by G. D. Abson
Published by Mirror Books,
an imprint of Trinity Mirror plc,
1 Canada Square,
London E14 5AP, England
www.mirrorbooks.co.uk
© G. D. Abson 2017
The rights of G. D. Abson
to be identified as the author of this book have been asserted,
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
ISBN 9781907324833
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
written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of
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condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Every effort has been made to fulfil requirements with regard to
reproducing copyright material. The author and publisher will be
glad to rectify any omissions at the earliest opportunity.
Front cover images: Trevillion, Millenium Images
For Jenny
Prologue
Saint Petersburg. New Year’s Eve, 1999
Her husband’s men had been drinking vodka since midday. Through the serving hatch she could see Sasha making a toast with his hand curled around one of her crystal glasses. She had no desire to listen to him and tore apart a head of lettuce at the sink, washing the leaves in the icy water until it numbed her fingers. She heard grunting and dropped the leaves in a salad spinner before returning to the hatch. Now the two men were arm wrestling on her coffee table, their rolled up shirt-sleeves showing off their pale, swollen biceps; the smoke from their untended cigarettes forming cirrus clouds in the stale air. She unscrewed a jar of pickled tomatoes and sliced three on a board then stirred them into a bowl of finely chopped cucumber and onion.
‘It’s smoky in here.’ She wafted her free arm breezily to emphasise the point as she placed the bowl next to a beetroot salad in the adjoining dining room.
Sasha lifted his palm to signal a truce. He tapped the ash off his cigarette then puffed on it. ‘Is there more food, Kristina? I’m starving.’
She glanced at him then looked away, conscious of the lie she was about to tell. ‘Don’t worry, it’s coming.’ She needed them drunk.
On the floor she gathered up pieces of a jigsaw puzzle – a present for Ksenia’s second birthday that spent more time being tossed in frustration than completed – depositing them in the corner of the room reserved for her toys. She raised the blinds. Outside it was black except for the yellow globes of streetlamps and the glow of lights in the apartments on the opposite side of the canal. Ice cracked as she forced open a window and freezing air sucked the cirrus clouds away. She yanked the window shut when the cold began to bite then let down the blinds.
Her eyes flicked to Sasha’s brown, wet-gel hair that he teased into tiny spikes. She liked to imagine he’d fixed an otter’s pelt to his scalp; it helped to make light of the fact that he had a gun. Usually the dull black pistol was in the inside pocket of his jacket but now it lay by his elbow on the coffee table. On the sofa’s arm was an open packet of cigarettes and she helped herself to one. The lighter was next to the gun, so she waited patiently until Vova noticed her lingering and lit the cigarette for her. A strand of the cheap tobacco came free and she absent-mindedly pinched it from the tip of her tongue then wiped it onto the edge of an ashtray.
‘This city’s messed up,’ she said to neither of them in particular, ‘I’ll never get used to the cold.’
Sasha lit a cigarette and drew on it deeply before picking up a near-empty bottle of Stolichnaya and filling a glass for Vova and himself. She brought out a third from the crystal set in her wooden cabinet and he poured the remainder of the vodka into it until the meniscus was bulging.
She knocked it back, hoping to calm her nerves. ‘And up here it’s dark from four in the evening.’
Vova settled in her leather sofa and emptied his drink with a flick of the wrist. ‘Well, it’s good in summer.’ He reached for a pickled gherkin, tapped it against the jar to shake off the vinegar then lowered it into his mouth.
She passed the ashtray to Sasha and turned to Vova, whose height barely made it to Sasha’s jawline. ‘For three months maybe, then there’s no night at all. There’s just this weird zombie light that makes it hard to sleep.’
Vova licked his fingers. ‘Piter’s always been black or white.’
She wondered then if she had misjudged him. In the daylight it was hard to imagine how any city could shine more brightly than St. Petersburg when it had the Winter Palace and the Mariinsky Theatre, but it was dark too. The city ate boys like Sasha and Vova, turning them into bloated corpses before they reached fat middle age. She’d heard a hundred thousand slaves died building the city, their bones crushed to grit beneath the weight of its wide avenues and fancy European streets. Sometimes she wondered if their spirits had infected the place.
Sasha broke the seal on a fresh bottle of Stolichnaya. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Three years.’ She pulled on the cigarette and the nicotine made her light-headed. ‘We moved after our honeymoon.’
Sasha looked up. ‘And how long’s it been since Yuri left?’
You should know, she thought. ‘Three months.’
It had been the end of September, in that last week of sunshine they call the Peasant Woman’s Summer, when Yuri was sent to the prison colony at Krasnoyarsk and Sasha and Vova had arrived. They followed her and Ksenia around from that first day, and within a fortnight had scared off the few friends she’d made in St. Petersburg or “Piter” as she’d learned to call it. At first she had been outraged, complaining bitterly to Sasha about the intrusion into her private life, but it had only made them more controlling; more suspicious that her objections meant she had something to hide. They were right to distrust her.
