Whatever It Takes

by Barbara Elsborg

  He called Zain again and said his name.

  “You’ve reached the We Are Kinky gay phone-sex call centre. How can I help you today?”

  Roman grinned. “No going in my study and no wanking.”

  Zain gave an exasperated sigh and cut him off.

  Despite his worries, Roman drove into central London with a smile on his face. He was meeting Arkady at a house in Mayfair that a Russian businessman wanted to sell. Parking was easier than he’d expected but Roman had been waiting for fifteen minutes before Faddei, Arkady’s driver-cum-bodyguard, pulled up. Arkady climbed out and Faddei drove off.

  “Morning,” Roman said.

  “Dobraye ootro.” Arkady smiled at him. “This place is tremendous. Come on.”

  He pulled keys and a fob from his pocket and led Roman inside. “Alarm code 1234. For here and for garage. Idiots. Wife idiot. Can’t remember any other number.” He keyed it in, and the bleeping stopped. “Deactivates security cameras while they in house. I suggest to new owners they change. They need to upgrade security. Five double bedrooms, two bathrooms, four shower rooms. Roof terrace, media room, games room, gym and basement swimming pool. Use this fob to open and close garage.”

  The marble-floored entrance hall was bigger than Roman’s living room.

  The two of them walked through each room, Arkady pointing out the obvious. Fridge, cooker, hob. The joinery was bespoke, the technology high end with Gaggenau kitchen appliances.

  Arkady pulled open a kitchen unit. “Still food in cupboards. Get rid of it.”

  “Okay.”

  On the top floor, Arkady opened the door of a bedroom where someone had scribbled over the walls in marker pen using a language Roman didn’t recognise.

  “Pissed-off Malaysian servant.” Arkady laughed. “She left a message no one can read. This room needs a little work. I said we do it. Maybe other places need touch up. There is one room that… You’ll see. We charge the usual.”

  “Fine.” Charging far more for the work than necessary. Arkady never missed an opportunity to make money.

  The swimming pool in the stunning basement was a hundred feet long with a curving slide next to a waterfall that cascaded over mirrored panels. A large hot tub was situated on the right and on the left was a glass-walled, fully equipped gym.

  “This is room we need to do something with.” Arkady pointed to a door beside a wine cellar. “Take a look.”

  For a brief moment, Roman hesitated. “No snakes?” Or someone about to accuse me of stuff I’ve definitely done. He pushed open the door and sucked in a breath. “Shit.”

  The room had a huge bed and was decked out as a dungeon with floggers, chains and paddles hanging on the wall. There was a whipping bench and a suspension device along with a St Andrew’s cross and a metal cage. Do not get hard now.

  “We should get rid of all this, yes?” Arkady asked.

  “Maybe not. It might be a selling point. It’s been…tastefully done. We can offer to change it if people don’t want it but it’s a house they’ll remember. The owners don’t want to keep anything? Not even the wine?”

  “Everything is to be sold with house,” Arkady said. “Some clothes still in closet. They can go to charity shop.”

  Most Russians preferred to walk into a place that was fully furnished, down to pictures on the walls, cutlery in the drawers, sheets on the bed and toilet rolls in the bathrooms. Though not whips in the basement. But he’d never handled a place that had so much left in it.

  “Where’s the owner living now? Why do they want to sell?”

  “Yengalychev’s new wife bored with here. Wants something bigger in English countryside.”

  “This dungeon is a bit small. Not enough room to swing a large whip.”

  Arkady laughed. “They gone to Marbella for two months or until this house sold.” He glanced around. “I quite like. Though not this room. Too much work. The pool nice.”

  “You don’t like to swim.”

  Arkady shrugged. “Natalya does.”

  No way would Arkady buy a place because Natalya liked it. “She could take a dip in the Serpentine Lido. Four pounds eighty. Cheaper.”

  “One toe in water and she’d squeal loud enough to wake Queen.”

  “Are you interested in this place?” Roman really hoped he wasn’t.

  “No. My house better.”

  “How much does he want for it? It might be in my price range.”

