Ivan Klima - Waiting for the Dark, Waiting for the Light

So they just leave him standing there and it's more than he can take, so he turns to one of the escorts and asks him where they're taking him. He knows he won't get an answer, but even to be yelled at would be some comfort.

But nothing happens. They remain silent, deaf to his questions, and that terrifies him even more. If they were to start beating him now, he might not even have the strength to defend himself. He'd just howl like a dog drowning in a flooded river.

Then a black limousine pulls up. The fat man gets in beside the driver, he's put in the back seat between the two escorts and they drive off. The gate opens, and soon they're on the open road.

He hasn't a clue where they're taking him. Why are they wasting petrol? Maybe the gallows are somewhere else. Or maybe one of those sadistic bloody hangmen didn't feel like coming all the way out here, so they sent this limo to pick him up. They're giving him a last ride instead of a last meal. If this is going to be his last ride, this is also his last chance to make a run for it. If he could only get out of the car, he'd manage the rest.

The idea blinds him like a flash of lightning, and he has to hold his breath in order not to shout. He knows he mustn't move or make a sound, otherwise they'll get scared and handcuff him to the escorts. So he pretends to fall asleep, while from under his half-closed lids he watches the cars coming from the opposite direction and the roofs of houses and church steeples passing by. They're doing at least ninety. It will be enough to mangle them all to mincemeat. But he has nothing to lose.

Mentally, he rehearses the movement several times until he's sure he can pull it off. They are just coming out of a wood and approaching a small town. He hopes that this is not their destination. He can't put it off any longer. He mustn't be too choosy. He can't afford to hesitate, or they'll get him to a place from which no prisoner has ever escaped.

They drive through the town, then into the countryside again. It's straight out of a film, farm ponds sparkling in the sun, surrounded by trees. It's quiet in the car. No one speaks; the escorts merely glance at him occasionally. The car roars down a hill, through a wooded area. Below that, he can see that the road curves to the left, but it's not a sharp turn; the driver probably won't even brake. All he has to do is choose the right moment. Sunlight flashes

through the trees. A huge lorry is bearing down on them. His throat has gone dry. What hope does he have? At this speed? He reminds himself he has nothing to lose. He flings himself forward and with all his might, like a football player lunging to head the ball into the goal, he head-butts the driver from behind. He hears a cry of pain, some cursing, someone pulls him back but then lets go, there's more shouting and he hits the floor, his hands helpless, but he braces himself with his legs, feels the car leave the road, feels the first impact and then he too shouts, with fear or joy, the car flips over, a crushing impact. Darkness suddenly cloaks his eyes as he hears the shattering of glass and cries of terror and pain.

He tries to lift his head. A reddish, spinning light penetrates the darkness, and he can see the vague outline of things, people, which become more distinct: a twisted door has been punched in on its frame and has pinned one of the escorts to the seat. The dead eyes of the second escort stare up at him from a bloody face. With his hands still cuffed behind his back, he manages to raise himself and shift to an opening between the frame and the door. He sees the driver draped bloodily over the lifeless body of the fat man, but he hasn't time to think about it. He squeezes through the opening and is out of the car and taking his first free step. He feels a piercing pain in his left leg. Surely the fucking leg can't have taken the impact, not now when he needs it most. A car is coming down the road. It will probably stop. They mustn't see him with the cuffs on, so he tries to run. It's almost impossible. There's a pain in his abdomen, his leg is probably wrecked. Fiery wheels spin before his eyes, blood streams down his face, his face is probably messed up too and he can't even wipe it, but at least he's moving, not like those motherfuckers, he's moving, gradually dragging himself into the trees, and he even tries to run, groaning with pain under his breath, but he's running.

He has no sense of time, but when he finally looks around, the road is out of sight.

He kneels down and wipes his head on a pillow of moss like a wild animal. When he gets up again, the moss is brown with blood.

In the distance he can hear the wailing of a siren. It could just be an ambulance, but it could also be the police. They'll bring dogs, and then how long will it take to track him down?

He begins running again, if you can call this painful, stumbling limp running. Everything depends on how soon they realize he's escaped and how far away he is when they do.

The woods are not deep, and he suddenly emerges into a field of wheat flooded with light. The field slopes away into a valley where he can see several damp, glistening roofs. A narrow, dusty path runs alongside the field. He limps down it. It would probably be better to hide among the wheat, but as long as they're not on to him he has to get as far away as he can. Beyond an orchard, the first house appears, and he looks around cautiously. As far as he can tell, there's no one outside in the sticky pre-noon heat. A few dogs bark lazily.

He walks past three houses, and in the yard of the fourth, a fair-haired boy is kneeling over a dismantled bicycle.

He shouts at him and as he does so, his face contorts with pain.

The boy looks around and then gapes. He can't be any more than twelve.

Are you alone?'

The boy gets to his feet. 'What is it?' he says, and backs warily towards the door. 'What do you want?'

'Can't you see? I need help.'

'Yeah, I can see.' The boy stops. 'Did you fall?'

'That's it. You by yourself?'

The boy looks around in alarm. 'Me and the dog. What have you got behind your back?'

'Just my hands.' He turns round to show the boy. 'Look, I won't hurt you, I just need help.'

The boy calls the dog, a limping old mutt that would be hard put to scare a chicken. The two of them edge towards the gate. 'You've run away.'

'You've got to help me. . ' Every word he utters is painful, and his mouth is so dry he can hardly move his tongue.

'My brother has a blowtorch in the shed,' says the boy, and he unlocks the gate.

Inside the shed it's dark and cool, and there's a smell of hay. If he could only lie down. The boy quickly unwinds the flex, puts on the goggles and ignites the torch. 'Are they after you?'

'Shut up and get on with it.' Then he thinks again. 'If they turn up here, asking questions, you never saw me and you don't know anything about me.' He pulls his wrists as far apart as he can, but he still feels the heat of the flame. 'They can't do anything to you. You're not fifteen yet. But even so, you never saw me. If they keep on at you, say you were indoors.' The handcuffs are beginning to get hot but he grits his teeth and keeps his hands apart.

'OK,' says the boy. 'What did you do?'

'Best for you not to know, but I'm innocent.' At that moment his hands fly apart. The steel bracelets still hang on his wrists, but he can get rid of them if the boy will give him a piece of wire or a penknife.

'Do you want to have a wash?'

The first thing he does when he reaches the wash-basin is drink, gulping down long mouthfuls of water. Only then does he look in the mirror. He can scarcely recognize himself. His hair is matted with blood. His right cheek and upper lip are swollen. His left cheek has been cut by glass.

The boy is standing behind him. 'My brother was in jail too. He deserted from the army.'