David Nickle - Rasputin's Bastards

James started to turn to grab at Alexei, so he twisted, and James yelled instead. “That hurts, eh?” said Alexei. “It can hurt more.”

Simon had rolled over and was crab-walking away. James’ eyes were screwed shut in pain. “All right,” he said through clenched teeth. “Let go.”

Alexei let go. He stood straight and looked around. Holden’s pirate crew were staring at him. “Any trouble?” he said to the group.

“Fuckin’ right, no trouble.” Holden stood up from the bunk where he’d stretched out. “Everybody — you listen to the Russkie. This isn’t the time to settle old scores. We want to get out of this, we got to stick together — isn’t that right?”

It was a good speech — Holden showed some real leadership, thought Alexei. The group nodded and mumbled assent. James and Simon shook hands. And Holden led the group in a sing-along of old U2 songs that Alexei thought must have been a carryover from the days when these people were all children in Holden’s junior high school thieves’ guild.

But even as a seedling of grudging respect for Holden Gibson started to blossom, it withered again when the old bastard got into it himself. Alexei had to hold down Holden Gibson for nearly five minutes to prevent him from “strangulating” James — who had made the mistake of looking at Holden wrong during the second chorus of “Where the Streets Have No Name.” Every time the old man relaxed, Alexei would let go and Holden would lunge. After a couple of these attempts, Alexei thought it might be a good time for the killing thing — there was certainly enough confusion to make it seem like an accident — but he couldn’t really bring himself to do it. Only a couple of hours ago, Holden Gibson had proclaimed his fast friendship and admiration for Alexei. And here, pinned to the mattress, grinning ingratiatingly up at him while making unconvincing noises that things were fine now, he’d gotten it under control — now, Gibson was less a figure of evil than ever before.

The only way Holden would get it would be if he tried to escape, decided Alexei. Those were Vladimir’s instructions. Right now, Alexei trusted the kid’s judgement.

The question remained, however — why on Earth did Vladimir trust Alexei?

Just past the ninth hour, Alexei found out. The latch opened and the door swung open, and two little girls who might have been twins stood there.

“You,” said one, pointing at Alexei.

“Come with us,” said her sister.

Alexei nodded, and turned to wave his finger at the prisoners. “No fucking around while I’m gone,” he said, and left them to themselves in the children’s brig.

“Change me,” said Vladimir. “We will talk as you wipe.”

Vladimir was squirming on the folding table next to all the pamphlets in the lounge. Someone had laid out a blanket, a roll of toilet paper, and a fresh Pampers diaper.

I have never changed a baby before , worried Alexei.

“Neither have I,” said Vladimir. “It’s not difficult. Just pull off the dirty diaper, give me a good wiping and put on the clean one. Oh — and don’t forget the baby powder. It helps with the itching.”

Alexei sighed and started to work. What did you want to talk to me about ?

Vladimir was quiet for a moment. His eyes wandered from Alexei to the ceiling. He grunted as Alexei unfastened the diaper and lifted his feet.

Did you want to talk at all, Vladimir ? Alexei struggled to get the old diaper clear without smearing shit on everything.

“Kilodovich,” said Vladimir finally, “I want to apologize.”

Alexei made a big cloud of baby powder. Vladimir sneezed. “Hey! Easy!”

I told you I’ve never done this before. What are you sorry about ?

“I can’t let you go on the way you’re going.”

What do you mean ?

“Killing Holden Gibson. This mission you’ve set for yourself. Or that you’ve let be set.”

Alexei set his mouth.

“You think he’s evil. You think you’re — blameless. Well things are not always as they seem.”

Alexei set down the baby powder and rested both his hands on the table.

Do you know what he does to children ?

“Oh yes. I know about Holden Gibson. I also know about you.” Vladimir gave a little baby shrug. “You are going to have to guard them for a little while longer. But I am sorry — I cannot let you do that yourself. Understand that doing things this way is not my preference — just because you’ve been misused this way in the past gives me no right to do it now.”

Alexei held up the dirty diaper. Where does this go ?

“There’s a bucket under the table.”

So what are you saying ?

“You can’t go ahead and kill Holden Gibson. I can’t trust you not to do it. But — there is something else. Maybe I can make it up to you in another way”

What way ?

“Finish with this,” said Vladimir. “Then you’ll see.”

Alexei blinked in yellow winter light. He took a breath. Smelled the petrochemical tang of the heating oil, the spring frost tugging delicately at the cilia in his nostrils. He flexed his hands that an instant before had been pulling velcroed diapers across Vladimir’s tiny baby ass. Now it was Alexei’s hands that were tiny. He started to ask himself where he was, then stopped. He knew where he was. He was in the old exercise yard. At school. In Murmansk. It was a place he had not been since he was a boy; a place that no longer existed, except in memory.

“Alexei!”

Alexei turned. He was facing Ilyich Chenko. When he was older and marginally larger, Ilyich would die in the belly of a tank in Afghanistan. Now, he was grinning across the yard and beckoning Alexei to join him.

Alexei shrugged and followed. Ilyich was heading toward the back of the yard, amid a low copse of pine trees where the older boys would sometimes gather to shout and gamble and settle old scores. From there, you could see the low outline of the school — a nearly windowless cinderblock structure with narrow red-brick chimneys at either end — but that was all.

“Let’s play cards,” said Ilyich. He produced a thumb-worn deck and set it on the ground between them. “It will pass the time.”

“What is going on, Ilyich?” said Alexei. “Why are we here? Like this?”

Ilyich looked at Alexei. “We are passing the time in your safe place,” he said. “You don’t remember coming here before, do you?”

“Well yes — but a very long time ago.” When I really was this small .

Ilyich nodded. “You have blocked your memories of more recent visits. That’s sensible.”

“Stop talking in riddles!” Alexei felt heat rising in his face — he was getting frustrated, so frustrated as to make his small, child’s body start to cry. He willed the tears back into their ducts. “What do you mean, calling this a safe place?”

“All the sleepers have one,” said Ilyich. “You were last in this one just a day ago. You remembered playing hockey, and the smell of the shipyards, and then you remembered some things that your old teacher Fyodor Kolyokov told you — about sex and torture — and that helped you to keep your mouth shut with Holden Gibson and more importantly Heather. She still will not sleep with you.”

Alexei leaned forward, and studied his old friend Ilyich Chenko in the details. The mole was there, and the red hair. But the eyes were an imperfect copy. They resembled someone else’s.

“That is you, Vladimir, isn’t it?”

Ilyich nodded. “Yes. I am inhabiting the metaphor with you whilst you acclimatize yourself.”

“Why should I need to acclimatize myself? If I have been here as often as I apparently have, I should think I would be more accustomed to this than my own skin.”