Liza Alexandrova-Zorina - The Little Man

«Will they? Won't they kill someone?» grinned Karimov, splashing water onto the stove. «Once upon a time, there were three fat men. Then there was only one…»

«God only knows,» said the mayor, shaking his head. «It used to be a quiet little place, people just got on with their lives.»

«You can't hide anything in a hole like this! It isn't possible that no-one knows anything!»

The mayor sighed heavily, pouring with sweat. The latest edition of the local paper had carried a photo of the town festival. Trebenko, Antonov and Krotov, the Three Fat Men as they were called behind their backs, could just about be squeezed into the frame. It occurred to Krotov that in old photographs he was more and more often surrounded by the dead and cold air wafted from the snap. The mayor carefully cut himself out of the picture, superstitiously touched wood, spat over his shoulder, and crossed himself. Deciding that even that wasn't enough, he went off to church and lit a fat candle at the altar.

«Have you talked to Saam?» asked Karimov, splashing on more water to increase the steam.

«He swears he doesn't know. So who does? A gangster's a gangster. Trebenko was the only one who knew how to put pressure on him. I've got no influence over those guys. They've got their own bosses.»

«I have heard you decided to get rid of him…»

Karimov scooped up more water.

«For goodness sake, stop making steam. It'll kill me,» Krotov burst out. «It doesn't bother me. It's a small town but there's room for everyone. Recently though I've been getting calls: „Deal with the gang. The town's turned into a den of thieves. Normal people are too scared to come here…“ Like normal people would come all the way out here. Why on earth would they want to come here? Now I have to choose between the frying pan and the fire…»

«What do you mean?»

«Between being fired by the bandits and being fired by the bosses.»

«Not much of a choice,» Karimov laughed.

He was only half-listening to the mayor. He was thinking about Savely Savage who had vanished in the taiga. It seemed to Karimov that Savage hadn't only killed Coffin. Lying awake at night, he imagined Savage dispatching Trebenko and Antonov and felt fear creep under the covers. When he looked at Savage's photo, taken from his personal file, however, Karimov understood that the timid individual with eyes like cups of clear broth lacked the stature of a calculating criminal, capable of premeditated murder. And yet Savage had managed to do what Karimov couldn't do: he had pulled the trigger.

«He pulled the trigger,» Karimov said, out loud this time.

«Who did?» asked Krotov, puzzled.

«Savage.»

«Oh, him… What do you think? Have they got rid of him?»

Karimov's shrug was non-committal.

«They must have done.» The mayor provided his own answer. «Our guys don't like to mess around. God, I'm so sick of them! Bloody mobsters — can't sort their issues out in a civilized fashion.»

«What do you mean civilized?»

«What? Through the courts!» said the mayor helplessly.

Karimov guffawed.

«There's a clash of opinion between you and them. They prefer crime without punishment. You prefer punishment without crime.»

«Enough of the slogans, if you don't mind,» said Krotov, pulling a face.

The men left the steam room. Savage watched them from the forest. He saw Karimov shed his towel, take a run and flop into the water. The cold drops made the girls shriek. Savage had been training at the tip and had gone through a whole box of cartridges but he wasn't a particularly good shot. He squinted and took aim at Krotov who was lowering himself cautiously into the lake and testing the bottom with his foot before going any further. Savage's hands shook with tension and he lowered the gun. Crossing himself, he came out onto the shore.

Salmon, a tray in her hands, was first to spot him. She froze. The girl turned to the bodyguards but they were downing cans of beer, sprawled in the plastic chairs. They hadn't seen Savage.

He fired. He shoved in two cartridges with shaking hands. He shot once, twice. The girls shrieked and dashed for the shore. Loading the gun, Savage fired and missed again.

The bodyguards leapt onto the shore but Savage was too far away and they took off along the edge of the lake. Savage kept on shooting and the shots landed at random near Krotov without hitting him. Karimov dived, taking refuge under the water and Krotov, gasping for breath, beat his arms on the water like a goose with clipped wings.

The gun coughed as if clearing its throat. Savage patted his pockets but there were no more cartridges. He threw the shotgun away and disappeared among the trees. Shots whistled after him. The bullets injured tree trunks and branches but Savage was already long gone.

He ran towards a turbulent narrow river with a stony bank and boulders poking out of the water. The tops of the trees leaning over the river merged to form a tent. Savage decided to cross the river to avoid the dogs they would no doubt send after him. The lake separated him from the gangsters. They would have to go round it which gave him some time.

But someone was catching up. Breathless with running, Salmon was hot on his heels. When she saw the man with the gun, she ran towards him, recognizing Savely Savage who had shot Coffin. Now she was close behind, afraid of losing him. Savage couldn't understand who was following him. Was it a child? A little old woman? A small creature in a faded dress clung to him like a tick.

«Who are you?» Savage cried. «What do you want?»

«I'm on your side!»

The river of salvation glinted through the trees and Savage had a glimmer of hope that he could escape his pursuers.

«Get lost!»

He pushed Salmon away, the girl fell and cut her elbow.

«I'm on your side. Wait!» she cried, jumping up and racing after Savage.

The river was only knee-deep but the current threatened to knock them down. Salmon clung to Savage's shoulder and they both went over in the water, tumbled like pebbles in the river. Eventually, he grasped an overhanging birch tree. He grabbed Salmon by the hair and pulled her from the water like a kitten. She helped him clamber out.

«Now, get lost!» he said, pushing the girl away again.

Salmon was having none of it. She hung onto his hand and wouldn't let him go and Savage didn't know how to get rid of her.

«I know you! You're Savely Savage!» she shouted, stumbling on the boggy hummocks. «Everyone knows you!»

Savage realized he wouldn't get far. He was worn out by his wanderings and hunger. He could barely stand and the girl was hanging on to him like a stone round the neck of a drowned body. Voices could be heard in the distance as he spotted a refuge under the roots of an old fir tree. They hid in this lair that was laced with black, resin-scented moss and froze, hoping the gangsters would miss them.

«One squeak and I kill you,» croaked Savage, a hand over the girl's mouth.

Salmon nodded, sniffling. They were both chilled from the cold river and their trembling passed into the fir's dry branches. A shower of yellow needles fell. Savage clasped Salmon tightly. One minute he thought she was his daughter, the next the red-haired vagrant woman, or a rotten log, sticking painfully into his side, and he felt like sobbing out loud.

He could hear his pursuers: shouts, branches crunching under foot and the hoarse breathing of the bodyguards who were more afraid of him than he was of them.

The men went past, ears pricked and trembling at the slightest rustle.

«He's gone,» said one with a shrug.

«Saam'll have our skins,» said another, wiping his forehead, but he too was uncertain and also decided to go back to the banya.