The Benefactor index: Prologue - A sin of gold

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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Prologue – A Sin of Gold

image generated by Craiyon

The ground under Chendev's pacing feet was a foot-worn chessboard. The black and white tiles that filled the space ahead of him had spread, with the opportunistic logic of floodwater, to fully occupy a labyrinthine territory that no man, save for its long-dead architect, had ever been permitted to walk in its entirety. The floor had been laid on a minor diagonal slant that was at odds with the direction of the corridor, the columns of squares veering slightly to the left, as if the game and the purpose of the building were two separate things, each estranged from the other. The white squares were opaque voids, the muddied colour of burial shrouds. The accumulated dirt gave the impression that they were slowly bleeding into the scuffed surfaces of the adjacent black spaces, like a drifting fog that was clouding the battlefield, robbing the terrain of its boundaries and definition.

An indistinct patch of artificial light crossed the tiles from behind the battleship-grey rectangle of a rust-speckled cell door, that had been left open at a right angle on three sets of reinforced hinges. A four-digit number, stencilled across the top in white lettering, had worn away to a point where it was now barely legible. A small viewing portal was obscured by a teardrop-shaped cover. Below that there was a sealed service hatch. A trio of heavy bolts had been grafted onto the exterior of the three-inch thick steel at different heights.

On the floor of the cell, a man tightly cocooned within a full-length straightjacket was lying on his side, in a puddle of his own waste, with his legs and back slightly kinked. He had been gagged with a worn leather belt that was darkened with old blood and bore the pronounced tooth marks of other men. He starred back at Chendev with panicked eyes.

Thereafter the chequerboard floor passed through darkening grades of shadow on the approach to a grubby whitewashed archway. The old pathways of electrical cables that had been shifted into new positions showed-up as pale lines in the grime on the wall above. Beneath the arch, a small wooden plinth, of the kind that might support the bronze bust of prominent leader, had been pushed against one wall, where it obscured some of the black and white tiles like a minor chess piece that had outgrown the board. Blue and Gold rectangles of tobacco foil had been papered carelessly onto the wooden flanks.

Mineyev, who had noticed the cursory interest of the KGB man, remarked:

“It is a compulsion among many of the men who work here. They paste the wrappers of anything they consume onto walls or furnishings. They commonly use the contents of their noses as glue. The prison psychologist, Ryabov, claims that they are actualising territorial impulses.”

They paused in front of a set of ceiling-to-floor bars. A uniformed man, on guard duty, unlocked a door-sized gate allowing them to continue onward. To their right, a giant piece of painted plaster was missing from the wall, leaving behind an abraded stone surface that resembled the stump of a continent levelled by a disaster on an unfathomable scale.

“It is here,” said Mineyev, coming to a halt.

The wall on one side of the passageway had been replaced by a set of bars. The ceiling of the uninhabited cell that lay beyond was no more than five feet high. The rough walls had been painted the colour of stagnant urine. The only furniture was an unmade bed, partly covered by a rumpled mutton-wool blanket that had been haphazardly dyed a dull forest green.

On the opposite side of the corridor a pair of bright spotlights beamed down from narrow poles with tripod bases. Between them some cleaning equipment had been arranged in such a manner that it cast the shadow of a crude gallows onto the wall behind. A piece of twine threaded through the hole in the tip of a broom handle was tied into a noose.

Mineyev reach down to unplug the lights.

“Some of the men here have strong feelings regarding Eristov,” he explained. “They felt that he should be tormented during his final days. I saw no reason to interfere.”

“The noose is a nice touch.” said Chendev. “Now, where is the man?”

The warden starred back at him somewhat aghast.

“Mirco Eristov,” said Chendev. “He is not in his cell. Where is he?”

“He is scheduled to die this morning,” said Mineyev. A tone of a restrained bafflement had crept into his voice. “He was taken from here a few minutes ago... I thought that is why you are here. To claim the body.”

“I am here to talk to the man.”

“But I don't understand... It is prison policy not to delay executions once the sentence has been passed. Why would...”

“A few days ago, Eristov gave an interview to the police,” said Chendev. He spoke calmly and quietly, with a bare hint of a rural accent. He regarded the Warden with the sun-softened squint of a farmer who is used to appraising the detail in panoramas.

“I was present for the meeting,” said Mineyev.

“The interview was staged at Eristov's request,” said the KGB man. “He claimed that he was in possession of new information.”

“We thought, maybe more women.”

Chendev ignored the warden and continued.

“During the interview, Eristov disclosed knowledge of a plot to unseat the leadership of the USSR at the highest level.”

“A desperate final attempt to delay the inevitable,” countered Mineyev. “In any case, the plot he described was to unseat Usenko, not Sherstov. It was an old plan overtaken by a change in leadership, and abandoned by the roadside.”

