He Lover of Death (12 page)

Night-Owl was acting calm and grinning. What had he got to be afraid of? There were two Khitrovka lads standing behind the Chinaman (the pudding-head didn’t have a clue). Mikheika spotted Senka and winked:
just you wait, the fun’s about to start.

Well, he couldn’t not watch, could he?

Senka came a bit closer, so he could hear, and stopped. The Chinee asked (the way he spoke was funny, but you could still make it out): ‘Night-Owr-kun, where your friend? The one who run so fast. Thin, yerrow hair, grey eyes, nose with freckurs?’

Well, well, so he’d remembered everything, the yellow pagan, even the freckles. But the question was, how had he managed to find Mikheika? He must have just wandered into Khitrovka and run into him by chance.

But then Senka spotted a battered old cap with a cracked peak in the Chinaman’s hand. Now, that was crafty! He hadn’t just barged in by accident, he’d come on purpose, to look for his beads. He’d twigged that the lads were from Khitrovka (or maybe the cabbies had given him the hint, they were an eagle-eyed bunch), come dashing over and nabbed Night-Owl. Mikheika didn’t know his letters, and he drew an owl on all his things so they wouldn’t get nicked. And now look where that had got him. The oriental titch must have walked around with the cap, which had been dropped on Sretenka Street, asking whose it was. And now he’d found out, he was in trouble. Old Slanty-eyes had made a big mistake, coming here and grabbing Night-Owl by the sleeve. That flat pancake face was in for a good battering.

Mikheika answered back: ‘What friend’s that? All those Chinese radishes must have gone to your head. I’ve never seen you before.’

Night-Owl was showing off in front of the lads, naturally.

The Chinaman waved the cap. ‘And what this? What bird this?’

And he jabbed his finger at the lining.

What was the point, though? The lads would fling a load of seventy-kopeck lead pellets in his face, and that was all he’d take home. Senka even felt sorry for the heathen. Pike, a smart lad from Podkopaevsky Lane, quick on his feet, had already gone down on all fours behind the gull’s back. Now Night-Owl would give Yellow-cheeks a shove and the fun would start. He’d leave with no pants, and they’d rearrange his teeth, and his ribs too.

There were gawkers grinning at the sight from the square and the lane. Boxman set off along the edge of the market, with an open newspaper in his hands – he stopped, looked over the top of the grey page, yawned and tramped on. Nothing unusual, just another gull getting what he had coming.

‘Oh, oh, don’t frighten me, mister, or I’ll wet me pants,’ Night-Owl mocked. ‘But thank you most kindly for the cap. Please accept my regards, and this too, out of the generosity of my heart.’

And he smashed his fist into the Chinaman’s teeth!

Or, rather, he aimed for the teeth, only Slanty-eyes bobbed down, Night-Owl’s fist flailed at empty air, and the swing of it spun him right round. Then the Chinaman lashed out with his right hand and left leg, at the same time: his hand caught Mikheika round the back of the head (only gently, but Mikheika dived nose first into the dust then didn’t move), and his heel smacked into Pike’s ear. Pike went flat out too, and the third lad, a bit older than Pike – Drillbit, his moniker was – tried to hit the nimble heathen with his brass knuckles, but all he caught was empty air, too. The Chinee leapt sideways and smacked Drillbit on the chin with the toe of his boot (how could he fling his legs up that high?), and Drillbit fell flat on his back.

So before the gawkers could even drop their jaws, the three lads who’d tried to fleece the pagan gull were stretched out on the ground, and not getting up in a hurry.

People shook their heads in wonder and went on their way. But the Chinee squatted down beside Mikheika and grabbed his ear.

‘Ver’ bad, Night-Owr-kun,’ he said. ‘Ver’, ver’ bad. Where beads?’

Mikheika started shaking all over. And for real – he wasn’t putting it on. ‘I don’t know about no beads! On me mother’s grave! In the name of Christ!’

The Chinaman twisted his ear a bit and explained what he wanted. ‘Littuw green baws, on thread. They were in bunduw.’

Then didn’t Night-Owl go and yell: ‘That wasn’t me, it was Speedy Senka! Ow, my ear! That hurts! There’s Senka, over there!’

Why, the Judas! Couldn’t even stand a simple ear-twist. He needed a bit of training from Uncle Zot!

