The Hunt series Boxset 2

by Tim Heath

  Rad had earlier followed Sasha back to the address he’d come from that morning, the same one he would be in all day. The same one Rad was looking into as midnight struck. Rad had seen the woman, too, emerging that morning from the bathroom, topless and extremely good looking.

  Now, with darkness falling, and the country celebrating the start of another new year, Rad made the descent back down to street level, the office building he had been hiding in for most of the day empty and disused, from what Rad could tell. That had given him plenty of time to scope out his target.

  Rad darted between the few cars that were on the road as he got to street level. They were either early leavers and on their way home to bed, or party seekers heading out. Rad crossed the road without being seen. He’d wondered about how to do what was needed, but his mind was made up. He would head up to the flat and do it face-to-face.

  A couple of partygoers were coming out through the doors to Alex’s block at the moment Rad reached the same door. As the Russian got closer to the door, he had been wondering how he would get in, the door secured, a keypad there to only allow visitors the opportunity to call up. The departing pair didn’t take Rad in, just carrying on walking out into the darkness, Rad quickening his pace a fraction but easily able to catch the door, and he continued on inside as if he was one of the many returning residents. He climbed to the fifth floor.

  Coming out from the stairwell, Rad took in the apartment numbers. He turned left, as indicated, and just three doors down he was outside the address he’d been given, the building he’d been watching from across the street all day. The home where Sasha was staying at that very moment.

  Rad took a deep breath, and making a fist, gave the front door a hearty knock. Then he waited.

  14

  State Orphanage #136, Leningrad Oblast––USSR

  1990

  The eleven-year-old was thin but healthy. Food was simple but relatively available, most of the time. There just wasn’t much choice.

  Kids like these didn’t know choice. They were lucky to get anything, the adults in charge would often tell them, though the staff in number one-three-six were at least a little more caring. He’d been in half a dozen similar institutions before. All with a number, the children no different. Names, it seemed to the State, mattered very little in a system for the people.

  The system didn’t really work for orphaned kids.

  He didn’t know where his parents were. At eleven, he was in the higher age group, though there were kids right up to the age of seventeen. After that, he didn’t know where they went. Probably the army. There were no prospects for anyone leaving the institution. He knew that already by his age.

  He determined for it to be different.

  He’d been in the latest orphanage for four months, hardly anytime really, but even so, was now one of the old-timers in a system that moved kids around as quickly as the wind changed direction. And these kids knew a lot about the wind and the weather. Winters were bitter in the Soviet Union, especially in an orphanage.

  A group of four older kids ruled this latest home with an iron fist. It was as if they thought themselves the great dictators their country had occasionally produced down the years. Three boys and a girl. She was probably the worst of the lot.

  The staff there didn’t really notice what was going on or care. The four were seen as good kids, but when backs were turned––as they were for most of the day, the staff underpaid and unmotivated to be there, it was just a job for them––then the gang ruled. Any new child who arrived became their latest pet project. Some were given special treatment, most just became the gang's servants. The newcomers would have to provide them with extra food, give them extra blankets. Anything they demanded, they got. Step out of line, and the staff that were meant to care for them all couldn’t do anything to stop the gang from getting to anyone.

  No kid would be listened to if they ever complained. Everyone knew that. That’s why anyone over the age of ten who’d been in the system for any length of time knew speaking out was pointless. It just brought more trouble. You just hoped to be moved on as soon as possible, which would inevitably happen before too long anyway. What the Soviet leaders were trying to achieve by all the movement, nobody knew. The views of the child were never taken into account.

  They were just a number. Always a number, like the homes they stayed in. Never a name.

  He’d arrived at the age of four. He’d been in the system for seven years. The system was all he knew. He had no memory, no recollection of his life before the orphanage. Was that because he was too young, or his situation too terrible? Had he blocked out the abuse, blocked out the drinking parents? He had no way of knowing. A kid couldn’t ask about why they were there, either. It was just how it was. They were orphans, reliant on the State to look after them. They should be glad they weren’t all gassed. They should just get on with life. He’d been told that at least twice in the last few years.

  His number in the new orphanage was sixteen. There were about one hundred kids there, give or take. He couldn’t count properly past twenty yet. Education wasn’t a priority at the orphanage. Number-work a low priority, ironic given the system he was in. That meant just fifteen kids had been there longer than he had. The gang that ruled the place were, unsurprisingly, numbered one to four. No one knew how long they’d been there. When kids got to a certain age––the gang must have been teenage already, maybe by a few years in fact––they tended to stick to where they were. Everyone hoped to be moved away as quickly as possible, therefore. Yet every orphanage had similar groups. Some worse than others. These four ranked up there with the worst.

  Sixteen. It became his second name, the number printed on his top, the shirt baggy and two sizes too big for him, but most of them were. It was cheaper to make them all large enough to be able to fit the kids as they grew up. The staff would address them only by their number. There were too many kids, boys and girls who changed facilities continuously anyway, for them to ever be able to learn their names. But most kids never forgot, assuming they were old enough in the first place. In secret conversations, he’d come across orphans who didn’t know their name. They’d been in the system since birth, dropped in as babies. Nameless.

