Field of Mars by Stephen Miller Page B

that’s what I mean.’
    â€˜They’re all patriots, just ask them.’
    â€˜Oh, I know . . . patriots are the worst, it’s so cheap. The patriots and the fucking Church. You poke around the Narva district for awhile. Are there any blessings, any blessings at all?’ He trailed off for a moment. ‘That’s what’s killing Lena. It’s all this shit around us, the impossibility of ever, of ever . . . getting out, or growing, or anything.’ They had no children, Ryzhkov remembered. No, that was wrong. They had had one child. Died from typhoid fever before Ryzhkov had met him. ‘And when they do finally look up, when they see how these fools, fucking Blue Shirt, and the fucking Tsarina who will give him any damn thing if he just lets her suck his cock—’
    â€˜Hey, hey . . .’ Ryzhkov said gently to quieten him down. They had their own room, but the walls were thin.
    â€˜. . . And then there’s your day of reckoning, right there, your Armageddon, and your fucking Sodom and Gomorrah turning into salt. You free all the damn serfs and they don’t know any better. They pile into the city, heading for the bright lights, work themselves to death in some factory and they think that’s heaven on earth. They just want money like anyone else. And when they wake up, you know who they’ll blame? Who they’ll be stoning to death in the damn square, when the whole pile of shit goes down the shitter? It won’t be the damn Tsar, he’ll be on his yacht, safe and sound, heading for some spa—’
    â€˜Hey, Kostya—’
    â€˜No, brother, it’ll be us that’ll be dragged through the streets. Us , that’s who.’
    Ryzhkov reached out and poured out the last inch of vodka on to the floor.
    â€˜You think I’m drunk,’ Hokhodiev said, an expression somewhere between a smile and a grimace.
    â€˜Well . . . maybe just a little—’ The bottle suddenly slipped from his fingers and he reflexively swiped at it and, only by chance, managed to knock it up on to the bench where it spun around harmlessly. Dudenko woke up with a jerk and looked around with a horrified expression. They both found the spasm funny, laughed and leaned back against the wall.
    â€˜You two are drunk,’ Dudenko said dully.
    â€˜I am drunk,’ Hokhodiev said quietly. ‘But that doesn’t mean I don’t know whereof I speak, eh? Remember the words of your friend, the prophet.’
    â€˜All right, I will.’
    â€˜They’re coming to get . . . us . . .’
    â€˜If we don’t get them first,’ he said.
    â€˜Yes. That’s right. So, yes, brother. Them first. I will help you,’ Kostya said and put a hand on his shoulder. The weight of his arm felt like a log. ‘I’ll help you right now. And you will too, won’t you Dima?’
    Dudenko looked up from the floor and blinked his eyes. Without his glasses he was blind. ‘What?’ he asked, not having been listening. ‘What? Whatever it is, yes,’ he said. And then he laughed.
    Exhausted, drained, and dizzy from the heat of the baths, they dressed, paid their bill, and climbed out into the yellow dawn. Stood like dimwitted beasts on the embankment, blinking and looking around for a cab. ‘I think it’s time to go home,’ Hokhodiev said.
    â€˜Yes . . .’ Ryzhkov muttered, suddenly bone-tired, staggering out on to the cobbles in the direction of the Obvodni.
    â€˜Goodnight,’ he said to his friends, to the shining waters in the canal, to the impassive façades with their metalled roofs. Goodnight to the gleaming spire of the Admiralty, goodnight to the morning sun.
    Only a few groggy hours later, supposedly the start of a new week, Izachik slipped another thin envelope across his desk. ‘Here are more of the papers you requested, sir . . .’
    Inside Ryzhkov found a one-page carbon-copied list of the