Katja from the Punk Band Read Free Page A

like shed skins and there are audio cassettes scattered across the floor. Several guitars sit propped up against a large, stained amp in one corner.
    She grabs one of the guitars, a battered black one with stickers scarring it like surgical wounds. The logos of other local bands and some from the mainland. The torn fragments of dead idols. The renowned and honourable mission statement of the Zapatistas — everything for everyone . . . and nothing for ourselves.
    She slips the guitar over her neck backward so it hangs at an angle down her spine, then tightens the strap to hold it more firmly to her body. She turns to decide what else she needs to take, just the important stuff, just whatever she can’t live without, when she hears the voice.
    “Katja.”
    The man is standing in the doorway to her room, wearing a jet black suit with a rounded collar like that of a priest, and has a thick gold earring in one ear. He carries a clipboard loaded with paper in one hand and a dictation machine in the other.
    The man is Anatoli Aleksakhina and he is her parole officer.
    “What the fuck are you doing here?” she asks him. She has the vial in her hand, not wanting to risk leaving it in the car with the junkie, and now regrets it. “How did you get in?”
    “You were meant to come to the station today to check in.”
    “I forgot,” she says. “I’ve been busy.”
    “Katja, you should know by now that isn’t acceptable.”
    “I know, I know, I’m sorry. I . . . there was a car accident and I . . .”
    “You’re going to need to come to the station with me.”
    Katja’s heart trip hammers. Her guitar is now strapped too tightly to her to allow her to swing it around like she often did at her gigs, to allow her to turn it into a weapon — again, as she often did at her gigs. Instead she considers the big heavy bass guitar that lies against the wall between herself and Aleksakhina.
    “I can’t,” she tells him. “I’m late for my shift at the diner. I was just stopping off for a change of clothes. I got soaked when I went to help at the car accident.”
    “The car accident,” Aleksakhina repeats. “And where was this?”
    “Across town,” she answers immediately.
    “Has it been reported? Because I could call now and . . .”
    “No. I mean . . . yes. I mean, I saw someone else calling. Someone else called. Anyway, there’s no working phones here. Not anymore. But someone’s called already. I think I heard sirens.”
    “You’re still going to need to come with me.”
    And Katja is moving, slightly, just slightly, toward the bass guitar. It feels like she’s been in the room for hours and hopes the junkie will still be waiting for her outside.
    “I can’t,” she insists. “My shift.”
    “You’re taking your guitar to the diner?”
    “I have a gig later. But I need to get to work.”
    “I’ll call your manager. Explain.”
    “I could come later, after I’m finished. I was going to do that anyway.”
    “And what time do you finish?”
    “A little after two am, usually.”
    “Well that’s no good, is it? The conditions of your parole were that you should check in with me once a week. The last time I spoke to you was last Thursday. If you call me after your shift then that will be eight days, not seven.”
    Katja’s jaw flexes. She clamps down on her anger. “Come on. Give me a break.”
    “I’ve already given you several breaks, Katja. That’s why you’re on parole and not on month two of an eight-month stretch.”
    “It’s two hours,” she says, moving closer again to the bass. “What the fuck difference does it make? Please, I’ve got to get to my shift. It’s rehabilitation, right?”
    Aleksakhina shakes his head. “Sorry, Katja. You’re going to have to come with me.”
    “No.”
    And her hand squeezes the vial reflexively.
    “What have you got there?” Aleksakhina asks.
    Katja snatches her hand behind her back then brings it out again slowly when she realizes it’s too late.