The Lieutenant’s Lover. Harry Bingham

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      ‘See?’ Tupolev was shouting. ‘Inattention and slovenliness! And there’s too much vodka drunk all round, I’d say. Oh yes!’

      Misha threw himself down beside the trapped docker and peered in through the steel wheels in order to try to gauge how to release the man. He stared a few moments, then rolled back into a sitting position.

      ‘We need to lift the carriage. That winch is still usable, it’s only the loading pin which has sheared off. You, Feodorov, go and find a pin. Volsky, get up the ladder to the drumhead and clear the old pin. Andropov, go for a doctor. Run!’

      Tupolev was still shouting too, but people followed Misha’s instructions in preference. Tupolev stood clenching and unclenching his fists by the injured man. His whole air was that of a man worried about a delay in his schedule. Misha continued to direct proceedings, feeling the hammer of excitement, the vital importance of speed.

      Six minutes later, the winch was ready. The carriage began to sway off the ground. The docker, a man prematurely aged by drink with just four teeth left in his filthy mouth, was unconscious now. Unconscious and dying. And still trapped. Though the carriage was no longer pressing down on him, his arm had become caught between the wheels. The only way to release it would be to climb under the carriage and ease it clear.

      Misha checked the winch. Feodorov had found a new loading pin, but it was far too small for the weight of the carriage. At any time, the whole thing might come thundering down, killing anyone who might be underneath. Tupolev brought his huge bulk close to the trapped man.

      ‘Right now, comrade, one big heave and it’ll all be over.’

      He was about to heave, when Misha snapped at him.

      ‘Don’t be a bloody fool, you’ll tear his arm off. Stand back.’

      Swallowing once, aware of the carriage’s precarious weight looming above him, Misha rolled beneath it.

      Under the wheelbase, it was much darker than Misha had expected and for a moment he could see nothing except a knife-blade of pale sunlight between the carriage rear and the ground. Then the carriage’s underbelly began to be revealed in a series of gleams and dull reflections. Misha could see the man’s arm, badly broken and cut, but not, it seemed, beyond hope. Misha began to tease the warm flesh clear of the metal. There was blood everywhere, splashing on Misha’s face and disturbing his view.

      There were shouts from outside; something to do with the winch. Misha worked as fast as he could. He thought he’d done it, then found the man’s arm still immobile. He was panting with the effort and the danger, when he realised that it was only the man’s coat which still held him.

      ‘A knife,’ he shouted, ‘get me a knife.’

      An eternity later, or so it seemed, a knife was slid in to him. He cut the fabric of the man’s coat and the man flopped down like a dead fish.

      ‘You can pull him out now. You can—’

      Then it all happened too fast to recall.

      The injured man was hauled out so quickly he seemed to shoot out of sight. There were screams from up above. The carriage lurched down. Misha rolled sideways to escape. There was another sharp movement, dark on dark. Then something seized hold of Misha and he felt a violent, irresistible tug, dragging him sideways. He struck his head on something dark and cold.

      Then that was all: darkness and silence.

      2

      It was in darkness and silence that Tonya hurried from the hospital.

      Her father, that drunken fool, had been badly hurt – numerous bones broken, a lot of blood lost – but he would be fine. He was much luckier than he deserved. The ambulance men said someone had risked his life to rescue him and Tonya felt she needed to go and thank his saviour.

      She got to the Rail Repairs Yard – a giant shed which squatted like a massive dark beast over the rail lines that led into it. There were a few lights on inside, but the shed was so huge that the few points of light only emphasised its size and shadows. She splashed up the muddy track that led to it and found a door cut into the wooden sides. Beyond the door, there was an office with a lamp lit, but nobody to direct her. From beyond a thin partition wall, she could hear the noise of a busy industrial site: engine noise, men shouting, the ringing of metal on metal. She explored further. She tried one door, found it locked, tried another. The door opened, she came into a passageway, pressed on a bit further, then found another door which opened right out into the railway yard itself.

      The sudden change of scale was momentarily daunting. The shed was wide enough that eight railway tracks could enter it side by side. It was long enough that ten railway carriages could be accommodated end to end. And it was high enough that the roof seemed to disappear off into darkness. Though electric bulbs hung down from the roof girders, they did little to illuminate the enormous space.

      A man, short but powerfully built, saw her and approached.

      ‘What, comrade? Looking for your husband, I expect. You’ll have to wait. Party work. I’m sorry, but it’s really no good.’

      The man had a bright red face, unhealthily stressed. His plump black moustache quivered.

      ‘No. My name is Lensky. My father was injured here this afternoon. I wanted to thank whoever it was who—’

      ‘Ah, yes! Alcohol, of course. Your father was drunk. Disgracefully drunk. Unsafe, is it? You can’t come here and accuse me – oh no! Quite the reverse. The Party Gives high priority – very rightly – safety, of course – not that we can let up, mind you—’

      The man boomed on as though anybody cared. Other men had obviously seen Tonya’s entrance and drew close, from curiosity. News of who she was instantly spread and she began to get snippets of fact.

      ‘—tumbled from the carriage in a stupor—’

      ‘—the whole thing came smashing down—’

      ‘—broken loading pin, you see, it’s the only winch we still have working—’

      ‘—the whole carriage – bam! – eight tons unloaded—’

      ‘—at least a bottle, I’d say, I don’t think he knew a thing about it—’

      ‘—old Tupolev just wanted to rip him out. He’d have left his arm right there under the carriage—’

      ‘—’course, the hard part was lifting the carriage again—’

      ‘—I wasn’t going in under there. Any fool could see the winch would never hold—’

      —bloody fool Tupolev—’

      ‘—reeking—’

      ‘—so we sent in our very own bourgeois. Ha, ha, ha! The winch is obviously a true Bolshevik—’

      ‘—the loading pin was too small—’

      ‘—almost had his head off—’

      ‘—came СКАЧАТЬ