She tried a subtler approach. Back then, they had been plain Alexander and Vladimir and she started calling them by their diminutives. When they followed her to the Leningrad Trade House she asked them to help choose a dress for Ksenia. During the week she bought them biscuits and cakes; at the weekend she treated them to vodka and cigarettes. Sometimes she flirted a little with Sasha, touching him lightly when she brushed past, or complimenting him on his physique.
‘Where are you boys from?’ she had asked.
‘Kupchino,’ she remembered Vova volunteering with unnecessary pride.
‘South of the city, eh?’
‘Yeah,’ he muttered, struggling to match her gaze.
‘I’m from Volgodonsk,’ she had offered. ‘From a shitty Khrushchyovka block of concrete like yours.’
At the end of October, Sasha told her she could go out alone. Of course, they followed her and Ksenia from a distance, waddling along the pavement like a pair of orphaned bears. She wheeled the pushchair around, pretending not to be aware of their presence. At home, she acted mildly surprised when they returned a minute after her. By mid-November, when it was dark and freezing, they stopped trailing her altogether.
‘Are you in there?’ Sasha’s glassy eyes fixed on hers.
‘I was daydreaming.’ She forced a smile then watched the two men lean over the table and lock fists again. Sasha’s bicep twitched as he strained his arm against Vova’s, trying to score a cheap victory. Vova resisted and the legs of her coffee table rattled.
She stubbed the cigarette out. ‘I�
��m going to the produkti before it closes.’ Alone in her bedroom she’d rehearsed the line but nerves were making her prattle. ‘I need cereal too – well, Ksenia does.’
Sasha twisted his thick neck. ‘Can you get some Marlboro? The red ones.’ He turned his head back to the competition.
She glanced at an open packet of Peter the Great and guessed he was taking advantage, but it didn’t matter.
‘Vodka?’
Sasha kept his bicep locked against Vova’s in case of a surprise attack. ‘No, we stocked up.’ He gave her a queasy smile. ‘I bought wine in case you want to join us.’
If her husband had seen that look, he would have cut the idiot’s prick off. ‘Maybe when I get back,’ she replied with a coquettish twist of her shoulders.
‘Wait.’ He released his hand from Vova’s grip, repeatedly stretching his fingers and forming a fist as if they were cramping. ‘I’ll come with you.’
She felt a momentary panic. ‘No, stay, it’s freezing outside.’
He looked alarmed. ‘What about…?’
‘Ksenia? Don’t worry, she won’t wake up.’ The thought of a bull like Sasha terrified at the prospect of looking after a two-year-old girl made her smile.
She pulled on her winter fur, patting its pockets in a rehearsed move. ‘Where’s my damned purse?’
Instead of going to her bedroom, she went to the nursery and peered through a gap in the blinds at the Zhiguli parked across the street. She had noticed it five days ago, already submerged under a quilt of overnight snow. Now, slush was piled around the pavement where he’d cleared it away, and she could see the car was beige beneath the yellow of the sodium lamp. It was an old model too, with sharp angles. A vehicle that only a child or Soviet engineer might like to draw. There was no movement on the driver’s side, no shadows or shapes that told her he was inside; it was too risky to sit and wait for her this close to the apartment.
She scanned the street. A group of revellers, three couples, were starting early on their New Year’s celebrations, the women wearing furs and the men in smart three-quarter-length coats with Ushanka hats. He’d be out there too; a muffled figure hiding from the freezing wind. There was a left turn a few metres from the car where he might be keeping out of sight. That narrow road led to the Griboyedov Canal where she’d often stared at a small pool of pure black water that was always the last to resist the ice. Before she became pregnant, and when she realised the kind of man Yuri was, she’d been tempted to do more than stare at it.
She stuffed a pair of Ksenia’s thick tights in the bottom of her nylon shopping bag, then added two thin blankets, Felix – Ksenia’s favourite bear, and some disposable nappies. It made her feel sick to think of what what she was leaving behind: especially the lace coverlets her grandmother had crocheted as a wedding present.
Ksenia murmured as she pulled a sheepskin hat onto her head before wrapping her tightly in a blanket. Yuri wouldn’t harm his own daughter, but she wasn’t his own flesh, blood and nerves. If Sasha and Vova caught her, well, Yuri was never going to be labelled a cuckold. No doubt they had orders and Sasha would get to use that gun of his. She felt momentary guilt at their fate. If she succeeded they would be sensible to escape too, but she had met boys like Sasha and Vova before, they believed in loyalty the way Baltic sailors drowned – by clinging to the wreckage of their boats when swimming for shore could have saved them.
The handles of the nylon bag cut into her hand as she bent down to pick up Ksenia. Cradling her, she walked softly along the corridor.
‘Mama?’ Ksenia’s eyes blinked open.
‘Shh,’ she whispered. ‘We’re going to a magic castle but only if you are very quiet.’
Ksenia nodded solemnly, half in a dream, her eyes flickering as they closed.
There was a triumphant shout from the living room then a pause. ‘Don’t forget the smokes,’ Sasha called, his voice loud with vodka and victory.
She shuffled down two flights of stairs then opened the block’s metal apartment door. Instantly, her cheeks burned with the cold and the freezing air made her gasp. She locked the door behind her, nearly stumbling under the weight. The scratching noise of her footsteps on the gritted pavement echoed as she staggered along the street. Ksenia burrowed her head into the fur lapels of the coat.
