by Jack Heath
She turned to the two police officers. ‘Also, Maschenov is locked up in Velechnya State Penitentiary. You would have known that if you’d read the file all the way through.’
Fero gasped. Kids his age were locked up in Velechnya? He’d heard schoolyard rumours about it – prisoners trapped in pits, poisoned with experimental drugs, forced to dig in the nickel mines beneath. But he assumed those stories were exaggerated. Especially if teenagers were imprisoned there.
‘He could have escaped,’ Hilliev suggested.
‘He could,’ she agreed. ‘If anyone somehow found a way to escape from Velechnya, it would be him. That’s why I instructed one of the guards to check. Troy Maschenov is still in solitary confinement, exactly where he’s been for two years. You took Mr Dremovich’s fingerprints, I assume?’
‘We did.’
‘Humour me. Check those against his file.’
Hilliev left the room, grumbling.
‘I saw the picture,’ Pogodin said. ‘It looks exactly like him.’
‘Almost exactly,’ Noelein said. She looked Fero up and down, chewing her lip. ‘Do you have any relatives in Besmar?’
He shook his head.
‘When’s your birthday?’
‘October twenty, 2001.’
‘Two months younger than Maschenov,’ she said. ‘So you’re not a long-lost sibling. Tell me, Fero – why did you join the riot?’
The question sounded like a threat.
‘It wasn’t supposed to be a riot,’ Fero said. ‘It was supposed to be a peaceful protest.’
He regretted the word immediately. He should have said demonstration.
‘Who invited you?’
He didn’t want to get Irla in any more trouble. ‘No one. I was walking past the square and I saw the crowd, so I went to check it out.’
‘Are you aware that protests like this compromise our security?’
‘How?’
‘Besmari spies watch the footage and use it to identify potential recruits. Those recruits later transmit sensitive data, often without realising the danger they are putting us in. The more suggestible ones can be convinced to carry out terror attacks in Kamauan cities.’
There hadn’t been a large-scale terror attack since Fero was five years old, when a weaponised strain of the coronavirus was released in Melzen. According to Ms Tilya, his history teacher, the virus had been very contagious and almost always fatal. The infected would get sore muscles, their heads would ache, their temperatures would shoot up and in less than nineteen hours they would be dead. The disease could have killed millions. But the DCA – the Disease Control Authority – developed a cure before too many people were exposed. Unfortunately, a fire broke out in one of the treatment labs while emergency services were busy trying to establish quarantines elsewhere in the city. The blaze devastated Melzen Hospital, killing most of the patients.
The thought of another attack – the idea that he or someone he loved could be killed at random – sent chills down Fero’s spine.
‘In addition to all that,’ Noelein continued, ‘rallies against the government make us look weak. They undermine our leaders on the world stage.’
‘Like I said, I was just walking through. Then I got trapped in the crowd when someone threw a brick.’
‘Could you identify the thrower?’
Fero shook his head. ‘He – or she, I don’t know – wore a mask.’
‘Okay,’ Noelein said. She didn’t look concerned. ‘After that, why did you run?’
‘One of the riot police was about to hit me.’
‘Only if you didn’t cooperate.’
Fero didn’t think that was true. ‘I was scared, I guess. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong.’
‘How far did you get?’
‘From Stolkalny Square,’ Pogodin put in, ‘to the station under the Botanic Gardens.’
Noelein smiled. ‘And you caught a train – literally. Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ Fero said.
‘Do you speak English?’ she asked.
‘No.’ He had never been outside of Kamau, so there had been no reason to learn it.
‘Russian?’
‘No.’
‘How about Besmari?’
He nodded.
‘Where did you learn that?’ she asked, speaking Besmari.
‘Mum’s a translator,’ he said, also in Besmari. ‘She works for the government. I learned a bit from her, and the rest at my old school. We had a teacher who was kind of a hippie – peace through linguistics, she said. All the students studied it.’
‘Your accent could be improved,’ she said, switching back to Kamauan. ‘But your vocabulary is very good.’
