just about make out the shape of a flick knife in his hand. He held one finger to his lip to Owen.
A
Don’t move, don’t make a sound
.
Outside, there seemed to be some disagreement – perhaps whether to come in or just leave it. Owen held his breath. He could feel a cramp entering his foot and the sharp bits of concrete
beneath him burrowing into his side. The lights swept about the room again, over the rubble and animal droppings, and the rotting carcass of a half-eaten fish, its bones lifting out in a fan. One
of the beams passed over an abandoned bag on the floor, a red painted symbol on it, but with its dusty colour among the rubble, the torchlight did not stall. The lights swept out again and he heard
the men retreating, their mumbled conversations soon lost within the forest, until eventually they were gone and all he could see was the moonlit whites of the boy’s staring eyes.
JANEK
The face fused into clarity and then came the recognition, but the boy’s name was lost.
‘
P ů jdem!
’
He kicked the bottom of Owen’s foot and Owen propped himself up.
It took a while before he could place where he was. He had barely slept and had spent most of the night watching the shallow mass of the boy laid out on the floor, listening to his breathing.
Outside the new day was just hatching, a dim bluish grey filling the empty frames along the concrete wall.
Janek – the name came back to him – swung his bag over his shoulder.
‘
P ů jdem!
’ he said again, getting impatient. Then he huffed and walked out into the morning, and Owen could hear him traipsing away through the forest before he yelled,
‘
Proboha, jdeme!
’
Owen struggled up, trying to tread the numbness from his feet, and uncurling his fingers from around the strange button that he had found clasped in his hand when he woke. A large symbol was on
the back wall, drawn in charcoal – a flattened ‘V’, like wings in flight, with another, smaller like an arrowhead, directly underneath, and all framed within a square. He stared
at it. Had it been there before? He checked his pockets – pistol, paper, button, map – and stepped out into the dawn.
They walked all day, skirting hamlets and farmsteads, clinging to the woods. Now that they’d crossed the border, the boy was anxious that they weren’t seen.
‘
Honem! Honem!
’ he called, urging Owen on, the map held at arm’s length in front of him, as if even the vague trails he led them down were thinly sketched within its
folds.
The going was hard, the ground uneven. Owen could feel his blisters rubbing, and his calves stung, as did his thighs. The invisible pain beneath his ribs bit with every step. As they walked his
mind drifted, looking for Max in the wheat fields, either as a boy, the lingering memory still playing out, or as a man striding through the crop towards him, not a delivery but a collection.
Oh, bloody hell
, he’d say.
There you are. Mother’s going spare
.
He wondered where Max was. He wished for him to suddenly appear on his motorbike or in his Austin 12/14 with the roof down.
Hop in. We’re going home
.
He pulled out the piece of paper: SAGAN . He needed to get to Sagan. He had no idea why, but the more he said the name, rolling it around in his head, the more familiar
and urgent it had become. He
did
know it. He had
always
known it. It could be no coincidence that it was there in his head and circled on the map, drawing his eye to it again and
again as if no other place mattered. When he got to Sagan it would all make sense. Something or someone would be there for him. It was this that was pulling him on.
He looked at the writing. Beneath his sweating fingers the pencil letters were starting to smudge. If he lost the paper or what was written on it there would be nothing for him to cling to but
the vagaries in his head; and if his memories went, maybe he would go with them, all the particles of who he was being lifted from him one by one until, with
A
Don’t move, don’t make a sound
.
Outside, there seemed to be some disagreement – perhaps whether to come in or just leave it. Owen held his breath. He could feel a cramp entering his foot and the sharp bits of concrete
beneath him burrowing into his side. The lights swept about the room again, over the rubble and animal droppings, and the rotting carcass of a half-eaten fish, its bones lifting out in a fan. One
of the beams passed over an abandoned bag on the floor, a red painted symbol on it, but with its dusty colour among the rubble, the torchlight did not stall. The lights swept out again and he heard
the men retreating, their mumbled conversations soon lost within the forest, until eventually they were gone and all he could see was the moonlit whites of the boy’s staring eyes.
JANEK
The face fused into clarity and then came the recognition, but the boy’s name was lost.
‘
P ů jdem!
’
He kicked the bottom of Owen’s foot and Owen propped himself up.
It took a while before he could place where he was. He had barely slept and had spent most of the night watching the shallow mass of the boy laid out on the floor, listening to his breathing.
Outside the new day was just hatching, a dim bluish grey filling the empty frames along the concrete wall.
Janek – the name came back to him – swung his bag over his shoulder.
‘
P ů jdem!
’ he said again, getting impatient. Then he huffed and walked out into the morning, and Owen could hear him traipsing away through the forest before he yelled,
‘
Proboha, jdeme!
’
Owen struggled up, trying to tread the numbness from his feet, and uncurling his fingers from around the strange button that he had found clasped in his hand when he woke. A large symbol was on
the back wall, drawn in charcoal – a flattened ‘V’, like wings in flight, with another, smaller like an arrowhead, directly underneath, and all framed within a square. He stared
at it. Had it been there before? He checked his pockets – pistol, paper, button, map – and stepped out into the dawn.
They walked all day, skirting hamlets and farmsteads, clinging to the woods. Now that they’d crossed the border, the boy was anxious that they weren’t seen.
‘
Honem! Honem!
’ he called, urging Owen on, the map held at arm’s length in front of him, as if even the vague trails he led them down were thinly sketched within its
folds.
The going was hard, the ground uneven. Owen could feel his blisters rubbing, and his calves stung, as did his thighs. The invisible pain beneath his ribs bit with every step. As they walked his
mind drifted, looking for Max in the wheat fields, either as a boy, the lingering memory still playing out, or as a man striding through the crop towards him, not a delivery but a collection.
Oh, bloody hell
, he’d say.
There you are. Mother’s going spare
.
He wondered where Max was. He wished for him to suddenly appear on his motorbike or in his Austin 12/14 with the roof down.
Hop in. We’re going home
.
He pulled out the piece of paper: SAGAN . He needed to get to Sagan. He had no idea why, but the more he said the name, rolling it around in his head, the more familiar
and urgent it had become. He
did
know it. He had
always
known it. It could be no coincidence that it was there in his head and circled on the map, drawing his eye to it again and
again as if no other place mattered. When he got to Sagan it would all make sense. Something or someone would be there for him. It was this that was pulling him on.
He looked at the writing. Beneath his sweating fingers the pencil letters were starting to smudge. If he lost the paper or what was written on it there would be nothing for him to cling to but
the vagaries in his head; and if his memories went, maybe he would go with them, all the particles of who he was being lifted from him one by one until, with
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