Child Thief

by Dan Smith

  ‘Stay close to the trees,’ I said, crouching at the trunk of a large maple and taking out my binoculars. The snow had begun to ease off now, just a few light flakes falling from a translucent sky.

  ‘You see anything?’ Viktor asked.

  There was almost nothing to see on the plain of white, other than the places where black rocks broke through. Without the trees for protection, almost all trace of any track was gone, smothered by the heavy fall of snow. Close up, I could see the child thief had come to the spot where we now stood, but further out in the open I saw nothing.

  I looked across towards an overstood coppice of hornbeam just less than a kilometre away. And there, among the cluster of trees, I could see a small, primitive building.

  ‘Shepherd’s hut?’ I passed the binoculars to Viktor for him to look.

  Viktor wiped the lenses and held them to his eyes. ‘I don’t know.’

  I called Petro, asking, ‘What do you think?’

  Petro hesitated before taking the binoculars and looking into the distance. ‘Where’re the sheep?’

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘Sheep. If it’s a shepherd’s hut, where are the sheep?’

  ‘On a collective?’ I suggested.

  ‘And why would there be a hut this low?’

  Petro had a point, but a shepherd’s hut wasn’t impossible down here.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘It’s where the tracks lead us.’

  ‘No sign of life at all,’ Petro said. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘We can’t go that way now,’ Viktor said. ‘Cross open land in daylight. That hut’s a perfect place to watch from: he’ll see us coming.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Viktor was thinking now and I was pleased he had something to occupy his thoughts other than what he’d done on the road. ‘What would you do?’

  ‘Wait until dark?’

  I nodded. ‘Or maybe just one of us going up there would be hard to spot. Keep low. There are rocks,’ I pointed. ‘I could use them to stay hidden.’

  ‘Maybe an hour ago,’ Viktor said. ‘The way it was snowing, you could have tried it, but now? No, you’d never get up there without him shooting at you. Some of those rocks are too far apart. It’ll take too long to get from one to the other.’

  I studied the way the land rose and fell, wondering if I could make it to the hut without being seen. But there wasn’t a direct route to the crest of the hill that would provide sufficient cover.

  ‘You could follow the forest,’ Aleksandra said. ‘It curves around that way.’ She indicated north. ‘Maybe if you come from that direction, he won’t be watching.’

  I looked at the arc of the forest edge, the way the trees hugged the hillside, embracing it. ‘I thought of that already,’ I said, ‘but it would take too long.’

  ‘Longer than waiting for dark?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you already decided there’s no direct approach.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Then what choice do you have?’

  ‘You think like a general,’ Petro said. ‘Outflank him. I like it.’

  ‘All right, you three stay here,’ I told them. ‘If I move fast, it shouldn’t take me more than an hour to get around there. Make yourselves visible from time to time. Not for too long, but if he’s seen us already, it’ll be enough to make him think we’re still here. If we’re lucky he’ll think we’re trying to decide what to do and it’ll keep him focused on this place. I’ll signal if it’s safe to come.’

  I took the rifle from my shoulder, removed my pack and placed it on the ground, thinking I’d move better without it. The others could bring it with them, or I’d collect it on my return. I adjusted the way the satchel was hanging and retrieved my rifle.

  ‘Keep watching,’ I said, handing the binoculars to Viktor. ‘If there’s anything that looks like trouble, fire two shots.’ I wanted to keep Viktor busy, give him something to do. He had been quiet for a while after we’d left the place by the road, and I was glad to see him regain some of his spirit. What he had done would haunt him, but he needed to accept it, and if he had something else to share space with those thoughts, he would get some perspective.

  Viktor hesitated with the binoculars in one hand, then shook his head and offered them back. ‘Why don’t you let me go?’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll go up there.’ He glanced across at the hut nestling in the trees. ‘Let me.’

  I watched him, looking to see what was in his eyes.

  ‘Please. I want to do it. Let me go.’

  I knew it was his guilt talking. The kind of guilt that could make a person stoop with the weight of it on their back, sitting like a devil on his shoulders, whispering in his ears, pulling at his cheeks. ‘Your head’s not clear,’ I said.

  ‘It’s clear enough.’

  ‘You’ve nothing to prove. Nothing to feel guilty about.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘You need to stay here. You’re not ready for something like this.’

  ‘What do you mean I’m not ready? I can shoot. I can walk. I can go up there just as easily as you can. Maybe better. Let me go and I’ll find this man and kill him. Let it be me.’ He began to walk away, so I took his arm and pulled him away from the others.