She stopped for a minute outside a closed magazine kiosk to catch her breath; her arm muscles burned with the effort of holding Ksenia and the shopping bag. Without a scarf, her nose and ears were already stinging; the next stage was numbness, then frostbite. She doubled back towards her apartment. At the familiar hulk of the Zhiguli she squatted, lowering Ksenia.
‘Can you stand up for Mama?’
The child nodded slowly and got to her feet.
Kristina took out the blankets from the shopping bag and wrapped them around Ksenia.
‘Don’t move, darling.’
‘Magic?’
‘Yes, we’re going to the castle now.’
A pair of black leather boots stopped on the path. She couldn’t bear to look up.
‘Are you all right?’
The voice was slurred and she didn’t recognise it. She bobbed her head quickly without making eye contact. ‘I’m fine.’
She willed the stranger to go away, her body statue still. It took forever until his footsteps started crunching on the ice and grit. The cold was biting now, sending a thousand icy jabs into the exposed skin on her face. Ksenia’s cheeks each bore a perfect red circle and she pulled the edge of the knitted blanket around her until there was only a slit for the eyes.
‘Stay there. Be a good girl for Mama.’
‘I go bed.’
‘Soon, darling.’
She ran a gloved hand along the underside of the Zhiguli’s front wheel arch, finding the magnetic box where he’d told her it would be. She braced herself, hugging the top of the tyre with her arm, then gripped the box and yanked it. Her hand slipped off – the damned thing was welded to the metal by ice. She tried again. When that failed, she curled her hand into a fist and jabbed at the little box. Through the wool of her glove, a sharp corner scraped her knuckles, making her eyes water. Needles stabbed as the tears turned to ice. She formed a fist and hit the box again, blinking to stop fresh tears forming, then cradled her hand to mask the fresh pain. She gritted her teeth to suppress a scream, noticing the box had fallen soundlessly onto the snow.
The glove on her right hand was stiff with blood. She peeled it off to pick up the box, her fingers tacky on the freezing metal. She pushed the top edge. It slid open easily, revealing a single, silver key.
When she tried it in the passenger door, barely the tip of the key fitted inside the lock before it stuck.
‘Lord Jesus Christ.’ She strode to the driver’s side in clear view of her apartment.
She resumed the incantation: ‘Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner. Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner. Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner.’ The prayer did little to calm her mind: all she could think of was Sasha and Vova, and one of them looking outside to see why she was taking so long.
‘Mama go home!’ Ksenia called from the pavement.
‘Shh! Remember the magic castle.’
Ksenia wailed, ‘Nooooo – I go home!’
Kristina fought the temptation to comfort her. The cries grew louder. The key slipped into the lock on the driver’s door but it too was frozen. She stole a glance at her apartment on the second floor – the blinds were in shadow and it was impossible to know if they were looking out. She jabbed the key with her palm to try and force it in.
‘Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner. Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God—’
Ksenia began screaming.
There were hurried footsteps.
A gloved hand pulled the key from her. ‘Let me do it.’ His breath billowed out like factory smoke.
She looked up. ‘Where the fuck were you?’ she demanded.
> ‘I needed a piss.’
She smelled alcohol on his breath. ‘Is this all a game to you?’
‘I was freezing.’
His cheeks were the colour and consistency of cold clay. She nodded to herself. ‘Hurry, the lock’s frozen.’
He pulled the key out and held a lighter to it. She darted around the Zhiguli’s bonnet and picked up Ksenia. ‘Shh, we’re going to the castle now. There are horses and elephants.’
‘I want go home,’ Ksenia wailed.
He tried the key in the lock; it opened, and he leant across the seats to open her door from the inside. She cradled Ksenia as she climbed in, then picked up the bag from the pavement. Ksenia’s crying tailed off as she became aware of the man sitting next to her and squirmed to see what was happening.
He started the engine. ‘Shit, I forgot to bring a child seat.’
‘Don’t worry, just go.’
Ksenia whimpered, cradled in her arms and cocooned in the blankets. Soon, her soft snores were drowned out by the noise of the engine.
The Alexander Nevsky Bridge was blocked by traffic when they reached it.
‘Christ, look at this.’ He ran a hand through his hair and stared at three lanes of brake lights. ‘When will they come?’
It took her a moment to realise he was talking about Sasha and Vova. ‘They’ll know by now.’
‘What are we going to do?’
Two fireworks launched prematurely from a barge on the Neva, their brilliant tips burning like phosphorous flares, illuminating the people in the queueing cars. She squirmed in her seat – they were barely two hundred metres from her apartment on the most obvious route out of the city.
‘Hope and pray.’
Red lights winked as the traffic edged forward and she tried to focus on Ksenia’s easy breaths.
The spell was broken by his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. ‘We could go to the police?’
She snorted in disbelief. ‘You want the militia to help you run away with a married woman? They’ll take me home and steal your money.’
‘Will he come after you?’
‘Yuri? He’ll never stop…I told him I was leaving.’
