The Englishman

by David Gilman

  Once he had been shoved into the dormitory, home to some of the men serving twenty-five years, the guards closed the doors behind him. The room was empty. There was only one vacant iron bedstead with a rolled mattress and blankets. He glanced around the room. The window frames were rotten, the glass as grimy as the deputy governor’s. He unfurled the bedding; it was damp. He’d be sleeping fully clothed until the stove was lit and the mattress dried. But it presented little hardship to someone who had spent so many years living in every hellhole the French government had sent him and his friends to. Raglan stood in the centre of the room looking from bed to bed. At the side of each was a rough wooden cabinet with a couple of drawers. On one of the windowsills, an old radio stood wired into a light socket. It looked as though it had already served a life sentence. There was no point in checking for any weapons in the bedside locker. The guards would toss the dormitories and cells regularly. If a prisoner had a knife or anything that passed as a stabbing weapon, it would either be stitched into his mattress or hidden behind a loose brick or floorboard. And if a man wanted to kill another there were more opportunities to do so outside in the exercise or work yard.

  Before he could give any more consideration to his new surroundings the door opened and a tall man, whom Raglan thought to be in his sixties, stepped into the room. In his prime he would have been a well-muscled pugilist, by the look of his broken features; now years of hard labour and harsh living conditions had pared down his weight and burnished his skin into a saddle-leather patina. He pulled off his feska and rubbed a hand across his white-cropped scalp. With a glance at Raglan, he retrieved a letter from his own bedside locker. The bed was the closest to the stove, denoting a privileged rank within the dormitory. Raglan stood where he was. He glimpsed the man’s name tag: Yefimov. The long-term prisoner pocketed the letter and stared at Raglan.

  ‘You’re no Russian. You don’t look Russian and I’ll wager when you open your mouth you won’t sound Russian.’

  Raglan remained silent.

  Yefimov grunted and took a step closer. ‘We don’t like strangers coming into our midst. It makes us nervous. We think the authorities have planted a spy.’

  ‘Why? Are you thinking of having a secret birthday party?’

  ‘Ah, a funny guy. That’s all right. We like a joke,’ said the older man without breaking into a smile.

  Raglan stared him down: an age-old masculine tradition telling each other that neither was used to yielding ground. The old man wasn’t fazed; he’d seen enough tough men come through these doors. Once they had spent a few nights listening to the banshee wind tormenting them, insisting that they would be unlikely to see their loved ones again, the toughness was soon knocked out of them. They became part of the herd, finding their place in the hierarchy until a hand of friendship was extended. It could be a slow process. But this Regnev was different. The deputy governor had told him to shepherd the man around. So be it. He’d get extra privileges. Perhaps extra phone calls to his daughter and grandkids. Anything else was none of his business.

  ‘There are only a couple of hundred men here. It’s better in a smaller camp like this than some of the others. You get to know who’s who. I’ve been here thirty-seven years. Soviet and Russian time. They’re no different. They gave me a double life sentence. It took me a long time to learn from my mistakes. I’ll die in here. If they hadn’t stopped the death sentence I wouldn’t have had to endure this hell. You understand what I am saying, young man?’

  Raglan saw that the man’s tag denoted he was a multiple murderer. His measured demeanour also told him that Yefimov was one of the more dangerous prisoners. His life was already written off; at least others would serve their twenty-five and get out. Yefimov had nothing to lose except privileges if he killed again.

  ‘I’m not here to cause trouble,’ said Raglan. ‘Not for you or anyone else.’

  The older man nodded. This Regnev had learnt the first lesson quickly. Know who was in charge among the men. A shrill clanging sounded from outside.

  ‘It’s time to eat. Then I’ll show you where you’ll be working. Get used to this place quickly, Regnev. A man can lose his mind here if he doesn’t.’

  *

  Raglan followed his guide across the snow-covered yard towards the canteen building. Seventy-four paces away. He was mapping out the layout of the camp.

  ‘Some prisoners are allowed telephone calls to their families. Few have that privilege. It depends.’

  Raglan didn’t ask what such privileges depended on and Yefimov didn’t expand. Most likely it was a reward for good behaviour or someone somewhere had sent money to grease the wheels.

