Child 44

by Tom Rob Smith

  He was almost ready to return to the kiosk and buy his stamp when a man sat down beside him. The man was smartly dressed and had a black case which he put on the ground between his legs as though he was afraid someone might run off with it. Petya looked up at the man’s face. He had thick square glasses, neat black hair. He was wearing a suit. Petya couldn’t tell how old the man was. He wasn’t properly old, with gray hair. But then again he wasn’t properly young either. He seemed unaware of Petya’s presence. Petya was about to stand and leave when, quite suddenly, the man turned and smiled:

  —Where are you traveling to today?

  —I’m not going anywhere, sir. Not on a train, I mean. I’m just sitting here.

  Petya had been taught to be polite and respectful toward elders.

  —It’s an odd place to be sitting for no reason.

  —I’m waiting to buy some stamps but the kiosk isn’t open yet. Although it might be open now, I should go and check.

  Upon hearing this, the man turned his whole body toward Petya:

  —You collect stamps?

  —Yes sir.

  —I used to be a stamp collector when I was your age.

  Petya sat back, relaxing—he didn’t know anyone else who collected stamps:

  —Did you collect new stamps or used stamps? I collect both.

  —All of mine were new. I bought them from a kiosk. Just like you.

  —I wish all mine were new. But they’re mostly used. I cut them off old envelopes.

  Petya reached into his pocket, pulling out his handful of copper kopecks and showing them to the man:

  —I had to save for three months.

  The man glanced at the small heap of coins:

  —Such a long time for not very much.

  Petya looked down at his coins. The man was right. He didn’t have very much. And he realized that he’d never have very much. His excitement was tainted. He’d never have a great collection. Other people would always have more than him: it didn’t matter how hard he worked, he could never catch up. His spirits dampened, he wanted to leave and was about to stand when the man asked:

  —Are you a tidy boy?

  —Yes sir.

  —Do you look after your stamps?

  —I take good care of them. I put them in an album. And my dad has made me a wooden box. That’s to keep the album safe. Our roof leaks sometimes. And there are rats sometimes too.

  —That’s sensible to put your album somewhere safe. I did a similar thing when I was your age. I kept mine in a drawer.

  The man seemed to weigh something up in his mind:

  —Listen, I have children of my own. Two young daughters and neither of them are interested in stamps. They’re messy children. As for me, I no longer have time for stamps—I’m busy with my work. You can understand that? I’m sure your parents are also busy.

  —All the time, sir, they work very hard.

  —They don’t have time to collect stamps, do they?

  —No sir.

  —I’m in the same situation as them. Here’s my idea: I would like my collection to go to a person who’d appreciate it, a person who’d take care of it, a person just like you.

  Petya considered the prospect of an entire book filled with new stamps. They would date back for as long as this man had been collecting. It would be the collection he’d always dreamed of. He said nothing, unable to believe his luck.

  —Well? Would that interest you?

  —Yes sir, I could put it in my wooden box and it would be safe.

  The man didn’t seem so sure, shaking his head:

  —But my book is so full of stamps it might be too big for your little box.

  —Then my father will make me another one. He’s clever like that. And he wouldn’t mind at all. He likes making things. He’s skillful.

  —And you’re sure you’d look after the stamps?

  —Yes sir.

  —Promise me.

  —I promise, sir.

  The man smiled.

  —You’ve convinced me. You can have it. I only live three stops away. Come on, I’ll buy you a ticket.

  Petya was about to say that a ticket was unnecessary but he swallowed the words. He didn’t want to admit to breaking the rules. Until he got the stamps he needed to maintain this man’s good impression.

  Sitting on the wooden seats of the elektrichka, staring out the window at the forest, Petya swung his legs backwards and forwards, his shoes almost touching the floor. There was now the question of whether he should spend his kopecks on a new stamp. It seemed unnecessary considering all the stamps he was about to acquire, and he decided that he’d return the money to his parents. It would be nice if they could share in his good fortune. The man interrupted his thoughts by tapping him lightly on the shoulder:

  —We’re here.

