Child Thief

by Dan Smith

On the table there was a bottle of clear liquid with a small amount missing, a cork pushed tight in its mouth. Beside that lay an aluminium water bottle like the one I carried. A soldier’s water bottle. There was also a sheath for a knife, but the weapon was missing. A row of rifle cartridges stood upright, arranged in a line beside a small parcel of waxed paper, a packet of cigarettes, a box of matches, some other bits and pieces. There was also a satchel and a pack the man would have carried on his back. Leaning in the corner, to the right of the window at the front of the cabin, a German Mauser rifle with a mounted scope. It was almost exactly like my own.

  I stood as I was and took everything in, inspecting the table, turning to look out the window cut into the front wall of the cabin. I could see right across the open stretch of land to the place where we had stopped and looked up at this hut. From here the forest looked dense, and there was no sign of Viktor and Petro, but I knew they’d be watching. They would have heard the gunshots and would be wondering what was going on.

  I looked down at the body on the rough wooden boards of the floor.

  The man was dressed, and partially covered by a blanket over his legs. He looked to have slipped from a position where he might have had his back against the wall, his legs stretched out on the floor, as if he’d been taking a moment of rest from looking out the window. He had taken off his boots, which lay beside him on the floor, and I thought perhaps he’d grown tired of watching and waiting and risked a few moments of sleep during the night.

  I picked up the right boot and turned it over to look at the sole, taking note of the split near the toe, a piece missing. This was the defect I’d seen in the prints we’d been following. These were the child thief’s boots.

  I put the boot down and glanced around again, settling on the scoped rifle leaning in the corner of the room, just out of arm’s reach. It was in good condition, the wood well cared for, the metal well oiled. It was the weapon of a man who knew how to shoot. The kind of man who could have taken the near-impossible shot that killed Dimitri.

  ‘So why is it out of reach?’ I spoke aloud, turning back to the dead man. ‘Why not have it right here, in your hand?’ He must have been tired. He’d come a long way, dragging a reluctant child. He’d made a mistake and paid for it.

  Like me, the man was bearded, but his was matted with frozen blood. His dark eyes were wide, caught in a moment of surprise. The knife that was missing from the sheath on the table was lodged in his throat, the blade pushed right in so all I could see was the worn wooden handle. The front of his coat and much of the blanket were dark with his blood, and the area where he was sitting was thick with it.

  I crouched beside him and stared into his open eyes. I lifted my hand and touched a finger to the handle of the knife, feeling not revulsion or fear, but dissatisfaction. There were holes in the coat, places where my bullets had pierced him, but no blood had leaked from those wounds. My bullets had not killed this man. This man was dead before I shot him. I had not killed the child thief, and yet here he was with his head back, his mouth wide, his teeth stained red, and his tongue far back in his throat. I even thought I could see the steel of the blade where the tip had pierced the soft flesh at the hollow of his throat and slipped through. It looked as if it had been pushed hard, and he had died with one hand on his chest as if raised to the handle of the knife. I imagined him gripping at its slippery surface, trying to remove it from his body.

  I saw every line in his contorted face, every dirt-filled crease in his skin, and while I was glad to see him dead, I felt disappointment it wasn’t me who had finished him. I had come so far, risked so much, and my sense of justice had been stolen. I grabbed the fur of the man’s hat in my fist and dragged it from his head, disturbing his position, pulling his head forward. His muscles were frozen into stiffness and his head came up a little then sprang back, banging against the wooden wall of the cabin. It was an empty sound in an otherwise silent room. I dropped the hat on the bare floorboards and stared at the face of the man I had vowed to kill.

  I stood, feeling pain in my joints, calling, ‘Dariya?’

  I went to the far side of the room and put my hand on the door, readying my revolver. The child thief might be dead, but I didn’t know who had done it or what had become of my niece.

  ‘Dariya? Are you here? It’s Luka. Your uncle. It’s all right. I’ve come to take you home. Don’t be afraid.’

