his attention fixed on the road.
There was a cheer as something smashed. The refugees were pleading, trying to pull the Russians away from their possessions, but the soldiers took no notice. They raised their voices and pushed
them about from one to another, while more clambered into the carts. One of them held the antlers on top of his head, mooing like a bull, and they laughed. Another had a woman by the wrist. He
wanted something from her and wouldn’t let go. Owen could hear the children crying. The woman pulled hard and then slapped at the man, and a tussle broke out.
‘
Ted!
’ said Janek, and with that he was suddenly up and running, going stooped and swift through the undergrowth, across the steeply tilted hillside.
‘Fuck.’ Owen scrambled after him as fast as he could. High on the roadside he could hear one of the Russians yelling, the scared horses clattering their hooves and the creaking of
the cart as the animals tried to push back. He could feel his heart thumping, a sharp stitch in his chest, while Janek was fast on his feet ahead of him through the brambles and ferns that snatched
at their legs, all the while Owen aware that if they weren’t careful they might step on a mine or he might run through a booby trap, setting off a grenade for real this time.
When they reached the fence it was higher than Owen had imagined, barbed wire prongs lining the top. Janek held it steady so that Owen could go first. He hauled his way up, the wire straining
and rattling under the weight as his feet found foot holes and the wire lines bit deep into his hands. As he reached the top, the fence wavering precariously beneath him, he lifted his leg over,
steadied himself and then jumped down, Janek’s bag and canisters quickly landing in the undergrowth next to him. Janek clambered up and over, and then, with a heavy thump, he was down as
well, gathering up his things and they were running; and Owen didn’t once look back, but as they slid and scrambled down another slope, disappearing into the dark gully of the forest below,
he heard a single sharp shot and a woman started to shriek.
His mother had fits. He wondered if that was what had happened, whether it was something hereditary. He remembered her on the kitchen floor, her whole body convulsing as if it
was rejecting who she was. Everyone dashing around. Max crying. Cedar had retreated into his basket and was shaking, while in the hallway Agatha, who had only popped in for clematis clippings, was
hollering up the stairs for Owen’s father to come and be quick. And all the time Owen had stood there in the kitchen doorway, staring. His father came, pushing past, syringe in hand, for this
had happened many times before and, of course, in the end everything was fine. His lasting memory was of his mother apologizing over and over again – as was her way after every episode
– for the thing she had no recollection of happening, the trauma she had no memory of putting them all through.
He woke to voices and flashlights. He was lying on his side among rubble on the floor of a large concrete bunker, his back to the wall where there were six square holes along
its length and the lights were shining in. The concrete beneath him felt hard and frozen, and his hand was gripping a round piece of metal – a button or a badge. He didn’t know how long
he’d been there. Nothing looked familiar.
He listened to the voices, three of them: male and hushed and German. He could hear the soft crunch of their feet, and sense the grass and trees around them. The torchlight shone right over him,
lying undetected and pressed against the wall, the side of his face on the cold grit floor. Their footsteps came closer until they were right outside, two then three lights shining in, their beams
dancing over the back wall and sweeping across the floor and all its moonscape litter.
He quietly lifted his head. There was a boy standing motionless behind the entrance. Owen could
There was a cheer as something smashed. The refugees were pleading, trying to pull the Russians away from their possessions, but the soldiers took no notice. They raised their voices and pushed
them about from one to another, while more clambered into the carts. One of them held the antlers on top of his head, mooing like a bull, and they laughed. Another had a woman by the wrist. He
wanted something from her and wouldn’t let go. Owen could hear the children crying. The woman pulled hard and then slapped at the man, and a tussle broke out.
‘
Ted!
’ said Janek, and with that he was suddenly up and running, going stooped and swift through the undergrowth, across the steeply tilted hillside.
‘Fuck.’ Owen scrambled after him as fast as he could. High on the roadside he could hear one of the Russians yelling, the scared horses clattering their hooves and the creaking of
the cart as the animals tried to push back. He could feel his heart thumping, a sharp stitch in his chest, while Janek was fast on his feet ahead of him through the brambles and ferns that snatched
at their legs, all the while Owen aware that if they weren’t careful they might step on a mine or he might run through a booby trap, setting off a grenade for real this time.
When they reached the fence it was higher than Owen had imagined, barbed wire prongs lining the top. Janek held it steady so that Owen could go first. He hauled his way up, the wire straining
and rattling under the weight as his feet found foot holes and the wire lines bit deep into his hands. As he reached the top, the fence wavering precariously beneath him, he lifted his leg over,
steadied himself and then jumped down, Janek’s bag and canisters quickly landing in the undergrowth next to him. Janek clambered up and over, and then, with a heavy thump, he was down as
well, gathering up his things and they were running; and Owen didn’t once look back, but as they slid and scrambled down another slope, disappearing into the dark gully of the forest below,
he heard a single sharp shot and a woman started to shriek.
His mother had fits. He wondered if that was what had happened, whether it was something hereditary. He remembered her on the kitchen floor, her whole body convulsing as if it
was rejecting who she was. Everyone dashing around. Max crying. Cedar had retreated into his basket and was shaking, while in the hallway Agatha, who had only popped in for clematis clippings, was
hollering up the stairs for Owen’s father to come and be quick. And all the time Owen had stood there in the kitchen doorway, staring. His father came, pushing past, syringe in hand, for this
had happened many times before and, of course, in the end everything was fine. His lasting memory was of his mother apologizing over and over again – as was her way after every episode
– for the thing she had no recollection of happening, the trauma she had no memory of putting them all through.
He woke to voices and flashlights. He was lying on his side among rubble on the floor of a large concrete bunker, his back to the wall where there were six square holes along
its length and the lights were shining in. The concrete beneath him felt hard and frozen, and his hand was gripping a round piece of metal – a button or a badge. He didn’t know how long
he’d been there. Nothing looked familiar.
He listened to the voices, three of them: male and hushed and German. He could hear the soft crunch of their feet, and sense the grass and trees around them. The torchlight shone right over him,
lying undetected and pressed against the wall, the side of his face on the cold grit floor. Their footsteps came closer until they were right outside, two then three lights shining in, their beams
dancing over the back wall and sweeping across the floor and all its moonscape litter.
He quietly lifted his head. There was a boy standing motionless behind the entrance. Owen could
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