The Benefactor Index: Chapter Two - An arrow made of eagle feathers

Throughout November, I will be participating in National Novel Writing Month, where the aim is to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days.

As I am treating this as a writing exercise, anything that I produce will be posted on this blog, one chapter a time. The text will have been edited for spelling and coherence but is otherwise a rough first draft, written at speed. There will be no second draft.

~

The Benefactor Index

By Sam Redlark

Prologue - A Sin of Gold  
Chapter One - Pochka
Chapter Two - An arrow made of eagle feathers
Chapter Three - The milking of chickens
Chapter Four - Street without drums
Chapter Five - Swans to the snow
Chapter Six - Further from the eye
Chapter Seven - The nephew of vodka
Chapter Eight - The mayor of sidings
Chapter Nine - The enemy of the good
Chapter Ten - If even just one is absent
Chapter Eleven - The friend of an unlucky man
Chapter Twelve - The riches that are in the heart
Chapter Thirteen - What fell off the cart
Epilogue - New-forgotten old

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Chapter Two – An arrow made of eagle feathers

image generated by Craiyon

The shadow of the police van passed silently over the stationary ranks of identical black cars, like the silhouette of a whale moving among a school of small fish. Beyond the slanted rows of parked vehicles stood an olive-toned monolith of Brutalist architecture. A flat roofed portico, supported by square pillars, extended from the front, as if a lower portion of the building had stepped out from underneath the upper floors. The yellow lettering on a red banner, that stretched across the porch, above the entrance, identified the block as The Ministry of the Auto-mobile Industry.

In the gloom behind the windshield of the van, three men were sitting on a thinly-padded leather bench seat. At opposite ends of the dashboard, weak clouds of warm, diesel-scented air, blew noisily, yet somehow feebly, through a pair of plastic vents. Periodically, Pestov would trigger the wipers, clearing away the pinpricks of snow that had settled on the glass.

“You are both clear on our purpose?” said Garin.

“We grab the men on the list; as many as we can; the woman also. We bring them back to the Palace in one piece, before morning,” said Orlov.

“No fuck ups. There is plenty on the line.” said Garin.

He waggled the lever of the nearest heating vent. It rattled in its socket as though it might fall through at any moment, leaving behind a gaping square hole.

“We will visit Muratov, the banqueteer first of all,” he said. “He is a notorious fitness freak. He does not drink. He eats only healthy food. I hear that he jogs around his farm every morning.”

“He may be reluctant to relinquish some of his good health,” said Pestov. He pulled down hard on the steering wheel to negotiate a left corner turn.

“I will say words that will convince him.”

They were driving down a wide boulevard. The nighttime traffic had reduced the snow in the road to a grey slush that was endlessly re-patterned by the tire treads of the passing cars and buses. On the left-hand side, the lights in the windows of a quartet of grey apartment blocks spelled-out the letters: C C C P.

A chaotic, straggling procession of over-excited young girls, all wearing sky-blue side caps, were making their way along the broad pavement, in the opposite direction, navigating between the glassy opaque islands of ice. Some were wearing their coats open, revealing matching blue skirts, and white shirts that were tied off with red neckerchiefs.

“Pioneer camp is out for the year,” said Garin.

Orlov perused the abundance of white knee socks and bare legs that were on display.

“I see plenty of virgin territory requiring exploration,” he said.

Pestov's hands tightened on the steering wheel. At the next opportunity he a took turning, temporarily dividing the seemingly endless stream of pioneer campers. Under the van's headlights, a gaggle of eager young faces searched out their friends on the opposite side of the road. Others were engaged in urgent, high-pitched chatter. A few curious eyes peered in through the glass at the three men as the van crawled past in front of them. Orlov winked back. Next to him, Pestov lightly depressed the accelerator pedal, taking them into the derelict, snow-laden, gloom of the side streets.

Away from the bright street lamps, the city seemed haunted by its own shadow architecture.

“All good arrives in threes,” said Orlov to nobody in particular. He stared out thoughtfully into the space beyond the darkened windshield.

They joined another main road. A short orange bus, travelling at speed in the opposite direction, blared a pro-Party message into the whirling snowflakes, from a configuration of grey loudhailers that were mounted on the roof. A long, two-storey, building held a passing reflection of their van within an unbroken chain of plate glass windows that were obscured by strip blinds. At the far end, on the top corner of the roof, a globe the size of a small house presented an inaccurate portrayal of the world's nations, with the Soviet Union dwarfing the continental landmass of the Americas.

