1st January 1980, Holding Centre 13, Saklatvalagrad

In her blind rage, Wynter looked around for a weapon. Anything would do. But the short man had been joined by the bouncer and they soon had her trussed up in chains. They marched her outside. A blue light flashed from the roof of their rust heap. Wynter recognised the van from the evening before, off white, rust showing up through the snow, bumper hanging off, the word ‘sluts’ still visible. They bundled her into the back, kicking and swearing. The door slammed and darkness folded over her. Wynter heard the engine groan into life. As the van hobbled away from the block, her rage was soon replaced by panic. The air inside was freezing. Not only that, she could hear water slopping about. Or maybe it was blood. Her heart pounded like it was about to burst through her grimy shirt. If they could kill the dog without a thought, they could just as easily kill her. Perhaps using the key wasn’t the smartest idea after all. If she had only left the key alone, the dog would probably still be alive. She’d had the dog for as long as her damaged memory would stretch. Wynter always thought he was a survivor. Twitchy but street savvy. Now Shorty had killed him and thought it funny. It was hard to believe anyone could be such a heartless bastard. He’d pay though, vowed Wynter. She’d make sure he fucking paid. He wondered what the people’s militia wanted from her anyway? They obviously thought she was someone else. What would they do to her once they find out she wasn’t who they thought she was? That she wasn’t this Jo.

Wynter sat on the wheel arch, bracing herself as the van nudged its way through the early traffic. She noticed there was a rusted hole in the side panel of the van which allowed in a small amount of light. Wynter pressed her eye against the hole and looked out. They were close to the barricades, the edge of Saklatvalagrad. The van stopped. Wynter guessed that money was silently changing hands. The skinner on guard duty would want to share the bounty without a doubt. Wynter could hear the old cars being eased apart, opening up a gap large enough for them to squeeze through.

They moved on, through the checkpoint and then deeper into the Soviet sector. Into the heart of Saklatvalagrad. Through the hole, she could see soldiers everywhere, sandbags on the intersections. People burning furniture to keep warm. Somewhere, not far away, Wynter could hear the scream of sirens. She felt sick. She vomited up some watery bile. Thoughts tumbled through her head in a confused blur until finally, she numbed out.

After several minutes the note of the engine changed as the van slowed to a stop. Wynter heard the two men step down. She wiped her face, her muscles tensing. She wanted only one thing. Revenge. For him, for the dog. But the fear had also returned. She could hear muffled voices, laughter. Footsteps thudded close by. Then the back door snapped open. Wynter blinked, expecting bright lights. She saw they were inside some sort of warehouse. There was a metal lopsided sign on the wall that said ‘Temporary Holding Centre’. The short man was busy closing the huge double doors, shutting out the daylight, his boots crunching on the rough ground. The bouncer had produced a shotgun he now held across his chest like some badass sheriff. Wynter eyes quickly adjusted to the dim lighting.

‘Come on, piss-for-brains,’ said the bouncer, yanking Wynter by the arm with his free hand and laughing as Wynter sprawled awkwardly onto the hard cement floor. The man’s boot swung back. As it connected with her body, Wynter experienced a strange flashback through the pain. An image of the attack in the underpass, two men kicking her. She’d had these flashbacks before. Only this time there was a third man standing further back, his head backlit by the neon light, a cruel smile on his face. In the flashback, Wynter could hear him speaking to the two lads. He had a foreign accent. Russian possibly. Which wasn’t surprising really. Big Ant once told him the Soviet sector was full of Russians. They had bigwig jobs.

‘Christ she stinks,’ Shorty said, kicking Wynter’s foot.

‘Better wash her down before he meets the old man.’

Shorty jerked his head, looking down at Wynter.

‘Strip off,’ he said.

‘Everything?’

‘Just fucking do it!’

Wynter knew it was pointless arguing. She took off her clothes leaving just her panties. She wasn’t going to take those off, not for anyone. Shorty piled them up, going through the pockets, sliding his hands into Wynter’s filthy socks, into the folds of her old jeans. Soon she was standing almost naked in the middle of the warehouse her arms clasped protectively across her chest. It was cold. She couldn’t stop shivering. Shorty then headed back into the depths of the building. The bouncer was still by the doors with the gun. When Shorty returned, Wynter saw he was carrying a red fire hose.

