And like all bullies, Mac only picked on targets weaker than himself. The idea that he was no longer able to hit his older son with near-impunity – and worse, that there was full rebellion, because both Davey and his wife were sheltering behind Drew now – sent him over the edge to true insanity. Grabbing for the loaded Winchester rifle propped by the door, Mac had started to level it, aiming squarely at Drew.
His wife screamed. Davey yelled:
‘No, Pa! Don’t do it!’
Mac’s eyes were crazy, but his hands were steady. He was going to shoot his own son. Drew had stepped forward and, in one fluid movement, swung the poker, cracking Mac across the face with it, sending his father flying back into the stove.
Whether it was the blow to the face or the crack of his skull against the cast-iron stove that killed Mac Mackenzie, no one ever knew. There certainly wasn’t an autopsy. As his mother fell to her knees, wailing in grief over the dead body of her abusive husband, Drew had bent down, moved her aside, hauled the corpse over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift, and carried it miles uphill to the open mouth of a long-disused mine.
Never even heard him hit the bottom of the shaft, it was that deep, Jon remembered now. But then I went back and hauled up bags of lime and chucked ’em down too, just so’s he wouldn’t stink and make someone wonder where the hell the smell was coming from if the wind blew in the wrong direction.
Under the rough law of the Appalachian hill people, the killing was considered justified. Mac Mackenzie had been out of his mind on drink and drugs, turning a rifle on his own son for no reason beyond what Drew’s Aunt Eileen called ‘sheer bad-dog cussedness’. No one would turn Drew in to the police, of course; that would have been unimaginable. If retribution had been called for, it would have been exacted by the clan leaders, and Drew would have disappeared for ever, along with Mac. The verdict, however, was banishment. What Drew had done, though justified, could not be sanctioned. He was a patricide, and he could not be allowed to stay in the territory.
Drew was banned for life from setting foot in Jackson County; his aunt had been deputised to tell him the news. He’d known it was coming, had already been packing a tattered old backpack with his meagre possessions. All he’d done was shrug and say that in that case, his mother’d have to come with him to the Marine enlistment centre, because he was seventeen and needed the permission of a parent to sign up.
I never looked back. For the first time in my life, I was completely free. Ma never protected me, and Davey didn’t stand up for me at the family council. I heard tell he never even argued I should be let stay. Aunt Eileen’s the only one who spoke up for me staying in the Hollow. She’s the only one I gave a damn about in the end, and she passed ten years ago, when I was still working for the Unit. That’s my one regret, that I never got to say goodbye to her.
Aniela kinda reminds me of her, he thought suddenly. Tough, uncompromising. Never afraid to speak her mind. And no one messed with Aunt Eileen.
Jesus. No wonder Aniela scares me shitless.
Andy
His head was screaming, his mouth dry as a sandpit. He heaved himself off the bed and into the en-suite shower, standing under water as cold as he could bear for a good five minutes until the throbbing in his skull subsided; then he towelled off, drank three glasses of water, one straight after the other, brushed his teeth, and pulled on his clothes, bundling the elf outfit up for the laundry collection. Grigor’s staff bedrooms didn’t have windows, just vents to circulate the air; it was weird, not being able to see daylight when you woke up. Like living on a ship, Andy thought. Only there someone else wakes you up, don’t they? Bells ringing all the time. Here I could’ve slept for twenty-four hours and no one would even notice.
He looked at his watch: ten o’clock. God, if I’d been at home I’d’ve slept in till my head stopped hurting; the shower had helped, but he definitely needed a paracetamol or two. But the single bed had been uncomfortable, he had thrashed around, all the drink he’d taken the night before making his rest uneasy, and all he could think of now was how much he wanted to jump on the DLR and get started on the journey back home to Chingford.
Well, not quite all. Andy had drunk more brandy than he’d ever had in his life last night in a successful effort to stop him doing any of the drugs on offer – or Wayne. It had been a very particular kind of torture, being so close to Wayne in the screening room during It’s A Wonderful Life, wanting so badly to reach an arm back behind Grigor’s chair and try to caress Wayne’s shoulder, just to touch him; every so often, their eyes would meet, passing popcorn back and forth, and Andy was sure that Wayne had felt the same, as frustrated as he did; afterwards, they’d had a lively discussion about how creepy the story of the film was, how Mary, the Donna Reed character, had trapped poor George into marriage and symbolically castrated him, ruined his dreams of travel and seeing the world, tying him down to a small-town life where he would be the sacrifice to make everyone else happy.
