The Run Around

Prologue

He pulled the air into himself, panting, the effort burning his throat, grunting as he stumbled and collided with undergrowth that threatened to pull him down and tree branches which whipped his body and stung his face. The wetness, the torrential downpour, seemed to make it worse, which didn’t make sense because it should actually have helped, but in his terror it was difficult to think properly about anything. Only one important thought: keep running. Had to keep running: stay ahead of them all the time. Not get caught. Terrible if he got caught. Rather be killed than be caught. He’d do that, instead of being captured: refuse to stop when they shouted the order, so that they’d shoot. What if the bullets didn’t kill, only wounded? Unlikely. He knew, like he knew so much else, that the border guards carried machine pistols so it wouldn’t be a single shot. A sprayed burst. People rarely survived a sprayed burst: weren’t intended to. Definitely wouldn’t stop, not if they got close enough positively to challenge him. Far better to be killed. Why the hell couldn’t it have gone as he’d planned? Dignified. Not like this. Not running like some common criminal through some forest he didn’t know towards some people he didn’t know. Would he already have been listed as a criminal? That was how they’d regard him. Worse than a criminal; far worse. That’s why he couldn’t allow himself to be caught. He stopped, needing the wet-slimed support of a tree to stay upright, legs trembling from the unaccustomed running. The rain slapped and hissed into other trees all around him but beyond he could hear the other noises, the shouts of those pursuing him, calling to maintain contact with each other. And — worse — the barking and baying of their dogs. Thank God for the storm: the wet would confuse his scent. He was terrified of dogs. What if they didn’t shoot when he refused to stop? Set the dogs on to him instead, to bring him down? He openly whimpered at the uncertainty, pushing himself away from the tree, staggering on. Not much further: it couldn’t be. Two miles, according to the map. He must have already run more than two miles. It felt like a hundred. Time was more important than distance, though. Ten o’clock: with fifteen minutes as an emergency margin. Ten-fifteen then, before they drove off. He stopped again, holding his watch close to his face but it was too dark. Dear God, please don’t let it be ten o’clock yet: don’t let them go and leave me. And then he saw it, the briefest on-off signal of the car headlights, away to his left. He jerked towards it, aware his strength was nearly gone and almost at once tripped over a tree root, crashing full length into bracken and other roots and driving what little breath was left from his body. The dogs sounded much nearer now, their movement as well as their barking, as if they’d been released. He crawled forward, on his hands and knees, unable immediately to stand. The lights came again and he clawed upright against another tree, fleeing headlong towards it in a final desperate effort, knowing if he fell again he would not be able to get up, hands outstretched more in plea than for protection. The vehicle’s shape formed before him and he tried to shout but it emerged only as a strained croak, so he was practically upon them before they saw him. Two men thrust from the car, to catch him as he fell, with the same movement bundling him roughly into the rear seat.

It was a long time before he could speak. When he could he said, croaking still: ‘Safe? Am I safe?’

‘You’re safe,’ assured a third man, who was sitting beside the driver. ‘Welcome to the West, Comrade Novikov.’