Authors: Frederic Lindsay
When
Kujavia
took
him
by
the
arm
just
above
the
elbow,
the
grip
was
enormously
strong,
but
it
was
the
remnant
of
the
mood
which
made
him
walk
forward
unresistingly
.
After
only
a
few
steps,
the
outcry
of
voices
behind
sounded
very
far
away.
He
heard
it
as
a
distant
confusion
shot
through
with
glittering
points
of
noise
like
ice
crystals.
The
group
working
around
the
trench
had
stopped
to
watch.
Gloved,
helmeted,
turning
the
white
blankness
of
faces,
in
its
stillness
it
seemed
to
be
composed
of
sculptures
rather
than
men.
They
came
to
a
place
where
the
air
around
them
changed.
At
that
invisible
boundary,
the
cold
stopped
being
something
outside
them
.
It
moved
inside,
encasing
every
organ
of
the
body.
Malcolm
felt
his
heart
like
a
bird
struggling
to
escape.
Clothed
as
they
were,
it
was
impossible
to
go
any
further.
The
man
who
had
been
crouched
over
the
wheel
came
towards
them.
He
spread
his
arms
as
he
approached
in
the
natural
gesture
of
a
boy
herding
geese
out
of
a
garden.
Under
the
yellow
helmet,
the
face
was
made
of
angles
and
tight
pulled
skin.
He
drew
off
his
right
glove
using
the
pit
of
the
other
arm
to
drag
it
clear.
As
they
watched,
he
tilted
back
his
helmet
and
broke
off
a
piece
of
his
hair
.
The
brittle
strands
snapped
between
his
fingers.
'It's
cold
here
.
'
White
breath
puffed
from
his
lips.
'You shouldn't
be
here.'
'I
am
sixty
years,'
Kujavia
said.
'More
old
than
sixty,
but
I
am
a
lion.'
The
air
came
into
the
lungs
like
knives. But
when
they
returned,
Kujavia
stood
apart
seemingly
ignored
as
the
men
eddied
in
a
slow
unease.
'I
don't
know,'
Chalmers
muttered.
'I
don't
know.
I
never
saw
him
before.'
On
the
other
side,
Heathers
did
not
interfere
but
watched
with
no
expression
Malcolm
could
read.
He
felt
the
weight
of
the
older
man's
gaze
.
Going
back,
there
was
no
hint
of
daylight
until,
as
if
a
corner
were
turned
although
the
tunnel
appeared
undeviatingly
straight,
they
were
at
the
entrance.
Moments
later
they
were
seated
and
being
run
into
the
dazzling
light
of
the
sun.
'You'd
have
missed
an
experience
if
you
hadn't
come,'
Heathers
said
.
On
the
bench
seat
his
fat
thigh
pressed
hard
against
Malcolm.
'I
was
surprised
that
you
hadn't
wanted
to
come.'
'I
don't
understand
why
my
brother
phoned
you.
He
had
no
right
to
do
that.'
He
waited
for
Heathers
to
respond
but
met
the
same
blank
gaze
as
if
what
he
had
been
saying
did
not
make
sense.
The
hot
pressure
of
the
thigh
next
to
his
made
him
uncomfortable.
His
ribs
ached
where
the
policeman
had
punched
him
on
Saturday
night.
He
wanted
to
be
rich
and
safe,
so
safe
nothing
like
that
could
ever
happen
to
him
again
.
'I
haven't
even
seen
my
brother
in
a
week,'
he
said.
'Maybe
he
tried
to
get
in
touch
last
night.
My
wife
and
I
were
out
late.
But
even
so
..
.It
doesn't
make
sense.'
'I
was
told
you
phoned
to
say
you
wouldn't
come,'
Heathers
said.
When
the
vehicle
stopped
outside
the
site
office,
there
was
an odd
hesitation
before
people
moved
to
get
out.
Since
the
incident
in
the
tunnel,
most
of
the
men
had
been
watchfully
silent.
Now
they
got
out
in
the
same
subdued
fashion.
Malcolm
saw
that
Kujavia
alone
remained
seated,
lolling
back,
eyes
closed
like
a
cat
in
the
sun.
'Merchant
phoned
to
say
he
couldn't
come,'
Heathers
said
in his
hard
nasal
drawl.
'This
business
of
not
coming
–
I
got
frightened
it
was
catching.'
He
took
Malcolm's
arm
in
a
way
that
reminded
him
unpleasantly
of
what
had
happened
in
the
tunnel.
'If
you
came
in
a
taxi,
I'll
give
you
a
lift.'
They
were
walking
to
where
Heathers'
car
was
parked.
Malcolm
caught
an
acrid
whiff
of
his
own
sweat
and
from
Heathers
the
cloying
sweetness
of
a
deodorant.
The
chauffeur,
who
was
sitting
with
his
back
to
the
site
and
head
bowed
as
if
reading,
must
have
been
keeping
one
eye
on
his
mirror
for
as
they
approached
he
jumped
out
and
opened
the
door.