Pestov's eyes were drawn to a cylindrical lorry that was parked on the roadside ahead of them, where it blocked the inside lane. A corrugated hose was screwed into a socket in the rear of the tank. A pair of men wearing boiler suits were in the process of manoeuvring the opposite end down an open manhole cover.

“They are putting in the drain white,” he said. “Any homeless who are living down there will come out pale like statues. They will break like statues too when they are dropped. There are some who think it is funny.”

Orlov nudged him accidentally as he shuffled himself around a full one-eighty degrees on the bench seat. He began to haul himself over the backrest, through an open gate in the heavy wire-mesh screen behind them. His legs brushed up against Garin's face. For a moment, the soles of his boots kicked weakly against the windshield, then gravity carried him forwards and the remainder of him slid into the body of the van.

Pulling himself onto one of the benches, he began to rummage through a row of equipment lockers that were welded onto the side panels.

“The police have better equipment than we do,” he said, holding up a dented tear gas cannister.

“They need it,” said Garin. “The army is only fighting separatists. The police have to fight other Russians.”

A taxi abruptly pulled away from the kerb in front of them. Pestov pushed his foot down on the heavy brake pedal. The wheels locked and the van slid through the slush like it was on grease. It would have struck the rear corner light of the taxi had the reckless driver not aggressively changed lanes. Pestov's fingers scrabbled around the dashboard, searching for the siren button, but he could not locate it.

In the back Orlov had removed a fire hatchet from a short rack. He held it up into what there was of the light. The sharpened part of the blade glinted in the rear-view mirror.

“I think I will be needing one of these,” he said.

“Then pay the deposit,” said Garin. “There is a price list on the clipboard.”

Pestov took a right turn, then immediately had to make way for an orange tram that was crossing the road diagonally.

A subdued Orlov returned the hatchet to its slot and recommenced his ransacking of the lockers.

“Get us off the tramways or we will be here all night,” said Garin, quietly.

“The trams have the same chassis as the new buses,” said Pestov. “They should make them all buses instead. It is more practical; less at odds with other road users.”

“They have run out of the materials to produce new bus shells,” said Garin. “Or the metal was requisitioned by the military – I cannot remember which one it was.”

Orlov leaned over the backrest.

Forcing himself between the shoulders of the two men, he proffered a flimsy rectangular cardboard box with the hinged lid half open.

“I am requisitioning these cop pencils,” he said. “They are mechanical, no need to sharpen.”

He oriented the box toward Pestov.

“Iosif, can I interest you in a retractable pencil, as used by the Moscow Police in their tireless pursuit of the parasitic criminal element, along with the usual enemies of the State who lurk in every shadowy corner. Each one comes encased in an aluminium sleeve, etched with a diamond pattern to provide a more reliable grip. They are ideal for writing reports that can be erased and amended at a later date!”

“I will buy my own with my wages,” said Pestov, keeping his eyes fixed on the road.

“Then you will never own one, while I will own...”

Orlov's clumsy fingers rummaged through the box.

“I will own approximately twenty-three. As I am dealing with a surplus, I will be very happy to sell one to you for a low price.”

On the pavement ahead, a crowd had gathered in an immense puddle of melted snow, outside the illuminated windows of a shop.

Pestov slowed the van as they passed.

“Whatever is being sold must either be very good or very cheap,” he said.

“Do you see the blimp on the horizon,” said Garin. “They cannot bring it down to earth. They say they must wait for the gas inside to disperse naturally.”

“Why not just shoot it down?” said Pestov.

With difficulty Orlov clambered over the backrest and inserted himself between the two men.

“The explosion would be be too great. It would probably set the buildings underneath on fire,” said Garin. “I knew a cop who is in prison for taking shot at it. The neighboured under the blimp are all sick of it. Outside the court, they were all calling him a hero. They want to cut the tethers and let the wind decide.”

He readjusted himself on the cold leather upholstery of the bench seat, next to the passenger door.

“They are crazy to want to risk burning down their homes,” said Pestov.

“Maybe it will be warmer for them,” said Orlov.

He pointed towards a concrete, high-rise apartment block, ahead on their left. Partway up the bare concrete flanks, two of the floors were encircled by a red band.

“There is my girlfriend's apartment,” he said. “She lives in the red sector. They have regular hot water on those floors. I had to bribe the building committee. I swear everybody in this city is corrupt.”

