Gerald Seymour - Beyond Recall

They were let loose. Big beasts, good on the fence. Intimidating when tracking the illegals who attempted a crossing from the Murmansk side into Norway. Poorly fed which encouraged their aggression. The handlers followed and the guns came close behind.

It was the last leg of his journey. It had started at the check-in desks for service personnel at the military airbase at Latakia, a pretty enough place, kissed with Mediterranean sun, and unmarked by the war. Lavrenti Volkov had been troubled then, but had not believed how severe would be the scarring. Many on that same flight would harbour bad memories of the war, but he believed none would have incubated such despair, that extent of guilt.

He had never been a drill freak. Had been able to hold his place in the second rank of a parade in uniform for a VIP. Not one who would have been visible or barking orders or carrying a pennant on a lance. Adequate… He walked well now that it was – almost – the culmination of the journey. Straight back. Measured stride. Negotiating hazards that might have tripped him, going through water, stepping over protruding rocks, keeping his arms against his side. In his right hand was the corporal’s pistol: while he had sat he had cleared the breech, checked the magazine, loaded and armed the Makarov. He had passed at least three-quarters of an hour before a small group from the border force, drawn along by two dogs and handlers, well-equipped troops. He had broken stride only to accept their greeting and he had gone on and had allowed a sergeant’s urgent question – where was he, the fugitive? – to die in the noise of the wind. He had the rain on his back. It fell as hard as it had in the village.

He went through the last line of trees, emerged and crossed the military road that ran the length of the fence, and next was the ploughed strip. Lavrenti could have given, two days before, a formal lecture on the importance of the barrier on Russia’s border. Could have spoken of the need to prevent those who threatened the security of the Motherland from entering the territory he was tasked to protect, could have waxed enthusiastic on his country’s ability to withstand threats, repel invaders. Beyond the wire was a dense line of fir trees. He had lost his cap but the medal ribbons were bright on his chest, and mud spattered his military trousers, but he would have cut a fine figure. There were shouts ahead of him. Their officer ran forward… He saw the pair of them, the old sergeants who had dropped their weapons and who had bolted. They seemed to stiffen at the sight of him. He gave no indication of his mood. The young border troopers who had known that an FSB officer was kidnapped, then in vague circumstances had been freed, gazed at him with open admiration. Still the powerful stride, leaving his footprints in the ploughed strip, he came to the track inside the fence where vehicles were parked. The officer left a radio dangling on a coiled wire at his jeep and hurried towards him. An arm was outstretched, a hand offered to Lavrenti while receiving congratulations on his safe delivery from evil, from danger, from the clutches of the enemy. He noted all of that.

The pistol was used to reinforce his gesture. The officer was to stay back, was not to impede him. Another flick of the barrel and troops edged away, stood at the side and watched, confused, and the officer flushed at the slight. No word spoken, but the Makarov in his hand gave a clear message. He was over the track and stood a few paces back from the wire.

Still holding the pistol, Lavrenti’s hands came together, made the image of a man in prayer. But his eyes had a deadened look.

He flicked the barrel of the pistol towards those who watched him. No one knew what to say, how to react. He gazed ahead through dulled eyes. Beyond the wire, clouded by mist and the weight of rain, was thick pine woodland. He assumed this was where his captor, the good corporal, was taking him and here the wire would be breached again, and he wondered what trick, what clever subterfuge, had been used to bring the man in at this place. And remembered that he lived because his life had been protected by the corporal. Many men watched him and held firearms, and if he had run towards the fence and tried to scramble over it he would have been tackled at the legs, or shot, or merely overpowered and treated with the same fickle concern shown to any gibbering wreck suffering ‘combat fatigue’, whatever psychiatric title was now in vogue.

Had more to remember… The cordon going into position and a few slipping away, and many encircled, some with fear on their faces, more with hatred, all with defiance.

The hooded informer, and boys named – and one taken to the football area, and the rope, lifted and kicking.

The crossbar breaking, and bayonets used.

His face slashed by a woman, and her and others taken to the gully where the stream ran fiercely from the severity of the rain. Could feel the shallow depression on his skin… wore a gallantry medal’s ribbon, and many assumed it was a combat scrape, shrapnel.

Old women and young women abused by the militia boys, then shot. And children shot. And homes burned

A body in the trench, life not yet extinguished, and aiming, and the unblinking eyes watching him. Do not beg, not plead, but hate… All remembered, making shackles on him.

He was watched and they did not know how to respond.

The scream was carried on the wind, muffled but clear, a cry of acute pain and an awful fear.

A noise such as neither of the handlers had ever heard from their dogs. The sergeant and his militia boys were rooted behind them.

A noise to wake the dead, and one handler knew it was his dog’s cry.

Both blundered forward and the low branches scraped their faces.

One was sick, vomited the entirety of his last meal. The other howled in anguish.

The lead dog, there was always a pecking order with the big border patrol animals, and would have been a couple of lengths in front and closing on the source of the scent; it was on its side, its stomach ripped open, its intestines displayed loosely. Life was slipping but still it screamed. The skin and coat of its belly seemed to have been cut with the sharpened tips of a rake, many lines and all savagely deep. The other dog, usually cocky, confident, fearless, lay on its back, posture of total submission. The first handler took his pistol from his holster, choked on his sobbing, shot his dog.

He said, “A bear. They bounced a bear.”

From his colleague, “Not another metre. We go back. Not another step forward.”

“I think my man got to him.” Knacker murmured to the Norwegian, as the little grin played at his lips. “He’s not going anywhere. It’s as far as the road goes for Major Lavrenti Volkov. Funny old world.”

Not even up on the damn Wall, when Maude was scratching at mud with a toothbrush or the trowel he’d bought her at a Christmas fair five years back, had Knacker felt so cold, so wet, and so elated. Always best when the unexpected dropped in his lap. The Russian stood still and moved not a muscle. His face was impassive, his hands raised in a gesture of supplication, except when an officer had approached and a pistol waved at him. Entreaties for him to lower the weapon or give it up were ignored.

And quieter, “Don’t you chicken out on me, my boy. Don’t do a tease.”

The officer had a radio at his ear, was relaying messages that came over the link to his principal NCO, and was calling on additional manpower and tried to explain, obvious to Knacker, the bizarre behaviour of their supposed kidnap victim. The militiamen watched bemused…

The Norwegian, dry, in a few words, told him what he heard.

Knacker responded. “He wants redemption, and won’t get it, and is a murdering little shit, will get no absolution and knows it. Will have to do it for himself. He was good, my man, didn’t know he’d have this sense of theatre. I think, never afraid to admit a fault, that I short changed him. I suppose he’s out there, alone – better out of his misery. Yes, sooner the better if not already.”