Sergei Lukyanenko - The New Watch

‘Well, I feel sorry for both the polizei ,’ Las remarked casually.

My heart skipped half a beat.

‘Both? Did they eat the meat pies at the local cafe?’

‘Oh no, the other one’s digestion is fine,’ Las reassured me. ‘The other one went insane.’

I waited. In anticipation of more specific questions, Las was clearly doling out the information in small doses quite deliberately – to heighten the drama.

‘Aren’t you interested?’ asked Las.

‘Report in due form,’ I told him.

Las sighed and scratched the back of his head.

‘Well, it’s nothing special, really. But it does kind of fall outside the everyday routine. This morning, about the same time you left the airport, something unpleasant happened to this police patrol and inspection unit. One polizei , Dmitry Pastukhov, went off to the privy but he didn’t move fast enough. And the other one… a little while later the other one walked into the duty office and put his holster, ID and walkie-talkie on the desk. Said he’d lost interest in working for the forces of law and order and left. His bosses haven’t even informed anyone yet. They’re hoping he’ll change his mind and come back.’

‘Let’s go,’ I said

‘Which one first?’

‘The one who didn’t run fast enough.’

‘No need to go anywhere, then. I told you – he got washed and changed and went back to his post.’

At first glance there was no way of telling that this morning police officer Dmitry Pastukhov had found himself in such a delicate and – why pretend otherwise? – embarrassing situation. Except that his uniform trousers, if you looked closely, were a little too big for him, and they were a slightly different shade of grey from his tunic.

He himself, however, was looking quite magnificent. Inspired, you might say. Like a militiaman in a children’s story who has detained a bandit at the scene of his crime and is now being presented with a watch engraved ‘For conspicuous valour in the line of duty’ by a general. Like a test pilot who has managed to get his plane back to the airfield after its engine failed, and can feel the wheels gently touching the ground. Like a man taking a cigarette out of the pack and smiling awkwardly as he looks round at the gigantic icicle that has just crashed into the pavement at the very spot where he was walking only a moment ago…

Like a man who has survived deadly danger and realises that he is still alive, but doesn’t really understand why.

Dmitry Pastukhov was sauntering about in front of the entrance to the airport building with his hands clasped behind his back in non-regulation style, gazing around with a good-natured, friendly air.

But as Las and I came closer a quite different expression appeared on the policeman’s face.

Like the expression on the militiaman’s face when the general tells him: ‘Well done… well done… I suppose you knew whose nephew it was that you were arresting – but that didn’t frighten you? You’re a real hero…’ Like the expression on the pilot’s face when his plane is already taxiing over the concrete and the fuel tank explodes in a ferocious ball of flame. Or the expression on the face of the man on the pavement, kneading his cigarette to soften it before lighting up, with his stare fixed on the shattered icicle, when he hears a sudden shout above his head: ‘Look out!’

He was afraid of me.

He knew who I was. Not exactly, perhaps… but there was no point in introducing myself as an inspector, a journalist or an environmental health officer.

He knew that I wasn’t human.

‘Wait here, Las,’ I said. ‘I’d better handle this…’

Pastukhov waited without trying to walk away or pretend that he hadn’t noticed me approaching. He didn’t reach for his weapon, as I had been slightly afraid that he might (I didn’t want to start the conversation as dynamically as that). And when I stopped two steps away, he heaved a sigh, smiled awkwardly and asked: ‘Permission to smoke?’

‘What?’ I asked, perplexed. ‘Oh, of course…’

Pastukhov took out a cigarette and lit up greedily. Then he said: ‘One thing I really want to ask you: don’t make me get drunk any more. They’ll chuck me out of the service! We’ve got another campaign on now, they sack you if you just show up for work with a hangover.’

I looked at him for a few seconds, then something came together in my head and I saw a grey Moscow winter, dirty snow on the verge of Peace Prospect, trading kiosks clustered round the Exhibition of Economic Achievements metro station, two militiamen walking towards me – one a bit older, the other still very young.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Did you really get it in the neck that time?’

The policeman shrugged indefinitely. Then he said: ‘You haven’t changed at all. Thirteen years have gone by – and you haven’t even aged.’

‘We age slowly,’ I said.

‘Uh-huh.’ Pastukhov nodded and tossed his cigarette away. ‘I’m not stupid. I understand everything. So… tell me straight away what you want. Or do what you want to do.’

He was afraid of me. Well, who wouldn’t be frightened of someone who can make you do anything at all with a single word?

I lowered my eyes, reaching for my shadow. I stepped into it – and I was in the Twilight. There wasn’t any particular necessity for it, but an aura can be scanned more thoroughly from there.

The policeman was human. Not the slightest indication of an Other. A man, and by no means the worst of them.

‘Can you tell me what happened this morning?’ I asked him as I returned to the everyday world. Pastukhov blinked – he’d probably caught a whiff of the Twilight. He couldn’t have noticed my disappearing for such a short time.

‘Bisat and me were standing here,’ he said. ‘Just shooting the breeze. Today was a good day…’ From the way he said it, he clearly didn’t think it was any more. ‘Then you walked past…’

‘Did you recognise me, Dmitry?’ I asked. There was no point in putting a truth spell on him – he was being quite honest with me.

‘Well, at first I just realised that you were one of those…’ The policeman waved his hand vaguely through the air. ‘And then I recognised you, yes…’

‘How did you realise?’

Pastukhov looked at me in amazement. ‘Why… I recognise your kind at a glance.’

‘How?’

It suddenly dawned on him. ‘What, is that so unusual?’ he asked, obviously pondering something.

‘More than unusual,’ I said, deciding not to hide anything from him. ‘Usually it’s only Others like ourselves who can see us. They recognise us from the aura.’

‘An aura – that’s like a kind of glow round the head, right?’ asked Pastukhov, wrinkling up his forehead. ‘I thought all kinds of psychos saw it. And villains.’

‘Not just round the head, and not just psychos and villains. But what do you see?’

‘Why, I recognise you from your eyes! Ever since the first time we met,’ Pastukhov said abruptly. ‘You’ve got eyes like a guard dog’s.’

If I hadn’t just scanned his aura, I would have felt certain that I was dealing with some strange kind of weak Other who perceived auras in a highly original way. After all, the aura is strongest round the head and the eyes radiate the brightest glow on the face, so maybe that was how he spotted Others?

But no, he wasn’t an Other, he was a human being…

‘That’s curious,’ I admitted. ‘Like a dog’s eyes, you say?’

‘No offence intended,’ Pastukhov said, shrugging. He was gradually recovering his wits.

‘None taken. I’m very fond of dogs.’

‘And then there are the others, with eyes like a wolf’s,’ said Pastukhov.