Doctor Gavrilov (30 page)

Dmitry stared at the diagram without seeing it. He said, trying to put some enthusiasm into his voice, ‘I think… well, it might work. Very good. All right, we'll try it tomorrow.'

‘Are you all right? You're looking a little pale.'

‘I know. I'm getting a migraine.' Why didn't the idiot go? He could see he wasn't wanted. Suzarbayev hovered in the room. He asked, ‘Do you mind if I have a drink?'

‘A drink? Why not, of course, a drink.' Dmitry opened the cupboard again and took out the vodka bottle. It was nearly full. He said, handing it over, ‘Go on, take the whole bottle… I won't be needing it.'

Why had he said that? He realised at once that it was a mistake. Suzarbayev was looking at him most oddly; yes, definitely, oddly. He said, hastily, trying to take hold of himself, ‘I'm drinking too much. I've decided to stop… go on, take it away.'

Suzarbayev held the bottle awkwardly, then put it down on the table. He still hovered, as if he was aware that something was badly wrong but didn't know what it was or what he could do about it. Then he said, reluctantly, ‘I'll go then.' As he turned, Suzarbayev saw the knife lying on the table. His hand went out to rest on it. He asked, ‘Do you mind if I borrow this?'

Dmitry could stand it no longer. He said, ‘Yes, anything, please take it, but please go… I am not feeling well.' Suzarbayev picked up the knife and put it in his pocket, said goodnight, and closed the door.

Dmitry sat down on the bed. His whole body shook; he was almost delirious with a mixture of relief and dismay. He started to laugh. So Suzarbayev had taken away the only instrument he had to kill himself. He was undone; all his effort had been for nothing. Some other, more painful kind of sacrifice was to be demanded of him. In the morning he would have to explain the problem of the burned notes and deleted files.

Then a horrible thought came into his mind. He wondered, with a sudden start, if Suzarbayev had realised what he was thinking; was that why he had hovered in the room, had taken the knife? No, it wasn't plausible; no-one but a madman would imagine such a thing. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. So, he wouldn't do it after all. He had been a fool to think that he could have done it in any case. When it came to it he lacked the will.

He thought of the letter to Katie. Even now he could probably stop it. He could ring the hotel. Or he could ring Katie and tell her to tear it up without reading it. No, he couldn't do that; the phone would be tapped, and they would wonder what was in the letter, and that would endanger Katie. No, the letter was a problem. Anyway, he had written it; he had meant what he said. He broke out in a fresh wave of sweat; again he heard a whispered sound in his ears.

He looked around the room. He looked at the tumbler; it was made of that unbreakable glass which breaks into small fragments. Then his eyes fell on the vodka bottle, which Suzarbayev had inexplicably left behind. He poured a last glass and knocked back half of it; then he took the bottle into the bathroom, emptied what remained in it down the toilet, and, holding the bottle by the neck, smashed it against the tiled floor. Shards of glass flew everywhere. He looked down at the jagged, savage edge, and for a moment felt sick. He went back to the basin, ran his finger over his wrist, wondering how tough the skin was, how much pressure he would have to exert, where the arteries might lie. He felt the water; it was too cool; he ran some more hot into it.

He turned his left hand over and looked at the blue veins under the skin. He rested the sharpest section of the glass against them; then suddenly he turned away. It was as if another voice in his head said ‘No;' a female voice, a voice like Katie's. He walked back into the bedroom and sat on the bed. He couldn't do it; he was a coward; it wasn't even so much that he was afraid to die as that he couldn't inflict pain on himself. Then he thought, the letter. I have to do it because of the letter, Katie will get it anyway, she will think I'm dead, so I must be. I have decided; this is the best thing. Come on, get on with it. The longer you prolong it the worse it will be.

He drank a final gulp of vodka, went back into the bathroom and stared at his face in the mirror. He caught a shadow in the darkness behind him, a shape reflected in the glass. A feeling of horror came over him. He thought he saw, in the distance, the outline of a figure. It came closer, and he saw it was Rozanov. What was he doing here? How was it possible? He knew he ought to turn his head and look, but he was frozen with fear. He felt a terrible, overwhelming sense of evil. It was insufferable. Whatever happened, he must not let Rozanov reach him. He must do it, now. He took up the broken bottle again, poised it above his wrist, took a deep breath and with a savage movement slashed downwards and across with it.

T
here was instant, acute pain. This startled him; somehow he had not expected that it would be so bad. He cried out, watching the blood spurt out rapidly and turning the water instantly a bright red. He transferred the broken bottle with difficulty to his injured hand and forced himself to make another deep cut. That wrist, too, was bleeding, less profusely than the other; the glass fell from his hand and he leaned forward over the basin.

He looked up at the reflection of his face in the mirror; he thought, how strange, I can watch myself die. Seconds passed in which nothing seemed to happen; he remembered with horror how as a child he had imagined the long fall from the top of a high building. He felt sick; he thought, oh, this is horrible, how can I have done this, if only it could be finished already. He felt dizzy; water was slopping over the edge of the basin; there was a gory mess on the floor. He could feel that he was about to faint; he let himself fall back on to the floor and sat there, his eyes shut, his head falling forward, moaning softly, feeling the blood running out of his arms like water.