  One such kid had arrived that week. He must have been five or six years younger, his number ninety-nine, though there would soon be more.

  He was an outcast, though Sixteen didn’t know why. The others picked on him, teasing him. This caused the boy to withdraw even more. He’d so far kept away from the gang, but they always took a particular interest in the new kids. They were working through the latest ten with interest.

  Sixteen observed the boy. There was something different about him, though he didn’t know what it was. The system taught them nobody was unique, all were the same. Individualism was dismissed. They were a collective. The Great People’s Republic. Lone voices were not welcome. These were a danger to the nation.

  Ninety-nine was thin but sturdy. It was an inner strength more than physical power, but there was something that caused him to stand alone. He played on his own, too, not even trying to interact with the others.

  That was soon noticed by the gang. It was his turn to be inspected, and he didn’t take kindly to their presence. He apparently didn’t yet know the rules. Sixteen watched over the next day as the four bullies didn’t give the new boy a moment’s peace. While pretending to show him around, when away from watching eyes, they would punch him. Never in the face, never anywhere visible. The stomach, mainly, or the tops of the legs. The girl always picked the groin. She’d learnt from a young age how to hurt boys.

  “Leave him alone,” Sixteen said, though he was no match for a group much taller than he was.

  “Back off, kid,” One replied. He must have been at least sixteen-years-old himself. He had undoubtedly been shaving every day since Sixteen had been there. Ninety-nine just lay on the floor in pain, his eyes empty, not even pleading with him to continue to stand up for him. He
was lost.

  Sixteen took in the situation. He had to back away. He thought quickly, left them to it, but knew what to do. At the end of the corridor that the gang had brought their prey into was the rarely used storeroom. The corridor was the place they most often used, as the staff rarely walked that way. The storeroom was locked. Only the adults were ever allowed in there. It was quickly assumed that they would help themselves to the supplies delivered every week, keeping the best things for themselves.

  Sixteen ran into the toilet after leaving the gang. He had to act fast. He removed the toilet paper and tucked it into his shirt, though it hardly fitted. If anyone were to spot him, it would be obvious. He might not have even bothered to hide it. Checking the immediate coast was clear, he ran from the toilet. He could still hear the gang around the boy, his groans low. Crying out was never advisable. The staff rarely helped, and it only made the bullies target you all the more.

  Sixteen dumped the toilet paper, running immediately to one of the staff members, a little out of breath, but he managed to hide it well.

  “There is no paper in the toilet,” he said.

  “I replaced it this morning,” she said, puzzled. She marched off, nonetheless, towards the storeroom. Sixteen followed behind at a safe distance.

  “What do we have here?” he could hear the woman demanding, clearly coming across the altercation happening outside the storeroom. Sixteen smiled to himself and vanished. They couldn’t know it was him.

  The gang were punished severely. Such behaviour, though it happened all the time in all the orphanages, couldn’t be tolerated. The four would be kept off food supplies for three days, though everyone knew this would only make them more aggressive when they came back.

  Ninety-nine would also be the villain who caused all this trouble, despite the obvious fact he had little role in the situation. He was just the one they got caught kicking.

  Their revenge came a week later. Sixteen had heard the rumours from some of the older kids––orphans nine, twelve and thirteen. They’d apparently been there for three years. Back then, and the last time it had happened, a kid had been found dead at the bottom of the well.

  The well was situated in a section of the grounds that no child was allowed to enter. Like the storeroom, it was staff only. The well shaft itself was deep, at around twenty feet. Not something you wanted orphan kids playing around, risking falling into. The bucket that hung in the well was used each morning and evening to fill the tanks that provided the building with some water. It was reasonable to drink, though the kids noted that none of the staff ever did.

  One of the rumours that got passed onto every newcomer as to why the staff never drank the water was that they knew what was down there. It had become the legend that bodies of missing orphans were rotting at the base of the well. Utterly ludicrous, of course, but so were most rumours.

  There had been incidents, however.

  Ninety-nine was dragged out of the shower room before breakfast, a towel placed over his head, the rest of his body exposed. The gang had him.

  All the other boys fled the scene, silently going their own way as if seeing nothing. Sixteen noticed the return to the dorm of the others, some with soap still thick in their hair. He was quickly told what had happened, setting off immediately, despite the others telling him to stay clear.

  The door to the garden stood open, the section where kids were not allowed. Sixteen followed out through the door, a line of water indicating the still soaking child had been taken that way.

  From a distance, and in horror, Sixteen saw them throw the child into the well, the covering put back into place moments after. The staff had already collected water that morning, the showers proof of that. They wouldn’t be back until evening, by which time the boy would most certainly be dead. It was a long drop, enough to break some bones, and the water was presumably deep, though nobody knew.

  Plus the rotting corpses, of course. Sixteen shivered at the prospect. However, Sixteen knew he couldn’t just stand there and do nothing.

  The gang moved away, happy to have exacted revenge on the source of their troubles. They went back in through the rear door and closed it behind them. Sixteen emerged from the shadows, and checking it was all clear, raced over to the well. He paused for a moment at the covering. He’d had nightmares about what might be revealed underneath but pushed them from his mind.

