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

Still Vasya eyed his porridge. His spoon hovered in mid-air, and then rested on his knee again. The waking days he could cope with, even given the twilight and stench. But at night things really got to him. The empty night, when he could not sleep, and tossed and turned on his narrow bed, aware of all those around him, above him and below him. And worse, the stinking dreams his mind presented before him when he did finally drop off.

The previous night he had dreamt he was lying in his bed at home. It was so real and familiar; it was comforting like an old quilt, or a favourite meal. Everything was as it should be: the sounds were right, the smells were right. He could hear his neighbour, Petr Grigorievich, singing along to Shalyapin in a rich baritone and occasionally arguing with his wife in that good-natured way that some old couples manage. The smell of apple blossom and fresh rain made his nostrils flair, as a warm breeze wafted in through the balcony window. He knew, deep in his heart, that the fridge in the kitchen contained a bowl of cherries waiting for him, picked the previous day by his own hand. He felt the cool clean cotton of his favourite navy spotted pillow case beneath his face, and scraped his stubble across it gently. Best of all, little black-and-white Vasik was curled up on his special cushion in the corner of the room, fast asleep. He took it all in, and then looked again at Vasik, calling the cat over to him.

‘Vasik, Vasichka! Come here, tiddles!’

The cat did not move. In fact, not a feline molecule appeared to be moving. Vasya raised his head off the pillow, leaving a slight wet smudge where his sleep dribble had escaped, and placed his feet thankfully into his ancient, soft leather slippers.

‘Vasik! You funny little cat! Come here and give your papa some cuddles!’

He approached little Vasik, but the cat hadn’t heard. The cat was a black-and-white pool of silky stillness.

‘Vasik! What a lazy pussy!’

And the old man leant down to give the cat a tickle. At that moment, the cat’s head lifted and turned towards him, clicking as it did so. The old man withdrew his hand as if he had been bitten.

‘No! No, pussy, no!’

Where Vasik’s eyes should have been, there squirmed twin balls of worms. Vasik opened his mouth, but in place of a meow, the cat spewed out pint after pint of porridge. The thick liquid spread out in a grey puddle until the entire floor was covered, and Vasya’s ancient slippers became cold and slimy beneath his toes.

‘Get out!’ shouted the old man, backing away in fear. But now the zombified cat began to scream, scream like a soul in torment, arching its back and making a noise that surely could be heard in both heaven and in hell. Vasya went to kick it and found that his legs were tied, bound at the ankle. He struggled for a moment, reached out his arms in a desperate attempt to steady himself, and then fell like a tree in the forest, landing face-down in the porridgy cat vomit, the shock of the movement jolting right through his body, but the sticky sick covering his nose and mouth, making it hard for him to breathe.

‘Help me, pussy!’ he cried thickly. ‘Help me, pussy!’

At that moment, Vasya awoke as if breaking the surface of the sea, to find an intent, personal stare being directed at him from not more than twenty centimetres away. Shura was so close he could feel his heartbeat thudding through the bedclothes. Behind him, he could see the bunk was surrounded by curious on-lookers.

‘You calling me Pussy, oldie?’ Shura murmured the words, and Vasya was unsure what was going on. ‘You want my help?’

‘Er, no, Shura, I was dreaming. About my pussy.’

Shura eyed him doubtfully, a smile playing around his greasy lips.

‘Your pussy?’

‘Yes, my pussycat, Vasik. I’m sorry if I disturbed you.’

‘Your cat? You were screeching and writhing like that while you were dreaming about a cat?’ Shura laughed, and the other prisoners standing around the bed did the same, all looking down at Vasya, their mouths open, salivating, laughing at him. Vasya was mightily relieved to be a source of mirth rather than offence… or anything else.

‘He’s black and white, with a little red collar. Oh yes, I always make sure he’s got a collar on. He’s a very good cat, generally. But in my dream, he was being very odd indeed. He appeared to have eaten a surfeit of prison porridge, and was feeling unwell. Oh yes, it was quite a dream, and not one that I would like to repeat in a hurry. Oh my, I do wonder how he’s getting on without me.’ Vasya was conscious that he was rambling, but felt safer as long as he was talking.

‘Probably been eaten by now, oldie.’

‘By a dog, you mean?’

‘By a neighbour, more like. But maybe your neighbourhood is better than mine: less hungry?’

‘I’ve never heard of a cat being eaten for dinner, Shura. Well, not since the war.’

‘No? It was staple diet where I came from.’

The other neighbours laughed, and made cat noises, and picked their noses, and gradually drifted away.

So now in the beige light of morning he sat on his bunk with his spoon hovering over the porridge and an image of gushing zombie cat sick in the forefront of his mind. His fellow prisoners were restless; the awake half shifting and muttering and kicking the walls, and the sleeping half sweating on rough mattresses or the floor. Vasya knew sunbeams were beating against the shuttered windows, but only vague ghosts of the light made it in to the deep of the room.

A commotion in the corner of the cell gradually impressed itself on his senses and he turned his grey eyes towards the door, where it seemed the noise was coming from.

‘Stand back, stand back!’ Two prison warders, one very old and one very young, stood in the cell doorway, each wearing an equally ill-fitting khaki uniform, evidently designed for some species of being that wasn’t actually encountered on earth. Vasya could make out the pimples on the chin of the young one: they glowed with an unearthly light and rivalled his Adam’s apple in size. ‘Bad diet,’ thought Vasya. ‘Needs more green vegetables, and jam.’

The commotion quickly subsided and the prisoners stood about expectantly, and largely in silence.

‘Something’s going on,’ murmured Shura behind Vasya’s ear. ‘They never come in in the morning like this. Maybe we’re on fire.’

‘Fire?’ Vasya echoed, loudly.

It was enough. The awake half of the prisoners started echoing ‘fire’ and woke the sleeping half. The shouts multiplied and bodies began to stomp their feet and stumble towards the open door. The two wardens were lost in the crowd for a moment as the men began to move forward as one. Then a crack rang out.

‘Get back! There’s no fire! There’s no fire, damn you! Silence!’ The extremely elderly warden held surprising authority, and brandished in his hand, ready for use, a regulation hand gun. His school-boy chum held a whip, and cracked it on the wall behind his head.

‘Now calm yourselves. There’s no emergency. Do you think we’d be here if there was a fire?’ The younger warden sniggered.

‘We’ve come to collect a prisoner. What was the name, Ponchikov?’

‘The name is Volubchik, Vasily Semyonovich,’ replied Ponchikov, sniffing.

‘Volubchik, come along. We demand immediate obedience.’

The prisoners shifted and parted, forming a tunnel-like gap for Vasya to walk uncertainly through, immediately obeying, but wondering what he was letting himself in for.

‘ Blin! ’ muttered Shura, ‘what have you done, old man?’

Vasya didn’t reply, but shuffled towards the orange light of the corridor.

‘Are you sure it’s me you want?’ he asked the elderly warden when they were face to face.