The Right Choice

“And there… tam… they cut off my bag, u menya otrezali sumku,” Patrick translated into Russian, speaking with a thick Irish accent. “Took the money, vzyali dengi, the documents, dokumenty…”

He was a little drunk but tried hard to pronounce the Russian words clearly — and to tell his story about visiting Russia.

“That’s terrible,” I said, patting him on the shoulder sympathetically. “Only, if they ot-rezali, that means they cut it off — took the whole bag. But if they took out the money, then they must have cut into it — made a hole —raz-rezali.”

Why Patrick needed Russian in the Irish countryside, I neither knew nor cared to know. But if someone’s willing to pay for lessons—why not?

“A woman cries — they took her wallet too. Bus full, many standing. Tesno. Very cramped. Thieves use it. But no one says who stole,” he tried to speak Russian again.

“And they won’t say,” a patron at the next table suddenly chimed in. He looked like any regular pub-goer—T-shirt, jeans, hair long overdue for a cut. A simple rural Irishman. Speaking flawless Russian, with no accent at all.

“Why? You have to report it to the police!” Patrick replied amused.

“What police? On a bus?”

“Then tell everyone. There’s thieving going on here. People should know!” Patrick declared. “Right?”

“No, not right. You hold your bag close and stay quiet like a fish.”

“But how can…”

“That’s how,” the guy cut him off. “A pickpocket never works alone. He’s protected. Five, maybe six people. And the moment you squeak, they’ll mess you up. Not badly enough to count as a serious crime. Just a few slashes to the face. There’ll be lots of blood. A bunch of scars. You want that?”

Patrick fell silent, processing.

“But that’s awful,” he finally said quietly, still not resigned to it.

“Damn right it is,” the guy replied grimly, finished his beer, and walked out.

He would sit alone, quietly drink a pint, and leave. One day, I couldn’t resist — I sat down next to him and held out my hand.

“How long ago did you run away?”

He gave me a dark look, and his hand moved to his waist — that’s when I suddenly noticed a concealed holster under his jacket. I recoiled in fear.

“What do you want?” he asked sharply.

“Nothing,” I mumbled. “Just…”

“What makes you think I ran away?”

“Everyone’s running.”

“Yeah?” he said, surprised. “Why?”

We talked for a long time. Well — mostly I talked. Timofey, or just Tima, stayed mostly silent. He was curious, occasionally asked questions. He hadn’t read the news in a long time. He only really spoke when I mentioned:

“You really got to Patrick with that bit about ‘the right choice.’ He thought about it for a while and decided maybe you were right.”

“Right?!” he suddenly trembled. “Right about what? About acting like a coward? I did run away, you get that?”

“From a bus full of pickpockets?” I smiled.

“From a bus…” he whispered, shaking his head. “If only…”

Tanechka and Albina had lived far away — in another world, another country, in the city of St. Petersburg, more than a decade ago. They all worked at the same company: Timofey, his girlfriend Albina, and her friend Tatiana — or simply Tania — though everyone immediately started calling her Tanechka, the affectionate Russian diminutive of Tatiana, something like “little Tania” or “Tania-sweetie.”

People always turned to watch her as she walked away. That’s exactly why Tima noticed the surveillance. That day, Tanechka left work, chirping sweetly to someone on the phone, her bright silhouette glowing at the far end of a dark street tunnel — and Timofey couldn’t take his eyes off her. That’s when he noticed a man clearly following her. Tima watched for a while, unsure what to do — then decided to follow them.

Of course he was scared. Who wouldn’t be? He immediately felt like a wimp. What could he possibly do if the man attacked her? Well, at the very least, he could call the police. Encouraged by that thought, he kept following them — sometimes getting quite close, trying to get a better look. Finally, Tanechka slipped into her building, and the man who had been following her made a phone call and vanished into the night.

Tima stood there for a moment, even noted the time for some reason. Then he headed home, anxious all the way.

Over dinner, he told Albina everything. As expected, she gasped and fretted, immediately called Tanechka, and the two of them chatted half the night.

But the next morning, Tanechka didn’t show up for work. Her phone went unanswered, and her door was locked. The boss called the police.

The police hesitated for a long time before breaking in, but when they finally did, they found Tanechka dead.

The whole office went mad. Everyone was shaken, whispering in corners.

“You have to tell the police,” Albina insisted.

“Why?” Tima panicked. “They have cameras — they’ll figure it out without me.”

“Because it’s the right thing to do. Because you need to help the investigation. It’s your civic duty!”

Tima didn’t want to argue, so he gave a vague answer — something like “alright, I’ll think about it.” But he didn’t get the chance. The next morning, the police showed up at their office, and Albina immediately led them straight to Timofey.

He cursed silently, but there was nothing he could do.

They extracted every detail out of him and put together a composite sketch. Then everything went quiet for a while. It seemed like the whole thing had blown over.

But then, out of the blue, the police arrested someone, and Timofey was summoned for an identification. He would’ve most likely skipped it, claimed he was sick — but the enthusiastic Albina practically dragged him to the station.

