Leo tapped his pad with his pencil.

– You saw him with a young boy?

– No, there was no boy.

Fyodor’s mouth dropped, his words rushed out.

– But we were told you saw a man holding my little boy’s hand.

– No, no, no – there was no boy. He was holding a bag, I think – a bag full of tools. Yes, that was it. He was working on the tracks, repairing them perhaps. I didn’t see very much, a glimpse, that’s all. I shouldn’t really be here. I’m very sorry your son died.

Leo shut his pad.

– Thank you.

– Will there be any further questions?

Before Leo could answer, Fyodor took the woman by the arm.

– You saw a man.

The woman pulled her arm free. She looked about the room, at all the eyes on her. She turned to Leo.

– Will you need to visit me at a later date?

– No. You can go.

Galina dropped her face to the floor, hurrying to the front door. But before she reached it the elderly woman called out:

– Yo u lose your nerve so easily?

Fyodor approached the elderly woman.

– Please, sit down.

She nodded, neither disgusted nor approving.

– Arkady was your son.

– Yes.

Leo couldn’t see Fyodor’s eyes. He wondered what silent communication was passing between these two people. Whatever it was, she took her seat. During all of this Galina had slipped away.

Leo was pleased Fyodor had intervened. He hoped that they’d reached a turning point. Scratching together gossip and rumour served no one. Fyodor returned to Leo’s side.

– Forgive my mother, she’s very upset.

– This is why I’m here. So we can talk this through within the confines of this room. What cannot happen is that once I leave this room, the conversation continues. If anyone asks you about your son you cannot say he was murdered. Not because I order you to but because it is not true.

– We understand.

– Fyodor, I want you to take tomorrow off. This has been authorized. If there’s anything more I can do for you…

– Thank you.

At the door to the apartment Fyodor shook Leo’s hand.

– We’re all very upset. Forgive us any outbursts.

– They’ll pass unrecorded. But, as I said, this ends here.

Fyodor’s face stiffened. He nodded. As though the words were bitter he forced them out:

– My son’s death was a terrible accident.

Leo walked down the stairs, breathing deeply. The atmosphere in that room had been suffocating. He was glad to be done, glad the matter had been resolved. Fyodor was a good man. Once he came to terms with his son’s death then the truth would be easier to accept.

He paused. There was the sound of someone behind him. He turned around. It was a boy, no more than seven or eight years old.

– Sir, I am Jora. I’m Arkady’s older brother. May I speak to you?

– Of course.

– It’s my fault.

– What was your fault?

– My brother’s death: I threw a snowball at him. I’d packed it with stones and dirt and grit. Arkady was hurt, it hit him in the head. He ran off. Maybe it made him dizzy, maybe that’s why he couldn’t see the train. The dirt they found in his mouth: that was my fault. I threw it at him.

– Your brother’s death was an accident. There’s no reason for you to feel any guilt. But you did well telling me the truth. Now go back to your parents.

– I haven’t told them about the snowball with dirt and the mud and the stones.

– Perhaps they don’t need to know.

– They’d be so angry. Because that was the last time I ever saw him. Sir, we played nicely most of the time. And we would’ve played nicely again, we would’ve made up, we would’ve been friends again, I’m sure of it. But now I can’t make it up to him, I can’t ever say sorry.

Leo was hearing this boy’s confession. The boy wanted forgiveness. He’d begun to cry. Embarrassed, Leo patted his head, muttering, as though they were the words of a lullaby:

– It was no one’s fault.

Same Day

Anatoly Brodsky hadn’t slept in three days. He was so tired that even the most basic tasks required concentration. The barn door in front of him was locked. He knew he’d have to force it open. Even so the idea seemed far-fetched. He simply didn’t have the energy. Snow had begun to fall. He looked up at the night sky; his mind drifted and when he eventually remembered where he was and what he was supposed to be doing snow was settling on his face. He licked the flakes across his lips and realized that if he didn’t get inside he was going to die. Concentrating, he kicked the door. The hinges shook, the door remained shut. He kicked again. Timbers splintered. Encouraged by the sound he summoned the last sparks of energy and aimed a third kick at the lock. The wood cracked, the door swung back. He stood at the entrance, adjusting to the gloom. On one side of the barn there were two cows in an enclosure. On the other side there were tools, straw. He spread some of the coarse sacks on the frozen ground, buttoned his coat and lay down, crossing his arms and closing his eyes.

