Love in Revolution (16 page)

‘And do what?’

‘The obvious targets,’ Karl said. He walked away from the other men, and Leon followed. In a lower voice, he said, ‘The prison. And the Palace.’

‘Jolly good.’

‘That pello player of yours . . . you really think he’ll be useful?’

Leon hunched one shoulder, considering. ‘Well . . . maybe not now . . . but if we need a rallying point, a personality . . .’

‘Yes,’ Karl said, nodding. ‘And if we can say he was here, with us, behind the barricade . . .’

‘Exactly.’ They grinned at each other. I clenched my jaw and looked at Angel. He was on the balls of his feet, biting the rim of the King’s Cup like a kid. His eyes were wide, and he jumped every time the firing reached a crescendo.

‘The prison then?’ Leon got a red handkerchief out of his pocket and started to tie it round, to cover the lower half of his face.

‘Yes. Get a rifle. They’re in the cellar of the house over there. God bless Elena and her soldier boyfriends . . .’ He laughed, but I couldn’t tell whether it was a joke. He raised his voice, and called, ‘Elena! You ready? You and Ricky coming?’

The woman glanced at him and nodded. She sauntered over, one hand in her pocket, the other swinging her rifle. The group of men started to get to their feet, passing the bottle of vodka to each other and swigging from it. The last one tipped it up vertically and then threw it casually towards the barricade. It didn’t go over; it smashed on the near side, and a man jumped backwards, swearing.

I stood where I was, watching. My heart had slowed down. I felt almost safe; as if I was invisible. It was like watching a play.

The noise behind the barricade rose again, but no one paid any attention. Leon had disappeared into one of the houses, and everyone was on their feet. Karl was staring down one of the streets and muttering as if he was calculating the quickest way to the prison. I drew back into the shadows. There was no point staying here; I had to find Skizi.

There was a kind of rumble from behind the barricade; then, as if in slow motion, it started to collapse. A table half slid, half toppled to the ground, so that its legs were pointing at the sky; and the chairs and the mattress that it had been resting on trembled and started to edge forwards. The police were breaking through. I opened my mouth, but my throat had closed and I couldn’t make a sound.

And then, suddenly, there was a policeman clambering over, wielding a rifle; only no one had seen him, no one had time to turn and –

He started shooting.

The first bullet only ricocheted off a wall, chipping a cornice. I saw Karl turn, and look around for the nearest cover. Then the others started to notice, and ducked into doorways, pushing each other out of the way. But it took so
long
. . . and now the man was sliding down this side of the barricade, and behind him there were more, ten or twenty, all with guns – mostly rifles, but one policeman had a different model that I realised, with a dull surge of fear, was a sub-machine gun.

I stood frozen. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. Leon hadn’t come out of the house, and I prayed that he’d stay in the cellar, hiding, although I knew he wouldn’t.

They all opened fire; and the Communists returned it.

A few of the policemen spun to the ground, as if someone had lassoed their arms or legs, and blood blossomed slowly on their uniforms. But when I looked round I could see more bodies not in uniform; and the line of policemen advanced, the man with the machine gun in front, covering the others. The noise was deafening: as if just the
sound
of a shot could kill you . . . I leant against the wall, squeezing my hands over my ears, but it was no good.

I saw Karl look round at the bodies, and then he stood up, and yelled, ‘Run! We haven’t got a chance! Don’t fight,
run!
’ And he dashed across the street, to the side street, and disappeared round the corner.

One by one, a few people followed him; then, all in a rush, the others ran too, scattering into the side streets, yelling to each other, skidding and stumbling. Someone ran past me, brushing my shirt with his rifle as he struggled to sling it back over his shoulder as he went. I flinched as someone else went by, swearing and smelling of smoke.

I thought: Leon. Leon was in that house, and if he came out now, with his handkerchief over his face, and his rifle in his hand . . .

The woman – Elena – had been crouching in a doorway, taking shots at the policemen; now she stood up, called, ‘Karl! Karl, see you at the prison!’ and started to run. She ran down the street, zigzagging to avoid the spray of bullets. I thought I could hear her laughing and whooping, as if she was running through a thunderstorm; she jumped over a body like a kid leaping a puddle, full of energy, having fun . . . Then she fell to her knees. She stood up and started to run again; but now I could see a dark patch on her trouser leg, and she was running oddly, throwing herself forward and flailing at the air with her arms as if she couldn’t keep her balance. She dropped her rifle, and for a moment she picked up speed. Then she tripped, and she fell flat on her face in the middle of the road.

The back of her neck was just a red bubbling mess. A thin slick of blood spread out underneath her.

Somehow I still expected her to get up: she’d tripped, that’s all; she probably hadn’t done her shoelaces up properly . . .

But she didn’t move.

And the last of the Communists disappeared into the side streets opposite me, and the policemen spread out, brandishing their guns and shouting insults, and I realised I was the only person left.

I started to run, too late.

While I was standing still, no one had noticed me; but as soon as I moved, I heard someone shout and fire, and there were bullets filling the air like little whining wasps, pinging off the walls. But it didn’t seem real. The police didn’t shoot at people like
me
: I hadn’t done anything, I was only here for the King’s Cup, I was a nice middle-class girl, it was all a mistake . . . I kept running, feeling unreal, like one of those dreams where you can’t move properly. My feet hurt.

‘Hey, you! Stop! Stop running right now!’

Part of me wanted to stop, because surely they wouldn’t shoot me, if I stopped and told them my name and address and just
explained
. . . but I’d have to explain why I was there, behind the barricade, and give them Leon’s name, and Karl’s, and –

I kept running. Now everything hurt, and my heart was hammering in my head, as though it might spill out of my mouth. If only they’d give up, and forget about me . . . but they didn’t. I could hear them running after me, panting with exertion, and the occasional rattle of bullets off the walls on either side. The man with the machine gun must have gone after someone else. That was something; if he hadn’t, I’d have been dead by now.