He had fastened one of the stolen mechanical pencils to the inside of his breast pocket. The clip winked dimly under the streetlamps like an intermittent heartbeat.

“I thought you are married,” said Pestov.

“I am, but our relationship has hit a brick wall. We have a home on the garrison, but I prefer to sleep in the barracks. The last time, I had to kick a man out of his bed. When he complained, I told him: “Here are the keys to my home. Take them with my blessing. If the floor is too comfortable for you, go sleep with my sharp-elbowed wife and listen to her talk and make demands all night.”

“What unit are you boys with?” enquired Garin “When you are not deployed on special duty.”

“156th Guards Motor Rifles,” said Pestov. “It is the tradition in my family. I am the third generation to serve in the division.”

“The 156th ran at Amashneka in 1941,” said Orlov. “You should bear this in mind, comrade Garin. If there is a fight then we cannot expect too much from this man.”

“I was not alive to take part in that battle,” countered Pestov.

“Your grandfather routed on your behalf. 156th always begins at the front then moves backwards.”

“Who are you with?” said Garin.

“I am 147th Guards Self-Propelled Artillery. The men in the 156th are unworthy of our dedicated fire support.”

“You are tank crew?” said Pestov. “My God, it is no wonder the modern army struggles.”

“I am spotter,” said Orlov. He push his dark fringe away from eyebrows.

“The 156th are continually forced to retreat in order to escape the poorly-aimed artillery of the 147th,” said Pestov. “If we remained on the front line, they would kill us all.”

Next to him Orlov bridled in mock fury.

“Stop this van now, so I can fight you in the street,” he said.

The road they were travelling was streaked with snow that faded into rivers of brown slush. Grand old stone buildings, with tall arched windows, lined the pavements on either side.

“Here is where they host any committees that have overrun,” said Garin. “Some have been going for years.”

They were now entering the outskirts of the city. Halfway down a narrow road, Pestov brought the van to a halt. The way ahead was blocked by a heaped assortment of ragged carpets. Some that had obviously lain flat for a long time, were carelessly rolled-up, while others, that had been dragged into the street rather than carried, were partly folded over on the frosted asphalt. Among the blizzard of tiny snowflakes, a group of men, dressed in shirt sleeves and thin jackets, were violently attacking the rugs, pummelling them with their bare fists or lunging in with wild kicks. Two men were beating a long carpet with a pair of old planks. Another brandished a rusted bicycle wheel with a deflated tire.

Pestov sounded the horn.

A few of the men glanced up before returning to their work.

“What is this spectacle,” said Garin, under his breath.

Pestov forced the gear shift into reverse. He crawled backwards a few feet. A pair of trucks that had drawn up behind remained stationary, with their headlamps dimmed. He threw both hands up a few inches from the steering wheel in controlled frustration.

“Okay, let us get out and resolve the matter face to face,” said Garin.

He followed Orlov out through the passenger door. Pestov disembarked from the other side.

Behind them one the drivers peeped their horn.

Orlov wandered around the the rear of the van. Standing, facing the windshield of the truck he made two of his fingers into a V sign and pointed them towards his eyes. The elderly man behind the wheel opened the door to his cab and began to climb down.

Orlov unbuttoned his holster.

“Get back inside the truck and wait,” he said.

The man, noticing the gun, did as he was told.

Around the front of the police van, the men had stopped working. Garin clapped his gloved hands together loudly.

“Move these carpets. We are on urgent government business. We cannot be delayed,” he shouted.

“We will stand to one side so you can drive over,” said a man who was dressed in a dark flat cap and a shiny brown leather jacket. His burly comrade clasped his giant hands together. He raised his linked arms above his head, straining at the shoulders, as he took a long stretch, revealing twin waterfalls of wetness staining the sides of his shirt.

“How do we know that there aren't people, or explosives, or road shrapnel hidden inside or underneath?” said Garin.

He wandered to the end of one of the carpet rolls and bent over, peering into the cross-section.

“If you are unwilling to drive over the top, then you will have to wait,” said the man. “We have all the required forms and permissions.”

“What is it you are doing here?”

“The building committee successfully petitioned to have the carpets removed from all the apartments. They say they are infested with bugs. Permission has been granted to rehouse the carpets in a different block, after they have been beaten to remove any insect infestation. I know it is all bullshit, but it is good money.”

Orlov gave one of the carpets an exploratory nudge with the toe of his boot.

“I bet I can unseed more Romanov dust than any man here,” he boasted.