  The elektrichka had stopped at a station in the middle of the woods, long before the town of Shakhty. Petya was confused. This stop was a leisure stop for people wanting to get away from the towns. There were paths through the undergrowth, trodden down by walkers. But this wasn’t a good time for walking. The snows had only recently melted. The woods were bleak and unwelcoming. Petya turned to his companion, looking at his smart shoes and black case:

  —You live here?

  The man shook his head.

  —My dacha is here. I can’t keep my stamps at home. I’m too worried that my children will find them and touch them with their dirty fingers. But I’m going to have to sell this dacha, you see. So I have nowhere to keep this collection anymore.

  He got off the train. Petya followed, stepping down onto the platform. No one else had disembarked.

  The man walked into the woods, Petya just behind. Having a dacha made a kind of sense. Petya didn’t know anyone rich enough to have a summer home, but he knew they were often situated in woods or by lakes or by the sea. While walking the man continued to talk:

  —Of course it would have been nice if my children took an interest in stamps, but they just don’t care for them.

  Petya considered telling this man that perhaps his children needed a little time. It had taken him time to become a careful collector. But he was canny enough to understand that it was to his advantage that this man’s children were uninterested in stamps. And so he said nothing.

  The man stepped off the path, walking through the undergrowth with quite some speed. Petya struggled to keep up. The man took long strides. Petya almost had to run.

  —Sir, what’s your name? I’d like to be able to tell my parents the name of the man who gave me the stamps in case they don’t believe me.

  —Don’t worry about your parents. I’ll write them a note explaining exactly how you came into possession of the album. I’ll even give them my address in case they want to check.

  —Thank you very much, sir.

  —Call me Andrei.

  After some time the man stopped walking and bent down, opening his case. Petya also stopped, looking around for some sign of this dacha. He couldn’t see one. Maybe they had a bit farther to go. Catching his breath, he stared up at the leafless branches of the tall trees which crisscrossed the gray sky.

  ANDREI STARED DOWN AT THE BOY’S BODY. Blood ran down the boy’s head, across the side of his face. Andrei knelt, placing a finger on the child’s neck, feeling for a pulse. He was alive. That was good. Rolling the boy onto his back, he began undressing him as though he were a doll. He took off his coat, his shirt, then his shoes and socks. Finally he took off his trousers and underwear. He gathered the clothes in a bundle and picked up his case, walking away from the child. After about twenty paces he stopped beside a fallen tree. He dropped the clothes, a small pile of cheap garments. He put his case on the ground, opened it, and pulled out a long piece of coarse string. He returned to the boy, tying one end of the string around his ankle. He made a tight knot, testing it by pulling the boy’s leg. It held fast. Walking backwards, he carefully unwound the string as though laying the fuse to a stack of dynamite. He
reached the fallen tree, hid behind it, and lay down on the ground.

  He’d chosen a good spot. The position of the tree meant that when the boy awoke he’d be out of sight. His eyes followed the line of string from his hand, across the ground all the way to the boy’s ankle. There was still plenty of string left in his hand, plenty of slack, at least another fifteen or so paces’ worth. Set up and almost ready, he was so excited he wanted to pee. Afraid he might miss the moment when the boy woke up, he rolled onto his side, unbuttoned his fly, and, still lying on the ground, emptied himself. Done, he shuffled away from the damp soil, adjusting position slightly, checking on the boy. He was still unconscious. Time for the last of the preparations: Andrei took off his glasses, putting them in his glasses case and slipping them into his jacket pocket. Now, looking back, the trees, the string, and the child were just a blur. Squinting hard, all he could see was an outline, an indistinct splash of pink skin contrasting with the ground. Andrei reached out, snapped a twig off a nearby tree, and began to chew the bark, his teeth turning coarse and brown.

