Dan Smith - The Child Thief

‘No.’ I lowered my weapon and looked at Viktor and Petro, both of them with their weapons still aimed, their expressions of surprise. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘He was going to shoot at us,’ said Viktor. ‘You saw it. He was going to shoot.’

But I saw doubt in my son’s eyes, and when I looked across at Petro, I knew he saw it too.

‘What?’ Viktor said. ‘Why are you looking at me like that? I’m telling you, he was going to shoot.’

‘All right.’ I looked back at the dark shape in the snow as I put my hand on the warm barrel of Viktor’s rifle and lowered it to point at the ground. ‘All right.’

For a few moments nothing happened. No sounds. Nothing. Then I rose to my feet and slung my rifle. I took the revolver from my pocket and glanced at Petro and Viktor.

‘Wait here,’ I said. ‘No more shooting.’

‘He was going to shoot,’ Viktor said. ‘He was .’

‘Stay with him,’ I told Petro, and he nodded, glancing at me briefly before looking at his brother again.

Viktor could only stare at the shape lying in the snow.

I made my way to the edge of the wood, keeping close to the tree trunks, trying to give myself as much cover as possible. I kept the revolver pointed ahead and I hunched low. As I came closer, so the body became clearer, and when I reached the last trees I could see we had reached the road between Uroz and Sushne. The narrow track that ran alongside the forest was covered with snow, just as everything else was, but it had been used some time since the storm yesterday. There were hoof prints, two sets from first glance, and ice had formed in the bottom of the prints so I guessed they had been made either last thing yesterday or first thing this morning. Someone had ridden this way on horseback.

At the side of the track the man was lying face up with his arms by his sides, like a child playing dead. His head was twisted sideways so his cheek rested in the snow. Viktor’s shot had been a good one: the man had died instantly. The bullet had struck him in the face, just above his mouth, and had torn up through the back of his head, releasing his life. There was a large stain around his head, and the track behind him was sprayed with blood and brain.

And I could see, straight away, the man had not been alone. A few metres further along a second person was crouching at the side of the track, looking around in fear, hands raised to shoulder level.

I stepped from the woods and pointed the revolver at her.

‘Please,’ she mumbled. ‘Please don’t shoot me. Please.’

She was young. Not much older than my boys, maybe nineteen or twenty, and she wasn’t clothed for winter weather. She wore no coat, no hat. Her dress was dirty and there were red marks on her face that could have been first-stage bruises or might have been caused by the cold biting at her skin. Her hair was long, but not tied back as I would have expected. It was loose around her shoulders, tangled and wild. Like a young Baba Yaga, but her features were too soft for her to be mistaken for a witch. She had pale skin which heightened the flushed patches on her sharp cheekbones, and she had dark eyes.

When I told her to stand up, she shifted in the snow and I could see her feet were bare. And when I glanced down at the dead man I saw that he too had nothing on his feet. He was wearing a shirt and jacket but no winter coat.

‘Who are you?’ I asked, staying where I was, keeping the revolver levelled at her. I looked past her at the road, seeing nothing in the distance, risked a quick look into the trees to make sure Viktor and Petro were hidden.

‘Who are you?’ I asked again.

‘Aleksandra.’

‘And him?’

She didn’t look down at the body. ‘Roman.’

‘You knew him?’

She nodded.

‘Where are you from?’

‘Uroz.’

‘And what are you doing here? Like that – no shoes, no coat.’

‘They made me,’ she said.

‘Who?’

But she just stared.

‘ Who made you?’

The shock was leaving her now. It was lifting from her like a dark shadow that had fallen over her but was now snatched by the wind and blown away into the trees. I saw the change in her face, saw the difference in her eyes, and then there were tears on her cheeks.

I lowered the revolver and went to her, putting an arm around her and leading her to the side of the track. She walked like she was just learning, her steps awkward and hesitant.

‘How long have you been out here?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Can you feel your feet?’ I asked her.

‘No.’

‘They look all right, but we need to get them warm. If they get too cold, there’s a strong chance of frostbite. You know what that is?’

‘Of course.’

Taking her into the trees, I called to Viktor and Petro, and spread Dimitri’s coat on the ground for her to stand on. I wrapped it around her feet.

‘Stay with her,’ I told Petro. ‘See if you can rub some warmth into her feet. And when they’re warm, make sure she puts these on.’ I put Dimitri’s boots and socks on the ground beside Aleksandra. ‘Viktor, you come with me.’

‘Is it him?’ he asked. ‘Did I get him?’

‘No, it isn’t him.’

Viktor looked at me. ‘It must be. He was going to—’

‘It isn’t him.’

‘But he’s armed.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘He was going to shoot.’

‘No, Viktor.’ My son had been afraid and his mind had showed him what he expected to see. But the man he had shot was unarmed. I sighed and shook my head. ‘Come on. We have to move him before someone comes. Before someone sees.’ I began walking back to the place where the man lay by the road, but Viktor stayed where he was, staring.

‘Come on,’ I said to him. ‘Now.’

But Viktor just stood and stared. As if something was keeping him from moving his feet. He wanted to follow, he wanted to help, but something wouldn’t let him. He was still processing my words. He had killed a man, but it was the wrong man.

‘You have to try,’ I said. ‘You have to—’

‘I can’t.’

‘Go and help the girl, then. Her name is Aleksandra.’ I looked back at where she was standing beside a tree, her body turned away as if she were trying to disappear into the cracks in the bark. She hung her head, her hair falling across her face. ‘Petro, you come with me.’

While Viktor went to stand with Aleksandra, neither of them speaking, Petro and I dragged the man away from the road. We each took an arm and pulled him into the trees, leaving a flattened mark in the snow, and a wide streak of blood. I could see how it turned Petro’s stomach, handling the body like that, but he didn’t complain. He averted his eyes from the man’s face and did what was necessary, and when we had dragged the corpse far enough, Petro let go of the man’s arm, leaving it to flop across his chest and slide away.

‘What Viktor did—’

‘He was scared,’ I told Petro. ‘We all are. He thought this man was going to shoot us. Kill you , maybe. Me.’

‘I know. I understand.’

‘Good. So he needs to accept it and get on.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that.’

‘Is that what you do? Pretend it hasn’t happened?’

‘If that’s what it takes, yes.’

‘How do you do that?’

‘I don’t know. I lock it away.’

Now Petro looked down at the body. He put all his effort into forcing himself to see.

‘I think if Viktor hadn’t shot first, I would’ve killed this man,’ he said. ‘I was going to shoot him.’ There was fear and revulsion in his eyes as he connected with his brother’s emotions. He almost knew what his brother was feeling, because he was almost the one who had murdered this man. But there would also be a kind of relief that it hadn’t been him.