Child 44 - Страница 59

Aron was confused, checking his position — he was completely hidden. They couldn’t have seen him. Even if they had, why were they walking towards him? They were only metres away. He could hear them talking. He waited, crouched into the undergrowth, only to find that they’d walked straight past him, heading into the trees.

Aron stood up.

— Stop!

The man froze, his shoulders hunched up. He turned around. Aron did his best to sound authoritative.

— What are you two doing?

The girl, who didn’t seem at all afraid or concerned, answered:

— We were going for a walk. What happened to your lip? It’s really ugly.

Aron flushed with embarrassment. The girl was staring at it with obvious disgust. He paused for a moment, composing himself.

— You were going to have sex. In a public place; you’re a prostitute.

— No, we were going for a walk.

The man added, his voice pathetic, barely audible:

— No one has done anything wrong. We were just having a conversation.

— Let me see your papers.

The man stepped forward, fumbling for his papers in his jacket. The girl hung back, nonchalant: no doubt she’d been stopped before. She didn’t seem fazed. He checked the man’s papers. The man was called Andrei. The papers were in order.

— Open your case.

Andrei hesitated, sweating profusely. He’d been caught. He’d never imagined this would happen: he’d never imagined his plan would fail. He lifted the case, opening the buckle. The young officer peered in, his hand tentatively searching through. Andrei stared down at his shoes, waiting. When he looked up the officer was holding his knife, a long knife with a serrated blade. Andrei felt close to tears.

— Why do you carry this?

— I travel a lot. Often I eat on trains. I use the knife to cut salami. Cheap, tough salami but my wife refuses to buy any other kind.

Andrei did use the knife for lunch and dinner. The officer found half a stick of salami. It was cheap and tough. The edge was rough. It had been cut by the same knife.

Aron lifted out a glass jar with a sealed top. The jar was clean and empty.

— What’s this for?

— Some of the component parts I collect, as samples, are fragile, some are dirty. This jar is useful for my work. Listen, officer, I know I shouldn’t have gone off with this girl. I don’t know what came over me. I was here, checking the times for the buses tomorrow and she approached me. You know how it is — with urges. One came over me. But look in the pocket of the case, you’ll find my Party membership card.

Aron found the card. He also found a photograph of the man’s wife and two daughters.

— My daughters. There’s no need to take this any further, is there, officer? The girl is the one to blame: I would’ve been on my way home by now otherwise.

A decent citizen momentarily corrupted by a drunken girl, a reprobate. This man had been polite: he hadn’t stared at Aron’s lip or made any disparaging comments. He’d treated him as an equal even though he was older with a better job and a member of the Party. He was the victim. She was the criminal.

Having felt the net close around him, Andrei realized he was almost free. The photograph of his family had proved invaluable on numerous occasions. He sometimes used it to persuade reluctant children that he was a man who could be trusted. He was a father himself. In his trouser pocket he could feel the coarse length of string. Not tonight; he’d have to exercise patience in the future. He could no longer kill in his home town.

Aron was about to let the man go, putting the card and photograph back, when he caught sight of something else in the case: a slip of newspaper folded in half. He pulled it out, opening it up.

Andrei was unable to watch this idiot with his revolting lip touch that piece of paper with his dirty fingers. He could barely stop himself from snatching it from his hands.

— May I have that back, please?

For the first time the man’s voice had become agitated. Why was this paper so important to him? Aron studied the page. It was a clipping from several years ago, the ink had faded. There was no text, no copy — that had all been cut away so that it was impossible to tell which newspaper it had come from. All that remained was a photograph taken during the Great Patriotic War. It showed the burning wreck of a panzer. Russian soldiers stood with guns triumphantly pointing into the air, dead German soldiers at their feet. It was a victory photo, a propaganda photo. With his deformed upper lip Aron understood all too well why this photo had been printed in a newspaper. The Russian soldier at the centre of the photo was a handsome man with a winning smile.

Moscow

10 July

Leo’s face was swollen, tender to touch. His right eye remained closed, hidden beneath folds of puffy skin. There was intense pain down the side of his chest as though he’d broken several ribs. He’d been given basic medical assistance at the scene of the crash, but as soon as it had been ascertained that his life wasn’t in danger he’d been loaded into a truck under armed guard. On the journey back to Moscow he’d felt each bump in the road like a punch in the gut. Without painkillers on the journey he had passed out several times. His guards had woken him by prodding him with the barrels of their guns, fearful of him dying on their watch. Leo had spent the journey alternating between feverish heat and freezing cold. These injuries, he accepted, were merely the beginning.

The irony of ending up here — secured to a chair in a basement interrogation cell in the Lubyanka — hadn’t escaped his attention. A guardian of the State had become its prisoner, a not uncommon reversal of fortunes. This is what it felt like to be an enemy of his country.

The door opened. Leo raised his head. Who was this man with sallow skin and yellow-stained teeth? He was a former colleague, he remembered that much. But he couldn’t remember the man’s name.

— You don’t remember me?

— No.

— I’m Dr Zarubin. We’ve met on a couple of occasions. I visited you when you were ill not so many months ago. I’m sorry to see you in this predicament. I say that not as a criticism of the action being taken against you; that is just and fair. I simply mean that I wish you hadn’t done it.

— What have I done?

— You’ve betrayed your country.

The doctor felt Leo’s ribs. Each touch caused him to clench his teeth.

— Your ribs aren’t broken, as I was told. They’re bruised. No doubt it’s painful. But none of your injuries require surgery. I’ve been ordered to clean up the cuts and change the dressings.

— Treatment before torture, a quirk of this place. I once saved a man’s life only to bring him here. I should have let Brodsky drown in that river.

— I don’t know this man of whom you speak.

Leo fell silent. Anyone could regret their actions once the tables had been turned. He understood, more clearly than ever, that his only chance of redemption had slipped through his fingers. The killer would continue to kill, concealed not by any masterful brilliance but by his country’s refusal to admit that such a man even existed, wrapping him in perfect immunity.

The doctor finished patching up Leo’s injuries. Such assistance was intended to guarantee full sensitivity to the torture which would follow. Make them better so they could be hurt to a greater extent. The doctor leaned down and whispered into Leo’s ear.

— I’m now going to tend to your wife. Your pretty wife, she’s tied up next door. Quite helpless, and it’s your fault. Everything I’m going to do to her is your fault. I’m going to make her hate the day she ever loved you. I’m going to make her say it aloud.

As though it had been spoken in a foreign language it took a while for Leo to comprehend what was being said to him. He had no grudge against this man. He’d barely recognized him. Why was he threatening Raisa? Leo tried to stand up, lunging for the doctor. But his chair was secured to the floor and he was secured to the chair.

Dr Zarubin pulled back, like a man who’d put his head too close to a lion’s cage. He watched Leo strain against his restraints, his veins bulging in his neck, his face red, his eye pathetically swollen. It was intriguing — like watching a fly trapped under a glass. This man didn’t understand the nature of his predicament.

Helplessness

The doctor picked up his case and waited for the guard to open the door. He expected Leo to call out after him, perhaps threaten to kill him. But on that front, at least, he was disappointed.

He walked down the basement corridor, a matter of metres, arriving at the adjacent cell. The door was opened. Zarubin entered. Raisa was seated and secured in exactly the same way as her husband. The doctor was excited by the prospect of her recognizing him and recognizing that she should have accepted his offer. If she had, she would’ve been safe. She was evidently not the skilled survivor he’d taken her for. She had extraordinary beauty, something she’d failed to capitalize on, opting instead for fidelity. Perhaps she believed in an afterlife, a heaven where her loyalty would be rewarded. It had no value here.