and groans. There’s a lump the size of a walnut in the center of their forehead, and a nasty-looking cut. A trail of blood runs into one eyebrow.
Anton looks at them irritably. “So what happened to her?”
“Hit their head. They’ll be fine.”
“Better be. You’re her spotter. Find the first-aid box and get a dressing on that wound.”
“You fucking find it. I want my breakfast, and to be honest I don’t care if Charlie lives or dies.”
Anton sneers. “We’re very full of piss and wind all of a sudden, aren’t we? What brought that on? Girlfriend decide to start grazing in pastures new?”
I ignore him, and when Oxana stands Charlie’s chair up, helps them to their feet, and examines the bump, I ignore her too. When the baked beans are ready I take the hot pan and a spoon outside to the deck, where I run into Nobby and Ginge.
“Lovely morning for it,” says Ginge, as he says every morning.
“Sure is,” I say. I’ve never eaten an entire tin of beans before.
When Charlie and I meet at the firing point, they’ve got a bandage around their head and regard me warily. Ginge clearly knows we’ve had a fight, but tactfully makes no reference to it. Instead, as I make the range and trace calls, my voice emptied of expression, Charlie puts round after round through the sniper rifle. Visibility is good, the sea is calm and there’s almost no crosswind. I can’t have done Charlie any serious damage because we’re soon knocking out the balloon targets at ranges of close to a kilometer.
“I wish there was more wind,” Charlie mutters to Ginge.
“Too easy, is it?”
“No, Eve keeps farting.”
“Ah.” He leans round and grins at me. “I had a dog with that trouble. Good dog, mind.”
Somehow, the day passes. I hold on to my anger, keeping it icy and sharp inside me, and address not one word to Charlie that I don’t have to. The sight of their bandage and the livid swelling beneath it consoles me a little. It was a brilliant reflex shot, though I say it myself, and I’m confident that they’re not planning any immediate revenge.
They don’t need to. Their triumph is complete. Why was I not prepared for Oxana to behave so viciously, so unforgivably, when in retrospect it was the most likely thing in the world? I know that she can’t resist subjecting my feelings for her to cruel and wounding tests, and it was always probable that sooner or later she’d test them to destruction.
Fuck her. Seriously. I’m better off alone.
At the end of the day, a hard wind gets up and thin spits of snow come whirling in from the east. Standing on the edge of the platform in my combat clothes, my face pricking with the cold, I feel myself consumed by guilt and sadness. I gaze at the sea for what seems like a very long time, and as the light fades, and the feeling drains from my exposed face and hands, something in the vast indifference of the scene—some sad, steely note—possesses me, and my anger becomes determination. I may be empty inside, hollowed and devoured by Oxana, and I may be alone and beyond redemption, but I will not be broken.
Fuck them all.
I will not be broken.
9
The next day passes swiftly. I speak only when spoken to, ignore Oxana completely, and limit my exchanges with Charlie to calling the shots for them.
We have two nights left on the North Sea platform, then we return to Russia. At least I’m assuming that that’s the case, as my passport contains no visa for any other country. Over the course of the day, I run through possible ways of contacting Tikhomirov. My only chance to do this will be when we’ve landed in Russia, and are making our way through the border controls. It will be impossible beforehand, while we are under the eye of Anton, and almost certainly impossible afterward.
I consider different scenarios. A diversion of some kind, in the course of which I throw myself on the mercy of customs or security officials. A medical emergency, perhaps, with me writhing on the arrivals’ hall floor with simulated gastroenteritis. Could I carry that off? Unlikely. Anton will be looking out for any hint of weird or erratic behavior. He will keep us on a very short leash, and he’s undoubtedly practiced in dealing with the kind of functionaries you find at Russian airports.
Maybe I could try to steal a phone? The passport