by Simon Logan
“But if he isn’t at The Drive-by . . .”
“He was in The Drive-by. He must have gone through the window.”
“Then he could be anywhere by now.”
“Don’t be fucking stupid, where do you think he’ll go? He’s obviously fucked Szerynski over — he’s only got one option now.”
“What option? I don’t . . . ?”
“Tell me, Nikolai, were you this dumb before that blow to the head?”
“I . . .”
“The docks, man. He’s got the vial, he’s probably in some deep shit now. His only choice is to go to the docks and get off the island. Same as us.”
“Are you sure?”
“What other option do we have? Sit around here waiting for Szerynski’s goons to find us and this gun? It’s twenty to midnight, the boat will probably be docked there right now. We have to go.”
“But even if we do get the vial and onto the boat, you know as well as I do that’s the easy part. People smuggle themselves onto the supply ships all the time but I’ve heard, I’ve heard they almost never reach the mainland. The Policie wait for you on the other side and search the boats from top to bottom before anyone is allowed off, and if you aren’t allowed to be there . . .”
“Then you’re thrown into the water or, if you’re lucky, chained to the side of the boat and dragged back to the island. I know the stories, Nikolai. They’re just scare stories to make sure we don’t want to escape.”
“But . . . what if they’re not? Have you ever heard of anyone escaping successfully?”
She gets to her feet, wiping a congealing trail of blood from her chin and shirt, swinging the guitar back over her shoulder.
“What the fuck else am I going to do? When they discover Januscz’s body, Aleksakhina will have me back inside quicker than I can restring this guitar, never mind what Szerynski or Dracyev’s men might do. You stay here if you want to but there is no way I’m going to stick around here any longer than I have to.”
“But you said you needed me. That they were expecting Januscz, that I should . . .”
“If I have to do this by myself, then fine,” she says as she walks away from him. “You come if you want to, Nikolai — but if you don’t, then you’re on your own. And don’t think that whatever they might do to us if they find us on that boat will be any worse than what will be done if Szerynski or Dracyev’s men find you.”
And she’s off and he realizes he’s spent most of the last few hours watching her storm off into the distance, an unstoppable force, like a bullet fired from a pistol.
He’s tired, sore, and the fire in his stomach is building again. He’s thinking of another hit, of vanishing into a chemical ocean like those who haven’t made it to the mainland. But she’s right, the shit will be hitting the fan and whatever trouble he was in before, it’s ten times worse now.
They have to get off the island.
PART TEN
GETTING OFF THE ISLAND
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Crates that measure eight feet by twelve feet, stacked atop one another at the edge of the concrete and a short drop into the black waters below. Men in baggy orange and black jumpsuits and oxygen masks rushing around, operating the cranes and winches, barking instructions into walkie-talkies and megaphones. Forklifts trundling along beneath the glare of the floodlights overhead like steel-fascist dinosaurs.
The bay glitters violently and as the rest of the island dies off, this place spills into life like a virus bursting out of host cells.
Kohl is covered in a thin layer of cooled sweat, hunched beside a portable generator, glad for the thick warmth of his coat, the feel of the gun resting against his leg.
So far there is no sign of any of Szerynski’s men, but then he might not even recognize them if they were there. There are a couple of Policie but mostly they’re just chatting with the loading crews. He’s watching a tall, angular man with a thick beard that lingers by the loading ramp, nodding as each crate passes and is lowered into the belly of the boat.
The vial is in Kohl’s hand.
Is he the contact? Just walk up to him and give him the vial?
They’ll know. They’ll know.
And what if the man isn’t the contact?
He’ll need to sneak on board, then figure out the rest. Even if they find him, he’ll have the vial to bargain his way off. Threaten them with it, just crush it between his fingers and it’s gone. Pour it over the edge.
Drink it.
He walks away from the relative security of the generator, heading down, makes it as far as one of the crates waiting to be loaded and hides again.
Come on. Come on.
How long until it leaves? Not long. Not long.
He ducks around the corner but the loading ramp is the only visible way onto the boat, with two Policie officers lingering nearby and the bearded man at the top. No way past.
But there must be . . .
He walks away from the shore, along the concrete path that lines the dock so he can see farther along the boat. Looking for an anchor line, a rope, anything.
And then he sees someone amongst the crowd and his heart jumps and he dives behind another crate before he even realizes what he’s doing.
What the fuck is he doing here?
There’s a mechanical noise and the crate begins to move; one of the forklift trucks has it in its grasp, and so he tries his best to walk calmly away until he gets to the next crate. Peers around the corner and it is him.
Nikolai.
The fucker is just standing there, hands in his pockets, scanning the crowd. Looking for what? Kohl?
What is that bastard really up to? He is responsible for all this, somehow. Has Kohl been set up? Are they waiting for him to board the boat, to get the vial back? Is that what’s going on?
Motherfucker.
Nikolai is walking away now, stepping around the loading crews, and Kohl reaches into his pocket, feels the gun. The little bastard will not be getting away with this.
