by Child 44
Leo began questioning the returning men. Two militia officers, neither of them much older than eighteen, had been part of the team searching the area of the forests closest to where the body lay. They admitted there’d been tracks but they’d appeared to be innocent since they were four sets of prints rather than two: they’d presumed that they were nothing more than a family on an expedition. Leo had neglected to take into consideration that he and Raisa had made an additional set of tracks running parallel to those of the victim and the murderer. Fighting back his exasperation, he forgot that he no longer had any authority and ordered the two men back into the woods to follow the tracks to their conclusion. The officers weren’t convinced. The tracks might go on for kilometers. And more to the point: who was Leo to give orders?
Leo had no option but to go to Nesterov, illustrating with the use of a map that there were no nearby villages in that direction, arguing that the tracks were suspicious. But Nesterov agreed with the two young officers. The fact there were four sets of prints made it an unlikely trail and not worth following. Unable to contain his frustration, Leo said:
—I’ll go alone then.
Nesterov stared at him:
—We’ll both go.
Leo was following his own footsteps deeper and deeper into the forest, accompanied only by Nesterov. Belatedly he realized that he was in danger, unarmed and alone with this man who wanted him dead. If he was going to be killed this was a good place. Nesterov seemed calm. He was smoking.
—Tell me, Leo, what are we going to find at the end of these tracks?
—I have no idea.
—But these are your footprints?
Nesterov pointed to the tracks in front of them and then at the tracks Leo had just made. They were identical.
—We’re going to find the body of a dead child.
—Which you’ve already discovered?
—Two days ago.
—But you didn’t report it?
—I wanted to establish that Varlam Babinich knew nothing about this murder.
—You were worried we’d blame him for the murder?
—I’m still worried.
Was Nesterov going to draw his gun? Leo waited. Nesterov finished his cigarette and continued walking. They said nothing more until they reached the body. The boy lay exactly as Leo remembered, on his back, naked, his mouth full of bark, his torso a savaged mess. Leo stood back, watching as Nesterov made an examination. He took his time. Leo could see that his superior officer was outraged by the crime. That was of some comfort.
Finally, Nesterov approached Leo:
—I want you to go back, call the procurator’s office. I’m going to stay here with the body.
Remembering Leo’s concerns, Nesterov added:
—It’s obvious that Varlam Babinich had nothing to do with this murder.
—I agree.
—These are two separate cases.
Leo stared blankly, bewildered by the assertion:
—But these children were murdered by the same man.
—A girl has been sexually assaulted and murdered. A boy has been sexually assaulted and murdered. These are different crimes. These are different depravities.
—But they both had bark, tree bark, ground-up tree bark stuffed into their mouths.
—Larisa’s mouth was stuffed with soil.
—That’s wrong.
—Varlam Babinich has admitted stuffing her mouth with soil.
—Which is why he can’t have killed her—the ground is frozen. If it was soil, where did he get it from? Her mouth was stuffed with bark just as this boy’s mouth was stuffed with bark. The bark was prepared in advance, I don’t know why.
—Babinich has confessed.
—He’d admit anything if you asked him enough times.
—Why are you so sure this is the same killer? One child was murdered close to the station: careless, reckless, barely out of sight. The screams could have been heard by the passengers. It was an idiot’s crime and an idiot has confessed. But this child has been led almost an hour’s walk into the forest. Care has been taken, so that no one could interrupt him. This is a different man.
—Who knows what happened with the girl, maybe he wanted to walk further into the woods and she changed her mind so he had to kill her there. Why do they both have string around their ankles?
—This is a different crime.
—Tell me you’re not so desperate to prosecute that you’ll say and believe anything.
—You tell me what kind of person rapes a girl, kills her, and then rapes a boy and kills him? Who is this person? I’ve worked in the militia for twenty years. I’ve never encountered such a person. I’ve never heard of such a person. Can you give me one example?
—The girl wasn’t raped.
