Garry Abson: Motherland: A Gripping Crime Thriller Set in the Dark Heart of Putin's Russia

Back in Stockholm, she had watched the parades with her father. Those Konstens Natt festivals with their dancing girls and marching bands were so lame. She cringed remembering his over-enthusiastic clapping as the Östermalm locals drifted by in their homemade costumes, their heads twisting to get a glimpse of the famous businessman. Konstens Natt marked the start of summer, when the sun stayed above the horizon for three months, but it was pathetic compared to Belye Nochi , the White Nights festival in St. Petersburg.

She had heard from Yulia that every year, at the height of the celebrations, a scarlet-coloured tall ship sailed along the Neva to the accompaniment of classical music and enough fireworks to keep factories in China busy for the rest of the year. That was two days away, yet no one seemed to have told the people launching the rockets. She had seen canals filled with splashes of colour, the water churned up by partygoers on motorboats who danced and sang in drunken ecstasy. She sighed – it would continue for weeks and she was already exhausted.

‘Pu-tin-ka.’ She pushed her lips out and spoke in an exaggerated, deep Russian voice.

Finally, she screwed the cap onto the half-empty bottle of vodka, leant against the wall and closed her eyes.

An internal alarm made her instantly awake as two boys worked their way towards her, silhouetted by the weak shadows of the office buildings. One of them stopped in a doorway, his face hidden, but the other boy kept coming. He had red Adidas tracksuit bottoms and a stained yellow T-shirt, and even from ten metres she could see his teeth were rotten. The word gopnik came into her head; Yulia had used it to describe a street kid they’d seen. She’d asked what it meant.

‘A nasty shit with bad fashion sense,’ Yulia had replied.

Zena patted down her dress as the gopnik approached, conscious of her bare legs, then looked around, trying to pass off the search for an escape route as a casual glance – the place was deserted. Her diaphragm tensed automatically and she rubbed her arms to shake off a shiver. The boy was facing her now, gripping a cigarette between his index finger and thumb. The smoke made her eyes smart.

‘You want some?’ He moved the cigarette away.

She shook her head.

He squatted until his head was level with hers. She smelled his sickly sweet breath as he took a swig of Jaguar . He placed a hand on the back of her head and pushed the can against her mouth.

‘Don’t touch me.’

She spoke in rapid Russian, making her accent harsh, then shook her head to brush his hand away. The liquid dribbled down her chin.

‘Messy girl.’ He put the can down and grabbed the strap of her handbag, eyeing her carefully to see her reaction.

She felt the spasm in her diaphragm again.

‘Don’t…,’ she said, then stopped. She stopped to avoid putting the words in his head: don’t hurt me .

She settled for ‘Leave me alone.’

He ignored her and opened the clasp of her purse. A firework exploded into yellow petals that transformed into white trails as they fell. He watched them until they disappeared behind the buildings, his mouth gaping open like a child’s.

The twilight resumed and he dipped his head to ground level, twisting his neck to call into the recess of an office block. ‘Fuck, Stas, you should see this.’

Her gaze had been fixed on the ground, anxious to avoid eye contact, but now she turned and saw him with a fold of her notes. He was counting them out and she thought of running but the idea was laughable: two boys against a half-drunk girl? Another spasm caught her low in the diaphragm; this time she vomited.

The gopnik glanced casually at the puke on the pavement. ‘Messy girl,’ he repeated, then tutted as if her drunkenness had made him morally superior. He shuffled on his haunches then called over his shoulder, ‘Stas, she’s got American dollars.’

The other boy came out of the shadows and crouched next to him. She shivered as a breeze blew against her bare legs.

‘Leave me alone!’ Her voice echoed in the empty street.

Stas’s face brushed against hers, and she smelled bitter cigarette smoke and stale sweat as his hands grabbed her thighs.

She glared at him. ‘Get your fucking hands off me.’

He grinned back, revealing brown teeth and a stench of decay.

‘Or what, princess?’ he turned his head in the direction of the empty street in a single sarcastic gesture.

His fingers grabbed at her underwear. She put her hands on his wrists to stop him, digging her nails into his skin. He yanked his arms down, tearing at the flimsy material.

‘I said “Get off!”’ She lashed out with her right foot, stabbing the heel at his face.

The gopnik caught her leg easily, his fingers encircling her ankle.

‘Not here Stas.’

He turned his head. While he was distracted she crossed her legs, locking her muscles to keep them together. He lifted her dress and she lashed out with her hand, digging her nails into his cheek. His fist caught her jaw, knocking her head against the wall. There was little strength behind it though, and she felt no more than dazed.

The gopnik pulled down his tracksuit pants to reveal pale, hairless legs. ‘Open up, messy girl,’ he said, oblivious to a trickle of blood on his cheek.

A deep shiver settled inside her. The muscles in her legs were cramping.

A car horn sounded close by and she saw him hesitate.

‘Dima?’ he hissed. ‘Dima? You pussy. Where are you?’

He pulled up his tracksuit bottoms one-handed, his penis solid and twitching inside, then took a phone from his pocket. He turned it over in his hands and she heard the artificial camera sound as he aimed it at her. There were more clicks but it was fine, he could take his porn pictures because he was going to crawl back under his rock soon.

‘Stas,’ Dima hissed from the shadows, ‘someone’s coming.’

‘Yeah, alright.’ He trotted away.

She pulled up her torn underwear then grabbed her handbag.

‘Shit,’ she said, putting her palms on the brick wall to steady herself as she got to her feet.

‘Are you alright?’ a voice asked.

Zena pulled her dress down in a single jerky movement then looked up to see jeans and a black leather jacket over a white work shirt.

‘I’m fine,’ she snapped, wondering how long he’d been there.

She picked up her purse and looked inside.

‘Oh no,’ she said aloud.

It was empty except for her ID and the keys to her apartment. She guessed the gopnik had left them behind so she wouldn’t be forced to go to the police. At least he’d been too stupid to steal her watch, she thought, trying to be upbeat – her Tag Heuer was worth enough to keep him in Jaguar for the rest of his stunted life.

She’d been planning to spend summer in the city but now realised it was a stupid idea to be hundreds of kilometres from anyone who gave a damn about her. Although she didn’t feel so drunk any more it still took a moment of squinting to make out the tiny hands on the watch’s numberless dial. It was quarter past two; late, but not too late. There was time to go back to her apartment, catch some sleep, then find an evening flight to Stockholm where she would surprise her father with a late-night call from Arlanda Airport. She would insist they went on holiday to a familiar place, maybe Cap Ferrat, and she would learn to be less fucking stupid.

‘You want a lift?’

She’d forgotten he was there, and looked up to see the man’s greying hair and lines etched in his broad face. He didn’t look like the type of guy to get in a car with, but who was she to judge? Besides, what choice did she have when those gopnik pieces of shit had left her without a single rouble?