All that was left for Savage was to talk to himself and wander through the mazes of his imagination, which presented events in a new pattern each time like a kaleidoscope. Looking in the mirror, he could no longer tell what happened the night Coffin was shot.
Howling with loneliness, he dialled telephone numbers at random then said nothing when he heard a voice at the other end until the receiver was replaced. Once, however, he did bring himself to reply.
«Yes, hello?» a woman's impatient voice repeated.
«H-h-hello,» Savage drawled, nerves making him stammer more than usual. «I just h-h-happened to d-d-dial your number. I j-j-just w-w-wanted to hear a h-h-human…»
«Are you lonely?» came the sudden response. «Are you having a tough time?»
«I really am,» Savage admitted, dropping the phone in his agitation. «Hello, c-c-can you hear me?»
«Yes, yes. I can hear you…»
«I am very, very l-l-lonely. All m-m-my life, I have b-b-been as lonely as if I was in a lifeless desert but now it's like b-b-being in outer space and infinity is all around… Do you understand?»
«Of course, I do. We should meet!»
«R-r-really?» Savage said in surprise. «Are you s-s-serious?» Then, hesitating, he added, «M-m-my n-n-name is Savely Savage…»
«Great! You need specialist help. Come to our psychology centre. We can help everyone,» the woman replied in a soothing tone. A cactus sprang up in Savage's throat. «Jot down the address.»
Savage shuffled into the kitchen, opened the bottle of vodka with his teeth and took a gulp. He threw away the crumpled bit of paper on which he'd written the address and leant on his fist against the cold glass. The patrol car was still keeping watch over the entrance to the flats. An officer got out and flexed his stiff joints. He looked up at Savage's window and Savely hid behind the curtain, cursing himself for being so childish.
In a little town, people get set in their sedate lives like flies in amber. People there like the old jokes that stick in your teeth like last year's jam. They wear their clothes until they wear them out and they read the same books, year in year out, delighted that the story doesn't change and they know the ending. Newspapers, unlike women, don't age in the provinces. Nothing goes out of fashion here because no-one follows the trends anyway and every tomorrow is a carbon copy of yesterday. Savage used to believe that a person should die where he was born and live quiet as a mouse. Now that he had put his former life on like a hat back to front he believed that before he died he needed the chance to be born, to hatch like a baby bird from the eggshell of his own fate. He felt as if he'd been used as a tool of revenge but he didn't know who by. He was terrified when he looked at himself in the mirror. He told his reflection, «You think God's leading you by the hand. But it turns out the Devil's leading you a merry dance!»
«It's just a formality. We won't keep you long.» The officer spoke hoarsely into the receiver as he invited Savage into the station. «We need to go over your statements…»
Savely was bored being stuck inside his own four walls and was pleased to be going out. He quickly got ready and put the crumpled witness statements in his pocket. He'd read them so many times he dreamed about Karimov arguing with Coffin by the veranda and firing a gun at him.
«Now, don't be embarrassed if you need anything,» said the rotund policeman at the wheel, turning to face Savage. «The car's always outside. We'll take you where you need to go.»
«I d-d-don't know w-w-where I need to go,» said Savage with a shrug. The fat man smirked understandingly.
At the police station, they read the witness statements out again and pointed at the papers to show him where to sign. The letters jumped about in front of him like fleas and Savage glanced superstitiously at the records, in which the words kept changing places and altering the meaning. He felt as if everyone but him could read the new meaning.
«Why are we bothering with him?» the officer shrugged. «It's high time we wrapped this case up.»
His small black eyes were like two fat flies in his face and it seemed they would fly away at any moment.
«We've been told to give him time to get back on his feet. They said he's not himself since being in the forest and he might still say something he shouldn't. But what could that be when everything's known already?»
Savage ran into the chief of police in the corridor.
«How're things?» The chief held out a hand. «Are you feeling better? Glad to be back?»
Trebenko's features could be seen in his fleshy face and Savage stammered, unable to spit out the words that stuck to his tongue. The chief of police shifted from foot to foot, already sorry he'd stopped. Looking at Savage's trembling lips, he grimaced in disgust. Then he took his leave, citing his work.
«I am,» Savage sighed after him.
Savage found himself as lost in the police station as a babe in the woods. He hammered on all the doors. Every one was locked and every floor was empty. He had raised a fist to knock when he heard voices, the door swung open right in front of him and out came an officer with Karimov in tow. His hands were handcuffed behind him and the dark thoughts that kept him awake at night could be seen in the furrows on his brow. Recognizing Savage, he turned to look at him, ignoring the threats of the sergeant, pushing him from behind.
Subsiding onto the back seat of the car, Savely asked the driver to take him out of town.
«That's not allowed,» he said, hesitating. «But as long as you don't get out of the car…»
The officer switched on the flashing light and raced past the garages, through the rabbit-warren of single-storey houses and the open spaces of squares littered with the rusting carcasses of cars like skeletons that had been picked clean, on past the cemetery dense with monuments and crosses and the last signpost with the name of the town crossed out. Savage opened the window and stuck his head out, gulping down the air as greedily as drinking water from the kettle for a morning hangover.
«Do you think you could stop, please?» Savage asked. «I need some fresh air.»
The fat man turned the wheel and braked at the side of the road.
Savely stretched out on the dusty grass and lit up greedily. The forest that overlooked the road was like a theatre curtain and Savage felt as though Salmon, Trebenko, Antonov, Coffin and the red-headed woman were hiding behind it like actors before the start of a show.
«Better?» the officer asked, bending over him. Savage nodded and gave him a strained smile. «In that case, I won't be a second.» With a whistle, he went off into a gully by the side of the road.
Savage made a break for it, going the opposite way, plunging into the faded autumn forest that closed behind him like the gates of a city. When the fat cop came back onto the road, there wasn't a trace of Savage to be seen and no matter how much he ran from side to side, calling him, the only answer was the rustle of falling leaves like idle gossips whispering in amusement at the hapless policeman.
Lapin had already been pacing the corridors of local government for several days in the hope of waylaying the new mayor. Finally, his secretary, grey locks peeping out from her black wig, called him in and, drawing her eyebrows into a single line, she pointed to the door. Lapin popped a sedative into his mouth. It was the only way to stop his lips twitching and his hands trembling. Then he strode into the office as if stepping off a cliff.
He nearly crossed himself when he saw the late Krotov sitting at the desk.
«It frightens everyone,» the mayor told Lapin soothingly. He didn't offer him a chair so the investigator just stood, adjusting his jacket in embarrassment and smoothing his hair.