Friends of the Forest

With love to Stephen King.

A night train races through the Siberian wilderness, and the past resurfaces in a chilling tale of guilt, mercy, and horror.

***

Thud-thud… thud-thud… thud-thud… thud-thud.
Ilya Mikhailovich Tumansky leaned back in his seat and grimaced. Who had ever decided that the clatter of train wheels was soothing? It wasn’t. Since boarding the carriage, his mood had been sinking fast. A dull, shapeless anxiety was growing stronger with every mile.

“We only think we control things,” Ilya Mikhailovich thought gloomily, drumming his fingers nervously on his knee. “In reality, they control us.”

His imagination immediately conjured the image of a monstrous train — a giant iron python swallowing him whole, imprisoning him in its softly lit carriage and dragging him onward to the relentless beat of its dark rhythm.

Tumansky looked out of the window. In the gathering dusk, the solid wall of forest speeding past outside seemed almost black. The narrow ribbon of gray sky above the treetops was fading fast, and Ilya Mikhailovich felt his gloom deepen. Once again, he cursed himself for agreeing to this trip.

“Idiot. Spineless fool,” he muttered under his breath. “When are you finally going to learn to stand up for yourself instead of letting people push you around and shamelessly manipulate you? You’re old enough already, for God’s sake. You’ve got status, influence. It’s time you started doing what you want instead of what all those people feeding off you want.”

His anger was directed less at himself than at Nelly Ruvaeva, the editor-in-chief of the publishing house he had worked with successfully for many years. At fifty-six, Ilya Mikhailovich was an acclaimed writer and one of the house’s biggest names. For nearly twenty years, his science-fiction novels had consistently become bestsellers, and he could easily have dictated his own terms to the publishers — but standing up to Madame Ruvaeva was beyond him.

Hard as flint and sly as a snake, Ruvaeva always got what she wanted, skillfully deploying promises, threats, flattery, and whatever other methods of persuasion the situation required. Besides, she always had two magical phrases on her side: the enticing “increased sales” and the ominous “declining popularity” — against which no writer could stand for long.

If Tumansky was planning a vacation in Sochi while Nelly needed him at a readers’ meeting somewhere in the Novgorod region, there was never much doubt about where he would ultimately end up.

And now, once again at his editor’s insistence, Ilya Mikhailovich was traveling to the small Siberian town of Kochyn — the town where he had been born and to which he had not returned once in the past forty-four years. A ceremony was to be held there to unveil a commemorative plaque at the school where he had spent his early school years.

Tumansky dreaded the trip with every aching joint in his body. Long ago, he had buried the tiny Siberian town of his childhood deep in memory — and for good reason. His early years had been bleak, overshadowed by his father’s alcoholism and the family’s grinding poverty. The ugly drunken fights, his mother’s tears, and the endless draft from the window above his childhood bed were forever intertwined in his mind with Kochyn.

When he was eleven, his father drowned in the river. His body — swollen and terrible from the water — was not recovered until a week after his disappearance. Some time later, Ilya’s mother finally yielded to her sister’s insistent pleas and made the decision to move to Moscow.

In the capital, things went fairly well. His aunt’s husband helped Ilya’s mother find work; they were given a room in a communal dormitory, and later a small apartment of their own, and little by little the life of their small family settled into place again.

Young Ilyusha’s sensitive soul instinctively tried to forget the years and events connected with that remote taiga backwater. With no relatives or friends left in Kochyn, every tie to the town of his childhood had been severed once and for all.

In all the decades that followed, Tumansky had never once returned to his hometown and had not the slightest desire to do so. But with her usual firm hand, Madame Ruvaeva organized an event under the code name “The Celebrity Returns to His Native Hearth,” intended to boost Ilya Mikhailovich’s already considerable popularity.

A commemorative plaque bearing a touching inscription had been commissioned; students from his old school were busily cramming excerpts from his novels for the upcoming ceremony; reporters from two local papers and a regional newspaper were preparing to cover the momentous event in detail — and now poor Tumansky was flying to Irkutsk and boarding the endlessly irritating train that would carry him to his destination by morning.

“Oh, come on, don’t look so miserable,” Ruvaeva said with a bright smile as she saw him off. “Most people would be delighted by the chance to revisit their hometown. Besides, your Kochyn has transformed over the years from a forgotten backwater into a thriving, prosperous town. I’m told it’s become a little slice of Europe in the middle of the taiga — clean streets, new houses, tidy parks and public squares.”

