Although their progress was slow, the higher they climbed, the more Anna’s heart sank. They were venturing further and further towards Shamil’s territory. This was the border that David was meant to be protecting, this was the line where the river forts were stationed. Around them was nothing but the forests and the mountains, familiar to these men; their natural habitat.
She dozed against her will and woke with a shock to find that her arms had gone slack and Lydia was wedged loosely between her and the rider, the trail of her nappy dangling over the saddle. The baby was wide awake, gazing up with large wet eyes at the green swirl of the trees, the sun filtering through.
They reached a clearing, a stretch of flat ground and suddenly there was a whizzing sound that made Anna turn her head. Were they being followed? The loudest cry from the Lezgin as his horse wheeled and broke into a gallop. ‘It’s an ambush. Go, go, go.’
Anna felt her whole body sway backwards, her arms instinctively jutting out for balance. ‘Stop,’ she screamed, ‘I’m not holding her properly.’
Lydia was loose in her arms, a lopsided bundle, as bullets zinged past them, as the highlanders dispersed, yelping and working their horses up to a frenzy. One of the riders was shot. He groaned and fell to the ground.
‘Hold your hostage close!’ the Lezgin shouted to his men. The horses of their pursuers could be heard now. They were gaining on them. A bullet hit a horse and it skidded and crashed down, flinging its rider.
‘Stop,’ she screamed. ‘Please stop.’
‘Hold tight to my belt, Princess.’
‘My baby is slipping from me. Stop now, I beg you.’
‘Soon, soon we will stop.’
I am holding her, aren’t I? She is here and we are being rescued. The Lezgin suddenly reeled his horse to the right and dashed into the forest. The movement guaranteed their escape but Anna swayed and nearly tipped over. He reached behind to steady her but only succeeded in knocking her elbow. Lydia slipped from her arm. ‘My baby!’ she screamed. She screamed and the sound pressed close, her nerves vibrating. The bundle fragile on soil and leaves. Her wrong empty hands. It was as if her own insides squished and bled. Her own spine cracked and the thud was thunder in her inner ear.
IVFurther Than the Outpost
1. SCOTLAND, DECEMBER 2010
‘Can I have a word with you, Natasha?’ Iain put his head through the door. It meant he wanted me to come to his office. ‘Any time within the next hour,’ he added. He drummed his fingers against the doorknob. As always, his clothes hung on him as if they were a size too large. His hair, too, always seemed big for his face, a throwback to the 1980s. The formality of his request surprised me. A dull ache started behind my eyes. I was still shaken by what had happened this morning.
After leaving Malak, I drove through slush, streets that were busier than usual now that the snow was melting. The need-to-catch-up mood reached me through the edgy shoppers impatient to cross the road and the announcement on the radio that Debenhams would stay open till ten. The Christmas songs were familiar and reassuring. I found that I had an effortless memory for past Number One hits. Given a year, I could guess either the song or the artist, sometimes even both. When it was time for the news I found myself gripping the steering wheel. But there was no mention of dawn raids or of Oz.
Today I had my own catching up to do. I had missed one full day of work and most of the morning. Next week, exams started and there were plenty of emails from my superiors to wade through first, answer or file before I turned to the students’. Without my laptop, I would have to get through them at the desktop in my office. Even my personal emails. I tried not to think of the files on my laptop that I had not backed up.
There was an email from the Classic Car Club saying that tonight’s Christmas dinner was cancelled because of the weather. Lucky for me that I wasn’t in charge this year. These kinds of decisions were not easy to make. Last year I was events secretary and that party was a success. It was disappointing that this one was cancelled. I had been looking forward to it, a chance to show off my 196 °Czechoslovakian-built Skoda after all the work I’d had done to it. I was much less hands-on than the others, who tended to do all the work themselves and devoted more time to their car. It cost a fortune at the garage but I would not begrudge my heroic Felicia, which made it to the West at the height of the Cold War.
When I sat in the armchair in Iain’s room, he said, ‘It’s not good news about Gaynor Stead. They’ve decided to uphold her complaint.’
Gaynor had been my student last year. I had judged her to be the stupidest person to have ever stepped into university. It baffled me that she survived until third year after repeating both of the previous ones. Too often I had watched quirky and brilliant students crash and burn. Instead it was the doleful and dogged Gaynor who was the survivor of the species. She never missed a class — perhaps that was her secret. Or because she knew her rights and felt entitled to a degree as if she were a client and the university a service. She had failed my class, but that was not the issue — her work was poor without question. Instead she claimed that I had sat on top of her desk and broken one of her fingers! It was a seminar and there were only about ten students, the desks arranged in a rectangle. While answering a question, she stumbled over the pronunciation of a Russian name and clammed up, refusing to speak any further. Instead of asking her to spell the name or leaning over to look at her notes or just moving on to someone else, I perched on top of her desk and picked up her notebook. She was clearly irritated by my proximity, swinging her hair back sharply and muttering something under her breath. But there was no cry of pain, nothing about a bruised or injured finger. And I was sure, as much as I could ever be sure, that I did not sit on her finger or even her pen.
‘Iain, this is ridiculous. She never left the room. Would anyone with a broken finger continue to take a class as if nothing had happened?’
‘She has a letter from her doctor.’
‘On that same date?’
He spoke slowly. ‘The school is going to look into all that. It’s going to take time. In the New Year there’ll be another meeting and they’ll decide then whether to go ahead with any action.’
There was a picture of his wife and two children on his desk. His wife was wearing a purple jumper; the little boys, only a few years apart, resembled her in that they both had red hair. The photo, taken in front of their new house, seemed recent because of the snow. I too would like to leave my flat and move to a house. I could sit in the garden with my laptop. This was not likely on the pay scale I was on now and the expense of keeping two cars. I would have to be a professor, like Iain. In time I could become one; there was nothing wrong with my abilities. ‘This isn’t the first time Gaynor has complained about a member of staff. How come this time she’s being taken seriously?’ My voice sounded sharp to my ears.
‘She’s complained twice before,’ he said. ‘Different lecturers.’
‘So I’m her third time lucky!’
‘I can understand your frustration.’
‘What do you think will be the outcome of the meeting?’ I might have to fight and the prospect of battle was in itself repulsive.
‘It depends,’ he said. ‘Often these things just fizzle out.’ He was giving me his full attention. ‘Are you a member of the union?’
‘No.’ It was not the answer he wanted. Suddenly I wished I was sharing this with Malak and Oz. Malak would laugh and Oz, who probably knew Gaynor, would say something mean about her.
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