Body of a Doe [short stories]

Kill the Sparrow

Ear-piercing screeches of metal-against-metal rang out from everywhere at once.

The noise circled and pounded against Filipp Essen's eardrums, reverberated and raked like sharp nails down Essen's skin. The fluorescent light overhead, pale and yellow at night, flickered to the closing clatter of an incoming train. Black shadows crept between the beams criss-crossing the ceiling, edging around his vision.

"мы сейчас прибываем на Ленинградский вокзал." A female voice pleasantly announced.

The train hammered into the station, its twin front lights shone bright through the dark tunnel. A gust of freezing wind swept across the vacant platform. The train hissed as it slowed down, giving a few stuttered jerks before stopping completely.

Essen stepped through the doors and grabbed a grab rail with a familiar fluidity. It was stifling inside, the heating system grumbled like an angry dog. His eyes swept across the red-cushion empty seats, pausing at the figure sitting very still in the corner on the other side.

глупый нищий, Essen thought, mouth curling with disdain.

"хорошего дня." The female voice announced again before the entrances snapped shut.

The train lurched, rolling forward slowly before picking up pace and rushed out of the station, disappearing into the tunnel ahead.

Essen considered pulling out his phone and checked his Facebook, but something irked Essen about the beggar's presence. Perhaps the fact that the beggar was never here before. His curl-up posture was too stiff, too careful, too unnatural for someone who was used to being invisible. Essen had taken this ride everyday for the past twenty years, the carriage was often empty. Essen's gloved fingers twitched in anticipation in his coat pockets. His stomach coiled, and he shifted on his feet.

The train swayed gently from side-to-side, the dim interior light barely illuminated both interiors of the train carriage.

Unconsciously, Essen smiled at his reflection at the glass window and pressed a hand inside his inner pocket vest and felt the yellow envelope. He thought of the files stored on his laptop.

It was dangerous work. But this was his contribution to the quiet revolution rippling across the country. History had taught the Russians people's will was volatile and unpredictable. Everybody knew Putin would be elected again this year, but Putin was an old man and the time was near. The system was cracking from within.

The train gave a shriek as it turned a corner, bright sparks spurted where the wheels met the rails. Essen's heartbeat was rabbiting in his throat. The tunnel seemed to stretch out forever. Every passing second made Essen's muscles taunted tighter. His suit suddenly constricted at the wrong spots, making it hard to move, to breath. The beggar had shifted only once, adjusting the ratty scarf around his neck and went right back to dozing off, his chest was moving up and down ever so slightly. Doubt crawled out a hole at the back of Essen's skull, writhing and squirming like larvae, but he quickly squashed it.

Perhaps he was too paranoid, but that very paranoia had helped him outlived Markov's previous assistant, and he intended to be that way.

His gloved fingers twitched in anticipation. His stomach coiled, and he shifted on his feet.

He hadn't run or fought since completing his military service which was nearly a decade ago, but he hoped his body hadn't forgotten how to form a fist without breaking his thumb or how to knock out the opponent with a solid right hook. There was a small collapsible hand knife in his jeans' backpocket—everybody in Russia carried one—and he mentally weighed the prices of the lawyers, the money to bribe the police and the end of his newborn bureaucrat career. The odds were in his favour, because nobody would care for a nameless dead scum despite what the law said. However, the question would be whether he had the guts to do it to protect Markov, and to live guilt-free afterward. Agnessa would never look at him the same way again, knowing his hands were tainted with blood just like the types of men she loathed, the types of men he was working for. She had stopped talking to him since the day he received this job. Before long, she chose to leave.

акт чистки такой же, как убийство, she had said before she disappeared from his life.

это хорошо окупается, и вот что важно, Essen had told her. Because it was true. At least, partially, amongst other reasons he insisted to stay.

Fifty thousands Ruple was a generous price to pay him to learn the intricate network of politics and business. Markov had a controversial reputation amongst Russian political climate, with his outspoken attitude and a more American vision for Russia. Essen had spoken with Markov's bodyguards a few times, and realized there had been some assissination attempts on him already earlier this month. Putin had desperately tried to pin Markov down, especially as the Election was looming close, before any idea could spread further.

Everybody knew Putin would be elected again this year, but history had taught them the people's will for freedom was volatile and unpredictable.

Essen was a coward, hated the current system but wasn't willing to risk his neck. Cleaning Markov's trail was no doubt dirty work—dangerous work—though in a way, this was his contribution to the quiet revolution rippling across the country, perhaps. Gathering documents and stats that exposed Markov's opponents, cache Markov's family's address, phone numbers and social accounts both in Russia and overseas, wiping out parts of Markov's history that may be used against him, destroying bank transfer receipts. And the thing was, he liked it. Actually, he enjoyed it very much, despite the risk he was gambling. In politics, getting in was easy but getting out would be impossible. He had been in too deep to be allowed to walk away.

Finally, the train emerged from the tunnel. The light streamed in from the windows, flooding the carriage. The beggar slouched in his seat, snoring, still as a rock.

"мы сейчас на Казанском вокзале." The announcer said.

Essen would need to get out on the next Station and catch another one instead.

The train jerked as it slowed down, giving a few stuttered jerks before stopping completely. Essen was positively buzzing, every nerve jumping. He could already imagine himself climbing up the stairs and striding out the underground subway station, opening the door into his home and starting up the fax machine.

He'd fax this to the NYT, and tomorrow night, the whole world would have known the real story behind Boris Nemtsov. The world would react to the information he had gathered. All the evidence that finally convicted Putin at the International Court.

He exited.

The doors closed behind him, and before long, the train was steamrolling onward again, southbound.

The beggar didn't follow him.

Kazansky railway station was also deserted, saved for Essen. A guard ambled by him, gave him a cursory nod.

Essen sat down on a bench, crossing his legs. The cold stabbed his lower calves, where his dress pants rode up and his socks didn't quite cover it. He exhaled and slumped a bit, his breath a plum white fog that drifted lazily upward before dissolving into the air.

He waited.