He drew back his foot, then drove it hard into the pattern, which ejected a silty brown cloud. Orlov, and the man alongside him holding the deflated bicycle wheel, immediately began to cough uncontrollably. Some other men, who were standing nearby, moved away.

Pestov grinned broadly, showing a row of upper teeth. His eyes sparkled with youth and good humour.

“The aim is to unsettle the bugs,” he mused. “You have been unsuccessful in that regard.”

“We have seen none,” said the man in the leather jacket. “How could they survive in this weather. Like I said it is bullshit and horse trading. The residents in this block have joined together in a conspiracy to obtain new carpets for their homes. These ones must be at least 60 years old.”

“These carpets are chemical weapons,” declared Orlov, loudly clearing his throat. “We should deploy them immediately against the Americans.”

He took a prolonged sniff, inwardly raking his sinuses, then spat some mucous onto the frosty veneer of the settling snow.

“You must drag them out the way, so we can move past,” instructed Garin. “If you do not, I can make some calls. Your permits will vanish in similar clouds of dust.”

“Okay,” said the man.

He walked into the middle of the street where he was caught in the twin beam of the police van's headlamps. He spread his arms apart as if he was attempting to gain a sense of the width of the vehicle. Glancing over his shoulder, he barked some commands. The men, who had paused in their work, and had been standing on pavement rubbing their arms to keep warm, began grudgingly hauling the heavy carpets out of the road. The man in the shiny leather coat walked close to the gutter on one side making a line in the frost with the toe of his tan shoe, a couple of feet from the kerb. He crossed over and made a similar line on the other side, forming the boundaries of a corridor that he judged was wide enough to accommodate the van.

“There seems to be money to be made in carpet beating,” observed Orlov as he climbed into the van and shuffled along the bench seat next to Pestov. “Is is possible we are in the wrong line of business?”

A few minutes later they crawled across the Talaubna Bridge. Heavy flakes of snow crowded the night sky ahead of them like a chaotic flock of white birds. On the other side of the river, the palatial white walls and dark onion domes of the Church of Charitina of Lithuani came and went from their view, as the windscreen wipers battled with the blizzard. The pavements were already buried underneath a thick covering of powdered snow. A pair of untidy trails had been dragged through the middle of the pristine layers on either side, by a procession of feet.

Rows of electric lanterns lining the edge of the road drooped down like bellflowers, in clusters of three, from ornate black ironwork. The snow clinging to the detailing in the lampposts had created a peculiar shading effect that made them appear two-dimensional, as if they were individual cells in a Christmas animation.

“It is like we are driving in a painting,” remarked Pestov.

On the other side of the bridge, he turned left, passing alongside the crowds or worshippers that were gathered on the plaza at the foot of the church, and joining the road that would take them out of the city.

The blizzard began to die down as the lights of Moscow receded into the horizon. Pestov maintained a steady speed. Every so often they would feel the van slide on the ice and he would ease on the accelerator while making a quick correction with the wheel.

“The good thing about the snow: It fills in all the potholes,” he said.

They passed a derelict concrete church – a design belonging to a bygone era dragged unceremoniously into the present day. The roof was a close-packed assortment of interlocking peaks, scaled with insulated wooden tiles that were grazed by frost and felted with green lichen. A pale cluster of elongated onion domes, decorated with a black fishnet design, stood upright at the converging apex, like a gathering of Spring bulbs that were destined never to flower.

“The architecture was deserving of better materials,” thought Garin as he stared at it through the passenger window. The diesel fumes were beginning to make him nauseous. He longed for the opportunity to get out and stretch his legs.

Soon after, on the same side of the road they passed the beginnings of a rectangular building that was being erected on a high concrete plinth. A snow-dusted metal ladder, leaned up against the one of the glassless windows in the disembodied front wall.

“Building a home or a checkpoint?” said Pestov.

“Out here it is always checkpoint,” replied Olrov, sullenly, He raised his head from the crumpled, handwritten letter he had been attempting to read under the weak glow of a small ceiling light that was mounted above the rear-view mirror.

“Is the letter from your wife or your girlfriend,” enquired Pestov.

“It is from my mother. She says a whale has washed up on the beach near to their home. They have made cuts in the sides of the body to prevent it from exploding. They have constructed a fence around it to keep off the dogs. The village wants to claim salvage rights but they have hit a wall in the bureaucracy. She requests my assistance. She thinks maybe I have connections with someone who can exert an influence.”

