I grab the bottle and slam the door. The lift sings its little song, and I’m back on the ground floor. I run towards the steps. Shit, my laces! I almost went arse over tip. I crouch down…
Bang! Bang!
“Aaaaa!” A wild shriek sweeps in from the yard. It bounces off the glass and echoes deep in the entryway.
“Shut him up!”
Two more shots cracked dryly.
“Now they’re done twitching.”
“Check their documents. Bags, coats. Go through everything.”
I press myself into a niche in the foyer. There were supposed to be flowers here, but no one ever got the money together.
“That’s Galperin. His photo’s right here on his license.”
“Who’s the other one?”
“He’s got nothing with him.”
“Then get up those fucking stairs! Karasev should live here, too, and he’s on the list. Third floor, Flat 15. No hanging around.”
I hear steps and try to make my spine grow into the concrete. True, there’s no light in the entryway, thanks to the unknown light bulb thief. But they might have a torch with them…
“Boss, there’s a pass card here. It’s Karasev.”
“So that’s who he was hurrying to see. I guess he made it that far. Makes no difference, we still have to search the flat. Who knows what he’s got up there?”
Again I heard boots on tarmac. Now they’ll come through the door and shine their torches around. But then, why would they? What do they need light for in here? It’s not that dark outside yet, they may not have torches, and the lift door is always lit up with LEDs. You can’t miss it. And that’s exactly what happened. A couple of the bad guys made straight for the lift without hesitating, and only at the last minute did one of them shine a light on the call button for some reason. The lift played its little tune, and the cabin rose to my floor.
So far, so good. Now they go up there, break into my flat somehow, take a look around, and then what?
I don’t know exactly what they’re looking for, but it’s going to take them all of five minutes to turn everything in there upside down. I don’t have that much furniture in the flat – it’s all modern minimalism. And then… Then they come back down. Makes no difference how they come, on foot down the staircase or back in the lift. Either way, they’ll see me. My niche is easily visible from the bottom of the staircase and from the lift door. And now I know they have a torch.
So, I’ve got five minutes left, have I? Well, maybe six or seven. They’ll bury me here. Should I run outside? Yeah, right. How many of them are there out by the car? Perhaps they’re all deaf and blind? No, it’s really not funny.
I don’t know quite what got into me, but instead of looking for a safer hiding place, I took off running up the staircase. The stairwells in our house are all modern and minimalist, too, with no recesses or twists. Wherever you go, you can see everything. And there’s no need for a torch, the lights are still on. I did at least have the brains to keep quiet, even taking off my shoes and climbing the stairs in my socks. First floor, second floor. Above me there was a crash and a screeching sound. My poor door!
“You are illegally entering private property. I will now call the police.”
My alarm system! I installed it myself. Fat lot of good it’s going to do me now. The police won’t even come out for murder.
“Stupid bitch!” swore somebody upstairs. “I almost started firing. Take that!”
There was a smash and the voice of the alarm fell silent.
“That’s more like it!”
Having reached my floor, I take a careful peek round the corner. My door is wide open and the hallway light is on, though I remember turning it off. There’s nobody in the doorway, but voices can be heard from inside the flat.
Let’s go!
Pressing my shoes to my chest and trying to make as little noise as possible, I cross the passage and turn on to the flight of stairs going up. And that’s where I lose my nerve. I flop on the floor right where I am. I just can’t go any further up. It was all I could do to get to the landing.
The voices sounded louder. It seemed clear the bad guys had found nothing and were now leaving.
“Rig up something there just in case.” It’s the same guy who was scared by the alarm system.
“What the fuck for? The owner’s lying downstairs!”
“You never know… One of his friends might drop by.”
“Ha! Like they’ll live that long. And what if his neighbour pokes his nose in?”
“What do you care about his neighbour?”
“Yeah, fair enough,” agrees the second bad guy.
There’s some scratching and scraping. While he’s waiting, the first guy has a smoke, judging by the smell rising up the stairwell.
“There we go. Just like they taught us. They’ll never put those bones back together.”
“With any luck the smartarses who hired us won’t give a fuck about the details.”
The song of the lift doors opening rings out, and I’m left all alone.
What would the hero of an action film do now if they were in my place? They’d run down, find the tripwire, disarm it, and throw the grenade after the bad guys. As far as I know, they use grenades to make that sort of trap. Which means you could throw it just as the bad guys were coming out of the front door. No doubt that’s what an action hero would do, but I’m not in a film and I don’t know how to disarm a tripwire. During my year of military service, I only fired an assault rifle twice, and I’ve never even seen a grenade except in the movies.
So, I stay sitting there on the staircase. I heard doors slamming in the yard, and the roar of the motor pulling off. Then something flickered across the window. I didn’t need to look outside to know what that was. Galperin’s Mazda was burning. Along with the smoke, my last chance of escaping this nightmare drifted away.
I don’t remember how long I sat on the staircase. Nobody came in or out of any of the flats, and the house was completely silent, as if all the residents had given up the ghost. More likely, they’d all fled the city. It was only thirst that brought me to my senses. I desperately wanted something to drink, but I had nothing with me. I stand up. My bones crack and my muscles ache. How long have I been sitting here?
The Mazda had stopped burning and was now just smoking. The stinking fumes poured out of the windows and spread through the yard. I couldn’t see my mates’ bodies, so I assumed they were inside the burnt out car. Where to now? My empty water bottle was hanging on my belt, and my knife was in my pocket. That was all I had. No food or water, nothing.
I turn the corner and set off towards the same ransacked shop. There was mineral water there, and at least that’s something.
Strangely, I didn’t see a single passing car or person on the way. It was as if the whole city had died. At the end of my street as I turn towards the store, I see a fresh scratch with traces of paint on the side of a building. Clearly somebody had a close shave. And there’s the car. Turns out they didn’t get far anyway. The windows are smashed and the doors riddled with bullet holes. No luck for the driver. And then comes the smell… the smell of blood. Splashes of red cover part of the windscreen and spray across the passenger-side window. Summoning my willpower, I walk around the car and look warily inside. No luck for the driver – his last drive didn’t get him far. A giant of a man lies slumped across the wheel, his head sticking into the instrument panel. That’s one big guy. How did he ever fit behind the wheel? It’s clear why they shot him straight away. If someone that size had time to get out, there’d be no stopping him. His pockets are turned inside out and the glove compartment’s open. On the back seat, some eviscerated bags are scattered about in a spill of clothes, spanners, and screwdrivers. Looks like the guy was in a hurry. Looks like he didn’t get too far. The boot’s open, too, but there’s nothing in it apart from the spare wheel.