The Chinaman swung round to where Night-Owl was pointing, and saw Senka. Then the heathen got up and walked towards him –moving softly, like a cat. ‘Senka-kun,’ he said, ‘don’ run. Today I have soos, not
geta
– I catch you.’

And he pointed to his half-boots. As if to say:
not sandals, like the last time.

But of course Senka ran away. He’d sworn never to kick up his heels again, but it seemed like that was his destiny now, to keep scampering off like a hare. Crack the whip and give ’em the slip.

And Senka had to run a lot harder now than he had a week ago. First he dashed right along Podkolokolny Lane, then down Podkopai Lane, and then Tryokhsvyatskaya Street, along Khitrovka Lane, across the square, and turned back onto Podkolokolny again.

Senka galloped so fast it was a wonder the heels didn’t fly off his boots, but the Chinaman kept up, and the fat-faced blubber-bag even tried to reason as he ran: ‘Senka-kun, don’ run, you faw and hurt yourserf.’

He wasn’t even panting, but Senka was almost out of breath already.

It was a good thing Senka decided to turn on to Svininsky Lane, where the Kulakovka was – the biggest and rottenest dosshouse in Khitrovka. It was the Kulakovka’s cellars that saved Senka from the heathen Chinee. They were an even trickier maze than the Yerokha, no one knew every last inch of them. They’d dug so many tunnels and passages down there, the devil himself would never find you, and a Chinaman had no chance.

Senka didn’t go in very far – if you didn’t know the place, you could easily get lost in the dark. He just sat there and smoked a
papyrosa.
When he stuck his head out, the Chinee was squatting on his haunches beside the entry, squinting in the sunlight.

What could he do? He went back into the cellars and walked to and fro, to and fro again, smoked a bit more, spat at the wall (that was boring – you couldn’t see what you hit in the dark). Folks who lived in the Kulakovka flitted past like shadows. No one asked him why he was hanging about. They could see he was one of them, a Khitrovkan, and that was good enough for them.

He stuck his head out for another look, later, when the lantern by the entranceway was lit. The lousy Chinee was still sitting there, he hadn’t budged. The yellow race were a really stubborn lot!

This was starting to get Senka down. Was he going to hang about in the Kulakovka cellars for the rest of his life? He had cramps in his belly, and he had serious business to attend to – he had to warn that pen-pusher.

He went back down and started scouring the collidor (if you could call it a collidor – it was more like a cave really). The walls were slimy stone in some places, bare earth in others. There had to be another way out, right?

When the next Kulakovkan loomed out of the darkness, he grabbed him by the arm.

‘Is there another way out, mate?’

The man pulled his arm away and gave Senka a mouthful of abuse. At least he didn’t take a knife to him – you could expect that sort of thing in the Kulakovka.

Senka leaned back against the wall, and started wondering how he could get out of this miserable dive.

Suddenly this black, damp hole opened up right in front of where he was standing, and a shaggy head emerged and smacked Senka’s knee.

He yelled: ‘Lord, save me,’ and jumped out of the way.

But the head started barking: ‘What do you mean, by spreading yourself right across the burrow like that? Clumsy oafs all over the place, blocking the way!’

That was when Senka realised this was a ‘mole’ who had climbed out of his den. Underground, Khitrovka had this special class of ‘moles’, who stayed underground in the daytime, and came out only at night, if at all. People said they minded the secret hiding places for stolen goods, and the fences and dealers paid them a small share for food and drink, and they didn’t need proper clothes – what good were clothes underground?

‘Uncle Mole!’ Senka called, dashing after him. ‘You know all the ways in and out of this place. Take me out, only not through the door, some other way.’

‘You can’t get out any other way,’ said the mole, straightening up. ‘The only way out of the Kulakovka is on to Svininsky. If you hire me, I can take you to a different basement. The Buninka’s ten kopecks, the Rumyantsevka’s seven, the Yerokha’s fifteen . . .’

Senka was delighted. ‘The Yerokha’s the one I want! That’s even better than getting back outside!’

Siniukhin lived in the Yerokha.

Senka rummaged in his pockets – there was a fifteen-kopeck coin, his last one.

The mole took the money and stuck it in his cheek. He waved his hand:
follow me now.
Senka wasn’t worried he’d run off with the money and dump him in the dark. Everyone knew the moles were honest, or why would anyone ever trust them with their swag?

