Under A Blood Red Sky Part 25

He could barely breathe.

'Oh, Rafik.'

With an arm round his waist and taking most of his weight herself, she walked him round to the patch of scrubland at the back of the office, away from watchful eyes. With great care she eased him to the ground. He sat there trembling, knees drawn up to his chest, eyes focused on the ridge of trees beyond the river. Without warning he was violently sick. Sofia wiped his blue lips with her skirt.

'Better,' he gasped. 'In a moment I'll be . . . better.'

'Shh, just rest.'

Sofia wrapped her arms around him, drawing him on to her shoulder and accepting the guilt into her heart.

'Thank you, Rafik,' she murmured.

'Now,' he said in a voice held together by willpower, 'tell me why you are here.'

He didn't touch her. The sinewy hands that in some inexplicable way possessed the key to people's minds lay lifelessly on his lap. He did not even look at her. The piercing eyes were closed, no waves being sent to wash out the truth. He was leaving it up to her to tell him.

Or not to tell him.

29.

Sofia hurried to the stables. She wanted to reach them before Fomenko spotted her running loose instead of heading to one of his blasted brigades. The track was rough under her feet, rutted and patterned with hoof prints. She had come in search of Priest Logvinov and was nervous. He was the kind of person around whom someone always got hurt - and she couldn't afford to get hurt. Not now, not when she was so close.

The experience with Rafik in the office had made her doubt her own thoughts and it had taken an effort to drag her mind away from Mikhail. But it was her body that was less controllable. It kept reliving flashes of memory, the feel of Mikhail's mouth on hers, so hard it hurt at first and then so soft and enticing that her lips craved more. She walked harder, faster, driving herself to concentrate on other things.

She reached a cl.u.s.ter of dingy wooden buildings that rose haphazardly around three sides of a dusty courtyard. They were set far back enough from the village to take advantage of the gentle slope that climbed up towards the ridge. Here, on this higher ground, Sofia caught the breeze full in her face and the scent of the forest, dense and secretive.

'Is Priest Logvinov around?' she asked a dark-skinned youth who was sweeping the yard with slow, lazy strokes. He had scabs on his head and his bare arms.

'In with Glinka,' he muttered, tipping his head towards one of the open stable doors without breaking the rhythm of the hazel broom.

'Spasibo,' Sofia said.

The gloom inside the stable came as a relief after the harsh glare in the courtyard. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. She inhaled the smell of horse and hay, at first seeing no one. Just a row of empty stalls, fresh straw on the floor and buckets filled with clean water. The horses were out working in the fields or hauling timber out of the woods, but the stamp of a hoof and a soft murmur drew her to the far end.

The priest did not turn at her approach, though Sofia was sure he knew she was there. His tall scarecrow figure in a sleeveless deerskin jerkin was draped over the low door that fenced in one of the stalls, his knuckles rhythmically kneading the forehead of a small bay mare whose eyes were half closed with pleasure. Close to her side stood a black colt on spindly legs much too long for him. He must be the one born the other night. He stamped the ground in a show of bravado as she approached and rolled his long-lashed eyes at her.

'That's a fine colt,' she said.

'He has the Devil in him.'

The colt thudded a hoof against the back board as if to prove the point.

'Priest, were you here in Tivil before the church was closed down?'

He twisted his head round to look at her. His long thin neck pulsed with a web of blue veins, his red hair hanging lank and dull, but his green eyes still burned.

'Yes, I was the shepherd of a G.o.d-fearing flock. In those days we were free to wors.h.i.+p our Lord and chant the golden tones of evensong as our consciences dictated.'

The sadness in his voice touched her. He was a strange man.

'So you were familiar with the church building inside? Before it was stripped of decoration and painted white, I mean.'

'Yes. I knew every inch of that House of G.o.d, the way I know the words of the Holy Bible. I knew its moods and its shadows, just as I had known the moods and shadows of my flock as they clung to their faith. Lucifer himself stalks the marble corridors of the Kremlin and he drags his cloven foot over the hearts and minds of G.o.d's children.' His gaunt face crumpled. 'An eternity of h.e.l.l fire awaits those who forsake G.o.d's laws because they are stricken with fear.' His voice grew hoa.r.s.e with sorrow. 'Fear is a stain spreading over this country of ours.'

'It is unwise to say such things aloud,' she warned. 'Take care.'

He spread his scarecrow arms wide, making the colt snort with alarm. 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.'

'Priest,' she said softly, 'you don't yet know what evil mankind is capable of, but if you carry on like this, believe me, you soon will. It eats into your humanity until you don't even know who you are any more . . .' She stopped.

His green eyes were staring at her with fierce sorrow. She lowered her gaze, turned away from him and asked the question she'd come to ask.

'Was there a statue of St Peter in the church before it was closed down?'

