Kate Furnivall - The Concubine's Secret

‘Now you are a part of me,’ he’d said simply, and gave her that slow smile of his that stopped her heart. ‘Now I can listen to you roar inside me.’

She’d laughed and lain in his arms, growling at him, nipping his collarbone with her teeth, dragging her nails across the taut skin of his chest.

‘Lydia?’ It was Alexei. His head was tipped to one side so that he could peer up into her face. ‘Are you still with me?’

He said it lightly, with an easy laugh, but behind the words she could hear the concern, the uncertainty. He was doubting her too. From the moment they set foot on the pavement outside the printing shop, Alexei had hooked her arm through his own and set a good pace as he strode through the town. He’d steered her past the imposing pillars of the Lenin Library and into a quiet park that was laid out with gravel paths, edged with hoops of decorative ironwork. To Lydia they looked like open mouths begging for food. They forced images of the labour camp into her head.

She locked her arm tight against her brother’s. The place was deserted. Yet it felt busy because there was so much movement and commotion around them as the wind battered the bare branches, or chased a newspaper around the central statue on its plinth. Empty Belomor cigarette packets and a trail of abandoned peanut shells swirled under their feet, and all the time that they walked, Alexei talked. His words soothing her, quietening her. The flow of them creating firm footholds in her mind as, with infinite delicacy, he fed the words into the silence. Step by step he retraced their plans, bringing her with him, reminding her, leading her, not letting her slip away.

Alexei patted his waist where his bodybelt lay securely fastened next to his skin and smiled at her, for once without that look of detachment that so often guarded his thoughts. They had left the park and were heading down a road through an area where the houses were smaller, but showily decorated with carved shutters.

‘We have money,’ he reminded her. ‘We have diamonds and we have new identity papers for our father. We are well prepared, Lydia.’

‘I know.’

‘We always knew it was going to be dangerous to attempt to bribe the guards at the camp. Finding the right one, a guard so greedy he will sell his soul and risk anything – even execution – to have-’

‘I know.’ A pause. ‘I know.’ The wind snatched at her words.

‘It will take us time,’ he said quietly. ‘We can’t – you mustn’t – rush into any risks that-’

‘I know.’

He let a silence drift between them but still held her arm laced through his. She could feel the strength in his hand where it was fastened on her wrist and the strength of the mind that controlled it.

‘Alexei.’

‘What is it?’

‘Do you think Jens was one of those prisoners?’

She felt a muscle tighten in his hand, heard his intake of breath. ‘Pulling that timber wagon, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s unlikely.’ His voice was as calm as if discussing the possibility of rain.

‘I thought one man seemed to have red hair.’

‘No, Lydia, we were much too far away. You couldn’t possibly see that. It’s wishful thinking. Anyway it may not be red any more.’

They looked at each other, then walked in silence, the street growing narrower, the neighbourhood rougher. The well-built brick homes gave way to shapeless wooden houses which were looking tired and shabby. A honey-coloured mongrel in a doorway whined at them as they passed.

Wishful thinking.

I wish. I think. Oh yes, Papa, Alexei is right. I wish for you and I think of you… and I am frightened for you. My blood runs cold when I picture you, a green-eyed Viking, condemned to exist underground in one of the mines.

‘The man who built this town was a visionary,’ Alexei interrupted her thoughts. He had turned away, so she could only see his profile with its high forehead and straight, uncompromising nose, but his mouth was curved into a line of approval.

‘What do you mean?’ She had no interest in the town.

‘His name was Leonid Ventov.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I did my research. When preparing for battle, you reconnoitre the land.’

Lydia loved him for that, the way he kept them safe. She squeezed his arm. ‘Tell me about this Leonid Ventov of yours.’

‘He was an industrialist from Odessa at the end of the last century. He grew fat and rich on what he discovered lay under this cold black soil, huge deposits of coal and iron ore, but he was a fiercely religious man. So instead of just stripping the land bare and leaving it raped and useless, he built this town of Felanka as a beautifully designed thank you to his god. He tried to persuade others in the growing breed of wealthy industrialists to do the same throughout Russia but…’ His voice trailed away.

Lydia felt his attention focus abruptly elsewhere. She glanced ahead as they emerged from the shadow of a row of houses and saw what it was that had drawn his interest. Ahead of them at the edge of town stretched a flat, dull landscape, deserted except for one wide rutted road that ran straight to the iron foundry about a kilometre away. The brick building was hunched and forbidding, as if waiting for night to fall when it would stalk closer to the town under cover of darkness. Its stacks stretched upwards, like fingers raking the crimson sky, and belched a thick black smoke which today was swept away from the town by the east wind. But still the air tasted sour and stung the nostrils.

Lydia examined it with interest. ‘So this is where we’ll bring him?’

‘ Da . As soon as we’ve got Jens out of the camp, we’ll need to hide him. What better place than in a foundry where blackened faces and constantly changing shifts are the norm? Among that vast throng of metal workers, he would pass unnoticed. But first…’

‘We have to find a worker willing to take him in there.’

‘Exactly. That’s what your Cossack and I will start work on tonight.’

‘Alexei?’

Their footsteps slowed, finally halting on the edge of the frozen landscape that ranged for miles in every direction. Only the foundry itself was built in a sunken hollow, as though its creator had endeavoured to keep it as much out of sight as possible, its ugliness an affront to the splendour of his god. Now, with religion nothing more than a dirty word, just something the Politburo wiped their Communist boots on, the factories and foundries of Russia had become the new churches.

‘Alexei?’ Lydia said again, her finger tapping his arm insistently.

He nodded to indicate he was listening, but his eyes still scrutinised the approach road to the foundry. Somewhere unseen, the sound of a truck starting up drifted to their ears.

‘I’ve thought of an idea,’ she said.

She felt his arm stiffen. He looked at her quickly. ‘What idea?’

‘I need to help. At the moment it’s just you and Popkov sniffing out a guard and a foundry worker who will take a bribe, while I sit twiddling my thumbs, just waiting for you to-’

‘For God’s sake, Lydia, what do you expect? If you start putting your face about and asking questions, you’ll throw us all in danger.’ He tightened his grip on her hand. ‘Don’t!’ he said. His green eyes probed hers intently. ‘Whatever it is, don’t! Do you hear me? Don’t!’

There was a long silence between them, broken only by the truck engine approaching. Lydia was the first who looked away, not because she was nervous of him but because she didn’t want him to see how angry she was. She tried to remove her hand from his arm but he refused to release it. The sky was losing its colour and the first wings of darkness were gliding in from the west.