—You’re right. There was a reason the girl was killed—she was killed for her blonde hair. She was killed by a sick man. There was a reason this boy was killed. He was killed by a different man, with a different sickness.
23 MARCH
ALEKSANDR CLOSED THE TICKET OFFICE, lowering the blind and sitting back in his chair. Although the office was small, no more than a couple of square meters, he liked the fact that it was his. He didn’t share it with anyone nor did he have anyone overseeing his work. He had a kind of freedom, unburdened by quotas, productivity reviews. There was just one downside to having this job. Everyone who knew him presumed that he must be disappointed with how life had turned out.
Five years ago Aleksandr had been the fastest sprinter at Secondary School 151. People had believed he was destined for success on a national level, perhaps even an international one if the Soviet Union were to compete in the Olympics. Instead, he’d ended up in a sedentary job manning a ticket office, watching other people embark on journeys while he went nowhere. He’d spent years following a punishing exercise regime, winning regional competitions. And to what end? Timetables and tickets: work which could be done by anyone. He remembered the exact moment the dream came to nothing. He and his father had taken a train to Moscow, attending the selection process at the Central Army Sports Club—the CSKA—part of the Ministry of Defense. The CSKA was renowned for selecting the best athletes from all over the country and pushing them to become exceptional. Ninety percent of applicants were rejected. Aleksandr had raced until he was sick by the side of the track. He’d run faster than he’d ever run before, beating his personal best. He hadn’t made the cut. On the return trip home his father had tried to put a positive slant on the rejection. It would motivate them to train harder, he’d make the cut next year for certain, and he’d be the stronger for having been made to fight for his dream. But Aleksandr had given everything and it hadn’t been enough. There’d be no next year. Though his father had continued to press, Aleksandr’s heart wasn’t in it and soon his father’s heart wasn’t in it either. Aleksandr had left school, begun work, settling into an easy routine.
It was eight in the evening by the time he finished. He left the ticket office, locking it behind him. He didn’t have far to walk as he and his parents lived in an annex built above the station. Technically speaking, his father was in charge of the station. However, his father wasn’t well. No one at the hospital could say what was wrong with him except that he was overweight and drank too much. His mother was in good health and, her father’s sickness aside, generally cheerful. She had reason to be—they were a fortunate family. The pay for working on the State railway was modest, the amount of blat, influence, relatively small. But the real advantage was the accommodation. Instead of having to share with another family they had sole use of an apartment with plumbing, hot water, and insulation—as new as the station itself. In exchange they were expected to be on call twenty-four hours a day. There was a bell which could be rung from the station wired directly to the apartment. If there was a night train or an early morning train they had to be on hand. But these were small inconveniences which, shared across the family, were more than offset by the relative comforts they en
joyed. They had an apartment easily big enough for two families. Aleksandr’s sister had married a cleaner who worked at the car assembly plant, where she also worked, and they’d moved into a new apartment in a good district. They were expecting their first child. This meant that Aleksandr, at twenty-two years old, had nothing to worry about. One day he’d take over the running of the station and the annex would be his.
In his bedroom he changed out of his uniform, put on casual clothes, and sat down to eat with his parents: pea-haddock soup followed by fried kasha. His father was eating a small portion of cooked cow’s liver. Though expensive and extraordinarily difficult to come by, liver had been recommended by the doctors. Aleksandr’s father was on a strict diet, including no alcohol, which he was convinced was making him worse. They didn’t speak over dinner. His father appeared to be in some discomfort. He hardly ate. After washing the plates Aleksandr excused himself: he was going to the cinema. By this stage his father was lying down. Aleksandr kissed him good night, telling him not to worry, he’d get up to deal with the arrival of the first train.
