Look to the Wolves

by Look to the Wolves

  ‘Must be what?’

  ‘Don’t know, but—’

  ‘What are you doing here anyway?’

  ‘I – live here. Well – around here…’

  ‘Deserter?’

  ‘Yes. But I had the typhus, and—’

  ‘Deserter from which army?’

  Below, two of them were moving from shed to shed. One had a torch, its beam appearing and disappearing as he moved around. Three others waited by the truck. Schelokov was keeping an eye on the scene down there as well as listening to his captive… ‘I was with the artillery – Ninth Infantry Division, Excellency—’

  ‘Went over to the Reds, eh?’

  ‘My comrades did, sir. But I—’

  ‘Deserted from them too?’

  ‘Only wanted – want – to get home! I have a young wife, two children—’

  ‘Where’s “home”?’

  ‘Kiev. I’d thought it was in White hands still, but they say it’s changed again. Petlyura’s forces—’

  ‘Changed hands several times. Reds are there now.’

  ‘Yes – and you see, Prevoskhoditeltsvo—’

  ‘Quiet!’

  The one with the torch was crossing the yard towards the dwelling-house. Torch-beam flickering this way and that, and another man close behind him. Two of the three who were waiting beside the lorry were lighting cigarettes; the flare of a match briefly illuminated one unshaven face and a badgeless cap, military tunic, red armband. The back of the lorry was stacked with bales of hay: the torch-beam licked over it as the other two passed, one of the smokers asking, ‘How’s it look to you, comrade?’

  ‘Nye plocho.’ Passing them, on the way to the house. ‘It’ll do. And that—’ his torch-beam lit the front of the cartshed, no more than twelve feet down to the right from here – ‘looks as good as anywhere to dump our load.’

  ‘Any signs of letuchka habitation?’

  ‘No.’ He’d stopped in the open doorway of the little house, shining the torch into it and up at its non-existent roof. ‘None.’ The man with him growled, ‘If they were ever here, the old she-goat may’ve been right and they’re in the Crimea by now.’

  The one with the torch went into the carthouse, came out again almost at once. ‘Dry as a bone in there. But I’ll just take a peek in this one…’

  Schelokov muttered, ‘If he comes up the ladder, Bob—’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Good man. And if it comes to it, I’ll keep those three busy. Should be able to plug a couple of ’em. The other one – with your fellow – you’ll be nearest to him if he’s inside, so—’

  ‘Yes, all right.’

  ‘Excellency—’

  ‘Shut up. Move or speak before I give permission, I’ll kill you. And if I don’t, they will.’ He’d paused. Then: ‘Here he comes.’ Bob was worming round to the far side of the access hole. He and Schelokov had both climbed out of it to their left, towards the front of the loft, so that seemed to be the natural way to go and on this other side he’d be behind this fellow, if he did come up.

  If he saw the rungs – and then felt it was worth his while…

  Crouching, waiting. In the back of his mind, what they’d been saying about the letuchka. Not that one could think too lucidly at this moment. Knowing that at any rate one of them was inside the shed by this time. But no sound, or movement…

  Just standing there, looking round? Guesswork, and visualizing… The mental picture was of one man standing inside and the other in the doorway. Right under Schelokov, that would put him. But it wasn’t all just visualized: for instance, light showed with shifting effect in the square aperture as the man down there shone his torch around. Then – drag of boots on the earth floor, and – blinding suddenly, blinding bright, the beam shining straight up through the hole, lighting rough-edged planks and the mulch of rotten hay…

  Lighting everything. Up here – all immediately visible, if he’d poked his head up. Not a breath, hardly a blink.

  ‘Weather’d come straight in, see.’ Loud-voiced – all the louder for the silence he was breaking. ‘You’d get leaks through these planks, anyway. No, we’ll settle for next door.’

  The light dipped, vanished. The other voice mumbling that it wouldn’t take more than twenty minutes to shift the bales inside. Adding then: ‘Due here tonight, did you say?’ Or it could have been ‘Did they say’… The answer was even less audible: and they were outside by this time, the first one calling across the yard, ‘All right, comrades – put it in that shed there…’

  *

  ‘Now let’s get down to it, Maltsev. You deserted His Imperial Majesty’s service, then ratted on your Bolshevik friends. And now you live here, you say.’

