Your Still Beating Heart

by Tyler Keevil

  For now, a strange time. The clock ticking even though the race is not on. Like watching the countdown before the starting signal, the green flag for go.

  On the Slovak side, the roads are flatter and smoother, better tended. Humming beneath the wheels of the Octavia. A gentle warm-up run. Surrounded by snow-crusted fields. Gogol in the seat beside you, his seatbelt on now, gazing at the scenery. You explain to him that you are in Slovakia, heading to the Czech Republic. You don’t say you’re a step closer to being safe, to safety. He wouldn’t understand, and it wouldn’t be true. You’re going towards the danger, in order to escape it. In order to pretend all is in order.

  Thinking this through, you become aware of a faint sound, inside the car. Almost indistinguishable from the noise of the engine, but definitely distinct. Perplexing. It has rhythm. A song? As if the radio is playing on low volume, only it isn’t. It’s Gogol. He’s humming to himself. An upbeat rhythm. A pop song, possibly. Oddly catchy. He has a good ear, is perfectly in tune. You glance at him. He doesn’t even seem aware that he’s doing it. You imagine him in that tower block, hiding somewhere, sitting alone. Just humming. Something to cling to. Something to keep himself going.

  He notices your attention, and stops, abruptly. As if he’s been caught doing something wrong. As if humming is not allowed, and might trigger swift and harsh rebukes. Repercussions. Punish ments. All those scars on his skin. He smiles tentatively, apologetically. His dark eyes worried. You nod, encouraging him, and pick up the tune to carry it. Humming with him. It has a repetitive refrain, like a march.

  Forty-five minutes from the border, you pull over for a second time. You must call now. Waiting longer risks making them uneasy, even suspicious. But you’ve delayed long enough to maybe buy you a bit more time. If you’re vague. If you say the right things.

  You hold a finger to your lips, signalling Gogol to be quiet. Not that he is making any noise at all, having stopped humming when you stopped the car. You have three bars of signal, use the auto-dial to call back the number in your phone. They answer after one ring, ask immediately where you are. Not the man’s voice, this time. A woman. Valerie.

  ‘Just past the border,’ you tell her. Your voice calm, steady. ‘I’m calling to find out where you want me to bring the product.’ It sounds comical – almost parodic – to refer to Gogol in this way. But you think she might appreciate it. Your cold formality. Clinical ruthlessness.

  She asks when you crossed over, and you say, vaguely, about half an hour ago. There was a line, a delay. They were checking the back of a lorry.

  ‘Yes,’ she says testily, ‘we know this. We know where you are, too. And that you are in a different car. Not the one that you booked.’

  You can’t help looking behind you. Bare and empty roads. A frozen expanse. A few alders. No other vehicles. You tell her what you told the guard, assuming he has relayed it to them: that there was a stock issue, that the agency gave you the upgrade. You didn’t think it was a problem – and it hasn’t been. You’re through the border, on your way to Prague.

  ‘Just tell me where to go,’ you say, deliberately impatient. ‘We’re wasting time.’

  She gives you an address. It’s a warehouse on an industrial estate. On the outskirts of Prague, in Praha Thirteen – near Zličín. You tell her you’ll drive straight there, though when she asks about your arrival time, you generalise. Say you’ll have to punch it into your satnav, that it depends on traffic, and roadworks. Zličín is on the western side of Prague – you’ll have to go around, or through the city centre. When she says they know all this, you assure her that based on the journey out, you shouldn’t be later than seven. Seven o’clock. Giving yourself an extra hour or so.

  Amid all the deception, you almost forget about the money (the money being so far from your mind), but you remember in time to ask, because Valerie no doubt expects you to.

  ‘We will have your money,’ she says. It sounds sly, the way she says it. You think of the rocks and soiled notes in the suitcase. Possibly they don’t even plan to pay you. Possibly they plan to just take the boy, send you on your way with more threats. Or even kill you. Though to kill a foreign national seems risky, stupid.

  Either way, if they aren’t already planning to kill you, they will be soon.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ you tell her.

  She tells you not to delay. Seven, at the latest.

