Child 44 - Страница 31

Outside two cars pulled up and six armed members of the Voualsk militia stepped out, led by General Nesterov, a middle-aged man with the broad, stocky build of a kolkhoz labourer. He gestured for his team to surround the premises while he and his deputy, a lieutenant, approached the entrance. Although the militia were not normally armed, today Nesterov had instructed his men to carry guns. They were to shoot to kill.

The administrative office was open: a radio playing on a low volume, a game of cards abandoned on the table, a reek of alcohol hanging in the air. There were no members of staff to be seen. Nesterov and his lieutenant moved forward, entering a corridor. The smell of alcohol gave way to the smell of faeces and sulphur. Sulphur was used to keep away bed bugs. The smell of faeces needed no explanation. There was shit on the floor and on the walls. The dormitories they passed were overrun with young children, maybe forty to a room, wearing nothing more than a dirty shirt or a pair of dirty shorts but never, it seemed, both. They were sprawled on their beds, three or four layered across a thin, filthy mattress. Many weren’t moving — staring up at the ceiling. Nesterov wondered if some of them were dead. It was difficult to tell. The children on their feet ran forward, trying to grab the guns, touching their uniforms, starved of adult interaction. The men were quickly encircled by clambering hands. Even though Nesterov had braced himself for terrible conditions he found it difficult to comprehend how things could have got this bad. He intended to bring it up with the director of the establishment. However, that was for another time.

Having searched the ground floor, Nesterov made his way upstairs while his lieutenant tried to keep the pack of children from following, communicating with stern looks and gestures which only caused them to laugh as though this were a game. When he gently pushed the children back they immediately rushed forward, wanting to be pushed back again. Impatient, Nesterov remarked:

— Leave them, let them be.

They had no choice but to allow them to trail behind.

The children in the rooms upstairs were older. Nesterov guessed that the dormitories were loosely arranged according to age. Their suspect was seventeen years old — the age limit at this institution, after which they were sent out into the most back-breaking, unappealing jobs available, jobs no sane man or woman would want, jobs where the life expectancy was thirty years. They were coming to the end of the corridor. There was only one dormitory left to search.

With his back to the door, Varlam was preoccupied with stroking the baby’s blanket, wondering why the child wasn’t crying any more. He prodded it with a dirty finger. Suddenly a voice cut across the room, causing his back to stiffen.

— Varlam: stand up and turn around, very slowly.

Varlam held his breath and closed his eyes as though this might make the voice disappear. It didn’t work.

— I’m not going to tell you again. Stand up and turn around.

Nesterov stepped forward, approaching Varlam’s position. He couldn’t see what the boy was sheltering. He couldn’t hear the sound of a baby crying. All the other boys in the dormitory were sitting upright, staring, fascinated. Without warning Varlam sprang to life, scooping something up in his arms, standing and turning round. He was holding the baby. It started crying. Nesterov was relieved: the child was alive at least. But not out of danger. Varlam was holding it tight against his chest, his arms wrapped around the baby’s fragile neck.

Nesterov checked behind him. His deputy had remained by the door with the other curious children clustered around. He took aim at Varlam’s head, cocking his gun, ready to kill, waiting for the order. He had a clear line. But at best he was an average shot. At the sight of his gun some of the children began screaming, others laughing and banging the mattresses. The situation was getting out of control. Varlam was beginning to panic. Nesterov holstered his weapon, raising his hands in an attempt to pacify Varlam, speaking over the din.

— Give me the child.

— I’m in so much trouble.

— No, you’re not. I can see the baby’s OK. I’m pleased with you. You’ve done a good job. You’ve looked after him. I’m here to congratulate you.

— I did a good job?

— Yes, you did.

— Can I keep it?

— I need to check that the baby’s OK, just to be sure. Then we’ll talk. Can I check on the child?

Varlam knew they were angry and they were going to take the baby from him and lock him in a yellow-less room. He pulled the baby closer, tighter, squeezing it so that the yellow blanket pressed up against his mouth. He stepped back towards the window, looking out at the militia cars parked in the street and the armed men surrounding the building.

— I’m in so much trouble.

