Julia was only about 154 centimetres height, dark blue eyes, short light brown hair, a round face with perfect skin and the body of Barbie. Her knitted sky blue dress, something her mother or grandmother probably made clung to her curves like an F1 race car to the track. It was plainly evident she was healthy and definitely fit. Mother introduced her in a manner that more closely resembled a scene from an old movie he’d once seen. The guy was selling slave girls and parading them to prospective gentlemen buyers while highlighting their more evident attributes. Bronte of course simply agreed with what mama was saying, though he didn’t have a clue what it was about. The next thing the food was removed and Julia was dropped on his lap. She will make a great wife. We can settle plans now and you can come back in the autumn for the wedding feast…
Julia seemed to be in no hurry to go anywhere, and nor did she have plans to rejoin her friends out the back on their mission to destroy more brain cells. She was comfortable sitting there on Bronte - or mum had indeed just prearranged her marriage and this was her future husband with the comfy knees. After some time her absence drew the others back into the kitchen. When Viktor said something Bronte didn’t understand, they all laughed and Julia got up.
‘Come on, we’re going’, was all Sasha offered for a goodbye. Bronte shook the hand of his pre-arranged spouse and said goodbye to his future mother in law, agreeing unconditionally to more nonsensical statements before joining the others out the door.
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The young computer programmer saw himself out. He had always had the hots for Rita and when she’d suggested they shower together instead of paying him $50 for his work, he grinned and agreed they had a deal. It all changed so quickly for her and now that she’d thrown away the chastity belt, she wondered why she’d been so protective of her virginity in the first place. She was actually looking forward to her next encounter and the discoveries more adventurous exploits might reveal. But most of all, now that he was gone, she was eager to see what interesting goodies his electronic key would unlock. She typed in the password and waited. It worked.
‘Too easy, I’m in. She’s got all emails from some darling Willy’ she said to Alessiya on mobile.
‘Willy eh …is that name familiar?’
‘Yes… I think it’s the German she wrote to from the agency, back when she joined…. Oh look, I’ve found it… he’s speaking about them living in Frankfurt. It’s him alright.’
‘That’s it… I remember… it dates back to when she wrote to the bloody Australian. I recall the German sent photos a few times. Ha, well what do you know? Okay great, just do it. Oh, and well done. See you soon, poka.’ Alessiya hung up. As their taxi crawled through the Moscow traffic, the Californian had watched her serious yet vaguely mischievous manner on the phone and considered he was in love for the first time in years. If only he’d known such sincerity and simplicity in his ex wife he’d still be married. He was sure of it.
Of course he’d been oblivious to Alessiya’s words in Russian just seconds earlier. How could he have possibly known that she spoke with her wicked sidekick Rita who’d done a deal with a student programmer from the university in a trade of flesh for technology? The young man had guaranteed to provide any password to any email address for $50 and now, they were free to wreak havoc on Zhana via the electronic postal service.
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Now back in the eating house after the party, Viktor and Sasha set about on their mission to ensure that under no circumstance, could any alcoholic beverage remain in any bottle. Bronte made himself a cup of coffee and then it started.
‘Kangaroo, why do you come to our country to take our girls?’
‘Excuse me Sasha? Take your girls? Take them where?’
‘You did not come here to meet Zhana? Ha! That’s bullshit.’ He laughed, now drinking from the bottle.
‘Yes okay so I met Zhana, but come on Sasha, you know the story, and that was not about taking your girls… besides I really have no plans to take her anywhere…’
‘Well what was it about then? Maybe you ask them to show you to the gay bars?’ Both drunks laughed simultaneously.
‘Well I can’t comment on gay bars… but I didn’t see you invite too many girls to come up here with us…’
‘Kangaroo’s a right smart ass I see…’ Sasha was looking for another bottle to polish. Leaning against a wall near the fridge, Viktor smiled and drank in silence.
‘Sasha get real, come on, give it a rest… you’re drunk.’
‘Maybe it’s okay if we come to Australia and screw your women?’ He looked at Viktor and not surprising, he laughed.
‘You are welcome to our women if that’s what you want. Its fine by me, I don’t care… you can have as many as you want... I’d be happy to send you as many as you’d like. We could do with a few less hard-ass women there…’
‘Maybe you can not meet a woman in your country, or maybe your women do not want to meet you?’ He slurred with a cynical laugh and of course Viktor laughed with him again.
‘Maybe if Russian men were smarter and not such piss heads, your women would not need to look for foreign husbands?’
‘Hey, screw you Kangaroo.’ Sasha was fast becoming a decreasingly happy drunk. He was swaying and looking ready to throw the bottle at Bronte. Viktor seemed to be enjoying the banter, he too drinking from a bottle.
‘Sasha listen, I am tired and don’t wish to drink or get involved in nonsense arguments. Give me the key to the sleeping house and I’ll go crash.’
‘No… give me your watch… there, your friggin’ watch.’ Out of the blue Sasha changed the direction of the pleasant cultural exchange, pointing at Bronte’s wrist. Not surprising when he recalled the initial interview with the George Bush question.
