Snow Job

by Jenni Ferchenko

  I’m suffocating. I try to calm myself down, put my cold hands on my burning cheeks, and on my constricting chest … I look out to the terrace off my bedroom.

  A tall, ethereal birch stands out in the otherwise withered, colorless vineyard. A light wind plays with the fringes of its outstretched tassels and tiny snowflakes flash and burn in the golden fire of the low, dazzling sun, heralding the start of the winter. They cover the cold, dirty land in a silver mantle, purifying all the sins of summer and autumn.

  Mom’s footsteps sound on the stairway. The steep stairs in this old house creak badly, but there are fond memories in this creaking, and many times, whilst waiting in bed listening to its sound, I was petrified, excited, tired, happy. For a moment it feels that everything that is happening is just a hallucination.

  The thought I will no longer hear these footsteps makes me listen to them with an intense concentration, striving for every corner of every moment of this precious time with their soft sound. The moments appear as if transformed into jewels, sparkling with inner light.

  ‘Good morning,’ my mom says, cautiously opening the door.

  ‘Good morning,’ I say, pleased to see her smiling.

  ‘Breakfast is ready,’ she says kindly, kinder than I can remember her ever being. ‘I’ve made courgette pancakes, your favorite.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I smile, recalling Richard making them too. ‘I might leave today,’ I say firmly.

  ‘Today?’ she asks, bewildered. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘London,’ I say - the only city on my mind, the only place I really need to go … the only city not accepting planes today.

  ‘But how can you go in this state? What about your knee?’ she asks, fretting.

  ‘On a private jet,’ I say, logging into my KazyMak bank account to convert all the bonds into cash, to pay whatever I have to pay for the flight.

  At the same time, I retrieve the cute Swiss pilot’s card from my wallet and dial his work cell, asking him to arrange a jet for me at the earliest convenience.

  ‘Well, obviously it isn’t that easy on a day like this … you could just wait one day and pay five grand instead of fifty. I’ll take you myself,’ he offers.

  ‘I need it as soon as possible,’ I say firmly. ‘Please, this is an urgent request.’

  ‘OK, my assistant will confirm all the details with you shortly.’

  Damn snow.

  I call Gabi.

  ‘Hey, Katya, where are you?’ she answers.

  ‘I’m in Kiev, with my mom … and it’s actually working.’

  ‘See, I told you, once you change your own perception, the people around you change too,’ she says contentedly.

  ‘Yeah,’ I sigh. ‘How bad is the snowstorm?’

  ‘Oh, it’s OK for now - but it doesn’t look like it’s going to stop any time soon,’ she observes.

  ‘Gabi … I know it’s too much to ask, but I’m begging you, please, go to Surrey to St George’s Hill police station and make them check Akbar Gromov’s mansion – he’s unlawfully detaining Richard.’

  ‘Oh my God, Katya, are you serious?’ she asks, shocked.

  ‘Yes, Akbar called me. Please, can you just wear your tight black dress and charm your way in?’

  ‘Er … I was going to do some work at the Cat Café’ she mutters.

  ‘Gabi, please, I’ve never asked you for anything and I never will again … they’re gonna kill him,’ I weep. ‘They’ve probably beaten him up already … they brought him there in the trunk of a car.’

  ‘Jeez … I haven’t worn that dress in a while,’ she says thoughtfully.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll look gorgeous.’

  ‘The train goes from Waterloo station, right? Hope they’re still running.’

  ‘I guess so …’

  ‘OK, I’ll try to get there as soon as I can.’

  ‘Thank you, you’re an amazing friend. I’ll be there as soon as I can, just spent all my money on the flight … Hope I won’t be too late … Please keep me posted,’ I plead.

  ‘I will, honey. Will do my best.’

  The chilly air bites my cheeks and hands. I feebly lean on the porch and my iPhone accidentally drops out of my hands and onto a stone tile. Splat!

  Suddenly it rings. An unknown number. I carefully swipe through the fragments of glass:

  ‘Where is the Caesium?’ The sharp voice I hear is unmistakably Schneider’s. Civilization has made a man, if not always more bloodthirsty, at least more viciously, more horribly bloodthirsty.

  ‘Akbar has it,’ I retort instantly. ‘He’s in his house in Surrey.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asks quizzically. ‘What about all the news?’

  ‘Ah, yes, the news.’ I’m lying, but I have never been so sure of what I am saying. ‘He kidnapped an FT journalist and made him write all that bullshit to misguide you, you know, the way he does in Russia. He just called me and joked that he’d double-crossed those Jews, by Allah’s will.’

  ‘Those bitches have gotten absolutely out of control. They’ll never build that pipeline!’ he jeers. ‘Yakov, load the Kalashnikovs and the vehicles. Let’s do this fucking snow job.’

  EPILOGUE

  ‘He raised Himself up and said to them, “He who is without sin among you, let him throw a stone at her first.” And again He stooped down and wrote on the ground. Then those who heard it, being convicted by their conscience, went out one by one, beginning with the oldest even to the last. And Jesus was left alone, and the woman standing in the midst. When Jesus had raised Himself up and saw no one but the woman, He said to her, “Woman, where are those accusers of yours? Has no one condemned you?”

