Chapter Twenty - Shelter
Once they were out of the water the cold immediately bit. It was unbearable, like icy fingers penetrating to their skin, stinging like fire and to make things worse their wet clothes hung like weights from their tired frames.
‘Shelter,’ Paul said, the words muttered across quivering lips, ‘We need to get out of these clothes, get warm.’
Yes, Katka thought, but she said noting in reply, there was no need, instead she nodded and followed Paul through the narrow stretch of woodland that seperated the river from a stony path, just about wide enough for a car to pass along.
Katka lagged as she followed Paul. Her ankle hurt, she must have twisted it when they had run from the dogs, and each time she put put weight on it a pain shot up her leg, aking her wince, but carried on. She needed to keep up with Paul, because he was walking much faster and within only a few minutes he was already much further ahead on the path.
‘Wait.’ Katka called after him. But when he turned, stopping only long enough to shake his head and signal that she should hurry up, Katka noticed he was injured. He was clutching at his side with one hand.
‘Paul?’ Katka called again, quickening her pace despite the pain from her ankle. But he would not stop and Katka had to run to catch up, ‘Paul, you’re hurt, let me see.’ she said and as she got closer she noticed that his hand was stained red, it glistened. ‘You’re bleeding,’ Katka said and reached for his hand.
‘Get off me!’ Paul snapped in reply.
‘But, Paul,’ Katka pleaded and she tried again to remove his hand because now that she was level with him she could see that the blood on his hand was fresh, it dripped from his wrist onto the ground between them. ‘Paul, let me see.’
But he only pushed her away, ‘We need to get off this road. We can’t stop.’ He shouted. He was out of breath and his words came out broken, interrupted as he gulped for air.
‘Paul -’ You’re pale, you’re lips are blue, Katka wanted to say, but he wouldn’t give her the chance, he turned his back on her and began walking again.
‘Well at least let me help you.’ Katka said, catching up, and she put her arm around his waist to support him.
Paul made no reply, but he didn’t stop her. So together they walked on, clinging to each other and bent forward like very old men.
But what he said was true, Katka thought, very soon the soldiers would be coming after them again. It would be obvious which way they had gone. They would need only to follow the direction of the river and once their dogs had caught their scent -
It was something Katka did not want to think about. So she kept quiet, and besides, there was no point, it was clear that Paul was thinking the same thing. He struggled on, gritting his teeth with every step and clutching at his side.
And Katka was struggling too. With every step Paul seemed to slump further towards the ground. His head lolling forward like a puppet that’d had its strings cut. ‘Paul, come on!’ Katka urged him and she slapped at his face. He only murmured in reply though, his eyes half closed and his hand was now dark red with congealed blood.
‘Paul, it’s no good, we have to stop.’ Katka said.
Paul did not reply, but he made no resistance as Katka lowered him. And once he was on the ground, flat on his back breathing hard and with only just enough energy to keep his head up, he said to Katka, in words that were so weak they were practically a whisper, ‘We must keep on, the houses, up there.’ and by staring past Katka to something further up the path he seemed to be signalling to Katka a something there.
But Katka ignored him, ‘Just let me see your wound.’ She insisted, and without waiting for him to give permission she pulled up his sweater.
Paul at once called out in pain.
The wound on his side was a mass of congealed blood. It ran the length of his ribcage and was sticky and black and held tight to the material of his sweater so that Katka had to tug to get it free.
‘I’m sorry,’ Katka said, and then added, ‘It’ll be alright, we just need to -’ but she did not know what they needed to do. The wound was a mess, much worse thanshe thought it would be, a sticky blackened hole in his side, an old would he must have got yesterday or the day before. It had reopened in the chase from the dogs and was bleeding, but it also looked bad, it looked as if it might be infected.
‘The houses.’ Paul muttered again.
Katka listened to him this time and she looked along the road in the direction Paul had been looking. In the distance, perhaps fifty metres away, she could make out the pitched roofs of some houses.
‘OK, Hold on.’ she said, and then she readied herself. She had seen people being lifted before, even when unconscious, like dead weights picked up and strung across a shoulder. So quickly she pulled Paul into a sitting position and took hold of his limp arm, then she put all her strength into her knees and forced him into the air.
His weight was almost too much for her, her knees buckled, but she forced herself on, forward with one awkward step after another until they had made it to the cluster of houses. There was about five or six in total, and each with their lights off and not a sign of life, not even a sound or scent of burnt wood from a kitchen fireplace.
