The Gardener from Ochakov (21 page)

Igor noticed Kolyan's mobile phone lying on the bedside cabinet. Fetching a chair from the entrance to the ward, Igor placed it next to his friend's bed and sat down. He reached out a hand, wanting to wake Kolyan up, to let him know he was there, but then he hesitated. Igor went out into the hospital corridor and looked around, hoping to see a doctor or a nurse, but there was no one about. He walked along the corridor, glancing through the open doors of the other wards. Some patients were reading books or newspapers; one young man with a bandage around his head was wearing earphones, his eyelids twitching in time with music only he could hear. Igor walked up and down the corridor several times, until he heard a mobile phone ringing in the ward next to Kolyan's. Curious, he looked in and saw a phone vibrating on a bedside cabinet next to a patient with both arms in plaster, a bandaged head and mottled bruising around his eyes. When the man in plaster saw Igor, he jerked his chin up and tried to speak. Understanding immediately, Igor walked over and picked up the phone.

‘Hello,' he breathed.

‘It's Varya. Is that . . . the doctor?'

‘No. I'm just visiting a friend in the next ward.'

‘Is Kostya there?' The woman's voice sounded scared.

Igor turned to the man in plaster.

‘Is your name Kostya?' he asked, reading the answer in the man's eyes.

‘Yes, he's here, but he can't talk right now.'

‘I know. Just tell him . . . tell him that Varya called. I'll come and see him this evening. Tell him that I love him!'

‘OK,' Igor promised and put the mobile phone back down.

‘Varya called,' he said to the owner of the phone. ‘She said she loves you, and that she's coming this evening.'

The man's face did not show any sign of joy. Nodding goodbye, Igor left the ward and noticed the sign on the outside of the door: Ward No. 5. That was strange – why wasn't Ward No. 5 followed by Ward No. 6? He checked the numbers of the wards on the opposite side of the corridor, but they were all double digits.

‘Are you looking for someone?' came a woman's voice from behind him. It sounded familiar.

He turned round. Finally, a nurse! She was young and cheerful-looking, with dark hair. She was like an idealised image of a nurse, but for the colour of her uniform, which had been washed so many times it had long since lost its snow-white purity.

‘Yes. My friend's here . . . in Ward Seven.'

‘Ah, the one they brought in last night?'

‘Yes. What happened?'

‘He's got a CHI, concussion, bruises and suspected broken ribs.'

‘A CHI?' Igor repeated in alarm.

‘A closed-head injury,' explained the nurse.

‘Is he going to be all right?'

‘Yes. He'll have to stay here for a couple of days, and then we'll send him home,' the nurse said gently. ‘Under supervision.'

‘Is he asleep at the moment?'

‘Why don't we go and see?' The nurse turned round and started walking towards Ward No. 7. Igor hurried after her.

Kolyan was lying with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling. He tried to smile when he saw the nurse and Igor, but instead his wounded lips grimaced in pain.

‘How are you?' asked Igor, leaning over him.

The look in Kolyan's eyes told him all he needed to know. Igor nodded and put the photo envelopes down on the floor.

‘I brought you the money I owe you, a hundred dollars . . . Shall I leave it with you?'

Kolyan shook his head. ‘No,' he murmured. His swollen, cut lips were making it difficult for him to talk.

Igor waited until the nurse had left the ward, then sat down on the chair next to the bed. ‘Who did this to you?' he asked urgently.

‘I didn't see,' whispered Kolyan. ‘They got me from behind.'

‘After you left my place? In the street?'

‘No, in Kiev, in the lobby of my apartment building.'

‘Did they take anything?'

Kolyan moved his head slightly from side to side. ‘Not even my phone.' He looked at the bedside cabinet.

‘They could tell it was a cheap one,' said Igor.

Kolyan tried to smile again, without any luck.

‘My jacket's in there,' he murmured. ‘Take it out.'

Igor opened the bedside cabinet and took out the black canvas jacket that Kolyan had been wearing the day before. It was covered with pockets and rivets. He unfolded it and looked at his friend.

‘There's some cash in the pocket,' whispered Kolyan.

Igor started uncertainly groping the front of the jacket.