'Yes.'

'Where did it stand?'

'Why the interest?'

'Does it matter to you? I need to know where it used to stand.'

The colt suckling and the scratch of the hazel broom over the yard were the only sounds to be heard. At last Priest Logvinov sc.r.a.ped a hand across his fiery beard.

'They came one Sunday morning, a group of Komsomoltsky Komsomoltsky,' he said bitterly. 'They tore down everything, destroyed it with hammers. Burned it all in a bonfire in the middle of the street, tossed in all the ancient carvings and icons of the Virgin Mary and our beloved saints. And what wouldn't burn they took away in their truck to melt down, including the great bronze bell and the altar with its gold cross. It was two centuries old.' She expected him to shout and rage, but instead his voice grew softer with each word.

'The statue of St Peter?'

'Smashed.' His fleshless frame shuddered. 'It used to stand in the niche beside the south window. Now there's a bust of Stalin in its place.'

'I'm sorry, Priest.'

'So am I. And G.o.d knows, so is my flock.'

'Stay alive. For them at least.'

'I know thy works and where thou dwellest, even where Satan's seat is.'

Again she had the sense of a man teetering on the edge of wilful self-destruction and it filled her with a profound gloom. Quickly she thanked him and left the stables, but as she retraced her steps down the rutted track back to the street she became uncertain as to what exactly had upset her.

What was wrong? Was it fear for Rafik? Or was it because of Mikhail? And the way Lilya had rubbed her shoulder against him as though she owned that piece of his flesh. Were her own carefully constructed defences crumbling so easily?

The wind seemed to ripple through her mind, stirring up her thoughts, and it carried to her again Priest Logvinov's words. Fear is a stain spreading over this country. Fear is a stain spreading over this country. And then she understood. She'd heard almost the same words months ago from Anna's mouth. And then she understood. She'd heard almost the same words months ago from Anna's mouth.

Anna. Whose fragile heartbeats would fade away if she didn't reach them soon.

The church - or a.s.sembly hall, as it was now called - was the only brick-constructed building in Tivil. Grey slabs of corrugated metal tipped with soft yellow lichen covered the roof. The walls were divided by rows of narrow, tapered windows set with plain gla.s.s, though one was boarded up. A reminder of the violence on the night of the meeting. A stubby open-sided tower sat above the door. Presumably where the bell had once hung. The tower was empty now, full of nothing but warm air and pigeons.

Sofia tried the large iron handle but the door didn't budge. She cursed and pushed harder. Chyort! Chyort! But she was beginning to realise that Chairman Fomenko was not the kind of person to leave anything to chance, certainly not the safety of his a.s.sembly hall. She took a good look up and down the street but at this hour there wasn't much activity, just a child and his goat ambling out to the fields, but closer in the shade sat two old women. They wore headscarves and long black dresses, despite the heat, and seemed almost to be part of the landscape. As Sofia approached them she realised one was reading aloud from a book on her lap. But she was beginning to realise that Chairman Fomenko was not the kind of person to leave anything to chance, certainly not the safety of his a.s.sembly hall. She took a good look up and down the street but at this hour there wasn't much activity, just a child and his goat ambling out to the fields, but closer in the shade sat two old women. They wore headscarves and long black dresses, despite the heat, and seemed almost to be part of the landscape. As Sofia approached them she realised one was reading aloud from a book on her lap.

'Dobroye utro, babushki,' Sofia said with a shy smile. 'Good morning.'

The old woman with the book reacted with surprise. Her ears were not good enough to have heard Sofia's soft footfalls. The book slid instantly under a handwoven scarf, but not before Sofia saw it was a bible. It was not against the law to read the bible but it labelled you, if you did. It marked you out as someone whose mind was not in line with Soviet doctrine, someone to be watched. Sofia pretended she hadn't seen it.

'Could you tell me who has a key to the a.s.sembly hall, please?'

The woman who had not been reading lifted her chin off her chest. Sofia saw the milky veil of blindness over her eyes, but her hands were busy in an effortless clicking rhythm with knitting needles and a ball of green wool.

'The Chairman keeps it,' she said. She tilted her head. 'Is that the tractor girl?'

'Da, yes, it's her,' responded the other. She puffed out her lined cheeks into a warm smile. 'Welcome to Tivil.'

'Spasibo. Where will I find Chairman Fomenko?'

'Anywhere where work is being done,' said the blind babushka. babushka. 'Poleena and I expect him to arrive here any moment now to count the number of st.i.tches I've knitted so far this morning.' 'Poleena and I expect him to arrive here any moment now to count the number of st.i.tches I've knitted so far this morning.'

Both old women gave good-natured chuckles that fell into the sunlight warming their laps.

'But his house isn't far, just the other side of the chu . . . of the a.s.sembly hall. His is the izba izba with the black door. You could try there.' with the black door. You could try there.'

