Kara’s Game. Gordon Stevens

play their little game, just as everyone played their games in the Balkans. Sometimes allow the body to be hauled away, sometimes use it as a bait to take out those brave or foolish enough to help.

      Don’t slip, he willed the woman, just don’t slow down.

      She was halfway across, her breath rasping and her legs beginning to slow. No sniper shot so far, thank God, no single sharp sound, no body stumbling and collapsing. She was three-quarters of the way over. He could see her face and make out her age. Late twenties, black hair and good-looking, the child a boy, probably four years old.

      Thirty metres behind her another group appeared like puppets.

      Time to get them later, Valeschov decided, time to wait for them to come back with their little saucepans of food. Because then they’d be moving slower, because then they’d be terrified of spilling anything.

      The woman came off the bridge and slowed by the jeep.

      Her lungs were screaming and her head was pounding. Thank God there’d been no sniper today, thank God she and Jovan had made it. She glanced at the soldiers by the UN vehicle and hurried up the street, keeping to the right for the protection the buildings offered. Before the war this had been the main area of Maglaj, now the shop fronts were boarded and the buildings around and behind them were pockmarked with holes.

      The street was almost empty, only a few like herself scuttling for the food kitchen, and it was beginning to snow again, the first flakes settling like feathers. She glanced up at the sky, unsure whether she was looking at the snow or searching for incoming shells, then hurried across and disappeared into the side streets on the southern side.

      The food itself – by which she meant the boiled beans and bread which was now their staple diet – was prepared in a kitchen beneath the radio station, and served in the school fifty metres away which the local Red Cross had taken over.

      She turned the last corner, between the ruins of the houses. The line of people was five deep, the inside layer pressed against the wall and the outer layers packed against them, either for warmth or protection or both. She followed the queue round the corner, and round the next, then back along the third wall till she was almost at the front again. Today it would take hours, she understood, today she might not get the boy back across the bridge before the shells the Chetniks threw over at midday. She joined the end of the line, making sure she stood in the middle, and held the boy tight, smiling at him and whispering him a story. At least they were able to join the queue, at least she had a ration card which entitled her and Adin and Jovan to the food.

      The queue shuffled slowly, someone occasionally pushing, but most of the men and women too exhausted to do anything other than wait. God it was cold – she shuffled forward another two paces and stamped her feet in a vain attempt to shake the numbness from her toes.

      ‘You okay?’ She tucked her head against the boy and smiled at him again.

      ‘Okay.’

      They reached the first corner, seemed to stand an eternity before they reached the next, even longer before they turned along the front wall and edged towards the steps and door into the school.

      There had been no midday shells so far, so perhaps the Chetniks were letting them off today, perhaps there really was a ceasefire, perhaps the peace talks in Vienna really were achieving something.

      They were inside at last, along the lime-green corridor and into the room at the other end. The wooden tables were on the left, the vats of soup on them and the helpers behind them, one woman checking the ration cards and stamping the backs with the date so no one would get double rations, and the others ladling the liquid and cutting the bread. The room seemed packed and cold, people milling with their soup cans, a few seeking a space to eat but most leaving. The floor was running wet and the smell of the beans hung in the air.

      She felt in her coat pocket, pulled out the three ration cards, and showed them to the first woman.

      Kadira Isak – the woman read her name. Adin and Jovan Isak. ‘Where’s your husband?’ she asked.

      ‘At the front,’ Kara explained. ‘He’s due back this afternoon.’

      ‘So you didn’t get his food yesterday?’ The woman checked the back of the card.

      ‘No, because he was on the front line yesterday.’ And therefore, although the boy and I could have done with his share, it would have deprived someone else.

      The woman nodded, stamped the three cards to indicate they had received their food for that day, and nodded for them to move forward.

      The beans were bubbling in the vat. Another woman ladled her two helpings, and the third passed her two slices of rough white bread.

      ‘Three helpings,’ she told them. ‘My husband’s back from the front today.’

      The beans were white, without taste. She smiled her thanks, jammed the lid firmly on, put the bread in the plastic bag she’d carried in her pocket, and left. Outside it was snowing slightly more heavily. Thank God there was no sniper today, thank God she wouldn’t have to run across the bridge.

      MacFarlane saw her coming. It was funny how you remembered certain people, certain faces. Perhaps it was the child she was carrying or the way she was carrying him, perhaps the way she’d run across the bridge earlier. He smiled at her as she passed and watched as she approached the bridge.

      Any more snow and he’d begin losing visibility, Valeschov thought. Christ it was cold. He held the Dragunov carefully, so it did not touch his face. A couple of hours to go, then he’d be off to the village two kilometres away for forty-eight hours’ R and R. He peered down the sights and picked up the bridge. There were two places where the targets were soft and easy: the first was the bridge and the second was the street running from the school into the new town, parallel to the river and some hundred metres from it. Sniper Alley the locals would call it, and if they didn’t they should.

      No midday shelling today, so something was up. Not that they’d tell him, he’d be the last to know. Probably leave him up here to freeze his balls off unless he made sure they remembered him. The snow was heavier and the darkness was closing in, even though it was still early afternoon. He flicked the safety on and blew the snowflakes away from the sights. Christ it was even colder. He settled again and picked up the bridge. Someone was about to cross – it was strange how you could pick it up, almost smell the fear. Which direction, though, old town to new, or new town to old? Probably the latter.

      New town to old – he saw the figure. Go for the first and not get lined up properly, or wait and hope there was a second? Perhaps just let off a few rounds and laugh at the way the bastards danced.

      Thank God there was no sniper, Kara thought, thank God she didn’t have to risk spilling the soup. She called it soup because it sounded better; when she and Jovan got home perhaps she’d add a few herbs she’d saved from the summer, make it taste better, at least make it taste of something. God she was cold, God how little Jovan’s face was white and stiff. Please may Adin be okay, please may he make it home tonight.

      Somebody didn’t know he was there – Valeschov flicked off the safety. Somebody was walking rather than running across the bridge. Somebody liked playing Russian roulette. Perhaps he’d take them in one, perhaps he’d put a shot near them first, scare the shit out of them before he finished them off.

      The river below her was grey and the sky above was lost in the snow. Why wasn’t she running, she suddenly thought; why hadn’t she waited to cross the bridge with a group? At least Jovan was on her right, away from where the snipers normally were. Run, she told herself. Don’t run, because if you do you’ll lose your nerve for ever. What the hell are you talking about – she came back at herself. You’re on the bridge and even though there’s no sniper you’re in the open and exposed.

      Take them now, Valeschov decided, it was too cold to be frigging about.

      The swirl of snow closed round her, so she could no longer see even the end of the bridge. On the hillside above, Valeschov heard the crunch of footsteps behind him and