by K T Bowes
“In the oven. Look.” The Irishman pointed towards the cooking range which occupied the old fireplace. The closed doors of the gas Aga kept its secret.
“You put an irreplaceable artifact in my oven?” Emma whispered, shaking her head to clear it. “You just put it in the oven; a hundred and fifty five years of history...in the oven. To cook?”
“Aye,” Christopher confirmed.
Emma closed her eyes and blew out through pursed lips. “So, the oven’s on?” she asked, pressing her fingers to the aching bridge of her nose. “And you’re cooking it like a big biscuit?”
“Aye.”
Emma’s eyes snapped open and her cheeks blushed in anger. “Why?” she yelled at the Irishman. “Why would you do such a dumb thing?”
“Is everything ok, miss?” Ray asked, his voice sounding concerned as he poked his head around the doorframe. Christopher and Rohan adopted a fight stance and Ray looked past them to Emma.
“Who’re you?” Christopher asked rudely and Emma laid her forearms on the table and buried her face in the soft material of her sweatshirt.
“You’re cooking a valuable artifact?” she groaned. “This isn’t real; I’ve fallen asleep and there’s a moron in my dream.”
“Mr Barker,” Emma heard Rohan say.
“Captain Andreyev,” came the reply.
“Who is he?” Christopher asked again, his voice laden with threat. He advanced past Emma and she reached out and grabbed at the bottom of his shirt.
“Don’t even think about it, Dolan! He’s my new park manager,” she hissed, making up the title on the spot. She sat up and turned around, not releasing Christopher. “What’s the matter, Ray?”
“Left my car keys,” he said, indicating the fruit bowl in the centre of the table. Emma nudged it with her free hand and it shifted, revealing a set of keys with a battered cuddly rabbit hiding under a fallen banana.
“Let go, woman!” Christopher strained against Emma’s hold on his shirt.
“Do you want me to stay, miss?” Ray asked, ignoring the room’s more formidable occupants.
Emma let go of Christopher’s hem and turned to look at Rohan before answering. Her husband stood with his backside leaned against the counter, arms folded and eyes narrowed. Emma opened her mouth to dismiss Ray with unconvincing platitudes, beaten to it by Rohan’s heavily accented voice. “Stay, Mr Barker,” he said. “We could use the help.”
Emma shook her head in amazement and let out a sigh which deflated her body. Christopher froze on the spot. “What? Don’t be an eejit! We know nothin’ about him!”
Rohan fixed his penetrating blue eyes on the Irishman. “I know plenty about him and he’s a good man.” He raised blonde eyebrows at Christopher. “He stays.”
Christopher stomped back towards the Aga, swearing under his breath. Ray ventured further into the room, choosing the chair next to Emma. He pocketed his car keys and leaned back in the seat. “What’s going on?”
“I found an artifact,” Emma began. “It proves the school’s five years older than first thought and puts in jeopardy the one hundred and fiftieth celebration later this year. Unfortunately, a number of people don’t want me to reveal it. This morning, Rohan and I retrieved it after it was stolen.” Emma slumped in her seat. “But it’s all pointless as we’re due to hand it over to someone else at midnight tonight and don’t have a choice.” She glanced at Christopher and pointed a shaking index finger at him, her voice wavering. “And my Irish friend’s solution is to bake it like a cookie.”
“Why all the fuss?” Ray shrugged. “Can’t you go public and get the newspapers on board; then it can’t be hushed up?”
“Oh, guy’s a genius!” Christopher muttered in his Irish brogue. “Why didn’t we think of that?”
“Zatknis’, Hack!” Rohan snapped, telling him to shut up. Christopher grumbled like a sulky teenager in the corner and watched as the Russian turned his attention to Ray Barker.
Emma scraped her chair back and stood. “I’m going for a shower and change of clothes.” She held the bottom of her nightdress up in her left hand. Her smile for Ray was gentle. “I’m sure my husband will be happy to explain everything for you.” Emma jabbed an index finger at Christopher. “And if that plaque’s not out of the oven before I get back, you’re in big trouble.”
Upstairs in her bedroom, Emma sat on the bed for a moment to disgorge from her unusual attire and woke an hour later. The back of Rohan’s hand stroked her warm cheek. “Emma, it’s four o’clock, dorogaya. We need your help.”
“Nicky!” Emma sat up with a start, making her head swim.
“He’s fine, I promise. He went home with Allaine; she texted me. Kaylee’s father wants to take them to a soccer game so Nikolai sounded happy. Kaylee’s his best friend again, so all’s well in his world.”
Emma nodded and sank into the pillows, her heart pounding in her chest. She placed a shaking hand over it. “I’m not sure what happened. I only sat down to take my socks off.”
“You’re tired.” Rohan stroked her hair back from her forehead. “And pregnant.” He pushed his hand underneath the slinky nightdress and ran gentle fingers over the delicate skin of her abdomen. Emma groaned.
“I can’t believe I’ve been walking around like this all day.” She wrinkled her nose at the sight of her grey track pants shrouded by the silky claret nightie.
“I quite like it.” Rohan bit his bottom lip, his eyes sparkling.