“Really?” Tumansky gave a skeptical smile.  A memory surfaced: the rutted road outside his childhood home, ending at a dilapidated bridge over the muddy Chulymka River.

“Looks like the people of Kochyn got lucky with their local authorities,” Nelly shrugged. “Efficient, energetic — and, best of all, not corrupt.”

She checked her watch and started for the door.

“Oh wow, half past three already. I’ve got a meeting in fifteen minutes. Well then — have a good trip, Ilya!”

***

Tumansky let out a weary sigh and looked over at the opposite berth. For the moment, he had the upgraded two-berth compartment to himself, with both bunks conveniently on the lower level.

If only I get lucky and no one joins me, he thought absently. Otherwise it’ll be the usual disaster — some chatty old woman carrying cold chicken, or worse, a middle-aged man firmly convinced that train journeys exist solely for pouring liquor into himself while pouring his soul out onto trapped fellow passengers.

Despite Kochyn’s recent development, the town still had no airport, and the only way to reach it was by this train, which crawled toward its destination with endless stops and excruciating slowness.

“I don’t do well on trains,” Ilya Mikhailovich had tried unsuccessfully to persuade Ruvaeva. “You know I have cardiomyopathy!”

“Oh yes, I remember,” the editor-in-chief said with a smirk. “Along with the ulcer, the cholecystitis, the arthritis, and the high blood pressure.”

She waved her hand decisively, dismissing all his objections.

“Oh, my dear, it’s only three days. The best thing to do on a train is go straight to bed. Time flies when you’re asleep — you won’t even notice it passing.”

Fair point, Tumansky thought gloomily, deciding to follow his editor’s advice. I’ll lie down, read a bit, and perhaps I’ll manage to fall asleep.

He took a paperback he had bought at the station out of his briefcase. On the cover, a heavily muscled man with gigantic fists glared menacingly while shielding a fragile blonde behind his square shoulder.

A masterpiece from the “Rough-Tough-Madman Returns” school of literature, Tumansky smirked.

He had chosen the book deliberately. Experience had taught him that this kind of pulp fiction was almost always spectacularly dull and guaranteed to make him sleepy.

The handle of the compartment door turned, and Ilya Mikhailovich looked up in alarm. A fellow passenger already?

His imagination instantly conjured the image of a bustling heavyset woman in a bright floral headscarf, a basket tucked under her arm, squeezing her massive body into the tiny compartment and immediately beginning to peel hard-boiled eggs directly over Tumansky’s trousers.

But he was wrong. It was only the train attendant checking tickets.

After the door closed behind her, Ilya Mikhailovich sighed with relief and reached for his book again, but the image of the woman with the eggs lingered stubbornly in his mind, and he suddenly realized he was hungry — in the confusion of departure, he had missed lunch.

Tumansky snapped the book shut and tightened his lips in irritation.

Damn it. He could always buy something in the dining car — but what were they likely to serve on a wretched train like this? A two-day-old cutlet with pasta stuck together in a lump? Chicken as tough as elephant hide? And with his ulcer…

Food poisoning is practically guaranteed, Ilya Mikhailovich thought grimly, mentally weighing the possible consequences of dinner against the prospect of going to bed hungry.

Hunger prevailed. Reluctantly, the writer rose to his feet and made his way toward the dining car. His mood darkened even further.

***

The dining car wasn’t crowded. An elderly couple were enthusiastically finishing their dinner. A plump, balding man in his forties kept placing morsels onto the plate of an equally plump boy whose nose was dusted with freckles. At the far table, two young men slowly sipped beer from tall glasses.

The rest are probably eating their homemade pies and chicken back in their compartments, Tumansky thought with a touch of envy. Compared to the institutional food served here, homemade provisions suddenly seemed the lesser evil, and even the vision of the fat woman with the basket no longer struck him as especially alarming.

Ilya Mikhailovich took a seat at a table in the middle of the dining car and began scanning the menu.

Pike perch, trout, borscht… His eyes moved quickly over the lines, searching for something his ulcer-ridden stomach might tolerate.

“What will you be having?” came a bright young voice beside him.

Tumansky looked up and blinked at the waitress in surprise.

She had an intelligent, refined face, an enchanting smile, and cheerful sparks in eyes framed by lashes so thick it was impossible to tell their color. Completing the picture were a beautifully slender figure and thick fair-brown hair carelessly twisted into a knot at the back of her head. Never before had the writer encountered a waitress like this.

“I’d like… something light. I have an ulcer…” Ilya Mikhailovich said uncertainly.