Three broad, clean-shaven bruisers stood in front of him, and he stood before them. A screen? Dream on. What did he think this was — a movie? Hands locked in front of their groins, the nearly identical men in gray stared him down with grim expressions, and Tima suddenly felt tiny and completely defenseless.

He had no trouble identifying the man who had followed Tanechka — but now he understood that his peaceful life was over. And he was right. Especially when he received a subpoena to appear in court as a witness.

“It’s nothing to worry about!” Albina declared bravely. “It’s the right choice. You’ll testify, identify that creep, and he’ll go to prison! I’ll come with you for support!” Then she ran off to the store to buy a new dress and some makeup — for the court appearance.

The day before the trial, he left work with only one thought in his head: to get drunk. Fear had eaten away at him so badly that he flinched at loud noises and kept glancing over his shoulder. And that’s exactly why he noticed the tail so quickly — this time, he was the one being followed.

He ran like he had never run in his life. He searched desperately for a police officer — but where are they when you actually need one? He ditched his cellphone, jumped onto the metro, then a tram, and finally got off in the middle of nowhere — deep into the night, in a deserted housing district where half the streetlights didn’t even work.

Then, suddenly, a car screeched to a stop beside him. Several burly men stepped out, along with one fat, clean-shaven guy.

And there was nowhere left to run.

“Timosha, we need to talk,” said the fat man.

There was a blackness burning in his eyes. Not rage — just emptiness. A hollow, soulless dark, with no hint of mercy.

Timofey took a punch to the gut, then one to the kidneys, then another somewhere else. They beat him silently, without rushing. He became nothing but pain.

Finally, they stopped and pulled him upright. The fat man leaned in with a dead smile.

“You stepped into the wrong place. You razumesh?”

Timofey understood. Loud and clear.

His entire world shrank to the boulder of that shaved head. The face blurred, its features erased by fear, leaving only a smudged blot — and from it, the words crawled out, striking him in the eyes, the ears, the brain. Straight into his gut.

“You know,” the fat man continued, low and slow, “I offed a chick. Her name was Tanechka. Wanna know why?”

Tima shook his head, struggling for breath.

“Good. You don’t need to. But they arrested my guy. My buddy. He didn’t kill her. He just followed. Razumesh?”

“Yeah,” Timofey croaked.

“And now an innocent man’s doing time. Razumesh?”

“Yes,” Tima repeated, lips trembling.

“Know why I’m not afraid to tell you I’m the one who offed her?”

Tima said nothing — but in that moment, he knew his life was over.

“Ri-i-ight,” the shaved man drawled, mocking. “Because I could squash you like a bug. Razumesh?”

He let that sink in, then went on:

“But there’s a small complication. If I kill you — which I’d really love to do — it’ll be obvious we’re silencing a witness. And the case against my buddy will go on. Not for long, but still. You see the problem?”

He gave Tima a second to grasp it, then continued:

“So it’s better if you don’t just vanish. You leave. You run. So, the cameras show that, hey — here you are, realizing you screwed up, and taking off for good. Then our lawyer will say, look, ladies and gentlemen, your precious witness lied — got scared and skipped town. And they’ll let my buddy go. Tomorrow. Razumesh?”

“Yeah,” Tima barely managed.

“And now I’ll ask you one question. If you say no, you’ll die right here.” The fat man leaned in, his voice a whisper of steel. “Do you believe me, Timosha?”

“I do.”

“Good. Now, if your answer is yes…”

“Yes,” Tima whispered. “I’ll do whatever you say… Just tell me what.”

“There’s a good boy. Disappear. Right now. Finland’s two hours by car. They’ve got cameras there, and we’ve got a friend at the border — he’ll wave you through. From there, go wherever you want. You’ve got one day. That’s your head start — because I’m feeling kind today. After that, I’m coming for you.”

“But I… I need to go home,” Tima choked out. “My stuff… money… passport…”

“We’ve already been. Brought everything you need. Here’s your cash — what we found, anyway. Here are your girl’s cards. She doesn’t need them anymore. And your passport. Still got a valid Schengen visa — we checked. Only thing is, it’s got a little blood on it. Sorry.” The fat man leaned in slightly, tone casual and cruel. “Better not go home. What if the cops are already there? They’re dumb. If a woman turns up dead, guess who they suspect first? Her boyfriend. Razumesh?”

“Ra… zu… m… m...” Tima managed, and felt the hairs on his neck stand up.

“So, shall we? We’ll give you a nice little ride to the border… We’re feeling generous today.”

He cut his story off mid-sentence and clearly regretted saying as much as he had. Then he left — quickly.

The next morning, just by chance, I passed a side street nearby and spotted my nighttime companion. He was loading things into a car. A woman and a young girl were getting in as well. In daylight, he didn’t look frail — quite the opposite. And he kept glancing around, which is probably why he noticed me so quickly.

There was nothing friendly in his eyes. His hand went straight to his waist. I smiled, raised my hands, and took a step back — showing I wasn’t armed and wasn’t trying to talk.

And they drove away.

I never saw him again. But I couldn’t forget him either. That story haunted me for a long time. But life isn’t a detective novel — no one lays out the plot from beginning to end. I never learned the whole truth.

Then again, maybe… neither did he.

And ever since, I keep asking myself — what is the right choice, after all?