“— Throw her in with the repeat offenders!” laughed the colony commander, Colonel Majorov, from behind the thick steel door. His footsteps slowly faded down the corridor. “Let her sit with her ‘patients’ until evening! By morning, all the madness will be out of her head!”
Inna leaned against the roughly painted wall, the old oil paint crusted and peeling. The air in Cell No. 8 was suffocating, a mix of sour bread, dirty clothes, and strong tobacco blending with the concrete. The lamp under the ceiling buzzed like an alarmed beehive.
Shadows stirred on the two-tiered iron beds.“Look, boys, the boss sent us a nurse!” croaked a thin man from the top bunk, letting his tattooed arm dangle. “Why are you shaking, madam?”Inna straightened up. Her uniform shirt clung to her shoulder with sweat.
The radio and pepper spray had already been confiscated at the gate, as Majorov intended to intimidate the new employee with this punishment.“Everyone, take your places!” she said, her voice calm and firm.From the lower bunk by the window, a tall man in his fifties slowly sat up, short gray hair, deep wrinkles around his mouth.
He wore a black coat, as if it were his own armor.“Shut up, Siply!” he said softly, and the thin man immediately receded.The man stepped closer. His eyes, pale and sharp, studied Inna’s movements as if searching for a trap. Stepan Korshunov. The informal leader of the block.
The very man because of whom Inna had changed her name, moved north to this harsh town, and donned the hated uniform.“Majorov doesn’t just throw his own people into the cage,” he said hoarsely. “What did you do to him?”“I didn’t sign the fake delivery notes for the canned meat,” Inna replied, looking him straight in the eye.
Stepan smiled, but there was so much fatigue in it that Inna felt a momentary pang of pity.“Committed. Well, sit until evening. Tomorrow, you’ll write your resignation and go cook your mother’s broth. Principles don’t last long here.”
Stepan moved toward the corner to lie on his bed. Inna knew: if she didn’t speak now, there would be no second chance.“October 12th, evening. The old bypass past the sawmill,” she began quickly, almost whispering. “It was pouring rain. You were driving the truck.
In the cabin, the little wooden bear on the mirror swayed.”Stepan stopped. His back tensed. The others seemed asleep, but the air felt almost electric.“You got out with the lamp,” Inna continued. “A man lay on the road. The black car that hit him didn’t stop. But you noticed the license plate. And who was driving.”
Stepan slowly turned. His face turned to stone.“I didn’t see anything,” he snapped. “I don’t recommend you talking either.”“The man on the road was my father,” Inna swallowed the dry lump in her throat. “Illya Nikolayevich. A simple accountant. He found discrepancies in the factory, papers about fake companies.
He was planning to go to the prosecutor.”Stepan studied her for a long moment. Outside, the wind whistled in the buzzing cell.“Accountant, I see,” he said quietly. “When I ran over… he was already very ill. He grabbed my coat and asked me to look after his daughter, Irina.”
“On paper, I’m Irina,” Inna nodded. “Inna is just the family name.”Stepan sat heavily on the edge of the bed, pulled out a crumpled matchbox, twirled it between his fingers, and put it back in his pocket.“And Anton Majorov was in the car,” he muttered. “The son of the colony commander, highly respected.
Totally drunk. I remember his face well; the headlights shone right on him.”The rest of the night was spent in restless half-sleep. Morning came with the click of the lock. The guard stood in the doorway:“Out!” he barked at Inna. “The colonel is calling.”
The command office was lined with dark wood. A luxury leather pen holder sat on the desk; the air smelled of strong men’s cologne. Majorov sat in his chair, playing with a heavy pen.“Well, how did you like your little overnight stay?” he asked mockingly.
Inna stopped, adjusting her wrinkled uniform.“Perfectly. People are more honest there than in some offices.”Majorov’s smile disappeared. He tossed a gray cardboard sheet onto the desk.“You have a secret, I see. I asked HR to check your file this morning. Diploma, address, all fine. But your name changed five years ago.
You took your father-in-law’s name.”He slowly stood, hands on the desk.“Illya Saveliev. Your father. Did you come here because of him? Playing detective?”Inna’s mouth dried, but she met his gaze.“I want justice. My father died because of your boys, and you covered it all up.”
Majorov gave a short, coughing laugh.“Girl, you watch too many series. We are the law here. Now you sign the resignation, hand over the keys, and forget this city. Or… people here might fall down the stairs.”“Too late,” Inna replied calmly.
She pulled out a black dictaphone, tiny as a matchbox, and placed it on the edge of the desk.“Every morning at six, a truck delivers bread,” Inna said. “While you were sleeping, I handed the recording to a trustworthy driver. Stepan Korshunov’s testimony is on it. It’s almost nine;
the file is already on the Moscow general’s desk.”Majorov froze. His face went pale.A tall man in civilian clothes entered the room:“Colonel Majorov? Own security service. You are under arrest.”Inna silently followed behind them. Her heart felt empty, after ten years of determined life. Now it was over.
A month later, on the damp earth of the old cemetery, Inna placed two red carnations on her father’s tombstone.“All done, Dad,” she whispered.Stepan Korshunov stepped beside her, in a simple coat, clean-shaven.“Your father was a good man. Right,” he said.
“How’s life been for you?” Inna asked.“Good. I’m going to Ryazan to my sister; there’s work in the car park. I’ll be driving again,” he replied. “And you?”“I got a job at the prosecutor’s office. I’ll be reviewing old files, like the ones we were,” she said, faintly smiling.
They stood in silence, listening to the sounds of forest birds. This was no longer the heavy silence of prison. For the first time, she felt peace in her soul.
