Mortal Happiness: Chapter Sixteen

Jones felt he was breathing fire as he half ran, half stumbled behind Never across the stony terrain of the pass. Glancing at the spires and peaks glowing under the high, white moon he wondered vaguely how the view could be unchanged after what just happened. The only real difference was that it was much colder now and even Never seemed to be struggling as they re-entered Russia.
‘D’you know the way from here?’ Jones gasped, recent emotion forgotten in the intensity of physical pain. ‘I don’t recognise anything ... Fuck!’ He tripped on a tree root and stumbled, hitting a shoulder hard against a low branch.
‘Let’s move, not talk.’ Never said, over his shoulder, as he slid down a bank of cones and needles.
The trees were closer together and the ground steeper than Jones remembered. He slithered after Never, who moved with more speed and assurance than seemed possible with his spectacles and slight frame. He’d assumed the other man was bookish and unfit. Now he was having real trouble keeping up with him.
Something brushed his face with a murmur of wings and he almost yelled with surprise. An owl, or maybe a bat? He kept going, hands torn from grabbing at branches to break his fall. The soft ground gave way repeatedly so that he fell, twisting knees and ankles. His left foot caught on a root and he plunged forward head first, grasping at Never’s leg as his own body swung round, hitting a partly concealed rock. For a moment he lay gasping and winded, Never breathing hard beside him.
When he was able to speak, Jones said, ‘We’re running from all of them, right?’
Never pulled him roughly by one arm, ‘You’re the reporter. Don’t you know?’
‘Christ, Alexei, that hurt!’ Jones shook off Never’s grip and held onto a tree to stop himself sliding down into the darkness. ‘I reckon we’re running from whoever stepped in because of what Krasin did, and from Krasin because of what we didn’t do.’
‘That’s about how I see it.’
‘Great.’
Never’s face loomed inches from his own. ‘You’re welcome to wait and ask for their version, but I wouldn’t advise it.’
After another half hour the ground flattened out, fir and pine giving way in places to large deciduous trees, their heavy outlines visible where rods of moonlight penetrated. Newly fallen leaves lay in whispering pools through which they waded, ankle deep. As he forced himself to keep placing one foot after another Jones understood, for the first time in his life, what it was to be no longer young.
More broadleaf trees appeared; there had been none on the way up. He pointed this out to Never, who shrugged.
‘We’ve been on a different path since we left the Pass. If you want to avoid someone it makes sense to go another route.’
Surprised, Jones said, ‘But how do you know the way in the dark?’
‘I read the maps, Krasin didn’t. He took us several kilometres out of our way.’
‘And you let him?’
‘Of course I let him. There’s no use showing you can think in this army. I learnt that a long time ago. Now we’ll be back at camp first, which under the circumstances is a very good thing.’

