Gerald Seymour - Beyond Recall

Gaz asked, “Who shot me?”

“Scumbags, people from the gutter.”

“It was a clean shot.”

“You were a witness. You saw them if you were there.”

“The two men with you?”

“Behind me, and absolved from blame because they did nothing. They did not kill and did not help to kill and did not hide what we left. Supposed to guard me and keep me safe, were likely pissed and asleep in the car when they should have met me. There was a second marksman, I know nothing of him, and he fired twice and terrorised my people, and they ran, and they were hunted and have thrown grenades, and I know no more. Good fortune. You are correct and are decent, and I wish you well. But I have no optimism. Do not forget me, Corporal, and do not forget what I said to you.”

The pistol bulged in the major’s pocket.

He had a good stride and the kids made way for him but in Gaz’s opinion he barely saw them, as he took the same animal track that Gaz had used when getting from the tree to the lake. Had gone only half a dozen paces when Timofey raised a finger to the major’s back, and Natacha gurgled in her mouth, then spat noisily. The major gave no sign he heard.

Gaz asked the kids to lift him, to raise his head and shoulders, clear his face from the blood red of the little pool. He would ask them next to find some material that was clean – clothing, fresh on, if they had any – to make a casualty type dressing and use it as a plug for the outer wound. When he was upright they could identify if there was an exit wound, or the bullet was still inside… Then he would tell them the back-stop concept: perhaps they would help, perhaps they would not.

The officer moved as if he were a man determined on a mission and ready to organise and carry out the obvious when he reached communications. Gaz had many confusions and was tired to the point of deep sleep, but he knew that if he let his head loll and his eyes shut, then he would be gone, would not wake again. As confusing as all the rest was the question of a man firing on his attackers, frightening them off, but not showing himself. Too many confusions. The kids lifted him and their clothing was smeared with his blood. He could see up the hill, towards the spread-eagled branches of the dead tree, but no longer saw the man who had been his prisoner. Had lost everything except his life – had failed. Said so.

Natacha answered him, “You cannot have failed yourself as long as you live. To die is failure. What do we do with you?”

He had lost sight of Zhukov, had lost sight of the men he had fired towards, had lost sight of the man who had been a prisoner. He was on his own territory, and pondered.

Jasha did not enjoy surprises brought to the wilderness. Two shots fired from the Dragunov and his position still secure, Jasha could have backed away into thick undergrowth then moved off in a wide half-moon and left the scene behind him. Could have gone back to his cabin. There, might have heated a tinned meal for himself and given biscuits to his dog, and could have sat in his chair in front of his door and lit a pipe to keep away the mosquitoes. Could have wondered if Zhukov would return to him, or whether their relationship had run its course. Could have, except… the man had a bullet wound, and was being treated by two city kids who would have known nothing. The success of Jasha’s life since he had moved to this corner of the Kola peninsula was based on his caution and his shyness. He did not seek out strangers but hid from them. Did not involve himself in the affairs of others, was rigorous in the defence of his privacy. He went with a sniper’s skill, did a slow crawl and would eventually reach a rock that stood out as a marker. He came to the crushed foliage around it. He could see where his bullets had struck, where he had made grooves in the lichen, and he picked up the one spent cartridge case, then took the two abandoned rifles. He could not have explained why he had intervened, broken the core belief. They were crap weapons and carried the serial numbers given them by an armoury, and the metal insignia of FSB was hammered into the butt of each.

He thought the man was grievously hurt, and thought the kids out of their depth in matters of reaction to a gunshot wound… and he had heard the explosions past the landmark tree and knew that his confidant, Zhukov, had tracked them as they ran, and they’d have had good cause for fear. He sat back from the rock and had a clear view down, and his camouflage gear would blend well. He watched, waited, and his decision was not yet made.

“It’s like a movie.”

“No music and no fade out.”

“But real, and blood,” she said.

“I never seen a man who’s shot,” he said.

“There was a girl got stuck in the gaol, but nobody stayed around,” Natacha said.

“I seen a man knifed, down by the railway station, was mugged, wouldn’t give his phone, and nobody helped him,” Timofey said.

“Don’t get involved.”

“Get clear.”

“Anyway,” she said, “other people, the paramedics would have known what to do.”

“Except there’s only us,” he said.

“And we’re ignorant.”

She knew he listened to them. His eyes moved, lethargic but aware, and rolled, took in whichever of them spoke, and his breath came badly. Natacha knew nothing of medical care. Had never done a course in first aid or trauma response. Instinct demanded she back off, and Timofey would want to put ground between the Englishman and themselves. Would have been an old instinct, deep set. When she had been taken by the police, she would not have expected him to fight to free her, get clubbed with batons, and go to the cells with her. No one who sold on other pitches in the city, or the Chechens who came from St Petersburg with fresh supplies, would have stayed. There would be no help here and no chance of escape. If medical treatment arrived it would be because the bastards who had shot him had alerted a recovery team. They had been fired at and had run, and Timofey did not know what had happened, nor she. They put themselves at greater risk with each minute passing. His eyes watched them, waiting. He would have known what decision they had to take. She thought that he, Gaz, would not chew on blame and spit that in their faces if they left him. Whether it was a bad wound, or only looked bad, she could not have said. Each time she looked up at Timofey he seemed to step back from the business, like it would be her call, her shout. She tested Timofey.

“Do we start walking?”

“Start walking, and take him. Fuck knows how.”

“Not dump him?”

Done with a rueful grin, a trademark of her man, Timofey. “Can’t see you… Turn our backs, give him a goodbye kiss, start walking, then begin to run… Keep going, don’t slow. Leave him, ditch him. Up for it?”

And she tested some more. “What’s he done for us? All take, no give. We owe him nothing, owe his people nothing… We’d have to be lunatics to stay with him, help him.”

Timofey shrugged, a little gesture than seemed to say talk was cheap and wasted time. She reached across the head that she held and kissed her guy lightly on the forehead, like it was a sober moment – and a decision taken. Was for ‘better or worse’, seemed to her to be for ‘worse’, and defied common sense.

They lifted him. A big bird was circling, screaming at them. It was hard to hear his voice. Would have hurt him as they raised him up and she took part of his weight and Timofey had more. He spoke in Timofey’s ear, slow but coherent. One of his legs was lifted and one trailed.

Timofey said to her. “The guys who shot him went up the hill towards the border. No future there. Blocked off. Have to go down, where we started… he says there’s a back-stop. I think that means an alternative, an idea if all else is fucked.”