Date with Evil

Julia Chapman DATE WITH EVIL Contents Prologue 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 Epilogue Acknowledgements For all those who at some point have found themselves exiled to a foreign land. Prologue The dog was gaining on them. Paws scrabbling across the land as the light faded, taking with it their chances of escape. ‘Faster!’ A voice guttural with effort and fear came from the man in front. A grunt, nothing more, from the second man. He was weakening. Legs stumbling. Face stricken with terror. Behind him, the Rottweiler a black mass, two further figures some way beyond it. There would be no mercy if they were caught. Not least from the beast on their tails, a coil of lethal energy working efficiently, its sole task to hunt them down. A task it was currently doing very well, the distance reducing with every bound of muscle. No bark. Just that heavy panting. And those teeth, stark against the growing gloom. A short cry as the second man stumbled over the uneven terrain, staggering forward, exhaustion showing as he struggled to recover his balance. ‘I can’t make it,’ he gasped. ‘Go on without me.’ ‘No!’ The rebuke from the older man sharper than intended, even though their flight was useless. They were dead. Nothing ahead to offer shelter. No one around. Just the isolated hills that loomed over them, hemming them in as the dusk slipped further into night. A last desperate glance over his shoulder, the dog even closer. It would only be a few minutes before the animal leaped. Taking the weaker of the two. ‘Please, Grigore, just leave me.’ It came out as a plea. ‘For Mama’s sake.’ Grigore didn’t reply. The thought of going back without Pavel worse than neither of them making it home. Instead, he grabbed his brother’s elbow, bone prominent beneath his fingers as he dragged him on. And he found himself praying. Hopelessly. But still that relentless pursuit from the dog. A shout carrying from the chasing party. Would they shoot? Take the risk? From what he’d seen of them, Grigore didn’t think they’d care. They were ruthless. ‘Grigore! I can’t . . .’ His brother slipping from his grasp, one foot sliding out from under him, his full weight – what was left of it – falling onto Grigore and then they were both sinking, the soil sucking at them, dragging at their shoes. Sinking! The miracle he’d been praying for. With a superhuman effort, Grigore hauled Pavel back to his feet and onto a clump of reeds. They were at the edge of a wide expanse of bog, the bleak brown land stretching in all directions, the ground underfoot no longer firm. No longer safe. Impossible to cross, which meant turning back and facing their pursuers. Unless you were born to it, raised in an area where such terrain was second nature . . . It was risky. One wrong step and it would be fatal. But it was their only chance. ‘We can do this!’ Grigore said. ‘Just follow me the way we used to follow Papa.’ Pavel nodded, a spark of hope as he looked back once more at the Rottweiler and then at the land ahead, moss gleaming wetly, the white heads of cotton grass bobbing in the wind. With a leap of faith, Grigore started striding, feet landing on tufts, confident in his footing as he pushed thickets of reeds over underneath him. His brother the same, both of them fuelled by sudden optimism. Four strides, four more. Zigzagging haphazardly further and further across the uncertain terrain, their direction dictated only by the solidity of the land beneath their feet. Two more long leaps and he looked back. The dog had faltered, a whine of confusion as his paws hit the moist ground. He retreated, turned an unsure circle. A vexed shout met its hesitation, commanding it on. It was trained to obey. And so it jumped, a huge leap, covering most of the distance the brothers’ erratic progress had put between them. ‘Grigore!’ Pavel screamed, as the dog lunged. The Rottweiler landed just short of him, front paws hitting the ground with all its weight, preparing to spring again. Pavel froze, Grigore awash with terror. Then that sound. The squelch of wet land. The dog clearly puzzled as its legs started to sink. Panic set in, the Rottweiler beginning to thrash around. Doing exactly what it shouldn’t as the mire began to claim it. The men behind were gaining, still yelling at the dog, ordering it to attack, oblivious to what was happening. They were close enough that Grigore could make out the glint of guns in their hands. ‘Hurry!’ he shouted, urging Pavel after him as he resumed his negotiation of the treacherous land. It might have stopped the dog, but it wouldn’t stop the bullets the men would soon be firing. And if they made it to the other side, what then for the brothers? In his weakened state, Pavel wouldn’t be able to run for much longer. Curses now, carrying over the darkening landscape. The men had reached the edge of the bog. Had realised the double impediments to their pursuit, their first means of attack yelping in pain. In normal circumstances, Grigore would have turned back to help, never one to ignore animals in distress. But these weren’t normal circumstances. A loud splash. More curses. The men trying to reach the distraught Rottweiler. Grigore kept striding, his brother’s shadow in his peripheral vision, until his feet hit solid ground. Or what passed for solid ground in this sodden wilderness. Only then did he turn, helping Pavel to his side and staring back across the morass. The men had managed to reach the Rottweiler and were hauling it to safety. It wouldn’t be long before they circumvented this