State Security (Preview only)

1

The hazy orange light of the setting sun cast through the alleyways of Moscow, casting eerie shadows that shimmered along the ground from bins and scattered bits of litter. The rays seeped in through the blinds of Dmitri Borodin's Small, untidy and claustrophobic apartment.
He shifted his weight from his left to his right in a feeble attempt to get comfortable on the rigid, unnaturally hard wooden chair that stood behind a cluttered desk with paper and a spilt coffee mug. The dark brown, scalding hot liquid ran slowly, almost methodically, down the cracks and dents in the desk, eventually reaching the edge and dripping onto the grey, worn carpet, creating yet another stain in the poorly kept room. His hazel brown eyes were heavy and he paid little attention to the dripping liquid. In his state of near-unconsciousness he didn't notice the heavy footfalls approaching his apartment from the corridor until two heavy knocks rang through his room, echoing out from the door.
“Dmitri Borodin?” A gruff voice called from the other side of the door. Dmitri wasn't expecting anybody and he didn't recognize the voice. He grabbed a revolver from his desk and tucked it into his pocket, after checking it was loaded. Six gleaming .44 calibre rounds shone out at him from the rotating barrel. He approached the door wishing he'd had that peep-hole fitted.
He pulled back the lock and no sooner had he released his grasp than the door flew back and slammed into his face.
Hard.
He was thrown to the ground, blood oozing from his nose and mouth, as two men in black ran into the room with AK-47 Kalashnikov rifles raised and ready. One paused over Dmitri then checked him. Finding the revolver in his pocket he passed it to a third man, who walked in slowly, wearing a trench coat and a balaclava. The third man examined the weapon with a look of extreme interest in his eyes and then crouched down over Dmitri. Blood trickled down the side of his face as the man grabbed Dmitri's hand and placed the revolver in it. Dmitri's instincts kicked in and he pulled his arm up to shoot this bastard in the face.
The man got there first.
Grabbing Dmitri's wrist with inhuman strength he forced the pistol down until it was pointing directly at Dmitri's temple. A tear trickled out of Dmitri's eye and ran down his face and onto the ground as the man forced Dmitri's index finger onto the trigger with his thumb and made the man pull the trigger.
The next day the tragic suicide of Dmitri Borodin would be discovered by the police and his next of kin would be informed.

2

Two men walked into the small apartment and looked over the scene. The body looked as though it had been thrown on the floor. The face was dirty except for one clean streak that split through the dirt from his left eye onto the stained and dull floor.
On the right sight of his head his temple was blown out and burnt slightly by a point-blank shot.
The left side was barely recognisable.
The .44 calibre round had blown almost all of that side of the face out. The brain of the victim was nearly all a thick, gory, near-liquid substance.
The reason for this is the force of the bullet had pushed out when it entered the head, rippling out through the soft grey matter, and therefore creating a much bigger exit wound.
“This was not a suicide.” Viktor muttered, looking over the crime scene. Him and his fellow private detective – Nikolai – had decided to come and take a look after they had heard of the incident.
“How can you tell?” Nikolai replied.
“His nose. Why would a man break his own nose before shooting himself in the head?”
“Maybe he hates noses.” He joked.
Viktor didn't appreciate the small framed man's sense of humour, so he muttered “Hated. The correct term should be hated.” as a correction. Viktor leaned over and examined the man's wrist. There was slight bruising around it, almost like a ligature mark but blunter and more erratic.
“This man was grabbed around the wrist. Look at this clean streak down the dirt on his face. He cried before the end came. Looks to me like someone forced him to shoot himself.”
“Who?” Nikolai mumbled. Viktor looked up at him and their eyes met. In seconds they both knew who did it. “But why?” He asked.
“Let's find out.” He said and started to look around the cluttered, dirty apartment.

