Clan Dominance - the Sleepless Ones 2

by Dem Mikhailov

  He asked again, this time in a serious voice.

  “Kyre, don’t be like that. We have things to discuss with our comrade. Or, rather, ex-comrade. Man to man.”

  “A man-to-man talk in the bedroom?” Kyre squinted, looking displeased, and I gave a muffled cough.

  “Ever thought of a career in stand-up? Get going already!” Vlas barked, giving me a glass with a double shot of vodka poured into it.

  “Hey, Vlas, isn’t that a bit too much?” I started to protest.

  “You shut up, you teetotaler! Double-oh bloody seven! Sleeper agent! Damn, I’m beginning to lose it again... Bottoms up. Glasses, not asses.”

  “Who’s doing amateur stand-up now?” said a voice from the hall.

  “Aren’t you in the bathroom yet? Still fully clothed, I take it?”

  “I’m in the bathroom all right. But bear in mind that I’ll leave it shortly. You have about half an hour for your love talk. Just like little kids, really!”

  “Yeah, like you’re all grown up and mature. Get going already, you walking Petri dish.”

  “Vlas!”

  “Really, Kyre,” I sighed and downed the glass. I winced and my hand tried to find some snack to get the taste out of my mouth, but there was nothing but bottles there. “What about snacks?”

  “You’ll have all the snacks you want later,” my old hand said in a no-nonsense voice, making a sadistic grimace. “What do you need a snack for, anyway? It’s just a double. I’m not having any, either.”

  “You’re huge enough to require no snacks. As for me, I’ve had nothing but remnants of fried eggs and three ancient biscuits since this morning.”

  “You’ll get a chance to gorge yourself once we get to the restaurant. What’s the point of spoiling your appetite?”

  “How about I don’t go?” I asked timidly.

  “Not an option, bro.”

  “But what’s the point of dragging Kyre along?”

  “She’ll be perfectly safe there with twenty of our boys as an escort. No one but a SWAT team would dream of picking up a fight with us. Kyre... Yeah, she sure is something.”

  “Incidentally, how did you run into her?” I asked with unfeigned interest, watching Vlas refill the glasses and wincing inside. This guy could sure hold his liquor like few other people I knew.

  “Me, run into her! Duh! It was her running into us, Ros,” Vlas grunted. “You wouldn’t believe it. Let me tell you in a moment, but let’s have another one first. Here’s to seeing you again, Ros!”

  The glasses clinked, and another portion of ice cold vodka slipped down my throat.

  “So,” Claw continued, taking away my glass matter-of-factly. “We were partying at this place about a year and a half ago. Laden tables, no one there but friends — actually, you know them all — everyone’s with a girl, the musicians are playing this tearful ballad...”

  “You’ll be describing the décor and the toilets next, Vlas,” I said gruffly.

  “Oh, now I recognize the old Ros. Anyway, be quiet and listen up. There was a little bit of trouble. Xenia... Well, you don’t know her, anyway... Some asshole tried to get too free with his hands when he encountered her in one of the corners. She started yelling; we jumped up, obviously, dragged the guy outside, and started to explain certain facts of life to him — gently, without any maiming, just kicking and punching him over to each other. He squealed like a pig and was about to start calling for mom and dad when Skinhead Pasha spoiled all the fun, the way he does.”

  “Headbutt?” I sighed nostalgically.

  “You bet! He just grabbed him by the shirt and knocked him the hell out. So, the guy’s out cold, Pasha’s standing there looking smug, about to say something self-important, but before he could open his mouth, he got one in the face. Sounded as loud as any drum. Bang!”

  “The guy got up after one of Pasha’s headbutts?” I found it hard to believe.

  “Yeah, right! The guy was down on the ground, drooling and stargazing. Kyre!”

  “Come again?”

  “You heard me right! She pounced at Pasha and slapped his face. Our jaws dropped, and I was still rubbing my eyes in disbelief. I mean, imagine it — ten huge bravos giving a good what-for to someone in the street at night, and a little slip of a girl runs right toward us and slaps Pasha in the face just like that. Coppish?”

