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

‘Citizen Small Girl, please remove yourself from my van.’

‘You’re a murderer!’ the small girl persisted.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, but please—’

‘You’re the Exterminator. I know you! My babushka told me about you. And you killed Boroda!’

‘I remove canine infestations, or I have done in the past, as a service, that’s—’

The girl smacked the stick against the side of the van and shrieked.

‘Murderer! Boroda wasn’t stray! Baba Galia loved her. And she only had three legs.’

‘Ah, you’re referring to that tri-ped, aren’t you?’ he muttered, more to himself than to the little girl. ‘Look—’

‘She wasn’t a tri-ped, she was a dog!’ the girl smacked the stick against the van again.

‘Yes, look, stop doing that.’ Mitya made a grab for the stick and missed as the girl jumped backwards.

‘And now Baba Galia has gone to Moscow to tell the Minister.’

He cocked his head to one side and looked at the girl with surprise.

‘Really? She’s gone to Moscow?’

‘And you will go to hell.’

The girl threw the stick at him and ran off to join her gang under the birch tree. They thumbed their noses at Mitya and mimed horrible deaths, while their babushkas looked on in mute approval. Mitya stared after her open mouthed. Had the Elderly Citizen really gone off to Moscow to make a complaint? Shouldn’t she be dropping off parcels for… for the old man, Volubchik? He’d been in the SIZO for several days now, and must be in need of additional sustenance. Had she just abandoned him to go complaining about a dog – a dog which, whatever way you looked at it, whoever was in the wrong or in the right, must surely be dead by now? He unlocked the van and slid carefully into the driver’s seat. The sun-baked interior stank of faeces and matted hair, and took his breath away for a moment. He wound down the window and looked out over the courtyard. Had the old woman really gone all the way to Moscow about a dog? He looked into the wing mirror and caught sight of the children in the background, still miming horrible deaths and gesticulating crudely. They were laughing and daring each other to come closer to the van. Mitya turned the key and pressed the gear stick into reverse. The children scattered into the dusty courtyard, howling and shrieking to each other, as the radio belched on: they were playing Depeche Mode, ‘Walking in my Shoes’. If Mitya had understood the lyrics, he would have found them apt.

Petya Kulakov had endured a tiring morning dealing with other people’s shit. His landlady had failed to do his washing, as her sister had died (or so she claimed), so his uniform today was crispy with yesterday’s sweat. He didn’t care: sometimes a stinking policeman was worth more than a fresh one. Not that Petya Kulakov ever made ‘fresh’: what was the point, when you only got dirty again? At the kiosk that morning, where he habitually indulged in a little ‘hair of the dog’ over a breakfast bag of biscuits, there had been nothing but grumbles and bad omens, complaints over bad business and lack of protection. And the final nail in the coffin of the day was the news from his dentist. Oh, Kulakov had been struggling with his mouth. For weeks, he had resisted the dread conclusion, but now he could resist no more. The rotten tooth tormented him by lying low for several hours with not so much as a murmur, and then bursting into full-blown pulsating agony that made his eyes water and his fists punch whatever was close. Oh yes, he’d had two caps punched out last night by that Plovkin bastard, but if he’d only aimed a little to the left, the rotten incisor would have been smashed out instead. He might even have thanked him. And now the news was awful: he had finally called the dentist, and was disturbed to learn that she had emigrated to Israel. Israel! He’d been having his teeth seen to for free by a Jew for all this time, and he didn’t even know. He winced.

Now, at lunchtime, he couldn’t face chewing. He’d snuck off a couple more vodkas to ease the pain, and tipped back in his office chair, sockless feet on the desk, his mouth wide open as he dozed. Occasionally he was aware of a buzz near his face: his only concern in this moment, and it was a slight one, was that he might swallow a fly. There were plenty of them in the office, attracted by something under Kulakov’s desk. But then, it wouldn’t be the first time, and he’d suffered no ill consequences on the previous occasions when this had happened.

‘Kulakov!’ The word was accompanied by a rap of knuckles on the desk, and a sharp intake of breath. The policeman did not stir. Mitya remembered his knuckles, and this time kicked his chair.

‘Hey, Petya! Wake up! I have a bottle for you.’ Mitya kicked the chair leg again, and waved the spirit in the policeman’s face. Kulakov shut his mouth and opened first one bleary eye, and then the other. He surveyed the vision of the proffered bottle cloaked in its dewy blanket of coolness. He surmised that it must have come straight from a freezer. He wondered if he had any gherkins left in his drawer. Then he wondered why that bastard Plovkin was waving it at him.

‘I just came to say… no hard feelings about last night.’ Mitya cleared his throat and leant against the desk slightly.

Kulakov sat motionless, eyeing him suspiciously but hungrily. He licked his cracked lips, and wondered where Big Vova was, just in case he was needed.

‘I don’t know what came over me.’ Mitya couldn’t quite meet Kulakov’s eyes, but fixed his gaze as close to his face as he could: his left earlobe seemed about right. ‘I’m not usually a violent person.’

Kulakov’s smile oozed across his face.

‘Well, Mitya my brother, this is a surprise.’ Kulakov sucked at his teeth, and found that at present, they did not ache. ‘I didn’t think I’d see you for a while after the beating I gave you last night. You caused me a great deal of offence, you know. I was only trying to help you.’

Kulakov reached out and fingered the glass neck of the bottle. The cold kissed his fingertips and he swallowed hard. ‘Apology accepted. You can leave the bottle on the desk.’

‘There’s another matter, Kulakov. I wanted to tell you… I’m withdrawing my complaint against the Elderly Citizens we dealt with on Monday night. I won’t be giving evidence. I’ve filled out the form; you’ll find it in here.’ Mitya pointed to the ten-page document on regulation grey paper which now resided, like a dead fish, in the net of the policeman’s in-tray.

‘Well, get you!’ Kulakov slid his feet from the desk and thudded his chair back on to the concrete floor, the impact jolting his incisor into action, and pain roaring through his face like molten lava. ‘Arrghh!’ His hands flew to his face.

Mitya peeled the thin metal lid from the vodka bottle and placed it to Kulakov’s lips.

‘Drink, Petya. It will help.’

The policeman took a swig, and then another one, vodka spurting on to his collar and cheeks as he choked slightly with the force of the spirit travelling up his nose and down his throat, as Mitya raised the bottom of the bottle. He gasped slightly, and then giggled.

‘You’re a joke, Plovkin. But you can do what you like: I’ve processed the paperwork. I don’t need your evidence. I can give plenty of evidence. I always do!’ Kulakov took another swig. ‘You can’t stop this wagon, brother. He’s going to rot in jail, and the dog’s already cat meat.’

Kulakov’s jowls wobbled as he began to giggle. Mitya looked down at the stained concrete floor and nodded slowly. It was too late. There was no reason for Kulakov to help him, and there was no more that he could do here. He turned and started to walk away, every bone in his body suddenly aching and heavy.