by Claire Askew
‘Come on in, gentlemen!’ Birch yelled from the living room. ‘What took you so long?’
Malkie and Fitz were standing on either side of Vyshnya, just watching her as she struggled in the chair. I winced. Her arm looked bad. It was bleeding pretty hard. They hadn’t done anything to strap it up, and the restraints they’d put her in were making things worse, pulling the flesh back so it kind of spilled out. I hoped that hadn’t been deliberate on their part, but it gave me a real skin-crawling feeling. Solomon was some distance away, in Vyshnya’s eyeline. He’d pulled off his tie, as though unwinding after a long day at work. He was leaning against one of the kitchen counters, and smiling at her. Ez was next to him. I wanted to fly at them both. I wanted to scratch that smile right off Solomon’s face. But it was all I could do to stand upright, in that moment.
Solomon looked round at me.
‘Smith!’ he said, throwing out his arms and greeting me like I was an old friend he hadn’t seen in years. ‘Schenok! Come and talk some sense into this woman, would you?’
I just looked at him. This is a dream. Wake the fuck up, Charlie.
‘Well, come on!’ Solomon said. ‘She won’t speak English and she won’t speak sense. Come and calm her down.’
Yeah, fuckface, I wanted to say, I wouldn’t speak much sense if I was tied to a chair and bleeding heavily, either. But I said nothing. I made myself walk forward, until I was standing directly in front of Vyshnya.
She stopped struggling, stopped puffing and swearing against her gag. Her eyes pleaded with me, though I didn’t know what for. I was being watched from all sides. I felt like a Christian in the Roman ring with four very patient lions. Without asking for anyone’s permission, I knelt down in front of the chair, and untied the tea towel from Vyshnya’s face.
‘Keep quiet, now,’ I said in Russian. I hoped she and I would be able to communicate. We’d almost always used English in the sauna, and when we hadn’t, I’d been unable to keep up with her fast Ukrainian.
‘Schenok.’ It was a whisper. Her voice sounded wet, and I realised she smelled strongly of alcohol.
‘What are you doing here, Vyshnya?’
She closed her eyes for a short time, and swallowed. ‘I came here to kill him,’ she said.
I glanced at Solomon. He was watching, with that amused look on his face, but if he’d understood what she said, he didn’t show it.
Vyshnya was still speaking. ‘For revenge,’ she said. ‘He hurt me so badly. I didn’t die, but he ended my life. I came to end his.’
I gawped at her. ‘Honey,’ I said. I thought of Nella then: she used to call me that, when she wanted to be tender. ‘You shouldn’t have come here. You should have stayed at home, in Ukraine. Stayed safe.’
Anger flashed across her face, and I thought she might start up her screaming again, but she didn’t. The pool of blood from her ripped-open arm was spreading. I could feel it seeping into the knees of my jeans. Shit, I thought: there are arteries in your arms, aren’t there? And she did seem to be weakening.
‘I had no life there,’ she said. ‘I have no life. Not after . . .’
‘I know,’ I said. I didn’t want her to describe the things that had happened in the sauna that night. I knew, only too well. Had dreamed them, over and over.
I took a risk, then, speaking fast, hoping that Vyshnya could understand me and Solomon could not.
‘I know how you feel,’ I said. ‘I want to kill him, too. I’ve wanted to kill him ever since that night. I should have done it, before now, for you. I’m sorry I didn’t.’
Vyshnya smiled, then. A small, grim smile, but a smile nevertheless. ‘I would have hated you for it,’ she said. ‘I wanted it to be me. I know that Toad sent you here, but I wanted it to be me.’
I gawped. I suspected that even Solomon’s Russian included zhaba, so I bit back the word.
‘He knew I was coming,’ Vyshnya said. ‘He said he would make sure I had help. But I didn’t want help.’
Have you had contact? Toad had texted me. It made sense now.
‘You were supposed to call me,’ I said.
‘I was,’ she said. ‘But I never asked for his help. I wanted to do it.’