They’re still loading. He has time.
He’ll make time.
He slides along the side of the crate, slipping the gun from his pocket, momentarily ducking to one side as a jumpsuited worker walks past him, then two quick strides and he’s right behind the junkie.
“Hey.”
Nikolai, he turns quickly and it’s like he’s already been shot, the way he freezes and the colour drains from him. And he’s stuck, cornered, helpless.
“Are you looking for someone, Nikolai?”
Nowhere to go. The moonlight drifts across the metal of the gun.
“Because I think it’s rather fortuitous us meeting here like this, don’t you?”
The stupid little fucker can’t even get a word out. His eyes search for help.
“You think you can fuck me over, Nikolai?”
The gun raised. Aimed.
“You. Useless. Fucking. Junkie . . .”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Katja, out of nowhere she just grabs Nikolai and presses him up against the wall, shoves her hand into his crotch and her tongue into his mouth with such abruptness that he almost chokes. Before what she is doing really sinks in, she’s already pulled back, watching the Policie officer that just walked past continue on toward the bustling activity of the docks.
Nikolai tastes the remnants of her blood in his mouth as she says, “Come on.”
The area is bleached with the illumination of the floodlights but they manage to wander up toward the loading crews without being stopped or questioned. There are small handfuls of people scattered amongst the workers, some nothing more than bored insomniacs or the homeless or lonely just wanting companionship — but there are others lurking around just as Katja and Nikolai must be doing.
They see one person make a sudden dash for the docked boat but they’re tripped up by one of the loading crew, and within seconds two Policie officers are on top of him, dragging him away.
There are stories of people
jumping off the dock with crampon-style hooks in their hands that they try to snag onto the side of the boat; of people building coffins and drugging themselves, hoping they will awaken and find themselves on the mainland; of the things done when someone is caught.
But even for those who manage to get onto the boats, they have the knowledge that the hard part is still to come.
You might make it onto the boat, but the only way you’re going to get off at the other side in one piece is if you have had a route bought for you by one of the smugglers, or if you have something to bargain with.
And right now Kohl has their something.
But these are just stories.
“I don’t see him,” Nikolai says. “He could already have boarded.”
“Maybe. But if we get on the boat and then find out he isn’t there, we’re fucked.”
“We’re fucked anyway,” Nikolai points out.
“Less fucked, then,” she hisses back. “They’re still loading, we’ve got time.”
But there’s so much activity, it’s hard to keep track, like trying to count the number of birds in a flock that keeps changing direction.
“We need to split up,” she says.
“No!”
“What, you don’t trust me or something?”
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“You think I’m trying to fuck you over?”
“No, of course not.”
“Because if I were, I could have done it before now. I might have asked for your help but . . .”
“That wasn’t what I meant. What if we split up then I can’t find you again?”
“If we haven’t hooked up again by the time the boat is getting ready to leave, then we should both make our own way onto it and we’ll figure out the rest later. You head over that way, I’ll go here.”
“I don’t . . .”
Gone again. Yet again. Off she goes.
He just about follows her but knows that would be a bad move and stays where he is. A small fire is now raging in his stomach and briefly, just briefly, he thinks of trying to find a dealer to kill it off.
But there’s Katja. He said he’d help Katja.
So he turns, heads over to where she pointed, seeking out the distinctive bulging red goggles and wonders just what Kohl will do if Nikolai manages to find him.
He looks away every time someone meets his eye, turning back on himself just to keep away from the loading crews, and perhaps Kohl is in disguise or perhaps he’s already on the boat or perhaps there’s another fucking boat, or what if he has other plans for the vial? What if? What if?
“Hey.”
A voice behind him and he turns, thinking Katja must have spotted him and oh-shit-look-who-it-is. Dressed in a flamboyant fur-lined coat but still with those flaming bugeyes.
“Are you looking for someone, Nikolai?”
And he’s got a gun, Kohl’s got a gun and Nikolai has nothing. Katja has their gun and the guitar and he has nothing, nothing.
“Because I think it’s rather fortuitous us meeting here like this, don’t you? You think you can fuck me over, Nikolai?”
The gun raised. Aimed.
“You. Useless. Fucking. Junkie . . .”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
She walks a few paces in the direction she had indicated then cuts in between two crates and leans back out. She watches Nikolai shuffle off into the crowds and immediately follows him.
It’s not that she doesn’t trust him, but if he was going to fuck her over or leave her high and dry then this would be his chance — so maybe it’s a case of giving him enough rope to hang himself with, but maybe not. She stays well back, but he barely seems to be paying attention to those around him, almost bumping into workers several times and only narrowly missing the swinging blade of a forklift truck.
How the hell did he manage to survive this long without being killed?
She ducks behind a crate, sidling up alongside Nikolai and that’s when she hears voices, or a voice. She slows, leans into the crate to hear better, but it’s too noisy for her to discern words, so she pokes her head around the corner.
Nikolai is backed up against a wall, eyes wide and glazed.
