Tom Smith - Child 44

The agents up ahead began firing. Bullets hit the front of the car, sparking against the metal. A bullet punctured the windscreen. Leo lowered himself behind the steering wheel, no longer able to see the road. The car was in position: he just had to hold steady. Bullets continued smashing through the windscreen. Fragments of glass showered down. He was still on course — braced for the collision.

The car lurched down and to the side. Sitting back up in the seat, Leo tried to maintain control but the car veered left, pulling away from him. The tyres had been shot out. There was nothing he could do. The car flipped onto its side, the window smashing. He was thrown against the door, millimetres from the road, skidding, sparks flaring up. The front smashed into the other car, spinning Leo’s car around. It rolled onto the roof, running off the road into the verge. Leo was tossed from the door to the roof where he lay huddled as the car finally came to a stop.

Leo opened his eyes. He wasn’t sure if he could move and he couldn’t muster the strength to find out. He was staring up at the night sky. His thoughts moved slowly. He was no longer in the car. Someone must have dragged him out. A face appeared above him, blocking the stars, looking down at him. Concentrating, Leo focused on the man’s face.

It was Vasili.

Same Day

Aron had been under the impression that a job in the militia might be exciting or at least more exciting than working on a kolkhoz . He’d always known it didn’t pay very well but the upside was that competition wasn’t fierce. When it came to looking for work he’d never been a strong candidate. There was nothing wrong with him. In fact, he’d done well at school. However, he’d been born with a deformed upper lip. That’s what the doctor had told him — it was deformed and there was nothing he could do. It looked as though a portion of his upper lip had been cut away and the remaining bits stitched together so that the lip went up in the middle, revealing a portion of his front teeth. The overall result was a permanent sneer. Although this made no difference to his ability to work it certainly made a difference to his ability to get a job. The militia had seemed like the perfect solution, they were hungry for applicants. They’d bully him, make comments behind his back — he was used to that. He’d put up with it all just as long as he got to use his brain.

Yet here he was, in the middle of the night, sitting in the bushes, getting bitten by bugs, watching a bus shelter for signs of

unusual activity.

Aron hadn’t been told why he was sitting here or what unusual activity might possibly mean. As one of the youngest members of the department, only twenty years old, he wondered if this was some kind of initiation ritual — a test of loyalty, to see if he could follow orders. Obedience was valued more than anything else.

So far the only person around was a girl at the nearby bus stop. She was young, maybe fourteen or fifteen, but she was trying to look older. She seemed drunk. Her shirt was unbuttoned. He watched her straighten her skirt and play with her hair. What was she doing at the bus stop? There were no buses until the morning.

A man approached. He was tall, wearing a hat and long coat. His glasses had lenses as thick as glass bottoms. Carrying a smart case, he stood by the timetable, reading it with his finger. As though the girl was some kind of scantily clad spider, waiting in the corner she immediately got up, moving towards him. He continued reading the timetable as the girl circled him, touching his case, his hand, his jacket. The man seemed to ignore these advances until finally he looked away from the timetable, studying the girl. They spoke. Aron couldn’t hear what they were saying. The girl disagreed with something, shaking her head. Then she shrugged. They were in agreement. The man turned around and seemed to stare straight at Aron, looking right at the undergrowth beside the shelter. Had the man seen him? It didn’t seem likely — they were in light, he was in shadow. Both the man and girl began walking towards him, straight towards the place where he was hiding.

Aron was confused, checking his position — he was completely hidden. They couldn’t have seen him. Even if they had, why were they walking towards him? They were only metres away. He could hear them talking. He waited, crouched into the undergrowth, only to find that they’d walked straight past him, heading into the trees.

Aron stood up.

— Stop!

The man froze, his shoulders hunched up. He turned around. Aron did his best to sound authoritative.

— What are you two doing?

The girl, who didn’t seem at all afraid or concerned, answered:

— We were going for a walk. What happened to your lip? It’s really ugly.

Aron flushed with embarrassment. The girl was staring at it with obvious disgust. He paused for a moment, composing himself.

— You were going to have sex. In a public place; you’re a prostitute.

— No, we were going for a walk.

The man added, his voice pathetic, barely audible:

— No one has done anything wrong. We were just having a conversation.

— Let me see your papers.

The man stepped forward, fumbling for his papers in his jacket. The girl hung back, nonchalant: no doubt she’d been stopped before. She didn’t seem fazed. He checked the man’s papers. The man was called Andrei. The papers were in order.

— Open your case.

Andrei hesitated, sweating profusely. He’d been caught. He’d never imagined this would happen: he’d never imagined his plan would fail. He lifted the case, opening the buckle. The young officer peered in, his hand tentatively searching through. Andrei stared down at his shoes, waiting. When he looked up the officer was holding his knife, a long knife with a serrated blade. Andrei felt close to tears.

— Why do you carry this?

— I travel a lot. Often I eat on trains. I use the knife to cut salami. Cheap, tough salami but my wife refuses to buy any other kind.

Andrei did use the knife for lunch and dinner. The officer found half a stick of salami. It was cheap and tough. The edge was rough. It had been cut by the same knife.

Aron lifted out a glass jar with a sealed top. The jar was clean and empty.

— What’s this for?

— Some of the component parts I collect, as samples, are fragile, some are dirty. This jar is useful for my work. Listen, officer, I know I shouldn’t have gone off with this girl. I don’t know what came over me. I was here, checking the times for the buses tomorrow and she approached me. You know how it is — with urges. One came over me. But look in the pocket of the case, you’ll find my Party membership card.

Aron found the card. He also found a photograph of the man’s wife and two daughters.

— My daughters. There’s no need to take this any further, is there, officer? The girl is the one to blame: I would’ve been on my way home by now otherwise.

A decent citizen momentarily corrupted by a drunken girl, a reprobate. This man had been polite: he hadn’t stared at Aron’s lip or made any disparaging comments. He’d treated him as an equal even though he was older with a better job and a member of the Party. He was the victim. She was the criminal.

Having felt the net close around him, Andrei realized he was almost free. The photograph of his family had proved invaluable on numerous occasions. He sometimes used it to persuade reluctant children that he was a man who could be trusted. He was a father himself. In his trouser pocket he could feel the coarse length of string. Not tonight; he’d have to exercise patience in the future. He could no longer kill in his home town.