'Thank you. I will.'

But the black door didn't respond to her knocks. So she retraced her steps to the church and started to circle its walls, just as she'd done before. Then it had been furtive and in darkness, her ears alert for any stray sound. This time she inspected the building openly, seeking a way in.

Edging through weeds along a narrow side-path to the gloomy rear of the church, she came to a door, so old it looked like part of the stones. It was barely head height, half hidden behind a p.r.i.c.kly bush, and it bore the raw marks of her knife blade around its heavy iron lock. In the daylight now she fingered the stubborn lock and wondered why it looked so well oiled.

'Trying to find something, are you?'

Sofia s.n.a.t.c.hed back her fingers and swung round. Behind her stood a narrow-shouldered man in a rough smock. He was smoking the stub of a hand-rolled cigarette and had a face that made Sofia think of a rodent, small-featured, sharp-toothed.

'I'm looking for a way in.'

'You could always use a key, but that's just an old unused storeroom in there.' His expression made Sofia's skin crawl.

'I'm told that Chairman Fomenko has the key to the hall, but he's not at home.'

'Of course not. He's out working in the fields.'

Sofia tried to step round him but he blocked her path and gave her a slow smile that she didn't like.

'Your name, I recall from the meeting the other night, is Sofia Morozova. Mine is Comrade Zakarov.'

Instantly Sofia's chest tightened. She recalled Zenia's words: Boris Zakarov. He's the Party spy round these parts Boris Zakarov. He's the Party spy round these parts. So he wasn't creeping up behind her by chance.

'Why so eager to get inside our hall, Comrade Morozova?'

'I think that's my business, don't you?'

'If you made it mine, I might be able to help you.'

'Do you have a key?'

He took a long pull on his cigarette. 'I might.'

She stared at him coldly. 'I dropped a key of my own at the meeting. It got lost in the stampede and I need to look for it, that's all.'

'What value do you put on this key of yours?' he asked, smiling his toothy smile. 'Worth a kiss?'

His words echoed in a cold cave inside her mind. Here's a crust of mouldy bread Here's a crust of mouldy bread. Worth a kiss? Here's a sc.r.a.p of felt for gloves Here's a sc.r.a.p of felt for gloves. Worth a kiss? Here's a pat of b.u.t.ter Here's a pat of b.u.t.ter. Worth more than a kiss? How much more?

She brushed past Boris Zakarov without a word, only to run directly into Aleksei Fomenko himself. He was striding up from the low field by the river, a net of cabbages over his shoulder and a long-legged wolfhound at his side. He didn't look pleased to see her idling on kolkhoz kolkhoz time. time.

First, know your enemy.

She'd learned that lesson well. Know him Know him. And seek out his weak spot And seek out his weak spot. More than anybody in the village, Aleksei Fomenko was the greatest threat to her. But his weak spot was well hidden.

His back was turned towards her as he opened the door to his house. His was a proud, muscular back that had no fear of turning on anybody - Sofia envied him that. From behind she studied the neatness of his ears, emphasised by the short cropping of his brown hair, and she felt certain his mind was equally neat. A line of sweat ran down the spine of his working man's cotton s.h.i.+rt. Why on earth did this Chairman of a large collective farm concentrate so hard on being a common peasant? What was driving him?

'Have you registered?'

His manner was curt, but the look he gave her was again one of sharp interest. It occurred to her that he was a man more curious about others than he was willing to admit. Zenia had told her he wasn't married, so Sofia wondered what his home was like. It was clear that he expected her to wait outside, but she didn't. After the dog entered, its claws clicking on the wooden flooring, she followed him in.

'Yes, I have registered,' she said.

But her eyes darted quickly round the room she'd entered. Know your enemy Know your enemy. What did this lair tell her about the man? It was startlingly barren. Nothing on the walls, strictly no bourgeois frills or pretensions. A chair, a table, a stove, some shelves, and that was it. Chairman Fomenko obviously didn't believe in pampering himself. Instead of a property of distinction worthy of a kolkhoz kolkhoz Chairman, the house was indistinguishable from any of the other village Chairman, the house was indistinguishable from any of the other village izbas izbas. He kept the floor well-swept and the roof beams free of cobwebs. It was the house of a tidy mind. Or a secretive one.

No clues, except the dog. Sofia extended her hand. The animal touched her fingers with its damp black nose, and when it was satisfied, it allowed her to run a hand down its grey wire-brush coat. It was an elegant Russian wolfhound, a b.i.t.c.h with a narrow muzzle and soft brown eyes that gazed up at Sofia with an expression of such gentleness that she felt herself fall a little in love with the creature. But it was no more than a minute before the hound returned to its position next to Fomenko's thigh and stayed there.

'She's beautiful,' Sofia said. 'What's her name?'