I took a moment to glance around: the knives on the walls. Two hefty wooden rolling pins in a tub on the counter. I still had Abdul’s piece on me, and my hand itched to get hold of the gun. I allowed myself to wonder, for a brief moment, if, together, Vyshnya and I could overpower the four of them, make her dream come true. But I knew it was ridiculous. Malkie, Ez and Fitz were like tanks. They were all carrying guns, too. They were all likely far more adept at shooting than I was. And I was dispensable: they’d just take me out. Vyshnya was badly hurt. I could see in her eyes that she was unhinged, drunk, useless. There was no way.
‘There’s no way,’ I said.
She smiled again. Her face was going very pale. ‘I know,’ she said.
I felt tears in my eyes. I reached up and put my hand on her face. Her cheek felt cold.
‘It’s nice to see you, Schenok,’ she said.
I laughed a short sob of a laugh. ‘I always thought you hated me,’ I said.
She was still smiling, but the smile was fading. ‘I thought you were an annoying little man-boy,’ she said, making me laugh again, through my horror. ‘But you were good to my girls. And you were good to me.’
My face was slick with tears. I couldn’t help it.
‘You are a good man, Schenok,’ she said.
Her blood was everywhere.
‘Right,’ Solomon said. I turned and looked at him, and the amused expression was gone. His eyes were steely. ‘I’ve had enough of this. Smith, I want you to dispense with this woman.’
I stood carefully, putting my palm down on the floor to steady myself, daubing it in the spreading sheet of blood.
‘What?’
‘I said enough.’ Solomon showed his teeth. ‘Put her out of her misery.’
I blinked. I knew what he was saying, but I didn’t want to believe it. ‘You want me to—?’
He took a step towards me, and I flinched.
‘Show me you love me, Schenok,’ he said. He spat the name out, like a bad taste in his mouth. ‘Show me you love yourself. If you want to leave this house alive, you will deal with this.’
I realised he couldn’t say it. For all his gallusness, he couldn’t actually say the words.
‘You want me to kill her,’ I said. My voice sounded like a dead thing.
Solomon threw me a theatrical eye-roll. ‘At last,’ he said, ‘we are on the same page.’
Behind Solomon, Ez was smirking. I didn’t dare turn to look at Fitz or Malkie. I knew they wouldn’t help me.
‘You are carrying a gun,’ Solomon said slowly, as though speaking to a child. ‘I believe you know how to use it.’
I looked down at Vyshnya. I thought her lips had a faint blue tinge, now.
‘Please, Schenok,’ she said in Ukrainian. ‘It’s okay. I’m ready.’
‘I won’t,’ I replied in Russian, ‘I can’t.’
But she was nodding at me. I could see that her eyes were glassy, that she was mad and hurting. She’d thrown herself in front of a Range Rover. She’d gone about it all wrong.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Look at me. I am bleeding. I’m dying. If you don’t, he’ll hurt me again. He’ll do it anyway, and I don’t want it to be him.’
I was crying, still. I saw a fat tear fall from my nose and land in the mess of blood on the floor.
‘Do it, Schenok,’ she said. ‘Do what he says. End this.’
I took out Abdul’s piece and balanced it on my palm. Now both my hands were smeared with blood.
‘Smith,’ Solomon said, ‘we don’t have all night.’
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Malkie’s hand go to his hip. Fitz copied. They were preparing to step in.
‘Okay, okay,’ I said, in English. I cocked the gun and took the safety off.
‘Charlie,’ Vyshnya whispere
d then, and I jumped. I didn’t know she knew my real name: the only time I’d ever said it to her was in the room, that night, as she lay there broken and Karen and I fought to put her back together. She looked at me, her eyes big and wet, but her face calm. ‘Do it right. Do it fast.’
I pressed the mouth of the gun to the centre of her forehead.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Like that.’
I squeezed my eyes closed, so I wouldn’t have to see.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered.
And I pulled the trigger.
The box of glass hadn’t tripped them, but it had slowed them down. A stream of curses issued from the kitchen. Birch was already on her feet: had been at the sound of the first blow to the back door. She dipped one hand into her pocket and pushed the panic button, felt it vibrate in response: distress call received. Now all she needed to do was hold them until her colleagues arrived.
