by Tig Hague
‘Yeah, it was OK, I think,’ I replied, eager not to sound too triumphant. ‘It was pretty positive, if I’m honest. He said my papers are in good order and my name will be on the list.’ I let out a nervous laugh before putting my arm round his shoulder and adding: ‘You’re going to be just fine. You’re the only prisoner they like because you work hard and you don’t cause trouble. You’ve got the respect; I’ve got the cigs and the chocolate. We’re both going to be OK. I can feel it. We’ll both be walking through those goddam gates together.’
36
It was the evening of 9 February, the day Zanpolit was to lodge my parole application at the local court, and I decided to celebrate by cooking Boodoo John and myself a bowl of noodles using the last few slices of kolbasa. For pudding we were going to have the last of the six tins of sliced peaches in syrup. After that, only noodles and oatmeal biscuits remained from the provisions that Lucy had brought down from Moscow in November, and from around Christmas time I’d been eating smaller portions to spin them out. If the worst came to the worst and my release was delayed by a few days, or even a couple of weeks, I could always start eating the disgusting prison meals again. The end of my ordeal was in sight, and I wasn’t bothered about going hungry for a few weeks, knowing that soon I’d be tucking into some proper food back in England.
Boodoo John said little as he ate, and it was obvious that he was worried sick about getting his parole, though he was too polite to say as much. He made the odd grunt of appreciation as he wolfed down his noodles, exclaiming, ‘You’re some chef, English boy!’ and slapped me on the back as he took our bowls to wash them under the tap in the wash area next door. But like so many others whose fates were to be decided in the coming weeks, he was restless and distracted. I’d been trying to make a concerted effort to conceal my glee at the prospect of my impending release, following the tip-off from Zanpolit, but sometimes my optimism and excitement just burst out, like a nervous laugh, for all to witness. My body language, for a start, was more confident, and there was almost a swagger in my stride as I went about the Zone with my head and shoulders no longer slumped downwards and my boots no longer shuffling miserably through the snow. And for the first time in over a year, all the pop tunes that had once filled my head from dawn to dusk started to return, like signs of spring, the first shoots of new life starting to emerge from the earth. After our noodles I shuffled down the corridor in my slippers towards the TV room, whistling the Oasis track ‘Don’t Look Back in Anger’.
As I walked past the small office, the sullen young guard obsessed by military hardware was leaning back in his chair with his combat boots up on the table, staring through the door. Behind him, the surging wind drove the recently fallen snow up against the atrad, making the window rattle and whine like a kettle. I carried on walking and whistling and was halfway down the corridor when he shouted my name and beckoned me back to see him. I moon-walked backwards until I reached the door and craned my neck so that he could see only my head.
‘Yes, nachalnik?’
‘Hague Tig,’ he said, sneering down his long, pointy nose. ‘Your parole application – where is it? Maybe you want to stay here? Maybe Mordovia is better than England?’
‘What?’ I blurted out, as alarm ran through me like a wave of electricity and I spun round in one motion, my momentum carrying me to within a yard of the table. ‘But Zanpolit said… he said… he was going to give it to you to sign… where is it? It should be in court…’
‘Don’t ask me,’ he shrugged, and picked up the magazine on his lap, lifting it up so that I could no longer see his face.
I grabbed my coat and hat, pulled on my boots and rushed outside to join the end of the queue to be buzzed over to the offices. Half an hour later I was standing in Zanpolit’s office pleading with him for an explanation. Not looking up from his desk, he said slowly and coldly, as if he was trying to control his temper: ‘I gave him your papers as I said, Hague Tig. Be very careful how you speak to me. Now just go away…’
‘But, my parole… what about the judge?… will I still make the list… will you take my papers…?’
Zanpolit sat back in his chair and gave me the eyeball as he ran his bony fingers through his swept-back gelled hair. After a pause, he pointed at me, narrowed his eyes, and pointed at the door.