  ‘We are allowed three parcels from the outside every year. You have someone? Someone who will send you the things you need?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you will have to trade some of your rations, or do someone a favour.’

  ‘What kind of favour?’

  ‘Whatever they need. Are you queer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Homosexuals are ostracized. They eat together and no one accepts anything from them. Understand? No favours from them. No cigarettes. No food. Nothing. Them and the child-killers. We don’t even shake their hand. They are not us. We call them “downcasts”. They are tolerated because we don’t want trouble in the camp.’ Yefimov gestured left and right as they walked. ‘We work at the saw bench and carpentry shop. You any good with engines? There’s work in the garages.’

  ‘I can fix things.’

  ‘Good.’ He made a vague gesture beyond one of the enclosed yards. ‘Over there, when the snow clears, we grow vegetables. We eat well here. And that place past the wood yard? That’s the barn where we keep pigs. Maybe you can kill pigs? Most of us refuse. They squeal. They scream as the knife cuts into their throats. Most of us don’t want to hear such screams again. So, here’s the canteen.’

  Raglan followed him inside. Steam from the large pots of stew misted the windows. Men stood in line to be served two ladles of watery stew and a chunk of thick bread by cooks behind an open hatch. Tables with four or six men seated around them filled the room. Three long refectory tables split the room into informal sections. All the tables were covered with discoloured oilskin tablecloths. The line of men parted as they gave Yefimov a place of honour. He stepped in without acknowledging the gesture and took one of the stacked metal plates and spoons and handed them to Raglan, who understood that from then on he was being protected by the senior man in the camp. Yefimov nodded towards a table on the far side of the canteen.

  ‘Downcasts,’ he said. ‘Remember their faces. Take and give nothing unless you need a blowjob. Then you give them a couple of cigarettes. That’s as far as it goes. We even make them use their own plates and spoons. We are condemned men, Regnev, our souls are probably beyond redemption, but them… they burn longer in hell than the rest of us.’

  The watery stew splashed into Raglan’s plate. The food did not look appetizing but it was hot and something that looked like a piece of meat and a few cut vegetables floated in the murky water. There had been times when he had eaten worse during his time in the Legion.

  ‘I see what you mean,’ said Raglan. ‘You eat well here.’

  Yefimov grinned. ‘You’re learning already, Regnev. You’ll have no trouble fitting in.’

  45

  Two weeks was barely enough time to find JD and make a plan of how to kill him, thought Raglan as he settled into his still-damp bed. Where was JD? There had been no sign of him in the canteen, no sight of him among the squads of prisoners being marched from their dormitories to their workplaces. There were 273 men in Penal Colony #74 and if Yefimov was in on the plan, then he had made no mention of the killer concealed among the murderers. And if he was incarcerated in one of the lifers’ cells then he could not be reached.

  Raglan only half slept, monitoring the unfamiliar noises that surrounded him. His mind tried to track the sounds, alert to anything untoward: the creak of a floorboa
rd that shouldn’t be there, the intake of breath from an assailant as the night air cooled, anything that would give him warning of a sneak attack. The old wooden building creaked, moaning with age and fatigue. The wind found every gap in the planking and a constant cool brush of air wafted across his face. Yefimov had told him that by morning the weather would be clear and he would join the work party in the forest. The long-term inmates knew the vagaries of the weather in all its seasons, just as creatures of the forest did. The room stank of stale sweat and flatulence. Occasionally someone would moan from the depths of his tormenting dream. So far, nothing unusual about men sharing sleeping quarters. The meagre blankets offered some warmth, but until the wood stove was cranked up when winter descended and it was −45 °C outside, the chill never left the room.

  The siren woke them in the darkness at five when it was still dark and Raglan followed the men from the dormitory to the ablution block.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ said one grudgingly, ‘we get hot water once a week. But you get it the day after you arrive. We stink after a few days cutting and hauling timber.’ There was no attempt at greeting; no introduction. The men from his dormitory cast a glance his way every so often. Weighing him up. Waiting to see what tattoos he bore and what they revealed about him. A side room had rough wooden cubicles for the men to hang their clothes. The green gloss-painted woodwork was the only colour Raglan had seen inside the prison. Once they had stripped naked, they went into the room next door, which was furnished with half a dozen stands with buckets of steaming water and padded cloths and soap. A cistern hung from each side of the room with a rope release to sluice water over a soaped body. Raglan did as the others did, soaking the cloth and soaping himself. He uttered a silent prayer that Tomasz’s temporary tattoos would stand the rigour of the hot water and soap. If the killing symbol of the knife stained into his neck seeped and ran, he would be dead before the day was out. You’ll be left standing with your dick in your hand and nowhere to run.

