MORNING SERIAL
SHE packs her rucksack with bottles of water, checks there are still snacks in the side pockets. Unfolds the paper map of the Zone that Sergey gave her and shows Baba Olena. The woman squints at the faded, streaky ink. Helen points at the floor, then at the map. Raises her eyebrows in query.
Baba Olena frowns, runs a finger over the paper, then taps. There are no roads marked out, but at least she has an idea of where she is, pulls out a compass and calculates which direction Anton must have taken.
She doesn’t know how to tell Baba Olena she will be back later, tries to draw on the back of the map, symbols for herself, an arrow leading away and back. The woman nods and pats Helen’s shoulder. Perhaps she will be relieved to have some time alone.
At the side of the house is a faded gate, latched. She slips out, alert to the sounds of the forest. If she hears a car engine she’ll have to hide. She turns the dosimeter on and clips it to her belt, decides she will only heed its chatter if the alarm sounds.
The road beside the track is overgrown. Opposite, what must have been a field or pasture is now long brown grass and young trees, buds bulging in anticipation of warmer weather, ready to erupt. She checks the compass again and strikes out, walking at a gentle pace so as not to wear herself out. Pauses as she reaches a bigger road, pitted with shallow, dirt-filled potholes. There has been no sign of any other houses, so Baba Olena’s home must be at the edge of a village, the other cottages lost to the web of undergrowth beyond her garden.
She walks, her joints aching and head feeling tighter and tighter with each step. After fifteen minutes she stops and drinks, then presses on. Searching for signs of the crash: gouged gravel, bloodstains, broken branches at the side of the road. As the sun moves higher her eyes begin to hurt. The flickering light through the trees makes it feel like she’s walking underwater. After an hour she wonders if this is even the right road. After two she turns around.
She eats a flapjack slowly, focussing on the sweet, heavy mash in her mouth as she chews. Slows her pace. It’s fine, she thinks. I’ll try again tomorrow.
> The Half Life of Snails by Philippa Holloway is Published by Parthian at £15
CONTINUES MONDAY