"I am going to take a leak" I said and stepped out of the door "I'll be back in a second"
I definitely didn't know how to play the guitar. There is however a flimsy chance that when I pick it up, the fingers might remember something and strum a bit, but I wasn't ready to count on that. But I couldn't just run away from my bandmates, for heaven's sake.
I climbed from the basement to the first floor and moved down the corridor. In buildings like this, there are usually restrooms on every floor, so if you walk down the corridor long enough, you'll inevitably see the coveted "M/F" signs.
I stopped by the mirror and pressed my forehead against the cold glass. Thoughts were swirling in my head. "I don't know a damn thing about the nineties…" "…and how am I supposed to find out where I live?" "I wonder, if I save someone who was killed, how will I know if history has changed?"
I had figured out what to do with the guitar before I left our den. Now I was trying to gather the rest of my thoughts, but it wasn't going well. I was preoccupied with some really trivial matters. And they refused to come together.
Well, we'll see what tomorrow brings. I twisted the knob with the red dot. The faucet emitted an offended hiss, but no water came out. Okay, let's check the cold one. Ugh, rusty. I guess I won't get to feel like Keanu Reeves in all those movies. Standing with a wet face and staring meaningfully into the mirror.
I chuckled, turned off both taps, and trudged back to my "Satanists."
"I'm back!" I announced, slamming the door and immediately letting out a loud, exaggerated howl. I doubled over, clutching my left hand. Damn, that hurt… But it doesn't seem like anything's broken. "Damn it… My hand…"
"What happened, Belial?" Belphegor quickly rushed over. "What's wrong?"
"I slammed my hand in the door…" I hissed, straightening up and showing everyone my trembling hand. A reddish-blue bruise was starting to swell on the back. "Oh man… That hurts… Might be a fracture..."
"We have a concert today!" Astaroth practically shrieked.
"You need to put ice on it…" Behemoth mumbled.
"We need to get you to a clinic!" Belphegor's eyes went wide.
"You should've been more careful; you knew we were going to play…" Astaroth continued scolding. "And the concert's really important!"
"Do you think I slammed my hand in the door on purpose?" I snapped back, laughing inwardly. Actually, that was exactly the plan. It's easy to render a guitarist useless—all it takes is a finger injury. And specifically on the left hand, which is convenient. Back in school, I had to break my right one before exams… But still, I hope it's just a bruise.
"Let's head to the first aid station," Belphegor grabbed me by the arm and dragged me toward the door. "There should be doctors at the factory, right?"
"Let's find out," I nodded, making sure to keep my face in a pained expression and holding my hand out in front of me.
Belphegor clearly knew where to go, moving with confidence. We climbed the empty, echoing staircase to the third floor. Unlike the first and second floors, this one had a wide corridor blocked by a wall with double doors, above which was a sign in red on white that read "CLINIC."
Next to it was a sign with working hours and a yellowed piece of paper with a handwritten note: "For X-rays, register in Room 3."
"It's open," Belphegor poked his head through the door. "Hey, is anyone alive in there?"
Only an echo answered. We walked inside. To the right of the door was a glass wall with windows—the reception. Behind it were shelves with personal files, but the stern ladies who usually manned them were absent. Somewhere nearby, water was dripping loudly, and there was also the quiet murmur of a television.
"Someone's here," I nudged little Belphegor aside with my shoulder and walked ahead. Doors, doors. And between them, vinyl-covered examination tables. That vinyl had clearly seen… well, quite a lot. Ophthalmologist, neurologist, treatment room, chief physician… It was like playing hot-and-cold. The sound of the TV grew louder—the right direction. If it started fading, it was time to turn back. Ah, here it is, behind this door.
"I'm Mazzy! I love clocks!" came from behind the door. I knocked. Then opened it without waiting for a response.
"Hello!" I said. "Do doctors still exist in this clinic?"
"Oh my goodness!" the middle-aged woman in a white coat jumped nervously. She was sitting on a small couch, and in front of her, on a little table, was the very TV that had led us here. It was a small, red set with antenna ears. On the black-and-white screen, you could make out strange cartoon figures chattering in English. "You shouldn't scare people like that! What do you want, young lady?"
"Actually, I'm a guy," I replied with a grin. "It's just the hairstyle."
"Pfft, what a ridiculous fashion, can't tell a thing anymore," the woman scoffed.
"Borya, can you wait for me outside?" I said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind me. The woman was now fully focused on me, abandoning her English lessons. And I, in turn, sized her up. About forty years old, short, rust-colored hair, probably dyed. Styled in some awful puffed-up hairdo. Pearl-pink lipstick.
"Are you a doctor?" I asked.
"What do you need?" she responded instead.
"I need first aid," I showed her my swollen hand. "Slammed it in a door."
