Tom Smith - Child 44

Would submission satisfy this man? Shards of broken tooth dug into her gum and convinced her otherwise. She didn’t feel like believing in his mercy. If she was going to die in a town she hated, a town she’d been transferred to by compulsory State writ, one thousand seven hundred kilometres from her family, then she’d die scratching this bastard’s eyes out.

He grabbed her arms, no doubt expecting any resistance to have evaporated. She spat a mouth full of blood and phlegm in his eyes. He must have been surprised because he let go. She felt the door behind her and pushed against it — the door swung open and she fell into the snow outside, onto her back, staring up at the sky. He grabbed at her feet. She kicked frantically, trying to get out of reach. He grabbed hold of one foot, pulling her back into the cabin. She concentrated, taking aim: her heel caught his jaw. The contact was good, his head flicked round. She heard him cry out. He lost his grip. She rolled onto her stomach, got up and ran.

Staggering blindly, it took her a couple of seconds to realize she’d run straight out from the cabin, away from town, away from the station and down the railway tracks. Her instincts had been to get away from him. Her instincts had let her down. She was running away from safety. She checked behind. He was chasing her. Either she continued in this direction or she turned back towards him. There was no way she could get around him. She tried to scream but her mouth was full of blood. She choked, spluttered, breaking her rhythm and losing some of the distance between them. He was catching up.

Suddenly the ground began to vibrate. She looked up. A freight train was approaching, hurtling towards them, plumes of smoke rushing out of the high iron front. She raised her arms, waving. But even if the driver saw her there was no stopping in time with barely five hundred metres between them. There were only seconds before a collision. But she didn’t step off the tracks, continuing towards the train, running faster — intent on throwing herself under it. The train gave no sign of slowing. There was no screech of metal brakes, no whistle. She was so close the vibrations almost shook her to her feet.

The train was about to smash into her. She flung herself to the side, off the tracks into the thick snow. The engine and wagons roared past, rocking the snow off the tips of the nearby trees. Breathless, she peered behind her, hoping her pursuer had been cut down, crushed under the train or trapped on the other side of the tracks. But he’d held his nerve. He’d jumped to her side and was lying on the snow. He stood up, staggering towards her.

She spat the blood from her mouth and cried out: calling for help, desperate. This was a freight train, there was no one to hear or see her. She got up and ran, reaching the edge of the woods, not slowing down, smashing through the branches that jutted out. Her plan was to loop around and double back onto the tracks towards town. She couldn’t hide here: he was too close, there was too much moonlight. Even though she knew it would be better to remain focused on running she gave in to temptation. She had to look. She had to know where he was. She turned around.

He was gone. She couldn’t see him. The train was still thundering past. She must have lost him when she entered the forest. She changed direction, running back towards the town, towards safety.

The man stepped out from behind a tree, catching hold of her waist. They crashed down into the snow. He was on top of her, ripping at her jacket and shouting. She couldn’t hear him over the sound of the train. All she could see were his teeth and tongue. Then she remembered: she’d prepared for this moment. She reached into her coat pocket, feeling for a chisel, stolen from work. She’d used it before but only as a threat, only to show she could fight if fighting was required. She clutched the wooden handle. She’d get one chance at this. As he put his hand up her dress she brought the metal tip into the side of his head. He sat upright, clutching his ear. She sliced at him again, cutting the hand that clutched his ear. She should have struck again and again, she should have killed him, but her desire to get away was too strong. She scrambled backwards on all fours like an insect, still holding the bloody chisel.

The man dropped onto his hands and knees, crawling after her. Part of his earlobe hung loose, dangling from a flap of skin. His expression twisted with anger. He lunged for her ankles. She managed to keep out of reach, barely, outpacing him until she backed into a tree trunk. With her brought to a sudden stop, he caught up, took hold of her ankle. She slashed at his hand, jabbing and cutting. He grabbed her wrist, pulling her towards him. Face to face, she leaned forward, trying to bite his nose. With his free hand he clasped her neck, squeezing, keeping out of her reach. She gasped, trying to break free, but his grip was too strong. She was suffocating. She threw her weight sideways. The two of them tumbled — rolling in the snow, over and over each other.

Inexplicably he let go, releasing her neck. She coughed, catching her breath. The man was still on top, pinning her down, but no longer looking in her direction. His attention was on something else, something to the side of them. She turned her head.

Sunken into the snow beside her was the naked body of a young girl. Her skin was pale, almost translucent. Her hair was blonde, almost white. Her mouth was wide open and had been stuffed with dirt. It formed a mound, rising above her thin blue lips. The girl’s arms and legs and face appeared to be uninjured, covered in a light layer of snow which had been disturbed when they’d rolled into it. Her torso had been savaged. The organs were exposed, ripped, torn. Much of the skin was missing, cut away or peeled back, as though her body had been attacked by a pack of wolves.

Ilinaya looked up at her pursuer. He seemed to have forgotten about her. He was staring at the girl’s body. He began to retch, doubled over and was sick. Without thinking she put a consoling hand on his back. Remembering herself, remembering who this man was and what he’d done to her, she pulled her hand away, got up and ran. This time her instincts didn’t let her down. She broke through the edge of the forest, running towards the station. She had no idea if the man was chasing her or not. This time she didn’t scream, didn’t slow down and didn’t look back.

14 March

Leo opened his eyes. A flashlight blinded him. He didn’t need to check his watch to know the time. Arresting hour — four in the morning. He got out of bed, heart pounding. In the dark he staggered, disorientated, bumping into one man, pushed to the side. He stumbled, regained his balance. The lights came on. Adjusting to the brightness he saw three officers: young men, not much older than eighteen. They were armed. Leo didn’t recognize them but he knew the kind of officers they were: low ranking, unthinkingly obedient: they’d follow whatever orders they’d been given. They’d be violent without hesitation: any slight resistance would be answered with extreme force. They gave off a smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol. Leo supposed these men hadn’t been to bed yet: drinking all night, staying up for this assignment. Alcohol would make them unpredictable, volatile. To survive these next few minutes Leo would have to be cautious, submissive. He hoped Raisa understood that as well.

Raisa was standing in her nightclothes, shivering but not from cold. She wasn’t sure whether it was shock or fear or anger. She couldn’t stop shaking. But she wouldn’t look away. She wasn’t embarrassed; let them be embarrassed at their violation, let them see her crumpled nightdress, her untidy hair. No, they were indifferent: it was all the same to them, part of their job. She saw no sensitivity in these boys’ eyes. They were dull: flicking from side to side like a lizard — reptilian eyes. Where did the MGB find these boys with souls of lead? They made them that way, she was sure of it. She glanced at Leo. He was standing with his hands in front, his head dropped in order to avoid eye contact. Humility, meekness: maybe that was the smart way to behave. But she didn’t feel smart right now. There were three thugs in their bedroom. She wanted him defiant, angry. Surely that was the natural reaction? Any ordinary man would feel outrage. Leo was political even now.