Open Writing

Igor the Rat hunches his shoulders and hugs his thin body tightly in a futile attempt to keep out the frigid Moscow night. He has been waiting in Gorky Park for more than thirty minutes; so far, he has nothing to show for it.

The f... is going on, anyway? he thinks, shivering in the freezing air. At this time, and sometimes even during the day, this part of the city usually nets at least one score in half an hour, sometimes more. Tonight, however, he hasn’t seen so much as a single pedestrian or vehicle, not even a garbage truck. No militia cars either, although that isn’t too unusual. Those lazy cocksuckers would rather park somewhere and share a bottle than work.

Since the coming of peristroika, things had been getting progressively better for Igor and his kind, while getting worse for everyone else. The break-up of the old Soviet Union had resulted in many changes in the average Russian’s life, many of them beneficial to the Rat and others like him. In the old days, the streets had provided little; no one had much to begin with, and the militia were as thick on the ground as cockroaches. In those days, the bad old days of communist repression, a fellow had to really work for his living.

Then, after the downfall of Gorbachev, and the takeover by good old Boris the pisshead and his crew, things had rapidly improved. The glorious leaders had fallen all over themselves to deny they had ever been Communist, frantically emulating the ways of the West, and the President was off his face most of the time. The citizens walking the streets actually had something in their pockets worth stealing, and some were wearing good western gear. The militia couldn’t be everywhere; anyway, they were just as corrupt as any other official, more so when they hadn’t been paid for few months. A little grease went a long way then, and the gangs had run the city.

Now, things are different again. Yeltsen has finally stepped down - rather than take any responsibility for the way he f..... things up, he ends up getting a sweet deal for himself instead - and a new order has been established. The new guy is one of the old guard, ex-KGB, a real bastard. More militia, less freedom; not quite a return to the old ways, because the rest of the world wouldn’t take too kindly to that, and might withhold aid. No, on the surface, things are more or less the same as they have been for the past ten years or so, but underneath, everyone is hurting. Including the Rat and those like him.

Igor hugs himself tighter, and stamps his feet. F... your mother, it’s cold. Maybe I can find a mark with a decent coat, he thinks. Anything will be better than what I’ve got. He takes several deep breaths to clear the last residues of wooziness from his head. How long was I out of circulation, anyway? The last thing he remembers is scoring the Turkish smack from the Candyman and crawling into the flea-ridden hole in the wall he calls home. Good thing I stocked it with some food first. More than one has starved to death, totally out of it, not knowing a thing about it. Not a bad way to go, they say. But then, they also say that freezing to death is not a bad way out, either. Well, not for him, man. No way, Jose. When he goes, it’s going to be with all guns blazing, man. Like Bon Jovi says, down in a blaze of glory, all right, crash and burn. Like that song by his favourite American band, The Eagles, about his personal hero, James Dean. Too fast to live, too young to die. Yeah, man. Far out.

He rummages through the pockets of his thin leather jacket and brings out the watch that was the result of his last score. The mark had almost thrown it at him as he ran off. Must have been in a hurry to get somewhere, he sniggers; the Rat hadn’t even had to cut him, or even threaten him in any way. Pity, that. He likes it when they resist, likes making them bleed. Especially the women. Some of them freeze, like rabbits in a spotlight; once, one bitch even passed out right at his feet, and hadn’t even come to when he’d hiked up her skirt and had her over the back of a park bench.

The Rat smiles thinly at the memory, then turns his attention back to the deserted park, its trees hung with frost and the pond iced over. Where the f... was everyone, anyway? He moves out from behind the tree where he has concealed himself and walks over to one of the benches. For a few moments, he stands there, absently scratching an inflamed sore on the side of his pimply neck. The city, visible through the line of rimed trees only a hundred meters away, is unnaturally quiet, the glow of the lights a glistening halo above the topmost branches.

After emerging from his hole, the Rat had come straight to the park, not even pausing to visit any of his familiar haunts. He can’t remember if he saw anyone; still disoriented from the smack, he had, with the tunnel vision of the totally addicted, wanted only one thing: to score more. For that, he needed collateral, and the park is the best place he knows to get it. But not, it seems, tonight.
He stamps his feet, trying to ignore the faint pins and needles sensation that always heralds the onset of withdrawal. He knows that the more he moves around, the faster it will progress, the addicted blood rushing through his body as the effects of the narcotic begin to wear off.

