Gerald Seymour - Beyond Recall

Because he was soaked and because the wind off the open water snatched at his clothing, Timofey thought it a bad place, one without life, without hope. He saw the concrete flooring of abandoned buildings, and the roofs long collapsed. The place would have been built for the Great Patriotic War effort, what they had drilled into them at school. The weed came up out of the water and seemed to squirm on the rocks, made them treacherous. Far down the inlet, back towards his home city, Murmansk, was a flash of white set deep in the uniform grey. He squinted hard, and blinked to get the rain from his eyes, and saw the shape of a naval vessel and the white was the bow spray that it threw aside. He turned, gestured to the hunter that he had seen the warship and received a curt duck of the head, indicating the man had seen it maybe minutes earlier. The man knew much… matters that had never concerned Timofey, nor Natacha; knew when the tide was at its highest, when it would turn and run back towards the open sea, when the wind would shift, when the rain would end, and sunlight lie on the wilderness behind them. They needed the tide and the wind, and needed to be gone before the storm ebbed. His thought was savage: better to have been at the railway station and meeting the long distance trains, better to be dealing there and dodging between shadows and using cover, better to have been at the apartment and changing clothes and going into the city to dump a plastic bag filled to overflowing with the bloodstained clothes they wore now. The sea water broke on the rocks by his feet and he thought the tide almost at its highest point.

He asked her, “What colour is it?”

“It is green. He said it was green.”

“I can’t see it.”

“Nor me.”

He shrugged, admitted his failure to locate it. The hunter might have sworn and if he did his voice was lost in the wind. One hand holding the man, their friend, and one pointing to the right of where he and Natacha stood – or crouched as the wind gusted stronger. Looked at the waves and their crests, looked at the swirling weed carried up to the surface, looked at the shades of grey that were constant in the water, looked at the wave that the naval vessel made as it came up the inlet, looked again where the hunter pointed, and saw it.

It was green, the colour of springtime’s grass, what there would be in a pasture. It bobbed and half the time, when a wave came on to it, was doused and then disappeared, then would spring up again. It strained to break free from a rope but was tethered. He could not have dreamed of doing it. Timofey understood that the hunter had absorbed the coordinates on the slip of paper, had programmed them, had made his own map and puzzled on the mathematics. Then had brought them through the denseness of the scrub and woodland, and they had emerged close to the shore and within 100 metres of where they were directed. He could not have done it, nor Natacha. He showed her the buoy. It seemed so small and the sea so big… She shivered. He held her close. Thought, was not angered and not surprised and not broken, that his Natacha – his soulmate – would probably have gone with the Englishman across the frontier if he had been able. Would have followed him, gone for the brighter lights, louder music, or might not. Thought it, accepted it, held her tight and tried to squeeze warmth into her. The hunter, Jasha, called them. Together, they scrambled back over the rocks.

“He’s a fucking lunatic.”

“Never good, what I say, that combination – a lunatic and a loaded firearm, not good.”

They stood behind the officer who gabbled into his radio about a crazed major who had a pistol and seemed not to want rescuing but indicated he would shoot anyone who closed on him, but had not spoken.

“You want more?”

“No.”

“Are you looking for a decoration?”

“Meritorious service, one hanging from a lanyard, don’t think so.”

Mikki and Boris had been given coffee and had fed on bread and sausage, and the officer had no time to quiz them. The pistol had been waved decisively in the officer’s face and he had backed off. The attitude of prayer was resumed.

“Front row of the veterans’ parade on Armed Forces Day?”

“Not for me.”

“Going to turn in those kids, the druggie kids, him who deals and her who waves those little boobs in the air? Going to?”

“The price of a decoration? Don’t think so. No thanks for it. Agreed? We turn our back on the fucking hero of the fierce combat for that village, Deir al-Siyarqi, on him.”

They slipped away. Would get a ride down from the fence and back to where their vehicle was parked. Would be on a plane and headed south, gone by the time the inquest came to dig into detail. Unnoticed they eased back from the fence, left their major. Loyalty? Neither would have reckoned to know its meaning.

“Me first. And you. Me second, and you,” Mikki said. “The way this country works – and me third, and you.”

He was helped. Gaz tried to find the strength to walk unaided but the rocks glistened from the rain and were coated in weed… Had seemed to come to a decision which was the spur. No drugs in him but a variant of delirium. About a future. Seemed important and worth living for. Must have been a fantasy because he stood on rocks and was nudged forward, firm movements and not brooking weakness, nor delay: and ahead of him was the channel where the waves surged and a future was an illusion. A dream and likely beyond reach but still a comfort: who he would be with. Would hold to the dream as he weakened, slipped.

The man spoke to the girl, clipped words and not for argument.

She told him, “You have to fight. At the darkest hour, you fight. Put an image in your mind, and fight for it, or put a person there. You will never dream if you do not fight.”

The officer called to him, “For God’s sake, however unpleasant your experience you should not threaten with a firearm, should behave like a man of honour. Show some fucking balls, man. Stop simpering like a college girl. You are behaving in a disgraceful manner, not fit to wear a proud uniform, you…”

He did not look at the officer. Lavrenti estimated where the man stood. He lowered his right hand and swung his arm and his aim was into the dirt. He slipped his finger inside the guard. Squeezed in a disciplined way, and fired. One shot, and the voice had strangled in the officer’s throat… He heard the metal scrapes as other weapons were armed, cocked. He resumed his posture. Hands together… He had noticed, from the corner of his eye that the two men given him by his father, Mikki and Boris, had left. Justified. Now he surprised those who watched him… thought of his father and thought of his mother and there was no affection, no respect… and he started to take slow and deliberate steps towards the fence.

He did not consider the village. He did not think of the corporal who had brought him to this point.

Lavrenti was now two paces from the wire. It stretched taut in front of him, showed grime and wear, was ochre – coloured from rust, and in places plastic strips had been ripped by the winds and had scudded on to the barbs. Saw the smooth tumbler wires that were alarmed and would flash lights, activate cameras, howl a chorus of sirens if he disturbed them. Would they shoot him if he careered the final steps and jumped and was prepared to lacerate his bare hands and try to heave himself up? Or would they just drag him back, drop him in the mud, talk about when a strait jacket could be brought up?

He looked ahead. He peered into the trees. He saw the shadow shape of the man’s shoulders, set low as if he sat on something short, perhaps a stool and perhaps a log, and thought he caught also a momentary sight of a second man but in fatigues and better camouflaged… It was where Lavrenti would have expected to find the corporal’s officer, his control. The man would be close to the frontier, waiting for his agent… Would not know that he waited in vain because of a single rifle shot: a bad wound and no medical treatment was a sentence of death, might already have been exacted. The corporal would have been there for identification, a reconnaissance trooper, and the assassin would have been due to travel in his wake, a week later or two weeks, could have been a month. Refused to do the killing himself, accepted the role of gaoler to escort Lavrenti to the border, across it, into a courtroom. Had achieved much, had cleared Lavrenti’s mind. He thought himself grateful, the weight was shed. The lie and the guilt were no longer lived.