“There were threads that were left hanging. I want to speak to the man face to face, before he dies.”

“It is possible that he is already dead,” replied Mineyev forcing himself to maintain a semblance of composure.

“It will be bad for you if that is the case,” said Chendov, matter of factly.

The Warden advanced hurriedly to a set of bars at the far end of the corridor, internally forcing himself not to break into a run. His hand fumbled with the grey receiver of a telephone that was mounted on the wall. He held it up to his ear for a few seconds before replacing it,

“Fucking phone does not work,” he snapped. “Nothing works in this place.”

Turning to Chendev, he said.

“We must both of us move quickly.”

The pair marched at a brisk pace, rounding a sharp corner into another section of corridor. Chendev noted that the tiles along this stretch were correctly aligned to the walls. Partway along, an untreated wooden door, twice the size of a normal door was leaning up against the peeling plaster. The silver hinges were spread at wide angles like clock hands that had stalled at the time when their mechanism had wound down.

At the far end, a prison guard stood vigil in front of a barred gate.

“You, is your telephone working?” barked Mineyev.

The man picked up the receiver. The black insulted wire trailed down limply from the speaker at the bottom.

He nodded: “Yes sir.”

“Tell them to delay the execution of Eristov. This is a direct order from the Chairman of the Committee for State Security.”

He turned to Chendev: “If that doesn't put the fear of a Siberian winter into them, then nothing will.”

The prison guard dialled a number into the rotary. By the time he had relayed the message, Chendev and Mineyev were standing in front of him.

“It is done?” said the Warden.

“Yes sir.”

“Eristov, he is still alive?”

“Yes sir.”

“We can breathe,” said Mineyev.

The guard let then through the gate. At the bottom of two short flights of zigzagging stairs, they filed through another barred division, into a sub-basement corridor with a low vaulted ceiling. The black and white tiles had once again drifted off-course, deviating towards the right wall where they were interrupted by a red steel door that had been wedged partly open. On the side of the door facing towards the two men, a square viewing window, the size of a beermat, was embedded at eye level at the bottom of a shallow, four-sided frame that tapered inward. Alongside this aperture, at the edge of the door, an octagonal, STOP sign, with a thin white border, had been carefully, but inexpertly, painted on, in a slightly paler shade of red. The bold, white capital letters were heavily underlined. Beyond this side entrance the chequerboard floor ceded to antiquated flagstones that disappeared between the pale-green wood frame of a narrowed doorway.

“That is where the firing squad enter,” explained Mineyev. “They are not in the room with the prisoner but shoot anonymously though gun ports.”

He unlocked the next door along. It opened onto a small office. A short row of black and white mugshots lined the grubby whitewashed wall to their right. Below this gallery, a backless office chair, that had been reversed away from a flimsy wooden table desk, was backed-up against a dark human stain in the paintwork. A tall wooden filing-card cabinet occupied the corner underneath the photos, each of the tiny drawers labelled with a tatty scrap of paper.

Mineyev tapped the profile photo of one of the mugshots with his finger.

“These are the men who will be executed over the coming days,” he said.

He unlocked another door in the far wall.

“We have almost arrived,” he reassured.

The corridor they had entered was shaped like a half archway, the filthy flesh-tone walls ceding to a grubby whitewash where they began to arc. A door-sized hatch with a porthole window, that was embedded in the wall at the far end, opened onto a crooked passageway that was lined with pipes and air-conditioning ducts that were painted a pale army green. Forced into awkward single file they made their way along until they reached a windowless hatch similar to the one they had recently passed through.

“Inside is the execution chamber,” said Mineyev, as he disengaged the second of the three vacuum locks. “Eristov is a very dangerous man. You must watch yourself around him.”

The final lock hissed as it depressurised.

“If you don't mind, I will go in first,” he said.

The small room they entered resembled a half-attic. The far wall consisted of bare, close-packed wooden beams that sloped downward at a forty-five degree angle. In front of this, a trio chest-high walls arranged like a square bracket stood with the open side facing towards the door. The white bathroom tiles covering the structure were cracked. Some were pockmarked with obvious bullet holes, while others showed signs of crude repair. Occupying the centre of this space was a modern, black leather chair with tubular metal legs that had been bent underneath to form rectangles. The seat was covered by a pair of wadded cushions with soiled velveteen covers. A large bible had been propped-up wide-open against the low backrest.

Standing alongside the chair was a hulking, barrel-chested man, wearing striped prison overalls. He was middle-aged, with a ruddy complexion that belonged to someone who had worked outdoors in all seasons. A thick, freshly-combed ginger-brown beard, showing threads of silver here and there, descended in a gentle downward wave a couple of inches below his chin. His heavy, slightly arcing brow had imposed upon him the expression of a man who has calmly resolved himself to the methodical application of violence to achieve some pre-determined end. The cuffs that encircled the wrists of his enormous hands seemed ridiculously flimsy, as if he could pull them apart without realising.