  You hang up. Making a note of the address, which you never plan to reach. Sit for a moment. During the conversation your voice was steady, convincing. But you are trembling, all over. Like a reaction to cold when it’s breaking, when you get the chills. The beginning of a thaw. The first trickles of a new emotion: not just fear, but real and genuine dread.

  Gogol is looking at you closely, as if sensing your distress. ‘It’s okay,’ you tell him. ‘We’re going to be fine. They’re not going to get you.’ He removes his scrap of paper. It’s like a teddy bear to him. Or Dumbo’s feather. Something he can’t do without. His little picture of Disneyland. Yes, you assure him, we’ll get you to Disneyland. After all this.

  You put the car in gear, check the rear-view. There’s a vehicle visible in the mirror now. Are they following you? Perhaps they had a car, waiting on this side of the border. It seems possible. Maybe as a precaution, or maybe Mario mentioned something to them. Maybe he told Valerie about your call, your questions. A mistake. You shouldn’t have let on that you had any concerns about the trade. You already sensed it wasn’t right, this plan – their sordid intentions. You would have figured it out, without Mario. What they intend to do to Gogol.

  No more mistakes.

  You wait the car out. It draws near without slowing, passes – a man and woman. Seemingly no threat to you at all. You pull on to the road, continue driving. They may not be following you, yet, but they know the make and model of your car, and the number plate, too. All that they will have got from their guard at the border, or accomplices at the inn.

  You have to take measures, change your plans. You have to stay smart.

  You can’t assume you are one step ahead. You are possibly already one step behind. Playing catch-up. Endangering both the boy and yourself.

  Next to you, Gogol begins to hum again, oblivious.

  camouflage

  Halfway across Slovakia, you pass a city – Poprad – with a mall and superstore on the outskirts. This is where it will begin. Your escape. You turn in, pull up, go around the car to let Gogol out. As you cross the car park, you talk to him. Low and clear. Convinced you have to – for his sake and yours – even if he can’t understand. To keep you both calm. To convey the urgency of the situation. You tell him there are people who are after you, and him. This isn’t true, yet, but it will be soon enough. You tell him you’re going to take some precautions. For both of you. New clothes. A new look. A new you, and a new him.

  The supermarket is big as an airplane hangar – all fluorescent lights, cool linoleum tiles. The same here as at home, as anywhere in the world. Shelves stacked high with cereal, rice and flour and dry goods, canned vegetables. In another section, beauty products, vitamins, healthcare, and – eventually – clothing. You walk briskly, but don’t rush, trying to appear calm. In the boys’ clothing section, you pick out jeans, two T-shirts, a hoody, socks, underwear, a winter coat and matching cap. All generic, low-cost, non-descript. You hold various items up to Gogol, guessing the sizes, not risking the time it might take him to try them on. He seems suited to the sizes for six and seven-year-olds. Even if he’s older, he has a seven-year-old’s body. He follows you around in wonder, stunned, not understanding that these new clothes are actually for him. Or perhaps understanding but not believing.

  Your clothing doesn’t need replacing like his, but your outfit will have been noted – either at the inn, or the border, or both. You stand out. You are recognisable. So, you buy jeans, a puffy down jacket, and a baseball cap with a sports team logo on the front. A Slovak hockey team. Then, from two aisles over, you add hair
scissors and blonde hair dye. A children’s toothbrush.

  Closer to the front is a section of display fridges, with readymade sandwiches, drinks and snacks. You gesture for Gogol to pick something, but he just stands there, overwhelmed – so you grab two ham sandwiches for you both, a few packets of crisps, two cans of pop.

  When you have everything you need, you lead Gogol towards the front of the store. There are cashpoints there. You have plenty of money left – the amount they gave you was more than enough for the trip – but now you’re planning beyond today, thinking long term. Of getting across Europe. You don’t want to run out later, when it might be vital, and Slovakia is on the Euro. So you stop and, as you did on your first night in Prague, you withdraw the maximum cash your bank allows: around three hundred and fifty Euros. Gogol watches as the money spits out of the machine, crisp and clean. His eyes huge. You take the wad of notes and fit some in your wallet, stuff some in your pocket. Look around. Nobody has noticed. Nobody cares. Why would they?

