Child 44 (32 page)

—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 skilful.

—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 opinion.

Sitting on the wooden seats of the
elektrichka,
staring out the window at the forests, Petya swung his legs backwards and forwards, his shoes almost touching the floor. There was now the question of whether he should spend his
kopeks
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 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 any more.

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 in 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 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 further to go. Catching his breath, he stared up at the leafless branches of the tall trees that criss-crossed the grey 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 boy’s neck, feeling for a pulse. He was alive. That was good. He rolled the boy onto his back and began undressing him as though he were a doll. He took off the boy’s coat, his shirt, then his shoes and his socks. Finally he took his trousers and underwear. He gathered the clothes in a bundle, 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, ready, he was so excited he wanted to pee. Afraid he might miss the moment the boy woke up, he rolled onto his side, unbuttoned his flies and still lying on the ground emptied himself. Done, he shuffled away from the damp soil, adjusting his position slightly. The boy 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 child was just a blur. Squinting hard, all Andrei 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 grey 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 forests. 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, running as fast as he could, his feet crunching across fallen branches, the soil wet from rain and snow melt. 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 forests 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 was 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 forests.

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 colour, the colour 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 very fast and heading 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 had 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, savouring 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.

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 kilometres to the north-east. Today was no exception. The beach was crowded. As if the inhabitants of the town had emerged from hibernation, their bodies were drained of colour 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.