Peter Higgins - Truth and Fear

It was almost impressive that Dukhonin had achieved so much alone. She had underestimated him. But whatever he had done, it was hers now. In Mirgorod, Dukhonin had kept the circle tight and she had killed them all. Their families would be rounded up and shipped off east. That they would end up as conscript labour in Novaya Zima itself was an elegance that pleased her.

The Vlast had made a terrible mistake. She realised that now. All of them, and she along with them, had made a terrible mistake. They had been so focused on the fallen angels and what they meant, and what could be done with the flesh of their carcases, they had all failed to realise what human ingenuity could do by itself. They had taken their eye off those obscure laboratories.

But Kantor had not. Kantor had found them. And Kantor had found Dukhonin and made him his puppet. When he needed to tap into the resources of the Vlast he had chosen Dukhonin as his point of entry. Vain, industrious, narrow-minded Dukhonin. It had been a good choice.

Kantor’s continuing existence pained her. Him she could not touch, not yet, but his time would come, and soon. He thought he pulled her strings. He thought he could keep things from her. But she would tip him over. She would see him swing from his own lungs. When the time came. Not yet but soon.

On the screen Uncle Vanya erupted once more. Chazia shifted in her chair and grunted at the punch of excitement in her belly and groin.

It was all coming together for her now. Power. Power. Power. The living angel. The Pollandore. And this : Novaya Zima. This was a strength that would wipe the Archipelago from the face of the planet and build her Vlast for a thousand, a hundred thousand years! The Founder himself would be nothing more than a footnote in the story of the rise of Lavrentina Chazia and the Vlast she would build. With this, the living angel would listen to her. With this, could she not erase the angel itself from the face of the planet? Yes, and burn the forest too. All of it. The whole of the planet would be hers.

Lom took a tram as far as the northern edge of Big Side and walked the rest of the way back to the Raion Lezaryet. It was almost midday. The Purfas Gate was open but the VKBD were watching the bridge. They let him cross without question–they weren’t interested in who went in–but no one was coming out. A small knot of men stood in sullen silence just inside the wall.

As Lom climbed the steep narrow streets towards the house a distorted loudspeaker voice, high-pitched and hectoring, echoed instructions off the crowding gables. He couldn’t make out the words or the direction it was coming from. Shops and offices were closed, the streets almost deserted. Ahead of him two men in frock coats and wide-brimmed hats crossed the road, heads down and walking quickly. They entered the Clothiers Meeting Hall and shut the door behind them. The tannoy was getting louder. Following the direction of the noise, Lom reached the edge of a small cobbled square, defined on one side by the raion’s only hotel, the Purse of Crowns, and on the opposite corner by the Lezarye Courts of Commercial Jurisdiction.

A trestle table had been set up in the middle of the square. On it was a contraption like a radio, connected to a hefty separate battery, and next to it stood a sturdy tripod holding the loudspeaker horn. A small man in a dark suit and polished ankle boots was shouting into a microphone, reading from a sheet of paper. Hatless, he looked cold. His cheeks, his nose, the tips of his small ears were pink. Thin black hair slicked across his skull. Sweat-flattened strands across his forehead. He kept stopping to wipe his face and polish the lenses of little wire spectacles with a handkerchief from his jacket pocket. Half a dozen armed VKBD kept watch from the steps of the court. The tannoy and the echoes in the square distorted his voice. Lom had to listen the message through three times to piece it together.

‘Attention! Attention! Residents of Raion Lezaryet! The defence commissar and city captain of Mirgorod announces that this quarter is designated for immediate evacuation. There is no reason for alarm. Prepare yourselves for resettlement or work duty in other provinces. Women and children will leave first. Small hand luggage only is to be taken. You must gather at the Stratskovny Voksal at 6 p.m. sharp. Women with babies are to provide themselves with paraffin stoves. You must understand that any resistance to this order will result in police countermeasures. Attempts to avoid resettlement will lead to forced evacuation. It is expected that all demands will be met with punctuality and calmness. I repeat…’

Apart from Lom and the VKBD, there was nobody in the square to hear him. He was shouting at blank shuttered windows. Drawn curtains. Closed doors. There was a neat stack of paper on the table. Copies of the declaration for handing out. Nobody was taking one.

When Lom reached Elena Cornelius’s apartment it was deserted. Maroussia wasn’t there, and there was no sign that she’d been back. Their attic room was as he’d left it. Down in the kitchen everything was neatly stacked. The stove was banked up and smouldering quietly, no indication of a hurried departure, but Elena wasn’t there and nor were the girls.

Lom found the Count and Ilinca in their salon. They were sitting side by side on a threadbare chaise longue. Dressed for a journey. A pair of old scuffed suitcases and a faded dusty carpet bag in the middle of the floor. The door standing open, ready.

‘We knew the day would come,’ said the Count. ‘We are prepared.’

‘Maroussia?’ said Lom. ‘Did she come back?’

Ilinca shook her head.

‘She won’t come here again,’ said the Count. ‘You should go too, Vissarion Yppolitovich. They’re coming to collect us soon.’

‘What happened to Elena?’ said Lom. ‘And the girls?’

‘Elena went to the Apraksin,’ said Ilinca. ‘She took Yeva and Galina to school on the way. They would have gone before the announcement came. Elena is sensible. She’ll know what to do.’

‘You can’t wait here like this,’ said Lom. ‘You have to run. You have to get away now. By yourselves. Don’t let them take you. The raion is being cleared. There are trains at the station.’ The excrement and straw in the darkness. The reek of disinfectant barrels. ‘You don’t know—’

‘No,’ said Palffy. ‘We are safe.’

‘You have to get away.’

Palffy looked out of the window.

‘Away?’ said Ilinca. ‘Where would we go? How could we travel alone? Will you take us?’

The Count put his hand on Ilinca’s arm.

‘You’ll be all right,’ he said, not looking at Lom. ‘I told you. They won’t hurt us. They know us. They have our names. We are citizens; we’re on the list; we did the right thing.’

‘What?’ said Lom. ‘What did you do?’

The Count looked up at him blankly.

‘You should leave now,’ he said. ‘Do not wait here.’

‘What have you done ?’ said Lom.

The Count looked away and shook his head. The truth punched Lom in the belly. He felt dizzy. Sick with despair.

‘Maroussia,’ he said quietly. ‘You betrayed her. You told them and they came for her.’

The Count took his wife’s hand and gripped it tight in his.

‘You did. Didn’t you?’ said Lom. He took a step towards them. ‘You fucker. What have you done ?’

‘No,’ said Ilinca quietly. ‘Please. Don’t.’

‘So hit me,’ said the Count, staring up into Lom’s face. ‘You are a violent man, I know this. Here.’ He fumbled in his pocket and brought out an antique revolver. Holding it by the barrel, he offered the handle to Lom. ‘There. Shoot me. You have a gun. Shoot me. I am ashamed of nothing. I did nothing you would not do. Nothing I would not do again a hundred times over for Ilinca’s sake.’