‘What do you mean give you my watch? You’re joking of course?’ Bronte was past wishing their countdown would end, the rocket fuel would ignite and they’d launch off to bed. The pair were astronauts, high on vodka and capable of anything with a particular bias toward the irrational. Bronte felt a stupid obligation as guest to stay with the two men, especially given they held the key to the sleep house.
‘I want that you present me with your watch.’ Sasha was never backward in coming forward.
‘I can not. It’s a gift from someone special… it’s sentimental and besides, it’s old now anyway.’
‘I am old and special - you can present it to me - from someone special to someone special’ Sash said swaying. As if reading from the same cue card, the drunks laughed in unison again.
‘Sasha please, I can not and I will not. It is very sentimental. And I’ve already given Viktor my sunglasses today!’ And gave you the Playstation and everything else you scored.
‘C’mon, give me your friggin’ watch, you kangaroo turd.’ He motioned to Viktor who was doing a great job of holding up the nearby wall. Also swaying, Viktor then approached to take the watch. Bronte brushed him off and Viktor fell to the floor, leaving no uncertainty its rightful owner was not prepared to lie down and roll over. Viktor clambered back to his feet, seemingly unperturbed by the sudden scuffle, until,
‘Give him the bloody watch. Take it off - now.’ Bronte turned to see Sasha’s regulation FSB revolver pointed straight at his head. He may have been three or four meters away, but the sight of the thing aimed at his melon was none the less intimidating. For a moment his heart almost stopped beating. All the while the two drunks conversed in Russian.
‘Sasha for crissakes, calm down. Bloody hell, put the gun away, you’re in no state to play with guns. Listen to me, it’s sentimental, I can’t just give you my watch.’
‘No you listen to me Kangaroo… you think you’re a smart man with the ladies, yes? But I know you came onto that whore, I could see it. You are no one. You come here to screw our girls, but now, you are here with FSB. You are illegal in this pla
ce, in these mountains. You are not in Krasnodar region and you have no official stamp to be out here.’
‘For crissakes Sasha… you are joking aren’t you? There are about three people who know I didn’t come onto Alessiya, and you and I are two of them. Besides, I came here with you! Now just put the friggin’ gun away…’
‘You are way out of your depth… we could blow your brains out and bury you tonight, and who will know? Huh? Who will questions us? FSB will handle the investigation and it will go nowhere. What did you say, Kangaroo?... I can’t hear you… what do you say about that?’
‘Sasha come on, you’re drunk. So just put the gun down, okay?’ This was serious. At first he thought it had been a drunken boy’s game of blind-man’s-bluff, but suddenly things were looking sinister.
‘That’s all you have to say Kangaroo? You should say your last useless prayer.’ Bronte looked for the one person he’d considered an alibi to assist and defuse the ticking Molotov cocktail of aviation gas standing to his right. But Viktor only seemed like an amused accomplice and looking at him, this sort of thing was normal. Boys will be boys.
‘Sasha I’m not giving you my watch. Hell, I already gave you a Playstation the other day.’ And with that comment, Sasha marched across the floor to stand in front of Bronte and then press the gun to his forehead.
‘Get out of here… follow Viktor’ he barked. After seconds of swaying with the gun still pressed against Bronte’s forehead, he lowered the weapon and handed it to Viktor.
‘Let’s go,’ Viktor said gruffly. Bronte walked out of the cottage, Viktor indicating with the gun shoved at his back which way he should walk.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Although the girls had been in bed for more than an hour, neither could sleep. Not one of them spoke or asked if the other was awake. They lay there in silence, worrying. Zhana was concerned that all was actually well with Willy and her son. She knew that in the madness of the past days she had neglected both in a manner they were not normally accustomed. Worse than that, she had barely given Willy a thought since the fateful evening three nights ago. Her entire life had suddenly become preoccupied with Bronte and all that his introduction had brought with it. The whirlwind from Australia which swept through her life had sucked all thoughts of Willy into its twisting funnel. It was troubling he might sense something was going on, albeit not necessarily an affair. It wasn’t right she cause him stress, certainly not on the aftermath of purchasing the engagement and wedding rings.
In the quietness of self reflection, she knew she was trying to convince herself about the fate thing. If ever it appeared destiny had put two people together, it was evidenced in that chance meeting with Bronte in the park. What had been the possibilities of that happening? She was thankful that Tanya had not mentioned it during their conversation about fate because she’d have had no comeback. She also considered that she had just been through more drama with Bronte than most wives would experience with their partners in the first fifty years of marriage. Even through it all, they had only grown closer. She wondered if she would ever know Willy’s true character in so many ways manifest in Bronte? What could possibly happen in Willy’s life that could expose such strengths and weaknesses, qualities and virtues? She sighed. Did she rush a hasty decision when she chose Willy? Should she have waited a little longer? Was it divine intervention she met Bronte, or had it been divine intervention Alessiya got involved, things went pear-shaped and she now had Willy? Why did Bronte even appear and why was this happening to her with him and not Willy? Why, why, why? She was so confused sleep would be an impossibility, and perhaps forever. She looked at the time - 1.42 am and her mother would be trying to call at 8:00am - she always did on Sunday mornings. She leaned over and turned her phone off then snuggled under grandma’s quilt.
