The Soviet Comeback by Jamie Smith (best ereader for academics TXT) 📕

and as his feet hit the bottom, he descended straight into a crouch, his knife held out in front of him in his right hand as he had been trained. His heart was beating frenetically, trying to pump blood around his freezing body to keep his core temperature up, but Nikita knew he would not have long. Dimly aware of shapes in front of him, he cast around in the dark but crystal-clear water for his sparring partner. Suddenly there was a searing pain in the triceps of his right arm and he let out a silent scream as his knife fell to the murky lake bed. A small cloud of red burst from his arm and as his head snapped around, he could just see a dark shape disappearing into the gloom. As he did, he felt another stab in his left arm and more blood. He was becoming dizzy in the sub-zero temperatures and the confusion as to what was going on began to overwhelm him. Suddenly in front of him he saw the grinning face of the oldest of his fellow trainees, Vladimir Neski, knife held at the ready. Nikita made to find his knife but suddenly there were knives at his back, pinching, nicking, darting. He screamed, but it was lost in a burst of bubbles and he fell forwards, blood streaming from his skinny frame. So much pain and so many cuts. The butchering had stopped as quickly as it had begun, the freezing temperatures forcing them hastily back to the surface now ninety seconds had passed. Moving was becoming hard for him as his muscles stiffened from the wounds, and pain wracked through his back and arms. He knew the cuts were not fatal on their own but also knew that he did not have the strength to make it back to the surface. His lungs were screaming but his mind was fading. So cold, so very cold.

Then Milena. Gabriel, his father. Sophie, his mother. Their faces hovered before him in the dark reed-strewn depths of the unforgiving Ukrainian lake. He couldn’t save himself for him, but he sure as hell would never give up on them. He was almost face down on the bottom but his feet found a rock and with every last bit of his strength, now underwater for nearly two minutes though it felt like a lifetime, he propelled himself forwards and upwards. Blood had begun streaming from his nose as blood vessels ruptured and his organs began to slow towards a stop. He would not die today, not like this. He would not let his family die because of his failures, because of the cruelty of Mother Russia, which had been no mother to him. He would only go on his terms. With a last shove despite his searing lungs, his bleeding limbs, his body so numb with the horrendously low conditions, he broke the surface and screamed, “Not like this!” His head was spinning and he began to lose focus as his body began to freeze and his eyes closed. He was vaguely aware of being roughly grabbed by the arm and he gave in to the darkness.

***

Nikita’s mind snapped back to the present and realised he was now at waist height in these infinitely warmer Greek waters. He shook his head, trying to shake off the gruesome memories, but his hand absently stroked across his right triceps, feeling the scars that would forever be there. He pitched himself forwards, driving his lean body under the water and feeling the cool saltwater flow over him and press at his lungs. Several powerful strokes took him further underwater, challenging the protests of his lungs and enjoying the absence of any other thoughts. Above water, his mind was full of unwelcome memories and reflections, but here beneath the surface, now safe and alone, his mind was clear, as if the water were washing away the sins, he knew he would commit. Eventually giving in, he broke the surface and turned back to look at the shore, now some thirty metres away. Above his private cove, set back from the road, he could see a small chapel, a whitewashed cross silhouetted in the sunshine. Holy water indeed, he ruminated.

Enjoying the therapy of the physical exertion, he swam for perhaps half an hour, heading against the waves and out to sea, his powerful arms scooping the water and propelling him forwards. Some way out he stopped, and treading water, he gazed back at the shore, taking in the dry rolling hills spotted with short, tough, green bushes and dusty terrain. He looked down and saw some fish swirling around beneath him and for a moment wanted nothing more than to just stay there, floating, away from the violence of his life on land. He sighed and began making his way back to shore. As he climbed out of the sea, he picked his way over the sharp pebbles and stared out across the Aegean. The gentle breeze made him shiver, but he was already beginning to disassociate himself from his own feelings, in preparation for the night ahead.

Once dry and dressed, he climbed back up the rocky wall to the rear of the cove, scaling the sea-beaten stones and testing his strength. As he pulled himself over the ledge and onto the roadside, he caught his index finger on a shard of stone, puncturing the skin. Blood swelled from the small cut and trickled down his finger.

Still human, then, he thought, as he sucked on the wound. He began walking and tried to push the images of Vagin from his mind, and the Udmurt woman whose true story he might never know.

He strode along the dusty road, admiring the skill of the occasional passing drivers in navigating their ageing vehicles around the huge potholes in the sporadic stretches of tarmacked road. As he stood aside to let an old truck pass, avoiding going through a