An Autumn Hunting

Chapter 23

I showered, changed into the army fatigues laid out for me, and lay down in the narrow bed to rest my eyes for a few moments. Resting them took rather longer, because my watch said I’d slept for five hours. I sat up, uncertain for a few seconds as to where I was. Then it came back to me: in the lion’s den.

I didn’t have an escape route; all I could do was wait and react to whatever happened. I wondered about food, decided hunger was preferable to nausea. And while I was putting on my shoes, the screaming started.

If you’ve ever heard an animal caught in a trap, that shriek of pain and fear, you’ll know how primal and terrifying it sounds. What made it worse was I could hear human sobs, a man’s voice begging to die.

I took the stairs two at a time, not because I wanted to join in, but because I wondered if it would be me doing the screaming next time.

I traced the noise to the kitchen, pushed open the door, entered into hell. Zakir knelt by the stove, pinned down by two bodyguards. Aliyev, wearing an oven glove on one hand, was heating a metal spoon in the flame from one of the front gas burners.

He turned and stared at me, gave a welcoming smile.

‘Did we wake you, Inspector? You’re just in time to help me prise the truth out of our friend.’

I looked down at Zakir, his face swollen, bloodied, burnt almost beyond recognition. My stomach lurched as I stared into the empty socket of his left eye, realised the piece of flesh stuck to the spoon in Aliyev’s hand had once been how Zakir saw the world.

‘Don’t worry, Inspector,’ Aliyev said, as if reading my thoughts. ‘He still has the other eye. For the moment. And he’s never been one for watching television anyway.’

I felt the vomit spill out of my throat, burning and unstoppable. I stumbled over to the sink, emptied my stomach, long, shaking, shuddering heaves that left me weak and disoriented.

‘I’m surprised, Inspector,’ Aliyev continued. ‘Surely Sverdlovsky basement hardened you to minor upsets such as this? I thought you might like to join in; after all, you could have died in the safe house along with my other men. Revenge doesn’t always have to be served cold.’

Aliyev held up the spoon to the light, brought it closer to his face, as if to check the heat of the red-hot metal. With a casual, almost careless flick of his wrist, he lightly brushed the spoon across Zakir’s cheek. The howl that followed was empty of any hope, simply begging for a swift end. Zakir’s cheek blossomed with the red of a burn.

‘For fuck’s sake, Aliyev,’ I said.

‘I want to find out how this piece of shit got out alive. It also sets a good example to the others, reminds them how I reward disloyalty.’

Aliyev stared at me, then dipped the spoon back into the flame.

‘You’re in vorovskoi mir now, the thieves’ world. And I’m vor v zakone, the boss. Which means it’s my duty to uphold our rules, just as you upheld those of the world you once belonged in.’

Aliyev brought the spoon close to his mouth, spat. Saliva hissed and bubbled on the metal the way flesh sticks and burns.

‘But you don’t belong there any more, not after shooting your boss,’ he said. ‘You’re in my world now.’

I kept my face impassive. Nothing could help Zakir now.

Aliyev waved away the men holding Zakir, who fell to the floor, barely conscious as I watched a puddle of blood spread beneath his head.

‘Our friend tells me he simply pretended to be dead, lay among the bodies of his comrades, waited until the attackers had gone. Then he made his way to the road, caught a ride, turned up here just before you and I arrived.’

Aliyev gave the semi-conscious bundle at his feet a nudge with his toe before tossing the spoon into the half-full sink. A hint of steam rose from the water then the spoon was just a kitchen utensil once more. That’s the frightening thing about torture; how quickly it reverts to normality. Not just for the instruments, but for the torturers as well.

‘For all we know, this house might be surrounded by men Zakir led here. And there’s no tunnel for us to scramble through. So if we’re going to end up fighting, I need to know whose side you’re on, Inspector.’

Aliyev reached over to the next counter, picked up the Makarov lying there, handed it to me.

‘For a start, finish off this piece of rubbish,’ he said, pointing down at Zakir.