The Englishman

by David Gilman

  After painting the picture of the house’s location in his mind Raglan decided that the blind side over a low fence between the house and the snow-banked verges seemed to be the best way in. Anything else to worry about? Raglan wanted to know. There was a vegetable garden once the snow melted and if the ground had been turned and left fallow in late autumn then it would be uneven underfoot and difficult to see beneath a snowfall. Easy enough to twist an ankle on the hidden, concrete-hard ground. Kirill described the house again, but Raglan didn’t mind him repeating himself. The more the image of the house coalesced into a vivid mental picture the easier it would be to plan his approach and gain entry.

  From the street, a path led straight to the front door. Anyone looking from any of the front windows would have no difficulty seeing someone approach. A neighbour had a dog run alongside the left-hand perimeter which gave the house added security. There were no guards. None were needed. Besides, the man was armed. Kirill didn’t know what kind of pistol it was, but he knew it was heavy because he’d had to move it off a side table to wipe up beer rings; he thought it looked like the same sidearm as that used by the guards. Raglan knew it was an MP-443 Grach. Unlike lightweight western law-enforcement sidearms, this was all-steel construction. Typical unbreakable Russian manufacture. Carbon steel on the slide and frame and a stainless steel barrel. A bruiser. Its clip carried seventeen rounds, sometimes armour-piercing, and one in the chamber. It was the same weapon JD had used in London to kill Abbie.

  ‘And when are you going to clean the house again?’

  ‘The day after tomorrow.’

  ‘So, if a burglar was crazy enough to try and get into this house how would he go about it?’ Raglan said.

  ‘How? He wouldn’t be so damned stupid. Neighbours to one side, front and back. A lane at the back and the road at the front gate. Barking dogs over the neighbour’s wall and not a tree in sight. As bare as a baby’s arse. A burglar here?’ He cleared his throat and spat.

  Raglan did not repeat the question. He waited.

  ‘What? Your mother drop you on the head when you were born?’ Kirill surrendered with a shrug. ‘The back gate and a short run to the pantry. There’s a window. Climb through that window and once you’re inside the pantry there’s a mesh fly screen into the back entrance. It’s like an inner hall. The back door is there on the right of that. It’s solid. But if you got into the pantry you’d be inside the house.’

  ‘What’s below the window?’

  ‘A cupboard.’

  ‘High enough for a man to get his feet on to?’

  Kirill nodded. ‘There are a few glass storage jars. That’s all.’ The look of pity on Kirill’s face said it all. He shook his head and turned away. He had seen plenty of men lose their minds in the prison but never one who had arrived without one. These gangsters. What a bunch of thick bastards.

  *

  Like the other men, Raglan stank by the time they returned, their clothes dried with the stale sweat from their efforts and made worse by the humid warmth in the dormitory. He didn’t care about having to wait before they were allowed to shower again, because he had no idea whether the tattoos would stand up to another hot wash.

  ‘How much longer before the weather changes?’ he asked Yefimov when he came into the dormitory.

  ‘Never mind that,’ Yefimov said, sitting next to Raglan on his bed. ‘Matveyev is making his move tonight.’

  It was too soon. The torpedo was going to jeopardize everything. The narrow margin of time was too tight for additional problems. Raglan ignored the information for the moment. ‘When is the weather going to change?’

  ‘You heard what I said? Matveyev is going to try and kill you.’

  ‘When is it changing?’ Raglan insisted.

  Yefimov sighed and relented. ‘Tomorrow it starts, then the day after more snow. It will clear for a day and then the snow gets heavier.’

  Raglan knew he had to deal with Matveyev, stay safe another day, then get to the house and kill JD on the same day as Kirill’s visit. And then escape. ‘You’re supposed to watch my back. Tell the deputy governor what’s going down. He’ll stop him.’

  Yefimov shook his head. ‘No, Regnev, I’m no snitch. It would come out and no matter who I am I would end up dead in the showers with my wrists slit. Suicide is not uncommon. I was told to watch your back like you said, and I have done that. I have warned you.’

  He got up to leave but Raglan held him back. ‘Where will he try?’

