Rise of the Enemy by Rob Sinclair Page A

out.
    Ignoring the stares from the rough-looking comrades, I walked over to the bar and took one of the two empty stools. The other two were already occupied by a couple: the woman maybe mid-twenties with a cute face and fair hair pulled into a bun; the man a few years older, only the first signs of grey in his receding hair and a gentle, clean-shaven face. They both looked up at me as I sat down. I nodded and smiled. They smiled, then turned their attention away from me.
    I ordered a beer from the sole barman, a tired-looking man with a creased face, and was given some local muck that I’d never heard of. I didn’t care. It was cold – how could it not be in Siberia? – and it tasted better than any drink I’d had in a long time.
    The lengthy sleep hadn’t eased any of the tension in my mind. Hadn’t de-stressed me. Hadn’t helped me to forget orto understand. Maybe alcohol would. I emptied two-thirds of the bottle in just one gulp.
    As I put the nearly finished bottle down on the bar, I noticed the woman next to me staring. I looked over at her and she quickly glanced down at her drink, a tumbler of something. It wasn’t a surprise that she’d been staring. I probably looked out of place here, wearing what appeared to be military fatigues – big black leather boots, grey combat trousers, a grey pullover. Just as well I’d taken off the jacket and overcoat. Plus I had seen the state of myself in the mirror in my cabin. My hair had been crudely cut short, looking like a toddler had hacked away at it with pinking shears. I only had a few days’ stubble but nicks and scratches covered my face from the blunt razors that had been used. My once-sparkling green eyes were bloodshot and dull. I was a mess.
    I glanced from the woman to her companion. I caught his eye and looked away childishly, just like she had to me. I stared down at my drink, conscious that the man’s eyes were still on me.
    ‘Where are you travelling to?’ the man said after a few moments. I couldn’t detect any particular accent in his Russian.
    ‘Omsk,’ I said, looking up at him.
    ‘What a coincidence; so are we!’ the man said, excited. ‘Where are you from? You’re not Russian. I can tell.’
    ‘England.’
    ‘Whoa, long way from home then.’
    ‘You got that right.’
    Someone at the table of raucous men behind hurled a comment in my direction. They must have heard what I said, where I was from. I didn’t catch it all, but it was something to do with the English and faeces. The taunt was followed by more rapturous laughter from his companions. Ididn’t bother to turn round to see which one thought himself a comedian. I didn’t need a fight, no matter how much better it might have made me feel.
    ‘Ah, don’t worry about them,’ the woman said. ‘They’re just a bunch of loggers. Finished their rotations. Off home for a few weeks. Just ignore them.’
    ‘I wasn’t worried,’ I said, looking into empty space ahead of me.
    ‘They work for weeks on end away from home in the worst conditions,’ the man said, as though needing to justify their behaviour. ‘This is like a big celebration for them, being on the way home. They’ll be drinking all the way to wherever they’re going. You can bet on that. But it’s good natured. They’re harmless.’
    I wasn’t sure I agreed with him. Put that much alcohol into a group of any ten men and it’s fair to say they won’t stay harmless for long. But I knew what he meant.
    ‘You’re travelling alone?’ the man asked.
    ‘What you see is what you get.’
    I took another drag of my beer, emptying the bottle. I had enough cash for three more. Not enough for any food if I did that, though. So what? I needed a bit of relief. I signalled to the barman for another.
    ‘Hey, this one’s on me,’ the man said, pushing a note over to the barman. ‘We’ll have the same again as well.’
    ‘That’s fine. Honestly,’ I said in protest. Though as much as I wanted to be left alone, I