Nesterov edged forward. There was no way he could extricate the baby from Varlam’s grip by force — it could be crushed in the struggle. He glanced at his lieutenant who nodded, indicating that he’d lined up a shot: he was ready. Nesterov shook his head. The baby was too close to Varlam’s face. The risk of an accident was too great. There had to be another way.

— Varlam, no one is going to hit you or hurt you. Give me the child and we’ll talk. No one will be angry. You have my word. I promise.

Nesterov took another step closer, blocking his lieutenant’s shot. Nesterov glanced down at the collection of yellow items on the floor. He’d encountered Varlam in a previous incident, when a yellow dress had been stolen from a clothes line. It had not slipped his attention that the baby was wrapped in a yellow blanket.

— If you give me the child, I’ll ask the mother if you can have the yellow blanket. I’m sure she’ll say yes. All I want is the baby.

Hearing what seemed like a fair deal, Varlam relaxed. He stretched out his arms, offering the child. Nesterov sprang forward, snatching the child from his hands. He checked that the child seemed to be unharmed before passing it to his deputy.

— Take it to the hospital.

The lieutenant hurried out.

As though nothing had happened, Varlam sat down with his back to the door, rearranging the items in his collection to fill the space created by the absent baby. The other children in the dormitory were quiet again. Nesterov knelt down beside him. Varlam asked:

— When can I have the blanket?

— You have to come with me first.

Varlam continued rearranging his collection. Nesterov glanced at the yellow book. It was a military manual, a confidential document.

— How did you get that?

— I found it.

— I’m going to have a look. Will you stay calm if I have a look?

— Are your fingers clean?

Nesterov noticed that Varlam’s fingers were filthy.

— My fingers are clean.

Nesterov picked it up, casually flicking through. There was something in the middle, pressed between the pages. He turned the book upside down and shook it. A thick lock of blonde hair fell to the floor. He picked it up, rubbing it between his fingers. Varlam blushed.

— I’m in so much trouble.

Eight Hundred Kilometres East of Moscow

16 March

Asked whether or not she loved him, Raisa had refused to answer. She’d just admitted to lying about being pregnant so even if she’d said—Yes, I love you, I’ve always loved you—Leo wouldn’t have believed her. She certainly wasn’t about to stare into his eyes and spell out some fanciful description. What was the point of the question anyway? It was as though he’d had some kind of epiphany, a revelation that their marriage wasn’t built on love and affection. If she’d answered truthfully—No, I’ve never loved you—all of a sudden he would’ve been the victim, the implication being that their marriage had been a trick played on him by her. She was the con-artist who’d toyed with his gullible heart. Out of nowhere, he was a romantic. Perhaps it was the shock of losing his job. But since when had love been part of the arrangement? He’d never asked her about it before. He’d never said:

I love you.

She hadn’t expected him to. He’d asked her to marry him, true. She’d said yes. He’d wanted a marriage, he’d wanted a wife, he’d wanted her and he’d got what he wanted. Now that wasn’t enough. Having lost his authority, having lost the power to arrest whoever he wanted, he was choked with sentimentalism. And why was it her pragmatic deceit, rather than his profound mistrust, that had brought this illusion of marital contentment crashing down around them? Why couldn’t she demand that he had to convince her of his love? After all, he’d presumed incorrectly that she’d been unfaithful, he’d set up an entire surveillance team, a process which could easily have resulted in her arrest. He’d broken trust between them long before she’d been forced to. Her motivation for doing so had been survival. His had been a pathetic male anxiety.

Ever since they’d entered their names as man and wife into the ledger, even before that, ever since they started seeing each other, she’d been conscious that if she displeased him he could have her killed. It had become a blunt reality of her life. She had to keep him happy. When Zoya had been arrested, the very sight of him — his uniform, his talk about the State — made her so angry she found it impossible to utter more than a couple of words to him. In the end the question was very simple. Did she want to live? She was a survivor and the fact of her survival, the fact that she was the only remaining member of her family, defined her. Indignation at Zoya’s arrest was a luxury. It achieved nothing. And so she’d got into his bed and slept beside him, slept with him. She’d cooked him dinner — hating the sound of him eating. She’d washed his clothes — hating his smell.