  I pushed the door, wincing at the way the hinges creaked, and looked into the room beyond.

  ‘Anybody?’

  This room, like the last, was almost empty but for a few half-barrels and some tools. The smell here was strong, but it was not a smell of death. It was pungent and mouldy, and I guessed this was where the shepherds would have stored the cheese they made.

  There were no windows here, but another door, at the opposite corner, was open a fraction, and the sharp white of the snow outside was visible. I kept the revolver ready and crossed the room, stepping out into the cold air, seeing the fresh, familiar child’s tracks which led away from the cabin. I knew these prints were recent, made within the last hour, and I felt my mood quicken. Whatever had happened to Dariya, she was still alive and she was moving. Perhaps the scalp we’d seen had been a trick, another of the child thief’s games.

  ‘Dariya!’ With renewed hope, I called her name again and again as I followed her trail away from the cabin, but there was no reply. I stayed with the tracks for a few minutes until I reached the crest of the rise and looked down the other side towards the forest, but I saw no sign of her other than the trail, which continued away into the distance.

  I tried to make sense of what I’d seen and what must have happened. The child thief was dead, and the only trail leading away from the hut looked as if it belonged to Dariya. There was only one conclusion to make. Whatever condition she was in, Dariya was still alive and I needed to follow her, but I had to let the others know I was safe, so I turned and hurried back to the hut.

  Once inside, I went into the main room and something caught my eye close to where the half-barrels were stacked and the chain hung from the ceiling. Here, another blanket lay beside the fireplace, thrust into the shadows, and I went over, bending to pick it up, lifting it and shaking it. Something fell from among its folds, a metallic sound as it hit the floor. I crouched to inspect the floor, putting out a hand to run it over the boards. As I groped for whatever had fallen, I saw that a thin rope was tied around the last link in the heavy chain. The knot which held it in place was good and tight, but the other end was frayed. And when my grasping fingers found what had fallen from the blanket, I thought I understood what had happened. I looked at the nail for a moment, then put it in my pocket and left the hut.

  I stood at the front of the cabin and waved my arms until one of my sons emerged from the trees, then I went to the place where I had broken the fence and fallen. I collected my rifle and satchel, and returned to the front door, seeing three figures making their way up towards me.

  Inside, I took the cartridges from the table and scooped them into my satchel. I packed the waxed paper parcel and the bottle, and I put the child thief’s rifle on the table along with his pack and the other things, sure that my sons would have the sense to collect them. Coming straight up the hillside they would reach the cabin within fifteen minutes but I didn’t want to take any longer than I had to. The tracks leading away from the back of the cabin were Dariya’s, I had no doubt about that, and I estimated they’d been there for only a short while. The snow had stopped now, but for some time it had been heavy and would have covered these tracks if they had been made much earlier. Dariya was out there somewhere, close, and she was alone now. I needed to find her as quickly as possible, and I would now be able to move without the fear of her kidnapper lying hidden, with his rifle scope trained on my heart.

  21

  Leaving the cabin from the back door, I followed the single line of prints, feeling some comfort that I was no longer tracking the familiar large tread with
the piece missing from the tip of the right toe; that the only footprints ahead were those of a young girl. But now she was alone, and alone she wouldn’t last long exposed to the Ukrainian winter.

  It was a strange contradiction that the man who had taken her had kept her alive, made her dependent upon him, and that now she was free of him, she was at equal risk. Dariya wouldn’t have been able to survive for as long as she had in the wilderness if it hadn’t been for the child thief keeping her safe. But his aim had not been her long-term survival.

  Halfway down the hill, I turned to look back at the cabin. The sun was lying across the hill, a hazy orange disc diffused by low dark clouds, its outer rim just visible over the roof of the hut. I raised a hand to shield my eyes, hoping to see a figure standing close to the crest of the hill, but there was no one there. The others hadn’t reached the cabin yet, but they’d be there soon and they would catch me up. They were young and strong; they’d keep up a quicker pace than me, and I calculated they’d be with me in half an hour or so, as long as they didn’t take too long in the hut. They would find the body and try to piece together what had happened, just as I had, but they would follow soon.

