A Young Man's Game

by Paul Blake

  ‘You can scream all you want in here. We own the whole building and the ones either side. No one, but me, will hear you. Go ahead, I won’t stop you. I want to hear you scream and beg and cry.’

  He launched another punch hard in Foster’s face. He aimed at the nose, aimed for a break. Something to get Foster’s attention. But at the last second Foster lowered his head and Olegovich struck the forehead. He felt a knuckle pop and roared in pain. He slapped Foster with the baton in his other hand, but he knew it wasn’t as strong as he wanted it to be and Foster had made a point. He might be old, but he’s smart. Be warier. Take your time. He’s not going anywhere. Even if he dies of pneumonia in this cold room, he’ll still be dead. His hand began to swell. He moved and stood behind Foster to hide his discomfort. He looked down at his right hand, and the knuckles at the base of his little and ring fingers had sunk into the hand. He tried flexing the hand to make a fist, but his hand wouldn’t close, and it hurt too much, in his mind it felt like the gears of his hand had crunched, the bones grinding against each other. He resisted the urge to vomit at the thought. Not a squeamish man, the feeling of arthritic bones grating away to nothing brought to mind a vision of his father attempting to tie his own laces, the agony writ large upon his face. His fingers no longer obeying their master. The shouting and the beatings as he bent down to help his father. Withered and useless. Strong enough to wound my heart, though.

  Olegovich shook his hand to clear the memories and the pain. He waited until he felt in control enough to speak without betraying his condition.

  ‘There is a file on you in the SVR. I have read it. Not particularly impressive for someone so high up in his organisation.’

  Foster didn’t say a word. Olegovich could see he was listening as he had fractionally turned his head to hear what was said better.

  ‘A decent, but not spectacular career. Ten years ago promotion to Head of Russia in Berlin. Second only to Newbury. Then nothing. A lonely, alcoholic, old man, despised by his colleagues.’ Olegovich noticed Foster tense when he mentioned Newbury. What’s there I wonder? Jealously? Resentment?

  ‘I know you didn’t kill Polyakov. I’m amazed anyone thought you would have. That would involve some balls. Some passion.’ Time to scare him, get that heart pounding. ‘We caught the man who did. He’s currently in hospital getting his face repaired. He tried to keep silent, but soon sang when he realised how much trouble he was in. Just like you will do.’ Olegovich swung the baton, and it struck Foster on the upper arm where the bandage was. Not as much power in the strike as I would have liked.

  Foster cried out and started cursing. Olegovich struck him again in the same spot. Foster tried to move away but couldn’t free himself from the restraints. Olegovich could hear the tears in his cries. Then he heard a laugh. What?

  ‘You dumb bastard. The weight-lifting giant didn’t kill Polyakov. His partner, Mihael-something did. A rodent-looking fella with a long nose and a hairband. For all your threats and baton-twirling, he held out on you.’ Foster mocked him with more laughter. Olegovich could feel his anger rising, he struggled to contain it. Not yet, you can’t let him get to you. He’ll pay. Foster continued, ‘Mihael is out of your reach too, Mr Not-so-Scary. He took a swan dive off the Humboldt Palace and found out he couldn’t fly. I’d say he was a typical KGB officer, none too bright and easily swayed. But, he escaped your notice, what does that say about you? You’re not so impressive. Tell me what is this all about?’

  Olegovich was rocked by what Foster had said. Kochanov lied to me? Foster doesn’t sound like he’s lying. His tone is making that clear. I heard about the man and the shooting at the palace it was all over the news. I didn’t make the connection. Was Foster there? Olegovich composed himself and walked back round to face Foster. I want to see his face when I tell him.

  Olegovich sat down and looked at Foster. There was an air of defiance about him. The arrogant fool. I’ll wipe that smirk off his face.

  ‘I’ll tell you what this is all about,’ Olegovich said. Finally it’s time. ‘You killed my father, and I am going to make you scream over and over again. I am going to destroy you so much that even your dead brother won’t recognise you when you join him.’ Olegovich watched Foster’s face change. His mouth opened, his eyes opened wider, the colour drained from his face. I’ve waited a long time for this.

