Chapter 3

The shop building has been transformed. Sandbags now cover all the windows, and there are even concrete blocks obstructing the path to the front doors. So, tell me do, who would go to all this effort if they weren’t planning to do some sort of business here? The shopfront sign is still hanging above the entrance, even. But there’s nobody around. Just the wind skipping down the street, kicking up all sorts of junk.

I listen carefully. I find I’m beginning to trust my ears more and more. People aren’t so easy to spot, especially if they don’t want to be seen. Hearing them, on the other hand… What did they write in that clever book? “There’s no such thing as a silent ambush.” That’s the Strugatsky brothers… True, nobody’s scratching or belching the way they do in the book, but there are other sounds to listen for. Maybe nobody here is rattling chains, but they do shift from foot to foot every now and then.

That’s what I hear now – somebody gets impatient and starts moving around. Roughly twenty meters from me. I’m lying on a balcony on the third floor. To get there, I had to come down from the roof. Thankfully, the house is old and the balconies aren’t covered. On the other hand, there is a fire escape that goes up to the attic, and from there it’s simple. So, stomp around for now. Meanwhile, I take out my axe and carefully prise open the balcony door. I’ve no desire to smash the glass here, it’s a nice place. I’d like to keep it from myself. The view is pretty good.

Clearly, I’m no great housebreaker, but then again this isn’t Fort Knox. The door squeaked as it was opening, which got a response from the guy stomping round downstairs. He ran up from somewhere, and for an instant I caught a glimpse of him.

Definitely not one of Makar’s crew. His clothes are just too shitty. And it doesn’t look like he has a gun, either, although that doesn’t really mean anything. You can easily hide a pistol in a pocket. And what exactly is he waiting for down there? Doesn’t look like he’s seriously thinking of robbing or killing somebody. Then again, that’s not the sort of intention you go around advertising.

I take a quick look round the flat for anything useful. Jam, stale bread, matches, and three packs of cigarettes which go straight in my bag. I don’t smoke, but I can try to trade them for something. And where do I plan to do that? Why, in the shop downstairs, of course! I decide to leave everything else where it is. I could do with the food myself, and I still don’t know what the trader downstairs might want.

I hear a scraping sound from down below. I climb up on the windowsill, but nothing’s changed down there. I guess the man’s given up on waiting. Looks like he’s on his way. I’ll just give him a minute or two.

A clanging sound as the door of the shop is opened, and out onto the stage comes a new character. One look at him tells you he’s the reason the other guy’s done a runner. Dressed in full camouflage gear (clearly expensive and imported), with a bullet-proof vest and all sorts of other kit I don’t recognize, he’s a big, strong guy. The rifle in his hands looks like something out of a sci-fi film, it’s got so many accessories bolted on. Well, I’m certainly not going to take that on with my axe. You’d need a machine gun just to get that guy’s attention. A big man, and full of self-confidence.

I hear the scrape of the door again, and another similar-looking figure appears, also armed. Have they got an arsenal in there? I move away from the window – they could shoot me from there. But no, I hear their footsteps withdrawing. I perform the same old trick with lock and door, and carefully creep downstairs.

Woah! My feet freeze. There’s a thin wire drawn tight across the staircase. A hundred different swear words come into my head as I think of tripwires, mines, and all the related horrors. If it’s a tripwire, then it’s bound to be connected to something, right? But if I don’t touch anything and don’t pull on it, then in theory it shouldn’t go off. As it turns out on inspection, there’s nothing actually to go off – the wire’s attached to an ordinary tin can which has been carelessly stuffed with a bunch of kitchen spoons and forks. Touch the wire and it’ll rattle, nothing more. In other words, all we’ve got here is a jerry-rigged early warning system. Which means?

It means that if someone put it there, they should be near enough to hear it. And maybe they’re sitting there now, listening. Perhaps they even live on this very staircase. So let’s move carefully. And one more thing

Seeing as this shop’s populated by armed tough guys like the two I’ve just seen, it doesn’t make much sense to go in there showing off my axe. At the very best, all I’ll do is make them laugh, and comedy is not the effect I’m going for. As I walk through the archway of the building, therefore, I hide my axe in a pile of rubbish. It may not be much good as a weapon, but it’s great for opening doors and windows. That’s what I value it as – a tool not a weapon.

I snake between the concrete blocks and stop in front of the door. It wasn’t just for decoration before, and now it looks like the front of a safe. The same impression of weight and thickness. I don’t see a bell anywhere, and there’s no electricity anyway, so I knock and the door resounds thickly under my fist. There’s a scrape, and a peephole opens in the door. So that’s the sound that guy was running from.

“What do you want?”

“I’d like to trade.”

“Is that right?” says the invisible voice with surprise. “Well, go ahead and trade. We won’t stop you.”

And the peephole scrapes shut.

“Hey, maybe I want to buy something from you!”

