“What have you got that streak of piss on the beam for?”
“We had an injury yesterday.”
“Couldn’t you find someone a bit bigger? He’s all skin and bone, like a kid with rickets.”
“No worry, he’s strong enough.”
The guard didn’t like that.
“Are you fucking deaf, you little shit? What did I just say to you? Change him, now! I had quite enough yesterday with that four-eyed idiot and his broken foot! Maybe you want to carry the fucking girder yourself? No? Then do as you’re fucking told!”
So, I became a porter. The work wasn’t so bad. Pick up more and carry it faster, that’s all there is to it. And whatever you do, don’t drop or break anything, especially not a bottle of booze, or you’ll be right in the shit. They even give us a bonus – if the bounty you carry down in an hour piles up to the height of the senior guard’s hip, then they give you two tins of food – of their choosing. That’s for all of us, eight guys in total. It’s not a lot, but it’s better than nothing. The guys on the beam don’t even get that much.
And off we go. You run upstairs so that you can take more time coming down, and thus not drop anything. You don’t stop for breath – there’ a break once an hour. Up, down, and up again we run.
Running past one of the flats that’s being gutted, I glance inside and see on the wall a photo of a girl in a summer dress. The photo’s big, and taken by a professional photographer. The girl’s life-size, seems almost real. Jesus, was it all so long ago? I used to go out with beautiful girls like that, walk hand in hand. Ninelle… Suddenly, I can smell her perfume.
“Get on with it!”
Alright, alright, I’m running. Back upstairs again. I want a drink, but we’re forbidden from entering the apartments.
“Time out!”
The beam slams to the tarmac. One of the guards has taken the trouble to arrange water for us. Off to one side, a gutter is slurping down the contents of a tin of food. The treasure he found – a gold watch – is now decorating the wrist of the senior guard.
We had earned nothing so far. If the senior guard hadn’t given orders for us to be issued two packs of porridge oats, we’d have gone on grinding our teeth with hunger. Lucky us.
“Enough fun and games!”
Back to the staircase. The lifts in the houses don’t work. It seems like the power’s been turned off. There’s no light in the flats, either. Where necessary, the guards use torches to light the way.
“School’s out!”
Is that really it? It is. We’ve stripped the staircase bare. All the stuff we’ve stolen is too much to carry back in one go. After a quick examination, the senior guard orders a couple of men to keep watch while we carry the first load of loot back to the depot, unload it, and come back for the rest. Fortunately, we don’t have to take the beam back yet – the neighbouring staircase is our next target. The beam is left in one of the apartments, and the men who were carrying it requalify as porters.
We complete another raid. I’m dead on my feet, but instead of sending us straight back to the shed, they line the whole crew up in front of the gates. What have they got planned for us now? A few minutes pass before a procession comes out of the building. Accompanied by a bunch of henchman, a heavyset guy steps forward imposingly.
“That’s Makar,” whispers the man to my left.
“Who’s he?”
“He’s the boss round here – we all work for him.”
And just behind the boss is none other than Pavel himself. Who’d have thought?
“Good evening to you all,” says Makar, raising a hand.
The guards close to us make fierce faces, and we express our “pleasure” with one voice.
“If any of you remember, we promised you that freedom would be the reward for your hard work. Work for the common good! After all, there’s nothing shameful in making sure that property abandoned by careless owners goes to those who have a genuine need for it.”
We, of course, all thought the same, and a murmur of agreement ran through our ranks.
“And so,” said our leader with a dramatic pause, “today, one of our company who is no longer able to work will be allowed to go home. And he won’t be going empty-handed! He will be able to take with him any clothes he wishes, and as much food as he can carry.”
It was strange somehow to hear such genteel speech from the mouth of a gang boss.
On a sign from our leader, the doors to the nearest warehouse are thrown open. Inside, all sorts of clothing are piled up in neat heaps. And we’re not talking about women’s hats or swimwear. No, stored here is exactly what a normal guy would need is this type of situation – strong boots, hard-wearing trousers, and a whole lot of coats – wool, leather, and even military issue camouflage. There’s a separate pile of bags and backpacks, as well as a bunch of handcarts.