“I refuse to die sitting down,” he said, when he saw Mineyev.

“You will lie down when the bullets tell you to do so,” replied the Warden.

“Where is the firing squad?” enquired Chendev.

Mineyev indicated a row of five narrow square holes in the upper wall behind them.

“You men in the firing ports,” said Chendev. “I am Chairman of the Committee for State Security. I order you to empty your guns and place the bullets on floor. Any man who fires his weapon without being ordered to do so will be summarily executed.”

A furor of activity from behind the wall was followed the sound of bullets rolling around on wooden floorboards.

Chendev turned to face Eristov.

“Please, sit down,” he said. “It is the only way we can talk to each other at eye level.”

Eristov nodded his acknowledgment. He shuffled around to the front of the chair in his leg shackles and took a seat, settling himself against the open bible.

“It is imperative that you tell me the absolute truth,” said Chendev, calmly. “Anything less and I will leave you as I found you.”

Once more, Eristov nodded.

“You have confessed to the murders of 23 women and to the desecration and dismemberment of their bodies. Is this an accurate account of your crimes?”

“It is more,” said Eristov. His voice was deep and inwardly reflective. “I cannot say how many. It is over 50... Killing came naturally to me... I saw no reason to stop... Is it true you are head of the KGB?”

“I am God and I am uninterested in the details of your sins, only that your account is accurate,” said Chendev. “I do not care for the lives of the numerous women you killed, or their surviving families, if they had any. Whether you are sorry or not is of no concern to me.”

Eristov studied the face of a man who stood before him. It was a weathered face, marked with the deep lines of someone who had done other things, and who had lived other lives before walking in the corridors of power.

“You may be God, but you have a farmer's hands,” he said.

“I worked in a factory for many years. Making tractor parts.”

“Your skin is like a man who drove tractors,” said Eristov. “You look like a farmer. You should have stayed on the land. It is a more honest living. A man who farms cannot hide from reality. He is immune to propaganda because the truth is evident and all around him.”

Chendev ignored the sermon.

“As a boy you were at the Dovurizber State Orphanage,” he said. “Who was your state guardian?”

“It was a woman. An ex-miltary type... Tara... no, Tamara. Tamara Yubkin.”

“And to what house were you assigned?”

“Dragoje Burtov.”

“So you were in the relatively newer part. Not in the old monastery... In an interview with the police, a few days ago, you claimed that, during your time at Dovurizber, you became aware of a plot to depose Usenko, when he was still party chairman...”

A fleeting look of distaste took form around the mouth of the prisoner.

“Conspiracies, they are the tools of weak men.”

“It was you who called the interview.” remarked Chendev. “You wanted us to know this. You were hoping that you could use it to make a bargain for your life.”

“The only thing I want you to know is that I could break these shackles with ease,” replied Eristov. “I could kill you now, with my bare hands before any of the soldiers around you could intervene. If the state did not exist, then I would murder you as easily as I murdered those women. You are only able to execute me with the consensus and the assistance of the Party. Without this framework, you are nothing. You are a farmer who has given up on the land.”

“It is I who hold the levers of the state on this matter,” said Chendev, maintaining his level tone. “It is my hand that guides your future. There is no-one above me.”

“You are deluded if you think there is not somebody pulling on your string,” scoffed Eristov. “Whatever is people think of me, whatever is said about me, I have lived according to my own truth. The women who I killed died by my hands alone. In their dying they agreed with my right to take their lives. In the end there is only the individual. Those who do not accept this are doomed to be weakened by the collective. Your power is rooted in the machinery of the state. Without it, you are nothing. I am a self-made man. My power comes from inside. You are a building block - a man of stone. When your usefulness is at an end, another just like you will be lined-up to take your place in the wall. When I die there will be no other men like me.”

He paused for a moment to study his interrogator.

“On the surface you are calm. Underneath, I can see that you are angry. You are trying to control yourself because there is something in my head that you want. You know you will not get to it if my brains are on the wall behind me. But maybe now the time for a bargain is over. I have made peace with my fate. Maybe I am not your dancing bear.”

Chendev who had been keeping one eye on the chain that lay draped across the prisoner's lap, resisted the temptation to lean in.

“I have people who will make you dance,” he said.

“Again, you have people. You can do nothing for yourself.”

“Name the conspirators. Name your price, if you have one.”

“I do not know their names,” said Eristov. “That is the truth. You can torture me day and night and the answer will always be the same. What I do know is the thing that binds them together. With this information, you will be able to identify them. They are very cautious. Without it, if they come back, then you will not see them.”

Chendev took a backward step. His eyes briefly met with Mineyev who had been standing watchfully in the corner.

“Tell me all that you know, then we will see,” he said.

image generated by Craiyon