‘No, not there,' his friend whispered urgently. ‘In the lining.'

Perplexed, Igor looked inside the jacket and found a secret pocket. He opened it and took out a thick bundle of hundred-dollar notes.

‘This?' he asked.

Kolyan gave a barely perceptible nod. ‘Take it. You can give it back later,' he said.

Igor put the money in his pocket, then folded the black jacket up again and put it back in the bedside cabinet.

Suddenly his ears were assaulted by the sound of Kolyan's mobile phone. In the hushed silence of the hospital, the cheerful ringtone sounded farcical. Igor picked up the phone.

‘You're still alive, then?' asked a slightly affected male voice, almost playfully.

‘Are you calling to speak to Kolyan?' asked Igor. ‘He can't talk right now. Can I take a message?'

‘Tell him I'll finish him off. He'll know who it is. Who are you?'

‘A friend,' said Igor, disconcerted.

‘Will you be coming to his funeral?'

‘What?' gasped Igor. He hung up immediately and put Kolyan's phone back on the bedside cabinet.

‘He said that he was going to “finish you off”,' said Igor, looking directly into Kolyan's eyes. ‘He said you'd know who it was.'

Kolyan was silent. He looked up at the ceiling, then closed his eyes.

‘Do you want me to leave?' asked Igor.

‘Stay for a while,' whispered Kolyan.

‘Who was it?'

‘One of three.'

‘Which three?' Igor didn't understand.

‘One of the three whose systems I hacked into,' answered Kolyan. ‘Probably that woman's husband.'

‘The one whose emails you copied?'

‘Yeah,' sighed Kolyan.

‘Did you sleep with her?' hissed Igor, bending down to his friend's ear.

Kolyan didn't answer.

‘I'm going,' Igor said firmly. ‘I don't like what you've been up to lately.'

‘Neither do I,' mumbled Kolyan. ‘Will you come tomorrow?'

‘Yes. Bye.'

Igor picked his envelopes up from the floor. He looked closely at his friend, waved goodbye then went out into the corridor. He bumped into the nurse again outside the next ward.

‘Are you leaving already?' she asked.

Igor nodded.

‘Can I ask you a question?' He went right up to her, as though there was a chance she might not hear him otherwise. ‘Why do you have Ward Five and Ward Seven, but no Ward Six?'

The nurse beamed at him.

‘You noticed!' she exclaimed, delighted. ‘Most people don't. If we did have a Ward Six, we'd be inundated with complaints. One of the doctors arranged it that way. You know how planes don't have a row thirteen, because no one would want to sit in it . . .'

‘Don't they?' Igor wasn't convinced.

‘Of course not,' the nurse assured him. ‘Well, Ward Six is the hospital equivalent.'

Still feeling confused, Igor walked down the concrete stairs to the ground floor and left the building. He looked back up at the window of the casualty department, then walked to the tram stop. He could hear rooks cawing loudly in the tall pine trees nearby. The smell of rotten leaves, stronger now, was a constant reminder of the proximity of the forest.

EVENINGS IN IRPEN
are darker than they are in Kiev. Igor noticed this every time night fell as he was on his way home, which seemed to happen often. He couldn't stop thinking about the sight of Kolyan's swollen lips. He could still hear the man's taunting tone as he promised to finish Kolyan off. Igor was scared for his friend.

The familiar windows of his home appeared ahead of him. Igor went inside and took off his shoes, then went into the kitchen. He poured a shot of brandy, took a sip and sat down at the little table, expecting the brandy to calm him down straight away. He glanced at the scales. The left-hand pan was empty – no tablets, no bills waiting to be paid. Igor got up and moved several weights from the right-hand pan to the left, trying to balance them, but he couldn't get it right. His glass soon ran low, but he still felt agitated. Never mind, good things come to those who wait, thought Igor, smiling as he filled his glass again. After his third glass of brandy Igor stopped fiddling with the scales. He started thinking instead about the strange conversation he'd had with the photographer. Yes, it would be good to earn a bit of money out of them, thought Igor. If only I knew how!