  ‘I’m not letting you go out there on your own, Viktor. I can see what’s in your mind. It’s in your eyes, the way you move and talk.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There were men,’ I said. ‘In the war. Soldiers who survived their comrades. Soldiers who took the last reserves of food from a village and left the children to starve. Soldiers who killed women when they—’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ He tried to break away but I held him tighter, gripping his coat with both hands and shaking him.

  ‘Because they had the same look in their eyes,’ I said. ‘They weren’t strong enough to live with what they did, so it ate at them until they were mad. The first to run into battle when there was no chance of survival; the first to charge through artillery fire, raise their heads above the parapet, go over when the time came for attack. They fought beyond the call of duty and they were doomed men, Viktor. Doomed because they couldn’t live with themselves.’

  Viktor stared at me.

  ‘That’s why you can’t go. Because I see that in your eyes, and I’m afraid that if I let you go, you’ll do something rash.’

  I put my arm around him and held him so our cheeks were touching.

  ‘Look after Aleksandra,’ I said. ‘That’s your duty now. I know how you’re feeling, and I know you want to do something to make it feel right, but this is not the best thing for you. Going up there instead of me isn’t going to make you feel any better. It won’t rub out what happened. You have to just accept it. Live with it.’

  ‘Let me try,’ he said.

  I shook my head and stood back. ‘What you did, Viktor … I would have done it too.’

  ‘But you didn’t. And last night, when we followed you, you didn’t shoot. You called out to us.’

  ‘It was a mistake,’ I said. ‘One that could’ve got me killed if it hadn’t been you. I should’ve shot.’

  Viktor took a deep breath and blew it out into the cold air. ‘You don’t mean that. I know you don’t.’

  ‘Do what I asked. Look after Aleksandra. I’ll go up there and I’ll let you know if it’s safe. We’ll talk about this later.’

  Viktor turned away, anger rising in his eyes, but I liked that better than seeing the guilt.

  19

  Circumnavigating the base of the hill, I remained in the forest, keeping the hill to my right. The snow was deep where it had been drifted by the wind and rippled like the dunes of a desert. It was difficult to move, my feet sinking until I was knee-deep, my legs feeling heavy. My stomach was empty too, a sensation that added to my weakness, amplifying my exhaustion. I was a tired and hollow man, wishing I’d prepared better for this journey, but I pressed on, dragging myself through th
e snow, trying to find the places where it was shallow, or where a firm crust had formed over the top so it made movement easier.

  Reaching the far side of the hill, I came to the edge of the trees and looked up at the crest of it. There were rocks here too, but the drifts were deeper on this side so they weren’t much more than just black tips like islands in the vast sea of snow.

  I used the scope of my rifle to inspect the hilltop, but saw nothing that gave me any reason not to move on.

  There was no cover, so I marched straight up, exposed to anyone who may have been watching, but I almost didn’t care any more. I was cold and hungry and tired. My feet were sore and my shoulders hurt. The muscles in my thighs were burning from the strained walking, lifting my knees high or dragging them through the snow. My eyes stung from the harsh white of the snow.

  And still I kept on. Head down, shoulders slumped, I kept on and I waited for the impact. As I climbed the incline, my body anticipated the penetrating bullet; my ears listened for the crack of a rifle shot. But my mind was hardly aware of that expectation.

  My mind worked only to drive my legs, to push me on towards the cluster of trees and the hut within them.

  As much as I could, I kept the rocks between me and the hut, trying to break any line of sight. From time to time I stopped to take a breath and look up, but now the hut was hidden, obscured by the closeness of the coppice trees growing thick and multi-trunked.

  I rested when I reached the first tree, a single heavy stump with several ancient and gnarled stems thrown up and out from it like the fingers of a witch’s hand. I sank to my knees – my legs already too numb to feel the cold – and took shelter in those fissured knuckles, breathing heavily, wishing I was younger and fitter.

  The hut was just a short distance ahead; I could see glimpses of it through the trees. I sniffed hard and looked around, taking the revolver from my pocket. I double-checked it was loaded, ensured the cylinder revolved when I cocked the hammer, then I stood and propped myself against the tree for a few seconds, taking a few last moments to regain my strength before I went on.

  Movement was easier here. The trees were dense and they had protected the ground from the heaviest of the snow. And now I was rested, I felt a renewed sense of urgency, a greater need for caution.

