ‘Tomorrow, then,’ he said. ‘You are coming?’

  ‘Of course I am, but why don’t we make it tonight instead?’ She didn’t like it that he was losing track of the days. Ever since Jake Denbigh had interviewed him, there had been something odd, something out of kilter.

  ‘No. Tomorrow. As we agree. I make the treat.’

  ‘What’s wrong with tonight? It’ll be better for me, actually.’

  ‘No, little one. If tomorrow is difficult, then you come next week.’

  Game, set and match to Grandpapa, as usual. She sighed with exasperation. ‘Tomorrow, then,’ she conceded reluctantly. ‘Shall I bring some wine?’

  ‘Yes, yes, that is good. Let me see…’ He fussed for a few minutes about what she should bring. She knew that age had more or less destroyed his palate, but he still enjoyed the ritual. When she rang off, she felt a bit better about him, her sense of unease assuaged by the normality of their conversation.

  There was a message on her desk to let her know that Antoni Yevanov could see her at four thirty that afternoon. She thought carefully about what to say to him. She could report good progress on Helen’s paper–it was, to all intents and purposes, complete. But she had to tell him about the missing file, and that would be more
difficult. She would effectively be accusing someone of tampering with the disk. She had no proof that it had been Trish, and she wasn’t going to make that accusation, but it would be there by implication.

  Her morning was taken up by one of those meetings where no one seemed to have much to say but used as many words as possible to say it. She could feel the glaze of boredom forming over her eyes as she struggled to pay attention. She doodled rose vines down the side of her notes, and watched the clock as it dragged round to the end of the morning.

  The meeting finished at one, and they emerged from the room dazzled and confused like animals emerging from a long hibernation. Faith had to get out. She detached herself briskly from the meeting post-mortem and went out on to the campus. She decided to skip lunch and pay a visit to the nearby art gallery. They had an exhibition of Russian icons that she’d been meaning to see.

  The gallery stood in a small garden surrounded by a white wall and railings. The grass was flat and dispirited, as if struggling for life in the pollution from the constant traffic. The gallery itself was light and airy, and the silence that closed round Faith as the doors swung shut behind her was soothing. Art galleries were places that were out of the world, out of time. She could hear the measured footsteps of the other visitors, and the low murmur of voices.

  She went straight to the room where the icons were exhibited. The walls glowed with colour, but as she looked more closely, she found their stylized inhumanity chilling. The icons depicted religious scenes, the Crucifixion, the Madonna and Child, the Adoration. From icon after icon, the figure of Christ gazed at her dispassionately from the cross, the Virgin watched with empty eyes, the Christ-child gazed out into the world from an old man’s face. The colours had the icy brilliance of jewels.

  There was only one other person in this part of the gallery. As she moved round the room, she was aware of a tall man in a dark suit with a trench coat slung round his shoulders, standing in front of a triptych of the Fall. She glanced at him, then looked again. It was Antoni Yevanov. He was absorbed in the painting, his patrician face as cold and distant as the icons themselves.

  He didn’t look as though he would welcome company, and neither would she. She had seen what she came to see, so she withdrew quietly. When she got back to the Centre, she saw Trish entering the lobby in the company of Gregory Fellows. They were talking animatedly, and Trish looked flushed and pretty. As Faith came nearer, she heard Gregory say, ‘I thought you’d like to know.’

  ‘Well, thanks Gregory.’ Trish looked up and saw Faith, and the animation died from her eyes. She gave a nod of acknowledgement. Gregory’s gaze dropped, and he went towards the basement without acknowledging Faith.

  The work had piled up on Faith’s desk while she’d been out. By the time she’d worked her way through it, it was time for her meeting with Yevanov. She collected her notes, checked through them quickly and went down to his office. Trish was back at her desk, and the look she gave Faith was cool and impersonal. She picked up the phone to let Yevanov know that Faith was there. ‘You can go straight in,’ she said.

  Yevanov’s greeting was brisk. He directed her to a seat and took a folder marked ‘Bonn’ out of his in-tray. ‘There has been a slight change,’ he said. ‘I have explained the situation to the organizers. They have suggested that you give a paper on your own work in the slot that was allocated for Helen, and present her paper as a poster. That way, it will be included in the proceedings.’

  Faith nodded. It made sense and it made her task easier. She told him what progress she’d made, and that she was confident that she could now get the paper finished. ‘And I found some letters to Helen from Gennady Litkin,’ she said. ‘But they didn’t give any idea of what she was looking for that night.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘But she was looking for something? Other than data for her paper?’

  ‘I think so.’ Faith told him briefly about what she had found.

  He sighed. ‘Maybe the police have been able to follow it up. It was an ill-fated piece of research. I wish…’ He shook his head. ‘I was surprised when you told me you had found Helen’s draft. Trish told me you were having some difficulty.’

  ‘I was, at first.’ She’d been wondering about the best way to bring this up, and explained quickly how she had got the copy of Helen’s documents.

  He was sitting with his chin resting on his hand, his curled finger against his mouth. His face hardened as she spoke, and she realized that he was not a man to antagonize. She remembered the question the young policeman had asked her about Yevanov’s relationship with Helen and, looking at him now, she wondered how likely that seemed.