  “Sorry,” I had to admit. “My imagination doesn’t stretch quite as far.”

  “That’s what I’m telling you! So we’re, like, all in a stupor, Pasha’s rubbing his slapped face, totally not getting anything at all, and the girl in front of him assumes a stance — not a fighting one, mind you — and starts to lecture him. Absolute freaking fairy tale stuff about not hurting those weaker than you and how ten to one are unfair odds. Then this guy appears in the doorway, looking all preppy, like, glasses, neatly parted hair, shiny shoes, a blazer with a fancy tie, and so on. He doesn’t approach us, but keeps whining in a low voice right from where he stands, ‘Kyre, dearest, don’t get involved, this is none of our business,’ all po-faced, like; made me sick at once. That’s how we found out her name and got to know each other.”

  “So, what happened next?”

  “It gets better! Kyre turns around to her four-eyed friend and tells him to stick his sorry mug where the sun don’t shine. Calls him a coward, too. That was just too much, so I started laughing like mad, and the rest of us followed suit. We were almost literally rolling on the floor. Anyway, we’d explained the situation to the girl, telling her all about the real state of affairs, then sent her poodle home politely, and invited Kyre to join us at our table. That’s how we’ve had the dubious fortune of getting to know her.”

  “I can’t even...”

  “Me neither! No one can. So, come on. To those at sea and to those left ashore! Down the hatch!”

  “Cheers,” I said, downing another heroic dose of alcohol. I instantly felt better. Vodka on an empty stomach... “Hey, Vlas, why did you say ‘dubious fortune’? She’s a really fine girl by any account...”

  “She is, but she’s totally bonkers. Just like you,” Vlas grunted as he grabbed the bottle. “That’s why we call her Trouble. Her Indian name would be She-Who-Brings-Bad-Luck. We’ve stayed in touch since that memorable occasion; as for Pasha, he’d had a total crush on her — the first girl brave enough to slap his face, no wonder there. We started meeting regularly. Restaurants, countryside barbecues... Oddly, nearly each one of those parties ended in trouble — and all because of Kyre.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “What’s there not to get? Kyre finds the suffering and the downtrodden everywhere, and rushes to the rescue. You see cops beating up a puke-covered drunk hobo to bring him to his senses, she’s there in a flash. Someone’s screaming behind a fence, Kyre’s on the top of the fence the next instant. And then it’s up to us to take care of the fallout. It’s always a circus. Oh, and speaking of Pasha, jumping Jesus on a stick! He took her out for a date once. The first and the most romantic one, the way they go. So they’d had dinner together, and were strolling down some street together, holding hands, admiring the stars and talking about all sorts of highbrow stuff. Then they had the shit luck of wandering into some yard, only to see a bunch of guys beating someone up. Kyre sprang into action instantly, and what was poor old Pasha to do? He had to follow, of course. Fortunately, the guys weren’t too gung-ho — they’d only pushed her away a few times so that she wouldn’t get in the way. But Pasha got it in the kidneys real hard; had to spend three days in a hospital afterward. The guys weren’t that simple, as it turned out — one was into judo, another, a boxer, and so on. Make no mistake, we found each and every one of them later and had a good talk. Skinhead spent a few days in bed drinking nothing but water, and his romantic feelings for Kyre disappeared instantly. So that’s that, Ros. Come on. Don’t just hold that glass, you’re not supposed to let vodka get warm.”

  “I’m just shocked.”

  “The very purpose of vodka is to un-
shock you. Down the hatch. Yeah, just like that. That’s how we do it! So, rusty Katana, spill the beans before Trouble crawls out of the bathroom.”

  “Before trouble crawls out of the bathroom, you say... Ever thought of writing scripts for horror flicks?” I repeated pensively and shuddered.

  “Don’t change the subject, Ros. Why did you call me?”