  I kept my movements quiet, sliding my feet to avoid crunching the ice crust. I looked for tracks but saw none. And when I was closer, I stopped and took stock of what lay ahead.

  A rudimentary fence had been constructed from branches of similar size, stripped of leaves. The wood was dusted with snow and ice, and was faded and grey as if it had been here for a long time. At the front there was a gap where there may have once been a gate.

  The hut itself was small and in bad repair. It looked to have been built from trees like the one I was standing beside, the trunks cut, stripped and laid on their sides. In places I could see gaps in the walls where the crooked trunks didn’t quite come together. There was one window facing me, just a hole in the side of the building with nothing to protect it.

  There was no sign of life, nor was there anything to suggest there had been any life here in the recent past. If there had been tracks, the recent snowfall had covered them. It was as if no one had been here for years.

  I stayed back, inspecting the area, looking for the best way into the hut, but could see nothing other than the open window on this side. I considered where I would be if I were the child thief. The open window was the most obvious place. The building was poorly built but it would be warmer inside, and a sharpshooter can lie in wait for a long time, so it would help to be warm. But the roof would also be a good spot. From there he would have an excellent view all around him.

  I looked for any sign of movement, any disturbance in the snow around the edge of the roof, but there was nothing so I swallowed hard and took my first steps towards the fence.

  Nothing.

  I crept closer, keeping alert, watching the woods but always returning my gaze to inspect that open window, glance up at the roof.

  No movement.

  I reached the fence and crouched low, waiting again. I scanned the forest, tried to look into the darkness inside the hut. I was close enough to the building now that any attack from the roof was unlikely.

  After a few moments I tested the fence with my weight and, thinking it strong enough, put my foot on the bottom rail and swung my leg over. But I had miscalculated, and the crosspiece snapped under me. My legs were either side when the dry wood gave with a loud crack.

  I dropped onto the top rail, my full weight and momentum breaking that one too, bringing down a whole section of the fence. I collapsed and fell to one side, dropping my rifle and revolver into the snow, my legs tangled in the broken wood. I didn’t have time to lie and recover my breath; I didn’t have time for anything. If the child thief was here, he would know I was here too. All the care I’d taken in my approach was for nothing now.

  I rolled to one side, pushed the remnants of the fence away from my legs and scrambled to a pile of cut logs. There I got to my feet and went to the shack, pressing myself against the wall.

  I concentrated on bringing my breathing under control, trying to stop the thudding of my heart. All I could hear was the blood in my ears, the rhythm of my body, but I needed all my senses. I stayed low, my head turning, waiting, but nothing came.

  No figure rose in the woods. No dark shadow came round the corner. No sounds other than my own. No shots.

  I waited a long time, crouched in that corner between the wall and the logs, listening for the child thief. I stayed until my joints began to freeze and my teeth began to chatter. I remained motionless, part of the cabin, part of the woods themselves, and yet I felt exposed. I had no weapon, no means of defence. I stared at the place where my weapons had sunk beneath the snow by the broken fence and, when I finally moved, muscles screaming, my first thought was to retrieve the revolver.

  I edged towards the broken fence, allowing myself only the briefest look at the place where I had fallen before I scanned the surroundings once again, my eyes moving constantly as I put a hand to the ground and searched.

  I ignored the rifle and satchel and closed my cold fingers around the grip of the revolver before I scuttled back to the place by the cabin wall to check the weapon was still good.

  Satisfied it would still work and feeling more secure now I was armed again, I stood and edged behind the pile of logs, pressing my back to the cabin wall as I approached the open window.

  I raised the revolver so it was out in front of me, and from that angle I could see a tiny dark slice of the inside of the hut. Just a shadow. And I knew that to see anything more I would have to put my head close to the window – a perfect moment for the child thief to strike. But I saw no other option. If I tried the door, my enemy might be waiting for me just the same as he might be watching the window.

  I prepared myself for the worst. I froze everything from my thoughts except for this moment, this second. I visualised what I was going to do. I was going to move quickly, turn and point the revolver into the cabin. I was going to shoot at anything that might be a man. If there was anything other than a child inside that cabin, I was going to kill it. I saw it in my mind. It was as good as done.

  I took a deep breath and moved, standing, turning, pointing the revolver through the window.

  A shard of sunlight cut through the trees, falling directly into the room. It slipped across the floor as an illuminated marker, pointing to the figure lying there. A dark shape, too big and bulky to be a child. And in that tiny slice of time I wondered if the child thief had grown tired of waiting; if he had fallen asleep at his post.

  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.

  20

  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.