Fero thought his accent was fine – he had been top of his class – but didn’t argue. ‘Thanks.’
Noelein turned to Pogodin. ‘What are the charges?’ she asked, in Kamauan.
‘Disturbing the peace, resisting arrest, fare evasion—’
‘I’d drop them, if I were you. A police station on high alert, a teenage boy threatened and black-bagged, all because a pair of police officers mistook him for a Besmari spy who was already in prison – that wouldn’t look good for the department.’
Pogodin swallowed. ‘But he was at the rally. Trying to destabilise the government.’
‘I should also mention that anything to do with Troy Maschenov is tier-one classified.’ Noelein glared at Pogodin. ‘If you tell anyone what happened here, you’ll find yourself in Velechnya alongside him.’
Fero rubbed his swollen wrists.
‘That goes for you too, Mr Dremovich,’ she added.
Hilliev opened the door.
‘Do the prints match?’ Noelein asked.
‘It’s not him,’ the sergeant said glumly.
Pogodin swore. Noelein beamed.
‘It sounds like you’re free to leave, Fero,’ she said. ‘Has anyone called your parents?’
Fero looked at the two police officers, who shook their heads.
‘Well, I don’t see any particular need to worry them.’
‘What are you saying?’ Fero asked, hopefully.
‘I’m saying that this can stay between us.’ Noelein eyed the two police officers. ‘I’m sure one of these gentlemen will be more than happy to give you a lift home.’
NIGHTMARES
‘I hope you know how lucky you’ve been,’ Sergeant Hilliev muttered.
Fero stared at the approaching traffic lights. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.
The unmarked police car cruised through the silent streets. The inside smelled like fast food and glass-cleaning fluid. A flat two-way radio hung under the dashboard, and a detachable flashing light was nestled in the footwell.
‘I mean it,’ the sergeant said. ‘I’ve never seen anyone get away with resisting arrest, reckless endangerment—’
‘Who was that woman?’
‘How should we know?’
Fero stared at him. ‘You don’t know who she is, but you let her decide which suspects to charge?’
‘She’s a Librarian.’ The sergeant’s voice was gruff. ‘We have to do what she says.’
‘What’s a Librarian?’ The question sounded stupid, but the sergeant didn’t laugh.
‘You don’t know?’ he said.
‘No.’
The sergeant glanced around at the quiet houses and eventually decided to reply. ‘That woman works for KIO.’
Kamau Intelligence Operations. Fero had thought it might be a fictitious organisation, invented by a screenwriter of spy dramas.
‘Do they often turn up at your station?’
‘No,’ the sergeant said. ‘We almost never see them, luckily. I plan to forget that she was there and I suggest you do the same.’
Fero didn’t think that would be possible. ‘Why do you call them the Librarians?’
‘Do you always ask so many questions?’ Hilliev demanded.
Fero shrugged. He waited for an answer, but there was none. They drove the next f
ew kilometres in silence.
The KIO is real, Fero thought. And the local police just do whatever they say. If I didn’t have a freakish resemblance to a Besmari spy, I would be in jail right now.
It was almost too much to take in.
The apartment block was a towering chessboard of lit and unlit windows. A similar building stood on the opposite side of the street. One hundred and fifty floors each, thirty apartments per floor. Kamau was a small country – no bigger than Slovenia or Wales. Fero had heard somewhere that two per cent of the population lived in just these two buildings. Almost everyone who went to school with him was a neighbour, which made it all the more embarrassing that his only friend was Irla.
‘I can walk from here,’ Fero said. ‘Thanks for the ride.’
Hilliev pulled over near the entrance to Coralsk Station, where the last few commuters were emerging, heads down, collars up. They walked with hurried, secretive strides. After curfew, everyone looked like a spy.
Hilliev ignored them. ‘I don’t ever want to see you again,’ he said.
‘You won’t. I promise.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Hilliev looked doubtful.