There was only one cinema in Voualsk. Up until three years ago there’d been none. A church had been transformed into a six-hundred- seat auditorium where a backlog of State-sponsored films were shown, many of which had been missed by the town’s population. These included The Fighters, Guilty without Guilt, Secrets of Counter- Espionage, and Meeting on the Elbe, some of the most successful movies of the last ten years, all of which Aleksandr had seen several times. Since the cinema’s opening it had quickly become his favorite pastime. Because of his running he’d never developed an interest in drink and he wasn’t particularly social. Arriving at the foyer he saw that Nezabyaemy God was showing. Aleksandr had seen the movie only a couple of nights ago and numerous occasions before that. He’d found it fascinating, not the film itself particularly, but the idea of an actor playing Stalin. He wondered whether Stalin had been involved in the casting. He wondered what it must be like watching another man pretend to be you, instructing them what they were doing right and what they were doing wrong. Aleksandr walked past the foyer. He didn’t join the queue, heading instead toward the park.
At the center of Victory Park there was a statue of three bronze soldiers, fists clenched to the sky, rifles slung over their shoulders. Officially the park was closed at night. But there was no fence and the rule was never enforced. Aleksandr knew the route to take: a path away from the streets and largely out of view, hidden by the trees and the bushes. He could feel his heartbeat quicken in anticipation, as it always did, as he took a slow lap around the perimeter. It seemed that he was alone tonight, and after the second lap he considered going home.
There was a man up ahead. Aleksandr stopped. The man turned to face him. A nervous pause communicated that they were both here for the same reason. Aleksandr continued forward and the man remained where he was, waiting for him to catch up. Side by side both of them glanced around, making sure they were alone, before looking at each other. The man was younger than Aleksandr, perhaps only nineteen or twenty. He appeared uncertain and at a guess Aleksandr supposed that this was his first time. Aleksandr broke the silence:
—I know somewhere we can go.
The young man looked around once more and then nodded, saying nothing. Aleksandr continued:
—Follow me, keep at a distance.
They walked separately. Aleksandr took the lead, getting a couple of hundred paces ahead. He checked. The other man was still following.
Arriving back at the train station, Aleksandr made sure his parents weren’t at the window of their apartment. Unseen, he entered the main station building, as though he were about to catch a train. Without turning on the lights he unlocked the ticket office, going inside and leaving the door open. He pushed the chair aside. There wasn’t much space but it was enough. He waited, checking his watch, wondering why the man was taking so long before remembering that he walked fast. Finally, he heard someone enter the station. The door to the ticket booth was pushed open. The man stepped inside and the two of them looked at each other properly for the first time. Aleksandr stepped forward to shut the door. The sound of the lock excited him. It meant they were safe. They were almost touching and yet not quite, neither of them sure who should make the first move. Aleksandr liked this moment and he waited for as long as he could bear it before leaning forward to kiss him.
Someone was hammering on the door. Aleksandr’s first thought was that it must be his father—he must have seen, he must have known all along. But then he realized it wasn’t coming from outside. It was this man, hammering on the door, calling out. Had he changed his mind? Who was he speaking to? Aleksandr was confused. He could hear voices outside the office. The man was no longer meek and nervous. A transformation had occurred. He was angry, disgusted. He spat in Aleksandr’s face. The glob of phlegm hung on his cheek. Aleksandr wiped it away. Without thinking, without understanding what was happening, he punched the man, knocking him to the floor.
The door handle rattled. Outside a voice called:
—Aleksandr, this is General Nesterov, the man you’re with is a militia officer. I’m ordering you to open the door. Either you obey or I call your parents and bring them down here to watch as I arrest you. Your father’s sick, isn’t he? It would kill him to discover your crime.
He was right—it would kill his father. Hurrying, Aleksandr tried to open the door but the office was so small that the man’s slumped body was blocking the way. He had to drag him to the side before he could unlock and open the door. As soon as the door was open hands reached in, grabbing him, pulling him out of the office onto the concourse.
Leo looked at Aleksandr, the first person he’d encountered after getting off the train from Moscow, the man who’d fetched him a cigarette, the man who’d helped search the woods. There was nothing he could to do to help him.
Nesterov peered into the ticket office, staring down at his officer, still dazed on the floor, embarrassed by the fact that he’d been overpowered.
—Get him out of there.