  Arkady laughed. “Twenty-seven million.”

  “If I offered twenty-six?”

  “Not your style, Roman. We ask thirty-five. It has two-car private garage. The cars are gone. Not completely stupid.”

  “Somewhere to park has to be worth eight million.”

  Arkady nodded. “Never anywhere to put car in London.”

  They made their way back to the entrance hall. “What you think?” Arkady asked.

  Roman knew he wasn’t being asked for his opinions on the house, which was just as well because Roman liked little apart from the area it was in, the roof terrace and the basement. “Maybe Oleg Bortnik might be interested. Or Aleksei Vetrov. He has kids.”

  “I have someone new who wants place in London. Not here yet.”

  “Who?”

  “Boris Kazakov. Heard of him?”

  “Owns a petroleum company. Wife? Kids?” Roman knew he had both.

  “Wife and teenagers. Already at school here.”

  “This place might suit them then. Let me get that bedroom sorted and get rid of the clothes and food. I’ll have everything checked before I show anyone. Give me a week, maybe ten days.”

  “Fine.” Arkady handed him a set of keys. “Only set. Garage key there too.”

  Then he phoned Faddei to come back from wherever he’d found to park. Roman thought it was more likely he was driving in circles. Roman set the alarm and locked up.

  “Found Zain Nasry?” Arkady asked as they stepped out of the house.

  “Not yet. I’ve spoken to the other tenants in his building, and to Musa and his crew. Nasry was seen by one of his neighbours leaving his flat with bags on Sunday morning. The night before, a different neighbour saw him being attacked. The guys ran off before the police could be called. Turns out Musa and a couple of others were responsible. They used a knife and acid. I’ve checked hospital admissions but got nothing.”

  “Gavno.” Shit. “Dima’s work?”

  “He says not.” Roman put the emphasis on says.

  “The idiot is making this worse. Keep looking.”

  Roman nodded. He’d hoped Arkady would tell him to forget it. Faddei pulled up in the car.

  Arkady glanced at Faddei who still sat in the car. “The fifth to replace your father. I still miss him.”

  Because he’d have got out to open the door for you.

  “I did do my best to find out who was responsible but…” Arkady clapped him on the back and climbed into the car.

  Roman made his way back to his car. He’d not given up hoping to find out who was responsible for his father’s death but he knew the chances were small. Arkady’s cameras should have caught those who planted the bomb and the explosion but they’d been turned off. If Arkady had been at home, he’d have noticed. Though if it had been Arkady who was responsible, he was hardly going to admit it.

  Talking about his father nudged Roman to check his car, just in case. But it was clean. There were still twenty minutes on the meter, so he sat behind the wheel and called Helen.

  “What do you have for me?”

  “Ex-pat called Yengalychev has put his Mayfair house on the market. He wants somewhere bigger in the English countryside, or so he says. He and his wife are living in their home in Marbella until their place in London has been sold. Arkady told me Boris Kazakov, petroleum company owner, might be interested in the house. He’s not in the country yet.”

  “Right. Anything else?”

  “I’ll send you a couple of files later that you might find interesting. Not porn.”


  Helen gave a loud laugh that nearly took off Roman’s head.

  When that call ended. Roman called Zain.

  “Zain,” he said.

  “Thank goodness you called. I’ve cut the body up like you said but I’ve made a bit of a mess. Have you got anything to remove blood?”

  Roman laughed and stuffed the phone back into his pocket. He had two more appointments that afternoon, and a piece of artwork by Joan Miro to buy at auction on behalf of a buyer who wished to remain anonymous. Then he’d pick up dinner and go home. His heart, then his cock perked up at the thought of seeing Zain. He regretted how he’d behaved that morning. It was just that he’d freaked out when he’d found Zain next to him. The stupidity of what he was doing had struck him like a punch in the gut. But Zain’s responses to his calls had given him hope that he’d not entirely fucked up.

