Find My Brother Read online

  Chapter Eleven

  There were a few more dachas for a mile or two, and then they were in the open meadows again. They sat down in the lee of a narrow ridge. McBride pulled out of his rucksack a couple of cans, one corned beef. The other he thought was beans, but it was difficult to make out the labels in the weak moonlight.

  He used the attached key to open the corned beef. Then he felt in his pocket and produced a table knife.

  “What have you got there?” said Ben. “A knife, is it? A commando knife?”

  “Hardly. It’s a table knife. I found it when I was looking for the tin opener. I can understand why you’re a journalist. Find it easy to make stories up.”

  “Just get on with doling some food out. I haven’t eaten for twenty-four hours.”

  “Hold your hand out.” McBride balanced a slice of meat on his knife and dropped it into the palm of his hand. In the course of ten minutes they devoured the can of meat. McBride used the tin opener on the other container, and gave Ben a handful poured out of it.

  “Okay, what have we got there?”

  Ben took a mouthful. “Wow, baked beans in tomato sauce. Brilliant, but messy.”

  “There you go, complaining again.” McBride tipped up the can and poured baked beans straight into his mouth. He then got the knife, and started cutting into the grass on the bank. He pulled out the turf sod, and pushed the empty cans into the soft soil. Replacing the turf sod, he jumped up and down to flatten it.

  “Come on, let’s start walking. We must do twenty miles or so at least, before daylight.” He stopped, remembering something. He pulled from his rucksack a round object, about ten inches across, got the knife out of his pocket slicing wedges. He offered one to Ben.

  “This will be good for you. Keep the bowels working.”

  “What the hell is it?” peering in the dark, at something with a rough feel to it.

  “Cabbage. I picked it from the garden back there. It’s really good when it’s raw.”

  “Not bad, if you’re hungry,” conceded Ben and finished the slice.

  They marched solidly for the next four hours, which McBride estimated, would put them a further fourteen miles on the way to St. Petersburg. Just one thing worried him. He remembered a couple of big rivers in the area, from maps he had looked at in the past. On the way to the camp of course, he was locked in the back of a van, so had seen nothing. If they met a wide river running north to south, they were scuppered. They wouldn’t know whether to follow the river north or south. Still it hadn’t come to that yet.

  The ground they were now walking through had now become marshy a large depression at the bottom of a long sloping hill. He could feel his feet sinking with each step. The trick was to keep going at a fair rate so that the ground didn’t give way beneath you. If it got much worse, though, they might have to retrace their steps and try another route.

  Ben was behind him, and he heard him swear. “Bugger it,” and a splashing sound as he fell over. McBride leaned over him.

  “Have you hurt yourself?”

  “Yes, my ankle. I just sort of collapsed sideways when the ground gave. I was nearly up to my ankles in water. Christ, it hurts.” He was sitting on the ground, holding his left ankle and rocking gently.

  “Just stretch out your leg a minute and let me examine your ankle. I’ve got some experience in breaks and sprains. We were taught it in the army.”

  He felt gently up from his shoe. The ankle was swelling up, but he could detect no break.

  “Okay. I think you’ve just sprained it. Get a spare vest or shirt out of your rucksack, and we’ll bind the ankle. Then you can support yourself on me, not putting your full weight on it. If we could find a tree branch, we could make a walking cane. We’ll look out for one.” McBride was talking confidently to keep up Ben’s morale, but inwardly cursing that this would hamper their escape, and could ultimately put them back behind bars.

  When Ben’s ankle was bound, McBride helped him to stand. Ben winced, but said nothing.

  “Put your weight on my shoulder, and don’t put weight on your injured ankle. Come on, let’s try walking.”

  Initially, it was a struggle, but Ben got used to relying on putting his weight on McBride, and they were soon making slow progress. McBride knew they could not go much further today. They really should find somewhere to rest for a couple of days so that Ben’s sprain would heal.

  It was slow going, but at least they were out of the boggy area and pulling up to higher ground. As they crested the rise, they could see for miles in the pale moonlight. Away to the right there were lights. A small cluster, maybe nothing but a single dwelling. As they drew nearer, McBride could see that there was a central building with lights showing in the windows, and lights on external brackets, lighting up what looked like yards with low barns, made of rough timber surrounding the enclaves.

  Ben said, “Looks like a farm over there.” He nodded towards the electric lights. Exactly what McBride thought. A farm could be handy, sleeping in the barns would keep them reasonably warm.

  “We’ll check it out.”

  When they got within a mile of the farm, they entered fields of vegetable, mostly cabbage and potatoes, though it looked as though most of the potatoes had been ploughed up, and long soil clamps about four foot high confirmed this. They went through a small orchard, apple trees, McBride guessed, their now leafless branches shaking in the breeze.

  The long low barn that confronted them gave off a stench of cows in close proximity with each other. An underlying aroma of urine and a more cutting stench of shit. But with the smell, warmth being given off from the shed. As they got closer, McBride saw a door near to one end. He pressed on the latch, and the door swung open, enveloping them in a gust of warm air, and a pleasant smell of hay. This end of the barn was the store for feeding the cows. They would remain inside for the winter and put out to pasture when the grass was growing next spring. The hay was in bales about two foot square. And a foot deep. The store was probably twenty feet front to back, and presumably with a door at the further side. Hay in this end, out the other.

  “We could hide here, Ben. Get in amongst the bales. And it’s warm, even if it stinks.”

  “Suits me, I just need to rest my leg.”

  “With a bit of luck we can spend a couple of days here, and by that time you should be out of pain. The swelling will go down once you’ve got the weight off it.”

  They made themselves comfortable hopefully out of sight when the farmer came in. As McBride was waiting for sleep to overtake him, he could hear the movement and snuffles, and even farts of the cattle. Another rustling closer by could only be made by mice. Or by rats. He put the thought out of his head.

  McBride was awoken by footsteps on the concrete yard, steadily coming his way. He lay still. He could see the outline of the door, daylight outside now. The noise of the latch and the squeak of hinges, and the door was fully open. McBride could see a large figure through the gaps in the bales. A man of about fifty, fifty-five. Tall, probably McBride’s height, well set, wispy hair fighting a losing battle with baldness. The man grunted as he heaved a bale onto his shoulder, walked away to the side where there must be a doorway into the cowshed. He listened, and the man was talking to the cows, unless there was someone with him. After a while, he came back and took another bale away. When he returned, it was to shut the door after him.

  He listened to the footsteps retreat and there was silence except for the munching noise of cows eating hay. McBride turned over and settled back to go to sleep. Ben was snoring quietly, and this kept McBride awake. Then, just when he was on the verge of sleep, he heard footsteps again in the yard. They came nearer and even nearer. What had the farmer forgotten? The latch clattered, and the door opened. Framed against the daylight was the farmer. He was pointing a shotgun. He uttered a string of Russian words, nothing McBride could understand. But he guessed the game was up. He shook Ben and stood up amongst the bales.

  “Don’t shoot, please
,” he said as he held his hands above his head. Ben stood unsteadily beside him and raised his arms.