baby at her chest and a bundle tied to her back. Her eldest child, a daughter, walks in front of her with their bag, and her young twin boys walk behind. The river defences have been damaged in the fighting and Marta can hear the boys’ boots squelch in the marshy ground, tramping in step with one another, in step with her. The grass is long, the going uneven: they walk as if they are wading already. Moving on in silence, below the line of the flood barrier, level with the water, parallel with safety on the other side.
She looks back at the man and he is still there: no closer, no further away, but with his head up, now. Watching. White smudge of face under a black hat.
Marta drops her pace momentarily, ushers her sons past her, putting herself between her children and the stranger.
If she keeps pushing, Marta thinks they can stay ahead of him for another hour, maybe two. He will give up. Drop back. There will be a way across the water .
Up ahead she sees a bridge. The tall pillars are still upright in the slow current, but nothing connects them: bombed and the remains washed away. Marta helps her children up onto the road that rises steeply to the bridge. She reasons with herself, fights down the disappointment. There must be another, further along there will be another .
– We’ll keep going.
The twins run up the slope and stand at the edge where the road stops and twisted fingers of metal poke out of the blasted concrete. They lie on their stomachs, heads dangling over the edge, calling down to the water. Their laughter throws echoes around the tall columns, and Marta is afraid the man can hear them. They have slowed down: he could be in earshot now. Doesn’t want to draw any attention to them, not out here where there is no one to help them and no way of knowing what might happen. She walks with Ani her daughter, holding the baby close, calling to her sons.
– We’re not stopping.
But now Ani isn’t moving. She is pointing and pulling at her mother’s arm.
– There’s a man.
Marta knows he has gained on them before she has even looked round. Less than one hundred metres now, still walking, looking straight ahead, breaking into a run. Marta can see the mud on his trouser cuffs. Yellow on black wool.
The twins run down to their mother, oblivious to the man, who is almost at the bridge now, white wrists reaching long and thin from his black sleeves. He is speaking, but Marta can’t hear what he’s saying. He should be shouting if he wants us to hear.
The twins are excited; they rush at their mother.
– We could swim it, Mama.
– It’s not very deep.
Marta pulls them sharply off the road; eyes fixed on the stranger, walking her family away from him, daughter behind her, arms around her boys. She wants to turn, but there is only the rise of the road between them, and she can hear what he says now.
– It’s not deep. I’ve done it.
But Marta doesn’t hear the words. Only the accent. Heart in her mouth.
– I’ve been across here before.
The familiar rhythm. One of us . The relief makes Marta shake.
The stranger stops on the road. Still talking, still breathless. His neck is long and thin, and his head is bony. Full of black teeth, white gums. A hard mouth but a voice like home.
– It’s a good place to swim.
The stranger looks at Marta, smiles and nods. His eyes are dark. Friendly. His voice is right, but still she keeps away. He wears boots bound in rags, and Marta can smell him, his sour breath and skin.
– We’ll walk on.
She gathers her children again; urging them further down the slope along the riverbank; away from the broken pillars, the road, the man.
– We’ll find the next bridge.
Marta’s palms are pressed flat against the backs of her twins, pushing, her legs straining under the weight of the baby, the days spent walking, the bundle on her back.
– They bombed all the bridges.
The voice is polite, still breathless, but gentle. Like the eyes. The man stays where
She looks back at the man and he is still there: no closer, no further away, but with his head up, now. Watching. White smudge of face under a black hat.
Marta drops her pace momentarily, ushers her sons past her, putting herself between her children and the stranger.
If she keeps pushing, Marta thinks they can stay ahead of him for another hour, maybe two. He will give up. Drop back. There will be a way across the water .
Up ahead she sees a bridge. The tall pillars are still upright in the slow current, but nothing connects them: bombed and the remains washed away. Marta helps her children up onto the road that rises steeply to the bridge. She reasons with herself, fights down the disappointment. There must be another, further along there will be another .
– We’ll keep going.
The twins run up the slope and stand at the edge where the road stops and twisted fingers of metal poke out of the blasted concrete. They lie on their stomachs, heads dangling over the edge, calling down to the water. Their laughter throws echoes around the tall columns, and Marta is afraid the man can hear them. They have slowed down: he could be in earshot now. Doesn’t want to draw any attention to them, not out here where there is no one to help them and no way of knowing what might happen. She walks with Ani her daughter, holding the baby close, calling to her sons.
– We’re not stopping.
But now Ani isn’t moving. She is pointing and pulling at her mother’s arm.
– There’s a man.
Marta knows he has gained on them before she has even looked round. Less than one hundred metres now, still walking, looking straight ahead, breaking into a run. Marta can see the mud on his trouser cuffs. Yellow on black wool.
The twins run down to their mother, oblivious to the man, who is almost at the bridge now, white wrists reaching long and thin from his black sleeves. He is speaking, but Marta can’t hear what he’s saying. He should be shouting if he wants us to hear.
The twins are excited; they rush at their mother.
– We could swim it, Mama.
– It’s not very deep.
Marta pulls them sharply off the road; eyes fixed on the stranger, walking her family away from him, daughter behind her, arms around her boys. She wants to turn, but there is only the rise of the road between them, and she can hear what he says now.
– It’s not deep. I’ve done it.
But Marta doesn’t hear the words. Only the accent. Heart in her mouth.
– I’ve been across here before.
The familiar rhythm. One of us . The relief makes Marta shake.
The stranger stops on the road. Still talking, still breathless. His neck is long and thin, and his head is bony. Full of black teeth, white gums. A hard mouth but a voice like home.
– It’s a good place to swim.
The stranger looks at Marta, smiles and nods. His eyes are dark. Friendly. His voice is right, but still she keeps away. He wears boots bound in rags, and Marta can smell him, his sour breath and skin.
– We’ll walk on.
She gathers her children again; urging them further down the slope along the riverbank; away from the broken pillars, the road, the man.
– We’ll find the next bridge.
Marta’s palms are pressed flat against the backs of her twins, pushing, her legs straining under the weight of the baby, the days spent walking, the bundle on her back.
– They bombed all the bridges.
The voice is polite, still breathless, but gentle. Like the eyes. The man stays where
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