Resolution

Saturday, 28 January, 1995

Snow lay deep, high in the Dinaric Alps, under the slanted afternoon sun. Demyan arrived at the den first. He didn’t think Serafim would mind if he lit a fire. He had it all planned. He’d brought a box of matches. He hoped his mother wouldn’t miss them. He was going to put them back, before she would look for them to light the gas for dinner.

The den had been a shepherd’s house, they’d decided, the day they found it. Serafim had worked it all out. Serafim was the clever one. He would be, Demyan supposed, because he was nearly a year older. There were dog bowls in the outhouse. There was a large, rusting cage in the back yard. The shepherd had kept his sheepdogs in there, for sure. When Serafim explained it to Demyan, it had been like watching an old film in sepia, blurry, yet with every detail of the narrative clear. Serafim always knew. He would be here soon. Demyan hoped his friend would be pleased with him.

It had been pretty easy, getting the sausages. Demyan had bowled into the butcher’s shop, right on half-day closing. He’d been watching from across the street. There were quite a few sausages left. “Mister, please, I don’t have any food for my dog. He will starve. Please, have you a sausage to spare?”

By the time Serafim stamped into the den, kicking the snow from his boots, a delicious aroma of sizzling sausages filled the air. Tall, blond, clear-skinned and in-charge to the core of his being, he gazed scornfully at the dented frying pan with its six perfectly browned bangers. “They are under-cooked. You will give us food poisoning.” In a single smooth movement, Serafim seized the pan handle and sent the sausages flying out through the open door. “You should have waited for me,” he said, looking Demyan straight in the eye.

Friday, 28 January, 2022

The coated, hatted figure, the picture of the battle against the elements, leaning into the biting Alpine wind, toiled up the mountain toward the distant chalet tavern. Well prepared for the inflated prices the high hostelry had to charge to stay in business, he carried a wallet bulging with Serbian dinars. The pull of the bar’s warm, cosy evening atmosphere spurred him forward. He would soon be there.

Warm in the fire glow behind his window, the trousered, unshirted other raised a Zeiss binocular, focusing sharp on the figure he had already identified. Very well. The chase was on. He reached for his undervest and snow coat, the black skull tattoo stark between his flexing shoulders as he slid into the garments. Pulling on his woollen hat and donning his boots, he set forth, formidably and determinedly, into the night.

Saturday, 28 January, 1995

Serafim gazed, narrow-eyed, upon his quivering subordinate. “Check this out,” he sneered. The black plastic bin bag quivered as he threw it down.

Wide-eyed, Demyan took a step back. “What the hell is it? Is it alive?”

“Not for long,” Serafim retorted. “Watch.”

For a long time after that day, Demyan wished he could erase what he had seen. As if in slow motion, Serafim seized both bottom corners of the bin bag and drew it away with a dark flourish. For a freeze frame moment, the terrified black kitten stood erect, almost defiant, upon the dirty, broken-tiled floor.

Haunted by endless memory replays, Demyan knew he should have snatched the proud and innocent animal away. When it had mattered, he had not.

Serafim’s knife flashed. Blood spattered on the cracked tiles. No time for a single miaow.

A moment of complete silence. Then, “I’ll tell them what you did,” declared Demyan.

Friday, 28 January, 2022

The target was not far ahead. The pursuer bided his time. There was no way he could fail. The chalet bar glowed, inviting, safe, warm, snug, smoky, unchanging. Retribution was near. The pursuer quickened his pace, steps almost silent on the virgin snow. He was gaining on the target; there could be no doubt.

Saturday, 28 January, 1995

The knife flashed again, its keen edge red with the spent essence of the kitten. Demyan felt the wet blade, cold against his throat, his arms locked behind him in Seraphim’s iron grip. Ever the sadist, Serafim drew the knife along a few millimetres. A thin trickle of human blood rolled down Demyan’s neck.

Demyan croaked, “If you kill me, you’ll go to prison. I know killing that cat is not your only crime. I know about the others. And I’ve written it all down. If anything happens to me, it will be found and you will be sunk, my friend.”

Serafim dropped the knife away. His eyes flashed and he looked as though he was about to speak. Instead, he tossed his head, turned and left.

Friday, 28 January, 2022

The chalet bar glowed, a haven of warmth, drink, food, company and all that is good about life.

The target stopped ten metres short of the threshold, his pursuer’s hand heavy upon his shoulder. He knew whose hand it had to be. It was not a surprise, really. The target had no option but to accept his fate.

The pursuer, knife held aloft, slashed the keen blade through unresisting soft tissue. Knowing it would take a few seconds for brain activity to cease, the pursuer held on tightly, eyes fixed on his victim’s, until they rolled upward, glazed, lifeless and grey against the crimson stained snow.

Saturday, 29 January, 2022

Rising from the fire and frying pan, taking a deep breath, Demyan stood alone in the den. This was his place now. No-one to oppose him. No-one to tell him what to do. He had made it. Twenty-seven years of subordination, his fear of Serafim keeping him from divulging what he knew to the police. Those hikers and campers who had disappeared over the years, or been found inexplicably dead from hypothermia, after leaving their tents barefoot in the night… it had all been Serafim’s work, Demyan had been sure. Slowly, as if seeking absolution in the frigid winter air, he stripped off his jacket and shirt, the black skull tattoo stark between his bare shoulders.