  31

  Alec felt confused and angry. His father? I don’t even know the man. What the hell?... How dare he mention Mark.

  ‘I don’t know who your father was,’ Alec said. He looked directly at Olegovich trying to see a resemblance to someone from his past. Nothing.

  The baton swung against his thigh, it slapped with a sting rather than the force Alec was expecting. His weaker hand? I must have hurt him when he punched me.

  ‘You know who he was!’ Olegovich screamed. Flecks of spit left his mouth.

  ‘I really don’t,’ Alec said.

  ‘How can you not know who he was? He was my father, you killed him.’

  That doesn’t help. I haven’t killed a lot of men, I admit. But no one, apart from Mihael, that I knew their names. Some Russian guy? A voice the back of his mind started speaking to him, he couldn’t place it.

  ‘I don’t know. Honestly. Who was he?’

  Olegovich looked at him, Alec could see the hatred in his eyes.

  ‘My father’s name was Oleg Konstantinovich.’

  Well, that makes sense, based on the patronymic. The patronymic is the Russian naming system of the middle name or patronymic, “ovich” meaning “son of”. I’m still none the wiser to who he was though.

  ‘He was a Praporshchik,’ a warrant officer. In the GRU. He was stationed in Berlin. He’d been here for almost three years, he left the service in 1990.’ The voice in Alec’s head was shouting for attention now. ‘It was in August of 1989 that you killed him. Gunned him down in a café, when you were with that traitorous whore.’

  Oh shit. That useless piece of crap was this guy’s dad? Alec’s thoughts went back to that day, the GRU non-commissioned officer. Alec wanted to think about Stefanie, but he resisted the urge. Now’s not the time.

  ‘You remember!’ Olegovich said, his voice triumphant. ‘Now you know why you must die.’

  ‘Wait,’ Alec said. ‘You said he left the service in 1990. I shot him the year before. He lived, I didn’t kill him.’

  ‘He didn’t die until in 2007, but your bullet killed him. He had to retire. Give up the job he loved so much. He was in agony until he died. You robbed him of a life. You robbed me of a father.’ He swung the baton at Alec, again and again, punctuating each statement with a swing on the baton.

  Each one caught Alec on the upper right arm, the other one to the wounded one. Alec noted that he still favoured his weaker hand, the baton swings stung rather than hurt, but Alec acted like the strikes were more than slaps, he screamed in mock-pain with each blow. Alec noticed that although the chair didn’t move when he rocked side-to-side, it did when he went from front to back. I can work with that. I wonder if I can do an ‘Arthur’ on him? It won’t take much to make him snap. He looks close enough already. Alec thought about it while Olegovich hit him again with the baton. He’s twenty years younger than me and in far better shape, damaged hand notwithstanding. And you’re tied to this chair, remember. The strikes to the arm were becoming a nuisance, he could feel his arm deaden due to the repeated blows. Get him talking. Give yourself time. Claudia is probably looking for you. He looked around the room for his clothes. Over there. He spied them bundled up in the corner, next to the dripping tap in the wall. That suit was Saville Row, my best one. He thought irrelevantly.

  ‘So that is what this is about, because of me, you couldn’t spend quality time with your father?’

  ‘You destroyed his life. I will destroy yours.’

  ‘Would it help if I said I was sorry?’ Sorry I didn’t finish him in the café.

  ‘Your apologies would mean nothing to me. You have no idea what it wa
s like for him, or me.’

  ‘So, tell me. This’ll be your only chance. Make me see what my actions caused. I know you’ve been thinking about this moment for years, all the things you wanted to say when you finally got the opportunity. Well, now’s your chance, let it all out.’ Not too much, Alec. He’s not like Mihael, this one has a brain. Reaching Captain at thirty-one isn’t easy. He looked down at the floor. ‘Please?’

  ‘So, you can give penance for your sins before you die? The Sacred Mystery of Confession. Your file didn’t mention you were religious.’ Olegovich referred to the Eastern Orthodox Church practice of repenting sins before death.

  Is he religious? It could give us common ground, a small mistruth to create a bond, give me an opening. ‘It’s not something that really goes with the modern world of spying. I was raised Catholic and attended Mass every Sunday when growing up.’ In the words of the 45th US President: “Fake News”. ‘Let’s say I’m a closet believer, like many of your countrymen were before the war, theirs not through choice. You have to know your sins before you can repent them. Go on, tell me. It may give you some catharsis, some release.’