But that can’t be helped; he needs a score, and fast, and it doesn’t look like he is going to get one here. Have to head uptown, try to find the Candyman. See what he can get for the watch. He looks towards the city, at the shimmering gleam above the trees. Funny, now that he thinks about it, he can’t hear any traffic noise, either. Should be something, even at this hour. He pulls out the watch again, and peers at its face; only eleven thirty.

The Rat stuffs the watch and his hands back in his pockets, hunches his thin shoulders against the cold, and walks out of the park and up the brightly-lit street. Fuck, he has to lay off the shit. How long has he been out? Three days? Six? F... knows.

His scrambled brain not noticing that he is swearing off something he is now hurrying to obtain, the Rat continues up the snow-covered avenue, seeing nothing, encountering nobody. An icy wind blows a newspaper past him, and he walks faster, the tingling in his blood becoming more urgent. First one I see, he thinks, gritting his teeth against the insistent, inexorable onset, close to real pain now, first f...... citizen I come across better have something worth taking, or I’ll split him like a f...... cod.

He walks on, oblivious to the eeriness of the deserted streets, his mind on only one thing; find the Candyman, make the score, stop the pain. For distraction, he begins looking in the illuminated shop windows as he passes, and his attention is momentarily captured by the display of an appliance store, its window full of Russian television sets. They are all turned on, but show only the test pattern, normal for this time of night. Then, as the Rat draws level, they all suddenly come to life, the bland, pleasant features of the newsreader filling the screens. Despite his need, the Rat is strangely drawn to the window as the anchorman picks up some papers and, in the official tone of the state broadcasters, begins to read.

“Good evening. This pre-recorded bulletin will be repeated continuously until zero-hour.”

Standing on the freezing pavement outside the glass, the Rat scratches his neck. Zero hour? he thinks. F...’s he on about? The talking head on the screens continues.

“Negotiations between our government and that of our enemy have broken down, and the situation has rapidly worsened. At twelve noon today, the 16th of December, the government received this communication.” Here, the newsreader pauses to pick up another sheet of paper, and the Rat watches, mesmerized despite his increasing agitation. The face on the bank of sets reads from the paper in his hand.

“‘Having failed to heed our warnings regarding the current situation, you are hereby advised that hostilities between the Russian State and the Free Republic of the Ukraine will commence at midnight on the twenty-fourth of December.’”

The voice drones on, saying something about evacuation procedures, but the Rat isn’t listening. Hostilities? he thinks. What, like f...... war? Like most of the city’s criminal element, he pays little attention to the state of the nation or its politics, except where they affect his ability to make a living. He vaguely remembers something about a dispute over missile bases, something about who owned what, or some such bullshit. He hadn’t been interested at the time.

Well, he sure as f... is interested now. He breaks into a shambling, stumbling run, away from the window where the newsreader is still talking. Got to find the Candyman, make a score, then get the f... out of Dodge. Good thing I heard it when I did, he thinks, as he lurches on up the street. At least I’ve got eight days before the shit hits the fan. If today is the 16th, then he has only been out of circulation for about three days, because he definitely remembers the 13th. That had been pension day, when the city’s less fortunate inhabitants such as himself had received their government handout. It had also been the day he had scored the smack. And the watch. He smiles grimly to himself. That’ll have to do as a stake for a while; there’ll be no dole this month, that’s for sure.

He continues on his shuffling flight up the snow-shrouded street, past the freezing Moscow River and into Red Square. Suddenly, all the lights go out, and the vast open space and its surrounding buildings are plunged into darkness. A second later, the silence is broken by a resounding bong from the huge clock that stands at one side of the square.

He turns and stares at its outline, sees the domed minarets of the Kremlin behind it, and pulls out the watch. Its face is luminous and, as he looks at it, the blood that is now coursing through his veins like razors suddenly runs cold.

It still shows the time to be eleven thirty.

As the truth sinks in, he realizes he will never again need another score. He understands now the truth about the television broadcast, that it has been running for eight days, and now he knows what day it is. He looks up at the massive clock as the last chime dies away, and he has time to see its face before the flash from the first bomb burns his corneas away.

Merry Christmas.
Goddam cheap watches.
Probably f...... Ukrainian.
Trust those bastards to be right on time.

***