“The whale came out of the Russian waves. It is the property of the State,” advised Garin.

“The wheels of the State turn slower than the small engines of decay,” said Orlov. “The whale will be a pile of bones before anyone is sent to deal with it. Then the sea will take it back.”

“Where is will nourish Russian fish,” said Garin.

“It is possible that they will want the body to produce lubricants,” said Pestov.

Orlov refolded the creased letter and attempted to replace it inside the torn, stamp-covered envelope.

“How much lubricant can be extracted from a single whale?” he said. “My mother's village will make better use of it than the State ever could, if they are granted permission. I expect that it will be left to rot on the beach.”

Slightly to the east of the road, a piercing bright light clung to the muddled, snow-shrouded landscape like a low-rising star. As the road bent around, the light settled ahead of them where it appeared to be split in two halves.

“UFO,” said Pestov.

The van bumped over an old bridge. In the shallow creek below, a group of men were working, crouched down on their haunches under floodlights, sifting the ice shards in the freezing water.

“They are government geologists looking for gold in their free-time,” said Garin. “This too is the property of the State.”

They carried on through the darkness. A few minutes later the silhouette of a man-made ridge loomed over the right-hand side of the road. The white rim of a large Satellite dish was visible above it like a fallen crescent moon.

“Tonight, the whole is sky is falling down,” said Garin.

“I swear that was an anti-war dish,” said Orlov. “Peaceniks think they can use them to throw our nuclear missiles off-course.”

“This is a real thing?” said Garin.

“It is what they believe they can do with the technology,” said Orlov.

“It is the first I have heard of it,” said Pestov.

“Stop here,” said Garin. “We will go back and check it out.”

Pestov pulled into the side of the road.

“Keep the lights on,” said Garin, as they were about to climb out. “We don't want to be hit in the dark.”

“We will have to trust the battery,” said Pestov, reluctantly leaving the key dangling from the ignition.

They paced back through the slush along the edge of the road, the yellow beams of the bulky torches that Orlov had appropriated from the police lockers, mapping out the way ahead. The air was colder than it had been in Moscow. Garin pulled up the collar of his coat.

“There must be a way to get behind this hill,” he said.

“I think I see a gap ahead,” answered Pestov.

The shoulder of the ridge began to descend. Eventually it faded into a muddy track that held the frozen impressions of overlapping tire treads. They could now clearly see the satellite dish. It was taller than the police van, white and splotched with rust. It reclined at a backwards angle against a staggered plinth of cinder blocks. Behind it, a ramshackle collection of wooden sheds, varying in shape and size, had been assembled into a sprawling homestead.

“That has to be former military,” said Orlov, gazing in the direction of the dish as they crunched across the frozen ground.

“It is an antique from the 1960s” said Garin.

They had reached the door to one of the sheds. A welcome mat lay in the snow in front of it.

“Draw you weapons,” he said.

Both men unholstered their pistols.

Garin banged on the door.

“Open up. It is the police,” he shouted.

From somewhere inside, they heard a muffled male voice reply:

“Who is it?”

“It is the police. Come and open the door.”

They waited for about half a minute.

“Kick it in,” said Garin.

Orlov took a step backwards. A moment later they heard the sound of footsteps, followed by an interior door being opened.

Garin raised his hand, signalling the two men to stand down. Orlov kicked a divot of snow in frustration.

Inside a latch was lifted and the door opened an inch. Through the narrow vertical crack, a man of indeterminate age squinted at them from behind a pair of round glasses. His scrunched face was covered by an unkempt beard, A nest of grimy unwashed curls drooped across his balding scalp like the piled dead of a defeated army.

Garin pushed firmly on the door forcing it open. The man took a small step back but kept one hand on the opposite side. He was wearing a soiled woollen jumper banded with the faded colours of the rainbow.

“What do you want?” he said. “There is no money here. Any thing of value in the house has already been taken.”

“How about your satellite dish, you treasonous motherfucker.” said Orlov.

“It is for stargazing,” protested the man. “I have an interest in the night skies.”

“I am no fool, I have seen this set-up before,” said Orlov. “It is to interfere with missile guidance systems.”

For a moment the man appeared to be considering whether to continue with his deception. Then something kindled behind his eyes and a self-righteous tone took hold in his voice.

“So what if is?” he said. “Do you want everyone to die in a nuclear war?”

“The point is mutually assured destruction,” said Garin. “Everybody dies so nobody pushes the button. You are interfering in the delicate balancing act of international brinkmanship.”