3

Alexei Borodin watched from the top of the stairs while his mother Tanya answered the door and a man in police uniform stood there and invited himself in. Tanya Borodin closed the door at the bottom of the stairwell and Alexei and his twin sister Katia heard the bolt being pulled shut. They both tried to make their way quietly to the door to try and hear what was going on but Alexei messed that up. Halfway down he tripped over his own left foot and tumbled down as noisily as humanly possible. His mother then opened the door and shooed them off to their bedroom. Katia laid on the top bunk rhythmically tapping the metal frame while Alexei paced nervously around the small room.
The room itself was very much reminiscent of Dmitri Borodin's, small, cluttered and dirty. The dark, cold metal door stood in the left corner and next to that the undersized bed stood, in such a bad way that it looked as though it would fall apart any moment. The desk in the corner had stood there for many years and was cracked, stained and rusty nails stuck out of the corner. Alexei and Katia had been born on the 13th March 1940 and as such both turned seventeen in a week. They both knew why the officer had come. At least, they thought they knew. Their father. It had to be news about him.
“What do you think it is?” Alexei broke the awkward silence perpetrating the dank room.
The reply was short and bitter; “Dad.”
They remained in silence and Alexei sat on the windowsill, looking out of the window over the cold grey street, in a cold grey city, underneath a cold grey sky that was spitting down cold grey rain. Then something made them both jump and Katia fell backwards, slamming her head into the wall and then recoiling forwards, the momentum throwing her off the bed and onto the floor.
There was a noise from downstairs.
A scream.
Followed by a bang.
Katia immediately pulled herself up and threw herself into motion. She ran into the ajar door, knocking it aside. Alexei followed close behind her. She turned the landing and onto the stairs, going down two steps at a time. She ran at the door.
It was still locked.
Hammering her fists against the door Katia screamed for her mother. Alexei joined in. There was no reply.
He started to kick at the door. Katia joined in.
It took them almost five minutes to break down the door.
Too long.

The pool of crimson was spreading out from the gaping wound on the left side of Tanya's head. It seeped through the weaving of the dull beige carpet and under a dark blue chair. There was a lead pipe in the corner that Alexei had fit in the plumbing himself only yesterday. Water flowed out from the break in the plumbing and had spread across the carpet, now mingling with the blood.
The two distraught children called out for their mother, then for help. Then they both broke down and cried.
She had been dead before they had broke down the door.

* * *

“Where's that bastard gone?” Alexei growled, storming out of the room, shaking off Katia as she tried to persuade him that it wasn't worth it. That the police would find the man who had done this to their mother.
“He was the police.” He reminded her scornfully.
He stormed out of the front door, walking faster than usual, then turned onto the main road, walking south west from his home along the Shchyolkovskoye shosse. He decided his best bet was to walk to the centre of the city. There weren't many people about. He saw one man in a dark overcoat and what looked to be military issue DMS – Directly Moulded Soles (Or as some like to call it “Dem's My Shoes”) - boots. He glanced briefly at Alexei and then resumed examining a notepad he held in his left hand.
Alexei kept walking.

Further down the road, Alexei realised he didn't even know what the man he was looking for looked like. He felt so stupid for storming off in a fit of anger to hunt down an unknown killer. Turning around he noticed a man wearing a dark overcoat who turned off down an alleyway.
Probably a coincidence, he reasoned in his head.
He continued on his journey back home. He was almost there when a man looked up at him and then turned off down a separate street.
The man wore a dark overcoat and held a notepad in his left hand.
Alexei freaked out. He jogged up to the street and looked down it. There was nobody to be seen.
Was he going insane? No that couldn't be it... Could it? Why would he be hallucinating about a man in an overcoat stalking him... But then again, if it was real, why would a man be stalking him, and who could it be?
Turning around, Alexei saw the man walking out from the alley that was next to his apartment building. Alexei snapped. He sprinted up to the man and yelled out at him. The man drew a revolver and Alexei backed off.
The man aimed.
He fired.
Alexei felt the heat and speed of the bullet as it travelled at supersonic speeds past his left ear.
He dropped to the ground.
The man disappeared.
Standing up, Alexei glanced briefly around the streets. Nobody was there. Rain drizzled from the dreary sky, spitting down onto him and soaking through his clothes.
He hastily returned home.