The short man opened up the nozzle and a blast of freezing water hit Wynter like a hammer blow. The force took her by surprise. It flung her backwards, off her legs. Shorty laughed. He was having fun. He shut down the hose as Wynter staggered to her feet. Then, just as she managed to stand, Shorty hit her again with the water cannon. Wynter braced herself against the strong flow as Shorty ran the hose up and down her body. There was a sick smile on his face as if he was being turned on by the sight of the water hitting her naked flesh, running down between her breasts. He opened up the nozzle fully. Once again, the force knocked Wynter off her feet. The water pushed her across the rough floor until she was up against the wall. She tried to protect her face. She could hardly breathe with the cold water pounding at her head, filling her mouth and nostrils.

‘Stop!’ she shouted.

But either Shorty had forgotten his hearing aid or he was having too much fun. As Wynter climbed to her feet, slipping on the wet surface, Shorty cut off the flow only to open up the nozzle again.

‘Dance bitch!’ he screamed.

Eventually, Wynter managed to grab the back of the wall and haul herself to her feet. Shorty switched off the water, threw the hose to the ground and walked back inside the warehouse, shaking his head as if he was trying to remember the last time he had such a good time.

Water trickled down Wynter’s body and pooled at her feet. She felt the anger returning, pushing back her fear making her forget the cold seeping into her bones and the cuts down her back. She wanted nothing more than the strength to fight back. She wanted to sprint over to the hose, snatch it up, twist the nozzle, watch the powerful jet of water streaming upwards and outwards, hold it down, just as Shorty reached the door, hit him straight between the legs, knocking him to the ground and then up against the wall, a look of surprise on his face like a boot print.

But the bouncer instinctively knew about her plan. He knew her little scheme, her raging thoughts. Already Wynter sensed he could read her like a book. She could tell from his eyes and the twin barrels of his shotgun, he was itching for Wynter to make a run for the hose. Or the door. He wasn’t too fussed which. Either one would do. There was a trace of a smile on his face. A knowing smirk. The bouncer could no doubt tell from Wynter’s bunched-up fists she was itching for a come-back. To even the score.

‘Be my guest, see how far you get.’

‘Fuck you!’ Wynter shouted at Shorty’s back.

It wasn’t exactly a jet of water, not even a fist. But Shorty got the message loud and clear. And it made him mad. Madder than a hissy snake. Wynter could see he had a short fuse. He froze on the spot then turned and walked quickly over to Wynter. He threw a blind punch towards Wynter’s face. Only Wynter was ready for him and her anger had given her the strength she needed. She caught the arm mid-flight and, using his momentum, throw the short man over her back, down onto the hard floor. Wynter could hear the air leave his body. Shorty looked up at her with startled eyes.

‘That’s from Pushkin, you fucking shit,’ Wynter whispered.

Wynter stood up quickly, still clutching the man’s arm. Shorty was speechless with rage, spitting at Wynter’s feet. Then Wynter felt the cold barrel of the shotgun touching the nape of her head.

‘Make one more move like that, sunshine’ whispered the bouncer, ‘and I’ll spray your brains across the warehouse.’

Shorty climbed to his feet and struck Wynter with the back of his hand. Wynter staggered backwards with the blow. Shorty then followed this with a left fist. Wynter partly dodged the blow but the man’s knuckles glanced across the bridge of her nose, hitting bone along the way, just beneath the eye. Blood gushed to the floor, staining the pools of water.

‘Enough!’ shouted the bouncer, prodding Wynter with the gun, ‘George will be here just now. Get her cleaned up. Finish this later.’

Shorty pushed his face right up close to Wynter, so close she could smell the booze on his breath. ‘You bitch!’ he whispered. ‘You will live to regret what you’ve just done, I can promise you that.’

The short man went back to a room deep inside the warehouse and came back clutching a small stool. He set it up next to Wynter who noticed he had a pair of scissors. Maybe he wanted to chop her head off, thought Wynter. Or something else.

‘Sit!’ he commanded like Wynter was some sort of dog. Wynter fought the urge to attack him once again, punch him to the ground. But this time the bouncer was watching her every move. So she sat on the stool, blood streaming from her nose, teeth chattering. She guessed she probably looked a sight.

Shorty then hacked off her hair, crudely removing great swathes of blonde with the scissors. A few minutes later, Wynter’s head was shorn.

‘You can clear that up and all,’ the short man said when he was done.

The bouncer threw her a stained pair of overalls.

‘Get dressed.’