Inside they would be warm, Katka thought, they would be sheltered. And this thought was so comforting that in that moment the houses looked almost like the cottages you’d find in a fairytale, made of gingerbread and icing. And Paul must have sensed this too as he suddenly seemed to gain strength. He tapped Katka on the back as if motioning for her to put him down, to let him walk by himself.
So Katka let go. Although she kept hold of his arm as he staggered forward from her and led the way to the first cottage. And when they had reached the back door, having run along a path that led around the side, Paul collapsed onto the ground. It was as if he had used that last store of energy, his last flight, and now he could move no more.
Katka knew what she had to do, and within a few seconds of foraging through the flowerbed beside Paul she had laid her hands on a suitable stone. It was large and heavy enough that she needed two hands to lift it. It was perfect for task in hand, and Katka at once threw it through the glass of the back door.
The noise of breaking glass shattered the silence of the village. Paul opened his eyes, but he didn’t move. He mumbled something unintelligible.
He must be dreaming, though Katka, he was delirious and she needed to get him inside. So quickly she reached inside through the broken pane, turned the latch and then dragged him through the door.
Inside it wasn’t much warmer, but it was shelter enough. It was out of the wind and now Katka could get Paul out of his wet clothes. So she pulled him through the kitchen and into the front room of the cottage. It was tiny, a little room cluttered with furniture, on the floor rugs, heavy curtains either side of the window frame. Katka stripped Paul of his wet sweater and wrapped him in one of the blankets that had been left on the armchair next to the fireplace. Then she searched through every room until she found clean towels and with a basin of water from the kitchen she went back and did her best to begin dressing the wound.
Paul called out in pain at the touch of the cloth on his wound.
‘Shhh!’ Whispered Katka, in an attempt to quieten him. ‘Just let me clean it and then I’ll bandage it as best I can. But when she touched again with the cloth, he cried out again and he kicked out with his leg, knocking the basin of water across the room and sending it crashing into the empty fireplace.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ Katka cooed, with a hand on his chest to calm him. The noise he’d made had set a dog barking outside. Paul opened his eyes. He looked as if he was about to speak.
‘Quiet!’ Katka snapped.
But Paul would not listen, ‘Dogs!’ he stammered.
And at once Katka realised, and then she heard them again, a series of short sharp barks, then a shout, then the sound of boots. ‘They’re outside,’ Katka said, ‘They’ve found us - ’
‘Shelter,’ Paul said, the words muttered across quivering lips, ‘We need to get out of these clothes, get warm.’
Yes, Katka thought, but she said noting in reply, there was no need, instead she nodded and followed Paul through the narrow stretch of woodland that seperated the river from a stony path, just about wide enough for a car to pass along.
Katka lagged as she followed Paul. Her ankle hurt, she must have twisted it when they had run from the dogs, and each time she put put weight on it a pain shot up her leg, aking her wince, but carried on. She needed to keep up with Paul, because he was walking much faster and within only a few minutes he was already much further ahead on the path.
‘Wait.’ Katka called after him. But when he turned, stopping only long enough to shake his head and signal that she should hurry up, Katka noticed he was injured. He was clutching at his side with one hand.
‘Paul?’ Katka called again, quickening her pace despite the pain from her ankle. But he would not stop and Katka had to run to catch up, ‘Paul, you’re hurt, let me see.’ she said and as she got closer she noticed that his hand was stained red, it glistened. ‘You’re bleeding,’ Katka said and reached for his hand.
‘Get off me!’ Paul snapped in reply.
‘But, Paul,’ Katka pleaded and she tried again to remove his hand because now that she was level with him she could see that the blood on his hand was fresh, it dripped from his wrist onto the ground between them. ‘Paul, let me see.’
But he only pushed her away, ‘We need to get off this road. We can’t stop.’ He shouted. He was out of breath and his words came out broken, interrupted as he gulped for air.
‘Paul -’ You’re pale, you’re lips are blue, Katka wanted to say, but he wouldn’t give her the chance, he turned his back on her and began walking again.
‘Well at least let me help you.’ Katka said, catching up, and she put her arm around his waist to support him.
Paul made no reply, but he didn’t stop her. So together they walked on, clinging to each other and bent forward like very old men.
But what he said was true, Katka thought, very soon the soldiers would be coming after them again. It would be obvious which way they had gone. They would need only to follow the direction of the river and once their dogs had caught their scent -
It was something Katka did not want to think about. So she kept quiet, and besides, there was no point, it was clear that Paul was thinking the same thing. He struggled on, gritting his teeth with every step and clutching at his side.
