The Execution | Mikhail Samarsky

18+

It is better to be the victim than the executioner. — Anton Chekhov

Edik Gavrin earned the nickname Che Guevara because of his uncompromising struggle against the enemies of the fatherland. Unlike the real Ernesto, however, our Eduard hunted down enemies of the people on the internet. He spent entire days and nights on social networks and news portals—anywhere he could leave comments and, as he put it, express his opinion.

“Shoot him!” he wrote beneath a report about a motorist who had knocked down an elderly woman. Never mind that the woman had survived. The “potential” murderer still deserved to be executed. Nor did the fact that she had crossed the road where she was not supposed to affect the severity of the punishment, in Che's view.

“The harsher the punishment,” declared the self-styled revolutionary, “the more law and order there will be. Lawbreakers will think a hundred times before breaking a rule. Nobody should escape responsibility.”

Another news report described a teenager who had broken into a stranger's apartment and smashed up the place. Señor Che's comment appeared almost at once.

“At least ten years of hard labour for the bastard,” Eduard wrote. “Preferably in the uranium mines. Scum like that have no place in a normal, civilised society. We don't want them among us.”

Comrade Gavrin couldn't have cared less that the day before, the owner of the apartment had drowned the teenager's puppy. The little dog had slipped onto the landing and torn a neighbour's slipper to pieces. A naughty thing to do, certainly, but puppies will be puppies. The boy's family had offered to compensate the neighbour, even to buy him new slippers. Half an hour later, the offended neighbour carried a plastic bag to the rubbish bin. When the teenager asked where his puppy had gone, the man merely shrugged.

The boy walked to the bin and opened the bag. He froze. Inside lay a tiny, wet bundle: the puppy, dead.

The world went dark before the teenager's eyes. All he could think of was revenge against his hateful neighbour. He pictured himself striking the man over the head with a hammer, driving a knife into his heart, putting out his eyes. Overcome by helplessness, he sat down on the ground beside the rubbish bin, placed the little body in front of him, and wept bitterly.

An elderly neighbour immediately understood what had happened. He sat down beside the boy and waited for his sobs to subside.

“Don't cry, lad,” he said. “Tears won't bring him back. Unfortunately, people can be cruel. Pick up your little friend, and let's give him a proper burial.”

No one disputes that the teenager broke the law. He entered somebody else's apartment, smashed all the crockery and destroyed an extraordinarily expensive antique vase whose price was almost impossible to pronounce. Yes, he was a lawbreaker—one might even say a criminal—and certainly deserved some punishment. But surely you don't send a schoolboy to a labour camp because, in desperation, he took revenge on a heartless, sadistic neighbour.

There is good reason for the saying that cruelty breeds cruelty. What was the neighbour thinking when he killed an innocent puppy? What did he expect? Nobody can see into another person's mind, but there can be no doubt that the grown man's act planted hatred and the poisonous seeds of cruelty in the boy's soul. No psychologist could predict what that inhuman deed might lead to in years to come.

Then a young single mother lost her little son. The child had fallen from a ninth-floor window. You should have seen the woman in the video released by investigators. She was twenty-five, but looked fifty. Her hair had turned grey and hung in disarray; she had bitten her lips until they bled. Her grief was clearly unbearable. And there was Edik Che with his comment:

“Send that slut straight to the gallows! The bitch killed her own child. What sort of mother is that? Women like her have no place in our society. Hang the filthy creature!”

The saddest part was that plenty of people agreed. They chimed in that the country had no law and order. Some instantly decided the woman must have been drunk. Others suggested she had been fooling around with a lover. Still others claimed she had watched the child fall because he was unwanted and had become a nuisance.

Internet commentators know everything, of course. They can guess anything, and nobody can fool them. How many monsters have they already exposed? A normal mother could never allow her child to fall from a window, they said. How could he have climbed onto the sill while his mother was home?

Later the investigation established what had actually happened. The woman had been alone in the flat with her child when she lost consciousness. While she was recovering, the little boy pushed a chair to the window and climbed onto the sill. Nobody can foresee everything. A terrible accident had happened, and nothing could undo it. Your heart aches; grief and helplessness make you want to scream. But demanding that this mother be hanged is still an indefensible act of cruelty.

Edik Che was enormously proud that he had several thousand readers and followers on every social network.

“All I have to do is issue a call,” he boasted to his fellow students, “and we'll bring anyone to justice. We'll crush the vermin. Nobody will escape righteous punishment!”

