Russian Roulette by Anthony Horowitz

other with soaring pillars, archways, and towers. Travelers were arriving from different parts of Russia, and as soon as they emerged, they were greeted by dozens of food stalls, mainly run by wrinkled old women in white aprons and hats. In fact, people were selling everything . . . food, vegetables, Chinese jeans and padded jackets, electrical goods, their own furniture. Some of them must have come off the train for no other reason. Nobody had any money. This was where you had to start.
    My own needs were simple and immediate. I was dizzy with hunger. I headed to the nearest food stall and started with a small pie filled with cabbage and meat. I followed it with a currant bun—we called them
kalerikas
and they were specially made to fill you up. I bought a drink from a machine that squirted syrup and fizzy water into a glass. It still wasn’t enough. I had another and then a raspberry ice cream that I bought for seven kopecks. The lady beamed at me as she handed it over as if she knew it was something special. I remember the taste of it to this day.
    It was as I finished the last spoonful that I realized I was being watched. There was a boy of about seventeen or eighteen leaning against a lamppost, examining me. He was the same height as me but more thickly set, with muddy eyes and long, very straight, almost colorless hair. He would have been handsome but at some time his nose had been broken and it had set unevenly, giving his whole face an unnatural slant. He was wearing a leather jacket that was much too big for him, the sleeves rolled back so that they wouldn’t cover his hands. Perhaps he had stolen it. Nobody was coming anywhere near him. Even the travelers seemed to avoid him. From the way he was standing there, you would think he owned the sidewalk and perhaps half the city. I quite liked that, the way he had nothing but pretended otherwise.
    As I looked around, I realized that there were actually quite a lot of children outside Kazanskiy station, most of them huddling together in groups close to the entrance without daring to go inside. These children looked much less well off than the boy in the leather jacket, emaciated with pale skin and hollow eyes. Some of them were trying to beg from the arriving passengers, but they were doing it halfheartedly, as if they were nervous of being seen. I saw a couple of tiny boys who couldn’t be more than ten years old, homeless and half starved. I felt ashamed. What would they have been thinking as they watched me gorge myself? I was tempted to go over and give them a few kopecks, but before I could move, the older boy suddenly walked forward and stood in front of me. There was something about his manner that unnerved me. He seemed to be smiling at some private joke. Did he know who I was, where I had come from? I got the feeling that he knew everything about me even though we had never met.
    “Hello, soldier,” he said. He was referring of course to my Pioneer outfit. “Where have you come from?”
    “From Kirsk,” I said.
    “Never heard of it. Nice place?”
    “It’s all right.”
    “First time in Moscow?”
    “No. I’ve been here before.”
    I had a feeling he knew straightaway, like the policemen in Kirsk, that I was lying. But he just smiled in that odd way of his. “You got somewhere to stay?”
    “I have a friend . . .”
    “It’s good to have a friend. We all need friends.” He looked around the square. “But I don’t see anyone.”
    “He’s not here.”
    It reminded me of my first day at senior school. I was trying to sound confident, but I was completely defenseless and he knew it. He examined me more closely, weighing up various possibilities, then suddenly he straightened up and stretched out a hand. “Relax, soldier,” he said. “I don’t want to give you any hassle. I’m Dimitry. You can call me Dima.”
    I took his hand. I couldn’t really refuse it. “I’m Yasha,” I said.
    We shook.
    “Welcome to Moscow,” he said.