Gerald Seymour - Beyond Recall

He barely noticed the rain, and the wind. His sergeants would beat him to the fence and he assumed by now that the militia would be deployed. Everything was clear in his mind. There had been confusion back on the path, with the kids trailing them. A single shot from an AK47 assault rifle and the corporal had pitched over. Not dead but hideously wounded. Then, two more shots. A Dragunov sniper rifle, he’d judged. Had seen no marksman. Had realised the shots were aimed to intimidate his sergeants, had been successful. He’d no idea who else might have been out in that wilderness.

Delta Alpha Sierra, the Eighteenth Hour.

The dogs, ahead of them, realised first.

Soft growls, would have been showing their teeth then scurrying, low on their bellies, to bring stragglers to the main group. In the heart of the goats were Gaz and the girl. The goats picked up on the danger and started to blast. Neither Gaz nor the girl were alert enough to recognise the dull shadows ahead of them, too exhausted, too mentally stripped. A searchlight came on, caught and blinded them. The growling went up a pitch and the bleating become a chorus. And the light went off; they had been illuminated for some five seconds, again were in darkness and clouds must have covered the moon and the stars.

Gaz shouted his name.

Was answered, “Is that a fucking zoo you’re bringing?”

Gaz did not know whether she understood Dusty the Scouser’s crack, but she seemed to stiffen beside him. She had done well to walk that far, bloody well, had not complained, had just slapped one foot in front of another, and her body had been violated and her mind would be turmoil: she was bereaved, in shock. He had his arm around her waist. The light came on again. Now, she looked straight into the beam and did not blink, showed no weakness and the herd was buffeting her legs and the dogs ran rings round them.

“Brought the missus with you, Gaz?”

“Shut the fuck up, just shut…” Never finished. It was like he had already been removed from the comfort zone of the regiment, had lost the protection its cordon gave. Black humour was their way of handling bad times, the worst exposure to experiences. One they liked was, ‘This trooper on his deathbed, shot to Hell, was asked by a priest to renounce Satan before he passed on, and he replied that this was no time to be making new enemies.’ That was a favourite, was all right between them but not in the presence of an outsider. Not acceptable after what she had endured, what she had seen. There must have been a whip in his voice. The lights were killed. He was with the Golf Charlie team. The goats milled close to the wheels of the vehicles, started to search for anything to eat and found filled sandbags, started to chew.

He was asked, “You all right, Gaz?

“I’m good.”

“Who’s the lady?”

“Just someone I met at a bus-stop.”

“Don’t fuck about, who is she?”

“She has a herd of fine goats, I don’t know her name.”

“Get your goodbyes done, and we’ll be off. Not a place I care to hang about, but you’d know that. Took your time, but all’s well that ends…”

“She’s coming with me.”

“What about that bus she was waiting for.”

“Needs medical treatment.”

“So does half this fucking country.”

“And she saved my life.”

“I’ll take her with you, but we’ll not manage the goats and the dogs.”

A formality. Had to be done. One of the boys, a fellow corporal, came forward from the darkness and patted her down. Arms, spine, thighs and shins, and nodded that she was clean: just doing his job. She was indifferent, probably hardly noticed. Gaz told the girl that the goats and the dogs would stay where they were. Told her that it was not up for argument, she would be seen by the medic team. Reluctant, seemed to pull away from him, but he only freed her when she crouched down and spoke into her dogs’ ears, then stood and her eyes blazed as she looked around her and would have taken in the sight of armed men, masked faces, protective vests, heavy machine-guns, and might then have been half-choked at the spill of exhaust as the engines were revved. A hand came down and hoisted her up, and that was Dusty, the Scouser, and he called her ‘love’ and seemed soft, caring. Gaz had tears and wiped them on his sleeve. She was at his feet, down on the floor, squashed in, and the weapons were manned. They bumped away. Just used side-lights and it was the knack of the drivers that they could follow a seldom used track, and they went fast and her shoulder thumped against his knee. He choked back tears, made a noise of it, but never heard her weep… He thought that all she had in her life, only bloody thing left her, was her goats and her dogs, and now she had lost them.

The memories came in waves, surged in his mind, and always the image of the officer. She had said, I had to survive because there must be a witness who lives. Had made a promise, had shared it with him, passed on responsibility for it.

“And you,” he asked her. “Why?”

“Better we move than we talk. Talk is empty.”

“I have to know. Why?”

Her steps were shorter, and Timofey heaved. Exhaustion weighed them. The man, named as ‘friend’ by Timofey, seemed heavier to her and her arms ached and her shoulders were bowed, and the forest of low trees they moved through was darker than before. Rain pattered down and the upper branches shook in the wind. She did not know how much longer she would be able to support him. His problem was to know why? Why did she help him? Did it fucking matter: more important was whether he would reach the coastline of the inlet, somewhere between Polyarni and Vidyaevo. Her answer… staccato… breath harder to suck down.

“Because you are against them. Because your navy would have rescued some of the Kursk boys, if it had been allowed. Because you stand for something they would not comprehend. Because you have a principle, friend, would not kill him – as you should have. Because you are destroyed by the principle, but do not regret it. I tell you, as a fool, I think every day of Kursk , the crew, the death. Every day, and the guilt of it killed my father… And because it has been good, has been fun, is excitement. Beyond anything I knew. Getting clear of the cops by the railway station when selling is big but you brought the biggest, the best.”

“Would you come out, after… after whatever happens to me, would you come out? Go to that banking island, Guernsey, go to the counter, empty the account, take it in notes… keep walking, be at the airport. Take a plane – somewhere, anywhere – would you?”

“End a dream? That is boring, friend, is bourgeois. That is what ‘they’ would do. They are from the Prospekt and they would go to this island and try to keep moving the money, make an industry of it. We stay, and then we can hold the dream. We try to help you, and may succeed, and may not, but we try. But we will not follow you. You want me to sing? Do I strip again to make you laugh? Your principle, friend, it has fucked us all.”

She felt tears well in her eyes. Did not care.

They came to a clearing, only a few metres across. She paused, as did Timofey. Their ‘friend’ seemed to sniff the air and there would have been only the scent of the wind and the taste of the rain, and her hair no longer blew because it had been plastered on her scalp. It would have been a good afternoon, the right sort of weather and the police and militia anxious to stay in their patrol cars, and trade would have been brisk when the great snaking train came in from Moscow or from St Petersburg. There was no horizon to guide him, just a cloud that sat low on the treetops ahead of them. She thought he smiled, and his voice was faint and hard for her to hear, but it was a remark about a helicopter and no visibility, and the clouds’ low base, and she thought that a small victory. A hole in his chest, and blood leaking, and damage inside… Quite often, down by the cutaway section of the Kursk ’s tower, she would let tears run. Would stand, feel no embarrassment, just cry – would be the same if they lost him. She thought him weaker…