  “What do you mean? So that you’d take Kyre to the hospital. Hell, you know that yourself.”

  “Don’t bullshit me or think you can play me for an idiot. You could have handled it yourself or delegated it to Gosha. He’s not in a coma, after all, and his cell phone works.”

  “You got me there,” I admitted in a more serious tone of voice. “I could have. Do you want me to give it to you straight?”

  “Nah, why should you. I’ll swallow any old BS. Of course! You’ve been living right near all the while without making so much as a squeak, and look at you crawl out of your hole, all of a sudden. There must be a reason — or a problem.”

  “All right, the truth it is. And it goes like this, Claw — I really have no idea. No problems as such, if you don’t consider getting fired and divorced. But the divorce happened a while ago, and I’ll find another job. I have some money for the time being.”

  “Whoa, whoa! A divorce?! So you’d gotten married at some point?”

  “I’m already divorced,” I made a dismissive gesture, pouring the vodka myself this time. “It’s a silly old story, and it doesn’t matter, anyway.”

  “Like hell it doesn’t! What about the kids?”

  “We haven’t had any. To tell you the whole truth and nothing but, I’ve been thinking about why I’d called you all day long,” I admitted.

  “So, what did you come up with? Keep on drinking. There are two more bottles in the freezer. I tried to find some meat, but there was nothing but a pack of expired surimi sticks. And someone had nibbled on them, too. You sure are living the life, Ros. The life of a bum.”

  I shrugged and said,

  “What I came up with, eh. Well, I guess I’ve just thawed, in a way. Gosha and Kyre are to blame. The satanic duo... Uh, I mean, the dynamic duo. They started it. One thing under another... After another, I mean. Pure adrenalin. It feels like I got out of a stupor.”

  “Heh, ‘one thing under another,’ that’s what she said. But give it to me blow by blow.”

  “Blow by blow? Not much to tell there. When I got back to town, I bought his apartment. My father suddenly decided to throw some money at me due to his extreme distress. Wasn’t much, but enough for a one-room crib. Mom passed me a few bills on the sly, too. I got a job, spent some time working, met a girl, married, got divorced, and then fired. That’s about the size of it.”

  “Not bad. Your whole biography in a few sentences. Slippery as an eel, Ros. And what do you mean, thawed? We lost you once your dad picked you up from the hospital. Not a sign from you, online or IRL. We brainstormed it, coming to the conclusion that your father must have convinced you, used his pull, and that you’re probably a petty officer in the navy now, without a care for your old friends.”

  “Nope,” I said gruffly, downing the vodka in a gulp. “Pour me another one, Vlas. No, he didn’t. And there was no internet access where I’d spent my first six months. There’s nothing but ice and snow there, Vlas, and it’s colder than a witch’s tit. As soon as I got better, my father sent me there, with a guard of honor to make sure I wouldn’t escape. The only thing he told me when we parted was, ‘And now, son, you’ll have plenty of time to think about your actions and your future. Make sure you think well!’”

  “Just like that? Well, yeah... Your old man could. I’ve only seen him once, but it was more than enough. So, what was that shithole, anyway?”

  “I have no idea, but it took them a long while to get me there. The last leg of the journey was by helicopter. And once we got there...” My hand twitched, and I nearly dropped the empty glass. I placed it on the table carefully, and continued, with some effort, “Have you ever seen any of those TV documentaries about the tundra or the Antarctic? Landscapes and stuff?”

  “Well...”

  “Just as picturesque. There are two glorified heated shelters right on the ice, just a little bit sturdier than the usual kind, with the sea some sixty feet away — or the ocean, probably the ocean. The water’s almost pitch black with bits of ice floating every here and there, and actual icebergs in the distance. Better listen up while I’m telling you this. There was a really thick cable leading from one of the shelters to the water, but I saw it later. All covered in snow. But there’s no point bringing all that up... Long gone days.”