  As I walked, I took off my glove and put a hand in my pocket to take out the object I’d found on the cabin floor close to the chain and the rope. I held it out on my palm: a single nail, rusted and old, as long as my index finger. The point was still keen but it was bent at the top as if it had been hammered in at an awkward angle. The flat area at the head was bloody and I was certain the blood was Dariya’s.

  I pieced together what I thought had happened inside the cabin. The child thief had restrained Dariya while he waited for me and my sons to appear at the base of the hill, where he planned to shoot and kill at least one of us – I suspected he planned to kill only one, as he had done when he murdered Dimitri, because I believed that for him the thrill was in the chase and in the kill. If he killed us all at once, he’d have nothing but a child, and she was only part of his game.

  The child thief knew he had to restrain her well, because she had tried to escape once before – I’d seen evidence of it in their tracks – but he’d made a mistake. Whether it was because he was tired or overconfident, I couldn’t know, but he had underestimated Dariya. Sitting on the cold floor of the cabin, she had found something to pinch in her fingertips. The blood on the head of the nail made me think Dariya had prised it out of the old wood with her fingernails while the child thief looked out the window. And when she had loosened it, she pulled it from the wood and used it to fray the rope which secured her.

  Dariya must have been terrified, quietly working at the rope while the man waited, just a few feet away with his back to her. I could almost picture him hearing a noise, turning to look at her, seeing her stare back with hatred in her eyes, hiding the nail from view. But she had been more patient than I could believe. And even when she had freed herself from the rope, she had waited longer still, knowing he would sleep. She had been with him long enough to know he needed to close his eyes, at least for a few minutes. And then she had struck.

  I saw Dariya in the semi-darkness of the room, crouching behind the table, creeping closer, reaching up and taking the handle of the knife, slipping the blade from its sheath. I saw her approaching the sleeping man, her small foot putting pressure on a floorboard which creaked, the man’s eyes opening in surprise, the knife coming forward with all the strength a small girl could muster. And then the point pierced the soft flesh in the hollow of his throat, slicing through skin and meat, the keen point grating against the vertebrae in his neck, his breath leaving him. I imagined the child thief’s surprise at seeing her standing over him, pushing the knife deeper, forcing it into him until only the handle was visible. He would have reached up to grab it, to pull it out, but he was already dying, his life bleeding away, soaking into his coat, slipping away to pool around him on the floor, seep between the boards.

  Then she had fled that place. A child who had murdered the man upon whom she had become dependent. And if that was really what had happened, I also had to believe that Dariya was all right – strong enough, at least, to kill a man in his sleep.

  Deep in thought, I followed Dariya’s tracks to the forest almost without thinking, but now I glanced back to see the others at the crest of the rise, and nodded to myself before slipping among the trees.

  The pocket of forest was narrow and dense and the snow was shallow. I crossed it quickly, reaching the far side, breaking back out into the open. Beyond, the land was flat, and I could see a road curving round from the right. It was the same road Aleksandra and the old man had been travelling, and I was eager to keep away from it, but Dariya hadn’t been so cautious. Her tracks led right to it and veered left to follow it.

  Standing in the shadow of the trees, I watched the road. It lay silent across the country. Not a cart, nor a horse, nor a single traveller. The only marks upon it were those created by Dariya’s feet. I looked both ways, scanning as far as I could, knowing I’d have to go after her but reluctant to move out into the open. Something wanted to hold me from rushing out. But Dariya was close, perhaps just a short way along the road, and I had to go to her. I was so close. I had to find her and bring her back. I had made a promise and I was going to keep it.

