Salby (Book 2): Salby Evolution by Ian D. Moore Page B

port, and we’re not that far inland. There’s a good chance anyone living in this vicinity will speak at least broken English. We’re freezing, starving, and we look like a pair of mismatched corpses. What would you do if you saw us coming at you?” Barbie quipped.
    “Good points. We need to be careful. I don’t fancy adding buckshot to my list of experiences today. I’ll go first, see if there’s anyone home. If it’s safe, I’ll wave you over. Stay out of sight until I give the signal, I’m in no mood for a Deliverance ending,” I said with a knowing smile at the reference.
    “ Deliverance? What’s that supposed to mean?” Barbie asked, perplexed.
    “Never mind. It’s before your time. You kids of today don’t know what you missed. Do we still have the knives I took from the store?” I patted my still damp pockets as I asked.
    “In the pack, side pouch. I put them there before I dropped you off the”—she paused nervously—“but we’re even, you did pull me off a boat.” Barbie reasoned, with a playful smile.
    “I’ll give you that. Okay, if they let me in and I’m not back in ten minutes, skirt around the area and find somewhere safe to hold up,” I instructed.
    “Yes, sir!” Barbie retorted.
    “Oh, and quit calling me sir. You know my name, for God’s sake. What’s with that anyway? Never mind, you can tell me about it afterwards.” I squeezed her shoulder, an action of reassurance, before I pushed through the perimeter towards the quaint dwelling.
    A rusted wood chipper stood spattered in splinters off to my left as I approached the house. The circular, age-old tree stump, sheared at the perfect height for chopping logs, supported a honed axe. I was tempted to take the axe, just in case. Instead, my focus on the thick, wooden, fairy-tale-style door flashed up an image of a hobbit welcome. I couldn’t have been further out. The door creaked ajar as I raised my hand to knock. I’m not sure who got the biggest shock, me or the bear-like, bearded resident, as his full frame all but blocked out the flickering light emanating from within. The guy was tall, stocky, muscled, and clearly toned by his strenuous work in the woods, yet his expression was not one of anger at my intrusion.
    “Dobro pozhalovat!” he boomed.
    I held my hands palms up, an action of surrender, of submission.
    “Het! Dobro pozhlovat!” he repeated.
    Sensing my confusion, he took a step forwards and extended a hand large enough to shroud mine. With my own hand clamped, I felt the hardened calluses on his palm as my eyes met his.
    “English?” I attempted.
    He released his hold, and with forefinger and thumb, indicated just a little bit. I nodded and smiled my understanding.
    “Simon,” I pointed to myself, “English.”
    “Da, Simon English,” he responded, still smiling.
    “No, I meant—never mind. Can you help me? You help me, please?” I hadn’t realised that my hands signed out my words as I spoke. Years of living with a deaf partner, reliant almost entirely upon sign language or touch as a means of communication, meant that when I spoke, I did so with voice and actions.
    “Welcome,” he said, the single word heavy-set with Russian enunciation.
    From that point on, communication with this powerful man, known only as Yaromir, became easier. He stood aside, an invitation for me to enter his home, and I pushed the door closed behind.
    I stood at the roaring, open fire, mesmerized by the dancing of the flames as they gorged upon the quartered lumps of tree trunk in the hearth. Somehow, an open fire always seemed to instil a sense of peace, of wellbeing, no matter where I might find myself. The last time I felt the heat of this captive force of nature, I was standing at a beer-stained bar, the pint of bitter being the ‘plus one’. I recalled the contents of the brown envelope with Jackson Hall Solicitors stamped on the front as I nursed my third drink.
    “Simon English?” Yaromir began. “To wash?