Another report described a shooting in a café. A man had wounded one customer and killed another. What had really happened was known, for the moment, only to God—and perhaps the investigator. But Eduard stood guard over justice.

“Scum like that should be shot on the spot! Why should such animals live among us? Execute him immediately!”

Never mind the final paragraph of the report, which said the injured men had been extorting a large sum of money from the shooter. When someone reminded Eduard of the detail in the comments, he replied at once:

“Extortion is one thing. Killing a human being is another. An eye for an eye. A criminal must know that if he kills somebody, he'll be killed too. Stop mollycoddling them. Punishment must be fair. We don't need formalities. Witnesses saw who did the killing. What the hell is there to investigate? Take him outside the restaurant, finish him off, and drive him to the cemetery. That's all!”

Then the news featured a man who had murdered his wife, her lover—the neighbour—and his mother-in-law into the bargain. The man had plainly gone completely out of his mind. A life sentence seemed inevitable. But Che would not hear of life imprisonment. Only execution would do.

“Why feed people like that?” Edik argued. “Why should society support them? We have to pay for guards, food, clothes, everything. No, they must be executed!”

“Nobody deserves mercy,” Gavrin insisted on his blog. “We'll never restore order that way. Criminals must be destroyed—hanged, shot, given lethal injections. I propose installing a guillotine in the middle of town and chopping off heads in public. Then our fight against crime will be more visible and more effective. The more we destroy, the lower the crime rate and the more comfortable our lives will become! Death to criminals!”

* * *

Then, quite unexpectedly, Che Guevara changed his tune and stopped demanding savage punishments for the accused. His friends noticed it, and so did his followers.

“Edik, are you getting old?” his regular readers asked in the comments.

Some decided he had fallen in love and gone soft; others accused him of opportunism. People on the Russian internet love the most extraordinary theories. If you spend your time accusing and attacking others, be prepared for the day when the internet sends a few accusations your way. You can be called anything, including a sellout or a political weathercock.

Whatever the reason, Edik had changed—and changed fundamentally. He stopped demanding executions, tried to restrain his former allies, and urged a humane attitude towards victims and people who had broken the law. In short, some extraordinary transformation had taken place.

His friends did not understand what had happened. Soon enough they forgot their former “hero.” Another “revolutionary” and defender of the oppressed took his place.

* * *

This is what had happened.

One evening, somebody rang Eduard's doorbell insistently. Che opened the door to find two strongly built men on the doorstep.

“Citizen Gavrin, get dressed. You're coming with us,” one said in a commanding voice.

“Who are you?” Edik asked, stunned. “Where am I supposed to go?”

“Is something wrong with your hearing?” the man asked. “You're not being invited to go somewhere. You're being ordered to come along. Understand the difference? To the police.”

“The police?” the revolutionary gasped. “What for? I haven't done anything wrong! What have I done?”

“No idea. Nobody reports such things to us. We've been ordered to bring you in, so that's what we're doing. Get dressed,” the stern visitor repeated.

Half an hour later, Edik was led into a basement. A weak light bulb burned in the corner, and a man wearing handcuffs sat crouched on the floor.

“Stand up!” one of the policemen roared.

The man rose and looked fearfully at the newcomers.

The second policeman turned to Edik.

“Comrade Gavrin, before you stands a criminal who killed three people. You've probably seen the news on television. The scoundrel murdered his wife, her lover and an elderly woman—his mother-in-law. A secret society dedicated to fighting crime captures filth like this and executes them here in this basement. Today we've decided to entrust that mission to you.”

“W-w-what do you mean, me?” Eduard asked, his voice trembling. “What are you suggesting?”

“We've explained it plainly enough,” one of the policemen said with a smirk. “You're being given the opportunity to execute this outcast.” He worked the slide of a pistol and handed the weapon to Eduard Che.

“How heavy it is,” flashed through Edik's mind. “I never thought a pistol would weigh so much.”

“But… how… why me?” Gavrin was close to tears.

“Who else?” the policeman spread his hands. “Thank God, we've shot quite enough people here already. So we've decided to involve the public. And make no mistake: we didn't choose you by chance. You're one of our most consistent supporters. We've studied your blog very carefully. One of our own, as they say! So be brave, Comrade Gavrin. It's easy. Aim at the heart and gently squeeze the trigger. That's it! If you don't want to miss, shoot him in the forehead or the back of the head. Whichever you prefer.”

“Gentlemen, have mercy!” the prisoner begged. “Please…”

“Did you show mercy to the people you killed, you bastard?” one of the men snarled.

