Free The Child Thief by Dan Smith Page A

it.’
    ‘Don’t be so damn self-righteous. I didn’t want this. I—’
    ‘What did you want? What did you think was going to happen? You knew what you were doing, Dimitri; don’t pretend this was an accident.’
    He swallowed hard. ‘What now?’
    ‘Now? Now you have to live with it.’
    I left Dimitri standing alone and went back to my family. Viktor and Petro were at the window, their faces at the glass as I approached.
    When I went into the house, Viktor was still holding the revolver. Lara was clinging to Natalia.
    ‘What the hell is happening to them?’ I said.
    ‘People are afraid of what’s coming,’ she told me. ‘And who can blame them?’
    ‘It’s no excuse.’
    Natalia looked down at our daughter, but Lara showed no sign of understanding.
    ‘Close the shutters,’ I told my sons. ‘I don’t want Lara to see what Uncle Dimitri has done.’
    ‘But . . . all those people,’ Petro said. ‘How could they do that?’ He was even paler than usual. His brow creased so tight in bewilderment that the bridge of his nose
wrinkled. He looked as if he’d woken in the night and forgotten where he was.
    ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I said.
    ‘To do that to another man. They just—’
    ‘Not now.’
    ‘But, Papa . . .’
    ‘I said I don’t want to talk about it.’
    ‘Shouldn’t we cut him down or something?’
    ‘Petro!’ I turned on him. ‘I don’t want to hear about it.’
    ‘He’s only asking,’ Natalia said. ‘He’s—’
    I slammed my fist hard on the table and raised my voice so it filled the small room. ‘Don’t talk about it. I don’t want to hear it. Don’t talk about it any
more.’
    Natalia pulled Lara closer, placing her arms so they covered the child’s ears.
    ‘Please.’ I lowered my voice. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ I held up a hand and bowed my head. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. When I looked back at my
wife, I nodded an apology before glancing at my children, each in turn. Then I went to the door. I hesitated, took hold of the old iron handle and pulled it open.
    I stepped out into the cold and glanced at the hanged man as I yanked the door shut. I let my gaze linger on the body for a moment, then I turned and headed round the back of the house.
    Entering the barn, the chickens complained at my intrusion but soon settled. The ones which had ventured out from the coop scurried back inside to the warmth.
    I went to the pile of belongings from the man’s sled and took up a milking stool to sit down before them. A small collection of essentials and a few items that meant nothing.
    The fact that he had the weapons though told me something important. There had been so much gun registration and confiscation – the last being just a year ago – that few farmers were
armed. Unauthorised possession of a gun was punishable by hard labour. It was a way of pulling the peasants’ teeth – take away his weapons and you remove his ability to fight. It made
life easier for the authorities when they came to enforce collectivisation if the farmers had no means of striking back. But this man, like me, had kept his weapons, and that confirmed my belief
that he was a soldier. Because whichever army the man had fought for, our recent history was so filled with war and violence that no man who had ever been a soldier would willingly give up his
arms.
    Searching the rest of his belongings, I felt even more kinship with this unknown man. An aluminium water bottle, heavy and hard with its frozen contents. It was the same as the one I owned,
issued to those of us who fought in the Imperial Army. A trenching shovel still in its leather sheath. Just like the one I owned. A black spike bayonet. And a leather satchel almost identical to
the one I used to carry ammunition for my own rifles. There were other things too, essentials for a man who intended to live away from civilisation, but it was the satchel which took my eye.
    I leaned down and lifted it