Katja from the Punk Band Read Free Page B

“Nothing,” she says weakly. Then, “Medicine. For my throat.”
    Aleksakhina doesn’t buy it. “What are you involved in now, Katja?” he asks, and his voice is like that of a father who has discovered his daughter’s dope stash.
    “I’m not involved in anything. I just want to get to my work.”
    “Not tonight. Tonight you’re coming with me.”
    Her face flexes involuntarily, an open display of distaste, and Aleksakhina reads it well because he takes another few steps and is now closer to the bass guitar than Katja. He extends his open hand to her.
    “I can’t,” she tells him.
    “Give it to me, Katja. We can discuss this back at the station.”
    “I can’t go to the station. Not tonight. I promise, I’ll be there first thing in the morning.”
    “You said a minute ago you’d come after your shift was done.” He is now holding a pair of handcuffs.
    “Fine, whatever.”
    “Give me the vial.”
    Her nostrils flare and she slowly, reluctantly, hands it to him. She tongues her lip ring nervously as he looks it over but either he doesn’t recognize the significance of the watermark on the glass or he doesn’t care because he just puts it in his pocket.
    “Come on,” he says, almost touching her arm. He pops one of the cuffs open. “With me.”
    Again Katja’s nostrils flare and again she finds herself considering the bass guitar but now he has the vial, so she can’t risk attacking him and breaking it. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
    “Okay,” she says finally and lets her head flop dramatically to her shoulders as her third liberty spike already has. “I’ll come. But are those things really necessary?”
    “With you? Yes,” he says as he snaps the cuffs on her.
    They go back out through the room’s main door, not the hatch Katja crawled through. If there is anyone else in the squat at the time, then they are certainly making themselves scarce. If they in any way helped Aleksakhina find her then they were certainly better off doing so. Cuffs or not, Katja is ready to do some damage.
    But the place is silent as she is led up the untrustworthy staircase toward the front door. The parole officer knows not to bother trying to open the door itself, instead pushes aside a flap of corrugated iron that conceals another opening. He gestures for Katja to go through first.
    And she thinks of the junkie as she bends down, having to angle herself to stop the butt of her guitar catching on the rim of the opening, using it as an excuse to go slowly. As she eases herself through, she notices Nikolai’s car still parked farther up the street, partially obscured by the dumpsters, and the engine is still running as she instructed.
    Aleksakhina is right behind her, pushing his way out into the rain.
    She could run, she thinks, sprint over to the junkie’s car and maybe throw herself in the back seat before Aleksakhina knows what is going on and then the two could be speeding off again. But to where? Aleksakhina has the vial, and there was no way she could grab it back from him while still cuffed — not without the risk of breaking it.
    So what?
    What now?
    Nikolai will get a clear view of them once they start toward street level but she can’t risk him doing anything that might mean the vial getting broken.
    “Come on.”
    And Aleksakhina has a hand on the small of her back, and they go down the steps to the pavement, slip between the dumpsters. Katja glances back at Nikolai and he is still sitting there behind the wheel. The engine is running. The lights are off. Aleksakhina’s car is on the other side of the road and he leads her toward it, opens the rear door and puts her inside. She has to lean forward slightly because of the guitar. As the man settles into the driver’s seat, Katja looks over her shoulder and Nikolai is still in the car.
    She doesn’t know if she wants him to come across or not. Perhaps it will be easier to come up with another plan, to dump the junkie while she can and get someone