But he had to mind not to fall behind. It was all right for the mole, he was used to it, he could see everything in the dark, but for Senka it was hit or miss, feeling his way round the bends one step at a time.

At first they went straight and downhill a bit, or that was how it felt. Then his guide went down on all fours (Senka guessed only from the sound he made) and scrambled through a hole on the left. Senka followed him. They crawled along for maybe fifty feet, then the ceiling got higher. They left the passage and turned to the right. Then to the left again, and the stone floor changed to soft earth that was boggy in places and squelched under their feet. Then they turned left and left again into a place just like a cave, and he could feel a draught. From the cave they walked up some steps, not very far, but Senka still missed his footing and bruised his knee. At the top an iron door clanged open and behind it there was a collidor. After the passage they’d crawled though on all fours, it seemed quite light in here to Senka.

‘There, that’s the Yerokha,’ said the mole – the first time he’d spoken since they had set out. ‘From here you can get out either through the Tatar Inn or on to Podkolokolny. Where do you want to go?’

‘I want to go to the Old Rags Basement, Uncle, where the pen-pushers live,’ Senka said, and then, just to be safe, he added a lie: ‘I want a letter written to my father and mother.’

The underground man led him to the right, through a big stone cellar with high, round ceilings and fat-bellied brick columns, then along another collidor and through another big cellar till they came out in a collidor a bit wider than the others.

‘Ah-ha,’ said the mole as they turned a corner.

When Senka followed, the mole had disappeared, as if the ground had swallowed him up. There was grey light round the corner – the way out on to the street wasn’t far – but it wasn’t likely the mole had dashed out that way, he must have ducked into a burrow.

‘Are we here, then?’ Senka shouted, although there was no one there to hear.

The echo bounced off the ceiling and the walls: ‘eerthen-eerthen-eerthen’.

And the hollow answer seemed to come from under the earth: ‘Ah-ha’.

So this was it, the Old Rags Basement. Senka looked hard, and saw rough wooden doors along both walls. He knocked on one and shouted:

‘Where do the Siniukhins live round here?’

There was a pause, then a rattly voice asked: ‘What is it, want something written? I can do that. I write a better hand.’

‘No,’ said Senka. ‘The snake owes me half a rouble.’

A-a-ah,’ the voice drawled. ‘Go right. It’s the third door along.’

Senka stopped in front of the door and listened. What if the Prince was there already? Then he’d be in really hot water.

But no, it was quiet inside.

He knocked, gently at first, then with his fist.

Still no sound.

Maybe they’d gone out. But no – when he looked he could see light coming out from under the door, very faint.

He pushed the door, and it opened.

A rough table and on it a candle-end in a clay bowl, with splints of wood lying beside it. That was about all he could see at first.

‘Hello?’ Senka called, and took off his cap.

No one answered. But he had to keep the banter brief – he didn’t want the Prince to catch him here.

Senka lit one of the splinters and held it above his head. What was up with these Siniukhins, then? Why were they so quiet?

There was a woman lying on a bench by the wall, sleeping. And on the floor under the bench there was a kid – still a baby, only three, or maybe even two.

The woman was lying on her back, and she’d covered her eyes with something black. Uncle Zot’s wife used to put cotton wool soaked in sage tea on her eyes at night, so she wouldn’t get wrinkles. Women were fools, everyone knew that. They looked horrifying like that, as if they had holes in their faces, not eyes.

‘Hey, Auntie, get up! This is the no time for dozing,’ Senka said, approaching her. ‘Where’s the man of the house? I’ve got something to—’

He gagged. It wasn’t cotton wool on the woman’s eyes, it was mush. It had clotted in the hollows of her sockets and some had overflowed down her temple towards her ear. And it wasn’t black, no, it was red. And Mrs Siniukhin’s neck was all wet and shiny too.

Senka fluttered his peepers for a bit before he caught on: someone had slit the woman’s throat and gouged her eyes out – that was it.

He tried to scream, but all that came out was: ‘Hic!’

Then he squatted down on his haunches to take a look at the kid. He was dead too, and where his eyes should be there were two dark holes, only little ones – he wasn’t too big himself.

‘Hic,’ Senka went. ‘Hic, hic, hic.’

And he kept on hiccuping, he just couldn’t stop.

Senka backed away from that horrible bench, stumbled over something soft and almost fell.

When he held the light down, he saw a young lad, about twelve, lying there. He had no eyes either, they’d been gouged out too.