  They were down below, in the hay-shed on its ground floor, under the loft’s planking. The men who’d brought the fodder had left, finally – having taken nearer an hour than twenty minutes over it – and after they’d seen the lorry’s lights turning right on to the road, towards Valki, they’d come down from the loft bringing Maltsev with them. Bob had stopped at the bottom of the ladder to receive him from Schelokov, who’d hung on to a fistful of the man’s hair until Bob had hold of him. Then Schelokov had come down, pushed him against the timber wall and struck a match: revealing a round, soft-bearded face, round brown eyes like a monkey’s.

  ‘Well – should’ve found this before, shouldn’t I…?’ A knife, in a sheath on his belt. It would have been under him, of course, unreachable under the greatcoat. Schelokov said, ‘The sheath too. Take it off. And now turn out your pockets.’

  ‘Comrades – please—’

  ‘Gospoda will do, or Prevoskhoditeltsvoli. We’re not your damn tovarischi.’

  ‘No – I beg your Honour’s pardon—’

  ‘Bob, you need a knife. I’ve already got one… What’s this, now—’

  Feeling it – he’d dropped the match – holding some small object close to his eyes: then sniffing it.

  ‘Candle-stub. May come in handy. Matches. A spoon, for God’s sake… Where would you have used a candle, Maltsev?’

  ‘Here. Anywhere.’

  ‘I’ll let you in on a secret. Yesterday I and my friend here killed five Bolsheviks in the space of less than one minute. D’you think we’d hesitate to snuff out one more – a small, miserable-looking turd of a Bolshevik like you?’

  ‘But – Vashe Prevoskhoditeltsvoli, I’m not a—’

  ‘You deserted from their army – huh? Have to join something before you can desert it, don’t you?’ He shook him, his hands like clamps on the little man’s upper arms. ‘Here’s the point, Maltsev. My only interest in your past career is it tells me the sort of man you are. In other words, I know you’re going to lie to me, or try to. So here’s a warning before we start: straight answers, or we kill you. I’ll soon know if you’re lying, and you’re only useful to us if you tell the truth. Understand?’

  ‘I won’t lie – I swear—’

  ‘You say you live here. How long now?’

  ‘Oh.’ Jerky breath… ‘Perhaps a month, or—’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Excellency?’

  ‘Why live in this place?’

  ‘Excellency – my home’s in Kiev, but – as I told you—’

  Bob cut in: ‘He said earlier he had typhus. Could be—’

  ‘I know.’ Schelokov’s head turned. ‘I know, Bob. It’s what made me guess we might have a little treasure here. Leave it to me, eh?’ He’d turned back: still holding Maltsev, shaking him again, the round head bouncing on the wooden wall. ‘Real little treasure, aren’t you… Well, all right, let’s get to this typhus business. You told me you had it – pravilno? So you’re one of the very, very few who’ve lived through it. But you don’t look to me like a man with a particularly strong constitution. How do you account for this?’

  ‘I – don’t know, Excellency. I suppose – God’s mercy—’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t put the blame on Him… What about doctors and nurses –
you wouldn’t have been nursed through it in a letuchka, by any chance?’

  ‘In a letuchka…’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘You must have known… Of course, they were saying—’

  ‘Is it something to be ashamed of?’

  ‘For a Bolshevik, your Honour—’

  ‘We’re not Bolsheviks. So you can tell us the truth. In fact, as I explained to you, Maltsev—’

  ‘I was – nursed – in a letuchka, Excellency.’

  ‘Letuchka chetiri?’

  ‘Here. The letuchka took me in. Here. And I – lived. And – I can’t go to Kiev, I’ve nowhere else—’

  ‘What were the names of the nurses in this letuchka?’

  ‘Their names…’ He was panting like a dog. ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Maltsev—’

  ‘We called them sestritsi. Proshu, Sestritsa – spasibo, Sestritsa… But names … I’m sorry, Excellency, if I could tell you—’

  ‘Where is the letuchka now?’

  Silence. The hard, jerky breathing: it wouldn’t take much to change to sobs… ‘I – don’t know…’

  ‘They left here, did they?’