"Well, you'll need an X-ray," her tone became more caring. "It might be a fracture…"
"Could you at least put on a splint or something?" I said in a low voice.
"There should be a bandage somewhere," she said, moving toward a white cabinet.
This room didn't much resemble a medical office. More like a break room. And the woman didn't look much like a doctor either. At best, a paramedic. Or maybe just an orderly. What's the point of keeping doctors around when the factory is practically shut down?
"But you really should go to the clinic," she said while rummaging through a drawer.
"I don't have a fracture," I said confidentially. "I hit myself on purpose so I wouldn't have to play guitar tonight. But it's bruised, so a bandage wouldn't hurt."
"Well, aren't you clever!" the medic grumbled. "And you expect me to cover up your little trick? Should I write you a doctor's note too?"
"I don't need a note," I shook my head. "Just a bandage."
"And why do you think I'd even help you?" The medic, or whoever she was, planted a fist on her hip and looked me up and down with an appraising gaze. It was the kind of look single women, obsessed with nesting, give to any male around. Judging by her expression, I ranked pretty low on her internal list.
"You're bored," I shrugged, nodding at the roll of bandage in her hands. "You've got free bandages. And I did actually hurt my hand."
"Well, isn't he a character, just look at him!" she exclaimed, throwing up her hands as if addressing an imaginary audience.
"For what it's worth, it really does hurt," I said, winking at her. "So you're not breaking any rules. Just providing basic first aid."
"Hold on a second…" She squinted, scrutinizing me. "Are you Valya Korneyeva's son?"
"Well…" I mumbled uncertainly.
"Of course! I recognize you now!" She slapped her thighs. "Grew your hair out, no wonder I didn't recognize you. How's your mom doing?"
"How do you think?" I replied with a crooked grin.
"Yeah, figures…" the medic sighed bitterly. She stared at the bandage in her hand, then back at me. "Give me your hand; let's see what kind of bruise you've got. Come over here, sit on the couch."
"Valentina Korneyeva," I repeated to myself mentally, trying to squeeze out any useful information from my memory. Nothing. But she probably wasn't mistaken. First off, we clearly belong here at this factory, especially me, with a key. It's unlikely I earned enough respect on my own to be allowed to rehearse here with my ragtag crew—there must be some family support. The simplest explanation? It's from a relative, like my mom. That's actually a good sign. If she's helping me, then our relationship is probably okay.
Meanwhile, the medic skillfully and confidently examined my bruised hand.
"Looks like there's no fracture after all," she said and began wrapping a bandage, using a wooden school ruler as a makeshift splint. "But you should still go to the clinic—it's just down the street. It's better to get an X-ray in case there's a small crack."
"Thanks for your help," I said sincerely as the medic tore the bandage with a sharp motion and tied it in a neat knot. "When I get rich, I'll bring you a chocolate bar or something nice."
"Oh, stop it!" she smiled bashfully. "Get rich, huh… But listen, how about this—you could ask your mom if there's any way for me to get a job with her, huh? I can sew, and the pay here is a pittance, and we haven't been paid for three months already…"
"I'll ask," I nodded seriously. "But no promises, you know?"
"I understand," she sighed.
"Alright, I'll head out," I said, getting up from the couch and stepping toward the door. "The guys are waiting for me."
"Goodbye, Volodya," she patted me on the shoulder. She got my name right, which means she really didn't make a mistake. That's good. Maybe I should keep a notebook to jot down information about people I know. Otherwise, my brain's going to burst.
By the way, I'm curious… Suppose I mess up and reveal I don't know something I should. What will people think? That I'm a spy who replaced the real Vovka Korneyev, aka Belial? That I've lost my mind and belong in a psych ward? Or that I'm a drug addict?
I opened the door, and Belphegor jumped up from the couch. He looked at my bandaged hand and sighed sadly.
"Is it broken?" he asked.
"I don't know; the X-ray machine here isn't working," I replied.
"Make sure to go to the clinic, young man!" the medic called out after me. "Don't delay—fractures are no joke!"
Judging by the way Belphegor happily chattered about tonight's concert and his ideas for masks on the way back, he didn't eavesdrop at the door and genuinely just waited. His freckled face clearly isn't cut out for deceit. If he'd heard what I told the medic, he wouldn't have been able to resist pestering me with questions.
"So that's that," I said when we got back to our lair. I waved my freshly bandaged hand at everyone. "I can't play today."
"Are you serious?!" Astaroth's face twisted in displeasure. "So now we'll have to cancel the gig because of you?"
"Maybe we should…," Behemoth hesitated. "Call Kiryuha? He plays well, knows our songs… And he's been wanting to join for a while now."
"Kiryuha?…" Astaroth's face took on a look of heavy contemplation. I didn't know who this Kiryukha was, but it was clear that he wasn't particularly favored by our frontman.
