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.