“Chicken is the only diet food we’ve got!” the pretty waitress chirped, her smile growing even wider.

“Ah… well… then chicken,” the writer sighed in resignation.

“Oh, honestly,” the girl giggled, giving her head an amused little shake. “That’s from Station for Two. The main character asks for something dietary, and the waitress tells him, ‘There’s only chicken.’ Don’t you remember?”

“Ah?… Yes… I suppose I remember,” Tumansky replied with a hesitant smile.

“And we actually have an entire diet menu,” the pretty waitress declared proudly, tapping the bottom edge of the menu with a pink porcelain finger.

Then she remembered something and immediately looked flustered.

“Oh — actually, don’t pay attention to that section,” she said hurriedly. “The diet menu today is a little incomplete. There’s no steamed fish… and they can’t make the omelet anymore — they’ve run out of eggs.”

Her eyes darted anxiously over the menu before she made a firm decision.

“Take the noodle soup. It’s very good. Easy on the stomach.”

“Fresh?” Tumansky asked skeptically, mostly out of principle.

In reality, he would have eaten earthworm stew from the hands of this charming waitress.

“Of course,” she assured him confidently. “Everything here is fresh.”

“All right then,” Ilya Mikhailovich said with a nod, unfolding the napkin across his lap.

The girl nodded in return and hurried toward the kitchen. The writer watched her thoughtfully, wondering how such a butterfly had ended up in an anthill.

When she returned to his table carrying a tray of food, he finally gave in to curiosity.

“Excuse me,” he asked, “have you worked here long?”

“The first month and the second year,” she replied mysteriously. Then, smiling at his confusion, she explained:

“I’m actually a university student. I work here during the holidays. Last summer I worked all three months, but this year I’ll only be here for two — I still have to do my internship at a factory.”

“And what are you studying to become?” Tumansky asked, oddly pleased to discover that this princess was not, in fact, a real waitress.

“A Bachelor of Chemistry with a specialization in solid-state chemistry and materials science,” the fair-haired fairy replied promptly, adopting a solemn expression.

“Good Lord,” the writer said with sincere astonishment, shaking his head admiringly.

“Would you like anything else?” she asked, smiling again, all trace of the serious chemistry student gone as the cheerful waitress returned.

“No, no, thank you,” Ilya Mikhailovich replied, dipping his spoon into the clear broth.

It suddenly occurred to him that he had judged this part of the country unfairly. All the Moscow girls he knew her age dreamed of becoming models or marrying oligarchs — preferably both — while this young Siberian woman was studying some intimidatingly intellectual field and working on the railway during her holidays, probably to pay tuition or help support her parents.

Reflecting on the obvious superiority of provincial youth over the capital’s silly little socialites, he scarcely noticed himself reaching the bottom of the plate. The noodle soup had turned out to be surprisingly edible and had almost reconciled the writer to his surroundings.

If only that damned rattling would stop, Tumansky thought, feeling the unpleasant vibrations of the train pulsing through his body.

As though responding to his silent plea, the iron python slowed to a crawl and, after several weak jolts, came to a halt. Ilya Mikhailovich felt immediate relief: the hateful rattling had finally stopped.

Beyond the window, dim lamps glowed along the platform of another small station. Tumansky clasped the mug of cooling tea in both hands and stretched his legs out beneath the table, enjoying the short-lived reprieve.

By force of long habit, he began quietly observing the people around him, his writer’s eye automatically noting curious details that might someday be useful in a book.

A third man had joined the two young men drinking beer, and the clatter of bottles became noticeably louder. The elderly couple had already finished their meal and, with the same purposeful energy they had displayed while eating, made their way toward the exit.

The plump balding man and the boy — obviously father and son — were also nearly done. The father carefully adjusted the napkin in front of his chubby offspring while the boy happily dug softened lemon slices out of his teacup.

The sight of that peaceful family scene suddenly pierced something deep inside Ilya Mikhailovich, stirring memories that had long seemed safely locked away.

Why was my life never like that? Why had my father never traveled with me on a train, never fed me a late-night meal? The bitter question passed through his mind — one for which there was no answer.

***

Little Ilyusha Semechkin — the future science-fiction writer Tumansky’s real surname had once been Semechkin — adored his father: strong, kind, and seemingly able to do anything at all.

Sadly, the adoration did not last long. By the time the boy was six, his father, who had always been fond of drink, had begun drinking so heavily that he turned into someone else entirely: a drunken stranger who no longer cared about his wife, his son, or the rest of the world.