Grigor had been too sloshed on Muscat by that time to object to their deconstruction of the film; they’d reached an agreement, burst out laughing in pleasure at having met a kindred spirit – and then Wayne had said that he should really get going, Andy had snapped tipsily in disappointment, ‘See you around, then,’ and Wayne had gone without saying another word.
What did I expect? Andy thought, walking through the kitchen, dumping the costume into the laundry room for the maids, and pouring himself a cup of coffee from the huge percolator that was always on the go for the staff. He helped himself to a sandwich from a big stack the cooks had put out on the table: ham and cheese, just what you needed after hitting the brandy heavily the night before. That Wayne’d whisk me back with him in his Lamborghini, with all his teammates watching us walk out together? Or that we’d cuddle up in my single bed? It was just a quick shag, Andy. Face facts.
I just liked him, that’s all. I really liked him.
Miserably, he reached for another sandwich, nodding a thanks at the cook on duty, who was whisking eggs in a huge stainless steel bowl. Even hung-over and love-sick, Andy could always eat. He’d stuff himself on sarnies, finish this mug of coffee and have another one for good measure, then head back home to his houseshare and regale his housemates with the story of what he’d been up to last night—
I won’t, though. For some reason, he felt hugely protective of Wayne, so deep in the closet that he’d barely had the chance to do anything with another man, but who’d been so eager, so appreciative, so sweet and tender with Andy; I don’t agree with his not being out, but I’ll keep his secret for him, he thought, and then jumped with shock as a furious howl of rage exploded from somewhere in the penthouse.
‘Jesus, what’s that?’ he exclaimed.
Even the stolid cook paled as he said:
‘Is Mr Khalovsky – angry, very angry—’
Sergei came shooting through the kitchen, moving like a sprinter, head-up, elbows working frantically, his legs whirring, propelling him through the double serving doors at the far end that led to the great room. Andy topped up his coffee and followed, curious, but careful to keep a safe distance just in case. The last thing anyone needed was to be caught in the crossfire between a furious oligarch and the target of his wrath.
But, as it turned out, there were two targets of Grigor’s wrath, and neither of them was anywhere to be seen. Which was precisely the reason for his anger. He was standing in the middle of the room, a red and gold brocade dressing gown hanging open over a large, extraordinarily hirsute paunch, which in its turn was hanging over the silk boxers that Andy could only be glad Grigor was wearing. Though honestly, Mr K’s so hairy that even if he were naked, we might be spared the sight of his bits – he’s probably got enough pubes to make it look like he’s wearing a merkin.
‘Chto za khernya!’ Grigor was waving a piece of paper round as furiously as if he were trying to kill a fly with it. ‘What the fuck!’
Babbling in Russian, Sergei dashed over and jumped up like
a dog reaching for a bone, grabbing the paper from his master’s hand. His expression, as he read what was written on it, was utterly gobsmacked.
‘Get Fyodorov!’ Grigor yelled at one of his fiancée’s father’s bodyguards, who was stationed in the great room. ‘Get him now!’
A couple of minutes later, Fyodorov emerged from the corridor that led to the guest bedrooms, yawning heavily, wrapped in a cashmere dressing gown. He was followed by none other than Diane, the madam who had provided the girls from the night before, her hair brushed and immaculate. Morning light was not Diane’s friend, but her eyeliner was carefully, subtly tattooed on, her skin illuminated by her regime of serums and lotions, and her eyelashes were tinted and thickened by the application of individual, long-lasting false ones; she stood up pretty well to the test. Fyodorov, naturally, didn’t give a damn what he looked like; his sparse hair stuck out at all angles, his eyes were bleary with sleep, his breath reeking. But then, it was a man’s world in this penthouse. The footballers who were passed out on the sofas, or emerging from other bedrooms, escorts in tow, all looked equally scruffy, while the girls had nipped away in the middle of the night to reapply their make-up and perfume, and were as dewy and groomed now as they had been the night before.