  PETYA OPENED HIS EYES, focusing on the gray sky and the branches of leafless trees. His head was sticky with blood. He touched it and looked at his fingers, beginning to cry. He was cold. He was naked. What had happened? Confused, he didn’t dare sit up for fear of seeing that man beside him. He was certain the man was close. Right now all he could see was the sky. But he couldn’t stay here, naked on the ground. He wanted to be at home with his parents. He loved his parents so much and he was sure they loved him. His lips trembling, his whole body trembling, he sat up—looking right and left, hardly daring to breathe. He couldn’t see the man anywhere. He looked behind him, to the side. The man was gone. Petya raised himself into a crouching position, staring into the forest. He was alone, abandoned. He breathed deeply, relieved. He didn’t understand. But he didn’t want to understand.

  He peered around for his clothes. They were gone. They weren’t important. He jumped and began to run, as fast as he could, his feet crunching across fallen branches, the soil wet from rain and snowmelt. His bare feet, when they weren’t crunching branches, made a slapping noise. He wasn’t sure if he was running in the right direction. All he knew was that he had to get away.

  Suddenly his right foot was pulled back as though a hand had grabbed his ankle. Unable to keep his balance, he toppled forward, falling to the ground. Without waiting to catch his breath he rolled onto his back, looking behind him. He couldn’t see anyone. He must have tripped and he was about to stand again when he caught sight of the string tied around his right ankle. His eyes followed its trail into the forest, where he could see it stretching across the ground like a fishing line. The string continued all the way to a fallen tree some forty paces away.

  He grabbed the string, trying to pull it down over his ankle and off his foot. But it was so tight it dug into his skin. The string was pulled again, harder this time. Petya was wrenched across the ground, his back covered with mud, before coming to a stop. He looked up. There he was, that man, standing up behind the tree, reeling him in. Petya clutched branches, handfuls of soil. But it was no good: he was being pulled closer and closer. He concentrated on the knot. He couldn’t undo it. He couldn’t break the string. He had no choice but to tug it down, scraping the skin around his ankle. The string was pulled again, this time sinking into his flesh. He gritted his teeth, refusing to scream. He grabbed a handful of wet mud, lubricating the string. Just as the man pulled again, Petya freed himself from the noose. He leapt to his feet and ran.

  The string went slack in Andrei’s hands. There was nothing at the end of it. He tugged again, feeling his face flush red. He squinted but the distance was too far, he couldn’t see anything, he’d always relied on the string. Should he put his glasses on? No, he’d never had that option as a child. He’d been stuck like this—nearly blind, alone, stumbling through the forest.

  He’s leaving you behind.

  Andrei jumped up, climbing over the fallen tree. With his nose close to the ground he followed the string.

  Petya ran as fast as he’d ever run before. He’d reach the station—the train would be there. He’d get on. And it would move off before the man arrived. He’d survive.

  I can do it.

  He turned around. The man was behind him, running, but with his head close to the ground, as though looking for something he’d dropped. What’s more, he was going in the wrong direction. The distance between them was growing. Petya was going to make it, he was going to escape.

  Reaching the end of the string, the noose, his heart beating fast—Andrei stopped and stared all around, squinting hard. He felt tears forming, he couldn’t see him. The boy was gone. Andrei was alone, abandoned. Then, there, to the right, movement—a light color, the color of skin, a boy.

  Petya checked behind him, hopeful that the distance between them had grown even more. This time he saw the man running, running very fast and running in his direction. He was taking long strides, his jacket flapping about his sides. He was smiling wildly. Petya could see that his teeth were for some reason completely brown, and he stopped, understanding that there was no escape. Feeling weak, all the blood left his legs. He raised his arms to his head, as if this could protect him, and closed his eyes, imagining himself back in his parents’ arms.

  Andrei collided with the boy at such speed that they both fell to the ground. Andrei was on top, the boy wriggling underneath; scratching and biting his jacket. Keeping himself flat on the boy to stop him escaping, Andrei muttered:

  —It’s still alive!