  He would have been a hazardous choice for the happy-go-lucky Helen. Faith admired and respected him, but he was a private and complex man. If she were venturing on to the emotional quicksand of a relationship with someone like this, Faith would have retreated, warned off by the danger signals that were clear enough to read. But maybe that would have drawn Helen; she had, after all, chosen a cold and emotionally withdrawn man as a husband and father to her children.

  He didn’t comment when she had finished. ‘I see,’ was all he said. Whatever action he had decided to take, he was keeping to himself. ‘Is everything else progressing well? Have you given any thought to my suggestion that you might like to visit Moscow next year?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘You appreciate Russian icons. You should go.’

  He’d seen her at the gallery. She smiled in acknowledgement. ‘You didn’t look as though you wanted to be disturbed. I’d like to visit Moscow, yes. I thought I might take the opportunity to travel a bit. I don’t know Eastern Europe. I’d like to go to Poland. And maybe Belarus.’

  His eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘Belarus?’ he said.

  ‘My grandfather may have been born there. I think he’s Polish by treaty rather than by birth.’ She had a sudden picture of Jake Denbigh leaning in the doorway as they discussed the changing borders of Belarus.

  Yevanov’s dark eyes studied her with interest. ‘You look as though your blood comes from further east,’ he said. ‘You look…’ he hesitated, then said, ‘Russian, perhaps.’ She had the feeling he had been going to say something else.

  ‘And further west. My grandmother was Irish.’

  He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Irish-Russian. That’s an interesting mix. And an unusual one, I think.’

  By the time she left Yevanov’s office, it was after five. She felt tired as she drove home, and was relieved she didn’t have to go to Grandpapa’s. She decided she’d earned a relaxing evening, so she called in at the deli on her way home and bought some ravioli and salad. That was supper taken care of. When she got in, she dumped her coat and her bags and headed upstairs.

  Half an hour later, she was in her dressing gown running a bath. The bathroom was warm and steamy, and the air smelled of lavender. She’d poured herself a glass of wine and was just testing the temperature of the water, when she heard the phone ringing downstairs. She ignored it. Whoever it was could leave a message. She was about to get into the bath when her mobile vibrated in her pocket, almost making her drop her glass into the water. She checked the number. It was Grandpapa.

  ‘Faith,’ he said. He sounded puzzled and bewildered. ‘You don’t come.’

  ‘I…?’ She didn’t know what he was talking about.

  ‘I make the treat, but you don’t come. I don’t know…’ His voice trailed off.

  There was a sinking feeling inside her. ‘It’s only Tuesday, Grandpapa. We talked about it this morning.’ Something was wrong. Something was horribly wrong.

  ‘Tuesday.’ His voice faded away. ‘Yes, yes…I just…The camellia has the buds, you must see it.’

  ‘Of course I will.’ The anxiety was sharp inside her.

  ‘So many buds. I…I show you…’

  ‘Grandpapa. I’m coming. I’m on my way. Hang on.’

  ‘I…’ His voice faded again.

  ‘I’ll be there in half an hour. Sooner. Will yo
u be okay?’

  ‘I show you that Doreen doesn’t come. And Faith, I am worried about the locks. What if the burglars…?’

  Doreen again–he’d talked about her on Sunday, but Tuesday was one of Doreen’s days. She should have been there today. He’d been fine when she’d spoken to him that morning. ‘I’m coming,’ she said. ‘Sit tight. Don’t worry.’

  She was making her plans as she hung up. She might need to get the emergency doctor out. She definitely needed to stay overnight, and possibly tomorrow night as well. She packed up her laptop and threw a change of clothes into her bag. Books, books, she needed her books. She pulled what she needed off the shelves, and slung the bag–which now wouldn’t close–over her shoulder. She dumped it on the passenger seat as she got into the car, struggling one-handed with her seat-belt.

  As she drove too fast through the empty streets, one eye on the mirror for patrol cars, her mind was preoccupied by Grandpapa’s phone call, the incoherent jumble of words that tried to hide something she had never heard in his voice before: fear.

  17

  It was dark by the time Faith got to the old house. The wind blew, making the trees sway. The low-hanging leaves brushed against her face. The moon came out, illuminating the ivy-covered walls, the high laurel against the windows, then the clouds covered it again, leaving her in darkness.

  The windows were black. There were no lights. The house could have been deserted. She hurried up the drive, fumbling in her bag for her keys. Her fingers were clumsy and for a panicky moment the lock jammed as she tried to force it. She made herself take a deep breath, and turned the key smoothly. The door swung in, then stopped. ‘Grandpapa?’ She pushed the door again, then realized that it was on the security chain. ‘Grandpapa?’ she called, rattling the door. ‘It’s me. Let me in.’

  Silence.

  She rattled the door again. ‘Grandpapa? Grandpapa!’ She could hear the edge of panic in her voice. Anything could have happened. She was going to have to break in. She shoved against the door with her shoulder, but it wouldn’t give. It was going to take…She wrapped her scarf round her hands to protect them, and using her handbag, smashed the centre pane on the front door. The glass shattered. She froze, expecting an instant outcry, but nothing happened. She slipped her hand carefully through the broken glass and felt for the chain. She slid the bolt along until it fell free. The door opened.