Two officers went in and helped the injured officer to a car outside. Seeing what he’d done to one of his men, Nesterov’s deputy cracked a blow across Aleksandr’s face. Before he could hit him again Nesterov intervened:
—That’s enough.
He circled the suspect, weighing up his words:
—I’m disappointed to catch you doing this: I would never have thought it of you.
Aleksandr spat blood on the floor but he didn’t reply. Nesterov continued:
—Tell me why?
—Why? I don’t know why.
—You’ve committed a very serious crime. A judge would give you five years minimum and he wouldn’t care how many times you said you were sorry.
—I haven’t said sorry.
—Brave, Aleksandr, but would you be so brave if everyone found out? You’d be humiliated, disgraced. Even after serving your five years in prison you wouldn’t be able to live or work here. You’d lose everything.
Leo stepped forward:
—Just ask him.
—There is a way to avoid this shame. We need a list of every man in this town who has sex with other men, men who have sex with younger men, men who have sex with boys. You will help us create this list.
—I don’t know any others. This is my first time . . .
—If you choose not to help us we’ll arrest you, put you on trial, and invite your parents to court. Are they getting ready for bed right now? I could send one of my men to find out, bring them down.
—No.
—Work for us and maybe we won’t need to mention anything to your parents. Work for us and maybe you won’t need to go to trial. Maybe this disgrace can stay a secret.
—What is this about?
—The murder of a young boy. You’ll be doing a public service and making amends for your crime. Will you make this list?
Aleksandr touched the blood running out of his mouth:
—What
will happen to the men on the list?
29 MARCH
LEO SAT ON THE EDGE OF HIS BED contemplating how his attempt to relaunch an investigation had instead precipitated a citywide pogrom. Over the past week the militia had rounded up one hundred and fifty homosexuals. Today alone Leo had arrested six men, bringing his count to twenty. Some had been taken from their place of work, escorted out in handcuffs while their colleagues watched. Others had been taken from their homes, their apartments, taken from their families—their wives pleading, convinced that there must be some mistake, unable to comprehend the charges.
Nesterov had reason to be pleased. Quite by chance he’d found a second undesirable: a suspect he could call murderer without upsetting the social theory. Murder was an aberration. These men were an aberration. It was a perfect fit. He’d been able to announce that they were now instigating the largest murder hunt ever launched by the Voualsk militia, a claim that would’ve cost him his career if he hadn’t been targeting such an unacceptable subgroup. Short of space, offices had been converted into makeshift holding cells and interrogation rooms. Even with these improvised measures it had been necessary to lock several men in each cell with guards given clear instructions that the men needed to be watched at all times. The cause for concern had been the possibility of spontaneous incidents of sexual deviancy. No one quite knew what they were dealing with. But they were certain that were such sexual activities to take place within the militia headquarters they would undermine the establishment. It would be an affront to the principles of justice. In addition to this high level of scrutiny, every officer had been timetabled to work twelve-hour shifts, with suspects questioned constantly, twenty-four hours a day. Leo had been obliged to ask the same questions again and again, picking through answers for even the smallest variation. He’d carried out this task like a dull automaton convinced even before they’d made a single arrest that these men were innocent.
Aleksandr’s list had been trawled through name by name. On producing the list he’d explained that he could create it not because he’d been promiscuous, at least not to the extent of having sexual encounters with a hundred or so men. In fact, many of the names on the list were people he’d never even met. His information came from conversations with the ten or so that he’d had sex with. Each man recounted liaisons with different men so that, added together, it was possible to draw a sexual constellation with each man knowing his place in relation to each other. Leo had listened to this explanation, a hidden world opening up, a hermetically sealed existence constructed within the society at large. The integrity of the seals was critical. Aleksandr had described how men on the list met by chance in routine situations, standing in a food line buying bread, eating at the same table in a factory canteen. In these everyday surroundings casual conversation was forbidden, a glance was the most that was allowed, and even that needed to be disguised. These were rules that had come about not by agreement or decree, no one needed to be told them, they arose out of self-preservation.