Fero climbed out of the car and closed the door. The car purred around the corner and disappeared into the shadows of a nearby alleyway.
Fero stared up at the apartment block. He’d been gone barely three hours, but in that time he’d become a fugitive, a prisoner and finally a free citizen again. He had almost died twice, if he included the cops nearly shooting him. He’d convinced himself he would never see this place again.
But now that the police car had gone there was no proof that any of it had happened. Was he sure that he hadn’t just gone to the rally, listened to some speeches and caught a train home? His memory was notoriously poor. The past was a half-real world, ethereal and fluid.
Fero smiled. Whatever had happened, he was fine now. He was free.
He inserted his key into the front door, yanked it open, and strolled into the foyer. The lights were dimmed for the night. A man in a navy jumpsuit pushed a polishing machine over the marble floor, his cap low over his eyes. An emerald water feature bubbled in the corner.
The security guard, a tall woman in a charcoal-grey cap, nodded to him. Fero glanced at the gun holstered on her hip – he couldn’t help it – and nodded back.
‘Having a nice night?’ he asked.
The security guard, to whom he’d never spoken before, responded cautiously. ‘Yes, thank you. And you?’
‘Fantastic,’ he said. ‘Absolutely awesome.’
Normally he would take the stairs. But tonight he was already late, and too exhausted to climb twenty-six floors. He pushed the button to call the lift. The doors opened immediately. He walked in, pressed the button for the twenty-sixth floor, and waited for the doors to close.
He tilted his head from side to side, jiggled his shoulders and shifted his weight from foot to foot. All the tension of the last few hours was melting away. In the mirrored walls of the lift, he looked somehow bolder, more grown-up than he had before.
I’ve just made it through the worst night of my life, he thought.
The lift doors slid closed.
‘Hi Mum, hi Dad,’ Fero called.
‘Fero!’ His mother’s voice floated out of the study. ‘How was the movie?’
He had told his parents he was going to the cinema. ‘Uh . . . intense.’
He shut the front door and walked into the kitchen. His father, Wilt, was bent over the sink, scrubbing plates. A dusty radio burbled beside the coffee machine. ‘The President has expressed her eagerness to resume the peace talks,’ a newsreader intoned, ‘but with Besmar denying responsibility for this newest attack, experts say it may take some time.’
The apartment was tidy rather than clean. No pictures or knickknacks were on the shelves – just a skin of dust.
The apartment had little personality, but Fero supposed he was lucky. Several kids at school lived in tiny houses with all their cousins and grandparents. Worse still, he could be living in Besmar, where a huge portion of the population was homeless and starving.
A bicycle helmet hung on a hook beside the door. Potted plants stood on shelves beside the coffee table. The heavy curtains had been left open, exposing the lights of Kamau, which stretched all the way to the black horizon. The apartment faced north-east, and didn’t get much sun during the day. For the first time, Fero wondered if some of the most distant spots of light were actually in Besmar, or Russia.
Wilt looked nothing like his son. He was a big, quiet man with a short beard and a slight limp from a skiing accident in his youth.
‘You missed the curfew,’ Wilt said. His glasses magnified his eyes to an alarming size, making Fero feel like he was under a microscope.
‘So did everyone,’ Fero said. ‘My train was delayed. Some idiot grabbed it and was dragged into the tunnel. The cops had to stop the train and arrest him.’
‘Ah.’ Wilt nodded as though this were a normal occurrence. ‘What movie did you see, again?’
‘Reloaded.’
‘Was that the one about the time-travelling thief?’
‘Yeah, I think so.’
His father raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘You think so?’
‘It was a pretty confusing movie,’ Fero said. ‘How was your evening?’
‘A nightmare.’ His mother’s voice got closer as she clomped down the stairs. ‘Remember the coronavirus outbreak when you were a kid?’
Zuri often began sentences with ‘Remember . . .’ and ended them by describing events that Fero couldn’t recall at all. She would say: ‘Remember that time your grandfather thought the cat was a fox and took a shot at it?’ Or: ‘Remember when you broke your arm on those swings? You know, at the Botanic Gardens?’
