A large chunk of ice was blown clean away with the shot, and Venegas went with it, his body dragged quickly under by the current.
A suspended moment with only flat water and no Venegas, the faint echo of the shot still reverberating — and Roman was about to turn away when he saw one hand clutch out and grip the ice edge. He stared back desperately towards the shore and Venegas’s kit bag. Too far — Venegas would have pulled himself back up by the time he got back with a fresh gun.
Only one thing for it, he would have to kick Venegas’s hand away — but he couldn’t risk having all his weight close to the edge, so he rushed in and scrambled out almost flat, kicking out in the same motion.
Venegas’s hand held firm, so he kicked again. It was knocked free — but then in horror Roman noticed Venegas’s other hand rise up almost instantly to grip on. And something else in that instant that took his breath away, made his blood run cold: a cracking noise as a yard-long split appeared to one side of where he was laying: any sudden movement and the whole ice-block would split away! He lay inert for a few seconds, his chest rising and falling hard as fear and panic gripped him. And in that moment — appearing almost as a surreal apparition — Venegas’s face below him, wild cod-eyes staring up. Then Roman focused and realized that his shuffling around had cleared a patch of snow and he could see straight through the ice.
Their eyes locked for a second — Venegas perhaps surprised at seeing Roman there so close, or wondering why Roman looked as panicked and afraid as him. But at least now he could fully measure Venegas’s dilemma: the current was tugging at him ruthlessly, so that he was pushed up almost horizontal under the ice, with one hand gripped on hard and trying to pull him back.
Venegas surely couldn’t last much longer like that, and Roman wondered whether to just lay still and watch the last bubbles leave Venegas’s mouth, or take the risk and kick out again to finish him straightaway.
Venegas made the decision for him by making one last frantic pull back towards the hole — his body shifted over a foot beneath the ice as Roman kicked out once, twice, and Venegas’s grip was finally jolted free. Roman smiled and waved as Venegas’s body drifted back past him, unsure whether Venegas’s bewildered, watery focus was able to fix on him or not — and then Roman’s smile quickly fell as another crack sounded in the ice.
He scrambled desperately, only just managing to slither his torso onto the solid ice edge beyond as the block beneath him broke loose, his legs from the thigh down dipping into the icy water. For one terrible moment he thought that Venegas might see his legs dangling in and grapple hold, and he slithered forward breathlessly until his whole body was clear of the water and supported on the ice.
He rolled over, his breath still rasping hard with exertion and the adrenalin rush, and a laugh suddenly broke free, not quite sure if it was Venegas’s expression as he’d drifted past or his own close escape that he found so amusing. A steady, raucous laugh that was faltered only by his fight to regain breath; as the only sound to break the eerie silence of the desolate surroundings — all the birds had alighted the nearby trees with the gunfire — it sounded ominous and out of place. A lone victory cry.
EIGHT
‘… I know.’ Elena shielded her other ear from the drone and throb of the ferry engine as she spoke into her mobile. ‘But if this meeting goes well now, there’s no reason why I couldn’t head out there anyway tomorrow or the day after.’
She was on the short ferry hop between Studland and Sandbanks. At the other end was Shelley McGurran in the aid agency’s London office.
‘You don’t have to,’ Shelley commented. ‘Sarah was happy riding shotgun with the shipment, and she should be quite capable by now. They’re not going to be in Bucharest in any case until late tomorrow night.’
‘That’s why I suggested leaving tomorrow or the day after — to tie in.’
Shelley sighed faintly. ‘Really, Elena — it doesn’t need two of you. If it did, I’d be the first to say. Besides, with Sarah not around I can do with your help here with a bit of PR and fundraising.’ Despite fourteen years in London, Shelley still had a warm Dublin lilt, almost tailor made for this task now: re-assurance.
Elena fell silent for a second. ‘Are you sure she’s up to it?’
Shelley sighed again. ‘Who knows? Hopefully, yes. But if not — she’s got to learn sometime. Don’t forget, you’re first trip out you were thrown in the deep end too.’
‘That’s true.’ A small agency of only fourteen, including drivers, their grand designs were driven more by ever shifting dramas and emergencies than by careful planning. An endless cycle of fund-raising, shipments, bureaucratic paperwork and organising goods, with planned calendar dates constantly hop-scotched according to which emergency suddenly screamed loudest. That was part of Elena’s concern now: that her own private drama with Lorena was just one problem too many, a feather to over-tip their already precariously balanced apple-cart. Somebody was having to cover for her. And so despite Shelley’s assurances, she felt she just had to offer to make good.
Everything had gone quiet for over a week, and then came the call from Nadine Moore: her supervisor, Barbara Edelston, had requested a meeting at which Elena’s presence was also required
Elena glanced at her watch. She’d missed the earlier ferry she’d hoped to catch, but she should still just make it on time; perhaps a few minutes late at most.
‘You can catch up with Viorel and the others next time,’ Shelley said.
‘Yeah, right.’ Viorel was the seven-year old boy with meningitis whose brow she’d mopped half the night before he pulled back from the brink. Elena knew that Shelley meant well, was only trying to put her mind at rest, but it also served as a reminder: they need us too, desperately. Whether from the throbbing vibrations of the ferry, or the fact that the coming meeting would likely decide Lorena’s fate, make or break — she felt suddenly nervous. She shook off a faint shiver.
‘Don’t feel guilty,’ Shelley said, as if picking up on the silent vibes. ‘Look upon this with Lorena as after-care. If we’re going to spend our lives in hope that these children will finally find safe, secure homes, only to find they’re still in danger — then we’re all wasting our time.’ Shelley drew a laboured breath. ‘I mean it, Elena — go for it. And all the other worn cliches that apply: give no quarter, take no prisoners…’ Shelley’s suddenly lighter tone trailed off as Elena watched the ferry ramp ahead swing down.
‘Thanks.’ Maybe Shelley was just trying to make her feel good, but there was no time left to debate. Car engines were starting in readiness to move off. ‘I’ll phone you straight afterwards — let you know how it went.’
Barbara Edelston was early fifties with light brown hair cut short and a matronly build. She was less severe and stern than Elena had feared and even smiled at reasonable intervals. Though this couldn’t be construed as over friendliness; it was a vaguely condescending smile, as if she was merely humouring the less informed.
Edelston also played an extremely closed hand. Elena couldn’t get any indication which way it might swing from Edelston’s opening ten minutes in which she confirmed basic points of Nadine’s report: reasons for first alert, times of their two visits, parties present at each. The only hopeful spark was Edelston commenting that
Only a couple of questions so far had involved Elena. Now Edelston turned to her more fully. ‘When did you first meet Lorena?’
‘Just over four years ago — February, ninety-five. She was at the orphanage at Cimpeni’ A sea of children and distressed, pleading faces, but Elena still vividly recalled Lorena’s large, grey-green eyes cutting through the mass. A strangely serene gaze given the surrounding mayhem.
‘And did she in any way show signs of being mentally disturbed then?’
‘You mean, was she having bad dreams?’ Elena felt it important to confine the definition. When they’d first