  The first time he’d seen Zain in the café, adrenaline had flooded his body. He still couldn’t figure out what was going on in his head. It was as if he’d been…infected. The more he saw of Zain, the more he wanted him. The idea that he could fuck him out of his system wasn’t going to work. Now he had him more or less locked up in his apartment. How long was Zain going to stand for that? Or Roman’s erratic behaviour? Even if Arkady said they were to forget about Zain, Dima and Qash wouldn’t—but for different reasons. It was never going to be safe for Roman to have Zain in his life while those three were still around. And it was never going to be safe for Zain to have Roman in his world. Straightforward as that.

  Which made what he had to do simple. Except it wasn’t. His heart and head were dragging him in opposite directions.

  Three hours later, Roman called Zain as he parked under the building. “Zain.”

  “I’ve walked the blood everywhere and it won’t come out. Don’t be mad.”

  Roman chuckled. “I’m just coming up. Bringing food. Put the oven on.” He tucked the phone under his chin as he picked up the carrier from the restaurant, then locked the car. “Sorry.”

  “What are you apologising for?”

  “Being a shit this morning.”

  “You’re forgiven.”

  Relief swept through Roman. He wouldn’t have blamed Zain if he’d still been pissed off.

  His heart was racing by the time he opened the door. As he leaned back on it to close it, he gave a sigh of relief that Zain was even still there.

  “That doesn’t look like pizza,” Zain called.

  “It’s not. I had to drive to the other end of the city to get this. Not everything needs to go in the oven.” Roman put the bags on the work surface. “Have you been okay today?”

  Zain nodded and took the first container from the bag and read the label. “Oh wow. Fattet makdous. Seriously?”

  “They said you can put it together. All the ingredients are sorted. The flatbread is in the bag.”

  Zain gulped. “Syrian food. The first since I arrived here.”

  “First time I’ve tried it.”

  “So many firsts,” Zain whispered. “Go and get changed into a nice person and I’ll put everything together. And I didn’t go in your study, so you don’t need to punish me.”

  Roman smiled but he’d just been reminded of what Zain had said a while ago. I was his first that counted. What had happened to him?

  Chapter Ten

  Zain’s mouth watered as he sorted through the food Roman had bought. He popped the items that needed heating onto a tray and put them in the oven. Fattet makdous was a Damascus speciality, deep-fried aubergines stuffed with minced meat and pine nuts, and one of Zain’s favourites. He set the yoghurt and tahini aside to put on later and laid the pieces of deep-fried flatbread on another tray to crisp up at the last minute.

  There were several dips including muhummara made with roasted red peppers, nuts, chillies and sprinkled with pomegranate molasses. It was his mother’s party dish though Zain doubted Aleppo chillies had been used. Was anything thriving there even though the conflict was over? Almost. It would take time for the city to recover but nothing would ever be the same.

  There were containers of baba ganoush and burnt butter hummus, tabbouleh salad, and chickpea falafel with cauliflower. A lamb dish he didn’t recognise also went in the oven. Roman had even bought dessert—baklava, a selection of sweet pastries filled with nuts & syrup. Zain had seen them in some London shops but never been able to justify their purchase. God, am I dribbling? This was a feast and it made him happy and sad. Happy that Roman had done this for him, but sad because it was a reminder of what he’d once had.

  That life was gone.

  He set out plates on the table and arranged the dips in the middle. Roman appeared as he was laying out the cutlery. He’d changed into faded jeans and a white linen shirt that hung loose. His feet were bare like Zain’s. He looked like a film star.

  “You aren’t going to belly dance?” Zain asked.

  “No. Er…” Roman picked up the extra four plates Zain had put out. “Who else is coming?”

  “There’s so much food I thought you must have invited the neighbours.”

  “I don’t know the neighbours.”

  That made Zain sad. “Now’s your chance.”

  Roman smiled. “I wanted to be sure there’d be something you liked.”

  Zain was touched. “You made the perfect choice. I absolutely adore deep-fried flatbread.”

  Roman laughed. “Would you like wine?”

  “I’m fine with water, thanks.”