As she dressed, the two men watched her sullenly. Then the short one placed her legs in shackles and they took her inside the vastness of the warehouse. Two things Wynter figured out quickly. Firstly they were tucked up deep inside Saklatvalagrad. Somewhere near the heart of the city. Amongst the elite party members and the bureaucrats. No doubt the warehouse was surrounded by enough trees to muffle any sounds of torture. Secondly, she guessed the people’s militia wanted her alive. At least for the time being. If they didn’t she suspected she would have been raped and then disposed of.

She followed them down a long corridor at the far end of the warehouse lit only by emergency lighting. They clanked through a double set of locked doors onto another corridor. Then a creaking metallic sound her his ears. Like something out of a cheap horror movie. It was coming from the room to her right. The door had two round windows. Wynter took a quick peek as she passed-by. It looked like some sort of gym only there was none of the usual equipment she’d seen in the gym near the soup kitchens: the static cycles, the striders, the rowing machines, the sweating bodies. Just a chain hanging from a joist. At the end of the chain, a naked man – clearly dead - dangled by his feet, his outstretched arms almost touching the floor as he swung back and forth.

‘That’s Mohammed,’ said the bouncer, ‘or was. He refused to talk to us. Now he’s talking to the floor.’

His message to Wynter was clear. Talk or end up dangling on the end of a chain. Like Mohammed.

A short while later they went through another set of doors leading to a large office. Here Wynter met an old man. The man was so old he looked like he’d just died and some joker had dressed him up for a laugh. Under Wynter’s feet soft red carpets, on the walls Soviet propaganda in ultra-high definition. Above their heads, banks of monitors with constantly changing views. The bouncer exchanged a few heated words with the old man. The warmed-up corpse seemed angry, called them stupid. Which was a fair description, thought Wynter. The old man’s name was George Martin. George Martin was obviously not a man to cross. He went on and on about evidence and what the fuck were they thinking about anyway and what had they got for brains. Eventually, the bouncer left with a scowl. Shorty was now riding shotgun. He stood by the door, looking important, watching Wynter with his black, beady eyes, trying to crawl his way back into the old man’s good books.

The magistrate examined Wynter, summing her up, getting the measure. He was breathing through a mask that had a tube connected to an oxygen cylinder by his side and one eye was missing from his head. He lowered the mask slowly and pointed a withered hand towards the chair.

‘Comrade,’ he wheezed, ‘welcome to Saklatvalagrad. This is Holding Centre 13 in case you’re wondering. Where we hold people. Usually against their will but needs must. You look like you’ve been through the washer. How was that for you? At least you didn’t have to pay for it and now you don’t smell like an anarchist’s arse.’

Wynter sat, said nothing, just listened to the slow ticking of a clock above her head. The sound was from another age. A better age perhaps. But the screens told a different story. On the table between them was a lamp. Its soft, yellow light fell across the old man’s face, smoothing out the lines that run like canyons down his sunken cheeks.

George took down some details, tapping away on an old Imperial typewriter that looked like it’d been hauled off the barricades. It didn’t take him long. All Wynter had was a name. And even that probably wasn’t hers.

‘The boys had a job finding you,’ said George, fumbling with the oxygen regulator, ‘despite all the cameras.’

He threw an arm toward the screens behind him.

‘Anyway you’re here now, Jo,’ he said.

‘My name is Wynter,’ she corrected, thinking the old man’s hearing was probably shot to pieces. ‘Where am I?’

‘I already told you. I don’t have enough breath to repeat myself. Believe it or not, Jo we’re here to make life easier for you. You don’t want to die young. You’ve hardly lived your life, lass. I tried to explain all this to your friend George Harrison but he was having none of it, refused to listen, refused to talk. Typical migrant. What’s to be done? They have no self-interest you see. Not part of their make-up.’

Wynter nodded and waited: had the sense her life was now in the old man’s hands.

‘Saw him, did you? We left him hanging about as a reminder. He made the wrong choice, see? Refused to tell us his political affiliations. Where he belongs in the great scheme of things. Classic mistake.’

The old man looked pleased. As if he’d just unearthed the secrets to eternal life. He watched Wynter for a long time, breathing steadily.

‘You know who I am? Or maybe you’re wondering why I’m still around. Why - I should have been melted down years ago, sprinkled over some wilting cabbages.’

Wynter said nothing.

‘They couldn’t do without me, you see? I know too many little secrets. On the screens most days. Was. George Martin, ex Major George Martin, KGB London branch although I was seconded to Moscow once. Comrade George they now call me in some quarters although I’m sure they have other names.’

He managed a dry laugh.

‘They saved us old codgers from the melt to give the police a leg over.’