She nudges out a little farther, sensing trouble, spots the gun, the hand, the arm, the arm that is Kohl’s. The gun that is Kohl’s. Pointed at Nikolai.
Shit.
She hears the click of the safety being dropped, and without hesitation she charges around the corner, swings the guitar and connects it fully with Kohl’s soft temple, sending the man flying backward into some wire mesh fencing surrounding one of the floodlights. He hits the ground with an ugly crunch and a couple of workers have stopped what they are doing to look up at the commotion.
Katja fixes them with a cold, flat stare and they return to their work.
Nikolai is still standing there, staring at exactly the same place as he was before, waiting for reality to catch up with him.
“Hey!” Katja barks. “Give me a hand here.”
She rolls Kohl’s body onto its side and begins going through the pockets of his jacket, and after a few moments Nikolai snaps out of it and bends down beside her.
“I . . .”
“Just shut up and search him,” she says. “What the fuck is this?”
Holds up a bar of shrink-wrapped soap, then throws it away.
“Come on . . .”
A horn sounds, signalling the boat’s nearing readiness to leave the docks.
And her expression changes as she reaches into his inner pocket — pulls out the vial.
Her face breaks into a grin.
“Mother fuck, Nikolai. Mother fuck!”
Light flashes across the glass. A pool of blood is forming under Kohl’s head and his goggles have been shattered by the impact.
“This is our ticket out of here,” Katja says. “Now let’s get on that fucking boat before anything else can go wrong.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Aleksakhina parks his car several blocks away, winds down the windows and leaves it unlocked to encourage its theft, as if the measures were even necessary. All he carries now is the bag and the leaden weight of the guilt of what he is doing.
That and the scribbled note of the smuggler’s name and where to meet him.
He walks through a small gateway some way along the promenade that runs parallel to the bay, counts the street lights that line the way until he reaches sixteen, then stops. There is a bench to one side and a man sitting in the bench, staring out toward the glittering lights of the mainland.
Aleksakhina touches his gun, holstered across his chest, then sits down next to the man. He puts the bag between them and joins the man in looking across to the lights. Listens as the zipper is opened and closed.
“I’ll count every note once we’re on board and if there’s a single one missing . . .”
But Aleksakhina isn’t listening any more, the words blurring beneath the sounds of the tide lapping against the concrete walls of the dock.
“Hey. Are you listening?”
“I’m listening.”
“I thought you said there would be two of you?”
“She’s coming. She’ll be here.”
“Well, she’d better hurry up. I’ll be over by those loaders if she arrives.”
If she arrives.
And the man stands, hooking the bag over his shoulder, walks off, leaving Aleksakhina to stare out across the water.
The crashing sound of a crate being dumped onto the boat docked up the bay breaks his reverie and he walks along the promenade toward the activity farther up. He checks his watch — fifteen minutes to midnight.
If she arrives, the man had said.
Waits.
Waits.
Waits.
The minutes drop away, the air getting colder and colder. He walks back and forth and perhaps this is all going to be a big mistake, perhaps the whole fucking thing will deteriorate into a useless mess, she’s changed her
mind or Dracyev knows, she was fearful he knows so maybe he does, and what would he do to her, what . . .
There she is.
Like a beacon, like the glowing lights of the mainland. His future.
She wears a large purple overcoat, her hair swept up to reveal the beautiful architecture of her neck. And here he is, unshaven, thick in day-old sweat and coffee stains.
He rushes over to her, and the worried look on her face drops when she sees him, her arms open, and they embrace. He hadn’t realized how much he feared her not coming until the flood of relief washes over him and he finds himself unable to let her go.
When they finally part, he sees the dirt on her face, her clothes. “You made it out safely?”
She nods, smiles. “Somehow,” she says. “But he’ll know that I’m gone soon. He’ll come after me.”
“He won’t find you,” Aleksakhina assures her. “He won’t take you back. I won’t let him.”
He takes her hand and leads her to the loading crane the smuggler had pointed to, and the man is leaning up against the great machine smoking a cigarette.
“So she came,” he says with genuine surprise, flicks the butt of his cigarette to the ground.
He gestures for them to follow him, and he leads them to a crate reinforced with metal bands. He uses a crowbar to open up one of the sides, revealing sacks of something that smells like rotten fruit stacked against one another inside.
The odour is thick and pungent, spilling out of the crate in a sudden burst as if it were a freshly opened coffin.
“Your carriage awaits,” the sailor says, and they both climb inside.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
She moves like a ghost through the corridors of his labs, but as often as she might drift through them, he knows them as intimately as he knows the curves of her body, and so he has no trouble following her at a distance. Always one corner behind, one room removed, hunting her.
The workers nod and smile at her as she passes them and he knows they are picturing her down on all fours, her sweat-clotted hair pressed into their thighs, but he is content with that. He follows her to the waiting area for those willing to act as guinea pigs for whatever experiments might be conducted that day and has watched her, on previous occasions, sit amongst them.