Boris Akunin - He Lover of Death

But of course Senka ran away. He’d sworn never to kick up his heels again, but it seemed like that was his destiny now, to keep scampering off like a hare. Crack the whip and give ’em the slip.

And Senka had to run a lot harder now than he had a week ago. First he dashed right along Podkolokolny Lane, then down Podkopai Lane, and then Tryokhsvyatskaya Street, along Khitrovka Lane, across the square, and turned back onto Podkolokolny again.

Senka galloped so fast it was a wonder the heels didn’t fly off his boots, but the Chinaman kept up, and the fat-faced blubber-bag even tried to reason as he ran: ‘Senka-kun, don’ run, you faw and hurt yourserf.’

He wasn’t even panting, but Senka was almost out of breath already.

It was a good thing Senka decided to turn on to Svininsky Lane, where the Kulakovka was – the biggest and rottenest dosshouse in Khitrovka. It was the Kulakovka’s cellars that saved Senka from the heathen Chinee. They were an even trickier maze than the Yerokha, no one knew every last inch of them. They’d dug so many tunnels and passages down there, the devil himself would never find you, and a Chinaman had no chance.

Senka didn’t go in very far – if you didn’t know the place, you could easily get lost in the dark. He just sat there and smoked a papyrosa. When he stuck his head out, the Chinee was squatting on his haunches beside the entry, squinting in the sunlight.

What could he do? He went back into the cellars and walked to and fro, to and fro again, smoked a bit more, spat at the wall (that was boring – you couldn’t see what you hit in the dark). Folks who lived in the Kulakovka flitted past like shadows. No one asked him why he was hanging about. They could see he was one of them, a Khitrovkan, and that was good enough for them.

He stuck his head out for another look, later, when the lantern by the entranceway was lit. The lousy Chinee was still sitting there, he hadn’t budged. The yellow race were a really stubborn lot!

This was starting to get Senka down. Was he going to hang about in the Kulakovka cellars for the rest of his life? He had cramps in his belly, and he had serious business to attend to – he had to warn that pen-pusher.

He went back down and started scouring the collidor (if you could call it a collidor – it was more like a cave really). The walls were slimy stone in some places, bare earth in others. There had to be another way out, right?

When the next Kulakovkan loomed out of the darkness, he grabbed him by the arm.

‘Is there another way out, mate?’

The man pulled his arm away and gave Senka a mouthful of abuse. At least he didn’t take a knife to him – you could expect that sort of thing in the Kulakovka.

Senka leaned back against the wall, and started wondering how he could get out of this miserable dive.

Suddenly this black, damp hole opened up right in front of where he was standing, and a shaggy head emerged and smacked Senka’s knee.

He yelled: ‘Lord, save me,’ and jumped out of the way.

But the head started barking: ‘What do you mean, by spreading yourself right across the burrow like that? Clumsy oafs all over the place, blocking the way!’

That was when Senka realised this was a ‘mole’ who had climbed out of his den. Underground, Khitrovka had this special class of ‘moles’, who stayed underground in the daytime, and came out only at night, if at all. People said they minded the secret hiding places for stolen goods, and the fences and dealers paid them a small share for food and drink, and they didn’t need proper clothes – what good were clothes underground?

‘Uncle Mole!’ Senka called, dashing after him. ‘You know all the ways in and out of this place. Take me out, only not through the door, some other way.’

‘You can’t get out any other way,’ said the mole, straightening up. ‘The only way out of the Kulakovka is on to Svininsky. If you hire me, I can take you to a different basement. The Buninka’s ten kopecks, the Rumyantsevka’s seven, the Yerokha’s fifteen . . .’

Senka was delighted. ‘The Yerokha’s the one I want! That’s even better than getting back outside!’

Siniukhin lived in the Yerokha.

Senka rummaged in his pockets – there was a fifteen-kopeck coin, his last one.

The mole took the money and stuck it in his cheek. He waved his hand: follow me now. Senka wasn’t worried he’d run off with the money and dump him in the dark. Everyone knew the moles were honest, or why would anyone ever trust them with their swag?

But he had to mind not to fall behind. It was all right for the mole, he was used to it, he could see everything in the dark, but for Senka it was hit or miss, feeling his way round the bends one step at a time.

At first they went straight and downhill a bit, or that was how it felt. Then his guide went down on all fours (Senka guessed only from the sound he made) and scrambled through a hole on the left. Senka followed him. They crawled along for maybe fifty feet, then the ceiling got higher. They left the passage and turned to the right. Then to the left again, and the stone floor changed to soft earth that was boggy in places and squelched under their feet. Then they turned left and left again into a place just like a cave, and he could feel a draught. From the cave they walked up some steps, not very far, but Senka still missed his footing and bruised his knee. At the top an iron door clanged open and behind it there was a collidor. After the passage they’d crawled though on all fours, it seemed quite light in here to Senka.

‘There, that’s the Yerokha,’ said the mole – the first time he’d spoken since they had set out. ‘From here you can get out either through the Tatar Inn or on to Podkolokolny. Where do you want to go?’

‘I want to go to the Old Rags Basement, Uncle, where the pen-pushers live,’ Senka said, and then, just to be safe, he added a lie: ‘I want a letter written to my father and mother.’

The underground man led him to the right, through a big stone cellar with high, round ceilings and fat-bellied brick columns, then along another collidor and through another big cellar till they came out in a collidor a bit wider than the others.

‘Ah-ha,’ said the mole as they turned a corner.

When Senka followed, the mole had disappeared, as if the ground had swallowed him up. There was grey light round the corner – the way out on to the street wasn’t far – but it wasn’t likely the mole had dashed out that way, he must have ducked into a burrow.

‘Are we here, then?’ Senka shouted, although there was no one there to hear.

The echo bounced off the ceiling and the walls: ‘eerthen-eerthen-eerthen’.

And the hollow answer seemed to come from under the earth: ‘Ah-ha’.

So this was it, the Old Rags Basement. Senka looked hard, and saw rough wooden doors along both walls. He knocked on one and shouted:

‘Where do the Siniukhins live round here?’

There was a pause, then a rattly voice asked: ‘What is it, want something written? I can do that. I write a better hand.’

‘No,’ said Senka. ‘The snake owes me half a rouble.’

A-a-ah,’ the voice drawled. ‘Go right. It’s the third door along.’

Senka stopped in front of the door and listened. What if the Prince was there already? Then he’d be in really hot water.

But no, it was quiet inside.

He knocked, gently at first, then with his fist.

Still no sound.

Maybe they’d gone out. But no – when he looked he could see light coming out from under the door, very faint.

He pushed the door, and it opened.

A rough table and on it a candle-end in a clay bowl, with splints of wood lying beside it. That was about all he could see at first.