  You take the cash to the till and use it to pay for your purchases. The familiarity of Euros is reassuring after your fumblings with the Ukrainian hryvnia. Coming back already feels like the right decision. Later, if Valerie’s people somehow check your bank records, they won’t know what you bought: only that you stopped here, and withdrew some cash. They might deduce from it that you were planning all this in advance, which of course you are. But by then it will be too late for that knowledge to be of any use to them.

  If they are already monitoring your banking, your transactions, then they are more powerful and mistrustful than you think.

  The supermarket has toilets, including a separate disabled toilet. You go in there with Gogol, lock the door, tug on the light using the pull switch. It smells of bleach, of lemon-scented cleaner. You check your watch. You’ve spent perhaps only a quarter of an hour in the place so far. You crouch down, to Gogol’s level. Explain to him that he needs to change – showing him by holding up his new clothes. He stares at you, gawp-mouthed, but complies as you tug off his old hoody, his T-shirt. Tear open the pack of new T-shirts with your teeth, remove one, shake it out, yank it over his head. A nice fit. Then get him to remove his shoes, his socks, his torn trousers, his threadbare underwear.

  On the freshly cleaned tiles, his feet leave little prints of moisture, which fade after a moment. He steps into the boxers you hold out, then sits on the toilet to pull on the jeans – a laborious, lengthy process. Eventually you take charge, grab the waist band, and heft him right up so that he drops into them. Lastly, sitting him back to fit his shoes, lacing them up. And pulling him to his feet.

  You step back, check him over. He doesn’t look like an ordinary boy – there is still the thin hair, the paleness, the frailty, the rotten teeth – but he looks closer to ordinary. Less likely to be noticed, to stand out. You put his old clothes into the bag with a sense of release. Tie it off. Turn to stuff it in the bin. Then catch yourself, hold it up, ask him if it’s okay. He looks at it, nods. No sentimentality there. He has already removed the only thing he cares about: his papers.

  You push the bag, Gogol’s past self, down to the bottom of the bin, then throw some toilet paper on top of it. Your turn next. The hair dye can wait. But your ponytail is distinct. A distinguishing characteristic. You reach behind your head for it, remove the hair elastic. Spread the hair out between your fingers, and hold it up like a top knot. With the hair scissors, you saw through it. Doing this carefully, to at least make a clean line.

  When the last of the strands are cut, the hair comes free in your hand. You hold it in front of you, marvel at it. You’ve never held that much hair. It has substantial weight. Your head feels lighter. Gogol has observed all this mutely, but now he takes a step forward, extends a hand to the thick bunch of hair, and strokes it once, twice, three times. As you might touch a cat, or velvet, to see how soft it is. It makes you think of Valerie – her precious braid.

  Then the hair goes into the hygiene bin, reserved for feminine products. You put on the baseball cap, tuck the remains of your hair up underneath it. Pull the brim down low. An IQ-slicer, Tod used to call them. A funny American term, the idea being that wearing a hat like this makes you dumber, slower, dim-witted. A redneck baseball fan. The impression of stupidity can’t hurt – and it serves as a reminder that you need to be the opposite. Be smart. You pull the tags off the jacket. Ditch the old coat. Fit into the new one, zip it up. It’s puffy and made of cheap nylon. You keep the jeans for later, turn to check your reflection. You do look different. More local. The high cheekbones. Prominent forehead. Maybe your past – your grandfather, your Czech blood – is significant after all.

  Gogol comes to stand on your left, so that you are both looking at yourselves in the mirror, side-by-side. He seems to like what he sees. He smiles, showing his crooked canines. Reaches up for your hand. You imagine a camera taking a snapshot of you: click. The kind you might get from a booth in a mall or tourist destination. A little memento of the trip. A sentimental sequence of poses. A mother-and-son moment.