As the first man staggered over the shards of glass and into the living room, she toppled the loft ladder, catching him unawares. It struck him on one temple, and he reeled.
‘Fucking bitch!’
The man swithered in the kitchen doorway, temporarily blocking the way for his two companions.
Three of them? Oh shit.
‘Yeah?’ Birch yelled. ‘Then get the fuck out of my house!’
The first man lunged at her. It was still dark in the room, with only the gas fire lit, and she reached for the huge yellow LED torch she’d rescued from the loft earlier. It was the kind of torch the police used on search parties in dark countryside. Birch shone it directly into the first man’s eyes. He swore, and threw up his arms. Birch saw he was wearing a bandanna tied around his nose and chin: the print of a glow-in-the-dark skull face on it.
‘So,’ she said, ‘we meet again.’
The skull-faced man grabbed at her, but she’d dazzled him and was able to sidestep as he crashed past her. Still wielding the torch, she brought down on the back of his neck the weapon in her right hand: a silver-topped cane that had belonged to her mother. It was antique, heavy as lead. A supposed family heirloom. The skull-faced man went down, and she sent up a prayer of thanks to her mother.
But now she had her back to the other two, and one of them wrapped an arm around her throat. Fenton. She knew immediately by the smell of him.
‘Jesus, ya fuckin daftie!’ Fenton was hissing right into her ear, but speaking to the skull-faced man. ‘Gies a hand wi’ this bitch, will ye? She’s a fuckin’ radge all right!’
The third man had clambered over the sofa, past them, and she could now hear him tearing up the stairs. He was going to look for Charlie. She didn’t have much time.
With as much force as she could, Birch brought the heavy torch up and swung it over her shoulder, at the place she thought Fenton’s head was. It made contact, with a cracking sound.
‘You little cunt!’ he spat. With his free hand, he began trying to wrestle the torch from Birch’s grip.
The skull-faced man had righted himself and staggered towards the two of them as they grappled, Fenton’s chest pressed into Birch’s back, and his arm round her neck tightening, trying to lift her feet off the floor so she couldn’t flip him again, as she had in the alleyway. Though her lungs were empty and she was beginning to see patterns, Birch took the opportunity to lean into Fenton’s pull and lift her feet up to kick the advancing skull-masked man square in the face. She heard his nose break, and he bent double, both hands thrown up over his eyes.
‘Get out of my fucking house!’ Birch yelled again, but her voice was weaker now due to Fenton’s chokehold. He succeeded in wrenching the torch from her fingers, and he lobbed it across the room. It hit the gas fire, and the glass front shattered. The flames guttered out, and darkness fell. Immediately, Birch could smell gas.
The skull-faced man was whimpering.
‘Jesus, Jones!’ Fenton shouted at him. ‘Find your fucking balls and help me, will ye?’
Birch twisted in Fenton’s grip. Her vision was beginning to go in and out, but when Jones the masked man stood up, she saw even in the gloom that the outline of the white skull had disappeared, the bandanna soaked with blood.
‘Get out!’ she tried again. ‘I’m a police officer!’ She sounded like her own ghost.
‘Get hold of her, will ye, Jones?’
Fenton made the mistake of loosening his grip, enough for Birch to haul in a lungful of air. It stung, but she felt a little of her strength return. The cane was still in her hand, and she lashed out again at Jones’s face, hitting him in the eye.
‘Bitch bastard.’
Fenton grabbed Birch’s free left arm, tried to spin her around to twist it behind her back. He had to let her out of the chokehold, and she gulped down air. Anticipating Fenton’s plan, she tried to run: she knew he wouldn’t let go of her, but straightening her arm out and pulling away would make it harder for him to reel her in again. Jones looked afraid as she bolted towards him.
‘Fucksake!’
Fenton now had hold of both of her wrists, both of her arms outstretched behind her, like they were some sort of bizarre yoga duo. He was trying to get her back into a manageable hold, but she was strong, younger than he was, and they were equals in height. Birch took the opportunity to fill her lungs, and then screamed.