He heard the door open. He heard voices, raised, agitated, arguing in Arabic. He rolled over on to his side away from them, but he could feel them pulling at him. One of them was angry, shouting, slapping his face. Two men pulled him back into a sitting position; he did not resist; he had no strength; or was he secretly relieved? His head span and he felt them tearing at his shirt, using the cloth to try to stem the blood. He heard himself say, ‘No, no;' protesting feebly, but none of it seemed quite real to him; only, as he lost consciousness, he felt a dim, gnawing feeling of humiliation and despair.

He was lying on a hard surface. His wrists were bandaged and there was an intravenous tube in his arm. His head felt muzzy, as if he had been drugged. Someone was standing next to him, carrying on a conversation in Arabic. He thought, Where am I? I have botched even this. What are they going to do to me now? He was afraid to open his eyes too wide in case they saw that he was awake.

Now he could hear that some kind of argument was going on. He opened his eyes as tiny slits. Across the corridor he could see Dr Masoud arguing with two other men. Even without understanding a word Dmitry knew that they were arguing over him. Twice the men made moves toward him and twice Masoud pushed them back. Dmitry shut his eyes again. Then somebody took hold of his arm, and a voice asked, in English, ‘Are you awake? Your wrists must be stitched. We are going to give you a general anaesthetic.' He felt the rushing sensation as the anaesthetic spread through his body.

It felt as if no time had passed. He opened his eyes. He was in a dimly lit room, a hospital room, illuminated by a pale, impersonal light that seemed to have no direct source. Two men stood by the door, on either side, like guards or executioners. Dmitry tried to sit up; he felt dizzy and nauseous. He forced himself from the bed and half sank, half fell, to the floor.

His arms, he saw, were bandaged, and he wore some kind of long smock. He looked up at the men; one of them nodded at the other, and then went out.

Dmitry leaned against the end of the bed. This was not what he had wanted; was what he had been most afraid of. Through his action he had revealed himself, the fact that he didn't want to work for them, in fact, that he would rather die. He didn't know what they would do to him, what possibility of escape he would now have. He tried to move, but couldn't; he felt pinned as if by a sharp sword in the deepest pit of hell.

The door opened and light shone in from the corridor. Then the light went on above him, dazzling him.

A doctor in a white coat was looking down at him; because the light was behind and above him, Dmitry could not see his face clearly. The doctor asked, ‘How are you feeling? Try to sit up on the bed.'

One of the men took Dmitry's arm, to assist him, but Dmitry, filled with panic, resisted. The other man grabbed his other arm and they pulled him backwards. Dmitry used all the force he had to try to break away but he was weak and they easily overwhelmed him.

They manoeuvred him into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. The doctor moved round, into the light. He spoke softly. ‘Do you know who I am? I –'

Dmitry interrupted, trying to put as much irony into his voice as possible. ‘Yes, I know. You are the devil, and have come to take my soul.'

A look of extreme alarm, of horror almost, crossed the doctor's features. He said something in Arabic to another man who had appeared in the room, and he came forward, holding something in a metal dish.

The two men tightened their grip on Dmitry, pinning his arms to his sides. He watched the doctor prepare a syringe, then come forward, putting his hand on Dmitry's arm. He began to talk to him soothingly, but Dmitry was afraid of the injection. He said, ‘Get away from me,' but the doctor carried on. Dmitry protected himself in the only way he could; he gave a violent jerk, bent his head down and sank his teeth into the doctor's arm.

The doctor cried out and the syringe flew out of his other hand and went spinning across the floor. One of the men grabbed Dmitry's head and pulled it backwards while another put his hands tightly round his throat, forcing him to let go; they pushed him roughly back on to the bed.

Dmitry looked up, breathing heavily. He wasn't sure if the salty taste in his mouth was blood or sweat. The lamp above the bed glared fiercely down at him, making him blink.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the doctor rubbing his arm. He called out again and Dmitry heard some more footsteps come into the room. He said something sharply but the men did not, as Dmitry expected, strike him. Instead they changed their positions, and four of them leaned over him, holding him down on the bed so that he was totally immobile.

The doctor addressed him in a soft, soothing voice. He said, ‘Dr Gavrilov. It is all right now. Don't try to say anything; we understand. Listen to me. You have been under great stress, you are ill, and we are going to help you to get better.' Dmitry felt that he should resist the voice, that it was some kind of trap, but it was so soft, seductive, caring, that he couldn't; instead it was a relief to give into it.

The doctor's voice continued as he rubbed alcohol on to Dmitry's upper arm and then pricked him sharply with the needle. ‘It is important that you rest. I am giving you something now that will make you sleep for a long time. Don't worry, everything will be all right; we are looking after you now.'

He woke in a white room. He drifted slowly to wakefulness, his mind relaxed, unhurried. He lay in crisp white sheets, cool and smooth to the touch. The room was square, with white walls, a white marble floor, and thin white curtains were stirring at the window. The curtains moved gently back and forth, as if the window was drawing breath. Occasionally they fluttered as a draught from the fan which was spinning on the ceiling shook them. It was very quiet in the room, except for the hum of the fan and some distant sound which he was not quite aware of but which nevertheless had a curious effect on him, as if he had been here before.

Dmitry lifted his head from the pillow. Next to the bed stood an elegantly carved chair and a small table. Across the room, a man who had been sitting on the chair stood up and went out. After a minute or two he came back and stood by the door, silent, attentive; when he saw Dmitry lift up his head he carried a tray over to the table. The man nodded, smiled politely, and went out.