  ‘Yes. Yes…’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I – don’t remember, exactly—’

  ‘When I asked you where they are now, you hesitated before you gave me a lie for an answer. You’re stupid, as well as dishonest, Maltsev. Try it again now. Where are they, where did they go?’

  ‘Excellency – I don’t know, I can’t—’

  ‘Can’t?’

  ‘Don’t know. I swear… If I ever knew, I don’t remember.’

  ‘Like the nurses’ names. You don’t remember them, either.’

  ‘No. No, I—’

  ‘You’ve a rotten memory. Two minutes ago you told me you never knew their names. Now you say you’ve forgotten them! How long since they left?’

  ‘How long…’

  ‘Yes, how long?’

  ‘Weeks. Three, four… I – since the typhus, Excellency, I don’t think straight, don’t remember—’

  ‘You’re lying. Again. I’m losing patience now, Maltsev. I want two things from you, or I’m going to kill you. The first thing is the nurses’ names, and the second is where did they go from here… Bob, this place is as good as any, and I’ll do it with his own knife. If you’d be so kind—’

  ‘Yes. Here…’

  ‘Prevoskhoditeltsvoli – in the name of God—’

  Bob transferred the knife into Schelokov’s hand. ‘Here it is.’

  ‘This is your own doing, Maltsev… No, stand up, damn you…’ To Bob – ‘Swine’s trying to kneel!’

  ‘Mind if I try a question or two on him first? After all, once you’ve cut his throat – I mean—’

  ‘All right. Go ahead.’

  ‘Maltsev. You say they’ve been gone several weeks. And you’re still living here. So you’re also eating here. Eating well, aren’t you? You’re certainly not starving. Where d’you get it?’

  ‘In the village. People are kind, they—’

  Schelokov cut in again: ‘People are not kind, Maltsev. People are – horrible. Look to the wolves, Maltsev, for kindness. Not to your fellow humans. Take me, for instance – I’m going to kill you in a minute, and the prospect doesn’t worry me at all… Bob – I’m sorry, I’d like to get it over with, that’s all.’

  ‘How come you’re so well fed, Maltsev?’

  ‘They left food here. In the house, where the stove is. It’s gone now, all used up, I’ll have to—’

  ‘So why tell lies about getting food in the village?’

  ‘It’s what I’ll have to do now—’

  Schelokov murmured, ‘Oh no, we’ll save you that trouble!’

  ‘Tell me this, Maltsev. And don’t lie again. My friend here wants to get it done with, you heard him… Here’s the question, now. You don’t recall the nurses’ names, but what about the doctor? Make a great effort, tell me his name?’

  Mouth open: trembling. Sweat glistening…

  ‘Just – doktor, we called him.’

  ‘For me, that’s enough.’ Schelokov pushed him back hard against the wall. ‘Wasting our bloody time. All right, Bob – finished?’

  ‘Doctor – Karavayev!’

  ‘Karavayev…’ Bob nodded. ‘Good. That’s a start – if it’s the right name.’ He asked Schelokov, ‘Just another minute? If his memory’s started to work, at last… Sure that’s his name, are you?’

  Aware – although there was no time to think about it in any depth – of new hope. The men who were here and had talked of a letuchka could have been referring – in ignorance, not knowing any second letuchka existed – even if one did at all – they could have meant Markov’s. But now there was Karavayev’s: which had been here, had got away from Bogodukhov.

  Maltsev mumbling, ‘Karaveyev. Yes – Dr Karavayev.’ As if he’d just heard the name for the first time himself, and liked the sound of it. ‘But – Excellency—’

  ‘Listen to me. It’s possible you have a chance, now. If your memory’s stirring, finally. The nurses – give me the nurses’ names?’

  ‘I can’t. Can’t…’

  ‘Well – where the letuchka was going?’

  ‘Bob, we’re wasting time. Those people said something about coming back tonight – remember? I say let’s call it a day, get out of here. Kill this creature – and drop him in the well so they won’t find him for a while—’

  ‘All right—’

  ‘Prevoskhoditeltsvoli – in the name of God—’

  ‘– but one last try. There’s a way I might jog his memory. If it doesn’t work – all right, soglasno… Think we might risk lighting his candle? I’d like to see how he reacts.’