In the adjacent bed, Tanya’s insomnia was for a different reason, although none the less sleep depriving. Her dilemma was far simpler than Zhana’s - it always is with only one man in your life to contend with. It was her rampant imagination that was causing her sleeplessness. What if she had more time with Bronte? What would they do together? What if he invited her to Australia? What if he asked her to marry him and what direction would her life take then? Why did Sasha, the horrible FSB man, have to take him away these last days? What if they had taken him to a brothel or some place to meet women? What if he had a fall in the mountains or they all got so drunk that something bad happened to him? Oh my God, what if he got hurt or injured? Suddenly feeling hot, she tossed the blanket towards her feet and lay in foetal position.
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It was so dark outside that the two men frequently stumbled, even though they walked on the roadway. A flashlight would have been a marvel of modern science, the blackness of night only delaying the inevitable. Bronte was attempting to come to terms with the sands of the hour glass tumbling faster and faster towards the short end of his life. Between the condition of the road and the stumbling, drunken state Viktor was in he could be shot anyway, accidentally in the back. Either way it seemed these crazy Russians had decided they needed one less foreigner meeting girls on their shores. Like Stalin’s NKVD, they had hauled him into the night and were whisking him away to unknown parts. When he asked where they were going, Viktor simply replied
‘Down here’. Six feet down? Bronte wondered.
They trundled and stumbled onward towards more empty blackness, detouring across a paddock he thought must surely become his final resting place. The choice of a plot seemed particularly unimportant or irrelevant, the entire place tailor made for discreet murder and a trail leading to nowhere. Occasionally he felt the blunt jab of the revolver in his back or ribs, as Viktor stumbled holding the thing in his projected jacket pocket. When Bronte protested or tried to stop, Viktor nudged him and told him to keep walking. After he stumbled and almost fell again, Viktor exclaimed,
‘Wait, stop… I need to take a piss,’ and the two men halted. Bronte waited, listening in the absolute dead of night to the sound of Viktor’s zipper descending then the splash as his urine hit the frozen ground. He was probably 2 or 3 metres away when Bronte decided to creep off as stealthily as possible - a ludicrous act, given the deadly silence, incredible blackness and the slippery, obstacle strewn terrain.
‘Hey, where you going? Stop man. Stop! I don’t want to start shooting! Don’t make me shoot.’ Despite the threat, he knew Viktor couldn’t see him. If he could, he’d be able to see Viktor which of course he couldn’t. He tried to distance himself as silently as possible, only moving when he heard Viktor move. Each time Viktor stopped, Bronte crouched and held his breath. The thumping of his heart, the heaving of his chest seemed deafening out there. He heard the drunkard stop for a third or fourth time, rummaging in his pocket for something. Bronte took off but quicker this time with larger strides. Viktor called, again threatening to start shooting. Bronte broke into a run only to crash straight into a barbed wire fence at waist height. He screamed as he jagged his arm, shin and thigh and after efforts to stay silent was flung back, slipped in a pot hole behind and crashed on his backside. The force of the fall impacted his damaged shoulder. The pain was excruciating. He wanted to swear and curse and scream and sob and stomp his feet all at the same time, it hurt so much. Viktor heard the wreck and suddenly he had him, the giant flame from his gas lighter throwing daggers of light across the paddock on a forlorn Bronte, only six metres away after all. Viktor roared laughing as he helped him to his feet.
‘Come on’ he said chuckling. ‘We’re wasting time.’
‘Whale Oil Beef Hooked’ Bronte replied through grit teeth. Those words made perfect sense now.
Some minutes had passed since Sasha had drawn the original bead on Bronte in the hut. It started with the momentary panic and sudden blast of adrenalin when the gun was aimed at his head. In those moments, he felt fear and a horrible confrontation with the unknown. Like a nightmare he’d had as a ki
d where he was standing at the lookout of life staring over an unfamiliar, dark landscape. Below lay the bottomless pit, and he could do nothing to stop himself falling over the edge and into it. If Viktor held the gun to his head and shot him at point blank, the fall would be fast. But as minutes dragged on resignation to the seeming inevitable brought about a quiet calm. Whether he became the dearly departed by accident, design or simply old age, Bronte figured that getting out of this place and all the disappointment and drama his trip to Zhana had brought might actually be a welcome relief. The numerous stumbles, the cuts and bruises and tired and wanting sleep were finally too much. He was beyond caring anymore. Now, this episode was just another unthinkable event in a long string of the absurd. At wits end Bronte stopped, turned and faced Viktor. When the clomping of their shoes on the roadway ceased, he was struck again by the deathly silence.
‘So are you going to shoot me Viktor… or you’d prefer to walk us both to death?’ It was too dark to see any reaction from the Russian.
‘Just keep walking, we’re nearly there’.
‘NO! I am tired of walking and drinking and all your bullshit. I want to go to bed. So if you wish to shoot me, please do it now… Otherwise, I’m going home.’
‘Keep walking Kangaroo… we’re nearly there…’
Kill Cupid: Internet dating just got dangerous Page 22