  Olegovich raised the baton again, but his hand stayed. ‘You’re going to die tonight.’

  ‘We’re all going to die one day, only God knows when.’

  ‘There is no getting out of this for you. You are going to die in a lot of pain and a lot of blood.’

  ‘T- t- then there’s no harm in you telling me what it was like, how you felt.’ Alec put on the stammer in his voice. Ever the optimist thinking you can lie, charm, and cheat your way out of this. He argued with himself. It’s better than going out with a whimper.

  Alec saw Olegovich’s eyes flare at the stuttering words and a wicked smile appeared on the Russian’s face. He likes the fear. Olegovich swung the baton again. Alec made himself flinch and try to hide away from the blow. This one caught him on the side of his head. It was stronger than the previous ones. Another blow, this time to his forearm, another to his thigh. Each blow becoming stronger. Alec, what are you playing at? A strike to Alec’s cheek opened the skin. He felt blood trickle down onto his chest. Again. The trickle became a splatter. Again. The splatter became a flood, covering his chest, stomach, and into the waistband of his boxers.

  ‘Tell me goddamnit!’ Alec screamed.

  Olegovich stopped. Alec’s breathing was heavy, his back slick with sweat. His front with blood. His cheek on fire. Olegovich grabbed Alec’s face, lifting it up to the light. He looked into Alec’s eyes. Satisfied with what he saw there he dropped his hand.

  ‘I think I will. I don’t want this to end quite so soon.’ He stopped, stood up and walked over to the window. He moved the blind and looked out as he composed his thoughts.

  ‘My father came back from Berlin a wreck of a man. He was doing his duty, and it left him with nothing. Your bullet punctured his lung. There were complications with the operation. Left him on oxygen. He had a stroke. He was crippled down the left-hand side. He had to depend on my mother for everything. Unable to wash or dress himself. Then my mother died when I was ten…’ Olegovich paused, he looked at Alec. Tears fell from his eyes. ‘I became his carer. Do you know what it is like to have to clean up your father when he messes himself? The shame and embarrassment on his face. Having to be washed by his only child.

  ‘We had no money; his pension was small. What we did have he spent on medicine and drink. His frustration at life and how it had turned out. Your name screamed over and over again. Alec Foster and his fucking whore. Alec Foster the British scum. The years of depression and anger. I was the only one there. The only one he could reach. The focus of the beatings. Have you ever had a crippled man try to beat you and being unable to? You have to pretend the blows hurt, the words sting. You beg them to stop. Just so they don’t have to face the humiliation of being unable to even hurt you. I promised him I would get our revenge on you, and here you are. I hope he is looking down at us with a smile on his face.’

  He stopped. The tears had gone, replaced with the zeal of purpose. He will come at me now, and it won’t stop until I’m dead. I’m out of options… Unless…

  ‘Your father was a joke. What was he? A warrant officer? At his age? If he was any good, he’d have been at best a junior lieutenant. It wasn’t me that kept him back. That was all on him. You call the woman a whore? She was a goddess. Your father probably saw her every day as he stood at his guard post job. He wouldn’t be trusted to do anything else. He probably dreamt about her when he was fucking your mum. He wouldn’t have had the guts to speak to her. She was so far removed from him, in terms of both rank and class. She looked like a movie star whereas he looked like he permanently stood at a bar. Serge-pisshead drowning his hate in cheap vodka then going home to beat his wife and kid and then masturbate to a woman who didn’t know he even existed.

  ‘Your father saw a woman he could never have, talking to a man wearing clothes he’d never afford. It wasn’t duty, it was jealousy. He was a lousy shot. He had the drop on us, and only one bullet hit the mark, the others took out a window and a chunk of the ceiling. I’m surprised he didn’t shoot himself in the foot. I shot him. He killed the woman I loved. I still picture him lying there amongst the broken china and upturned tables. Lying there in a puddle of his own blood and piss, he might well have shit himself too. He fucking stunk. So yes, I remember your father. I remember the bloodshot eyes, the shaking hands, and the piss stained trousers. I remember thinking how unfair it was that this pathetic man could extinguish the life of one of the brightest lights I had ever seen. I wish for both our sakes I had shot him over and over again. Just so his foul presence on this world had ended sooner. I am sorry, you know. Sorry that sack of shit wasn't man enough to end his own life, instead he hung on poisoning yours. I’m glad he’s dead. I just wish it was sooner.’