He spread the photographs out in front of him and started trying to put them into some kind of order. The ones that were easiest to arrange were those that Vanya had taken the day he'd photographed Igor in his police uniform at the market. There was a logical sequence to them, and in any case Igor could clearly remember being at the market that day – which stalls he'd stopped at, what he'd looked at. Three photographs that had been taken of him talking to Red Valya drew his attention like a magnet. They deserved to be framed and hung on a wall. She really is beautiful, thought Igor. So full of life. Those mischievous eyes, that smile that makes you want to kiss it, those dimples in her cheeks . . . They were more noticeable in the photographs than in real life. And what about the way she'd agreed so boldly to a date with an unknown police officer? She might be beautiful, but it was still foolish, all the more so because she was a married woman. Igor thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. No, it wasn't foolish, he decided. Things were just different back then, including police officers. And she was obviously bored with her husband.

He looked at her lips again, her smile. I can see her tomorrow if I want to, he thought. And give her the medicine . . . I can cure her! It doesn't matter whether I'm doing it for her, for myself or for her husband. Igor filled his glass again.

‘To me!' he whispered, because he had to drink to something.

He swallowed some brandy, and a self-congratulatory smile spread across his face. Igor felt happy. Furthermore, he was brimming with every good quality he could think of. He was almost as virtuous as Mother Teresa! And there was nothing to stop him performing another good deed. All he had to do was put on the old police uniform, and it would instantly stop being old.

‘Ma, have we got any burnt-out light bulbs?' he asked, glancing into the living room.

Elena Andreevna looked up from the television.

‘What do you need them for?'

‘I just do.'

‘They're in the shed, in the far right-hand corner.'

When Igor opened the shed door, the bright light inside almost blinded him. Stepan was sitting on a stool directly beneath the light bulb that hung from the ceiling, reading a book. Igor stared at him, puzzled.

‘Good evening,' said the gardener.

‘Good evening,' answered Igor. ‘Sorry, I won't be a minute . . .'

He went to the far right-hand corner of the shed and immediately saw a bag containing about a dozen burnt-out light bulbs. What's she keeping them for? he wondered, bending down. He chose two foreign bulbs with a matt finish, because their glass seemed a little thicker. Then he heard Stepan's voice behind him.

‘I was thinking about going to a cafe a bit later. Would you like to join me?'

‘What do you mean?' Igor didn't understand.

‘We could have supper together,' suggested Stepan.

‘No, I can't, I've got to be somewhere.'

‘That's a pity,' said Stepan. ‘Well, can you recommend a good cafe?'

‘All the good cafes are in Kiev. As for round here,' shrugged Igor, ‘I really don't know what they're like.'

‘Well, you should know! You live here, as do a thousand other decent people, all of whom are entitled to good cafes and restaurants.'

Igor stared at Stepan, trying to work out whether the gardener was reprimanding him or simply being naive. Meanwhile, Stepan was eyeing the two matt light bulbs in Igor's hands and wondering what his landlady's son was up to.

Back in his room, Igor got dressed in the old police uniform, fastening the belt and holster around his waist. He took the gun out of the wardrobe, where he'd hidden it from his mother's curiosity. After trying it out at the barbecue, he now knew that it was a useless fake. On the other hand, if Igor had given Kolyan the gun when he'd asked, it might have frightened off his attacker.

Igor turned the gun over in his hands, trying to decide whether or not to take it with him. He brought it to his nose and inhaled. Igor liked the smell of gun oil, and it was a good feeling holding this heavy toy, even if that's all it was. Eventually Igor slipped the gun into the holster and found a bag for the light bulbs. He put Valya's medication into the bag too, along with the pharmacist's handwritten instructions. Holding the carrier bag, he glanced into the living room to let his mother know that he was going out. His mother wasn't sitting in front of the television for once; she was at the ironing board, carefully ironing creases into a pair of trousers.

‘Ma! I've told you before! Nobody wears creases in their trousers these days!' exclaimed Igor.

‘They're Stepan's,' answered his mother. ‘He's going somewhere in his suit this evening. It must be some-thing important!'

‘Yeah, I bet it is.' Igor smiled. ‘I'm going out now, and I'll be back tomorrow or the day after. Don't worry about me.'