By the time Ilyusha finished second grade, Mikhail Semechkin’s life had already gone hurtling off the rails. His sober periods became shorter and less frequent until they all but disappeared, and nothing in the broken-down drunk he had become still resembled the cheerful, energetic young man who had once captured Ilyusha’s mother’s heart.

His father was rarely home anymore, appearing only to start another drunken, violent quarrel and haul away something else from the apartment to sell for vodka.

His love for his father slowly withered under the relentless poison of alcohol, until nothing remained except pity — pity for his ruined father, for his prematurely aged mother, and for himself, forced to grow up without the support of a normal father far too early.

Tumansky placed the empty cup on the table and let out a heavy sigh.

I can’t even remember the last time I saw him alive, he thought bitterly, searching through the long-forgotten years of his childhood. No… hold on. I remember.

***

A clear image rose before him: a sweltering July afternoon in Kochyn. He was eleven years old. Lying on the shed roof, he felt the black tar paper gently scratching the narrow strip of bare skin between his shirt and his worn-out pants.

That roof was his and his friend Garik’s favorite place — won in a fair fight against Vovka Murashov, a seventh-grader from the neighboring building. From there, Ilya could observe the entire courtyard of their shabby two-story eight-family barracks while remaining invisible himself.

Garik still hadn’t appeared. He was helping his mother at the post office, and Ilya was left to suffer alone on the roof. He would have preferred playing ball against the wall to this idle waiting, but the wall was too close to Murashov’s place, and without Garik it was safer not to venture there. Murashov was still dreaming of revenge for the roof.

Ilya let his bored gaze wander across the dusty courtyard baking beneath the hot afternoon sun. Nothing interesting.

Laundry belonging to the formidable Mrs. Ogarkova from apartment two fluttered on the clothesline. Beside the porch railing dozed her black-and-white tomcat Barsik, the most notorious fighter among the local cats. He lay sprawled comfortably on his side, his strong paws stretched lazily before him. His scarred ears and mangled whiskers twitched in rhythm with whatever feline dreams he was chasing.

A short distance from the porch, beneath the shade of an old elm, old Aksyuta was dozing as well, sprawled across a crooked chair with his patchy little beard jutting toward the sky.

Prokhor Aksyuta — a nickname derived from his real surname, Aksyutin — was a mysterious and vaguely menacing figure. Officially he was employed as a janitor by the local housing authority, which entitled him to a basement apartment in the building, although spotting him with a broom or shovel was an exceptionally rare event.

For the most part, the actual work — hauling garbage and clearing snow — was done in his place by gloomy, mute Vasily from the next street over, while old Aksyuta spent his days hanging around the local market or the railway station, occasionally vanishing without explanation for a week or two at a time.

Looking at the gaunt old man now — wrapped in an oversized quilted jacket worn against bare skin, his thin neck exposed and vulnerable — it was difficult to believe that even grown men, not just the neighborhood boys, had once feared old Aksyuta.

Nor was it simply because prison was plainly written all over him: bluish domes, crosses, and daggers covered his body in faded tattoos. There was something in the old man’s eyes that unsettled even the fiercest local toughs, making them steer clear of him whenever possible.

The sun-warmed courtyard breathed a languid peace, and Ilya surrendered to the drowsiness hanging over everything around him. Resting his head on his arms, he half-closed his eyes. The sleepy silence was broken only by the faint puttering of a car somewhere in the distance and the indistinct murmur of a radio coming from bookkeeper Lyuda’s apartment on the second floor.

Then suddenly the atmosphere around him shifted in some subtle but unmistakable way. A small cloud passed over the sun, and a cold gust of wind sent the curtains billowing outward through the open windows. The sparrows sitting silently in the branches of the tall poplar erupted into anxious chirping and scattered at once, sensing danger before anyone else.

Ilya felt the change as well. He opened his eyes uneasily and raised his head.

The coolness brought by the wind and shadow was not a kindly one. Along with it, something cold and inexorable slithered into the courtyard.

Veteran fighter Barsik identified the source of danger immediately: he opened his eyes, pricked up his ears, and swiftly gathered his muscular paws beneath him. The fur on the back of his neck bristled, and he turned his head sharply to the left with an angry hiss.

Ilya looked where the black-and-white cat was staring with his yellow eyes — and flinched involuntarily.

A man stood on the cracked asphalt path leading into the yard. Dirty, unshaven, with wild disheveled hair, he leaned oddly to one side while his gloomy eyes swept slowly across the courtyard. Something about him radiated unease, and deep within the small faded eyes beneath swollen red eyelids lurked pain and fear.

