In seven hours.

How would they do it? Artyom couldn’t really imagine how people were hanged. They once had to execute a traitor at their station but Artyom was still little then and didn’t understand much, and anyway, they wouldn’t perform public executions at VDNKh. They would probably throw a rope around his neck… either they’d string him up to the ceiling… or there would be some sort of stool involved… No, it didn’t bear thinking about.

He was thirsty.

With effort he flicked the switch and the train of his thoughts swept onto other rails – to the officer he had shot. The first person he’d ever killed. The scene arose before his eyes again, invisible bullets going into his broad chest, and how they had left burnt black marks in which fresh blood had coagulated. He didn’t feel the slightest regret for what he’d done, and this surprised him. Once, he had reckoned that every killed person must be a heavy burden on the conscience of the person who killed them – they would appear in dreams, disturb his old age… But no. It seemed it wasn’t like that at all. There was no pity. No repentance. Only gloomy satisfaction. And Artyom understood that if the murdered person were to come to him in a nightmare, then he would only turn indifferently away from the phantom and it would then disappear without a trace. But old age… There would be no old age anymore.

Time was running out. It would probably involve a stool. When there is so little time, you have to think about something important, about the most important thing, that you never found time to think about before, leaving it all till later… About the fact that your life wasn’t lived right, and that you’d do it differently if given a second chance… No. He couldn’t have had any other life in this world, and there was nothing to try to re-do. When the border guard shot Vanechka in the head should he not have rushed for his automatic machine gun but instead have stayed standing at the side? It wouldn’t have worked – he would never have managed to chase Vanechka and Mikhail Porfirevich from his dreams. What had happened to the old man? Damn, what would it take to get a mouthful of water!

First they would lead him out of the cell… And if he was lucky then they’d lead him through the transfer passage but there’d little time for that now. And if they didn’t put that damned cover over his head, he would be able to see something, apart from the rods of the lattice in front of him and the endless rows of cages.

‘What station you from?’ said Artyom through dry lips, tearing himself away from the lattice and looking up into the eyes of his neighbour.

‘Tverskaya,’ the man responded. Then he asked: ‘Listen, brother, what are you in here for?’

‘I killed an officer,’ Artyom slowly replied. It was hard for him to speak.

‘O-oh…’ the unshaved man offered sympathetically. ‘So they’re going to hang you?’

Artyom shrugged, and turned again to lean on the lattice.

‘Sure they will,’ his neighbour assured him.

They will. And soon. Right here at the station, and they won’t be transferring him.

If only to get a drink of water… To wash this metallic taste from his mouth, to moisten his dry throat, then, maybe, he could speak to this man for a little more than a minute. There was no water in the cage, but on the other side of the space there was a fetid tin bucket. Could he ask his jailers? Maybe they give small indulgences to those who have been sentenced? If he could only have pushed his hand out through the lattice, and wave it a little… But his hands were tied behind his back, and the wire was digging into his wrists and he had lost all sensation. He tried to cry out, but only a rattle emerged, which turned into a cough from deep in his lungs.

Both guards approached the cage when they noticed his attempts to get their attention.

‘The rat has awoken,’ the one with the dog grinned.

Artyom threw his head back to see the man’s face and whispered with difficulty, ‘Drink. Water.’

‘A drink?’ The guard with the dog pretended to be surprised. ‘What do you need that for? You’re just about to be strung up and all you want is to drink! No, we won’t be getting you any water. Maybe that way you’ll die sooner.’

The matter was settled and Artyom closed his eyes wearily, but the jailers apparently wanted to chat with him some more.

‘So, you scum, you’ve finally understood who you raised your fist to?’ the other guard asked. ‘And you’re even a Russian, you rat! It’s because of those morons who will stab you in the back with your own knife, those…’ He nodded at Artyom’s neighbour in the next cage. ‘The whole metro will be full of them soon and your simple Russian won’t even be able to breathe anymore.’

The unshaved prisoner looked down. Artyom could only find the strength to shrug his shoulders.

‘And they smacked that mongrel of yours nicely too,’ the first guard added. ‘Sidorov said that the tunnel was a bloodbath. And quite right. Subhumans! They need to be destroyed. They are our… genofond!’ He remembered the difficult word. ‘They ruin things. And your old man died too,’ he concluded.

‘What?’ Artyom sobbed. He’d been afraid of that, but he’d hoped that perhaps the old man hadn’t died, that maybe he was somewhere here, in the next chamber…

‘Right. He died. They ironed him a little bit but he up and croaked,’ the guard with the dog said happily, satisfied by the fact that Artyom was finally reacting to them.

‘You will die. All your relatives will die…’ He could see Mikhail Porfirevich, without a care in the world, stopping in the middle of the tunnel, leafing through his notepad, and then repeating this last line with emotion. What was it again? ‘Der Toten Tatenrum?’ No, the poet was mistaken, there aren’t any acts of glory anymore. There isn’t anything anymore.

Then he remembered how Mikhail Porfirevich had missed his old apartment, and especially his old bed. Then his thoughts started thickening, and were flowing more and more slowly, and then they stopped altogether. He rested his forehead against the lattice again and, with a dulled mind, he started looking at the jailer’s sleeve. A three-pronged swastika. Strange symbol. Looks either like a star or like a crippled spider.

‘Why only three?’ he asked. ‘Why three?’

He had to tip his head towards the man’s armband so the security guards would understand what he meant.

‘Well, how many do you need?’ the one with the dog answered indignantly. ‘There are three stations, you fool! It’s a symbol of unity. And, just you wait, when we get to Polis, we’ll add a fourth…’

‘What are you talking about?’ the other guard interrupted. ‘It’s an ancient symbol, a primordial Slavic sign! It’s called a solstice. It belonged to the Fritzs and then we took it over. Stations – you pot-head. ’

‘But there’s no more sun anymore…’ Artyom squeezed out the words, feeling as though there was a muddy veil over his eyes, and his sense of hearing was disappearing into the haze.

‘That’s it, he’s gone mad,’ the guard with the dog announced with gratification. ‘Let’s go, Senya, and find someone else for a chat.’

Artyom didn’t know how much time had passed while he sat there deprived of his thoughts and his vision. He occasionally regained consciousness and understood vague images. But everything was saturated with the taste and smell of blood. However, he was glad that his body had taken pity on his mind and killed all thought, and so released his sense of reason was from melancholy.

‘Hey, brother!’ His neighbour shook his shoulder. ‘Don’t sleep. You’ve been sleeping for a long time! It’s almost four o’clock!’

Artyom tried to surface from the chasm of his unconsciousness but it was difficult, as though lead weights had been attached to his feet. Reality came to him slowly, like the indistinct outlines on film that has been placed in developing solution.