Dan Smith - The Child Thief

‘I feel fine.’ The blood was dried and crusted over the wounds that Lermentov had given me. My jaw hurt when I spoke, and the bruises ached when I moved.

‘Papa, you look like shit,’ Viktor said.

‘Don’t be a stubborn old man,’ Aleksandra spoke in my ear again. Then she lowered her voice. ‘Think about us. We’re depending on you. All three of us need you to be strong and fit. You’re no good to us if you’re weak and tired. Eat something. Drink something. It’ll take a few minutes, and then we’ll move on. You’ll be stronger and less likely to let us down.’

I turned to see her, look at her eyes, our faces inches apart.

‘We need you,’ she said.

I sighed and looked away. ‘All right, we’ll stop. But no more than a few minutes.’

Further into the forest we came to a place where a rotten tree had fallen, snapping low on its trunk. It lay across the ground, snow drifted against it so it formed a low wall, the perfect shelter from the wind. Viktor stopped, so I tightened my grip on the reins and halted behind him. Aleksandra slipped down as Viktor and Petro dismounted.

Petro came to me while Viktor gathered wood, breaking dry twigs from the dead tree, piling them in a pit they’d lined with stones and protected with a low wall of snow.

The way they had organised themselves was impressive. ‘You’ve done well,’ I said as Petro reached up to help Dariya from the horse.

‘We’ve only done what you taught us,’ he said, taking Dariya’s hand. ‘This is Aleksandra,’ he said to her, squatting so he was at her level. ‘I want you to stay with her for a while; can you do that?’

Dariya didn’t respond, and there was a look of sadness in Petro’s eyes.

Petro forced a smile and turned to go, but Dariya clung tight to his hand.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said. ‘Aleksandra is our friend. She’ll look after you.’

‘Of course I will,’ Aleksandra squatted too. ‘We’ll be like sisters.’ She reached out and took Dariya’s other hand, encouraging her towards her. ‘Come.’

Petro pulled his hand away and Aleksandra drew Dariya close to her saying, ‘We’re going to be all right now. Everything will be all right.’ But she lifted her eyes so she could look at me. ‘Luka is going to take us home. Isn’t that right?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We’re all going home.’

Petro went: to the fallen tree and dusted away a covering of snow, reaching in to pull at a bundle of wood they’d leaned against it. Drawing it back, he revealed a clear area behind where they’d left the belongings they didn’t want to carry to their ambush. He removed our packs and the rifle they’d taken from the hut where the child thief lay dead.

Petro brought the rifle and handed it to me as I dismounted.

‘And the rest of his things? I asked. ‘There was a pack.’

‘We looked through it.’

‘And? What was in it?’

Petro glanced at Dariya and came closer to me, lowering his voice. ‘Old clothes, furs, a groundsheet, some dried meat—’

‘What kind?’ I was almost afraid to ask.

‘I don’t know.’

‘You didn’t eat any of it?’

‘No.’

‘Thank God.’

‘We buried everything but the rifle. There was another scalp in the pack, wrapped in cloth. Like the one we found in the tree. And there was a bottle of something that looked like blood.’

‘It explains what he left behind for us,’ I said. ‘Trophies from previous victims used as bait for new ones.’ Just like a sharpshooter wounding a man and leaving him to draw out others.

‘You think he was going to do that to the two we found?’ Petro asked.

‘Probably, but I think their father stopped him. Somehow he got them back before he could do anything more.’

‘But they were already dead.’ Petro glanced back at Dariya.

‘Maybe it was part of the game,’ I said. ‘Who knows how such a man might think. Perhaps it was another way to taunt the father. Let him see his dead children before finishing him off. Except we found him before that happened.’

‘I hope the bastard’s burning in hell.’

‘He will be’ I said. ‘You’ve done well. I’m proud of you both, Petro.’

Petro forced a smile and took the reins, hitching them to a low branch while I checked the weapon. I inspected the magazine, drew back the bolt, saw the brass casing in the breech, turned and pulled the stock firm against my shoulder. I sighted through the scope at the forest beyond. The rifle was much like the one taken by Lermentov, but this one had fired the bullet that killed Dariya’s father, and she had meted out her own punishment, taken her own revenge without knowing it. She had killed the man who murdered her father, and now she was only a shell of the little girl I had known. I was afraid she would never speak again, never see anything with the same eyes.

‘Has she said anything?’ Petro asked.

‘Not a word. She just stares.’

‘You think she’ll be all right?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe she needs her mother.’

Petro left me, going to the others, and I lowered the rifle to watch them. Aleksandra and Dariya had joined Viktor by the fire. There was a low flame among the twigs, and Viktor was laying larger pieces on it while Petro scooped snow into a tin. Aleksandra stood by, unspeaking, and Dariya clung to her hand.

‘Come and sit by the fire,’ Petro said to me as he placed the tin over the flames. ‘You look cold.’

‘I’m not cold any more.’ Feeling had returned to my feet, but the only sensation it brought was pain. My muscles ached from the hunger and the cold, and my face was sore from Lermentov’s beating.

‘Well, come and sit down anyway,’ he said. ‘Rest a moment.’

I hesitated, looking at my sons and then back out at the forest.

‘Just a short while,’ Petro said.

I was afraid to rest. I was afraid because I didn’t want to go back to that small room, or any room like it, and I didn’t want any of us to be dragged away to a Stolypin car. I wanted to keep moving, put as much distance between us and Lermentov as was possible. I had told the others that Lermentov wouldn’t come after us, that he would leave us to the weather and the wild animals, but a part of me believed that if he knew we had escaped, that two of his soldiers lay dead beneath the snow, he would send his men to find us and bring us back. He would sentence us to a life of labour so hard we would waste away in less than a year. We would be worked to death.

And there was something else I was afraid of. Something which scared me more than Lermentov and his promise of distant Gulags. I was afraid that if I stopped to rest I would lack the energy to move again.

‘We need to move on, keep watching in case they follow.’

‘You said they wouldn’t.’

‘If they do, though…’

‘ We’ll watch for anyone following.’ Viktor came over to me and stood close. ‘You relax. We’re here now. Petro is warming some water; you can drink tea, wash your face.’

I put a hand to my beard and felt the places where it was matted with blood. ‘Do I look bad?’

‘You look fine, Papa.’

‘I look like a man who has been beaten,’ I said.

‘Why did they do that to you? Why did they…’ Viktor squeezed his eyes closed and shook his head. When he looked at me again, there was anger and pain and sadness in them. All of those things mixed together in a violent and poisonous brew. ‘We could go back,’ he said. ‘Go back and find the—’

‘There’s no going back,’ I told him. ‘There’s nothing good to come from that. We have to go forward. Find your mother, Lara, and then move on; get away. We can’t fight what is happening here.’

‘Maybe we should fight it. Maybe that’s what we have to do. We have to fight and show these people we won’t let them do this to us. If we just sit back and let them walk over us, we’re as good as dead. We have to stand up and show them we can’t be beaten like that.’