Lost Balls
investigative journalist, Konchin knew the area well;
the human dumping ground for Moscow, where people went when they had nowhere left to go. A place
shunned by society, abandoning its inhabitants to
get by the best they could. But some still did care;
Konchin was following up on a lead from a police
chief who did not have the resources to investigate
the recent disappearance of over thirty children.
Ahead lay the vast expanse of wasteland which had
once been the KGB’s regional headquarters, and now
served as a magnet for many street children. But despite the sunshine the place was deserted, and after
thirty minutes he had seen no-one. He made to turn
back when his foot stepped on something hard in the
long grass, a tennis ball. He slipped it in his pocket
where it nestled next to his ancient Makarov pistol,
an essential tool in his trade. It was then that he noticed the bunker, low and almost hidden in the brambles. The heavy iron door appeared to have a sign on
it, and he moved forward to take a look.
“Lost balls,” he read aloud, wondering what that
could mean.
With no other leads he hammered on the door, and
after a few moments was surprised to hear the door
being unlocked. He stood his ground, hand moving to
grip the pistol in his jacket pocket.
The door slowly creaked open and a dishevelled old
man stood blinking in the opening.
“Morning,” Konchin said. “I’ve found a tennis ball, and
by the sign on the door it looks like you could give it
a home.”
“The children come to me when they’ve lost footballs,
baseballs and the like. Come in,” the old man beckoned, an u