Alex Shaw - Hetman - Donetsk Calling

This short story was written entirely on location in Ukraine and the UK in August 2012.

Kyiv, Ukraine

Brian Webb swayed as he hailed a taxi. It was the early hours of the morning and he’d been drinking since the early evening. The heat of the day had long since given way to the chill of the night. Webb shivered in his short sleeved shirt and cargo shorts. Within seconds a battered, yellow Daewoo Nubira pulled into the curb. The driver lowered the front passenger window and then with a price agreed Webb climbed into the back. It was four a.m. as they sped along the all but deserted city streets. Even by his standards this had been a late night, Webb chuckled to himself. Life was good. He had a great life in Kyiv, a great wife and a great daughter. What more could he want? He let his eye lids drop as the taxi moved from tarmac to cobbles and headed downhill towards the Dnipro River. The vibration made his stomach wobble and his head nod. Webb had arrived in Ukraine in October 1997 with only four words of Russian ‘Da’, ‘Niet’, ‘Babushka’ and ‘Vodka’ but had somehow managed not only to survive but thrive. Not passing for a local, with his thick Yorkshire accent but being accepted as one by his neighbours, he would be sad to leave his adopted home. He opened his eyes as the taxi crossed the river and wound down the window slightly, breathing in the river cooled air. His eyes met those of the driver who quickly looked away. The man seemed to be in no mood to talk. The taxi continued on across the bridge, through Hydropark and then onto Levo Berezina – Kyiv’s left bank. The taxi abruptly pulled in at the side of the road. Webb sat forward and looked around. It wasn’t his street. The driver quickly got out and walked away. His brain slowed by alcohol, Webb remained seated for several seconds before he realised that something was wrong. He hauled his bulk out of the car and leant against the door. As Webb stared at the driver, the Ukrainian looked back and then broke into a run. Webb heard footsteps behind and turned around. It was then that he saw them, illuminated in the eerie glow of the street lights. About twenty feet away a group of four large men were heading directly for him. Webb watched mesmerised for a moment before his eyes focussed on the baseball bats two of them were carrying. The nearest figure pointed at him and then the group broke into a run. Webb felt his pulse quicken. He was defenceless. He looked down and saw that the keys to the taxi were still in the ignition. Without giving it a second thought he clambered into the driver’s seat, took the hand-break off and spun the taxi away from the curb. He heard shouts and then a loud crack as something hit the rear of the taxi. Webb’s heart started to beat raggedly; it felt as though it was trying to escape from his chest. He forced the Daewoo to accelerate away and squinted to focus on the road ahead. He was now sweating; his hands wet on the wheel. He chanced a look back and saw that there were lights behind him, following him. What was happening, why was he being chased? Webb had no idea. He shot through a set of traffic lights narrowly missing a large tanker. He knew the roads now, he wasn’t too far from home but he couldn’t lead them there. The road swung in and out of focus as the alcohol refused to leave his system, Webb was heavy on the controls and the car jerked as he changed down to negotiate a bend. He clipped a parked car with his wing mirror, the glass shattered as it was ripped off. The chase lights he now saw belonged to a large BMW and were getting closer. His breathing became heavier. Thoughts raced through his mind; who were they…what did they want… He reached the highway that dissected the Harkivskiy Massif district and saw lit up by the neon lights of the Billa Supermarket signage a Lada Samara with Militia markings. Webb aimed for it. As he slowed and drew near he saw that it was empty. Webb banged his fist on the wheel in frustration and was about to curse when there was a loud crack and something pinged off of the Daewoo. He ducked, he had never heard gunfire before but instantly realised that was what the noise had been. Whoever was chasing him had started to shoot! He floored the accelerator. The Daewoo jerked forward cresting the curb and across the car-park, before bouncing over the grass verge and back onto the tarmac. A grating noise started to come from the front suspension as Webb thrashed the car back up the gears. He saw a gap in the central reservation, snapped the steering wheel to the left and crossed to the other side of the road, changing direction. He urged the taxi to go faster, he had to get away. The Daewoo started to vibrate angrily as it reached the 100k mark. He wiped the sweat from his brow. There were a few more cars about now as he continued along the main road back towards the river. He looked in the rear-view mirror and couldn’t see anyone following him. He let out a deep breath and relaxed slightly as the adrenalin started to leave his system. It was now almost five a.m. and a wave of tiredness rolled over him. His eyes closed…the Daewoo violently shook and bucked. Webb’s eyes snapped open. He had driven off the road. Too late to avoid the bus stop, Webb folded his arms in front of his face. His head hit hard and he blacked out.

Webb tried to understand where he was as the world swum back into focus. He slithered out of the crumpled car. His eyes stung. He wiped them with his hands and saw blood now covering his palms. Pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket he dabbed at his eyes again. Webb looked back and saw that the passenger side of the car had been concertinaed, taking the brunt of the impact. He was lucky to be alive. It was a Saturday morning and the pavement was still empty as he tried to walk. His left ankle gave way and he all but fell. He hobbled from the scene of the accident still not knowing what to do. On the other side of the road he saw a large dark blue BMW saloon stop. Two men got out and started to run across the road dodging the light traffic whilst the car moved off again looking for somewhere to cross. Webb took a deep breath, put his head down and tried to run. He was fifty-six, overweight and drunk…and the pain in his foot was excruciating but he managed to move. He loped away from the road and towards the nearest block of flats. Reaching the monolithic high rise he clambered up the five steps to the entrance hall and went straight out of the other side. He was in a courtyard created by four apartment blocks facing each other. In the middle there was a small children’s play area. He bumped past the slide and into the entrance hall of the next block. The building was very much like his. He called the lift, was surprised to see it worked and sent it to the top floor as he ducked around the side of the lift shaft and hid in the shadows by the entrance to the maintenance room. He hunched over, panting. All was quiet apart from the sound of his chest heaving. He vomited as waves of pain roared through his body. He couldn’t go home; he couldn’t go to the Militia. He had no other choice; there was only one person who could help, one man he knew would not let him down. He pulled out his old Nokia and called Aidan Snow.

Worthing, United Kingdom.

Aidan Snow slowed his pace as he felt his Blackberry vibrate in his zip pocket. He retrieved the device and saw that it was an incoming call from one of his closest friends, a friend however he had not seen for too long. Snow answered the call and started to walk.

“Brian Webb, how are you?”

“Aidan is that you?”