Chasing the light, lost in the darkness it was leaving behind it — flat out, you've got three more seconds — the scalp crawling on the right side, the side where the shell would come if I faltered, stumbled, fell — run run run — the light from the next beam coming behind me and catching up, catching up fast as I ran ran ran and pitched headlong into the shadow of the next vehicle in the row ahead, lie flat, lie flat, do nothing, A sheet of light spreading across the ground and then flooding the vehicle as I shut my eyes and rested, the heartbeat thudding inside the rib cage and the breath sawing, the nerves sending a cascade of coloured light across the retinae until the tension slowly came off and the organism started returning to normal.
Light dying away.
Ten minutes. I would give it ten more minutes before I moved again. There was no hurry, though the dog might make a difference.
There'd been no shot this time; either he hadn't seen me or he was letting me run, toying with me, certain I could never make the next two rows of vehicles and reach the street. He could be giving me respite, giving me hope, playing on the nerves — a sniper would be liable to do that; they're a special breed, cold-blooded, subtle and meticulous, their egos geared to the intricate and finely-balanced mechanism of the guns they use.
'Aus mit dich!'
I hadn't seen it because my eyes were shut; I'd heard it snuffling, and when I'd looked up it had been coming through the gap between the next two vehicles ahead. I'd kept absolutely still but it had scented me: that was what it was doing here. It was a Doberman, big but not yet mature, and it was standing within three feet of me, watching.
'Weggehen!'
It didn't take much notice, just drew back a bit, the metal tag on its collar jingling. And went on watching me. I could feel the hairs on my arms and hands flattening again after the shock: when I'd seen that bloody thing I'd thought they were sending in dogs to flush me out of here, but this wasn't trained; it had broken its lead and was wandering.
The light came sweeping again and the dog turned its head and watched it, puzzled, because lights don't normally move; but it didn't look substantial enough for it to chase or try to catch. Its eyes became jewels as the light passed over them; then it was dark again.
'Aus mit dich!' I slapped the underside of the crankcase and this time it took some notice and when the next beam came past the dog was halfway between this vehicle and the next, looking back at me and wondering why I'd told it to go away instead of being friends, and then it spun sideways and leapt once and hit the ground with blood spilling under the bright sweeping light and I thought you bastard, oh you bastard.
I knew him now. He was a sadist. There'd been a choice for him to make: the dog could have been useful to him; it had already shown him which vehicle I was using for cover and it could have gone on following me whenever I made a move, and that would have been tempting to a professional marksman, a technician — an ideal situation, with a dog to keep track of his quarry. But he'd made the other choice, of terrorising the quarry itself by showing me what it would be like when the last shot came and I spun and leapt and hit the ground with my blood spilling under the light, just like that.
Bastard.
Not because of what he'd done to me but because he'd taken a dog's life to do it: that was obscene.
Ten minutes, then, another ten minutes and I'd give him his chance, because there was no option. If I had to go then I'd go the way of the dog and at least have company.
Rest, relax, await the moment. It would be of my own choosing: I would move when I decided to move. If he took -
Voice.
It came from the left. I thought I'd heard it before but decided it had been someone in the street on the far side; this time it'd come more clearly from the left, and now there was the faint crackle of squelch. It was a man with a walkie-talkie and he was stationed over there and reporting his position — there couldn't be any other answer. The sniper had sent beaters in, at least one but more probably two, the other positioned on the right. They could be armed but I doubted it; East Berlin is efficiently policed and the penalty for bearing weapons is imprisonment.
It could be that the sniper hadn't expected me to make two moves and get away with it, and now he was worried because there were only two more rows of vehicles between here and the street, where there were lights and traffic and people, giving me ample cover and a first-class chance of escape. I suppose it should have encouraged me a bit but of course it didn't: he'd seen the danger and had dealt with it.
Five minutes.
But there was a new factor coming into play that I didn't want to think about. In front of me there were still two more rows of vehicles and I could reach the first row in darkness between the beams of light, unless the beaters caught a glimpse of me and signalled my run to the sniper; but if I reached cover alive there wouldn't be another move to make, because I knew approximately where the sniper was and from his position the front row of vehicles would be silhouetted against the lights of the street.
Two minutes.
And even if I could reach the front row it would be a dead end because beyond it was open ground and I would be a silhouette if I tried a final run.
One minute.
So there wasn't a great deal of point in going forward again. They'd set up an execution and there was only one man in the firing squad and he didn't have the dummy round in the gun. But the only alternative was to stay here and let them come for me sooner or later, taking their time, and I'd rather go the way of the dog, running flat out for dear life, than have them come and find me lying on my back underneath a bloody street-maintenance vehicle with nothing left to do but bare my neck.
Then go for it.
The light came sweeping and I waited till the dark came down and then got into motion with all the force I had in me and I was halfway there when a shell ripped the left sleeve at the shoulder and smashed into the rear window of the vehicle and shattered the glass as I kept running with the light nearing from the left and he fired again and the shell hit the rear of the same vehicle but lower down and pierced the fuel-tank and brought the reek of petrol into the air as I dived for cover. The third shot made impact at a flat angle and tore metal away from the side of the vehicle and I heard the shell ricochet and hit the ground and bounce and rattle against the vehicle ahead.
Lie flat and rest, let the shock expend itself in the organism. Relax, let go, hands and face against the gritty tarmac, the heart thundering in the chest and the sunburst of colours fading from the nerves in the retinae, relax, we did well, we survived and here we are.
Here we are at last, at the dead end of the run.
Rest, relax, don't think about it. There must be something we can do; it can't be over.
Wrong. Because when I opened my eyes and studied the environment I saw the situation was exactly as I'd thought it would be when I reached here. From the sniper's viewpoint the last row of vehicles would be silhouetted against the lights of the street beyond and if I made a final run he'd take his time and check the aim and put the first shot into my spine.
A rose for Moira.
The light sweeping, flooding the ground and passing on, leaving the dark. Nothing has changed. You knew there was no real chance when you realised they'd trapped you here on this killing-ground. Nothing has changed, but when you feel ready then make your final run, just as a gesture, and die like a man.