‘Kakogo khera? What the fuck’s going on?’ Fyodorov slurred at Grigor, who barked an angry response, snatching the paper from Sergei and slapping it dramatically at his guest.
As Fyodorov read it, Andy gawked at him. Grigor was hairy, but in all Andy’s experience of saunas and backrooms at clubs, he had never seen a man as hirsute as Fyodorov. It looked as if he were wearing a black angora bodysuit. My God, he could go as a gorilla to a costume party – all he needs is the head!
Diane, who was smart enough to have learned Russian for her business, gasped as she, too, read what was written on the paper. Fyodorov swore viciously, threw it to the ground and smushed it contemptuously under his bare heel. The oligarchs engaged in a vicious, high-volume screaming match, with plenty of arm-waving, heels of hands smacked against their own foreheads, and stamping up and down the room to express fury.
‘What’s going on?’ Andy hissed to Arkady, one of Grigor’s bodyguards, who spoke very good English. Arkady’s bearing was rigidly professional, but on a couple of occasions Andy thought he had spotted the bodyguard checking out the arse of one of the waiters, a French boy called Michel who had a bum like two ripe peaches.
‘Zhivana Fyodorova has run away with Dmitri, Mr Khalovsky’s son,’ Arkady muttered out of the corner of his mouth. ‘After the party last night. They left a note.’
‘Oh my God!’ Andy gasped, nearly dropping his cup of coffee. ‘What a mess!’
‘I know, right?’ Arkady hissed back, confirming Andy’s opinion of his sexual orientation.
Fyodorov stormed over to the dining table, picked up a Lalique glass vase and threw it across the room in fury.
‘My bear! My bear!’ Grigor shrieked, as the vase flew perilously close to his gigantic, glittering sculptured bear, still decked out with Christmas lights.
Pat de Luca, a midfielder who was stretched out on the sofa, a pillow pulled over his face to block out light and noise, yelped and jumped up as the vase whistled over his head and crashed to the floor just behind the sofa.
‘The fuck!’ he groaned, blinking in the daylight. ‘The fuck is going on?’
‘You nearly killed him!’ Grigor yelled, pointing at Pat. ‘He cost me a fortune!’
‘My daughter cost me a fortune!’ Fyodorov yelled back.
‘You should have taught her how to behave while you were spending all that money on her!’ Grigor yelled. ‘I was the perfect gentleman, I never laid a finger on her! I’d have treated her like a queen!’
‘Maybe you should have fucked her instead!’ Fyodorov yelled back. ‘Kept her on her back so she couldn’t walk out the door!’
Diane tutted in disapproval; Grigor said indignantly:
‘Gospodi! You talk like that about your own daughter, Mikhail?’
‘My daughter,’ Fyodorov bellowed, ‘will do what the fuck I tell her to do!’ He looked around him furiously for his men. ‘We’ll find those two brats, drag them back here by their hair, teach them a lesson about respect and doing what the fuck their fathers tell them, and then I’ll march that little bitch up the aisle to marry you so fast that—’
‘Mikhail, love,’ Diane interrupted, pitching her voice low, so that it cut through the enraged tycoon’s roar much more effectively than if she’d raised it. ‘Hang on just a mo.’
Gliding forward, she put one hand on Fyodorov’s arm. It was brave of her; he could easily have reacted by knocking her across the room as forcefully as he’d thrown the vase. But Diane had decades of experience with men in every state of overstimulation, and her touch was clearly soothing, because Fyodorov took a deep breath and turned to look at her, patting her hand.
‘If your boys beat up Grigor’s son, he’s going to be well miffed,’ she pointed out, tall enough so that her face was on a level with the stocky Russian’s. ‘And the whole plan here is for you two to join forces, not start a sodding war. Why don’t we all have a cup of that lovely black Russian tea, nice and strong, and talk this over?’
She turned to smile at Grigor.
‘Honestly, gentlemen,’ she said soothingly, ‘if you all step back and look at this from another perspective, you might realise it’s the best solution all round...’
December 28th
Aniela
Someone was ringing the doorbell of the Canary Clinic. More leaning on it than ringing it; as Aniela bustled down the hallway to answer, the sound did not abate for a second.