  He pulled out the long hunting knife attached to his belt. Closing his eyes, he jabbed the blade underneath him, cautious jabs at first, stabbing only with the tip, small stabs, listening to its screams. He waited, savoring this moment, feeling the vibrations of the struggle in his stomach. What a feeling! Excited, the blade went in further and faster, further and faster, until finally the blade went in all the way up to the hilt. At this point the child was no longer moving.

  THREE MONTHS LATER

  SOUTHEASTERN ROSTOV OBLAST

  THE SEA OF AZOV

  4 JULY

  NESTEROV SAT WITH HIS toes buried in the sand. This stretch of beach was popular with people living in the nearby city of Rostov-on-Don some forty or so kilometers to the northeast. Today was no exception. The beach was crowded. As if the inhabitants of the town had emerged from hibernation, their bodies were drained of color by the long winter. Could he guess what kind of jobs people held from the shapes of their bodies? The fatter men were important in some way. Perhaps they were factory managers or Party officials or high-ranking State Security officers, not the kind who kicked down doors but the kind who signed forms. Nesterov was careful not to catch their eye. He concentrated on his family. His two sons were playing in the shallow water, his wife lay beside him, sleeping on her side—her eyes closed, her hands tucked under her head. At a glance they seemed content: a perfect Soviet family. They had every reason to be relaxed—they were on holiday, allowed the use of an official militia car, with a State voucher for fuel, as a reward for the successful, discreet, and efficient handling of the two separate murder investigations. He’d been told to take it easy. Those had been his orders. He repeated the words in his head, sucking on their irony.

  The trial of Varlam Babinich had lasted two days with his defense lawyer entering a plea of insanity. According to procedure the defense were forced to rely upon the testimony of the same experts used by the prosecution. They couldn’t call their own independent witnesses. Nesterov was no lawyer and didn’t need to be in order to understand the enormous advantage this setup handed to the prosecution. In Babinich’s case the defense had to prove insanity without being able to call a witness who hadn’t first been groomed by the prosecution. Since there were no psychiatrists working at Hospital 379, a doctor with no specialist training had been selected by the prosecution and called to make a judgment. This doctor had stated that he believed Varlam Babinich understood the
difference between right and wrong and knew murder was wrong; the defendant’s intelligence was limited, certainly, but sufficient to grasp concepts such as criminality. After all, he’d said upon arrest:

  I’m in so much trouble.

  The defense then had no choice but to call the same doctor and attempt to argue a contradictory point of view. Varlam Babinich had been found guilty. Nesterov had received a typed letter confirming that the seventeen-year-old had died on his knees, shot in the back of the head.

  Doctor Tyapkin’s case had taken less time, barely a day. His wife had testified that he was violent, describing his sick fantasies and claiming that the only reason she hadn’t come forward before was because she’d feared for her own life and for the life of her baby. She’d also told the judge that she renounced her religion—Judaism. She would bring her children up to be loyal Communists. In exchange for this testimony she’d been transferred to Shakhty, a town in the Ukraine, where she could continue her life without the stigma of her husband’s crime. Since no one outside Voualsk had heard of the crime, there wasn’t even any need to change her name.

  With these two cases concluded, the court had processed close to two hundred cases against men accused of anti-Soviet behavior. These homosexuals had received hard labor sentences of between five and twenty-five years. In order to deal with the sheer number of cases swiftly, the judge had devised a formula for sentencing which depended upon their employment record, the number of children they had, and finally the quantity of perverse sexual encounters they’d been alleged to have experienced. Being a member of the Party was counted as a strike against the accused since they’d brought the Party into disrepute. They should have known better and their membership was stripped from them. Despite the repetitious nature of these sessions Nesterov had sat through all of them, all two hundred or so. After the last man had been sentenced he’d left the court only to find himself being congratulated by local Party officials. He’d done well. It was almost certain he’d have a new apartment within the next couple of months, or if not then by the end of the year.