Woman Chased by Crows by Marc Strange

hardy, 1968 GMC pickup Rupert Kronick took into the bush five days a week.
    Besides, Orwell also believed in his heart that had his first wife been at the wheel of something bigger and stronger than the little Datsun she’d been driving that rainy night, she might still be alive. Case closed.
    He dropped Leda off outside the Globe Theatre, saw her run for the side entrance as the rain began to fall in earnest. There was a young man with odd-looking hair and a black leather jacket waiting for her. Oh dear. At least he was holding the door for her. Perhaps he wasn’t an axe murderer, a drug dealer or a serial rapist. Maybe he was just an actor.

    Her studio was undisturbed, empty. They will search it soon enough, she thought, they know where it is by now. She locked the door, both locks, checked the fire escape, the window latches, scanned the street below. When she turned from the window she caught sight of herself in the mirrored wall, a doll-sized shadow in a corner, pale face, fists clenched, shaking her head at the absurdity of it all.
    All that running, and look where it got you. Nowhere, absolutely nowhere. You changed your name so many times, it is a wonder you know who you are. Can you remember? Can you remember Anya Ivanova Zubrovskaya? Can you remember how she was? How perfect? Immaculate technique, weightless as a moonbeam, tensile, like coiled steel, secure on point like a dagger. The Kirov’s next prima ballerina. Remember Anya Zubrovskaya. Do not forget her. There are no pictures of her. Not one photograph of her
Giselle
. She is erased. Wiped from history. Disappeared. You will not find her name on a list of Vaganova graduates, or the company rolls of the Mariinsky. She has been expunged. Forgotten.
    Damn Viktor! Damn him and his sticky fingers, his decadent love of silk shirts and 4711 Kölnisch Wasser and Colgate toothpaste. Damn Grégor for being a clumsy fool. Damn them all. Anya Zubrovskaya might have taken her place alongside Pavlova, Karsavina, she might have been one of the great ones. Instead she became a non-person. When she defected, they didn’t even raise a protest, they didn’t demand her return. Who cares, they said. Who will notice? She won’t be missed. She gave everything for her art, for the system that honed her art, for the history and the legacy of the Mariinsky, and in the end she was discarded without comment. Forgotten.
    But not by everyone. Certain people might not remember how she danced, but they know why she ran.

    The night is clear in her mind.
La Sylphide
. That nice theatre in Buffalo. The orchestra had paid attention, the stage had the right spring. Her partner, Sergei, was stiff and stolid as usual, the man had the charisma of a mailbox, but it didn’t matter, he was there to show her off, it was fine that he was invisible. At least he could count. And he was a strong as a tree. He didn’t drop her. She deserved the standing ovation. There were curtain calls and bouquets thrown onto the stage and she was in a daze, euphoric, exhausted and starving hungry. It was a magical night; perhaps her best performance. The entire troupe was taken out for a meal. She ate wonderful roast beef and drank champagne and cognac. She wasn’t drunk; she was radiant with triumph and release. She almost allowed a handsome young ballet lover into her hotel room but at the last moment decided that she wanted to savour the rest of the night in private and let him kiss her, once, before pushing him gently but firmly on his way.
    She was sitting on the edge of the tub, soaking her feet when the pounding on her door started. She thought it was the young man come back to beg her to change her mind, but it was Viktor, sweating, drunk, laughing like a lunatic and terrified at the same time. Nanya, he said, look at this, you won’t believe this! He had a suitcase with a false bottom and it opened very cleverly by removing the little brass feet, and inside was some