Jones took a large swig from a tin cup then passed it back to Never. The pungent vodka fumes stung Jones’ eyes and he shook his head when Never offered him the cup again.
‘Sure you don’t want more?’ Never said.
Jones shook his head. ‘I felt certain you didn’t drink.’
‘Not with the men.’ Never said, ‘But you should drink now. Don’t worry, you won’t sleep, not with all this.’ He waved the cup towards some soldiers sitting round a fire and singing.
‘I’m not worried.’
Despite the vodka Never looked at him with clear eyes. ‘That’s not the truth my friend.’
Jones said, ‘Not now, Alexei for Christ’s sake.’ He looked away, avoiding Never’s gaze.
‘Why not now? Because you just witnessed something terrible, something you wish you hadn’t seen? Isn’t this the best time to talk of horrors?’
‘Just leave it, okay.’
‘You’re not the only voyeur, Michael. I’ve watched you; you’re afraid to fall asleep. Why is that?’
Jones started to get up but Never had him by the wrist.
‘Stay!’
Jones pulled away but Never held on tight, his weight a ballast.
‘I’m not drunk Michael and nor are you, so talk to me. Who knows, this chance may not come again.’ He laughed suddenly, shyly. ‘Did I tell you I have a PhD in clinical psychology from St Petersburg University?’
Jones sat down with a thud. ‘No, you didn’t, but right now I don’t care if you have a PhD in open brain surgery. Just leave my head alone.’
Never grinned showing all his teeth and most of his gums, ‘But I understand anything and everything absolutely, and I’m at your service Michael.’
He found the near-normality of Never’s conversation oddly comforting; it seemed very far away from what he’d just witnessed, a kind of raft, something to cling to.
‘What’s a man with a doctorate doing in a dump like this?’
‘There are no funds for academic research these days and Russia imagines she can survive without it.’ Never shrugged, ‘Actually, it’s not that unusual for people like me to be conscripted and when there’s no other work it doesn’t seem so bad – at least you get food and clothing.’
‘Why didn’t you buy yourself out of conscription?’
‘No money, no family. And I had the stupid idea that it might be interesting to see how other people live. And, like you, I wondered what it would be like to have adventures.’
‘And have you had any? Adventures?’
Never slugged the vodka like it was water. ‘You tell me.’
Jones shook his head and closed his eyes, desperate to lie down and sleep dreamlessly. Abruptly the darkness beyond the trees felt threatening; the comfort of just moments ago already dissipating into a sensation of being in more than one place - or was it more than one person? Part of him was thinking and speaking, while another part watched himself doing these things. Disorientated, he fought just to stay intact.
‘You are a strange man,’ Never continued, ‘a lazy journalist, a worse soldier. It’s why I like you, why you interest me.’
Opening his eyes, Jones sat up straight, looked directly at Never and lit a cigarette with shaking hands. ‘You clearly have something to say, so say it and leave me in peace.’
Never nodded, ‘OK. You don’t take any real photographs, you don’t write anything down, you don’t seem at all concerned about having no comms to get your reports out.’ He plucks at Jones’ camouflaged sleeve, ‘and you like wearing this more than you should.’
Jones said. ‘You’re looking at an aging adrenaline junkie. We’re everywhere, Alexei. We’re called foreign correspondents, war reporters, whatever you like.’
Never shook his head. ‘No, that’s not it. There’s something else.’
Holding his breath Jones said, ‘And?’
‘And you cry without knowing it.’
The words were so direct and unexpected that Jones had no time to shield himself. ‘What did you say?’
‘In the truck coming up here you slept and I watched you.’ Never shrugged, ‘Sorry, but there wasn’t much else to do.’ He paused as if waiting for a response from Jones, but none came. ‘You were quiet for a while, then you started talking.’
Jones stared at the ground between his drawn-up knees.
Never looked at him, assessing, then continued. ‘I could see tears running down your face. It went on a long time, maybe twenty minutes. When you woke you just wiped your face like it was normal, so I guessed it wasn’t the first time.’
‘And the other times?’
‘Back there, at that farm, when I reached you you were crying. Did you know?’
Jones shook his head. ‘I can’t talk about that, not yet.’
‘Why not?’ Never paused. ‘Did you take photographs?’
Jones slammed the ground hard with the flat of his hand, ‘Jesus Christ, what do you think I am?’
‘A reporter. Isn’t that what you are? Someone who takes pictures of grim reality?’
Looking at Never, Jones realised he was far more afraid of this man than of Krasin and his goons. Krasin was merely violent.
‘What do you want from me?’
Never shook his head, ‘Only to understand how much you understand. I get tired, you see, of looking at people and seeing more of them than they see of themselves. I’m not always right of course, but it’s a bit like a curse.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Ignorance really is bliss, you know.’
‘I do know, which is why I want to fucking stay ignorant.’ Jones could hear the pitch of his voice rising. What right did this man have to probe his psyche? ‘Ignorance is what’s allowed me to go on working all these years. The guys who went bleating to therapists and PTSD counsellors gave up years ago. I wanted to go on working because I liked it. I still like it. People like me don’t have a right to stuff like PTSD. And d’you know why Alexei? Because I chose to be in those places where shit happened and I could leave any time … unlike the poor bastards who lived there.’ He stopped speaking, out of breath and quivering with tension.
‘I saw you watching Krasin and that woman, the one with the gun. It was terrible for you. You wanted to intervene, to save her, but you didn’t know how.’
‘You’re un-fucking-believable!’ Jones shouted. He didn’t remember when he’d last felt this angry and there was something good about it, something clean that had nothing to do with right or wrong. ‘You stood - with a loaded gun - and did nothing and you tell me about not helping!’
Perfectly calm, Never said, ‘I didn’t say you didn’t help, or that you should have. I said you wanted to and couldn’t.’ He shrugged, a familiar gesture which made Jones want to hit him. ‘I gave the men orders which were ignored, as usual. I accept this and so am not tormented by what I should or should not have done. ’
Jones lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, ‘You’re a cold-blooded bastard, Lieutenant.’
‘No, I think I’m just like you; we do what we must to survive. That doesn’t mean we like what we do.’ Never smiled almost diffidently, ‘I noticed that your survival strategy was starting to fail you and as a gesture of friendship I pointed this out, nothing more.’
What the fuck, Jones thought, what the fuck and said, ‘No, smart ass, it’s not failing. How could it fail? It never fucking worked.’
As if he hadn’t spoken Never said, ‘It’s not just the work that hurts you, is it.’
‘No, it’s not just the work.’
‘What then?’
Jones laughed and it sounded tense and harsh even to himself. ‘Crime and punishment, man. You’re Russian, you must understand that.’
‘What crime?’
‘Omission, Alexei. The crime of omission. There’s a bit in the English church service where sinners ask forgiveness for those things they ought to have done but didn’t. That is omission.’
‘Like you with those women tonight.’
Utterly drained now, Jones laid his head on his knees and mumbled, ‘Did anyone ever tell you that you’re relentless, Alexei?’
Never sighed, ‘Sadly, not for a long time. No one I meet these days even knows what the word means.’
Against his will, Jones looked up ready to smile. At the dark edge of the clearing Krasin appeared with three men. ‘Your friends.’
Never glanced over, head lowered. ‘I can’t believe it. The bastard left Gligorov and Yagin up there and lost Marovsky too. Three men gone! Look at him now, the swaggering asshole.’
‘Who will account for the three dead?’
‘Haven’t you realised yet?’, Never snapped. ‘No-one accounts for anything around here. Krasin knows his story will be the only one: there were no women and our three comrades died bravely fighting off overwhelming enemy force while you and I got separated from the rest.’
‘Do you think he feels guilt?’ Jones asked as he watched Krasin drop to the ground beside a fire shouting for vodka and food. Looking at them Jones remembered he’s eaten only a handful of greasy potatoes in two days; but the thought of food made him nauseous.
‘Violence was probably grafted on to Krasin when he was too young to know anything else. He’s like a dog; others sniff at him then roll over, bellies up. Or they keep away, like I keep away.’ Never grimaced. ‘Most men find it difficult to kill without hating, did you know that? They have to be trained to it. Krasin hates everyone.’
Grishov appeared, face flushed with drink and excitement.
‘Lieutenant, sir! I just heard, we’re crossing the border tomorrow at dawn and Sergeant Krasin says I can ride in your truck. Can I?’
Never nodded. ‘We’ve got a spare seat or three Grigory, since we lost our comrades tonight. Plenty of room for a skinny creature like you. Go, get some sleep.’
The boy grinned and ran off.
‘Did you know that,’ Jones asked, ‘about tomorrow?’
Never shook his head. ‘No, but it never pays to let the men think they know more than you, especially if they do.’ He stretched out long, thin legs and said, ‘This may sound stupid after what we talked about, but try and get some sleep yourself.’