  ‘I don’t know that and I am unlikely to find out in time. I called in favours to learn this much.’

  ‘Where would you make the attempt?’

  Yefimov settled again. ‘I would have tried to kill you in the wood yard. It’s easy to stage a nasty accident there with the bandsaw and chipping equipment. But not at night. No, it will be inside somewhere.’ He thought it through a moment longer. ‘The boiler room.’

  That made sense. Raglan had been sent there soon after he arrived to help feed the furnace. The area was not only deserted at night but the approach was a narrow passage, barely two metres wide, its height restricted by ageing metal pipework; the low ceiling made it even more claustrophobic. Bare armoured bulbs that gave out little more than a dull glow were all that illuminated it. The end of the passage opened out into the room where the pre-war boiler and furnace themselves were located. The boiler provided the administrative offices with warmth and the prisoner ablution blocks and camp kitchens with hot water. The room was the warmest place in the camp other than the bakery, but being a boiler attendant was a double-edged sword. The heat sapped a man during their shift and then the outside cold withered him further.

  ‘Who sets it up?’ said Raglan.

  ‘Word will come from his people.’ He looked at Raglan. ‘You cannot refuse, you know that. Vory-v-zakone never back down.’

  ‘I need to see the place again before then.’

  Yefimov nodded. ‘We had better eat first.’ He stood and looked down at Raglan. ‘It might be the last meal you have.’

  ‘If he kills me you’re in the shit,’ said Raglan.

  Yefimov shrugged. ‘I lose privileges is all, but if you beat him then you can’t kill him, because if you do they will close the camp to investigate. Hurt him enough to put him in the infirmary. You ask me about the weather; you ask Kirill about the house he cleans. Whatever you’re planning, it all ends if you kill Matveyev.’

  49

  There was one way into the boiler room and one way out. Raglan edged along the passage, his arms extended, hands touching pipes and walls of bare rock, remembering through touch. The pipes creaked from the pressure of the heat from the old boiler; humidity from the poorly ventilated cellar covered the walls with a sheen of condensation. He listened to the sounds from the clunking boiler, to the drip of leaking pipes, memorizing the sounds so he was familiar with them and would recognize any other disturbance caused by his opponent.

  Twenty-four paces took him to where the passage widened into the room. Six metres by ten. Pipework was suspended from the ceiling with rust-collared joints that dripped; others had a necklace of green from the lime content in the water that sealed in any escaping leak. A bunker heavy with coal sat beneath a chute, its metal trapdoor above seeping light around the edges and allowing melting snow to drip in, giving the dark nuggets a glossy sheen. Next to the coal was a stacked woodpile. The old boiler and furnace sat in the middle of the room and the closer he got the more he felt the heat smother him. He knew that Matveyev would come armed so Raglan looked around for any potential weapon. A cut piece of lead piping, as long and thick as an old-fashioned truncheon, lay on the floor, kicked to one side against the base of the wall. He hefted it, feeling its balance and weight. A long-handled coal shovel stood next to the bunker. There was little doubt in his mind that if Matveyev beat him, even into unconsciousness, then the furnace door would be knocked open with the shovel and his body forced into the white-hot oven.

  Raglan retraced his steps to the
entrance, turned back and gazed down the passage. The light switch was on his immediate left. Propping the lead pipe behind the fins of a disused radiator, half covered with a canvas tarp, he edged backwards and focused on what he planned to do. Satisfied, he turned again and clambered up the steps to where Yefimov had been keeping watch at the top. The old man opened the door to the outside yard, the cold rush of air suddenly chilling the sweat on Raglan’s face.

  ‘And now?’ asked Yefimov.

  ‘Sleep,’ said Raglan.

  *

  Raglan slept deeply, compartmentalizing thoughts of the fight so that his body could get maximum rest. It had taken a couple of years in the Legion before he had learnt how to switch off the unnecessary worry about approaching combat. Preparation was everything. What couldn’t be determined about the target would be dealt with when the time came.

