Tom Callaghan - A Spring Betrayal

“You mean I care too much for the dead,” I said.

“You care about justice, not just for the dead, like Gurminj and Rustam, Alina and Urmat and Yekaterina Tynalieva, but for everyone without a voice. Justice for everyone who wakes up wondering what new pain will appear when the sun rises,” she said, and I felt my heart splinter against her words.

“Let me tell you about being a coward,” I said, making my voice ugly, harsh. “It’s about hiding from the truth, doing anything to avoid being confronted by something that terrifies you. It’s about doing something wrong because you can’t bear the situation you’re in to continue.”

I stopped for a moment, trying to put the words together in my head that would force her to abandon me.

“When Chinara was in the hospital for the last time, and we both knew there was no hope of her ever coming back home…”

I paused, unable to speak.

“I know what you did, Akyl,” Saltanat said, with a gentleness I’d never suspected of her. “I guessed it almost from the moment I met you. You demand justice for the dead, but you also want mercy for the living.”

I was silent, my palms sweating, my heart the loudest thing in the universe.

“I know, because when I was raped, you didn’t blame me, you didn’t agonize about what you could have done to prevent it. You got me medicine, you gave me clothes and shelter. You helped avenge me.”

Saltanat put her hand on my shoulder, the way you comfort a child newly frightened out of a nightmare. I felt her breath warm and sweet on my cheek.

“It must have hurt like hell to see me wearing your dead wife’s clothes. I remember the hope on your face when I walked into the room, and the pain when you saw I wasn’t her. And how we sat in silence watching the moon pick out the snow on the mountains.

“You eased Chinara out of her pain and onto her journey. And now you hate yourself for it, and blame yourself for living when she died.”

Saltanat slid down beside me, placed her arm across my shoulder, held me, while I thought of nothing. We listened to the silence of the house, and I hoped that would bring some kind of grace and absolution.

By silent consent, neither of us discussed what turned out to be a confession, perhaps even a declaration of sorts. We shared a mattress on the floor of an upstairs room, Saltanat sleeping with her head on my shoulder while I lay awake for hours, staring at the faces that emerged from the stains on the wall.

We spent the next day discussing what to do. I voted for a quick headshot and a high-speed exit over the border into Kazakhstan. Once there, we could work out what to do next. My desire for revenge was fierce, on behalf of Gurminj, Rustam, the dead children. At night, I dreamed of seeing the sudden terror in Graves’s eyes, heard the half-uttered scream and watched his brains spatter gray and viscous against a bloodstained wall. I could almost taste his fear. And if a bullet came my way, perhaps that made a suitable end for an endless struggle.

Saltanat was calmer, more rational. She wanted to see Graves punished, but, smarter than me, she thought ahead, wanted to prove me innocent of the child pornography charges. Hour after hour, we debated strategy, tactics, but all the time I could feel the tension on a trigger, imagined my finger tightening and then the recoil. The muscles in my jaw pulsed with the need for sudden blood.

“Listen to me, Akyl, killing Graves isn’t the answer. We haven’t even proved it’s him,” Saltanat argued, pounding one fist into another for emphasis.

“He’s dirty, and you know it. You saw the films.” My voice flat.

“Yes, but I didn’t see him. Maybe he wholesales the porn, buys it in, that makes him guilty of a lot of things. But maybe not murder.”

“I don’t give a fuck about proving it. He doesn’t know what goes on in the cellar of his own house?”

I heard my voice getting angrier, didn’t bother to rein it in.

“When you scoop shit off the street, do you care whether it’s from the ass of a dog, a cow, or a horse? It’s still shit, and needs to be cleaned up.”

Saltanat sighed in frustration, sat back on her heels.

“If you’re looking for a gunfight, one in which you die heroically, gun blazing, the bad guys falling dead, that’s up to you. I can’t stop you. If you don’t mind everyone remembering you as a man who peddled the worst kind of filth for money, again, your call.”

I shrugged, as if I didn’t care one way or the other.

“First of all, we have to appear to back away. To convince Graves the slaughter at the hotel made us realize we were in too deep. Amateurs. And with him having the iPhone evidence of his involvement, we’re just going to disappear.”

I had to admit it made a lot of sense, even if my anger and pride made it hard to swallow the truth.

“So what do you want us to do?”

“We call him,” Saltanat said. “We tell him we got the message, we’re crossing the border, he has nothing to be concerned about.”

“He won’t believe that,” I said. “He’s made a lot of dirty money, dirty friends, dirty enemies. He won’t be happy until we’re in the cellar starring in his next home movie.”

“That’s why I’m going to make the call,” Saltanat said. “He hears an Uzbek accent, we’re a gang from over the border. Especially when I tell him you’re dead. And send him the photos to prove it.”

“I take it I’m not actually dead,” I said.

“You’re face down, shot in the back, somewhere up in the mountains where it’s still snowy,” she said.

“I hope it was quick,” I said.

“You never knew what hit you,” Saltanat said.

It’s as good a description of love as any I’ve ever heard.

The following morning, we drove out of the city, up to Ala Archa, the national park that climbs up into the mountains. It’s a serene, beautiful place, with rowan and birch trees sheltering under the steep slopes of the valley. At weekends in the summer, it’s always busy with walkers, tourists, and people who just want to get out of the heat and dust of the city. Hike to the far end of the park and you might spot wolves, bears, perhaps even a snow leopard, while eagles and hawks patrol the sky. Saltanat parked in front of the small hotel marking the end of the road, and we started to walk.

The air was crisp, the remnants of the winter still white underfoot, and the music of the river created a swirling soundtrack as we climbed up into the tree line. The snow got deeper, its chill creeping through the soles of my boots. I was out of breath, out of condition, but Saltanat strode ahead, making no concessions to my lack of speed or the leather case she was carrying.

Finally, we stopped, in a natural clearing where birch trees clustered around us like onlookers at a road accident. Or perhaps witnesses at an execution. Saltanat put down the bag, looked around.

“This is as good as anywhere,” she said. “Take off your jacket.”

I felt a cold breeze brush across my chest. The upper branches of the trees quivered, and I felt a faint drift of snowflakes on my face.

Saltanat opened the case, took out a glass jar and a plastic bag. A medium-sized raw steak glistened inside the bag, streaked with blood, marbled with fat. The jar was half full of a thick red fluid that was all too familiar. I decided not to ask where she’d acquired the blood.

Saltanat unwrapped the steak, laid it on the snow, poured a little of the blood on and around the meat, then covered it with my jacket. I shivered and realized I should have brought a sweater. At least, that’s why I thought I was shivering.

Saltanat pressed her Makarov against the bulge caused by the meat, and fired a shot. My jacket jerked as if I’d still been inside it, and some blood oozed out of the bullet hole, its edges blackened by powder burn. I could see charred flesh, smelled burned meat. I felt slightly sick.