Encouraged by kind words from Makar’s henchmen, Pavel gingerly steps into the storeroom. He starts to dig around in the piles of clothing. Gradually growing bolder, he throws off his own clothes and pulls on a good leather jacket and a beautiful pair of boots. Idiot! Even I know that you need to take the tough ones, not the pretty ones that’ll be worn out in a couple of months. He changes his trousers for a newer pair. They allow him to take a trolley, and he disappears round the corner, which must be where they keep all the groceries. Ten minutes later, he reappears with his trolley loaded so high he can barely push it across the tarmac.
“See,” pronounces Makar with a regal wave, “work hard, and the same good fortune awaits you, too!”
The gates are opened with a scrape.
“Tic and Popeye, take the guy home! Make sure no one bothers him on the way!” says our leader. “We don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea about us.”
Pavel can’t believe his own ears. They’re setting him free with a trolley full of goodies! It’s one thing to convince other people of the truth of your words, and quite something else to suddenly be convinced yourself. Not every optimistic blabbermouth gets that lucky. He smiles a disbelieving smile, waves to us, and turns towards the gates. Just as his hand falls back to his side, I notice a funny badge with a little smiling bear on the right pocket of his coat. I recognize it because the girl who sat next to me in the office had one just like it. Some youth movement or other, I can’t quite remember.
They even gave us a meal, and not a bad one all things considered. To celebrate the great event, apparently. And then, all the celebrations finished. The moment we got back into the shed, somebody gave me a healthy crack on the back of the head. I came to somewhere away from the door. I could hear dripping… Was I next to the toilet?
“He’s awake,” somebody said.
I try to move with no success. Somebody’s sitting on my legs, and my arms are being held tight.
“Listen, smart-arse!” The foreman’s voice comes through the darkness. “Tomorrow, you’re going to tell them just how much you want to carry the beam. Understood?”
“But it’s not up to me! The senior guard decides everything.”
“Makes no difference. You still tell them you want to. Is that fucking clear?”
“Couldn’t be clearer.”
“Alright,” sniffs the foreman. “Rough him up a little, just to make sure he understands I’m not joking.
So they rough me up a little, and I can’t get to sleep for hours.
As we form up on parade next morning, I look at the faces near me in the line. Last night, one of them was sitting on my legs, and someone else was holding my arms. And a third must have been hitting me, two of them couldn’t have managed it alone. So, what now? You’d have thought in the circumstances we should be helping each other. Should be, but in practice this is how it works. If I understand correctly, it’s every man for himself. You die today, and I’ll live till tomorrow. That’s what convicts used to say, I believe. I read about it all somewhere. Seems reasonable to believe that the beam will fall again soon, and this time on my foot. I doubt very much that I’ll be as fortunate as that jammy git Pavel.
We head off down the road. I’ve no desire to look around. What’s there that I haven’t seen already? And what would be the point? Maybe that’s exactly the reason why I noticed that there was a bright stain on the road itself, or on the curb to be exact. My visual memory is pretty good, and it’s often helped me out at work – I notice all sorts of little details on the screen, and fast. I was always the first to spot even one or two figures’ difference in the length of a line of code. To be absolutely exact, the stain wasn’t even on the curb but on the top of the roadside drainage ditch. I slowed my pace and felt my mouth go dry.
The teddy bear! The same one that was on the jammy git’s coat! Next to rust-coloured stains in the sand. And I can swear those stains weren’t there yesterday. I was carrying a bagful of heavy junk at the time, so was looking mostly at my feet. Right in this spot, too, because I remember the way the ditch comes right up next to the tarmac.
So that was where Makar’s lackeys took him yesterday. What now, then? Should I tell the rest? And take away their last grain of hope? They’ll suffocate me in my sleep with a mattress for that! And as for the foreman, he may well know something, or at least have worked it out for himself. Then he’ll dob me in to the guards as a troublemaker. I won’t even make it back to the shed.
“I want to take the beam!”
“Shut up, you squirt,” says the senior guard, dismissing my offer calmly. “Grow some muscles first!”