Ilya inhaled sharply and held his breath.

It was Mikhail Semechkin standing on the path — his father.

The boy instinctively ducked his head and froze, but immediately corrected himself. A thick birch branch concealed him securely from anyone who might happen to glance toward the shed roof. His father would not see him.

Realizing this, Ilya relaxed a little and cautiously craned his neck, studying his father, who looked even thinner and more ragged than usual. This time he had been wandering around for longer than normal — almost two weeks — and everything about his appearance made it clear that those days had not treated him kindly.

Only old Aksyuta showed no reaction to the stranger’s arrival. He went on sleeping peacefully atop his three-legged stool, which had been leaned against the wall to keep it from collapsing.

Mikhail’s heavy gaze settled on the old man. He gave the faintest tilt of his head and started toward him.

Caught between them, Barsik sprang upright, let out an indignant hiss-meow, and cautiously retreated backward toward the entrance door, expecting the usual kick from old Semechkin.

But today the cat meant nothing to Mikhail. He did not even appear to notice him as he continued slowly forward.

The man walked with visible effort, barely lifting his feet and leaning slightly to the right. Ilya noticed that his father kept his left hand pressed against his right side and occasionally winced in pain.

Someone’s beaten him up again, the boy realized, automatically reaching back to touch his own head. The swelling from his father’s drunken blow had faded only a few days before. Drunk, old Semechkin was aggressive and quick with his fists.

Mikhail took a few more steps and stopped directly in front of the sleeping old man. For several long moments he simply stood there in silence. Then, without warning, he drew his left hand sharply upward.

His face contorted with rage, and Ilya went rigid with fear.

He’s going to hit him! shot through his mind.

The world around him seemed to freeze. The raised hand hung motionless in the air above the head of the unsuspecting victim.

“CLANG!” Suddenly a metallic crash rang out from the apartment entrance, followed immediately by the furious voice of old Mrs. Ogarkova:

“Shoo! Get out of here, you filthy beast!”

Barsik exploded from the stairwell like a black-and-white flash and vanished around the corner of the house. Ilya jerked at the sudden noise.

Old Aksyuta blinked awake and swayed forward. The three-legged stool beneath him creaked ominously and tipped dangerously to one side.

Slowly, as though unwillingly, the raised hand dropped back down.

“Ah… it’s you,” Aksyuta said hoarsely, rolling his stiff shoulders and studying the newcomer with a hard, prickling stare. “Haven’t seen you in a while…”

Under that hostile gaze, Mikhail visibly shrank, seeming almost half his former size. He pressed his right hand tighter against his injured side and spoke in a dull, mechanical voice:

“Was out in the taiga… hired on as a guide for some visiting hunters… went a long way with them…”

“Left and came back,” the old man grumbled darkly, turning away.

“Went far…” Ilya’s father repeated insistently, boring into the old man with red, watery eyes. Then suddenly, lowering his voice, he added:

“Marfa said you were to come.”

Aksyuta frowned and quickly glanced around, as though wanting to make sure no one was nearby.

“Repeat that,” he demanded.

The last traces of sleep disappeared from his face.

“Marfa said you were to come,” the elder Semechkin repeated mechanically.

“When?”

“The sooner, the better, probably,” Mikhail answered with a shrug.

“I know that already,” the old man cut him off irritably. “That’s not what I’m asking. When did you see her?”

Mikhail lifted his eyes toward the sky, working something out in his head.

“Must’ve been three days ago…” he answered uncertainly at last.

“Or more?”

“Or maybe more?”

“Could be more,” Mikhail agreed obediently.

Exact dates meant nothing in his alcohol-soaked world, and Aksyuta understood that immediately. His face darkened further as he pushed himself to his feet.

“What else did she say?”

“Said to bring flour and sugar.”

“Flour and sugar?” The old man blinked, puzzled.

“A boar got into her shed and wrecked all the supplies,” Mikhail explained. “She said if you don’t come right away, she and the children will have nothing left to eat out in the taiga.”

A shadow crossed Aksyuta’s face.

“You saw the children too?” he asked, his voice altered somehow.

“Sure I saw them,” Semechkin shrugged — then suddenly stopped short as realization dawned on him.

He stared at Aksyuta anew, eyebrows lifting in astonishment.

“So she’s… wait…” he murmured, studying the old man’s features closely. “She’s your wife, isn’t she? That’s it — your wife!”

Forgetting his aching side completely, he slapped both hands against his thighs.

