Danilov took a cab home.
Luckily the drive was quick through the quiet streets of the city. It was all strangely peaceful, the refugees camped in the parks the only manifestation that something was wrong. The roads were clear; traffic was light. Even the rickshaw drivers had decided this was a day of rest, tomorrow another day.
The taxi driver had the sense to remain quiet throughout the journey, not bothering to chat with his passenger.
When they arrived outside the apartment, Danilov paid the fare and dragged himself up the two flights of emerald-green stairs to the front door. He was about to put his key in the lock when the door flew open, his wife and daughter standing in the entrance.
They ushered him in, Elina taking his coat and hat while Maria guided him to the chair.
‘Are you hungry?’ his wife asked softly.
He shook his head.
‘What happened, Father? You haven’t been home for a week and you haven’t called us for two days. We were worried for you.’
Danilov was about to answer when Maria scolded his daughter. ‘Shush, Elina, Father will tell us when he’s rested. Can’t you see he’s exhausted? Help me to put him to bed.’
They both took hold of an arm and guided him to the bedroom. He sat down while Maria took off his shoes. Then she gently pushed him onto the bed.
‘I missed you,’ he whispered.
‘Shush, sleep now. We’ll talk later. I’ll put some tea on the table for when you wake up.’
He felt his legs being lifted onto the bed and a woollen cover placed across his body.
He wanted to tell her more. Tell her how much he’d missed both of them. How he was sorry for everything. How he had worried about them.
But he never had the chance. By the time his wife returned with the tea, his eyes were closing and he was drifting off to sleep.
As he did, the faces of the dead children began to appear in his dreams.