MONDAY, 13th APRIL 1981

The policeman stared at the eight year old boy and the bloody handprints all over his clothes. He had never seen such anger in a child’s blue eyes before. All the time the officer stared, Doctor Kirill Fedorov was crossing the living room, his long arms outstretched. The doctor approached the child from behind as if he were a wild horse. It was a stupid thing to do, the policeman thought to himself, while the child’s mother tutted and lit another cigarette.

The doctor did not remain silent. He began to calmly whisper the boy’s name. The child span around and fixed the doctor with his twisted eyes, but did not flinch, just bared his teeth and turned to run away.

The policeman watched as the doctor swept the child up into his arms and held him to his chest, ignoring the nails that clawed his face. He turned away from the two figures as they waltzed around the room, to look out at the front garden where two cats lay side by side. They would have looked peaceful if they didn’t both have their guts hanging out of their bellies. He turned back to the child, who now lay quietly in Doctor Fedorov’s arms, and noted the blood all over his tiny hands. The policeman shivered and turned away.

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