Andrea Bennett - Galina Petrovna's Three-Legged Dog Story

‘And you have no idea what goes through my head. You call me angel: I’m no angel, puppy. But I know I’m worth more than this. And so are you. We all are, Mitya.’

Katya swigged a mouthful of his tea and rubbed her forehead with her short, slightly bent fingers.

‘We’re all worth more. You have to respect yourself… you know, I work with little kids, and they all deserve to have good lives.’

‘They won’t get them though, will they?’

‘Some will…’

‘And some will become alcoholics, and some wife beaters, and some fraudsters, and some hooligans.’

‘And some doctors, and teachers, or, you know, architects and things like that. Interior designers.’ Katya was looking around the room again. ‘I guess you like orange, puppy?’

‘It reminds me of the sun,’ replied Mitya, unsmiling. He screwed up the paper he had been writing on and threw it at the bin.

‘Why?’

‘It’s just a list. Forget it. There’s no point.’

Katya picked up the ball of paper and smoothed it out carefully.

‘Don’t read it!’

‘Well I can’t read it, can I, puppy? Your writing’s all over the place! So you’ll have to tell me, Mitya – where do we start?’

Mitya drank down what was left of his tea and grimaced as it hit his empty stomach. He stifled a belch with his fist and looked, for a long time, at the angry red marks on his knuckles.

‘I told you, Katya, there’s no point. It doesn’t matter.’

‘And I told you that there is, and it does. I’m not going till you tell me where we start. Really! Stop playing with me. You called me back: now deal with it. I can’t just leave you now. You remind me of some of the kids at the school, the really naughty ones, all brave and tough but actually…’ Katya knelt and leant towards him, showing her little white teeth in a smile that crinkled her eyes but was lit by the glow of determination rather than laughter, ‘… but actually, they need my help more than anyone else. Although it nearly kills you to ask, eh?’

It was a look that Mitya recognized from the other significant women in his life: namely his grandmother, mother and his former primary school teacher, Miss Kryzhanovskaya. He wiped a blob of congealed blood from the inside of his nose, and realized further resistance was futile.

‘OK, OK, whatever. If you really want to waste your time… We start, sweetness, with a visit to the SIZO, if you’re really… up for it.’

‘The SIZO?’

‘The remand prison.’

Katya laughed. ‘I know what a SIZO is, thank you, puppy. I’ve been before, but not in Azov. Tell me where it is, and I can take you there on Saturday, if you’re well enough. I have a car.’

Her face took on the mystical aura of an ancient saint at the announcement of her ownership of a car.

‘Where did you get a car from?’

The saintly look snapped off, and Katya frowned slightly.

‘Never you mind: cars come and go, but the main thing is – it’s mine, for now. I have the key and everything. I have a licence. I have diesel. And you can’t argue.’

Mitya had no intention of arguing.

‘Can’t we go tomorrow though? It’s quite… urgent. The visit I have to make. I’m not sure I can wait until Saturday.’

‘Well, I have to study tomorrow, Mitya. And I don’t think you’ll be up to it, to be honest. Saturday will be OK. Trust me.’

And strangely, Mitya did trust her. The tea had made him sleepy, and shock and exhaustion were weighing down his eyelids and tugging at his sore limbs. The shaking had worn off and been replaced by a heaviness that felt hot and sweet and heavy, and like it would go on forever. With stiff, careful movements he pushed himself up from the floor and collapsed forward, in slow motion, on to his narrow, orange bed, face first, his eyes closing as soon as his head made a furrow in the taut nylon pillow. With an effort, he turned his head to one side, to squeeze out a few words.

‘We’ll go to the SIZO. But you won’t like it. And neither will I.’

‘Like, not like – that’s not the point, is it? We’re making a start. And to be honest, it’s got to be better than helping cousin Marina wash out her smalls in a bucket, hasn’t it? I think so, anyway. Goodnight. Sleep well. Sweet dreams, Mitya!’

She looked back at him from the door, but could only see the back of his head, his short hair bristling on his collar slightly as it moved with his deep, even breathing. Katya clicked the door shut. Andrei the Svoloch was waiting in the corridor, leaning against his door frame.

‘Katya, honey pie, where have you been all evening? We missed you, we’ve been having a ball. Sveta’s got vint , and we’re all getting, you know, really sexy!’ Andrei was stoned, as usual, as were all the other inhabitants of the room. Katya walked on by, as she’d promised she would, and went to listen to cousin Marina’s tales of her day at the cheese factory.

Back in the orange room, Mitya never heard the door shut, or Katya’s goodbye: he was already dreaming of dogs, and balls, and wells. And shouting, and tears, and a summer’s day that started so well, but ended somewhere else. And something Mitya couldn’t see, something behind him, or in the corner of his eye, a presence that was definitely there, but intangible. A something that brought him out in a cold sweat and drew an icy finger down the length of his spine. Someone that made him look behind, although he didn’t want to look, and keep on running. Run but don’t trip! Keep running, Mitya. Run, Mitya, run!

Galia woke early, as always. It took a few moments for her to remember where she was. She was struck by the quiet all around her. She could not believe she was in the middle of a capital city with a dual carriageway not twenty metres from the building. There was a remarkable stillness in the apartment, and even the dust in the air, glowing golden in the morning sun, was completely still, suspended on threads of soft silence. She gently peeled her face away from the plastic-coated pillow she had found the night before, and rubbed her cheek, waiting to hear footsteps and the usual communal morning movements before getting up. There was nothing. She sat up gingerly, aching a little from the unusual sleeping arrangements: she had chosen an army-issue rubber lilo with rough khaki blankets on top and a couple of relatively clean pink towels underneath to stop her sticking to the rubber, and said plastic-coated pillow. She was still convinced it hadn’t been a bad choice, but she had slid off the lilo several times during the night, and at one point had woken up with it on top of her. Her dreams had not been the most restful.

She leant back against a tower of old journals and mulled over the plan for today, ticking off the list in her head of ministries and ministers that they had discussed the previous night, and thought about looking for a city map to start making a route.

When, at eight a.m., the apartment was still blanketed in silence, her impatience got the better of her. She tiptoed out in to the hall, and then peeked into every room for a sign of life. She tried all the doors, and even the store cupboard (which gave her a fright), but could find no sign of Grigory Mikhailovich at all. He had disappeared.

Zoya was curled up on a large, French-style high-backed sofa, snoring softly under a vibrating pile of greatcoats, fur hats, long-johns and other assorted old clothes. Galia shook her roughly by the shoulder.

‘Zoya! Zoya, wake up!’

Zoya groaned and tried to shake free of Galia’s clutch. ‘Get off me, don’t touch,’ she muttered half asleep, ‘I’m a state servant!’

‘Zoya! Wake up! Grigory Mikhailovich has gone!’