  He turned and bent to wash his legs so he could glance around at the others. Very few men bore gangland or prison tattoos. If they had been looking his way they quickly averted their eyes, all except for one prisoner. His muscled frame told Raglan he had stamina and strength and his body bore tattoos to rival Raglan’s. This guy was a hard case. Russian mafia. Hitman. He too had inked epaulettes denoting he had held rank in a gang. Across his back were images of Russian church spires; his neck and arms sported knives piercing skulls. An oskal, a tiger’s bared fangs, snarled from his right shoulder and a knight’s shield smothered his flanks. All these symbols, interspersed with various stars needled into his flesh, declared him a man not in any way fearful of causing death, or dying himself. A tapestry of violence. He kept looking. Raglan turned his gaze away and sluiced himself off beneath the cistern.

  Daylight ushered in a sky that shone so blue it hurt the eyes, the snow gleaming beneath the stark rays of the sun. Once dressed the prisoners stood in four ranks before the guard commander who barked out a roll call. Seasoned prisoners were given status even here on the parade ground. Those who had served the longest were called and checked and released from the ranks. They got to eat breakfast first. Yefimov was the first to be dismissed; Raglan the last. He looked across the ranks of prisoners but there was still no sight of the man he had come to kill. A momentary fear stabbed at him. What if JD was not here at all? Raglan might be imprisoned here longer than he thought. He pushed aside the doubt, convinced that the deputy governor had given him all the clues he needed to know that JD was here somewhere. By the time he reached the canteen, there was barely time to grab the tin mug of tea, find a table that still had sugar cubes and wolf down a wad of thick bread smeared with margarine and jam.

  Another siren signalled work parties to gather. Raglan ran from the canteen and spotted Yefimov striding towards a group of men: most were from his dormitory and already issued with axes, saws and chains.

  ‘You work with my group, Regnev. Take that,’ Yefimov said, pointing to a long-handled axe. ‘You’ll clear the undergrowth while we chain up the cut timber.’ Guards’ whistles blew, gates were opened, and the prisoners formed up and trudged through the snow. Their crunching boots broke the stillness; one of the guard dogs barked. That was the only sound. The rest was silence as they passed through the palisade walls and into the boreal forest that pressed up against the prison. If a man could get over a wall, or through a wire mesh fence, he was already condemned to a slow death in a forest that blocked out light and had no man-made tracks. They might as well not have bothered to build the walls, Raglan thought.

  Seven hundred and fourteen paces took Raglan from the buildings across the work yard to the outer gate. So far he had determined that the prison had an outer palisade wall, then at reasonably equal spacing, in true bureaucratic and totalitarian discipline, a double wire fence topped with barbed wire, another wooden fence, then another mesh-and-barbed-wire barrier and finally the inner palisade wall that formed the first line of defence closest to the buildings. Glancing left and right he saw six watchtowers strategically placed, each manned by a single armed guard.

  As the men passed through the gate, they crossed a road going left and right. To his right, the road disappeared into bleak nothingness. A single strip road leading away to infinity, ploughed snow piled high each side, frozen and grimy. The road dipped and rose again. Beyond the perimeter fence and to the left in the distance was a cluster of dwellings, a little hamlet with smoke rising from the houses’ tall chimney stacks. He reckoned this was accommodation for the administrative staff and the guards and their families, little more than a kilometre away. Somewhere out of sight was the frozen lake which would most likely be the only open expanse in this dense forest. If an escape could be made that’s where he would try to put some distance between him and pursuing guards. It was early enough in the winter for the frozen lake not to bear the weight of vehicles if he dared to cross it. And if he made it that far then he knew he could outrun the unfit guards. After that? He had no idea. Not yet. That would be a desperate time and desperate decisions would be made.