Jones lay awake for a long time, feeling bits of twig and bark under his back through the army issue sleeping bag. He thought of the dead, the new and the old and finally about nothing at all. The singing had stopped and the camp was almost silent when he finally closed his eyes.

Coal dust settles in his mouth and rises into the back of his nose. Clouds of fine black diamond sparkle in the light of the flame from the gas cooker. Released from his father’s work clothes, the dust fills the spaces of the room and returns like a benediction to the man who undresses in front of the fire. Naked, Owein Jones is blue-white in those few places the coal hasn’t reached. Scars cross and re-cross his arms and shoulders, each one a fall of rock, a loose wagon. One scar, still grey under the skin, runs from hip to shin in a ragged hairless line edged with dots, reminder of a collapsed shaft. Closing his eyes he turns away from his father, from the dirt and failure, wishing himself anywhere else.

(Somewhere in the distance women were screaming, which isn’t right. There aren’t any women in this dream.)

The naked man coughs; the sound bounces off the linoleum, rattling ribs and tearing wetly at tubes and vessels. He lays four rashers of bacon in a pan as his father spits in the fire. Phlegm and bacon sizzle in unison as he controls the desire to vomit. Smiling wearily, eyes and teeth like scoured chalk in the black face, the man says, ‘I’m for a wash before dinner. Come and scrub my back, I’ll call you.’ At the door he turns and asks hesitatingly, ‘Do you mind me asking for help bach? It’s just I can’t do it properly myself see.'

He wants to say ‘Yes, I do mind, I mind very much. Please, please don’t ask me’. But he’s ten years old and he says nothing at all.

It was still dark when Grishov shook him awake, slapping him lightly when he didn’t respond at once.
‘What? What is it …?’
‘You’re making a lot of noise and Sergeant says if you don’t stop he’ll stop it for you. So please, you must be quiet. Okay?’
Jones dragged himself into a sitting position and nodded without speaking. The boy stared at him anxiously then left.
It was still night, though not for much longer. Eyes half-open Jones wondered what would happen if dawn didn’t come, if it never came again. He was so very, very tired. Exhaustion was tearing up his insides like scar tissue and he wanted to lie down again. The nightmare, which was no nightmare but a recurring, full-colour, action replay of horrors against which he had no protection, clung like a succubus, unwilling to release him.
Closing his eyes, he let his head fall. Just a brief return to that haunted place where past and present stretched him between them. One day, maybe soon, something would tear, rip and tear. But for now, if he was lucky, he’d be able to remember that what was past, was past; that denial was not a river in Egypt, but survival in an otherwise impossible world.





Dear Reader. Apologies for layout, techno-nonsense. If you want to go on reading, vote on the poll or leave a Comment.