George coughed, drank some water. Wynter could hear it glugging down the old man’s throat like a blocked drain. He turned back to face Wynter, his remaining eye now red.

‘I’m what they call ‘an out of hours’ magistrate. A Justice of the Peace elected by the local Zemstvos. Grand title, means nothing. Just means they can call me out at odd times. Mobile Justice, they call it. The police are tied up see, with the war mongers, the scum on the other side of the barricades, the skin boys thinking they can screw the dog that feds them.’

He grunted as he checked the oxygen flow.

‘Every day this insurrection gains strength. Or so your friends think. No doubt they thought erecting their shit in front of the fence was going to frighten us. Which was actually quite stupid. Maybe we’ll just have to starve them into submission. Like Volgograd all over again. Then they’d soon surrender when the bodies start piling up. They forget we have the river on our side. And our stalwart comrades who are sorting the men from the boys. The people’s militia. Most of the lads have balls for brains but they don’t scare easily, believe me.’

Wynter watched the old man. She guessed quickly that the discussion was about to turn nasty. George rubbed his hands together staring down at his fingers as if he had his next words written on them.

‘You must hate children. You must do, all that carnage.’

The old man waited for Wynter to speak.

‘Idea’s to save us all time. Cut the red tape, get down to basics. Best for you, best for us.’

He squinted at Wynter as if he couldn’t quite see her face through the gloom.

‘I have powers at my disposal, you see.’

‘Oh yeah?’ said Wynter so softly she could have been talking to herself, ‘now there’s a surprise.’

‘Certainly the power to inflict pain. A heinous crime was committed in Poorly Woods this side of the city lines. Makes it Soviet jurisdiction, you do realise that?’

Wynter nodded as if she cared. She knew nothing was going to bring the children or the conscript back no matter which side of the fence they died.

‘Tell me about young Petrov,’

‘Petrov?’ asked Wynter. She wondered for a moment if she wasn’t in some bad dream.

‘The conscript you killed along with Vinny’s children.’

‘What about Petrov?’

‘Fancied him, didn’t you? You wanted to be lovers. Only he spurned you, told you to scram. So you took your revenge.’

Wynter laughed bitterly. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Seriously.’

‘Sure you do. You strangled the children and let the soldier bled to death,’ said the old man. ‘Now General Stravinsky will be the one spitting blood. He’s the officer commanding 4th Brigade in case you’re wondering. Probably having a job holding back his men is my guess. I mean you really don’t want to mess around with Russian Generals. Hitler tried once and look where it got him. Yes? Clear so far?’

Wynter said nothing.

‘Anyway, the evidence against you is overwhelming. You kept the gory images pasted to your wall. A finger to boot. Were they souvenirs or what? Something to show your friends?’

‘No!’ Wynter shouted.

George looked puzzled for a moment as if Wynter’s denial had thrown him slightly.

‘Look,’ Wynter said, lowering her voice, ‘it wasn’t my flat.’

‘What do you think, comrade?’ the old man said suddenly. Wynter realised the old man was addressing a woman who stood half hidden in the shadows. The woman walked slowly across the room with a seductive sway of hips. She was good looking: black skirt, black hair, bright red lips, cold but attractive face. Their eyes meet quickly. Wynter wondered whether she was the old man’s personal nurse, or perhaps his undertaker.

‘A worthy suspect, I’d say,’ the woman said, lighting a cigarette she produced from a packet in her coat. ‘Everything points to her. Can’t be many women fitting her description.’

‘Possibly,’ replied the old magistrate. There was doubt in his voice. He turned to face Wynter once again. ‘This is Comrade Tanya Berezina, by the way, from the Investigator’s office.’

The woman’s eyes briefly studied Wynter then flicked back to the old man.

‘She certainly has blood on her hands,’ she said, puffing on her fag.

‘Don’t worry. The lads have given her a scrub-up.’

The Investigator scowled, flicking ash impatiently away from her.

‘How many people has she killed, that’s what I’d like to know. There’ll be others, mark my words. Buried somewhere, tucked away. She has the serial killer look about her. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth but that’s because her heart is made of ice.’

‘May I remind you, comrade, in accordance with Article 13 of the something, something of the Criminal Procedure Legislation of the U.S.S.R. something, something oh and the Union Republics, the presumption of innocence….’

‘The presumption? You think I don’t know. Or have you just been on a training course, showing off your knowledge?’

‘Can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Besides the presumption is older than mother Russia.’

‘You need to be careful, old man. They’ll rip your tongue out.’