  The work party struck across the clearing in the forest. Like rodents gnawing a cardboard box, the woodcutters had edged their way into the larch and pine over the years. After what felt like a thirty-minute walk across the harvested ground, their guard settled himself on a pile of stacked wood, laid his submachine gun down next to him, yawned, lit a cigarette and left Yefimov to organize what needed to be done in the clearing. Most of the men had already split up into their respective pairings.

  ‘Regnev, you will work with him,’ he said, pointing out a man of similar age to Raglan. Yefimov turned his face away so that the man could not hear what was being said about him. ‘His friend’s wife and daughter were abducted, raped and murdered by another family’s sons. The family were Communists who had got hold of some easy money and bought influence. It’s a well-worn story, Regnev. He got pissed one night and took revenge on behalf of his friend. He murdered seven people. The whole family. Did it nice and slow as well. Invaded their house, tied them up and spent the night killing each one slowly in front of the others. He saved the father until the end so he could watch his family go under the knife – or rather a meat cleaver, according to the police report. He’s all right. He won’t cause you any trouble. In fact he will be helpful to you, because he can already see that you are at my side.’

  Raglan glanced at the man, who looked as though he could have been back-room staff in a supermarket. He was slender, with a receding hairline and wire-rimmed spectacles. Raglan doubted he’d have the strength to wield a pen, let alone clear land with an axe. He didn’t bear any tattoos: he was simply an uncomplicated mass killer.

  ‘Don’t get him started on Communists, for God’s sake. He has nothing less than a religious hatred for them. His name is Kirill. If he talks it will be about the Bible, Russia and Putin. Let him. Save yourself grief by not arguing with him. Not everyone here believes in God or Putin, but we
have a few. They’re a pain in the arse. You’re my gift to him. It gives the rest of us a break.’ Yefimov grinned.

  Raglan snorted the droplets from his nostrils. The cold air was already stiffening his face muscles. He nodded. ‘OK. One of the men I knew when I was in the army was Vietnamese. He was a Buddhist.’ He glanced to where Kirill was walking towards the undergrowth with his axe. ‘I could offer him an alternative point of view to Russian Orthodoxy.’

  Yefimov scowled. ‘The hell you say. You want to start a religious war?’

  He gazed at the stony-faced Raglan and then he realized.

  ‘You’re a strange one, Regnev. You had me going there for a moment.’

  Raglan shrugged. ‘Just something to pass the time.’

  ‘Time isn’t something we think about here. Get your arse over there and start cutting. We need to clear a way so that when we fell the trees, the horses can come in and drag them clear. We take a break in four hours.’

  ‘And then?’

  Yefimov glanced to where the guard was sitting, now facing away from them.

  ‘Then I’ll tell you about the shit storm you might have started and the man who would be happy to cut your throat before the day is out.’

  46

  Kirill proved to be a decent enough work companion. He had only served ten of his twenty-five-year sentence. He prattled on non-stop, which suited Raglan because he doubted his Russian vocabulary was broad enough to discuss the finer points of Vladimir Putin’s desire to see the Russian Orthodox Church become a defining characteristic of Russian life. That Putin, insisted Kirill, is a good man. You’ll see, he persisted without drawing breath. Putin will make Russia great again. He stopped swinging his axe, raised his eyes to the infinite heaven above, pulled free his feska, crossed himself and told Raglan that now the Church had a close relationship with the Kremlin, Mother Russia would be blessed by the Almighty and achieve great things in this decadent world whose cancerous values had spread from the West. The filth on television. The rise in prostitution. Russian women even selling themselves as wives in other countries. Self-respect and love for one’s country had become diseased. It all needed to be cut out as a surgeon cuts out a tumour. Gathering the axe again, he swung it through the saplings and Raglan saw how a quick flash of anger had changed the face of the mild-mannered man. That look of rage might have been the last thing the murdered family ever saw. Kirill spat. Did his new friend know that during the Soviet era the priests and worshippers were persecuted? When those atheist Communist bastards had been in power they had torn down the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour in Moscow and replaced it with a massive swimming pool. Kirill shook his head in disbelief. He paused and wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘I only killed Communists,’ he said by way of excusing his crimes.