  The blood had drained out of Olegovich’s face. His eyes were wide open in shock.

  ‘I’m going to kill you.’ He charged at Alec. Here we go.

  Olegovich hit Alec with his right hand, all the years of frustration and hate built up into one punch. The force knocked Alec back, the chair toppled. Olegovich screamed in pain and grasped his hand. He fell to his knees in agony. The fall backwards knocked the wind out of Alec, he gasped for air. You’re used to this now, the air will come, don’t panic. Get yourself out of this chair. The wooden chair back cracked when it landed. Alec started straining against it. He heard the wood splinter underneath him, he strained harder, and the chair arms came away from the back of the chair. Still struggling to breathe he rolled over and got to his knees. He arms were still attached to the chair arms, but it was a big improvement. He snapped off a chair leg and stood up. The oxygen had started to enter his lungs. Alec took a large lungful of air and lunged at Olegovich.

  Alec slammed the chair leg into the side of Olegovich’s head, knocking him to the floor. He regained his senses quicker than Alec thought he would and rolled away just as Alec struck again. Olegovich jumped to his feet, shaking his head. He positioned his feet in a forward martial arts stance, shoulder width apart, with the left foot forward, and waited for Alec’s next move. My only chance is that his reactions are slower because of the blow to the head, need to get this over with quick. Alec moved forward cautiously holding the chair leg like a dagger. It’s not long enough to give me a reach advantage. I’ll have to use it smartly. It’s not much of a weapon, but it’s all I have. He feinted to go right, Olegovich followed the move. Alec moved back left and stabbed with the chair leg, it struck Olegovich on the damaged hand, and he howled in pain. Alec followed it up with a punch to the gut, the chair leg leading. The wood impaled the Russian’s stomach and lodged in the man’s gut. Alec tried to pull it free, but Olegovich had grabbed his hand. They were face to face now, and Olegovich crashed a headbutt into Alec’s face. Alec fell back, his nose broken. With Olegovich still holding his hand, he twisted in the fall onto his front. He flinched at the wet coldness of the concrete floor. Olegovich
let go of the hand and jumped onto his back, knees first. Alec felt his ribs crack under the pressure and screamed. Olegovich pinned Alec to the ground with his body weight. He grabbed Alec’s hair and slammed his face into the floor.

  ‘Now you die.’ I’m sorry Claudia, I failed you. Sara, I’m sorry.

  He raised Alec’s head and pushed down again with a cry of, ‘For you, father!’

  Alec was past seeing, his vision was black, his face deep red. He heard a crash from the door and then two bangs, the movement of his head stopped, and the weight above him slid off. He pressed his head against the concrete and allowed the darkness to carry him away.

  32

  Alec heard a page being turned in a book beside him. He slowly opened his eyes; the bright light made his pupils contract. He squinted, allowing only the bare minimum to penetrate. He turned his head towards the sound and coughed gently. Don’t want to spook anyone. He could feel the cough in his ribs.

  He heard a squeal and the squeak of the vinyl chair covering as the person sitting there moved. A thud as the book hit the floor.

  ‘Uncle Alec!’

  Alec smiled and then his eyes closed, and he drifted back to sleep.

  ‘…he moved.’ Alec heard Sara say.

  ‘Of course, dear. He’s been through a lot. It’ll take him a while to come back to us.’ Their voices sound heavenly, like a pair of angels. Alec tried raising a hand to get their attention, but he could feel its refusal. I’m not paralysed, am I? A bolt of fear shot through him. He forced his eyes to open. He ignored the pain from the sudden light. Two figures stood before him, he could make out their familiar figures, silhouetted against the brightness.

  ‘…’ He said. A hiss with no words, his swollen tongue preventing their formation. His lips dry and frozen in place.