Page 46 of The Half Life of Valery K

Shenkov poured them both a glass of vodka, and folded down beside him on the couch. He did it much more lightly than he would have if he’d been alone; the cushions barely moved.

Valery sank into the company. The treacle feeling lifted from his heart, and he felt his blood begin to slow down, the panic heat lessen. He hadn’t realised he was in such a state.

‘My family’s in town,’ Shenkov explained to the otherwise empty room. It was the same as Valery’s, but there was far more evidence of permanence; books on the shelves, photos of children, and a collection of framed maps from all over Asia. ‘I’m on call at night here, on weekdays. I go home on Saturday. My turn with the kids or Anna goes mad.’

Valery nodded once. The older he got, the more he noticed how new acquaintances took care to mention their families as a kind of warning; don’t expect too much from me, because on my list of people who I’d rescue from a burning building, you, newcomer, will only ever make it to about number seven and, let’s be honest, probably the increasingly radioactive dog would come first. Even in the camps, people did that.

There was a cheer from the television. One of the skaters had done an impossible-looking spin.

Valery winced. Usually he loved seeing someone skate, but just for now, he felt like he’d been rubbed all over with sandpaper and everything was painful. ‘I hate it when they do that. Fifty-fifty they break a leg.’ God, he sounded like a whiny little twit. ‘Sorry, it’s the radiation sickness,’ he said. ‘It causes depression, I’ll be unbearable for another few days.’

Shenkov smiled. ‘Surely the whole point of watching this is when they break a leg.’

‘You’re a horrible person,’ Valery said, aching with gratitude.

‘Next double loop, you drink if she lands and I drink if she falls.’

Valery tilted his glasses down to give Shenkov a librarian look. ‘Don’t imagine I don’t realise you’re trying to condition me into Pavlovian happiness for when she breaks her leg.’

‘I don’t imagine that at all,’ Shenkov said mildly.

They watched the rest of the skater’s routine.

‘Drink,’ Valery told him.

Shenkov drank and tapped him with the empty glass. ‘Don’t you feel smug now?’

‘Yes,’ he admitted.

Shenkov laughed. Perhaps he had been lonely too, before Valery arrived.

Valery watched him for a while, Pyotr’s name sitting on his tongue like a pebble. The more he saw of Shenkov, the more he was sure that Shenkov was good at acting the part of a frightening man, not a natural.

Shenkov lifted his head a little to ask why he was being so closely studied.

Valery nodded. When he spoke next, he did it softly, under the commentary from the television. If the bugs were old enough to scritch, they wouldn’t pick him up through the background noise. ‘I went to the village in the woods again today. They’re missing a child. Pyotr, he’s called. He’s only ten. He hasn’t … I don’t know, been arrested, poking around here?’

‘No,’ Shenkov said, just as softly.

For all ‘no’ wasn’t the best answer, Valery felt lighter for having asked. ‘They’re worried about him. So am I. If he stays out overnight in one of the most contaminated areas, he’ll be dead in three days. The woman who runs the village didn’t want to get the KGB involved, she’s worried you’ll find them and clear them out, and Dr Resovskaya is using the village for human data on radiation effects. I spoke to her earlier tonight. She says we’ll both be shot if you touch the place. But we can’t not look for him.’

Beside him, Shenkov was dialling the phone.

Christ, he’d been wrong; Shenkov was reporting him, here, right now. He was going to be dead in ten minutes for concealing the village and interfering with KGB orders, or worse, he was going back to the gulag, and instead of getting up and running, he was paralysed.

‘It’s Shenkov. Yes. We’re missing a child. Get the shift together and get them searching the forest. Take the halogens. A boy. Pyotr.’ Pause. ‘The hell does it matter whose child? Do as you’re told. Any adults, leave them alone, they’re allowed to be there now.’ He put the phone down, lightly; his temper had been pretended. Then he looked at Valery, his expression open and mild again. ‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ said Valery, stunned. It wouldn’t go through his head for a good few seconds. He wanted to laugh or weep or something, but nothing would come.

On the television, another skater fell. Shenkov poured himself another vodka, matter-of-fact.

No doubt because Valery had relaxed, tiredness steamrolled over him. He started to curl sideways against the arm of the couch, but then winced when he hit an angle his broken arm didn’t like. He straightened up again painfully. Shenkov had watched him do it. Without saying anything, he guided him to the left and shifted so that Valery could rest against his chest. His jumper was soft and laced with that lovely, unplaceable winter scent, so subtle it was only just there. Against the wool, breathing was easier. Shenkov stroked his back, as if he were something nice, like a tame fox. It felt safe.

15

Into the Lubyanka

Leningrad, 1946