From his bedroom window, Mikhail Zinoviev could see that the barn door was open. It was swaying backwards and forwards in the wind and snow was swirling into his barn. He turned around. His wife was in bed, asleep. Deciding not to disturb her, he quietly put on his coat, his felt boots and went outside.

The wind had picked up, whipping loose snow off the ground and flinging it into Mikhail’s face. He raised his hand, sheltering his eyes. As he approached the barn, glancing through his fingers he could see the lock had been smashed, the door kicked open. He peered inside and after adjusting to the absence of moonlight he saw the outline of a man lying on the ground against the straw. Without any clear sense of what he was about to do, he entered the barn, took hold of a pitchfork, stepped up to the sleeping figure, raising the prongs above the man’s stomach, ready to jab down.

Anatoly opened his eyes and saw snow-covered boots centimetres from his face. He rolled onto his back and looked up at the man looming over him. The prongs of a pitchfork were directly above his stomach, quivering. Neither man moved. Their breath formed a mist in front of their faces which appeared and disappeared. Anatoly didn’t try to grab the pitchfork. He didn’t try to move out of the way.

They remained like this, frozen mid-frame, until a feeling of shame overcame Mikhail. He gasped as though he’d been punched in the stomach by some invisible force, dropping the pitchfork harmlessly to the ground, sinking to his knees.

– Please forgive me.

Anatoly sat up. The adrenaline had jolted him awake but his body ached. How long had he been asleep? Not long, not long enough. His voice was hoarse, his throat dry.

– I understand. I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have asked for your help. Yo u have your family to think of. I’ve put you in danger. It is I who should be asking for your forgiveness.

Mikhail shook his head.

– I was afraid. I panicked. Forgive me.

Anatoly glanced out at the snow and darkness. He couldn’t leave now. He wouldn’t survive. Of course he couldn’t allow himself to sleep. But he did still need shelter. Mikhail was waiting for an answer, waiting for forgiveness.

– There’s nothing to forgive. You’re not to blame. I might have done the same.

– But you’re my friend.

– I’m still your friend and I’ll always be your friend. Listen to me: I want you to forget that tonight ever happened. Forget that I ever came here. Forget that I ever asked for your help. Remember us as we were. Remember us as the best of friends. Do this for me and I shall do the same for you. By first light I’ll be gone. I promise. You’ll wake up and continue your life as normal. I assure you no one will ever know I was here.

Mikhail’s head dropped: he wept. Until tonight he’d believed he would’ve done anything for his friend. That was a lie. His loyalty, bravery and friendship had all been proved paper thin – they’d ripped at the first serious test.

When Anatoly had arrived unannounced that evening Mikhail had seemed understandably surprised. Anatoly had travelled to the village without warning. All the same he’d been welcomed warmly, offered food, drink, a bed. Only once his hosts had heard the news that he was making his way north to the Finnish border did they finally understand the reason for the sudden arrival. He’d never mentioned that he was wanted by the State Security Police, the MGB. He didn’t need to. They understood. He was a fugitive. As that fact became clear the welcome had evaporated. The punishment for aiding and abetting a fugitive was execution. He knew this but had hoped his friend would be prepared to accept the risk. He’d even hoped his friend might travel north with him. The MGB weren’t looking for two people and what’s more Mikhail had acquaintances in towns all the way to Leningrad including Tver and Gorky. True, it was an enormous amount to ask, but Anatoly had once saved Mikhail’s life and though he’d never considered it a debt that ever needed to be repaid, that was only because he’d never thought he’d need to call it in.

During their discussion it had become apparent that Mikhail wasn’t prepared to take that kind of risk. In fact, he wasn’t prepared to take any kind of risk. His wife had frequently interrupted their conversation asking to speak with her husband in private. At each interruption she’d glared at Anatoly with unmasked venom. Circumstances demanded prudence and caution as a part of everyday life. And there was no denying he’d brought danger to his friend’s family, a family he loved. Lowering his expectations sharply he had told Mikhail that he wanted nothing more than a night’s sleep in their barn. He’d be gone by tomorrow morning. He’d walk to the nearest railway station, the same way he’d arrived. In addition it’d been his idea to smash the lock to the barn. In the unlikely event that he was caught the family could claim ignorance and pretend there’d been an intruder. He’d believed that these precautions had reassured his hosts.