"We can't do it without a guitarist," Astaroth drawled, giving me a sour look.
"Well, sorry," I shrugged, not exactly filled with remorse. "A guitarist can't play without his left hand."
"Can Kiryuha come to rehearsal right now?" Astaroth asked.
"We can call him," Behemoth got up from behind the drum set. He looked at me. "Will you come with me to Uncle Kolya's? He won't give me the phone without you…"
Judging by the excited shout over the phone, this unknown Kirill had been just sitting at home, waiting for his long-haired acquaintances to invite him to play in their band. Could I have been wrong, and these guys are actually so good that a crowd of people is eager to join their tight little satanic circle? They certainly looked like typical metalheads… Though I still hadn't heard them play or sing. But it looks like I would soon find out.
"He'll get dressed and come right over," Behemoth said, looking pleased as he hung up the phone. "We'll wait for him here, okay? We'll need to let him onto the grounds."
At this, Uncle Kolya chuckled into his mustache but said nothing. We went outside. I shivered and tried to wrap myself tighter in my jacket. I could really use a hat, too, if I'm being honest.
"Hey, Vov, don't you think Sanya's kind of… I dunno…" Behemoth glanced around conspiratorially before lowering his voice. "Acting like a big shot lately? When we formed the band, we agreed we'd decide everything together. But now he's acting like 'Angels of Satan' is all about him."
"Are you suggesting a revolution and a coup?" I smirked.
"No, seriously, what's up with him?" Behemoth huffed. "I like the song Borya wrote too, but Sanya won't even listen to it… Maybe we should talk to him? He didn't used to be like this."
"Talking it out is a good idea," I said. I could have just hummed something noncommittal. Behemoth clearly had a lot on his chest and was eager to pour out all his feelings and thoughts at once.
"And remember that other time," he went on, "at the apartment gig? When Seryoga jumped in as backup vocals for 'Devil's Circle,' and then you remember what Sanya did? It was embarrassing for Seryoga—he meant well. He wasn't off-key or anything, he just has a better voice, and Sanya freaked out…"
"Mmm, you think?" I raised an eyebrow. Yeah, something was definitely off in this hellish kingdom.
"Then he told us we couldn't take Seryoga in because he's not one of us," Behemoth sneered. "So what if he went to a different school?"
"Exactly," I nodded in agreement.
"It all started after that concert," Behemoth glanced toward our basement. "Turns out, he talked to Bankin, and that's it! Now he's the boss, and you can't say a word against him. Of course, he's shaking hands with Bankin himself, and they even put us on the concert lineup."
Bankin… That name rang a bell. Yevgeny Bankin was a notable figure even before I went into the army. Back in the late '80s, he went to Leningrad (which is what St. Petersburg was still called back then), visited the rock club there, and got fired up about starting something similar in Novokinevsk. He organized concerts in various community centers, practically claimed the drama theater's recording studio as his own. That infamous "Rock Province" festival? That was his doing too. By the early 2000s, he had a whole production center, but in 2010, he was murdered in his own stairwell by some thugs. So yeah, Bankin was a big deal. No wonder a typical metalhead like Astaroth got a swelled head after talking to him.
"Where's your Kirill?" I asked.
"There he is, running over!" Behemoth waved excitedly along the fence. Well, now I understood why Astaroth looked so hesitant. Running toward the factory gate at full speed was a typical "good boy," a mama's darling. Neatly cut blond hair, a tailored overcoat buttoned up tight, trousers with creases, and polished shoes.
"Hi, Abaddon!" he beamed. "I ran over as soon as I heard. Are you serious? Astaroth's letting me play at the concert tonight?"
"Belial hurt his hand," Behemoth nodded at me. I showed him my bandaged hand. "Can you help us out?"
"With pleasure!" Kirill's eyes were filled with such fiery enthusiasm that I almost burst out laughing. What a sight. A nerd dreaming of singing about hell and Satan, but instead, he's learning to play the violin and graduating with honors from law school. "Are we going to rehearse?"
"Yeah, let's get going!" Behemoth headed back toward the checkpoint.
"And you know, I was just writing a colloquium, and my cup broke," Kirill said hurriedly, catching his breath. "And I instantly felt that something important was going to happen. Then your call came. And people say the universe doesn't send us any signs!"
"Kiryuh, you do understand that this is just for one time?" Behemoth turned to the enthusiastic nerd and gave him a stern look from under his brows.
"Of course!" Kirill responded eagerly. "I told you before, I'm always ready to help if needed. I know all your songs, I've been practicing almost every day…"
"This is only for today's concert!" Behemoth emphasized sternly.
"Yes, yes, I get it," Kirill nodded rapidly.
I wonder, did he finish music school as a guitar major, or is he self-taught?