  The dormitory door creaked open. Raglan’s eyes snapped open. The lights from the compound perimeter cast shadows through the murky glass as a figure crept in and knelt next to Yefimov’s bed. The old man whispered something and then, as the messenger left, he clambered up stiffly and made his way towards Raglan. His hand reached out to touch Raglan’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m awake,’ Raglan said quietly.

  Yefimov remained silent and shuffled back a step, his thick woollen socks whispering on the floorboards. Raglan had remained dressed, ready to move should the vory-v-zakone code of honour not be as honourable as it was thought to be. Standards had dropped everywhere these days. Professional killers always needed the upper hand and Raglan had half expected Matveyev to creep into the dormitory and attempt to plunge a knife into him while he slept. But Matveyev would never have survived if he had done so. His reputation needed to be enforced by killing Raglan one-on-one.

  Yefimov led the way out of the dormitory. Men turned in their beds, and he heard one or two of them wish him luck. No longer just the new man sent to the colony, he was being accepted as one of them, who shared the same privations and dormitory. Raglan estimated it was about two in the morning as they slipped out of the hut, their boots crunching on snow. Small balls of light from the individual light bulbs were dotted along the perimeter wire. The watchtowers were manned, silhouetted against the dark blue sky. Stars glistened on the sparkling snow. Raglan hunched against the cold but had deliberately worn only his uniform canvas jacket. He would soon be warm enough and he needed to be agile. Once inside the building the old man made him wait at the top of the stairs while he went down to ensure it was only Matveyev waiting in the gloom. Raglan heard the heavy footfall approach as he returned. The old man nodded.

  Raglan tugged free his jacket and handed it to Yefimov. ‘Are you going back to the dormitory?’

  ‘I wait here in case his friends show up. He has a knife,’ he whispered.

  Raglan nodded and turned down the stairs. He felt the same anticipation as when he had crept into the caves years before.

  *

  Raglan went down the steps on the balls of his feet and then waited, letting his heartbeat settle, wanting the thud of the blood being pumped through his veins to die down so it did not interfere with his hearing. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he listened to the sounds he had familiarized himself with. At the end of the passage, a shadow crossed the wall. Raglan let his fingers find the hidden length of lead pipe. He reached out and switched off the lights. There was an immediate grunt of surprise from somewhere in the boiler room. Raglan stepped forward, hesitating every couple of strides as he listened for movement. He rolled the side of his foot to minimize the sole of his boot scuffing the concrete floor. He took fourteen paces and then stopped. He was halfway. Once again he listened. Seven more steps. Pause. Three more. And then, as he was at the mouth of the room, he extended his stride.

  He smelt Matveyev before he felt the rush of darkness. Raglan half turned, pressed himself against the wall for support and swung the low-held pipe upwards in a fast uppercut blow. It connected with Matveyev’s arm. The torpedo cried out, snorting in pain, but by the time Raglan had spun on the balls of his feet and brought down the pipe in a sweeping cross, he found only empty air. He quickly corrected, stopping himself from losing his balance. Matveyev was breathing hard but had stumbled back towards the boiler.

  Raglan crouched, peering up to where the coal chute’s cover showed a barely visible razor-edge of light from the compound lamps. It was enough for him to see the dark form of the big man cross in front of it. The coal bunker was six paces from where Raglan waited. He went forward quickly, swung the pipe and felt it connect with the man’s shoulder but Matveyev had the strength to absorb the strike. Raglan felt the killer’s body twist away and knew the knife held in the man’s right hand was already lunging towards his stomach. He turned his back into Matveyev’s chest – he risked being held by the bigger man but figured that with a numb shoulder and his knife hand being brought to bear, the mafia killer would have no chance of grabbing him. He brought both hands together on the length of pipe; straightening his arms he extended it to block any blow and felt the man’s wrist strike the pipe hard. Matveyev cried out. Raglan gave him no time to recover; snapping his head up he felt the pipe connect with the man’s face. Matveyev cursed, found strength in his numbed shoulder and brought an elbow down hard. It connected just below Raglan’s neck into the muscle that connected to his shoulder. It carried a lot of power and told Raglan that the killer could take pain and still have strength enough to deliver a crippling blow.

