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Back Arkhangel Save as PDF
Chapters (44)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. By the same author
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraph
  6. Prologue: Appointment in Arkhangel
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. Epilogue: Appointment in Arklow
  44. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

I could feel the fire singeing my hair, clothes, burning the skin on the backs of my hands. But as I braced myself to lift her, she pulled away from me again, even closer to the fire. Her hand was still at my neck, so that our heads touched, but her body, legs were clear of mine.

‘Rachel …’ I moved forward again and felt her fist clenched between us. I looked down and saw the scout’s knife, drawn from behind my back: blade up, old steel reflecting red in the fire-glow.

‘I’m sorry, Max,’ she said, pressing her mouth to my ear.

Then she drew her head back, eyes fixed on mine, and thrust. I brought my hand around, down, but I was too slow. The cutting edge ran across my fingers, slicing to the bone. The point went in hard. She gasped with the effort of it and then smiled, pushing herself on to me, forcing the steel in and up. I felt the blade lodge home, felt the blood pumping on to her stomach and mine. I closed my fist around the grip and we clung to each other. I saw my mother and Doc, laughing, happy; I saw Rachel on the bedroom floor, the life pouring out of her; I saw her in the forest, the wind in her hair, laughing, free. And then all I could see were her eyes, flashing green in the firelight. She raised her hands, red with gore, and laid them on my cheeks.

‘God forgive me,’ she whispered in Irish. ‘It is finished.’

I let her go and she stepped back, pulling herself free of the knife. Then she looked up, and her legs gave way, and she fell into the flames – and it was.

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34

Zero one hundred.

The glow of the fire threw a halo around the village. I ran to Aleksandr Denisovich’s house and didn’t look back.

I headed east and then north, and within a few minutes the red glow in the rear-view mirror vanished and there was no sign that anything had happened at all. The Lada ground on through the darkness to Vologda. Hunched over the wheel, the heating cranked to the maximum, I strained my eyes into the bright beams thrown by the four-by-four’s headlights. The sides of the road were piled with snow. Fresh ice formed on the asphalt as new flurries froze between the tyre treads. My hands were stained red with my blood and hers.