The People's Will by Jasper Kent Page A

with burning – burning hair. He glanced around the room, but saw nothing. The soldiers were sitting or standing idly, awaiting the return of their commander. The prisoner remained in his chair. The light of the setting sun was close to him now. If Osokin’s preposterous imaginings had been true, then the prisoner wouldnot have happily sat there. Unless it was that he sought death. If so, thought Osokin, let him die.
    ‘Everything in order, sir?’
    Lukin had returned. He too sniffed the air, and paled.
    ‘Don’t worry, Lieutenant, you’ll get used to it.’
    Lukin looked at him, puzzled. ‘Has something happened with the prisoner?’
    ‘He managed to knock his chair over, that’s all.’ Osokin glanced over, but the figure sat immobile.
    ‘Best give him a quick inspection, don’t you think, sir?’
    Without even showing his superior the respect of waiting for a confirmation, the lieutenant flicked his fingers to attract the attention of one of the men. There was no response and so he repeated the gesture, at last gaining some reaction. He pointed to the prisoner and the soldier strode towards him, Lukin a few paces behind. Osokin felt the urge to reprimand him, but he was curious to see how the lieutenant would deal with the taciturn captive. He sauntered after them.
    ‘Shit!’
    The one, explosive word came from the lips of the soldier an instant before he was hurled across the room, slamming into the sloping wall opposite. Lukin took a step back and Osokin broke into a run. Even as he approached, he could see what had happened. Somehow the prisoner had freed his right arm. Osokin drew his revolver and stood at a safe distance, holding it out in front of him in both hands. Even so he could see it shaking, his right arm still too weak and painful to keep it steady. The prisoner’s arm threshed from side to side, almost wildly, but the look of calm concentration on his face told Osokin that the action was quite deliberate.
    ‘Keep back,’ he instructed Lukin. He would have told the others too, but having seen the fate of their comrade, none of the remaining soldiers dared approach. It was as if they knew what was happening.
    Osokin assessed the scene. He could see nothing amiss with the bindings that should have been holding the prisoner’s right arm. The leather and chains appeared intact – and yet they were too tight for the prisoner to have slipped his hand out. But, looking atthe hand, maybe that wasn’t so certain. It was more of a stump. There was the hint of a thumb, but the whole thing was smeared with blood and pus. The prisoner reached over with it, as if trying to undo the bonds that held his other wrist, but without fingers there was nothing he could do.
    And yet now there were fingers – not complete fingers but three short sticks of bone that protruded from the prisoner’s bloody, shapeless fist. He began to flex them, just like he might have done if they had been cold, or if he had slept on his arm. As he did so, they grew and were joined by a fourth.
    Osokin stood in frozen inaction, unable to determine what he could or should do. If he went close, then that arm might deliver a heavy blow, but apart from that was there any danger? The prisoner still had no chance of escape. A shout broke into his thoughts.
    ‘Get over here! If we can hold him now we may have a chance!’ It was Lukin, shouting to the other men, but without effect. For all his technical abilities, the lieutenant had no great air of authority about him – not enough to overcome the men’s fear. But to Osokin, his and their concern seemed misplaced. There was no serious threat.
    The prisoner reached over again, his nailless fingers outstretched, scrabbling for where his bonds were fastened. His hand was almost complete. The skin had returned – smooth and shiny, as though scalded, but even as Osokin watched it became firmer and more textured, matching the complexion of the rest of the prisoner’s body. The prisoner