  Zain was determined to be upbeat. He’d made Roman laugh with his responses to his phone calls and even wrung an apology out of him. He didn’t want the guy’s mood to sail south again. But once he’d started to eat, he forgot about talking. The food was delicious except the more he ate, the more homesick he became for a home that wasn’t there anymore, for a mother who’d never cook for him again. He made himself chew slowly. Don’t be sad. What good will it do?

  “Is it okay?” Roman asked.

  “Fantastic.” Zain forced a smile to his face.

  “I’ve done something wrong.”

  Zain stared at him. “When? What?”

  “I mean, this food. I wanted to make you happy and you’re sad.”

  You see too much. “A little.”

  “Leave it if you don’t want it.”

  You care too much and you don’t like that feeling. Zain wondered if he’d ever get to know Roman, if the guy would always hold part of himself back.

  “What did you do today?” Roman asked.

  “Reorganised your study. Having severed heads on display is tacky but I’ve put them in age-order.”

  Roman chuckled.

  “I rewrote my statement for my university application. Would you read it and see if it would convince you to offer me an interview? I didn’t go into your study, by the way. I figured if you had a crossbow rigged up it would serve me right.”

  “Yeah, I’ll read it. Is your laptop down here?”

  “Over there.”

  “I’ll read it while I eat.”

  “I’m not sure you ought to do that.”

  Roman looked across at him. “Then I’ll wait.”

  “What was your day like?”

  “I spent a lot of money. None of it mine. I bid for a painting at an auction for one of Arkady’s clients. Seven point four million pounds for a work by Joan Miro. Heard of him?”

  “No.”

  “If I’m being honest, it looked like a five-year-old had painted it. Surrealism isn’t my thing. Reality is frightening enough.”

  “Is music your thing? I saw your saxophone in the roof room.”

  “Been opening things?”

  “You didn’t say don’t touch that.”

  “Music was once my thing, yes.”

  Zain almost asked what had changed but held his question back. Something in Roman’s expression warned him off. “Can you paint?”

  Roman shook his head. “Can you?”

  “Only walls. Islam doesn’t allow art, music or da
nce, apart from Islamic art. I used to listen to music though. Still do. I like art and I like dancing when no one’s watching. What about books? What do you like to read?”

  “History books, biographies, autobiographies, books about rocks, the sea, banking, rogue traders, finance scandals and university application statements.”

  Zain gaped at him. “No fiction?”

  “No. Get your laptop.”

  Zain carried it over and opened the page with his statement. He ate a baklava while he watched Roman read. Roman ate nothing. When he looked up, Zain saw the Adam’s apple in his throat move up and down.

  “All your family?” Roman whispered. “I mean I understood that you’d lost your parents, but you don’t have anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment.

  “It hurts,” Zain whispered. “I never knew how much grief hurt. It just goes on and on until you think it will never stop and, in a way, it never does.”

  Roman reached for Zain’s hand, squeezed his fingers, then let him go.

  “The day my mother and my twin sisters died was the last time I saw Qashim. I assumed his luck had finally run out. He used to stroll down the road not caring about snipers. I didn’t know whether he’d died with my mother, or if he’d been killed elsewhere. For all I knew, he’d been taken to prison or maybe abducted and forced to fight for one of the many factions. Something serious had to have stopped him coming back because he wouldn’t have left me.”

  “How did you get out of Aleppo?”

  “I walked. After my father died, there was nothing to keep me there. So I walked and walked and when I couldn’t walk anymore, I lay down, curled up and waited until I could walk again. Every step away from my home was like walking with knifes in my heart, glass under my feet, but there was no choice. I had to survive. I had to make the death of my family mean something. Getting to London was all I could think about.”

  Roman closed the laptop. “My mother died of cancer when I was eleven. I had no brothers or sisters. My father had been a policeman but after my mother died, he went to work for Arkady as his driver and bodyguard. He said…it would be safer. We lived in a small flat in the basement of Arkady’s mansion. It was my birthday and my father offered to drive me to school because neither Arkady nor Dima were at home. I forgot my saxophone and went to get it. As I stepped back outside, the car blew up. My father died.”