And Katka was struggling too. With every step Paul seemed to slump further towards the ground. His head lolling forward like a puppet that’d had its strings cut. ‘Paul, come on!’ Katka urged him and she slapped at his face. He only murmured in reply though, his eyes half closed and his hand was now dark red with congealed blood.
‘Paul, it’s no good, we have to stop.’ Katka said.
Paul did not reply, but he made no resistance as Katka lowered him. And once he was on the ground, flat on his back breathing hard and with only just enough energy to keep his head up, he said to Katka, in words that were so weak they were practically a whisper, ‘We must keep on, the houses, up there.’ and by staring past Katka to something further up the path he seemed to be signalling to Katka a something there.
But Katka ignored him, ‘Just let me see your wound.’ She insisted, and without waiting for him to give permission she pulled up his sweater.
Paul at once called out in pain.
The wound on his side was a mass of congealed blood. It ran the length of his ribcage and was sticky and black and held tight to the material of his sweater so that Katka had to tug to get it free.
‘I’m sorry,’ Katka said, and then added, ‘It’ll be alright, we just need to -’ but she did not know what they needed to do. The wound was a mess, much worse thanshe thought it would be, a sticky blackened hole in his side, an old would he must have got yesterday or the day before. It had reopened in the chase from the dogs and was bleeding, but it also looked bad, it looked as if it might be infected.
‘The houses.’ Paul muttered again.
Katka listened to him this time and she looked along the road in the direction Paul had been looking. In the distance, perhaps fifty metres away, she could make out the pitched roofs of some houses.
‘OK, Hold on.’ she said, and then she readied herself. She had seen people being lifted before, even when unconscious, like dead weights picked up and strung across a shoulder. So quickly she pulled Paul into a sitting position and took hold of his limp arm, then she put all her strength into her knees and forced him into the air.
His weight was almost too much for her, her knees buckled, but she forced herself on, forward with one awkward step after another until they had made it to the cluster of houses. There was about five or six in total, and each with their lights off and not a sign of life, not even a sound or scent of burnt wood from a kitchen fireplace.
Inside they would be warm, Katka thought, they would be sheltered. And this thought was so comforting that in that moment the houses looked almost like the cottages you’d find in a fairytale, made of gingerbread and icing. And Paul must have sensed this too as he suddenly seemed to gain strength. He tapped Katka on the back as if motioning for her to put him down, to let him walk by himself.
So Katka let go. Although she kept hold of his arm as he staggered forward from her and led the way to the first cottage. And when they had reached the back door, having run along a path that led around the side, Paul collapsed onto the ground. It was as if he had used that last store of energy, his last flight, and now he could move no more.
Katka knew what she had to do, and within a few seconds of foraging through the flowerbed beside Paul she had laid her hands on a suitable stone. It was large and heavy enough that she needed two hands to lift it. It was perfect for task in hand, and Katka at once threw it through the glass of the back door.
The noise of breaking glass shattered the silence of the village. Paul opened his eyes, but he didn’t move. He mumbled something unintelligible.
He must be dreaming, though Katka, he was delirious and she needed to get him inside. So quickly she reached inside through the broken pane, turned the latch and then dragged him through the door.
Inside it wasn’t much warmer, but it was shelter enough. It was out of the wind and now Katka could get Paul out of his wet clothes. So she pulled him through the kitchen and into the front room of the cottage. It was tiny, a little room cluttered with furniture, on the floor rugs, heavy curtains either side of the window frame. Katka stripped Paul of his wet sweater and wrapped him in one of the blankets that had been left on the armchair next to the fireplace. Then she searched through every room until she found clean towels and with a basin of water from the kitchen she went back and did her best to begin dressing the wound.
Paul called out in pain at the touch of the cloth on his wound.
‘Shhh!’ Whispered Katka, in an attempt to quieten him. ‘Just let me clean it and then I’ll bandage it as best I can. But when she touched again with the cloth, he cried out again and he kicked out with his leg, knocking the basin of water across the room and sending it crashing into the empty fireplace.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ Katka cooed, with a hand on his chest to calm him. The noise he’d made had set a dog barking outside. Paul opened his eyes. He looked as if he was about to speak.
‘Quiet!’ Katka snapped.
But Paul would not listen, ‘Dogs!’ he stammered.
And at once Katka realised, and then she heard them again, a series of short sharp barks, then a shout, then the sound of boots. ‘They’re outside,’ Katka said, ‘They’ve found us - ’