Dan Smith - The Child Thief

And then I fired. The revolver shots were loud, constrained inside the room. They merged into one as I thumbed the hammer and squeezed the trigger three times, certain that each one hit the target prone on the floor. The muzzle flashes lit up the room, smoke plumed around my face and the revolver kicked in my hand.

When I stopped firing, my ears were ringing and my nostrils were full of the smell of gunpowder. Steam rose from the heated barrel of the weapon, and I kept the revolver pointed into the room and scanned the space, my eyes adjusting to its darkness.

No sound from the figure on the floor. No movement.

‘Dariya?’ I spoke into the silence. ‘Dariya?’

I waited. Listened.

Nothing.

‘Dariya?’

I stepped back from the window, keeping the revolver ready, and made my way round to the front of the hut, where the faint remnants of footprints lay in the shelter of the overhanging roof. Just a trace remaining after the last fall of snow. There were no other marks. Someone had come here, but they had not left. I felt a moment of relief. A moment of belief that I had caught him; that I had killed him; that Dariya would be inside, waiting for me to find her and take her home.

I reached out with my left hand and pushed on the door. I followed the revolver into the room and looked around. Wisps of gunsmoke hung in the air, broken by the shafts of light from the window. It floated and curled and twisted, becoming nothing when it touched the shadow.

‘Dariya?’

The room was empty apart from the body, but there was a second door in the far wall, slightly ajar, leading to another part of the hut, and I wondered if that’s where Dariya would be waiting. Hiding. Afraid.

I took another step into the cabin and glanced down at the corpse on the floor.

There was no furniture in the room except for a single wooden table and one chair. The table was rough, built from uplaned planks of wood, their edges uneven, the surface of it scratched and marked. The solitary chair lay on its back. Again it was basic in design, its square seat primitive, its legs uneven. In the centre of the far wall there was a small brick-lined fireplace. There were two or three half-barrels stacked on top of each other close to the fireplace and, beside them, a round board attached to the end of a wooden pole. From a beam in the ceiling hung a heavy chain, almost long enough to touch the floor.

On the table there was a bottle of clear liquid with a small amount missing, a cork pushed tight in its mouth. Beside that lay an aluminium water bottle like the one I carried. A soldier’s water bottle. There was also a sheath for a knife, but the weapon was missing. A row of rifle cartridges stood upright, arranged in a line beside a small parcel of waxed paper, a packet of cigarettes, a box of matches, some other bits and pieces. There was also a satchel and a pack the man would have carried on his back. Leaning in the corner, to the right of the window at the front of the cabin, a German Mauser rifle with a mounted scope. It was almost exactly like my own.

I stood as I was and took everything in, inspecting the table, turning to look out the window cut into the front wall of the cabin. I could see right across the open stretch of land to the place where we had stopped and looked up at this hut. From here the forest looked dense, and there was no sign of Viktor and Petro, but I knew they’d be watching. They would have heard the gunshots and would be wondering what was going on.

I looked down at the body on the rough wooden boards of the floor.

The man was dressed, and partially covered by a blanket over his legs. He looked to have slipped from a position where he might have had his back against the wall, his legs stretched out on the floor, as if he’d been taking a moment of rest from looking out the window. He had taken off his boots, which lay beside him on the floor, and I thought perhaps he’d grown tired of watching and waiting and risked a few moments of sleep during the night.

I picked up the right boot and turned it over to look at the sole, taking note of the split near the toe, a piece missing. This was the defect I’d seen in the prints we’d been following. These were the child thief’s boots.

I put the boot down and glanced around again, settling on the scoped rifle leaning in the corner of the room, just out of arm’s reach. It was in good condition, the wood well cared for, the metal well oiled. It was the weapon of a man who knew how to shoot. The kind of man who could have taken the near-impossible shot that killed Dimitri.

‘So why is it out of reach?’ I spoke aloud, turning back to the dead man. ‘Why not have it right here, in your hand?’ He must have been tired. He’d come a long way, dragging a reluctant child. He’d made a mistake and paid for it.

Like me, the man was bearded, but his was matted with frozen blood. His dark eyes were wide, caught in a moment of surprise. The knife that was missing from the sheath on the table was lodged in his throat, the blade pushed right in so all I could see was the worn wooden handle. The front of his coat and much of the blanket were dark with his blood, and the area where he was sitting was thick with it.

I crouched beside him and stared into his open eyes. I lifted my hand and touched a finger to the handle of the knife, feeling not revulsion or fear, but dissatisfaction. There were holes in the coat, places where my bullets had pierced him, but no blood had leaked from those wounds. My bullets had not killed this man. This man was dead before I shot him. I had not killed the child thief, and yet here he was with his head back, his mouth wide, his teeth stained red, and his tongue far back in his throat. I even thought I could see the steel of the blade where the tip had pierced the soft flesh at the hollow of his throat and slipped through. It looked as if it had been pushed hard, and he had died with one hand on his chest as if raised to the handle of the knife. I imagined him gripping at its slippery surface, trying to remove it from his body.

I saw every line in his contorted face, every dirt-filled crease in his skin, and while I was glad to see him dead, I felt disappointment it wasn’t me who had finished him. I had come so far, risked so much, and my sense of justice had been stolen. I grabbed the fur of the man’s hat in my fist and dragged it from his head, disturbing his position, pulling his head forward. His muscles were frozen into stiffness and his head came up a little then sprang back, banging against the wooden wall of the cabin. It was an empty sound in an otherwise silent room. I dropped the hat on the bare floorboards and stared at the face of the man I had vowed to kill.

I stood, feeling pain in my joints, calling, ‘Dariya?’

I went to the far side of the room and put my hand on the door, readying my revolver. The child thief might be dead, but I didn’t know who had done it or what had become of my niece.

‘Dariya? Are you here? It’s Luka. Your uncle. It’s all right. I’ve come to take you home. Don’t be afraid.’

I pushed the door, wincing at the way the hinges creaked, and looked into the room beyond.

‘Anybody?’

This room, like the last, was almost empty but for a few half-barrels and some tools. The smell here was strong, but it was not a smell of death. It was pungent and mouldy, and I guessed this was where the shepherds would have stored the cheese they made.

There were no windows here, but another door, at the opposite corner, was open a fraction, and the sharp white of the snow outside was visible. I kept the revolver ready and crossed the room, stepping out into the cold air, seeing the fresh, familiar child’s tracks which led away from the cabin. I knew these prints were recent, made within the last hour, and I felt my mood quicken. Whatever had happened to Dariya, she was still alive and she was moving. Perhaps the scalp we’d seen had been a trick, another of the child thief’s games.