  But, of course, for you there will be no time for anything like that. There’s that old saying: time waits for no one. Certainly not you, or him. You are already running out of time. Can picture that little clockwork skeleton shaking his menacing hourglass. But also – until Pavel and Valerie find out your true intentions – you still have a few grains left, a little time on your side. You hope.

  getting the bounces

  You know the country, the culture, the language, but not well enough to make informed decisions. You must rely instead on memory, on guesswork, on luck, on hope. At least for now. Tod had a term for this. He called it ‘getting the bounces’. Like many New Yorkers he was a hockey fan. He always insisted he take you to a game, when you were back there, visiting his family. The Rangers against one of their chief rivals – the Islanders, or the Flyers. Team names that were as meaningless to you as ancient societies. You didn’t enjoy it, but you enjoyed how happy it made him, to be there, with you. Eating cheap popcorn and American hotdogs and drinking beer in plastic cups that tasted flat and sour. And Tod liked explaining the convoluted rules, the customs, the terminology: slap shots, hip checks, icing, high-sticking, getting ‘rubbed out’ into the boards, being ‘caught with your head down’. Tod had played, as a kid, and often he would use these same terms in everyday conversation, apply them to his life. His favourite was ‘getting the bounces’. Referring to the distinct movement of the puck, that disk of vulcanised rubber, skittering and hopping and caroming, off the boards, the glass, the ice. A stick or a skate or a goal post. If your team is getting the bounces, it means the puck is coming to you, working for you. In life, it means things are going your way. Luck is with you.

  So far, this seems to be the case. But you haven’t really strayed from your assigned path yet. Once you take that step, any faith in your compliance with their plan will be revealed as a sham.

  You have considered all the options and, though you have no way of knowing this is the right choice, you believe it’s the one least likely to be wrong. Or least likely to lead to your death, and Gogol’s.

  But you can’t be sure. Not until it happens, or doesn’t.

  What you’ve decided to do is get rid of the car. They know the make, the model. Once you go off-course, they will be looking for this Octavia. You considered driving as far as you could go. Across the Czech Republic, across Europe. But if they have border guards on their payroll, they must have police and government contacts, too, and soon they’ll all be notified to watch out for the car, the two of you. It wouldn’t be hard for them to hone in on you.

  Maybe you overestimate them. Maybe they are more small-time, more limited. Maybe it was just that one guard. But you doubt it. And better to overestimate than underestimate.

  For the same reason, you’ve decided not to go to the police. Already. That simply isn’t on your list of possible options. Even if you could find an official you were sure you could trust, Gogol would
be sent back. Deported. He isn’t an EU citizen. He has a home, a mother. If you can call it that. If she could be identified. If she was even his mother at all.

  And if not to her, then to some kind of orphanage. The social care system, in Western Ukraine. To give him up to that would be to give up on him. To never know his fate. A way to save yourself, and only yourself. And right now you are not thinking of yourself, except as an agent of his deliverance. Why else would this have all happened? Why else would you even be here, involved in this? A situation that is unthinkable, impossible. But it’s happening and it’s real and he is real: a boy sitting beside you, with his egg-pale face and thin hair and atrophied leg. A wounded duckling.

  He’s sleeping now, his mouth open, a thread of drool on his chin. Rows of chain-link fence blurring behind his head.

  You will save him. And to do that you have to get rid of the car.

  Like on the journey out, the Czech-Slovak border doesn’t strike you as a real border. Marked only by a blue sign, and to one side a few toll booths for drivers entering or exiting the motorway. Wooden huts dusted with snow, like little gingerbread structures. Beyond, lining the roadside, tall birches rise grey and slender to the sky. Giant icicles. As before, it is no different from the Slovakian side, but this time it feels different. You’ve passed back through the looking glass and, like Alice, the journey has changed you. It feels reassuring to be in the Czech Republic again, to be that much closer to the known. From now on, that is what you will be seeking out: what you know, and home.

  That will start in Brno, the second biggest city in the Czech Republic. It may not be the best choice but it’s a place you know: you and Tod passed through during an excursion to the eastern side of the country, using your Eurolines bus passes. Brno was a forgettable stop, aside from the fact you were fighting, quarrelling over the petty things couples fixate on after spending too much time on the road together, too much time in each other’s pockets, too much time in each other’s lives, failing to understand that this time is limited – can be so easily cut short. When it seems perfectly reasonable to bicker about which hotel to stay at or where to eat or what to do in the evening.