“Yeah?” Once again the peephole scrapes open, and this time I’m examined more intently. “Step back from the door!”

Apparently I passed the examination, as I hear the bolts being drawn on the other side of the door.

“Come on in.”

Inside, the shop has also been transformed. Now there are grilles on my right and on my left, right up to the ceiling. Behind one of them, there’s a guy slumped in a chair with an assault rifle in his hands. Opposite me stands another guy, unarmed as far as I can tell.

“Spread ’em!” I’m frisked professionally. “What, no weapons whatsoever?”

“What for?”

The guy sniffs and steps to one side, gesturing me forward.

There’s only a small length left of the counter, and even that is all shut off behind thick metal bars. Everything else has been walled over. It’s recent work, I can still catch the smell of fresh plaster.

Behind the counter is a face that I can’t quite place. I know I’ve seen him somewhere before. He’s wearing a wool hat, a warm sweater, and a scarf wrapped round his neck.

“Well?” he says, eying me doubtfully, “what have you got?”

He took a look at my cigarettes and pushed them carelessly to one side – I’d brought six sealed packs with me and one that was half full. The condoms, on the other hand, caused great amusement.

“Now that’s what we’re really after! Selling like hotcakes. What the fuck do you expect me to do with them?”

He slides the pack back across the counter towards me.

“You can keep ’em. Never know when you might need them, eh? What else have you got?”

“What else do you need?”

The shopkeeper laughs.

“We need everything. What exactly do you have?”

“All sorts of clothes.”

A cynical laugh tells me all I need to know.

“Electronics”

The same reaction.

“Look,” he says, nodding at the cigarettes, “I’ll take these. I can give you food and ammo, but not much.”

“I need tinned meat.”

“Two tins! And a pack of hardtack on top.”

I’m in no position to haggle, so I agree to the deal.

“You can bring the same goods again. Water, beer, fizzy drinks – those I’ll take, too. Spirits are always welcome. Can’t imagine what else you’ll find. You’re going through flats, I guess?”

“That, too.”

“Then we’re agreed. Don’t bother with any other junk, and wait till you’ve got a decent weight together. Don’t even think of bringing two or three packs.”

Behind me, I hear the bolts scraping back again. So that’s the end of our business. Fair enough, it’s no loss to me. I don’t smoke so I don’t need the cigarettes. And from what I remember they can be found quite often in the empty flats, so that’s something to work with.

And another thing. There are empty plastic bottles lying around everywhere, and nobody seems much interested in them. Their loss! It took no time at all to get together a couple of dozen containers of all sizes. Now here I am, filling them with water from the pipe. I also found a gas canister with a torch on it, which I use to solder (or stick) the plastic rings left on the bottle necks back onto the sealed tops, matching them by colour. It took a while, but now I’m a dab hand and the results look pretty good. Sure, it’s not mineral water. But it’s not from the sewer either, at least I hope not. It tastes just like ordinary drinking water, and from what I remember the shopkeeper said there was a market for that.

To let you in on a secret, I couldn’t stop myself. I did eventually visit my old home. No, I didn’t go into my flat, but I did hang around the doorway for a while. The panes in the windows were unbroken, which meant the nasty surprise left by those arseholes was still there, biding its time. If it had already been tripped, then every pane in the apartment and in the stairwell would’ve been smashed.

However, I did find my jacket by the burnt-out car. With my knife in one pocket and my water bottle in the other. The bottle goes on my belt, the knife in my pocket, and jacket, which has sadly lost any form of respectability, goes into the bushes. It was scorched, and I didn’t want it.

Now the saucepan’s full! I pour the water into bottles. I’ve got just over a dozen already, so I can go see the shopkeeper. I select the most attractive-looking containers – you’ve got to keep up appearances, and I’m a man of my word. Ten bottles makes fifteen litres, which should be weight enough to satisfy the shopkeeper. I already had a decent backpack, the fruits of another flat-gutting expedition. The bottles fitted perfectly.

So once again I’m standing in front of the familiar shop door. The procedure’s the same. I’m frisked by the guard and then I start to put out my bottles on the counter.

“Well,” murmurs the shopkeeper, looking at the fruits of my labour, “you did it. Good man!”

The water is removed under the counter.

“What do you want, then?”

“I want to eat! Tins – meat, instant soups, everything!”

Thus, we begin to haggle. After a few minutes, I leave the store and can feel the weight of groceries in my backpack. That’s enough to live on for a few days! With what I’ve salvaged from abandoned flats, there’s really no need to worry for a while.

Slam! My eyes go black for a second.

“Stop right there, you bastard!”

It’s not like I’m about to take off running – that was some smack in the stomach they gave me. I see three wankers of some sort. Surprise, surprise, I know one of them. It’s the same guy who ran away from the two tooled-up gorillas before.

“Are you fucking stupid?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You think you can just walk straight past us?”

