Gerald Seymour - Beyond Recall

Natacha laughed. “Would you call that ‘well fucked, truly fucked’?”

Both guys smiled with her, but it hurt Gaz more. They went slowly and headed for the lake, and he was heavy.

Knacker stood back, waited to be told.

The Norwegian had his phone in front of him and text spewed on to it. Of course, Knacker knew bad times, as the wheat collector or the garrison commander would have, and the man with whom he identified more closely, blue woad plastered on him. Had done the vigils, had waited for his man to show. Could always justify the frustration at losing an agent: having to recruit again, change codes and procedures because, for certain, the asset would have a hard time in an interrogation cell. Would have to begin again – and he always cursed that his agent, his asset, had failed to survive that ‘last’ mission. Too careless and too desperate, and a net closing… Could have done with a cup of strong tea, and a biscuit to dunk in it. Instead let his hand fiddle in his pocket until he had identified the denarius coin: flicked it, turned it, scratched it to feel the markings, had started to regard it in the same way that some of the Mid-East veterans used the local worry beads. He thought it went badly, how badly he would soon be told. He did not interrupt but the sights in front of him – seen through layers of the branches of close-planted pine, and through the wire fence – offered little encouragement. The initial military force, described to him as border detachments of FSB, had been reinforced. More men, more trucks, more sense of impending drama: the job of preventing illegal crossings of their bloody fence would have been in the high areas of the boredom threshold and the guys in front of him looked to be motivated. Not quite baying for blood, the border boys, but close to it, and ammunition would have been issued and the chance of action was high, and… The Norwegian tugged at his sleeve, spoke softly.

“I believe we approach, friend, an end-game. Our monitoring of their airwaves provides interest. There are reports of both shooting and grenade explosions, about six klicks from here. They believe that an officer of FSB, named as Lavrenti Volkov rank of major, has been kidnapped and is being brought to the border by an illegal alien. Who fired the shots is unclear. Why grenades have been used is also confused. Much is speculation, but what is without argument is that no fugitive will make it across the frontier in this sector. I am sorry, friend, but that is a clear conclusion.”

Knacker, murmured, “Why could he not just do as he was told, why?”

He started to rap his own phone, call Fee or Alice, whoever would pick up first: anger coursed in him. A mountain of work and all wasted, because a man did not perform as instructed.

“You want to stay?”

Knacker answered, “Yes, to the end. I pride myself on an ability to treat those two impostors, Triumph and Disaster, just the same. Rough with the smooth, that sort of thing. Be here at the death, yes.”

He needed to rest and they did. Not for long but, for a few gulped breaths, they would lean him against a rock, and flop down. They were past the lake. No sirens and no helicopter engines, only the drone of the mosquitoes and the chirrup of songbirds.

Not often, but sometimes, a twig was broken in the tree line to their left, or dried leaves were scuffed. His hearing was better than his sight. Gaz’s eyes misted over. He ought to have been brutal with the kids. Said that he was prepared to take his chance, be alone, ride whatever diminishing luck came his way. ‘I’m grateful for what you’ve done. Might not have said it and might have taken too much for granted, but it is appreciated. We are where we are, cannot escape that. I have no right to have you jeopardise your future freedom. Put me down, leave me, and get the hell out. Keep running, never look back. Deny everything if they throw shit at you. I’m trying to tell it simply, you don’t have to stay with me. Just go home… Do that, please. Please do it.’

Might have parroted all that, given it them as a demand. But he stayed silent other than to have the breath heave in his throat and whistle out through his teeth. He did not cry out when the pain surged. He thought he asked too much of them, but they had bought into the concept of the back-stop. Should not have, but had, and Gaz thought himself damned for not refusing them. They went on. It was a summer night and there would be no darkness to hide them. But they were tough, committed, and they did not lay him down.

The numbness had gone and the pain came on hard, and each step was worse than the last. But they had cleared the lake and were among trees, thought they were watched and cringed from a sort of fear, and insects buzzed his wound, and… He tried to imagine who would care if he came through.

Not gone far, not fast, and Gaz had started to struggle. The kids held on to him. He attempted to break free.

“Let me go. I don’t need you.”

Had they let him go, he’d have fallen flat on his back or his stomach, and the bleeding – internal or through the entry wound – would have come on worse, and the pain.

“Don’t need you, don’t want you.”

Difficult ground to cross and they were among low trees; he would have had to accept that the kids understood the need to be clear of the open ground where the heather and short bracken grew, and the bushes with the berries gave no cover. If they had not supported him then he’d have tripped on a rock, gone down slithering into a bog… Gaz was alive, and angry. Would not have had that anger if he’d been in Helmand or central Syria because a Chinook would have scooped him up, and alongside the protection of the machine-gunners aiming down through hatches would have been the team of trauma geeks: the needle going into his arm, and chasing him. Could not hand over responsibility for his safety, his survival, to the kids.

“Let me go. Christ’s sake, free me.”

They were high up on the tundra plain. Before going into the dark of the close-growing pines he had been able to say where he’d be heading – not to the west and towards the frontier, but to the east. Would not have had that chance now as the cloud was thickening and the wind pressing against his body. When they had started back he had been able if he squinted, and bit at his lip for concentration, to see the ribbon of water that ran out to the north and into the Barents Sea. Had definitely seen it. Had promised himself that the inlet was the sole route out that remained to him… had been told it, had been given the promise of the fishing boat’s crew.

“Go back to flogging skunk, whatever. You owe me nothing. Get the hell out.”

Neither of them had a spare muscle in their body. They were both thin and pale and breathing hard, but their hands gripped him. They shielded his face from the stinging whip of branches flicking back on to his face. The sight of the inlet that led out to the open sea was lost and he did not know if they headed in the direction he had demanded or whether they merely blundered into the depths of the woodland – or whether they went in a circle which would have been the worst of catastrophes… There had been a Scots boy in the regiment, known as ‘Bare Arse’ because he wore a kilt off duty and shunned underpants, and he had been lost on a plateau on the north part of the Helmand sector when fog had come down, and had suffered flat batteries on his communications, and had walked twice in big circles and had lost thirty hours, and a big hunt was on for him and then the fog had lifted and he’d been sitting on his haunches, his head on his knees, and weeping, because he had screwed up big time, two huge circles and each time back where he had started, and he was a skilled navigator. Truth was, Gaz would not have known if they had walked in circles unless they had splashed in the pool where his blood had coloured the water.