David Dickinson - Death on the Nevskii Prospekt

‘What on earth did you say to them?’ asked Powerscourt.

‘I told them, I’m afraid, my lord, that the three of you were just about to begin unnatural sexual acts right in the middle of their compartment. I said that these acts of depravity would continue until the end of the journey. I said it was their patriotic duty to go and tell the driver in person, whatever obstacles they might find in their way, that these Satanic practices were happening in his train. For myself, I said, I was going to keep an eye on the situation so I could make a full report to the authorities later on. Even when the four ladies were halfway down the next carriage, they could still be heard complaining of this insult to the Russian railways and their country’s honour.’

‘Well done,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Now then, you and your colleagues had better be off.’

Ricky was now the sentry. As he took up his position, he told Powerscourt that the best place in the carriage for the despatch of his weapons was behind one of the benches, about two thirds of the way down. Powerscourt tried to work out how long they would be able to hold out in this compartment. He worried about how exposed they would be making their way along the roof before the enemy showed up behind them. Gunfights on the roof would be fatal. A lot depended on how effective these soldiers were going to be. If they were well-trained killers, he and his little band were probably finished. But if they were recent recruits, mere rabble in uniform as a colonel in one of Powerscourt’s regiments had once described his opponents, they might lose heart after a few rocks from David’s sling and a couple of well-aimed pistol shots.

‘They’re coming, sir.’ Ricky Crabbe was grinning as he went into his first battle. ‘The women are holding them up. Looks like they’re getting a right lecture, sir.’ Ricky positioned himself behind his bench, eyes peering through the slats. Powerscourt, further back, almost at the door to the roof and the outside world, could hear footsteps overhead as Johnny and Mikhail and the sergeant made their way along the train. Powerscourt hoped the noise wouldn’t travel to the next carriage.

The young man who opened the connecting door couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen. He had joined the military as a better alternative to life in his peasant village. It was almost certain that he had never heard of the story of David and Goliath. Ricky’s missile caught him almost in the centre of his right eye. For a moment the Russian soldier blundered about thinking he was blind. Then he whimpered and collapsed on to a bench, holding his face. The soldier behind him gazed in astonishment at his colleague. He hadn’t seen the stone. Then he too received a present from Ricky Crabbe, smack in the centre of his teeth. He reeled backwards and blocked the doorway. ‘Now!’ said Powerscourt, and fled towards the open air. He knew that the next thing likely to come through the doorway was a stream of bullets. He had given his gun to Ricky to give himself one last burst of covering fire before he disappeared upwards. If Ricky was as good a shot with a pistol as he was with a stone or a rock, Powerscourt imagined he would hit the bull’s eye at two hundred yards with a gun in his hand. Now Powerscourt began to climb towards the roof. There were eight rungs to go. Still no sound from down below. Maybe the Russians were demoralized. Maybe the Major was giving them a pep talk.

Powerscourt was now walking uncertainly along the roof. The train was travelling at about twenty-five miles per hour. Light snow was beginning to fall. He saw that the gap between the two carriages was only four or five feet, not too hazardous a leap even for a person who was terrified of heights and regarded the roof of a Russian train as being about the same height as a skyscraper in Chicago. Then he heard it. There was a volley of shots down below, followed by a small cheer. Five seconds later there were four rounds from the pistol, followed by two screams and the sound of Ricky Crabbe coming up the steps and along the roof. Powerscourt thought there might be a pause down below while the wounded were attended to. Perhaps the other three were dead. As he jumped across to the top of the fourth carriage he saw that Ricky was now lying flat, waiting for the first Russian head to surface on to the roof of the carriage before he blew it away. Telegraph transmission seemed to be a good training ground for war. For the first time Powerscourt began to hope that they might survive this escapade. He had done what he was called on to do. He had fulfilled his mission. He dared not imagine what Lady Lucy would think of him cavorting about on top of a Russian train in the middle of the night, pursued by a gang of Russian soldiery. Lady Lucy, he realized bitterly, would be even less pleased with him now. For Nemesis had arrived at the other end of the third carriage. Johnny Fitzgerald and Mikhail must have descended back into the train before Nemesis began his climb.

Major Shatilov was looking at Powerscourt, delighted with his prey.

‘Good evening, Major.’ Powerscourt was trying to sound calmer than he felt. ‘A very good evening to you.’

The Major was standing right in the centre of the roof of the carriage. He took a gun from his pocket and shook his head. He shouted at Powerscourt in Russian. Then he pulled a whip from his other pocket and waved it vigorously towards his enemy. After a while he cracked it a couple of times. The thong seemed to Powerscourt to travel through the air at incredible speed. Then Shatilov pointed to his watch and his right hand went round many many times. It’s going to be a long-drawn-out affair, Powerscourt thought, death that might take a week or maybe two. Shatilov shouted some more. Powerscourt remembered the dreadful stories of Russian criminals sentenced to a thousand birch lashes in the terrible punishment known as running the gauntlet. When the victims collapsed after three hundred lashes or so they were carried off the parade ground. But when they had recovered they were merely restored to the gauntlet at the point where they had stopped on the previous occasion. Second time around most of the prisoners dropped dead long before they reached the thousand blows.

Powerscourt wondered if Ricky Crabbe could hear the crack of the whip or the sound of Shatilov’s voice. Maybe it was lost in the wind. He wondered if he should jump off the train and take his chance with a broken leg on the hard ground. He thought of his children and said a prayer for Lady Lucy. Maybe he should never have accepted this assignment and should have remained with the transepts and clerestories, the chantry chapels and the sarcophagi of England’s cathedrals. The Major was still fingering his whip, feasting his eyes on Powerscourt and his plight. Then Powerscourt saw hope. He saw more than hope. He saw Nemesis coming this time for Major Shatilov, as long as he didn’t look around. Powerscourt began talking to hold his attention. He pretended to plead for mercy. He sank to his knees, his hands raised in supplication. All the time his brain was calculating speed and distances and the time he would have to act unless he was to meet the same fate as the Major. On and on he went with his pleading. Already he had worked out what to do when the last moment came. It was nearly here. Shatilov was still looking at him. Now! Now! Powerscourt flung himself down and pressed his head and his body as tightly as he could into the roof of the carriage. The full force of the centre of the brick bridge hit Shatilov between the shoulder blades and broke his back. He was flung on to the roof of the carriage and his body scraped along the top of the bridge’s arch for a while before he toppled over the side. He was further mangled by the wheels of the train as they passed over him and rolled on into the night.