  And Jesus said to her, “Neither do I condemn you; go and sin no more”.’ – I cast my eyes over a leaflet left in the back seat of the cab that is driving me through the snow-powdered landscape of Surrey.

  He forgave her … in terror … humiliated and confronted by those who would soon be crushing her head. It seemed like eternity … passing the golf courses, luxurious country estates and pristine landscaped gardens.

  It feels like I am having a seizure … and probably developing a fever. I am sweating in my lightweight jacket. It might well be flu, but I didn’t feel like this during the flight … the flight, which felt like an eternity.

  But it is only when I catch sight of Akbar’s neo-Palladian mansion on fire that I really get the chills. Richard is nowhere to be seen.

  Flames are ravaging the front portico, shattering the glass of the high sash windows. There is no gunfire, just the creak of burning wood.

  The smell is so intense that my eyes tear up.

  She opens her eyes and looks around. They are all gone! She makes no accusations against the men … ready to face the consequences without blaming anyone for the choices she made.

  ‘It’s too smoggy ahead. I can’t drive you any further,’ says the cab driver, stopping by an ornamental pool. Without thinking twice, I get out and hobble towards the mansion, leaning on the crutch with one hand and covering my nose with my other elbow, to avoid inhaling the acidic smoke.

  I sneeze, chilled to the bone … the main thing is to find Richard and make sure he gets out alive. What if he has dislocated his shoulder again?

  This is not happening - not happening!

  With every yard I advance, my instinct tells me ‘this is the end’. I can’t even look at the fire without feeling an extraordinary physical pain. This isn’t happening, it just isn’t happening … how can this be happening?

  She stands at the foot of the cross, looking at the Person who has brought her into freedom and a new life.

  Such a stupid end. So silly … But I just know that I can never live without him, ever again. I don’t want to. It’s as simple as that. I will find him, no matter what. … wash and anoint his feet.

  The snow is turning into drizzle. Chirimiri – such a funny word …

  I limp across the sleety lawn in my wet loafers towards the right wing of the house
, which the flames have not yet possessed completely, though they are slowly getting there. Meanwhile, the left wing has already been devoured by the hungry jaws of the fire - chewed up as if it were made of paper, and spat out as embers and rubble.

  Suddenly, the sharp, powerful sound of breaking glass makes me look up. I immediately recognize the silhouette in the dormer window: it is Him. In an instant, everything starts to make sense. Even the cold rain feels like a blessing now.

  The next moment there is a loud crack from the roof, and the flames slowly start crawling towards Richard from both inside and outside the attic. He leaps onto a narrow ledge and precariously grabs hold of a rickety window frame.

  ‘Richard!’ I shout at the top of my voice. ‘Richard!’ I shout even louder, yearning for him to see me here … supporting him in this final terrifying moment.

  ‘Katya!’ I can barely hear him above the roar of the flames and the crash of breaking glass, but I know he has seen me. I can feel his smile.

  It all happens so quickly: he bends his knees, spreads his arms like wings, braces himself and jumps.

  Casting my crutch aside, feeling no pain whatsoever, I run towards him as fast as I possibly can.

  Before crashing onto the lawn, his chest strikes a drainpipe. He obviously couldn’t have seen it from the window …

  ‘Katya,’ he whispers, rising on his shaking legs, covering his bloodied mouth with his hand.

  ‘Richard!’ I weep, catching him as he stumbles and falls.

  People rush towards us from all directions … apparently they were so close …

  Biarritz, 2016

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jenni Ferchenko is a Ukrainian-born British novelist, singer and songwriter. From an early age, she proved herself as a talented musician and during her teens spent a few years in Italy, Germany and Spain, studying and playing classical piano. However, with the collapse of the Soviet Union, she was forced to return to Kiev and take all kinds of jobs - including cleaning and waitressing - to help her parents, whose savings were wiped out in the crash.

  Jenni had to suppress her artistic nature for ten long years and pursue a ‘good career’, so that she would never be reduced to eating crumbs again. Her language skills and wit helped her to obtain her Master’s degree at a major European university, and later an internship at a top investment firm.

  Ferchenko moved to London in 2005 and, as her career progressed, she associated with numerous people involved in high finance, so the book’s characters and events are also influenced by the experience of others.

  Her career in investment banking picked up like a tornado, but it was only reinforcing her own insecurities and taking her further and further away from her true, deep self.

  She started to play piano again when she realized that this kind of life was not for her - that true happiness lies within and cannot come from the outside, no matter how much luxury you surround yourself with. Having experienced these revelations, she decided to share them in the Snow Job novel and the album of the same name.

  Copyright

  Published by Clink Street Publishing 2017

  Copyright © 2017

  First edition.

  The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that with which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN:

  978–1–911525–21–9 paperback

  978–1–911525–22–6 ebook