  A grunt… ‘Here. You light it.’

  One-handed: the other still holding Maltsev, whose panting wasn’t far short of sobbing. Bob cleared a piece of the dirt floor with his boot, set the candle-stub down carefully and struck a match. It took two more before it lit. Rising then, holding it between the finger and thumb of his left hand, shielding the small flame with the other.

  Maltsev wasn’t a pretty sight. Sweat, tears, slobber…

  ‘Now, then. I’m going to give you a name. I want you to tell me if you’ve heard it before. And remember this is your last chance. Are you ready for it?’

  Nodding – so fast, small repetitive nods, that it was like some kind of affliction. His pumping breath endangered the candle-flame.

  ‘Nurses by name Solovyeva?’

  He’d gasped. Facial muscles convulsing… Schelokov swung at him, his fist smashing into the open mouth, slamming his head back against the wall. Bob said urgently – nursing the flame – ‘Hold on, Boris, hold on… Maltsev – you know them, we know you know them – and they’re our friends, we’ve come to help them. So – last question now, the last chance you’ll get to save your skin – where, where are they?’

  14

  Those two cavalrymen had ridden up here as recently as this morning and found nothing to arouse their interest. Other people must have been along this track too, surely, in recent weeks. The area couldn’t have been completely denuded of its inhabitants… Schelokov hadn’t believed Maltsev at first, and he still doubted him. The manor house – he’d told Bob again – had been burnt to the ground, leaving one solid wall standing – the only stone wall there’d been in its construction – and nothing else. He’d been up here often enough, he’d explained, in his own convalescent days, had come up into the woods for a quiet smoke, or sometimes with the English nurses when they’d had an hour or two off duty. He’d brought them hunting for mushrooms – like all Russians, he knew about mushrooms, which varieties were edible and which weren’t.

  ‘If this is a trick, Maltsev—’

  ‘Your Honour, I swear – on my mother’s grave—’

  ‘Be the last swearing you do, if it is…’

  He wasn’t giving him a chance. Keeping a grasp on his collar or arm most of the ti
me. Bob following a few paces behind, with his hand in his pocket on the loaded Webley. Mainly with thoughts of wolves. Not that a pistol would be much use in this darkness – except scare them off, perhaps. You’d have got along faster using the track, but progress wasn’t too bad now through the wood itself. It gave you the best of both worlds – the open roadway on the left visible enough as a guide, and only patches of crusted snow on the carpet of pine-needles underfoot, so you weren’t leaving any noticeable tracks. In the open you would have – for anyone to find in the morning, and no doubt wonder what the sudden rush of visitors to nowhere-in-particular might have been in aid of. And there would be people here in the morning, according to what one of those visiting Bolsheviks had said – something about people being ‘due back tonight’. Which had been good enough reason not to hang around the farmstead any longer.

  Bob didn’t think Maltsev had it in him to be tricking them. He’d recovered a little now, but half an hour ago he’d been utterly demoralized. He’d probably have given them the information they’d wanted even if Schelokov hadn’t slugged him: as it was, they’d had to quieten him down before they could begin to make sense of his babbling.

  One bit had stuck in Bob’s mind: Maltsev still down somewhere near their feet, crumpled against the wooden wall, panting, ‘If I’d known you were her friends – I’d have told you where – told you anything – been no need of this…’

  Her friends. Not their friends.

  Trudging behind the others, left hand up to ward himself off trees and an occasional low-hanging branch. Ought to be at least halfway by now, he guessed. It was supposed to be about a quarter of a mile from the farmstead to the ruins of the old manor. Four or five hundred yards, say. They’d surely covered two or three hundred by this time.

  ‘Here, you…’

  Schelokov – jerking Maltsev with him, to pass that side of a pine-trunk. Taking no chances: maybe also keeping him in line… Brutal, but brutality with a purpose. Like that surprise assault – which had made absolutely certain he’d crack… One thing was for sure: even if one was, oneself, still – quoting the Old Man – ‘a bit of an old softy’, Boris Schelokov as a partner might be counted on to make up for it.