Cold Blood by James Fleming Page A

which is the sixth thoracic vertebra.
    I also want to say this about expecting to be shot in the back, that if it had been pre-announced, if Glebov had shouted down to me, “I know who you are! Eight paces of life, that’s all I’ll give you. Walk, Doig. One, two . . .”—and thus I knew it was coming—death would not have been unpleasant. Smack! And down I’d have tumbled, seeing at the last not a human but whatever bit of the sky I’d have chosen for the moment of departure.
    But no bullet came. What happened was that as the mushroom tray rattled down the steps behind me, a soldier threw a whiz-bang into the bonfire to celebrate the victory of the Soviets and everyone looked towards him, not me.
    A roar of laughter went up and I went a little faster, saying to myself, Once I reach the soldiers milling around at the bottom, I’ll be safe.
    But no sooner had I thought this than I realised Glebov was toying with me. He was waiting until I thought I’d got away. Lenin and Trotsky were standing up there holding their sides for laughter as he winked at them and at last drew his pistol.
    I thought, But maybe I deserve death? What I did to Elizaveta—
    Sweat was pouring off me, even though it was an autumn night. With every pace bang went a drop off the end of my nose. Forget everything I’ve just said about death from behind being not unpleasant. I was hating the idea. I had my eyes tight closed for those last few steps.
    Then suddenly, without being aware that my legs were taking me there, I was through—past the soldiers, past their bonfire, past the sentry boxes, past the lorries, the couriers and their motorbikes, and the dogs scavenging for scraps. I never ran. I had enough self-discipline left for this. But as the Smolny arc lights faded, I walked faster and faster until the trees in the square loomed darkly before me. I darted into them with the utmost gratitude, like a man reprieved on the scaffold. I was exhausted. My breath was coming in surges. I leaned against the nearest tree and kissed its dank bark with open lips.

Ten

    T HE TIME was a little after two in the morning when I got back to Nevsky. My brush with Lenin and Glebov had used up all my juices. I needed a drink.
    I entered the basement of the Makayev, which stank of sweat and tobacco smoke. There I found something left in a bottle of Abrau, the cheap Kievan champagne. I gulped it down, not taking the bottle from my lips, my whole arm shaking uncontrollably. Only the owner was in the place, sitting at a round corner table. His arms were folded across his chest. A pistol lay on the dirty tablecloth. Tears were coming from his eyes and dribbling down his unshaven cheeks.
    I offered to sit with him and commiserate. He waved me away and I left. In the small basement courtyard a man in a black overcoat was having a woman against the wall. Her skirt was up to her waist, her thighs gleaming like enamel. She waved to me over his shoulder, maybe to book me for the next round. Ignoring her, I went quickly up the steps.
    Almost in front of me, three young Red Guards walked out into the street and with hand signals stopped a private automobile. No conversation was needed, no explanations, no orders. The driver, from his dress one would say an opera-goer, and his distraught, fur-bundled wife got out of the car instantly and the Guards drove off.
    I leaned against the railings of the Armenian church, watching. It occurred to me that I should start to say my goodbyes: the conditions I’d been brought up in from childhood were on the brink of disappearing. First I would go to the Rykov mausoleum, which was in the cemetery beside the Botanical Gardens—inthe northern part of the city. The living one can deal with as one goes along. But for the dead a special effort must be made, even if it’s only to say cheerio. What counts is the respect shown by the action. It clears the slate of everything that’s happened