In January of the second year they had to go for another consultation. This time in London. The journey by train from Newcastle had been such a strain on his son that he decided that it would be better to take a plane back to Newcastle. The short journey had been uneventful despite the take-off being delayed because of the bad weather.
When they touched down at Newcastle they were warned about slippery steps because of the snow, and snow swirled around them as they walked towards the terminal building. They were almost there when his son grabbed his arm trying to stop him from walking into the building. As he turned to look at him his son was shaking his head, grunting as he sometimes did when he was disturbed. And then, as if by some miracle he heard the words. Words in Russian. A jumble of half-finished sentences. Swear words, curses, violent protests and then, his chest heaving, his eyes staring John Summers gasped, “Where in God’s name am I? What am I doing here? Where are the guards?”
Shapiro spoke, also in Russian. “You’re safe, Jan. You’re free. There are no guards. We’re going home to the cottage.”
“They are waiting for me inside. We didn’t land at Sheremetyevo. They know. They’ve got a photograph.” He looked away, towards the people inside the well-lit terminal building. Then he looked back at Shapiro. “This isn’t Moscow … not … I don’t feel well.” There were tears coursing down his cheeks and Shapiro put his arm around him. “We’re in England, Jan. There’s nothing to worry about. The car is in the car-park. We’re going home.”
As Shapiro drove up the A1 to Alnwick he listened to the flow of words from the back seat. Sometimes Russian, sometimes Polish. And finally in English. Strange juxtapositions of the words of hymns, girls’ names and endearments, a short burst of laughter and then quiet heavy breathing as John Summers slept.
They sat together in the cottage until it was getting light the next morning. As they talked Shapiro picked his way carefully through the minefield of a brain that had too much to unload. But as he sat there with the man who was his son he knew that the long slog was over. It was going to be all right. His son could hear and speak and sometimes he stopped and replied to a question. All he had to do was help that wounded psyche get back to health and peace and then, by God, he could make amends.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ted Allbeury was a lieutenant-colonel in the British Intelligence Corps during World War II, and later a successful executive in the fields of marketing, advertising and radio. He began his writing career in the early 1970s and became well known for his espionage novels, but also published one highly-praised general novel, The Choice, and a short story collection, Other Kinds of Treason. His novels have been published in twenty-three languages, including Russian. He died on 4th December 2005.
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