He flicked his cigarette butt to the ground next to the bowl of water and scowled.
They passed a tense night, both vigilant, and Kostya also sore from using the nit comb. He’d almost convinced himself the British woman might truly be a nurse, despite the business with the lance, and Temerity had almost convinced herself this Tikhon just might be a war correspondent. Not enemies, then, but two people meeting in events neither could control. Such fictions would make the day easier.
After a meagre breakfast of rice and beans, the clinic’s food rations low, and after a long and tumbling conversation about languages and fairy tales, Kostya walked a short way south to bathe in the river. Temerity took a sketchbook and box of pencils from beneath the pillow on her cot and sat at the table. She glanced at her portrait of Cristobal, then turned to a fresh page. The sound of her pencil marking the paper soothed her.
An engine approached from the northwest, all rumble, rattle, and squeak. Tikhon’s colleague? Temerity closed her sketchbook, patted her pocket to check for her folding knife, and then stepped outside, where she rounded the corner to the north wall. She found a lorry parked there, the same lorry as yesterday. Sunlight glinted off the windshield; a tarp rippled over the back.
Bloody hell, where’s the driver?
Right behind her. Pressing the muzzle of a gun in her ribs.
A male voice spoke in accented Spanish, his breath hot on the back of Temerity’s neck. —Where’s Zapatero?
She answered first in English, then Spanish. —What? What?
He grasped her arm, wrenched her around to face him. —By the wall. Now.
She walked backwards, palms raised. —This is an International Red Aid clinic. Everyone is welcome here.
The breeze stirred the second Russian’s fair hair, blowing it in to his eyes, then out again. He stood about the same height at Kostya, and his face wore the same stern expression. —Where’s Zapatero?
The outside wall of the clinic met her back. —Gernika. I expect him back any moment. Oh, is that him over there?
He looked away, and she struck the side of his neck with the edge of her hand, interrupting blood flow to his brain. As he staggered, she rammed her elbow into his sternum. The gun clattered to the ground. So did he. Temerity whirled round to find Kostya running towards them. She ran into the clinic, latched the door, and pressed her ear to the hinges to listen.
The second Russian stirred, groaned. —She said Zapatero was over there.
Kostya sounded disgusted. —You fell for that?
— And then she hit me. Hard! Listen, Zapatero left Gernika early this morning. On a bicycle. Can that nurse speak Russian?
— Fuck, no. Zapatero is here? You sure?
— Those trees, over by the river. You look terrible.
— The nurse gave me sulpha pills. I fucking belch brimstone.
— Take more care where you stick your cock next time. See that, the shirt in the trees?
— It’s him. Go. Go.
They ran off.
Temerity ran from the door and wrenched open the haversack she kept near her cot. She took her passport and tucked it into her brassiere, then flinched as a fist beat on the door. The plea came in Spanish. —Let me in!
She unlatched and opened the door, stumbling as a man wheeling a bicycle shoved her aside. —Cristobal?
Eyes wide and dark with fear and fatigue, Cristobal stared straight ahead as he dropped the bicycle, grabbed Temerity’s arm, and hauled her to the little kitchen. He wore no shirt beneath his jacket, and he clutched something in his left hand as he whispered in rapid Spanish. Then he pointed back at the unlatched door.
She whispered back. —Wait, wait, I don’t understand. The latch—
The door slammed open.
She had no idea what the two Russians yelled. It didn’t matter. Only the guns mattered.
The object fell from Cristobal’s hand and clattered at Temerity’s feet: rosary beads.
Kostya aimed at Temerity. —Misha, get Zapatero outside.
Misha grabbed Cristobal by his right arm, marched him off.
Temerity stared at Kostya, recalling how he’d told Misha she could not speak Russian. She spoke in Spanish. —Let me bring him the beads.
— Pick them up. Then give them to me. Slow.
She did so.
Outside, Misha shouted at Cristobal, who shouted back.
Kostya rubbed a bead between forefinger and thumb, then dropped the beads into a pocket. —Into the kitchen. Stand by the Lichtträger and face the wall.
— Tikhon, please.
— Move!
As they passed the table, Kostya picked up the sketchbook. Pages flipped. Then he shoved the book over Temerity’s shoulder and held it before her face, open to the newest drawing. His voice sounded younger, less certain. —Me?
Mouth dry, she nodded.
Fascinated by the portrait, he just stood there, right hand aiming his gun at the British woman’s back, left hand holding a sketch of himself.
Outside, Misha’s voice rose as he demanded something. Then he fired, and Cristobal screamed. Temerity clenched her jaws and stifled her own cry.
Kostya shouted over his shoulder. —What the barrelling fuck? Did you miss?
— You should get out here, Nikto.
— Yes, I’d guessed that much.
Staring at the Lichtträger and the tin of O-negative blood, Temerity mouthed the name to herself. Nikto? It means nobody.
Misha sounded flippant, even cheerful. —Thigh. He lunged at me. Anyway, he can’t run now.
Kostya shoved the sketchbook into a pocket. —Can’t fucking walk, either.
— Then he’ll be ready to talk to us.
Kostya’s left hand clamped on Temerity’s shoulder; the gun muzzle touched the back of her head. —Kneel.
The floor scraped her knees.
His boots squeaked as he took a few steps back. Then he fired.
Wide.
The concussion of the shot, so close to her ears, left Temerity deaf, and blood sprayed from the can labelled O-negative. Kostya kicked Temerity with the side of his boot, just hard enough to knock her off balance. As she fell and rolled onto her back, she saw spatter stains on both the walls and Kostya’s clothes, and an expression on his face she could not read. He gestured with his free hand, and his mouth worked, English: —Stay down. Stay down.
Then he snatched several rolls of bandage and ran.
Noise filtered past the ringing in her ears: rapid Russian conversation, Cristobal’s pleas to pack the wound, the slam of lorry doors. The engine roared, stalled, roared again, and faded toward Gerrikaitz.
Dizzy, Temerity sat and wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, smearing tinned blood across her face. The clinic door, left open and stirred by the breeze, rapped against the wall.
She hadn’t screamed. Wondering why, she recalled her Aunt Min’s advice a few years before, on their long trip through India. Steamer trunk, Temmy, my dear. Organize your mind like your steamer trunk, all those layers of clothes and little drawers and the false bottom, and finish the task at hand. There’ll be time for tears and laughter later. Remember Nelson’s signal and you’ll be fine. Say it with me: England expects that every man will do his duty.
Temerity spoke aloud. —England expects that every man will do his duty. Right.
She stood up, brushed dirt from her trousers, kept still for a moment, then ran outside, knelt in the dirt, and vomited. Quick, efficient, she strode back inside, hoisted the haversack on her shoulders, picked up the dropped bicycle, and wheeled it outside.
— Lovely day for a ride.
She gripped the handlebars hard to stop the shaking in her hands and mounted. The bicycle frame too big for her, she faltered and slipped off the seat.