I didn’t know which of the two spiteful bastards to believe, but it made no difference anyhow because I wasn’t in a position to call either of them a liar or an incompetent. Either one of them could torpedo my parole application. Humility and diplomacy and a bagload of Marlboro offered the only route forward, and the following evening, after a fretful day watching the clock and pacing around Ergin’s office, I went back to the atradnik and presented him with eighty cigs, a small pot of Gold Blend and a KitKat. For a guard, this was a massive bribe, the equivalent of two weeks’ wages, and when I dumped the goods on the table, a look of astonishment spread over his face before he quickly stuffed them into the little camouflage fabric rucksack at his feet. He nodded up at me and I left the room.
Zanpolit hadn’t yet taken the bundle of parole applications to court, but time was fast running out. The Zone was on full alert, and when Zanpolit did finally emerge from the office building, weighed down with bundles of our applications, the news would spread to every corner of the camp within minutes. I wanted my file of papers to be sitting on Zanpolit’s desk ready to leave, but the atradnik twat wanted to play mind games with me, so he held on to them and then, quite literally, leant back in his chair for a few days and watched me grow ever more frantic. Every evening, with increasing desperation, I asked him if he had got round to writing my character reference and each time, never looking up from his Guns ’n’ Ammo mag, he gave me the same infuriating answer: ‘When I have time, Hague Tig. When I have time.’ He only needed to write one simple line saying I had kept out of trouble, but for four days he did nothing but sit in his little office reading his weapons porn, occasionally getting up to make an inspection of the atrad or go outside for a stretch and a smoke. Every stage of the parole process was designed to be as awkward and frustrating as possible for the prisoners, and this nasty little game, leaving it right to the final possible moment, was one more ‘fuck you’ from this guard. The sad wanker was trying to push my patience to the limit, hoping I’d snap at him so that he’d be able to hit me with a black mark. I wasn’t being singled out and picked on. It was just an unwritten rule in the guards’ contract to seize every opportunity to make life as stressful as possible for the inmates.
The anxiety made sleep difficult, and after a fourth night of fretting and cursing I could stand it no longer. I went to see the atradnik and begged him to sign me off. It was a demeaning experience, but I had run out of options and I was prepared to do virtually anything to make sure my application reached the court, where no bastard in the Zone could stall or tamper with it – and if that meant humiliating myself before a moronic, malicious redneck ten years my junior, then so be it. ‘Please, please, nachalnik,’ I said, my face screwed up in desperation, my hands cupped together and pressed against my heart, like a kid pleading for sweets. ‘Please, help me. You are a good man…’ This was exactly what the evil little shit wanted – a display of grovelling servitude from the ‘rich’ Englishman. In a way, I had humiliated him by giving him a pile of bribes he could never afford on his wages, drawing attention to the fact that even though I was a prisoner and he my gaoler, I was still financially better off than him. Now he had had his revenge. He went to the locked cupboard on the wall by the window, took out my bundle of papers from the upper shelf and sat back down at the table. Pulling a biro out of the inner pocket of his combat jacket, he scrawled a single line on to a blank piece of paper and signed his name below. He handed me the bundle and immediately waved me out of the room with a dramatic flourish, like I was a massive fucking mosquito.
Walking backwards out of the room, and bowing as I went, I smiled and said: ‘Spasiba, spasiba, nachalnik, you pathetic little w
orm, spasiba, spasiba…’
I delivered the completed application to Zanpolit that evening and sought final reassurance from him that I was still on the list of prisoners he was recommending for release. ‘Hague Tig will be a free man very soon,’ he smiled. The following morning, shortly before we assembled by the factory gates, I was out in the exercise yard smoking a cigarette when Zanpolit emerged from the offices in his long Gestapo-style leather coat, carrying a fat briefcase in each hand. Immediately a cheer went up along all three of the yards, and some prisoners threw themselves against the mesh fencing, shouting questions at him as he walked towards his ancient brown Ford Escort and loaded the hopes of fifty men into the boot. Zanpolit didn’t even look up as he climbed into the car and sped out of the gates with a few flashy revs of the engine and a squeal of wheels that sent muddy slush and exhaust fumes flying into the air behind him.