Some real emergency, she thought, worried. Some patient with a crisis. Dr Nassri is on holiday in Sharm-el-Sheik and won’t be back till the New Year – I have the list of backup doctors, but none of them are as good as him—
So when she unfastened the locks and pulled the door open to see her sort-of-boyfriend Lubo standing there, glaring at her, she didn’t know whether to be relieved or furious.
Fury won out. She put her hands on her hips and said angrily: ‘What the hell, Lubo? You can’t just turn up here like this!
I’m working!’
‘Working!’ Lubo snorted, pushing past her into the Clinic.
‘You’re doing bugger all! They’re paying you a fortune just to sit here and watch the telly!’
‘You should know about doing bugger all!’ Aniela snapped back. ‘I’m amazed you got off your bum long enough to come over here!’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘What are you doing here,anyway?’
‘Went out with some of the guys,’ Lubo said, shrugging. ‘In the East End. Anyway, it got late, then it got early, and I thought, well, my girl’s nearby, and she didn’t even bother to give me a ring to say Happy Christmas, the miserable cow, so I might as well swing by and see what she’s up to...’
‘You’re drunk,’ Aniela said curtly. ‘I can smell it on your breath. Beer and cheap whisky. And you’ve been smoking spliff.’ She leaned in and sniffed him. ‘Lots of it.’
Lubo was unshaven, with a stubble growth that had taken days to mature. His big, bullet-head was wobbling as if loose on his thick neck, which Aniela recognised as one of the indications that he was drunk; his eyes were bloodshot, and his clothes – a knockoff D&G shirt and baggy jeans that he’d bought at the local market, a sheepskin jacket – stank of smoke and weed.
‘So what?’ he said aggressively. ‘It’s Christmas – a man has a right to have a drink or two! Come on, Ani, give me a kiss—’ He lunged for her; Aniela evaded him. Looking him up and down, she thought: I can’t believe I lived with him, had sex with him. I must have been so lonely, so desperate.
No more. Never again. From now on, I’m putting a much higher value on myself.
‘Lubo, it’s over,’ she said simply.
‘You what?’ He was standing in the reception area, swaying on his feet, blinking.
‘It’s over. We’re over. Go back to our
s – my place – and sort out somewhere to move to. I’ll be back on the 3rd, and I want you gone by then.’
Lubo’s bleary eyes widened as her words sank in. ‘You don’t mean that!’ he objected. ‘You’re just cross ’cause I’m a li’l bit tipsy! Come on, Ani, I’ll sleep it off and then we can have a bit of fun – where’s your room? I’ll crash on your bed and then you can come in and play with my big salami...’ Aniela cringed. I actually let this man put his hands all over me – what was I thinking!
‘No!’ she said, louder than she’d meant to. ‘I’m breaking up with you! It’s over, Lubo.’
Lubo shook his head angrily.
‘Don’t be stupid, Ani,’ he said. ‘Your mum and dad’ll be furious. They’re so happy we’re together – they’re best friends with my mum and dad – they were hoping we’d get married and settle down – we should get married, I was meaning to get around to asking you—’
‘Lubo! Fuck off!’ she said furiously. ‘I’ve been supporting you for years! I’m the laughing-stock of London, the only Polish girl who’s stupid enough to have a lazy Polish boyfriend, when everyone else’s works two jobs! You can’t just say “Let’s get married” and expect me to fall into your arms!’ Aniela was so angry now she was actually seeing red, blood pulsing in her eyes.
‘But your parents—’
‘I don’t give a shit what my parents think,’ she said even more furiously, ‘because I’m never going to see them again! Or my brothers either! They spent all the money I sent them on drink, you’ve been living off me for free for years – I’ve been the biggest idiot going! Well, not any more.’ She confronted him, hands on her hips again. ‘I don’t care where you go. Crash on a friend’s floor, like you did with me before I was stupid enough to let you into my bedroom. If you’re not gone by the 3rd, I’ll get the police to kick you out. It’s my name on the lease, not yours. It’s over, okay? Get that into your thick skull!’ ‘You bitch! You’re throwing me out? You can’t do that!’ It had finally dawned through Lubo’s drink and drug haze that Aniela was completely serious. His head thrust forward like an angry bull’s, his shoulders hunching.
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