a woman’s but larger and bruise-coloured, bluish black. Below the almost-human torso, the dark tube of fluke-tailed muscle was working away. The creature’s face was watching him continuously. It knew he was there. It knew it was being watched. There was no expression on its face at all. None whatsoever.
The creature swam swiftly towards the crowded boat, its white face upturned, watching Lom intently. He saw its hollow dark eyes, its expressionless mouth slightly open. He heard a faint hiss, like an expulsion of breath. It came right up to the boat and put its hands up on the sides, and began to tug and rock it, trying to pull itself in. It had a smooth, square, white upper back, like a man’s, with a faint raised ridge the length of its spine.
‘Rusalka! Rusalka!’
The boatman was yelling, panicked, and striking at the creature with his long heavy pole. One of the conscripts shouted in protest and lunged across the thwarts to grab at his arm, but it was too late. The boatman caught the rusalka a heavy blow full on its head, and it withdrew under the water.
The soldier jumped in after it.
‘Come back!’ he was shouting. ‘Please! Come back!’
He splashed about until he was exhausted and sobbing and gulping for air. At last he let his companions pull him back into the boat. While the passengers’ attention was distracted Lom slipped over the side and waded away towards the edge of the square.
58
Krogh barely looked up when his private secretary came into the office carrying another stack of files. As always, the files would be placed in the in-tray and the completed work from the other tray would be cleared. It would be done without speaking. That was the routine. Minimal disturbance. Krogh was slightly surprised when the private secretary lingered, and walked around behind the desk to stand in the bay and look out of the windows. The rain was pouring in sheets out of the ruinous, bruised sky.
‘The floods are rising,’ the private secretary said.
Krogh grunted. The interruption irritated him. He was already unsettled following the call from Lom.
‘I won’t go home tonight,’ he said. ‘I’ll sleep in the flat. I may need to speak to the Novozhd later. There’s no need for you to stay, Pavel. Go home now before the bridges are closed.’
‘It’s too late for that.’
There was something in the private secretary’s tone that surprised him.
‘Well,’ said Krogh, ‘get them to find a launch to take you. Tell them I said so. I don’t want you any more, not till tomorrow.’
‘There was a message from Commander Chazia.’
‘What did she say?’
‘That you were a stupid old fucker.’
Krogh realised too late how close behind him the private secretary had come. The loop of wire was round his neck before he could react. It tightened, cutting into the folds of his flesh. He felt it slicing. Felt the warm blood spill down his neck inside his collar. It splashed the papers on his desk. He tried to get his fingers inside the wire, but could not. His fingers slipped on the blood. He felt the wire cut them. He tried to stand up, he tried to fight, he tried to call out, but the private secretary was leaning away from him, pulling at his neck with the wire loop, tipping him backwards, unbalancing him. He tried to throw himself sideways but the private secretary hauled him upright. No sound could escape from his constricted throat. He could get no air in. He felt the back of his chair digging into his head. It hurt. Then he died.
59
When Maroussia Shaumian reached the building where Raku Vishnik lived, she found the street door shut against the rising waters. She pushed it open and waded into the dim, flooded hall. Her splashing echoed oddly. She felt the weight of her sodden clothes dragging at her as she climbed the stairs to Apartment 4. The door was ajar.
‘Raku?’ she called softly. ‘Raku? It’s Maroussia.’
There was no answer. She pushed the door open and went in.
What was left of Vishnik lay on the couch, adrift on a sea of littered paper and broken household stuff. He was naked, on his back, his arms and legs lashed by neat bindings to the legs of the couch. There was blood. A lot of blood. Three fingers of his right hand were gone.
She must have made some sound – she didn’t know what – because he turned his pulped and swollen face in her direction.