That evening, I, Boodoo John, Julian and Ergin, together with every other parole applicant, were summoned to the offices after the final preverka to be handed a receipt, proving that our papers had been lodged at court. Back in the atrad, all four of us hugged and slapped each other’s backs. The rivalry was over. We had all made the list of hopefuls, and now it was down to the judge. It was out of our hands. It was, thank God, out of the Zone’s hands.
When the judge would sit to consider our cases was anyone’s guess. Even if they knew, Zanpolit and the other governors were never going to let on. And so we waited and fretted and paced up and down and chewed our nails and smoked a thousand cigarettes, day after day, waiting for the news to roll through the Zone that Zanpolit was going to the court in Penza to collect the list of names of successful applicants. Concentrating on work was virtually impossible, and even Ergin, so conscientious and responsible in running the factory and so confident about being released, was clearly affected by nerves too. He fidgeted and paced the room as anxiously as the next man. Even though Zanpolit had given me his word, I grew increasingly anxious as well. Not until I heard my name being read out in morning preverka would I be able to relax fully. Mingled with the mounting anxiety was an almost uncontrollable excitement about regaining my freedom, a constant stream of dreams and plans about what I would do once I was released. Day and night, happy images filled my head: me running through the sliding doors at Heathrow and scooping up Lucy – my wife! – in my arms; a big family party round at Mum’s; heading up to the West End with my old mates for a night of drinking and dancing. Even the simple prospect of lying in on a Sunday morning, then shuffling down the road to the grumpy newsagent in my tracksuit bottoms and furry slippers to get the papers, filled me with an almost child-like thrill. Not since the days and weeks leading up to my trial had I felt such an extraordinary surge of positive feelings.
Finally I could endure the uncertainty no longer, and I gave Raisa Petrovna my last luxury gift – a Zippo lighter – so that I could make a call to the Embassy there and then that evening rather than wait for a day or two until she or one of the other officials could be bothered to sign it off. Alla’s assistant at the Embassy said she had no idea when the hearing was to take place, and put me through to Mum.
‘Now, Tig, Alla at the Embassy swore me to secrecy when I called her yesterday, but she’s been told the hearing is to go ahead next week some time and – let’s just say it’s looking very positive for you, my darling. But don’t tell a soul, whatever you do. They warned me that it might jeopardize your release. As soon as I get the word from the Embassy I’m getting the first flight out to Moscow and I’m not leaving the bloody place without you! I can’t wait to have you back home, safe and sound!’
I walked back to the atrads clenching my fists like a footballer who’d just scored a screamer, whistling into the cold wind.
Molloi came flying through the office door, yelping breathlessly, ‘He’s gone! Zanpolit’s gone to court!’ It was four o’clock in the afternoon and for the final hour of the day Ergin and I made no attempt to disguise our nerves. Neither of us was able to sit down for more than a few seconds before jumping to our feet and going to the toilet, or finding another excuse to walk to the other end of the factory. In the evening, around fifty of us paced up and down and chain-smoked in the yards of the three atrads, waiting for Zanpolit to return. When he finally appeared through the main gate and we saw his dark silhouette against the floodlights tramping towards the offices, we began shouting and pressing ourselves up against the fence. One of the prisoners yelled: ‘How many names are on the list?’
‘That’s for me to know,’ he replied and disappeared inside. It was the confirmation we needed that there had been a parole hearing. I was standing next to Boodoo John and the two of us embraced excitedly, slapping each other on the back. The list was always read out in the morning, and for the rest of the evening I didn’t want to eat or sit down. I couldn’t sleep that night, and as soon as the wake-up siren sounded I flew out of bed, threw on my clothes and ran outside for morning exercises. I was buzzing so much that I jumped and squatted like Jane Fonda herself.