  “Hold on, hold on, don’t you even start clamming up on me!” Vlas gave the table a brief inspection. “Right... Whiskey and wine... No good. Hold on a second,” he disappeared into the hall, telling me, “Don’t even think you’ll get out of telling the rest of it. I’ll just get some voddy. Hey, there are two packs of chips here, I totally forgot... Hey! One’s already empty! Who’s the munchkin? Oh well, I know, anyway...”

  It didn’t take him more than a few seconds. He unscrewed the bottle’s cap, opened the chips, and said,

  “Cheers! Here's to you, bro.“

  We drank the vodka. I shook my head, nibbled on a few crisps and continued,

  “So there’s this cable going underwater. I checked, it goes all the way down. Electric, most likely, since the shelters are lit and heated by electricity, although there’s also a coal stove handy. Some ninety feet away from the shore there’s some black hump sticking out of the water, all covered in ice. I have no idea what the hell it was. There’s nothing else to describe. Nothing but ice around you. Just the distance.”

  “Shit... So what happened then?”

  “Well, that was that. I had a bed, I had food. Lots of political literature, including the collected works of Marx and Lenin. No detective stories or sci-fi. Actually, no... There was one of the funnier books by the Strugatsky brothers. No radio, no TV. I was in one of the shelters, and there was an old guy in the other. Mute. As in, really mute. Once every two weeks we were entertained by the sight of a helicopter. There was a pilot and two guys along with him, well into their years. However, the copter never stayed for longer than two hours. The pilot and the mute loaded the stuff into the shelter, and I watched it from the frosted window, while the other two were throwing contraptions of some sort into the water, tied to a rope — dunking them, waiting, pulling them out, examining them, looking very thoughtful, jotting something down in a thick notepad, and dunking them again, five or six times. Then they’d pack up their stuff and go, leaving us to carry on as we were — eating, shitting, and sleeping; sometimes also reading, occasionally. So that’s how half a year went by... Well, crawled by, more like. By this point I can use a can of corned beef, a few frostbitten potatoes, and an old onion to make a soup that would make any Michelin restaurant proud. Especially if there’s black pepper handy. That’s about it...”

  “Mother of Jesus, Ros... Have a drink, let it go a bit.”

  “Relax, Vlas,” I laughed mirthlessly. “It didn’t happen tomorrow. I’d let it go long ago.”

  “I don’t want to insult you or your family, bro, but your old man is off his rocker. By your description, it was some burial site for nuclear weapons. I don’t even have an idea where they’d posted you. That’s really over the top. We did cause some trouble, for sure, but we’d managed to get out of it, didn’t we? Why the hell would anyone do something like that to his own son? What if you’d died there? Gone sick? Or ran out of food, or something? I just don’t get it...”

  “There was enough food there,” I made a dismissive gesture, stuffing myself with chips. Yummy. Or was that my empty tummy? “And they kept supplying us regularly. But you’ve guessed right.”

  “Guessed right? Hold on, hold it for a second. I’m getting the shivers. Let’s have a stiff one first. Now I see why you look like a shadow of yourself.”

  “Here’s to our parents,�
� I grunted, raising my glass.

  “Our parents. May they live long and know little.”

  We had another one and stuffed our faces with chips. I rolled the glass between my palms, putting it on the table, and found myself laughing bizarrely — it sounded more like barking. Vlas gave a start and spilled some of his vodka.

  “You OK? Don’t scare me like that. First it’s horror stories, and then this... unnatural laugh.”

  “No, you’ve really guessed it, Vlas, that’s why I’m laughing. Got it in one.”

  “About food running out?”

  “No, about dying. Father kept writing me ever since he’d packed me away and kept asking me whether I’d already made up my mind about my life. And I wrote nothing back. I felt really bitter, you know? At my father and the world in general. So I’d decided I’d rather snuff it than plead for anything. But after a while I started to feel so miserable I gave in and wrote a letter of apology, sending it over with the helicopter. I’d been ready for everything at that point. Duh...”