“It is pointless anyway,” said Orlov. “All warheads are twinned with another warhead elsewhere in the nation. If you derail one missile, the other will still make its target.”

“I am not alone,” said the man. “There are other people besides myself who are working to stop the madness.”

Orlov took out his gun and pointed it at him.

“I swear I will shoot you right now,” he said.

Before they could react, the man had slammed the door in their faces. By the time Garin had pushed it open, he was disappearing through a beaded curtain that was suspended over another doorway in the back wall of the shed.

Pestov ran in after him, pushing his way through the dangling strings of beads. The room he entered was another shed that had been transformed into a poky living room. A tattered old rug hung between a pair of exits opposite. To his left, a bulging single bed, covered by a patterned blanket, was pushed into the space against one wall.

The man had stopped running. He was standing in the shadows, next to an open trunk. He was holding something in his hands, pointing it towards the soldier. Pestov stared at him for what seemed like an age. Behind him, Garin barged through the curtain with his pistol drawn and his arm fully extended.

“Put the gun down,” he barked.

The man dropped the rifle.

“I didn't see...” said Pestov, taking a hesitant step back. “...I couldn't be sure.”

An old women emerged through one of the doors in the far wall.

“What is going on? Get out of my house,” she shrieked.

“Shut up,” said Garin.

Orlov pushed his way through the swaying strands of the curtain. The beads swung wildly against each other like pendulums stirred by a hurricane. He wandered over to the man, kicking the rifle out of his path, sending the barrel spinning a few degrees so that it was pointing towards the wall. Bending over, he inspected the contents of the trunk. It was full of guns.

“A big collection for a peacenik, eh,” he said, pushing the man against the wooden wall of the shed, which bowed under their combined weight. The corner of the one of the rugs fell down and trailed on the floor.

Orlov slapped the man hard across the face, dislodging his spectacles which made a tinkling sound as they hit the floor. He released his hold and took a step back allowing his victim the space to stoop down and recover his fallen glasses. With trembling fingers, he put them back on his face where they rested askew on one dislocated arm. He squinted pathetically at the soldier through the broken panes.

“They are smashed beyond repair,” he said, matter of factly.

Orlov pulled the spectacles off his face. He threw them down on the floor then stamped down on them hard.

“Now I have broken them again,” he said.

“Get out! Get out of our house right now!” squawked the old woman.

“Be quiet,” said Garin, firmly.

“I do not believe you are police,” she ranted. “You are gangsters.”

“I cannot see more than a few feet without them,” protested the old man. “How I am supposed to work?”

“Maybe ask your satellite dish to guide you,” said Orlov.

Turning towards Garin he said:

“We should take the guns with us.”

“We do not have the time for a big operation,” said Garin.

He turned to address the man.

“Okay, here is what will happen,” he announced. “We will be back here tomorrow, around the same time to arrest you both. When we arrive, the satellite dish had better be disconnected and lying on its back.”

“My wife will have to do it, I am unable to see,” mumbled the old man.

“That is not my problem,” said Garin.

“I am taking one of your Kalashnikovs in exchange for this mechanical pencil,” said Orlov.

He selected one of the better looking rifles from the top of the pile in the trunk. Removing the pencil from his breast pocket, he placed it carefully on top of the remaining guns.

“The pen and the sword both have their place in the world,” he philosophised. “Do not worry about me. I still have plenty left of the former.”

“Check that the way is clear,” said Garin to Pestov.

The rattled soldier walked on despondently ahead of them, through the beaded curtain.

As Garin turned, the old woman attempted to grab hold of him, but was pushed away by Orlov.

“I swear I did not know anything of this,” she wailed. “My husband is crazy. I want to leave him for years and return to Kiev, but he will not allow it. He keeps me here against my will.”

“Jesus,” said Orlov. “It is worse than in my home village.”

They padded back along the roadside. Orlov walked a few feet behind covering their rear.

“I am sorry, I don't know what happened,” said Pestov. “I think for a moment I was not sure if it was a gun.”

“At some point everyone has delayed when he should have acted,” consoled Orlov. “It is why we keep watch over each other.”

“Will anyone come?” said Pestov.

“Depending on what happens in the next twenty-four hours, I will speak to my contacts in the police and ask to have it added to the work duty,” said Garin.

“Nothing will happen,” said Orlov. “It will be just like the whale.”

They climbed into the van. It took Pestov three attempts to start the engine.

image generated by Craiyon