“That older boy looks like your spitting image. Can’t believe I didn’t figure it out sooner. Only the eyes are hers — green…”

“All right, listen…” Aksyuta suddenly cut in, his tone changing again as he cast another quick glance around the yard. “Come on. Let’s get a drink.”

“Now you’re talking!” Mikhail beamed happily.

“So when was it you came back into town?” the old man asked, firmly taking Semechkin by the elbow and steering him toward the street.

“Today,” Mikhail replied eagerly, visibly revived by the promise of alcohol. “Came straight to you the moment I got back. Didn’t delay a second. Just like your wife told me…”

“You mean you didn’t even drop by to see Senka the cobbler?” Aksyuta asked in disbelief, steering him farther toward the street.

“No sir!” Semechkin stopped and struck his puffed-out chest with his fist. “She told me to come directly to you and not say a word about her to anyone.”

Mikhail flashed a gap-toothed grin and gave Aksyuta a vulgar little wink.

“Your wife… whew… she’s something.”

Then his face abruptly changed, and he muttered in sudden haste:

“Only… well… she scared the hell out of me.”

Clumsily crossing himself with a trembling hand, he peered nervously into the old man’s face.

“So how do you handle a woman like that?”

“I handle her,” the old man snapped shortly, lengthening his stride.

“Ah… now I understand,” Mikhail nodded slowly. “She’s out there, and you’re over here…”

“Mm-hm,” Aksyuta muttered, half-dragging the slower man toward the street. “And you’re sure you didn’t tell anyone about her?”

“Nobody. Cross my heart,” Mikhail whispered urgently.

“Good man,” the old fellow said in a businesslike tone. “Keep your mouth shut. You’ll live longer that way.”

The threat in the old man’s final words was completely undisguised, and Ilya’s father nodded frantically in agreement.

“Me? Never… not a soul… never in my life!…”

“Mm-hm,” Aksyuta answered evenly.

The men turned the corner, and their voices slowly faded into silence.

It was the last time Ilya ever saw his father alive.

Old Aksyuta and plenty of other witnesses later testified that on that day the elder Semechkin had drunk himself senseless together with Aksyuta, Senka the cobbler, and several other local drunks before wandering off alone to the river to fish.

No one had actually seen him fall into the water, but then again, what was unusual about that? Drunk men think they’re immortal. He probably slipped from the planks, hit his head, and went under. Happens all the time.

***

Ilya Mikhailovich shook his head, driving away the unpleasant memories, and let out a barely audible sigh.

The train groaned heavily, flexing its metal joints, and began moving forward once more. The persistent thud-thud-thud resumed its methodical assault on every cell of Tumansky’s body.

The writer pushed his cup aside and looked around. While he had been resurrecting the memories of his childhood, the plump father and son had finished their tea and disappeared from the dining car.

Now only Ilya Mikhailovich remained there, along with the trio drinking beer at the far table. The number of bottles on their table had increased, and so had the volume of their conversation.

“…and then she says, ‘These children will grow up to become true friends of the forest!’”

The fragment of conversation drifted over to him.

Tumansky jerked as though struck by an electric shock. He fixed a burning stare on the group of young men and strained to listen, but by then they had already moved on to discussing high-voltage stabilizers, the latest batch of which had apparently turned out to be of appalling quality, and how some Usmanov would have to answer for the whole mess.

“Nonsense!” Ilya Mikhailovich snapped at himself, trying to steady the trembling in his fingers while feeling cold, sticky sweat spreading across his back. “Just an ordinary conversation. Nothing unusual about it. Why are you jumping at shadows? So what if someone said ‘friends of the forest’? It’s a perfectly normal phrase. Your nerves, old man, have gone completely to hell.”

He quickly took out his wallet and paid for dinner, leaving a generous tip for the pretty waitress, who had disappeared somewhere in the meantime.

Need to get some sleep, he told himself firmly.

Sleep? his inner voice replied at once with quiet mockery. You really think you can sleep now?

Watch me, Tumansky argued back irritably, getting quickly to his feet. I just need to take a headache pill first.

The ache in his temples and the back of his head had been bothering him for some time already, though it still hadn’t reached the point where painkillers became absolutely necessary. Ilya Mikhailovich disliked taking pills — in fact, he disliked medical treatment of any sort — although with his extensive collection of chronic ailments, avoiding them altogether was impossible.

I’m just tired. This damned train… these memories… I’ll take some Pentalgin, a few drops of valerian, and I’ll fall asleep soon enough, he told himself as he walked back toward his compartment.

But things were not going to happen that way.