He has no sense of time, but when he finally looks around, the road is out of sight.
He kneels down and wipes his head on a pillow of moss like a wild animal. When he gets up again, the moss is brown with blood.
In the distance he can hear the wailing of a siren. It could just be an ambulance, but it could also be the police. They'll bring dogs, and then how long will it take to track him down?
He begins running again, if you can call this painful, stumbling limp running. Everything depends on how soon they realize he's escaped and how far away he is when they do.
The woods are not deep, and he suddenly emerges into a field of wheat flooded with light. The field slopes away into a valley where he can see several damp, glistening roofs. A narrow, dusty path runs alongside the field. He limps down it. It would probably be better to hide among the wheat, but as long as they're not on to him he has to get as far away as he can. Beyond an orchard, the first house appears, and he looks around cautiously. As far as he can tell, there's no one outside in the sticky pre-noon heat. A few dogs bark lazily.
He walks past three houses, and in the yard of the fourth, a fair-haired boy is kneeling over a dismantled bicycle.
He shouts at him and as he does so, his face contorts with pain.
The boy looks around and then gapes. He can't be any more than twelve.
Are you alone?'
The boy gets to his feet. 'What is it?' he says, and backs warily towards the door. 'What do you want?'
'Can't you see? I need help.'
'Yeah, I can see.' The boy stops. 'Did you fall?'
'That's it. You by yourself?'
The boy looks around in alarm. 'Me and the dog. What have you got behind your back?'
'Just my hands.' He turns round to show the boy. 'Look, I won't hurt you, I just need help.'
The boy calls the dog, a limping old mutt that would be hard put to scare a chicken. The two of them edge towards the gate. 'You've run away.'
'You've got to help me. . ' Every word he utters is painful, and his mouth is so dry he can hardly move his tongue.
'My brother has a blowtorch in the shed,' says the boy, and he unlocks the gate.
Inside the shed it's dark and cool, and there's a smell of hay. If he could only lie down. The boy quickly unwinds the flex, puts on the goggles and ignites the torch. 'Are they after you?'
'Shut up and get on with it.' Then he thinks again. 'If they turn up here, asking questions, you never saw me and you don't know anything about me.' He pulls his wrists as far apart as he can, but he still feels the heat of the flame. 'They can't do anything to you. You're not fifteen yet. But even so, you never saw me. If they keep on at you, say you were indoors.' The handcuffs are beginning to get hot but he grits his teeth and keeps his hands apart.
'OK,' says the boy. 'What did you do?'
'Best for you not to know, but I'm innocent.' At that moment his hands fly apart. The steel bracelets still hang on his wrists, but he can get rid of them if the boy will give him a piece of wire or a penknife.
'Do you want to have a wash?'
The first thing he does when he reaches the wash-basin is drink, gulping down long mouthfuls of water. Only then does he look in the mirror. He can scarcely recognize himself. His hair is matted with blood. His right cheek and upper lip are swollen. His left cheek has been cut by glass.
The boy is standing behind him. 'My brother was in jail too. He deserted from the army.'
He wets his hands in the water and carefully runs them over his face. 'Remember, you haven't seen me!'
He sticks his head under the tap. The sharp sting brings tears to his eyes. He reaches for the towel, then decides against it and merely takes another drink.
Meanwhile, the boy has found a large pastry. If he asked him, he could probably dig up some cash as well, but he probably shouldn't waste any more time here. He can always get money. He limps across the yard to the gate.
He should clear out of this village as quickly as possible and perhaps try and find a car, though they must have blocked all the main roads by now.
He hobbles along the fence with his head down. Not a
soul anywhere. People are either hard at work somewhere or swilling beer in the bar on the square. Parked in front of it — this really is his lucky day — is a lorry. The village square seems deserted, and he reaches the back of the lorry without being observed. He lifts the canvas flap. There are cases full of bottles inside. He bangs his wounded leg as he swings himself over the tailgate, but he grits his teeth and doesn't utter a sound, lands on his haunches and pulls the canvas shut behind him.
The bottles are empty, another piece of luck, because it means they won't unload them until they get to the brewery. The cases are not heavy, and he rearranges them so that he's surrounded. Now if they'd just get out of here. The police could arrive any time — if they've managed to figure out that he's escaped.
Then he hears voices. Someone lifts the canvas and slides a few more cases of empties inside, then the doors slam, the motor starts and the vehicle drives off.
If only he could see where they were going. But at least he's getting further away. Every minute, the circle they will have to look for him in is widening. Unless they're taking the bottles right back to the town where they put him in the car that morning. The lorry rattles over the rutted road, and the bottles clatter. They've probably begun the search by now. The police will have been alerted. Maybe they're even sending in helicopters. It won't be easy. Once he gets out of this lorry, he'll have to find a hostage. A woman. At least one. He won't be as naïve as Míla was and let her go. He won't even negotiate.
At that moment the lorry begins to slow down. Robert sits absolutely still and listens to the voices coming to him through the canvas.
Your papers, driver.
Where are you coming from? What are you carrying? Have you seen a man in a dark suit, probably badly wounded, wearing handcuffs?
A voice mutters some reply.
He hopes they don't have those trained dogs with them, but even if they did, he doubts they could pick up his scent over the strong smell of beer.
A shaft of light penetrates his hiding-place. They must have lifted the canvas.
The motor is still running, which is a good thing because it will drown out his breathing. Someone thumps the side of the truck. They move one of the cases. Then silence. They probably don't feel like shifting all of them. He knows them well enough to know what lazy bastards they are. They wouldn't bother, unless they had a whole platoon of prisoners to do it for them.
The lorry starts up again. He's beginning to believe he'll make it out of here, out of this mess, out of this shitty country. He only has to be tough. No mercy, no negotiating.
Now they're moving fast. The driver is obviously in a hurry. Then the lorry slows down, begins bumping over a cobblestone surface and finally comes to a complete halt. He hears the creaking of a gate opening, voices, the lorry inches forward, the motor coughs, then dies. The doors slam, and someone jumps to the ground.
He has to stay on his toes. If they start unloading the bottles, he'll have to come up with a way to get out of here without being seen. But what if he can't? He gets up, still hidden by the barricade of cases, tries to flex his arms and legs, then pulls an empty bottle from the top row of cases, gets a good grip on it and waits.
But no one comes. He can hear a woman's voice somewhere nearby. Someone is dragging something metallic over the cobblestones and whistling. Then silence again. He's probably wasting precious time in here now. He puts the bottle down as quietly as he can and starts shifting the crates to one side. He crawls out of his hiding-place and carefully lifts the edge of the canvas.