He got so carried away in his joy that he managed to persuade a dummy like me to get involved in such rotten business. Well, it would have been all the same for me, I could never have managed to wriggle out of it had he decided to take me doing time with him. However, it was late night when I took a ride home, hid the money in the kitchen cupboard (who would in his right mind come to rob a flat like ours with mom?), left a note for mom that I was leaving for another city, didn’t want to scare her – she’d find out anyway, they will call her for sure, but what would I write to her, that I had killed a man and money that I received for that I’m leaving for you mom? I wrote that I’d be sending her letters, she shouldn’t worry, and everything is alright. I wrote that the money she would find is mine and consequently hers as well. It’s not stolen and that’s why I’m asking her to spend it on herself while I’m away, which was true actually, I didn’t steal it, will be working for it paying it off in years of my life. So how would you call that if not earned? Then I quietly came to the head of the bed, cautiously kissed mom (at one moment I suddenly wanted to wake her up, wanted her to wake up and I would tell her everything, maybe cried, if I could, putting my head on her knees, but fortunately this crazy idea quickly left my head) and stepped out locking the door with my key and throwing the key inside through the night vent. Our flat was on the ground floor of an old, pre – war house and all neighbours here in the courtyard knew each other very well and liked to say that a close neighbour is better than a remote relative, tried to prove it in everyday life. That is why to some extent I was not worried about mom, I knew that neighbours won’t leave her alone, but whatever their help was that didn’t mean that she did not have to be provided with the means of existence. I was walking along the night street and remember when I was turning into the avenue near the circus to catch a ride, I absolutely unexpectedly and inexplicably for myself suddenly thought that I hadn’t been to the circus for ages, maybe since my childhood years, and I adored the circus. In childhood every visit to the circus, normally with my late father, turned into a great event, and right here and now I suddenly wished that I was going to the circus! Well, alright. I stopped a car and went to Nagiyev’s, getting off as he had asked two blocks away from his apartment. Nagiyev tried to look calm, tried to show that he never doubted my decency and honesty. We had a drink, I drank more, for courage, and closer to the morning I started calling the police… Generally, we thought about everything. Everything, except for one thing. Investigator and some other son of a bitch were beating me up in the interrogations; they did it very skillfully, mainly hitting me on the head and abdomen in order not to leave any marks. They wanted to kick out a confession from me. I understood straight away what the investigator needed. He wanted me to name Nagiyev as an accomplice. He could take a good bribe from Nagiyev. What could he take from me? I’m poor as a church mouse. And so they beat me up, the bastards beat me up professionally, bloody coppers, but I got through it, I didn’t crack and finally they had to pass the case to the court as manslaughter. The court judged the case as an accident with one aggravating circumstance – I had been drunk. The late Igor also was one hell of a fruitcake. He had been wanted by the police all over Soviet Union as a crook and swindler – what people!? Eh! He’s wanted, (just don’t understand how they looked for him) as he’s travelling from city to city dragging a load of suitcases with him. I think this also played a little positive role. Nagiyev must have had second sight; they gave me a short sentence – five years of high security labour camp. My lawyer was good, experienced, Nagiyev held his word. And a lot of what he’d said was taken into account: war veteran, have decorations and so on. At least here my former service helped. So I was sent to the prison camp, Mordovskaya SSR, write to me, eh– hey! This is how I turned up in a prison camp, not having even rested properly after Afghanistan. Yes, I have seen much for my twenty five years of age. I don’t ever want to remember the war, unnerves me, I’m still having Afghan dreams, as if our regiment was preparing for combat, or we drive – a column of BTR troop carriers in the valley, pass the cursed mountains, hidden and scary, where, like polecats, mujaheddins, having fired at the column, immediately hide in the connecting caves, change locations of their anti – aircraft guns, or I see how they having passed through underground passages from a village just shelled by us appear right behind our backs, and now we are surrounded and have to break through this ring of fire… I’d jump with horror, awakened by my own scream… Sometimes it makes you wonder – have I really been through all this hell? Alright… I don’t want to talk about it. I can’t imagine how one can write about war. After many years, maybe, cause even to remember it causes a painful fear… Or am I a coward or I’m getting nervous? Well, alright… I got into the camp. On one of the first days just after work – lights out – I’m in the barrack hut dog – tired. In the beginning I kept away from everyone, well obviously everyone here knew all about me, what sentence and how much time I had to do, but for some I was still a dark horse. And so it seemed they decided to try me out, to see what I was made of. Whether I was a green gull or a criminal. From the bunk by the window in the centre of the barrack hut – the place considered respectable – as I glanced in that direction, an inmate, a strapping fellow of about forty years of age with a horse face, quietly beckoned me. I came. Beside him another two, grinning, probably, in anticipation of the show. “Why are you like that? – asked me the horse face.” “Like what? – I said.” “Kind of impolite, – said the horse face adding in a tender voice, – go on, take your shoes off”. “Why is that? – I said.” “Take’em off, take’em off! – said the second inmate next to the horse face, – when the boss man himself tells you. Or we’ll rip your second arm off”. I understood that if I didn’t put an end to their little teasing right now, later on it would grow into much bigger trouble. “Well – I said – if the boss man himself tells it, what can you do?” And I took off my shoes. I saw that this boss man was winking to his guys and they were nicely pushing me away from him, and that the boss man took off his trousers and said to me, you see, he said, I wanna take a piss but I don’t feel like going to the close – stool cause it so impolitely stinks there. So he took it out, and pissed, I twitched towards him but was nudged away. Then he called me, take this, he said, throw it into the close – stool, I stepped in as his guys made way, and the whole barrack hut was watching the fun, so I came and bent down quietly, peacefully, inside I was all boiling with rage, carefully picked the boot so as not to spill its disgusting contents and with all my might put it over the boss man’s head, who never expected I’d dare it. I pulled it over his head with all my strength; luckily it was small, smaller than his own fists. My boot fitted him exactly, went down over his ears, and the urine obviously lavishly showered his horse face, which had to be done. His sidekicks? I knocked them down straight away – that’s where my Afghan training came in useful – got them a couple of times with my feet and they were out, good men with their knuckle – dusters. But the boss man himself took some time. That son of a bitch took out a knife in addition to being experienced in wrestling – won’t take him with bare hands – I had to sweat.
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