At least this time his mother was talking about something that had been widely publicised. But it seemed spooky that she had brought it up so soon after Fero had been thinking about it at the police station. It was like she could read his mind.
‘Yeah,’ he said.
‘Well, in Baranovichi they have an epidemic on their hands. It’s a lot like the one we had – not quite the same strain, but just as contagious and just as fatal.’
Zuri entered the kitchen, wrapped her arms around her husband and kissed the back of his hairy neck. They always seemed more affectionate when they knew Fero was watching, as if they worried that he might think he was growing up in a loveless family.
Zuri had the calloused, elastic hands of a guitarist, and the graceful legs of a dancer. The least musical part of her was her voice, which was somehow flat and squeaky at the same time.
‘Where’s Baranovichi?’ Fero asked.
‘West Belarus.’
‘Were they attacked?’
‘It doesn’t look like it. The disease seems to have come about naturally – not that that helps the victims. Anyway, they want aid money to fight the infection. The government has offered it on the condition that they push through those trade sanctions on Besmar. The Belarusians are willing to do that, but not for the amount of aid we’re offering. And we can’t offer more, since all the money’s tied up in defence. Anyway, it’s a lot of work for me and the other translators.’
‘Can’t we just give them the cure we developed?’ Fero asked. ‘Instead of the money?’
‘Our antivirals were destroyed when the hospital burned down,’ Zuri said. ‘And even if we had them, they might not be effective on this strain.’ She groaned and rubbed her temples as she sat down on the couch. ‘I’ll have to go in early tomorrow. Will you be okay to get to school on your own?’
‘I’ll take him,’ Wilt said.
‘Thanks, Dad.’ Fero gestured to the dishes. ‘Can I give you a hand with these?’
Wilt polished a bowl with a tea towel and placed it in the cupboard. ‘No, I’m nearly done. There’s some ufril in the fridge, if you want it.’
Fero hadn’t realised how hungry he was. ‘Great.’
He op
ened the fridge and removed the cling wrap from the traditional Kamauan dessert: walnuts crumbled over orange slices, sealed in a crisp honeyed batter.
He sat at the table, munching on the sweet concoction. He hadn’t had dinner. This would have to do.
‘What did Irla think of the movie?’ Wilt asked.
Guilt twisted in Fero’s stomach. He’d forgotten about Irla. She was probably still at the police station. There was nothing Fero could have done to help her—but he hadn’t even tried.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said.
‘You didn’t ask?’
‘She said she liked it, but I think she was just saying that.’
‘So, are you and she . . .’
Fero shook his head.
Wilt looked relieved. ‘Just friends, then.’
His parents were always pressuring him to make more friends at school – to become ‘more connected to the community’ – but they didn’t seem to like Irla.
‘Yeah, I guess,’ Fero said. He scooped some more ufril into his mouth.
His father glanced at his watch. ‘You should go to bed soon.’
Bed, Fero thought. A bed that’s not a prison bunk.
He swallowed the last of the dessert, washed his bowl, dried it and put it in the cupboard.
‘I love you guys,’ he said.
They both looked at him suspiciously.
‘We love you too, sweetie,’ Zuri said, after a pause. ‘See you in the morning.’
Fero shuffled towards the stairs. ‘Sleep well.’
‘You too.’
Fero’s room was the opposite of the rest of the house: messy but clean. His books were piled on the floor beside his bed, and the clothes he intended to wear again before washing them were stuffed underneath it. A salba drum lay on its goatskin head in the corner next to some birthday cards he was too sentimental to throw away.
Fero slipped into his pyjamas and walked to the bathroom. He squeezed some spearmint toothpaste onto a brush and lifted it to his mouth. Then he hesitated, peering at his reflection. His hair was short and dark, his lips thin, his eyes narrow.
Is there really a Besmari spy who looks exactly like me? he wondered.
