Boris Akunin - He Lover of Death

Now that was him all over! He already knew who Senka was and what his moniker was, even though Senka was still new in Khitrovka. That was Boxman for you.

‘Don’t you dare nick a thing,’ he said, ‘you’re out of your jurisdiction, because this ain’t Khitrovka, it’s a civil promenade. You look out, young Speedy, you sly little monkey, I’ve got you under special observation until the first contravention of legality, and if I catch you, or even suspect you, I’ll issue you a reprimand across that ugly mug of yours, fine you a clout round the ear and sanction you round the ribs with my belt.’

‘I’m not up to nothing, Uncle Boxman,’ Senka whined, pulling a face. ‘I just, you know, wanted to take the air.’

And for that he got a cast-iron mitt across the back of his head, smack crunch between the ears.

‘I’ll teach you what for, snarling “Boxman” like that. What a damned liberty! I’m Ivan Fedotovich to you, all right?’

And Senka said meekly:

‘All right, Uncle Ivan Fedotovich.’

Boxman stopped scowling then. ‘That’s right, you snot-nosed little monkey.’ And he walked on – big, solemn and slow, like a barge floating off down the Moscow river.

So Boxman went and Senka stayed right where he was, looking. But now he wanted more so he tried to figure out how to get Death to come to the window.

He had nothing better to do, so he took the green beads out of his pocket, the ones he’d snaffled just that morning, and started studying them.

What happened with the beads was this.

As Senka was walking away from Sukharevka through the little lanes around Sretenka Street. . .

No, first you need to be told why he went to Sukharevka. Now that was really something to be proud of. . .

Senka didn’t just go off to Sukharevka for no reason, he went on good honest business – to get even with his Uncle Zot. He lived according to the laws of Khitrovka now, and those laws said you should never let a bad man get away with anything. You had to settle every score, and it was best to pay it back with interest, otherwise you weren’t really one of the lads – just some wet-tailed little minnow.

So Senka set out, and Mikheika the Night-Owl tagged along as well, to keep him company. If not for Mikheika, he probably wouldn’t have dared try anything like that in broad daylight, he would have done the job at night, but now he had no choice, he had to play the hard man.

And it all turned out fine, really grand in fact.

They hid in the attic of the Möbius pawnshop, opposite his uncle’s shop. Mikheika just sat and gawped, it was Senka that did everything, with his own two hands.

He took out a lead pellet, aimed his catapult and shot it right into the middle of the shop window – crash! Uncle Zot had three of those huge glass windowpanes with ‘Haberdashery’ written across them in silver letters. And he was very proud of them. Sometimes he would send Senka to scrub those rotten panes as many as four times a day, so Senka had a score to settle with the windows as well.

The jangling and the spray of broken glass brought Uncle Zot running out of the shop in his apron, holding a tray of Swedish ivory buttons in one hand and a spool of thread in the other – he’d been serving a customer all right. He turned his head this way and that, and his jaw dropped open – he just couldn’t figure out how this awful thing could have happened to his window.

Then Senka fired again – and the second window shattered into jagged splinters. His uncle dropped his wares, flopped down on his knees and started collecting up the splinters of glass, like a total fool. It was just hilarious!

But Senka already had the third window in his sights. And the way it smashed was a real delight. There you go, dear Uncle Zot, take that, for all the care and affection you gave a poor orphan.

Feeling all giddy, Senka fired the last pellet, the biggest and heaviest, right at the top of his uncle’s head. The bloodsucker collapsed off his knees onto his side and just lay there, with his eyes popping out of his head. He stopped yelling completely – he was so astonished by it all.

Mikheika was cock-a-hoop at Senka’s daring: he whistled through four fingers and hooted like an owl – he was great at that, that was how he got the moniker Night-Owl.

And on the way back, as they were walking along Asheulov Lane, up behind Sretenka Street (Senka all calm and composed, Mikheika rattling away twenty to the dozen in admiration), they saw two carriages in front of some house there. They were carrying in suitcases with foreign labels on them, and some kind of boxes and crates. It seemed like someone had just arrived and was moving in there.

Senka was on a roll. ‘Shall we lift something?’ he said, nodding at the luggage. Everybody knew the best time for thieving was during a fire or when someone was moving house.

Mikheika was keen to show what he was made of too. ‘Yeah, why not?’ he said

The first to walk in through the doorway was the gent. Senka didn’t really get a proper look at him – all he saw were the broad shoulders and straight back, and a grey-haired temple under a top hat. But from the sound of his voice the gent wasn’t old, even if he did have grey hair. He shouted from inside the hallway, with a slight stammer.

‘Masa, t-take care they don’t break the headlamp!’

The servant was left in charge. A Chinee, or some kind of Turk-estani, he was – squat and bandy-legged with narrow eyes. And he was wearing a weird outfit – a bowler hat and a shantung silk three-piece, and instead of shoes on his feet he had white stockings and funny wooden sandals like little benches. An Oriental all right.

The porters with their leather aprons and their badges (that meant they were from the station, so the gent must have arrived by railway) carried all sorts of stuff into the building: bundles of books, some wheels with rubber tyres and shiny spokes, a shiny copper lamp, pipes with hoses.

Standing beside the Chinee, or whoever he was, was a man with a beard, obviously the landlord of the apartment, watching politely. He asked about the wheels: what did Mr Nameless need them for, and was he a wheel-maker by any chance?

The Oriental didn’t answer, just shook his fat face.

One of the drivers, clearly fishing for a tip, barked at Senka and Mikheika: ‘Hey, keep out of it, you little cretins!’

Let him yell, he’d never be bothered to get down off the box.

Mikheika asked in a whisper: ‘Speedy, what shall we nick? A suitcase?’

‘A suitcase? Don’t be daft,’ Senka hissed, curling up his lip. ‘Take a gander at the tight hold he’s keeping on that stuff.’

The Chinee was holding a travelling bag and a little bundle –chances were they were the most valuable things, which couldn’t be trusted to anyone else.

Mikheika hissed back: ‘But how do we get it? Why would he let go, if he’s holding on so tight?’

Senka thought about that for a bit and had an idea.

‘Just don’t you start snickering, Night-Owl, keep a straight face.’

He picked a small stone up off the ground, flung it and knocked the Oriental’s hat straight off his head – smack! Then he stuck his hands in his pockets and opened his mouth – a real angel, he was.

When Slanty-Eyes looked round, Senka said to him, very respectful, like:

‘Uncle Chinaman, your hat’s fallen off.’

And good for Mikheika – he didn’t even twitch, just stood there, batting his eyelids.

Righto, now let’s see what this pagan puts down on the step so he can pick up his hat – the travelling bag or the bundle.

The bundle. The travelling bag stayed in the servant’s left hand.

Senka was at the ready. He leapt forward like a cat pouncing on a sparrow, grabbed the bundle and shot off down the lane as fast as his legs could carry him.