The Bloody Meadow Read Free

to stop him taking Shishkin anywhere. He
looked at the elders for an answer, wondering what was going through their minds. They’d carved out a little bit of independence for themselves in this hovel of a hostel, it was true, but
even they must know that they’d have to give him up sooner or later.
    ‘I give you my word: if the fingerprints don’t match then he’ll be coming back. But this is murder, Comrades. He has to come with me.’
    The bearded man shook his head slowly. ‘I can’t believe Vanya would do something like this.’
    The bible reader with the hooked nose stepped forward. He spoke quietly, but it was clear he had some authority in the hostel and the bearded elder looked relieved by his interruption.
    ‘Vanya, tell us what you remember from last night, and where you were.’
    ‘I was here, all night.’
    ‘You weren’t, Vanya. You didn’t come home until after the third shift. Did you visit Tolya?’
    The youth’s face seemed to crumple in on itself.
    ‘Yes, I was there,’ the boy sobbed.
    ‘And you drank.’
    ‘I did, the Lord forgive me, I did. But I don’t remember what happened. I couldn’t have killed him, I couldn’t have.’
    Shishkin’s hands rubbed at his face, making it difficult to hear what he was saying, but Korolev had heard enough. He put his hand on Shishkin’s shoulder and spoke softly.
    ‘Stand up now, Shishkin. Walk with us to the car.’
    Shishkin did as he was told and Korolev, his hand moving to the man’s elbow, guided him. One or two of the workers looked as though they wanted to prevent them leaving but the bible reader
shook his head, and they backed away.
    Outside the cold was like a slap in the face and it seemed to unnerve Shishkin, who turned as if to make his way back in, but the bible reader took his other arm and walked with them. Men and
women spilt out of the hostel behind them and followed in silence, ignoring the drifting snowflakes. The only sounds were the wail of a far-off factory whistle and the crunch of feet as they made
their way towards the waiting car. Shishkin’s head was bowed and Korolev could feel the sobs that spasmed through him.
    ‘What will happen to me, holy father?’ he whispered to the bible reader, who looked at Korolev for his reaction. Korolev was careful to give none.
    ‘Put yourself into the hands of the Lord, Vanya. Pray to him and the Virgin and the saints. Pray for forgiveness and I will pray for you as well. We all will.’ His voice was very
quiet, and Korolev hoped the uniforms couldn’t hear.
    When they reached the car, the uniforms put Shishkin onto the back seat and sat on either side of him – the boy looked small between them. Korolev turned to the priest, maintaining a
neutral expression.
    ‘Thank you, Comrade. Your assistance was most useful. We’ll commend your actions to the director.’
    The bible reader took Korolev’s offered hand, perhaps wondering how Korolev could do that if he didn’t have his name. But Korolev didn’t want to know the priest’s name
– he just wanted to go home and put this day behind him.

Chapter Two
    MAYBE THE pot-holes the car had bounced over on the way had shaken the youngster’s brain awake, but by the time they brought Shishkin back to Petrovka Street, his memory
had returned to him. He’d cursed himself, sobbed, banged his head with his hands, and Korolev had taken the confession that tumbled out of the boy, stopping him every now and then to clarify
a point. It was a depressing tale and when it was finished the boy rubbed at his blood-crusted sleeves and asked himself the question Korolev wanted to put to him: ‘Why?’ And the answer
eluded them both. Yes, he’d wanted a job at the rubber factory, but not enough to kill his own brother. But he remembered killing him all right, and so Korolev wrote it all down and then
handed the confession to him to sign. And Shishkin signed it – tears blurring the ink. Korolev patted the youth’s shoulder and