There’s something I’m missing. They pull me up on my feet and shove me against the wall, then they explain the balance of power to me, punctuated by a few “friendly” pokes and jabs. Turns out these three represent the shopkeeper’s “protection”, and anyone who wants to do business with him has to slip a little something to them in return for access. Nothing too extravagant, just ten percent of each deal. Hmm, interesting. I wonder if those gorillas in imported camouflage know about this arrangement?

“Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, fool, you’re better off making friends with us. If you fuck about, you’ll pay for it! What’s your address?”

“What address?”

“Not your fucking safe-deposit box, obviously! Where do you sleep?” shouts the biggest of them in my face. Honesty’s the best policy, so I give them my street, building, and apartment number. I say nothing about the office – nobody asked for my business address.

“We’ll be checking.”

“I’d be happy to accompany you gentlemen there right now.”

Like they’ll go anywhere with me. No doubt they’ve got other idiots to wait for.

They’re lying, the bastards! They’re no kind of protection, just street trash. But there are three of them, and they’re stronger than me. Any argument from my side will result in fisticuffs, and I know who’s going to come off worse.

“When you come back, go into that doorway over there. It’s flat seven. There’s a box in the hallway. If none of us are there, that doesn’t mean we’ve left. We guard everything round here, see? So put your stuff in the box. We’ll be checking.”

It’s the same stairwell where I found that jerry-rigged alarm. It’s all a simple shakedown. They hang around outside the shop – or as close as they dare to get for fear of catching a bullet. I doubt the shopkeeper’s guards think much of their activities. Doesn’t mean these arseholes can’t catch me on the way, though. And I’ll get more than a punching if I’m not careful. I know their kind. They don’t give a shit.

My backpack loses much of its weight. I get another slap round the head in the way of goodbye, and get round the corner fast.

So, there’s another Makar round here, too. It’s just a simple racket for now, but soon they’ll get stronger, work out what they’re doing, and attract more scumbags to their ranks. Am I going to have to spend my whole time running away from bastards like this?

If only I was armed, but where am I going to get a gun from? A pocket knife won’t be enough to get rid of them. Nor will the axe, for that matter. There’s too many of them, and I don’t even remember the last time I used it to cut someone. How long ago was it? That’s right, never. Do I really plan to start? Not now, certainly.

There is, of course, a chance of finding a gun while I’m gutting flats. But even with a crew the size of Makar’s that didn’t happen very often. For some reason folks round here don’t keep much in the way of arsenals at home. It’s hopeless. So, what can I do? Pondering the matter fruitlessly, I drink half a bottle of cognac and slump into Vitya’s shagpad.

Something jolts me awake in the middle of the night. I jump out of bed. What’s the matter? Something must have woken me, but what? I pace round the room, banging my knees on the vast bed every other step. Fuck-fuck-fuck. That’s it! That guy, the one who was killed by the “Bears” in the second shop. He shot at them, didn’t he? He did. There was firing that didn’t sound like an automatic weapon. And then the bad guys opened fire on him. Though why are they the bad guys? They even threw me a couple of tins of food. Then off they went, and I don’t remember seeing any other guns on them but their assault rifles. What would they need anything else for? Which means the dead guy’s gun is still there.

It must be lying round there somewhere, but when I get to the shop and look around, I just can’t work out exactly where it could have got to. So, let’s think logically. My brain seems still to be working more or less.

A shot, followed almost immediately by bursts of fire from the Bears. No screams, sounds of footsteps, or any other noises. Which means they downed him almost immediately, and he dropped dead more or less on the spot. He’s still lying there, arms outstretched and beginning to stink.

Let’s work on the assumption that most people shoot right-handed. There’s no reason to think this guy was any different. Then, when they pumped his chest with at least five rounds, he went straight down where he was standing. Which means his gun must have ended up somewhere over here…

I crouch down and catch sight of a glint of light off the metal of the gun barrel. The gun must have flown under the overturned shelves, and that’s why I never saw it. The previous owner had for some reason sawed off the stock, almost all the way to the pistol grip, as I believe they call it. The gun wasn’t all that big to start with. You could fit it under a coat, or even a suit jacket, without attracting attention. A semi-sawn-off, I guess you’d call it. Normally, they saw off the barrel. I’ve seen them in museums. But then you can only fire point-blank, while with the barrel still intact you’ve got a fair chance of hitting something at up to fifty meters. If you can shoot straight, that is.

I don’t know exactly what type of hunting gun it used to be – I’m no expert, after all. But you can let loose down a corridor without even bothering to aim too carefully. You reload it by pulling the piece of wood under the barrel towards you. From the movies again, I know that that makes it a pump-action.

I should take a look at the dead guy, but his pockets have been turned out long before I got there. It was probably those Bears who did it. There’s unlikely to be anything left. And I’ve no great desire to go anywhere near that corpse. The smell is awful, and I’d probably just catch some disease.