  He heard a groan coming from just inside. It sounded close.

  Sixteen opened the cover and was surprised to see the boy gripping the rope for all he was worth, though his hands were slipping. He hadn’t yet fallen to the bottom. The rope had saved him.

  “Hold tight,” Sixteen called, the boy crying, his whole body shaking at the evident physical strain he was under.

  “Hurry!” he pleaded, his face red, his eyes blotchy.

  Sixteen reached down, winding up the bucket, which only moved it another couple of feet up. The boy was still a little out of reach, so Sixteen lent right down into the well, his right arm fully extended.

  “Take my hand,” he called, the boy gripping the rope with both hands as tightly as he could and just looking up, his eyes showing his strength was all but spent. Below him was only darkness, the water and stone and whatever else that there was, beyond their ability to see. It might well have been a bottomless pit. Sixteen repeated the instruction, this time with more urgency.

  The boy clearly thought about it for a second. With two hands, he had some grip, but his energy was running out. He couldn’t hold long with one, but letting go with his weaker left, he stretched up towards the boy who was dangling dangerously far down into the well-shaft himself. The tips of their fingers touched, but nothing more. His right hand began to scream at him, his whole arm starting to shake as the muscle burned. His fingers began to slip.

  “Reach up higher!” Sixteen demanded. With a final reach, the boy put all his remaining strength into pulling himself up a little on the rope and their hands connected. It was just in time, as his grip on the line then gave way. For a moment, he wondered if they were both about to tumble down into the pit. Ninety-nine had heard the rumours too. He’d not once looked down, instinct had taken over as his body was lifted and thrown into the hole, his captors laughing. He’d hit the rope, then the bucket and one hand had managed to find a grip. Then it had all gone dark.

  Sixteen pulled hard, his right hand holding him in place, his left gripping the now dangling kid. For a moment the forces were balanced, but Sixteen soon managed to start lifting the younger boy. A few moments later, Ninety-nine was back out of the well. They collapsed onto the ground in utter exhaustion, neither saying anything for a couple of minutes, taking lungfuls of air, while their adrenaline eased off, their heart rates lowering.

  The kid was also naked.

  “Thanks,” he said, finally. Sixteen had stood, grabbing some of the drying clothes from the line not far from the well. He threw them to the boy. “Thanks for saving my life,” Ninety-nine said, his voice weak, but his eyes determined.

  “You can’t stay here,” Sixteen said. “It won’t be safe for either of us.” The boy looked up at him. He obviously understood that much. He had now dressed. “Where will you go?”

  He looked around them. Beyond the garden, there was a fence, and immediately after that the forest.

  “I’ll go that way,” he said, nodding towards the trees, the density and time of day meaning he couldn’t see more than a few metres in. “I’ll be okay,” he said. “You saved my life. I’ll owe you one.”

  “Don’t mention it. But go, now. Before I’m discovered.”

  “It was you who stopped them beating me up last week as well, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I owe you two favours then,” he said, though he was about to flee into the darkness. For the boy's own sake, Sixteen hoped he never saw him again in his life.

  He took a few paces from Sixteen. “I don’t know what you are called.”

  “I’m Sixteen.”
His grey t-shirt had that number clear to see.

  “No, your real name.”

  “I’m Sasha,” Sasha said. “What’s your name?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve always been a number.” Despite his situation, despite what had just happened to him, Sasha could see the boy was smiling. Despite all the crap, there was a pure joy about the boy and appreciation that defied the moment.

  “Then I’ll give you a name,” Sasha said. “Joy,” he started, the boy repeating the name in Russian. “And I wish you peace,” he called after him. The boy turned around and repeated the phrase.

  “Radomir it is then. Nice meeting you Sasha, and thanks for saving my life,” and with that, Rad darted for the fence, climbing over it with ease. Sasha watched him disappear into the forest. He had no clue what predators and dangers might exist beyond the safety of the fence, but the orphanage was no safer for him now. Probably a lot more dangerous, in fact. And if the boy were to appear to anyone there, the gang would know that someone else had saved him. It wouldn’t take them long to realise it was Sasha.

  15

  London

  Sasha put his eye to the peephole. Getting a knock on the door past midnight was not typical, though he’d never been in the UK for New Year before. Maybe it was the neighbours?

  A disturbingly familiar face was before him. Staring back at Sasha were the eyes of someone he’d last seen as a young boy. The face had aged, that much was clear, but the same child was looking back at him.

  Sasha panicked for a brief moment. Helen was on the sofa, watching the television with a glass of wine. She was out of sight.

  Sasha opened the door. Rad stood stone-like in the hallway.

  “You know who I am?” he asked, as Sasha remained silent. He’d seen recognition on the man’s face.

  “I’d always wondered,” Sasha said. He’d heard about a man named Rad in the Russian army ranks, the same name as the boy he'd once saved, but it wasn’t a particularly uncommon name. Sasha had never seen a photo of the man, however. Rad was meant to be Russia’s best-kept secret. But the more Sasha had learned of the country’s best sniper, the more he wondered. Now Rad was standing in front of him in London.