The Street Philosopher - By Matthew Plampin Page 0,81

close around his boot.

‘Vadaa,’ whispered a voice faintly. ‘Vadaa. Pozhalujsta.’

A young Russian soldier, no more than sixteen, lay hidden in the darkness at the back of the cave. His head was bare, his eyes were sunken, and the lines of his skull were clearly visible beneath his skin. His thin neck was covered with flea bites; his musket, which looked as if it dated from the previous century at the very latest, was propped up against a rock. The body of one of his comrades, clearly dead, lay on the floor beside him.

Outside, the searching Russians called to each other. The soldier forced out a few more words through parched lips. His meaning was clear enough.

‘He wants water,’ Kitson said quietly. ‘I have none. Have you any, Cracknell? Styles, how about you?’

The soldier grew angry as his request was not met. Speaking with more strength, he hauled himself up to a sitting position and looked over them with scorn in his eyes. He had heard the men outside, and realised the power he had over these three lost invaders. He started to raise his voice. Kitson moved forward, making placatory gestures, speaking softly; Cracknell offered the soldier a cigarette. This was knocked aside. The soldier jabbed an accusatory finger into Cracknell’s round belly, spat out a few hard-sounding words, and put a hand on the stock of his musket.

In the months that followed, Kitson tried many times to recall exactly when he had realised what was about to happen there in the cave. It was certainly at a point when it was too late to do anything to prevent it. He had watched Styles rise to his haunches, and pick up a stone about the size of a man’s fist; he had watched him twist around, leaning back into the cave; and he had watched, his mouth now open, as the illustrator struck the stone against the side of the soldier’s head with all the force in his body. Whether or not this had killed the boy soldier outright Kitson would never know, but there had been a dreadful sound, uncannily like the breaking of china, and he had slumped to the ground beside his lifeless companion.

Cracknell leapt to his feet, putting a hand over his mouth to stifle an involuntary exclamation. Styles leant back, letting the stone drop on to the cave’s floor, where it clacked down amongst its fellows.

They remained in silence for some minutes. Eventually, Cracknell said, ‘Well, that was certainly one way to deal with him.’ His voice was hoarse and forced, a ghostly approximation of his usual tone.

Styles stared out of the cave. ‘The fog’s settling again,’ he said impassively. ‘Those soldiers will have trouble spotting us now. I think we should leave.’

Kitson knew that he had to collect himself. He clasped his hands together and nodded firmly. ‘We–we should go right, though, I feel. Up the valley. Inland.’

Cracknell nodded also, for once too shaken to assert his authority. ‘Agreed.’

Without a backward glance, the three men left the glittering cave and headed off into the fog.

6

The Russian lifted up his musket, the tip of the bayonet blade finding purchase in the heavy stitching of Cregg’s white cross-belt. Cregg was pressed up hard against a large boulder, his arms pinned underneath him. For approximately the eighth time that morning, he told himself that it was all over–curtains for Dan Cregg. With no last thoughts occurring, he looked into the face of his killer. The man was old, at least fifty, his beard full of grey hairs, his wrinkled skin the colour of walnuts. He had that same sour, leathery smell that all of the Russian infantry seemed to have. With a hollow cry, he drove the bayonet forward.

To the great surprise of both men, instead of sinking into the helpless Cregg, the blade bent crazily, folding almost in two. The Russian overbalanced, falling into Cregg’s lap. Freeing his arms, Cregg heaved the man away–this was not difficult, he was light as a bird–and grabbed his minié. His bayonet did not bend.

‘Did you see that, Major? Did you?’ he shouted as he rose to his feet. ‘The bastard’s blade buckled up like it was tin!’ Maynard, who was busy reloading his revolver, did not answer. Cregg went through the dead soldier’s pockets. There was nothing of interest within; the fabled vodka ration, in particular, was nowhere to be found. He swore bitterly and gave the old Russian a kick.

Of the three hundred men who had accompanied Colonel