Free Russian Roulette by Anthony Horowitz Page A

though I had money in my pocket, the idea of finding one and booking a room filled me with fear. How much would I have to pay? Would they even give a room to a boy on his own? I had been walking for seven hours nonstop, leaving the forest behind me just after midday. I was starving. Since leaving the shed, all I’d had to eat were the lingonberries I’d collected. I still had a handful of them in my pocket, but I couldn’t eat any more because they were giving me stomach cramps. My feet were aching and soaking wet. I was wearing my leather boots, which had suddenly decided to leak. I felt filthy and wondered if they would let me onto the train. And what if they didn’t? I had only one plan, to get to Moscow, and even that seemed daunting. I had seen pictures of the city at school, of course, but I had no real idea what it would be like.
    Finding the station wasn’t so difficult in the end. Somehow I stumbled onto the center of the town—I suppose every road led there if you walked enough. It was a wide area with an empty fountain and a Second World War monument, a slab of granite shaped like a slice of cake with the inscription WE SALUTE THE GLORIOUS DEAD OF KIRSK . I had always been brought up to respect all those who had lost their lives in the war, but I know now that there is nothing glorious about being dead. The monument was surrounded by statues of generals and soldiers, many of them on horseback. Was that how they had set off to face the German tanks?
    The station was right in front of me, at the end of a wide, very straight boulevard with trees on both sides. I recognized it at once. It was surrounded by stalls selling everything from suitcases, blankets, and cushions to all sorts of food and drink. I could smell
shashlik
—skewers of meat—cooking on charcoal fires, and it made my mouth water. I was desperate to buy something, but that was when I realized I had a problem. Although I had a lot of money in my pocket, it was all in large notes. I had no coins. If I were to hand over a ten-ruble note for a snack that would cost no more than a few kopecks, I would only draw attention to myself. The stall holder would assume I was a thief. Better to wait until I was far away. And once I’d bought my train ticket, I would have change.
    With these thoughts in my mind, I walked toward the main entrance of the station. I was so relieved to have gotten here and so anxious to be on my way that I was careless. I was keeping my head down, trying not to catch anyone’s eye. I should have been looking all around me. In fact, if I had been sensible, I would have tried to enter the station from a completely different direction, around the side or the back. As it was, I hadn’t taken more than a dozen steps before I found that my way was blocked. I looked up and saw two policemen standing in front of me, dressed in long gray coats with insignia around their collars and military caps. They were both young, in their twenties. They both had revolvers hanging from their belts.
    “Where are you going?” one of them asked. He had bad skin, very raw, as if he had only started shaving recently and had used a blunt razor.
    “To the station.” I pointed, trying to sound casual.
    “Why?”
    “I work there. After school. I help clean the platform.” I was making things up as I went along.
    “Where have you come from?”
    “Over there . . .” I pointed to one of the apartment blocks I had passed on my way into the town.
    “Your name?”
    “Leo Tretyakov.” My poor dead friend. Why had I chosen him?
    The two policemen hesitated, and for just a moment I thought they were going to let me pass. Surely there was no reason to stop me. I was just a boy, doing odd jobs after school. But then the second policeman spoke. “Your identity papers,” he demanded. His eyes were cold.
    I had used a false name because I was afraid the authorities would know who I was. After all, it had been my parents, Anton and Eva Gregorovich, who had