  I stepped out from the cover of the trees and crossed the open ground to the road, still watching both ways, and turned in the direction Dariya had taken. But I had travelled no more than a short distance on the road before there came a heavy, muted thumping from behind.

  My first reaction was to get off the road, but the land was flat and open on either side. It was close to fifty metres back to the line of the trees.

  The thumping grew louder.

  I froze, calculating the possibilities, considering options, trying to identify the sound, all at the same time. Rhythmic. Steady. As it grew louder, closer, the sound faltered, became irregular, as if there were two sounds competing, crossing over one another, falling in and out of step with each other, and I knew what it was. And with that realisation came the knowledge that I was trapped. There was nowhere for me to go. The road was too open at either side, the forest too far for me to reach. I cursed my luck. If I’d stayed just a few minutes longer in the trees, I would have been safe.

  Behind, the sound stopped and I turned to see two riders in the road, both of them with rifles raised. For a second I wondered if I could unsling my rifle and kill those two men, shoot them right off their horses before they could react. They wouldn’t expect it. They would expect me to stand down.

  From where I was, I could see they were young, probably inexperienced. They wouldn’t have seen much action and they would be nervous – as surprised to see me as I was to see them. But their youth would give them quick reactions. And they would not be tired and hungry like I was.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ one of them called out. ‘Stand still. If you move, I’ll shoot you.’ The words he used were spoken in Russian.

  I put my hands out to the sides and glanced at the place where I’d emerged from the forest, trying to guess where Viktor and Petro might be. When I’d entered the woods, they’d been at the crest of the hill, which meant they hadn’t been too far behind. If they’d moved more quickly than I had, perhaps they were already through the forest. They might even be there now, watching, wondering what to do, crouched in the shadow with their sights trained on the two men.

  The soldier who had called out, spoke to his comrade without taking his eyes off me. His comrade nodded and shifted in his saddle as if to find a more comfortable shooting position, then the other one took the reins of his horse with one hand, keeping his heavy rifle held at waist height. He nudged his ride forwards and came closer.

  ‘Put the rifle on the ground,’ he said, pointing his weapon down at me.

  I stepped back and took the rifle from my shoulder. I bent to lay it on the ground, then straightened and looked the soldier in the eye. A young man in his early twenties, he was wearing the unifor
m of a Red Army soldier – tunic and trousers, a heavy long coat. His leather boots almost reaching his knees, the earflaps of his budenovka broadcloth helmet unfurled and fastened together under his chin. The red star sewn onto the front was clean. He had the beginnings of a moustache on his upper lip, but it was soft and boyish.

  ‘Please,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for my—’

  ‘Speak Russian.’

  I hadn’t used my own language for a long time. I barely even used it in my thoughts any more. ‘I’m looking for my daughter,’ I said, thinking the man would be more sympathetic if he thought I had lost my own child.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ The soldier shifted his eyes to glance at my rifle. ‘You steal it?’

  ‘No. I’m looking for a little—’

  ‘Answer my question. Where did you get the rifle?’

  ‘I took it from a German soldier.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘It’s not an unreasonable question. Where are these German soldiers?’

  ‘No. It was a long time ago. In Galicia. But please, I’m looking for a little girl. My daughter.’

  The young man paused, looking me up and down. ‘You’re a soldier?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Ownership is restricted.’

  I nodded, biting my lip.

  ‘It’s a crime to own a rifle.’

  ‘I’m a soldier. It’s unnatural for me not to have a weapon.’

  ‘Which army?’

  ‘Which army was I in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve been in many armies. The Imperial Army …’

  The young soldier made a tutting sound, sucking his tongue against his teeth. ‘Tsarist.’

  ‘… and the Red Army,’ I continued. ‘I fought against the central powers for your safety and then I fought a civil war for our revolution. I am a communist, not a tsarist.’

  ‘Don’t be petulant.’ He took a deep breath. Beneath him the horse shifted impatiently, shaking its head and blowing out into the cold. ‘So you’re Russian?’