‘Shut her the fuck up, Jones!’
The skull man finally found some initiative, and punched Birch square in the face. The blow landed right between her eyes.
Her vision fell out for a second, and when it came back, she could see a rainbow chimera over one eye. Her depth perception was broken. She tried to kick out at Jones once again, but she knew she wasn’t anywhere near.
‘Fuck you,’ she hissed, and then screamed again. This time she was able to see the blow coming, but although she tried to duck, her weird vision meant she didn’t go far enough, and he landed a glancing blow on the side of her head.
Fenton was dancing backward now, still holding her wrists: he was pulling her back with him, giving Jones more room to swing.
‘Fuck her up, Jonesy,’ Birch heard him say.
Jones made another punch that hit Birch in the jaw. At the back of her mouth, she felt something come loose. She gathered the blood and saliva in her mouth and spat it as hard as she could into Jones’s face. As the wet missile left her mouth, she realised there was a tooth in it. At the same moment, Fenton took another step back: there was a metallic sound, and he let out a cry. He’d tangled his foot in the fallen loft ladder, and he went down like a tree, backward, pulling Birch with him. As she fell on top of him, she heard the air rush out of his lungs. He’d twisted one of her arms all wrong, and a bolt of white-hot pain shot through it. Birch’s vision fluttered out again, just for a second or two. But in those two seconds, she heard windchimes.
Shit. There’s another one, she thought. Someone was coming in the front door.
Birch struggled, trying to get her wrists out of Fenton’s grip without letting him up off the floor. She was vulnerable like that, she knew: chest and stomach upturned, all the softest parts of her just ready to be punched or kicked by the skull man. But his attack never came. She could hear – something. Something going on where Jones had been standing. She heard him say, ‘What the fuck, man?’ and then there appeared to be a scuffle. She couldn’t hear all that well, because her ears were ringing from the punches she’d taken, and underneath her weight, Fenton was roaring. The ladder was still hooked around his leg, and as he thrashed, it whined and clanked. All she could see was the ceiling, and the dark shapes of some of her furniture. The room stank of gas.
Fenton was yanking on her hurt arm, making her cry out in pain. Then he let go of that wrist, and manoeuvred one hand out from underneath her back. He clamped it over her mouth.
‘Fucking bitch,’ he spat, into her ear.
Birch opened her bloodied lips and bit down, as hard as she could, on Fenton’s index finger. Fenton squealed: a sound like the yelp of a dog who’s been whipped with a chain.
‘I’m going to enjoy this,’ Fenton hissed into her ear. Birch braced for whatever impact might come, and indeed she felt a horrendous, bone-crushing blow. But no pain came, and the howl that went up was not from her own throat. The sound was Fenton’s, a huge, guttural wail. His hands went limp, and he rolled off her, the ladder still caught round his foot, and rattling. He curled into a spiral on the floor beside her, clawing at his own skull.
‘Nella.’
No. She must be hallucinating. It couldn’t be—
She put her palms down and pushed herself to her knees, sending miserable lightning up and down her injured arm. A tattooed hand reached out and lifted her unhurt elbow, and hauled her to her feet. She reeled for a moment, her vision full of static. Then things righted a little and she turned round.
‘Oh fuck, Nella. Oh fuck.’
Charlie was holding the silver-topped cane in his hand. Even in the dim light, blood gleamed on it.
Birch couldn’t help it. She flung herself at her brother, pulling him in close to her. As his face made contact with her own, she felt her back bottom teeth sloshing in the gum. Jones had dislodged them. Everything hurt, but she didn’t care. Charlie. Charlie had come back.
‘All right, love,’ he said, ‘all right now.’
He put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her backward to arm’s length. The expression on his face told Birch she looked really pretty bad.
‘Let’s finish this,’ Charlie said, nodding at Fenton, still on the ground beside her, but beginning to gather himself. ‘Then we can talk, yeah?’
Birch nodded. Charlie leaned over the crumpled form of the skull-masked man, and flicked on the overhead light. Birch blinked. Her depth perception had still not returned, and the light felt almost painfully bright, brighter than she knew it really was.
