The streets were noisy. Women, hands clasped to their chests, gasped and wailed, children cried and men hollered and poked the shaggy tramp. Seeing the crowd processing along the street, passers-by hurried over to see what was going on so that the numbers kept on growing.
Curtains twitched with curiosity and those inside threw open the windows and hung out.
«What's happened?» they asked, cupping their hands over their mouths. «What sort of meeting is it? Where's everyone going?»
Savage rounded a corner onto the central square to go past the veranda his life had careered blindly towards like a crazed elk three months ago. He felt as if he would see Coffin there, smirking and holding out his gun, along with a tipsy Vasilisa and Antonov, the marks of the wire visible on his neck. Looking over his shoulder, Savage was startled to see how many people were following him. Dirty little boys kept running forward and peering into his face, asking: «Are you really Savage?» then scattered with a shriek if he tried to touch them.
A car with darkened windows crept slowly down the road. Saam looked at the hunched, dishevelled vagrant and couldn't believe it was the same Savage who had arrived at the veranda, stammering in confusion, his battered briefcase clutched to his chest.
«It's not him!» whispered Mrs Savage, pressing a handkerchief to her lips. «It's not!»
«It is!» Saam cut in. «Out of the car!»
«What happens now?» the woman whined. «Now what? How are we going to manage?»
«Like you did before,» the gangster replied, gesturing to the driver to stop. «Out!» he said again impatiently.
«I'm scared,» the woman said, shaking her head and cuddling her daughter. «He's crazy! Mad! I'm scared!»
Saam took hold of her chin and his pupils narrowed into razorblades.
«Out!» he rapped out and Mrs Savage crossed herself and got out of the car.
Dragging her daughter along like a doll, she went towards Savage, her shaking hands straightening a hair-do that had slipped to the side. Savage stopped, perplexed, and the crowd behind him slowed down. Savely felt tears welling up and his wife, eyes tightly closed, gave him a hug then stepped back overwhelmed by the stench.
«Hello, Savage,» she whispered, trembling as she looked over this man who was so unlike her husband.
«Hello, Mrs Savage,» said Savely, screwing up his face and attempting a smile. «Well, here I am,» he muttered, holding out his arms, unable to come up with anything else to say.
Mrs Savage ran a hand over his hairy face, then jerked it back as if it was burnt. Savely thought that this woman had never been so distant from him as she was now. He looked into his daughter's eyes, empty and viscous like her mother's, and saw only anger and fear. Savage longed to embrace his daughter but Vasilisa shrank back and hid behind her mother. The crowd came to a halt. Only a couple of steps separated them from Savage. Shifting their feet, they watched him and waited to see what would happen.
Sirens blaring, patrol cars made their deafening way through the crowd. Police officers leapt out and Savage put his hands up to show he was unarmed. The officers didn't move, however, their jaws dropping as they gazed at Savage before they stood back to let him through. For a long time, Savely couldn't bring himself to lower his hands. They moved further back and, acknowledging them, Savage went cautiously by. He kept looking over his shoulder, afraid they would attack him from behind.
The square was packed as if it was a holiday. The veranda was crowded with the bar's customers, bouncers and waitresses, fearfully hugging their round trays to their chests. «Shoot me, or I shoot you» — Coffin's words rang in their ears. Savage stared at the table the gangster had sat in that evening and once again was assailed by a feeling that he had simply imagined it all.
Savage was pulled up short when he saw his reflection in a window. He was wearing short, ragged trousers, there was cellophane wrapped round his feet and his jumper hung in rags on a body as dry as a stick. His beard was a filthy mat of hair and his broken nose appeared to have fallen asleep on his cheek. Savage turned towards his daughter and saw her cover her face with a handkerchief, the stench from her father overwhelming. He couldn't resist and stroked his daughter's head. She jumped back in degust and burst into tears.
Lapin pushed through the crowd to get to Savage. He had heard that Savage had turned up from a woman next door who had been spreading the news like a newspaper boy. He had raced down the stairs without even locking the door, buttoning his shirt as he ran. The investigator flew through the streets but passers-by pointed him in different directions like broken compasses and sirens were wailing all over town so that in the end he was so confused he despaired of ever seeing Savage. Then, a passing police patrol told him he was in the central square and Lapin dashed off.
«You've got to tell the truth!» he said, grabbing Savage by the shoulder. Several shaven-headed characters pulled him off.
«Savage! Savage, do you hear me?» he yelled. «You've got to tell the truth!»
The shaven-headed gangsters wouldn't let him take another step. Every time the investigator tried to get closer to Savage they grabbed his arms or stood shoulder to shoulder to block his path, pushing Lapin back towards the crowd.
Gazing around, Savage saw that people surrounded him on all sides like impenetrable fir trees. They were staring at him greedily.
«Savage, did you see Coffin get killed?» they shouted at him.
«Were you hiding in the forest?»
«Are you scared?»
Mrs Savage tried to push back the press of people to shield her husband from their questions.
«Stop! Can't you see he's not well?»
Savage had spots before his eyes. The curious glances pierced him like needles and the faces merged into a shapeless mass. He felt as though the yelling mouths wanted to bite him and he veered out of their way. He stepped forward and the crowd parted with a gasp.
Police officers ran up and took him by the arms and Savage went limp as if his backbone had been removed. His legs wouldn't obey him. His head fell forward onto his chest as if his neck was broken and in the noise of the crowd Savage could hear the singing of the Saami women as it hopped from one rhyme to the next like birds on the branches of trees.
«Stand back! Let us through!» bellowed a chubby sergeant running ahead of Savage. «Stand back!»
They took pictures of Savage, thrusting their mobiles in his face and reaching out to try and touch him but the pungent stench of his unwashed body made them turn away in disgust, holding their noses. There was no end to the flood of people and when Savage arrived at the police station it seemed as though the entire town had followed him.
Savage was taken down long corridors where dim light bulbs blinked like conspirators and shadows like sneak-thieves crept along behind him. He abandoned himself to his fate and didn't think about anything, regret anything or fear anything as he followed his escorts as obediently as a dog on a lead.
The leather-upholstered office smelled of brandy, money and torn-up police records. On the walls there were pictures of the Chief and Trebenko, his oppressive gaze fixed on Savage. Taking a bottle out of a locker, the chief of police poured a cloudy liquid into their glasses just as Trebenko had done when Savage appeared at his garage door, and he shuddered. They drank without clinking glasses, looking askance at the pictures. Then, before Savage had a chance to open his mouth, the police chief unfolded a newspaper and read out the story of Karimov, the serial killer, which had caused a sensation far beyond the borders of the little town. Savage's head ached. It was as if the town, its people and this office were just a dream and the news about Karimov was a trick of his sick imagination.
«We know you were intimidated and had to leave town,» the chief said, putting his newspaper aside quite matter-of-factly, «but murder will out, as they say… Anyway, the killer has been apprehended and, please, don't worry, we'll give you all the help you need. See a doctor, get well…»