But I couldn’t last much longer.

I got to the end of the street, flung myself round the corner and looked desperately for somewhere to hide. But the doors were all closed, and the windows were all shuttered, and the street stretched out wide and empty in front of me. I went on running, keeping as close to the wall as I could. Behind me there was more shouting, and then a pause. With a surge of relief I stopped and looked over my shoulder, thinking I’d lost them, but the policemen were in a cluster, the one in front raising his rifle . . .

I spun round and ran. My back prickled with anticipation and fear. They were going to shoot me. They were going to –

I heard – no, felt – a movement behind me. I’d gone past another turning – I should have turned, but I was running too fast to think clearly, and now it was too late – and now there was someone else chasing me, someone –

Someone between me and the policemen’s bullets –

Someone calling my name.

I looked round.

And at the same moment whoever-it-was caught up with me, grabbed my arm and pulled me sideways, down the next street and into an alleyway, half pushing, half dragging me, and the hand on my arm was so tight it hurt, as though I really had been shot. I had time to see a grimy grass-stained shirt, a blur of skin, and then we were running together down the alley and left and left again and right and there was a door that was mostly boarded up and she pulled at the corner with one hand and we fell through into the dark and –

And I fought for breath, gasping, and when I managed to fill my lungs again it came out as a sob, I thought it was a laugh, and then she had her arms round me and I was still sobbing and I couldn’t stop.

‘Esteya, you
idiot
,’ she kept saying, over and over again, like she was hushing a baby. ‘You bloody idiot, what were you doing . . . ?’

‘Looking for you,’ I said. ‘What else?’

And then I gave in to the tears and just let myself cry.

When I stopped crying, the last of the light had faded and we were sitting in complete darkness. It was cold, and I was glad of the warmth of Skizi’s body next to me. Through my sniffles I could hear her breathing, and the soft sound of her hand stroking my back.

She said, ‘All right now?’

‘Yes, thanks.’ I leant my head into the hollow between her shoulder and her neck, smelling her musty indoors–outdoors smell, and the tang of sweat. More tears came, and I let them run down my face silently. If something had happened to her . . . I swallowed. ‘I was scared for you.’

‘You should’ve been scared for
you
. Idiot.’

‘What happened? Martin made us leave the arena, and you were still there, and I thought –’ I stopped, because I didn’t trust my voice to hold out.

‘I ran away.’

‘Where to?’

I felt her shrug, and she blew her breath out impatiently. ‘Oh, come on, Esteya. I know trouble when I see it. I’m used to having to keep an eye out for myself. Not like you, you –’

I said, ‘Idiot.’

‘Porridge-brain,’ she said, at the same time, and I caught the glint of her teeth as she smiled. ‘But honestly, Esteya . . . What were you thinking? Martin was right, you ought to have gone somewhere safe and stayed there. You could’ve got yourself shot.’

I shrugged. ‘I wanted to find you.’

She shook her head, and I felt her face burrowing into my hair, just above my ear. The warmth of her mouth made me shiver.

‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘what were you doing there? How on earth did
you
get –’ I checked myself. ‘I mean, how did you manage to get –’

‘How did
I
get a ticket?’ she said, mocking my tone. She shifted, so that she was sitting up straighter and I had to move my head. ‘How did a dirty little Zikindi like me get hold of a –’

‘You know that’s not what I meant.’

‘Does it matter? How I got the ticket?’

‘No, of course it doesn’t! Forget it.’

There was a silence. She said, ‘I sold one of your mama’s things, if you must know.’

Suddenly, out of nowhere, I was so tired I wanted to close my eyes and never open them again. I said, ‘You’re right, it doesn’t matter.’

The silence came back, cradling us, rocking us, like the sea. I closed my eyes and drifted. I was almost dreaming. But faces kept surfacing in the blackness: the boy in the royal box, the man in the doorway, Elena . . . I remembered Leon, with a jolt of guilt. Please, God, let him have stayed in the cellar, hiding . . .

‘What a game, though,’ Skizi said.

For a second I thought she meant the fighting. Then I understood, and started to laugh.

‘What?’ she said. ‘Wasn’t it amazing? Angel Corazon – what a player . . .’

I kept on laughing, so hard I could hardly speak.

‘What? Esteya, what’s wrong? Are you all right? What’s so funny?’

‘I’ve seen three dead people – no, more than that,’ I said. ‘Today. I’d never seen anyone dead, and then today . . . I was chased, and shot at, and I’ve never been so scared in all my life. And you sit there and say – you – you say . . .’ I took a deep breath, and forced the words out through my giggles. ‘And you – you’re still talking about the pello game . . .’

There was a pause. Then she said, ‘But it
was
amazing, wasn’t it?’

I nodded, still spluttering, and I felt her start to laugh too, as if it was contagious. I said, ‘Yes, yes, it was. It was amazing. You’re right. What a game.’

She leant her temple against mine, and I felt the vibrations in my skull as we laughed, helplessly. I turned my head so that my mouth was resting against her cheek, and I could feel her breath on my neck.

She kissed me, and then shifted, as if she was going to get to her feet. She said, ‘Where’s Martin then? Did he find somewhere safe?’

‘Leon’s rooms, opposite the Royal Museum. Martin’s probably . . .’ I stopped. He’d be furious.

‘Better take you back then.’

‘But . . . I want to stay here, with you. I mean – you can’t – I can’t tell Martin about –’

‘Yes, I know, Esteya, but I’ll be fine. It’s you I’m worried about. I’ll take you back, and then you must get the first train home as soon as you can. I don’t know what’s going to happen here.’