Mortal Happiness: Chapter Twenty-Two

It was afternoon when Jones regained consciousness. Opening his eyes his first thought was of the wrongness of the world. Trees stood at strange angles and the sky was not where it should be. His feet were higher than his head and the ground pressed up into him, lumpy and distorted. He wondered whether it was a dream, but if so it was an unfamiliar one. Then the pain started, right about the same time that he smelt the destruction around him, and he passed out again.

Cold woke him the second time: cold, and the agony in his leg that shot from foot to belly in throbbing pulses every few seconds. He wanted to look at the damage before it got too dark, but he was afraid of what he might find – or not find. The pain seemed to grow worse with each breath, enough to bring furious tears to his eyes. So, he clenched his teeth and took only short, hard, breaths that fuelled his anger at the pain and at being under a bush, halfway up a mountain, wearing a uniform that could get him killed, if he didn’t die of cold, or blood-loss, first. He had a vivid memory of Ivan Kossov saying something like, ‘it would be too ironic if you died of hypothermia in those mountains.’ It had seemed almost humorous at the time, now it was only ridiculous and yes, ironic. He felt around for his camera without success, then fumbled anxiously with a pocket of his jacket until he found his UK press card.

From nowhere came a memory of advice: if you’re caught in an avalanche and buried in snow, dribble and check which way the saliva runs on your face so you know your position. He started to laugh, a choking sound that stopped abruptly as agony roared through him again. Fighting panic he tried to steady the shaking that was starting to overtake his entire body. He attempted to force the pain back down and lay still with his eyes closed, but he was freezing and his muscles wouldn’t stop shuddering. This he thought must be shock. But when his mind stayed focussed he realised that if he'd been in shock it had passed while he was unconscious; and he'd survived it. He'd lost blood, he was in great pain and he was very cold. Nothing more.

Despite all the past risk he’d never really believed this moment a possibility, refusing to consider that what happened fairly regularly to colleagues or rivals could happen to him. Or rather he’d always known it could happen, but not like this. He’d assumed it would be sudden and painless; he’d be healthy, or he’d be dead.

He was thinking with great clarity about heroin, about how great it would be to have some right now, when he remembered two soldiers under a tree. He remembered the look on the man’s face as he’d slipped down the trunk, not feeling the bark scraping his flesh. The medic had stored the gear afterwards. Where?

He prayed briefly to an unfamiliar god, then in one motion dragged himself up snarling and looked at his leg. It was still there, but he’d seen enough over the years to know that might not mean much. Breathing shallowly he checked the damage; only the upper leg seemed involved. The wound was long, maybe deep, but with so much old blood it was not possible to tell anything for sure. As he leant aside and retched he remembered where the medi-kit was stored.

He crawled out of the nest of bushes with his own moans loud in his ears. Picking up a thick twig he put it between his teeth and bit down until he tasted dirt and acrid sap. His left leg dragged behind him as he moved. One elbow, then the next, pushing the ground away with his right leg. A few more metres and he was back in the killing ground.

Only five of the ten vehicles remained. Four were burnt and twisted shells, only one was shattered but unburnt, only one might have a medi-kit still stored under its driving seat.

‘Michael.’

The voice was so quiet it seemed conjured from one of the open mouthed corpses lying around him. From Grishov, skull cracked like a hard-boiled egg, empty of brains, eyes dead and flat as a stale fish.

‘Michael.’

He didn’t want to stop. Afraid of not reaching the truck before his strength failed, he couldn’t stop. But he recognised the voice and twisted round to face it. ‘Alexei?’ He crawled to where Never lay, avoiding the bits that should have been part of the man and now seemed improperly organised.

Never’s face, untouched by blood or mark was candle-yellow in what remained of the daylight. He whispered, ‘Only you Michael, there’s only you.’ Then he coughed and blood ran from the corner of his mouth down his neck, twisting and curling into the collar of his shirt. ‘I told you,’ he whispered wetly, ‘your camera saves lives.’

Jones wanted to forget the pain in his leg and couldn’t. He glanced toward the truck, ‘I’m going to get morphine, from the medi-kit. I’ll give it to you. Just hang on, hang on.’ He started to move but Never’s hand grasps his arm with surprising force.

‘Can’t wait … I can’t. Sorry.’

‘I only know how to get drugs into you Alexei. I can’t do anything else.’

Never fumbled in the inside pocket of his camouflage jacket, ‘Help me Michael.’ Jones dragged himself level with Never and leaning across him, put a hand inside the pocket. Not knowing what he’d find, a dislodged body part, or a last letter to a grieving relative, Jones held his breath from dread and from the pain that demanded his full attention. Having almost forgotten why he was here at all, what he found was shocking and, under the circumstances he realised, pointless.

‘That’s it,’ Never whispered, as Jones showed him the small laminated card with Never’s photograph on it, beside the letters, FSB. ‘Take it s … so my people and my family will know - what happened to me.’

Pain forgotten for a brief moment, Jones was about to say, ‘But you told me you had no family’, when he realised it didn’t matter any more.

‘Now, finish it,’ Never pointed to where the lower part of his right leg lay still encased in its boot a metre away and then pointed two fingers at his own head. ‘You remember, Michael, Russian roulette,’ he said, then gasped and blood bubbled on his lips.

Confused, Jones looked at the leg then back to Never.

‘Gun,’ Never whispered, ‘strapped – the ankle.’

‘What?’ Jones’s brain stumbled on Never’s words as the pain, loud now as a banshee’s wail, deafened him.

‘Wanted to do something real, didn’t … didn’t you? Tired of always w … watching.’ Never’s voice faded but his grip stayed strong. ‘So, this is your chance.’