We lined up for preverka and waited. It was still pitch black and the glare of the floodlights was reflected in the shiny, mirror-like surface of the compacted ice. Our backs, as ever, were to the office, and after five minutes I heard the door open behind me and the crunch of boots in the snow. A guard started reading out a list of names. One of the first was ‘Ebubadike’ which was Boodoo John’s real name, and from the corner of my eye, as I carried on looking down at the ground, I saw a giant grin burst across his face. Julian’s was called out soon after, and I turned to see him looking to the heavens in thanks. I didn’t recognize most of the people being called out because we all knew each other by nicknames. One after another, names floated across the frozen air, and each time he drew breath before reading out the next one, I closed my eyes and waited for mine…
But then the talking stopped. The list had ended. There was silence, briefly, followed by the sound of boots heading away into the distance. Then the slam of the swing-back door. Black figures around me began to melt away. I couldn’t move. The snow was starting to settle on my hat and shoulders. I looked up to see that I was the only prisoner left on the concourse. I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was the guard Yuri, Dad’s mate, wearing his trademark mirror glasses. He pushed me gently in the direction of the atrad. I floated back into the yard, unable to form a coherent thought or emotion. Boodoo John was waiting for me. He gave me a tight hug. The gate closed behind me with a clang. A gust of wind picked up a heap of the powdery snow that had settled against the atrad wall overnight and sent it swirling around the yard like a miniature tornado.
‘Celebrate, my friend, celebrate. Don’t commiserate. You’re free. Be happy,’ I said, dazed.
‘I’m sorry, English boy. I really am. I don’t know what to say. But you’ll be next, English boy. You’re next… Hang in there…’
‘Well done, well done, mate! I’m really happy for you,’ I said, warm tears running down my frozen cheeks as I held on to him.
37
The following morning, after breakfast, there was a small farewell party for Boodoo John and Julian in the kitchen. There was a pan of strong cheffir and a plate of biscuits on the table, and a dozen Africans and a couple of others took it in turns to give the pair of them a hug and have a quiet word in their ear. Boodoo John and Julian were quiet, embarrassed almost and sheepish, trying not to let their joy get the better of them in front of us. They had the rest of their lives to dance a jig and punch the air in delight. I tried to avoid these parties as a rule because there was always an undercurrent of bitterness and envy behind the superficial jollity, but this was different. These were the boys who’d watched out for me since I’d arrived. Genuine good guys. (The long-termers never even bothered coming because it was too painful for them.) As a going-away present, I gave Boodoo John my favourite fleece top, a new pair of jeans Mum had bought and my fancy Nikes. One of the other boys gave him a blazer with shiny gold buttons. None of my clothes would hav
e fitted Julian’s massive frame, so I gave him a full bottle of shampoo and 100 Marlboro. He didn’t smoke, but Western fags could be used as currency on the outside too.
‘You look like a pimp in retirement,’ I said, giving Boodoo John a slap on the back and forcing out a plastic smile for the occasion. All prisoners wanted to look good on the day they finally walked out of Zone 22, and a few of the inmates had even started a little mini-business by getting their families to send decent clothes down so that they could sell them for cigarettes and food.
When the guard came to escort them to the prison minibus around twenty of us filed into the little exercise yard and formed a makeshift human tunnel, like rugby players at the end of a match. Boodoo John and Julian were the last through the atrad door and, leaving their bags by the gate, they came back and walked down the lines, shaking hands, embracing and slapping backs, all to the accompaniment of an incoherent din of cheers, banter and expressions of goodwill. Both of them were crying and, for a few moments, I forgot all about my own plight as a rush of almost overwhelming emotion washed over me. Before I knew what I was doing, I too was welling up and clapping wildly as the electric gate closed behind them. The other successful applicants were waiting for them on the concourse, an assortment of Afghans, Vietnamese and Middle Easterners – about fifteen of them in total – and immediately they started to walk up towards the factory gates before turning right down the side of the atrads towards the free world beyond. Boodoo John was the last man in the group and he stopped before turning the corner, put down his sumka and gave us a little salute before disappearing from view.
Slowly we turned to go, but within moments the sound of the siren shattered the silence that hung over the Zone, and we began to scramble on to the concourse to assemble for another day in the factory.