“I didn't know what I was doing. I was out of my mind! I never meant to kill them. It happened by accident…”

“Shut your mouth, freak!” the policeman interrupted, imitating him. “By accident! That's what you all say.”

Then he turned insistently to Gavrin.

“Shoot, damn you! What are you waiting for?”

“Are you serious?” Edik turned pale. “You want me to kill a man?”

“What's all this sentimental nonsense, young man?” a third man barked from behind him. “We're not asking you to murder somebody. We're asking you to execute a criminal. He's not a person; he's a criminal. Don't you understand the difference?”

“I do, but… I… I wasn't prepared for this… I'm studying at a financial institute…”

“What do you mean, not prepared? We've been reading your little articles and your posts for three years, and practically every time you urge us to shoot scum like him!” He nodded towards the trembling prisoner. “We've decided to give you your chance. Why are you standing there? Shoot!”

“Right now?” Edik asked.

“Why wait? We're not sitting in this basement until morning. Come on, don't be afraid. Why are you shaking?”

“I'm not afraid,” Eduard said with a shrug, “but… you see…”

“What now?” one of the policemen raised his voice. “How long are you going to waste our time? Shoot! One in the chest, a finishing shot to the head, and we can all go home.”

Che the revolutionary felt his legs begin to shake. Sweat ran down his back; his stomach seemed to collapse; suddenly he felt sick.

“I'm sorry, but I can't,” Gavrin whispered, hanging his head.

“Why are you acting like a wet rag?” The voice sounded very far away. “Pull yourself together!”

“No, no, I'm sorry!” Edik burst into tears. “I can't do it.”

“Then who's going to execute him?” one policeman demanded in a deep voice. “Who's supposed to clear this filth from our land? I'm asking you for the last time: are you going to shoot or not?”

“Please don't make me!” Gavrin pleaded. “I can't kill a human being. I just can't!”

“Will you stop saying 'kill' and 'human being'?” the policeman mocked him. “How many times must we tell you? This isn't murder. It's an execution. He's not a person; he's a criminal. And you're not a murderer, you're…”

“What?” Edik blurted out. “What am I?”

“In this situation, you're an ordinary executioner!” the policeman sneered angrily.

“An executioner? Me? No, no!” Edik screamed. “I don't want to! I don't want to be an executioner! I won't shoot! Please, I'm begging you!”

“So you want scoundrels executed, but other people have to do it for you? You've arranged things nicely for yourself, haven't you? We must catch them, execute them and bury them while you lie on a soft sofa handing out valuable advice!”

“I won't give any more advice,” Eduard protested. “I was only speaking figuratively…”

“What?” one of the policemen shouted. “Figures of speech, were they? What a piece of work you are! Who nicknamed you Che Guevara? What kind of Che are you? You're Winnie-the-Pooh made out of modelling clay! I'm asking you one last time: will you shoot?”

“No!” Edik said miserably. “I can't.”

“All right,” the policeman said. “Perhaps we should let him go, then?” He nodded towards the handcuffed prisoner.

“I don't know,” Edik shook his head. “Do whatever you like, but I won't shoot. I just can't. It's not for me…”

“Here's my proposal,” the policeman announced. “Either you execute this criminal, or we release him.”

“Release him,” Edik croaked, holding out the pistol with a trembling hand.

One of the policemen went over to the prisoner, inserted a key into the handcuffs and let them fall onto the concrete floor.

“You're free!” the officer announced.

The prisoner hurried out of the room and ran up the stairs towards the exit.

“Do you understand what you've done, Gavrin?” the policeman asked. “You've just released a man who murdered three people. How are you going to live with that?”

“To hell with it,” Che said with a sigh of relief, then asked plaintively, “How could I have lived after killing him?”

“All right, get out of here. Some fighter against crime you turned out to be!”

Eduard fled the basement as fast as he could.

* * *

“Palych, you owe me a bottle of cognac!” one of the policemen laughed after the would-be executioner disappeared through the door. “I told you he'd refuse!”

“Yes, I lost the bet again. You never win anything with these youngsters.”

The “criminal” came back into the room.

“You did remember to change the magazine, didn't you?” he asked.

“Don't worry. It was empty.”

“Just checking. One day somebody might be stupid enough to pull the trigger.”

“Sleep soundly, Stepanych. They're only revolutionaries and crime fighters on the internet. Here in the basement, you can still smell the fear, can't you?”

Everybody laughed.