Pig: A Thriller (27 page)

“That fucker!” swore Pig not an hour after delivering The Missile’s eulogy. “Selfish cunt had to go and die. Why couldn’t he just get sick and toddle off in the distance like the others? No fuss, no questions, just take his money and enjoy what was left of his life.”

“That’s over half a dozen,” said Doctor Bandar worriedly. “We can’t keep hiding this. Sooner or later someone is going to notice and ask questions.”

“Nah,” dismissed Pig. “We got most of those out before they died. They won’t be tied back to here. From now on, anyone else comes in with symptoms, we send them off to the Crimea for a rest cure in the sanatoria. That’ll deflect attention even more.”

“But –” began the doctor.

“But nothing,” said Pig definitively. “Just do it. Order more Prussian Blue. I’ll try and get some lined coveralls to cut down on the emissions. But anyone who gets affected is leaving Camp.”

“But--”

“But I agree. We have to start covering our asses better. Maybe even cut and run if it comes down to that, pull out, take the money and run. Don’t worry. I’m not going down with the ship. Do what I say and you won’t either.”

“Prussian blue is a crystal lattice that exchanges potassium for cesium at the surface of the crystal. When given orally, it binds cesium that is secreted in the gut before it can be reabsorbed. Data suggest that in humans, Prussian blue can reduce cesium's half-life by approximately 43% and reduce total body burdens. Prussian blue is well tolerated at a dosage of 3 g/day with appropriate monitoring of serum potassium levels and observing for signs of constipation.”

             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
--Wikipedia

“You call Bandar a Doctor?”

“He’s got the degree, hasn’t he?”

“That’s like calling shit a toilet ornament.”

“All I’m saying is that if you were injured, it’d be better to have the Doctor treat you than be pissed on by a dog.”

They were in the Mess Hall bullshitting again, The Oracle, a couple of roughnecks from the rigs, a toolpusher and some bored canteen staff.

“We call him Doc, but Dopey or Grumpy would be more suitable,” bitched one. “The world will end before the Doc runs out of things to whine about.”

“What have you got against the Doc?”

“I’m Russian. I got something against everybody.”

“He’s no dope,” said another. “I’ll bet he could buy and sell everyone at this table.”

“You bet,” mocked the toolpusher. “You haven’t paid off on a losing bet all year.  Who’d be stupid enough to take it?”

“Why’d they call him Dopey anyhow? The dwarf.”

“Because he was the only one without a beard,” answered The Oracle. The others – all Russian – nodded sagely. It was an old Russian belief that all wise men had a beard.

“That’s probably one of the few things Disney every got right. Beards play an important part in spreading ideas and winning minds; Marx, Lenin, Castro; they all had beards. Look at Khomeini in Iran. You think he could have overthrown the Shah if he was shaved? No beardless man has ever been a prophet.”

“Did you know,” The Oracle continued, “that the Soviet Union once banned Mickey Mouse ‘cause he had been living with Minnie for over fifty years and had never shown any inclination to marry her?”

“I thought the Bolsheviks came into power preaching free love?”

“That was only until someone got a look at Krupskaya,” joked a roughneck.

“Krupskaya?”

“Lenin’s wife,” answered The Oracle. “Look at Marx. I like Marx. I'm sure that he and Jenny made mad monkey love. You can feel it when you read his stuff. The pace of his prose and the humour. Screw Krupskaya all the time, on the other hand, and you end up writing crap. Like Lenin. And trying to prevent anyone else from enjoying a good bonk, too. Just ‘cause he didn’t want to touch Krupskaya, his own wife.”

“The Doctor,” someone said. “He’s the Eighth Dwarf.”

“Come again?”

“The Eighth Dwarf.”

“Nope, there’s only seven, dipstick,” said The Oracle. “Dopey, Grumpy, Doc, Happy, Bashful, Sneezy, and Sleepy. Seven.”

“Yeah, well, the Doc, he’s the eighth: Greedy.”

“How do you do that?”

“What? Blow milk out of my nose?”

             
“No, remember their names. All seven. Just like that.”

             
“Easy, it’s a mnemonic. Two S’s, two D’s, and three emotions.”

             
“Huh?”

“Two S’s: Sleepy and Sneezy; two D’s: Dopey and Doc; and three emotions: Happy, Bashful, and Grumpy.”

“Come quick!” yelled the ancient Camp security guard, running into the canteen, his equally creaky Alsatian limping along behind him. “Call Pig! Someone broke into Document Control. Kolya – the Old Bolshevik. He’s been hurt.”

             
“What were you doing in there?” Pig asked Old Kolya. “You were supposed to be gone long ago. Your shift ended at six.”

             
“Fine, thank you,” complained Kolya, rubbing his bruised head. “A little sore. How good of you to ask.”

             
“What?” demanded Pig.

             
“Fuck you.”

             
“What the hell are you talking about?”

             
“I almost get killed from a whack on the head and you’re complaining I’m working free overtime. So fuck you.”

             
“How is your head?” Pig asked grudgingly.

             
“Hard. Thank God. Who does not exist, of course. Stupid superstitious expression.”

             
“What did you see?” Pig asked anxiously. Being anyone’s inferior was unthinkable to Pig, so God could not possible exist.

             
“Some shadows moving around inside as I was leaving the canteen. Flitting past the window. I thought maybe the window was left open and documents were blowing around. So I got my keys out and went in.”

“No. I meant did you see who it was?”

“He caught me from behind. Nothing. Maybe his shoes when I was lying on the floor bleeding to death. But I don’t remember. I was probably too busy calculating my overtime.”

Pig looked relieved, not disappointed. If he understood Kolya’s indignant sarcasm, he chose now to show it.

“But I caught him a good one,” Kolya continued.

“What do you mean?”

“I whacked him,” Kolya said, satisfied.

“What?” Now, Pig was horrified.

“I caught him with the edge of a ruler sitting on my desk. He’ll be feeling it. Look.” Kolya held the straight edge up. There was blood all along the edge.

             
Pig shook his head sadly. Probably pissed about damaging office equipment, Kolya thought.

             
“I need to get to the Clinic.”

             
“What?”
             
“The Clinic. I need to see the Doctor.”

             
“Why can he do? He’s a doctor, not a police man. Leave the man alone.”

             
“To bandage me up. Give me something for the pain. Idiot. You’d think you were the one who got hit on the head, not me.”

             
“Right. Wait here. I’ll go get him.”

             
“My head got hurt, not my legs. Let go of my arm. I can walk there on my own.”

             
But the Clinic was shut when Kolya and Pig arrived there and the Doctor was not answering his phone, even though he was supposed to be on twenty-four hour call. Even his trailer was empty, dark, an offence, since the Camp was never allowed to be without an attending physician on site.

A disciplinary note was put in Doctor Bandar’s file and he was put on probation for a month because he was not available to treat Kolya after the attack. It was doubled when he was caught trying to lie his way out of it. He’d had to attend another emergency, he’d lied at first. Out of camp. In Noyabrsk. When no such person could be found, he changed his story and admitted he’d passed out drunk in town and the first lie was told to try and cover his tracks. Throughout the disciplinary hearing, he looked contrite, his doctor’s tunic buttoned all the way up his throat, long sleeves covering his arms. Pig pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, sighed and told him he was very disappointed with him. The Doctor bit his tongue and took his dressing down like a man. Or a conspirator at least. Pig seemed satisfied with the results. No more was said about steps trying to find Kolya’s attacker.