  Raglan threw himself forward as the knife swished where his head had just been. He felt the hot tear of flesh as the blade caught his ribs beneath his raised arm. Barely a second passed before he tucked in his shoulder, rolled, recovered and stayed low. He heard Matveyev’s wet laboured breathing; his nose had been broken by Raglan’s headbutt and the killer was sucking air through his mouth. Suddenly the sound stopped for an instant as Matveyev threw himself into the darkness, his own senses telling him where Raglan was. He had not realized that Raglan had stayed low; his legs struck the Englishman. One of his kneecaps caught Raglan a hard blow on the temple and Raglan felt the darkness swirl as Matveyev, spitting a curse, fell headlong into the wall. Raglan slithered away, his head spinning as he tried to orientate himself. Matveyev recovered quickly and began kicking out wildly. The toe of his boot caught Raglan’s thigh, dead-legging the muscle. Ignoring the stabbing pain he sprang to his feet and swung the pipe back and forth in front of him. He heard the crack of bone. Matveyev cried out and staggered back. Raglan lunged and the man’s sweat was in his nostrils. Both men grunted with the all-consuming effort of staying alive.

  The heat from the furnace intensified as they grappled back into the darkness. Raglan’s free hand gripped Matveyev’s wrist, muscles straining as he forced the man’s knife hand back towards the heat. The torn flesh in his side felt raw and he used its sting to drive air into his lungs. He snapped his knee up between the torpedo’s legs and the stench of the man’s breath smothered his face as the wind was knocked out of him. The sudden excruciating pain weakened the Russian and Raglan pressed home his attack, forcing the back of Matveyev’s knife hand against the furnace. The skin sizzled, the knife dropped and Matveyev bellowed. The agony of the burn renewed his strength and his headbutt caught Raglan on the forehead. It felt as though he had struck him with a hammer. His legs buckled and he rocked back on his heels, losing the slender advantage he had gained. Matveyev threw his weight against his assailant but Raglan was lucky: he twisted clear as Matveyev, already unbalanced from the headbutt, crashed into the heaped coal. Raglan sidestepped, felt the heat of the boiler on his back and swung the lead pipe low and fast with all his weight. It connected with Matveyev’s leg. He heard the shin bone splinter. The burly Russian vomited, the spurt of bile telling Raglan where he had turned his head. Raglan stepped closer, struck down again and heard bones in the big man’s face crack too.

  Raglan sucked in air and tested his weight on the dead leg, ignoring its protest. He controlled his brea
th, half turning his head so he could listen to the other man’s rattled breathing.

  It was done.

  Raglan dropped the pipe and reached under his arm and felt the wet shirt. He couldn’t tell how deep the cut was but blood soaked his shirt and waistband. It was a cut, not a stab wound, so nothing vital had been injured. He guessed he was four or five paces from the mouth of the passageway. It took three and he banged into the wall like a drunk in an alleyway. He swore, turned left and paced out the twenty-four strides to the end of the passageway where he fumbled for the light switch. The dim lights cast their muted glow as he walked back and found Matveyev unconscious. His face was a bloodied mess and he could see bone from his leg pressing upwards into his trouser leg. He bent down and checked the fallen man’s pulse. He was still alive. After a moment’s search Raglan found the knife. It was a seven-inch workshop shiv made of sharpened metal, its handle tine welded and bound with tape for grip. He had no idea whether any guards had been alerted so it made no sense to risk it being found on him. He tossed it into the darkness at the back of the room; then he limped back down the passage and up the steps. Yefimov stood in the corridor with another prisoner standing opposite him.

  ‘One of his,’ said Yefimov. ‘Had the same thought as me. Came to see it was just you and him.’

  ‘He dead?’ the stranger asked.

  ‘Hurt bad,’ Raglan told him. ‘He needs the infirmary.’

  The man nodded. ‘Better you did not kill him. Better for everyone,’ he said as he started down the steps.

  ‘So I’m told,’ said Raglan, stepping out into the snow. He bent and grabbed a handful and pressed it against his ribs. The snow quickly coloured red.