Emma couldn’t help herself and tinkling laughter escaped her pink lips. “Does nothing spoil your libido?” she giggled.
“Some things.” Rohan smiled, but a dark cloud crossed his eyes and Emma reached for his hand, sorry for her throwaway question. “I need to go back downstairs, Em. Can you meet me in the kitchen in ten minutes? It’s important.” He looked tired, dark circles creeping under his stunning eyes and Emma nodded, sensing her husband’s tension.
“Ok,” she promised.
“Up then,” Rohan said, standing and offering his outstretched hand. “I need to see you actually moving around before I trust you enough to leave.”
Emma heaved her unwilling body off the bed, shucking her sweatshirt and aiming it loosely in the direction of the door. She missed and it landed on the hearth. “Oops,” she sighed as Rohan retrieved it, brushing off the fine layer of ash. “I’ll take it to the laundry with the rest of this,” she said, shimmying out of her track pants. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as Emma slipped the thin straps of the nightdress over her shoulders, letting it ripple over her soft skin and pool in a puddle at her feet like merlot.
The crow’s feet at the corners of Rohan’s eyes creased as he enjoyed his wife’s nakedness, conflict creating a furrow in his brow. “I should go downstairs,” he breathed, his voice wavering as doubt gnawed at him.
“Ok,” Emma grinned, turning her back on him. She felt the pressure of his eyes raking the curve in the small of her back before her flesh plunged over her delicious buttocks, thrilled by the power which his insatiable need for her offered. “Off you go,” she commanded, the wicked glint in her eye not dimmed by the deliberate swing of her hips as she closed the ensuite door on him.
Emma turned the water on and waited for the spray to heat as she listened to Rohan’s phone chirp and his rude retort to the caller. “Shut it, durak! I’m coming now,” he spat. She heard the bedroom door close and felt the vibrations of his footsteps through the floorboards. In the shower, she leaned her forehead against the tiles and closed her eyes, allowing the water pressure to pound the aching muscles at the back of her head.
Emma kept her promise, arriving in the kitchen dressed, with her wet hair tumbling from a clip and her jeans open at the zipper. She rolled her eyes at Rohan’s curious expression. “They won’t do up anymore,” she grumbled, hauling her sweater down to cover the gap.
“About bloody time!” Christopher complained, turning from the sink. Emma’s jaw dropped in amazement at the white powder dusted over his chin and cheeks. His je
ans bore large, white handprints and his fingers were coated in a thick, white residue. A glance at Ray’s guilty face next to him revealed one white eyebrow and a smudge which stretched from ear to chin.
“I’m glad the male bonding’s going so well,” she said, looking to her husband for assistance.
“Well, youse ran out on us!” Christopher protested. His face creased into a smile. “But we’ve had us a lot of fun, actually.”
Emma shook her head. “So you turned from destroying precious artifacts to manufacturing cocaine?”
Rohan snorted with laughter but the Irishman bridled with indignation. “No! We had to do it without youse, but Ray’s good at this crap.”
Ray ran a powdery hand across his forehead, leaving a line and creating a snowstorm of the white stuff. Rohan pulled out the chair next to Emma’s and sat down with a sigh, slipping an arm around her shoulder. “Hack and I decided this job doesn’t feel right. We talked it through and came up with a solution. Who, apart from you, Sam and Freda know what the plaque looks like? Did you show anyone else?”
Emma shook her head with a slow movement, considering the question. “No,” she concluded. “Just we three and whoever hid it in the first place, added to anyone who’s moved it around since. The mezzanine floor for the computer suite was added twenty years ago according to Sam, so it may have been disturbed during that period.”
“But if someone saw it and knew what it was, they would either have destroyed it, or waved it around and made a big fuss?”
Emma nodded. “Exactly. A Jameson would have destroyed it for sure, but anyone else would draw attention to it because it tells a different story from popular belief.”
“So we can conclude only three people have seen it in the last few decades?”
“Yes.” Emma nodded her head with certainty. “I’d say that was a fair assumption.”
Christopher took up the story. “Seeing as youse seemed so upset at parting with the plaque, we decided not to.”
“What do you mean?” Emma said, sitting up straighter. “If you don’t hand it over, you forfeit the job and pay a penalty. Then the Triads come after all of us.”
Christopher shook his head and looked at Rohan, who interjected. “See, devotchka, that’s where it doesn’t feel right. The Triads played with us for over a year and yeah, the Contessa’s mad at me for the fire, but something’s wrong with this job. The Triads take what they want. If Che wants revenge, he gets it; they don’t bargain over tiny jobs like this in the back of nowhere.”
“But you gave the order to burn her,” Emma whispered, glancing nervously at Ray. Her new employee raised a white hand in a modest wave.
“I know everything, miss. You explained there might be things I’d see which I couldn’t tell my son and I accepted the job anyway. I’m in, miss.”
“I condemned her to the fire but Hack pulled her out,” Rohan said. He concentrated on Emma’s hair, running his index finger through the centre of a damp, escaped curl. “It’s business and the Triads know that. Everything made sense until Mikhail factored them in; then it fell to pieces.”
“If you don’t give the client the plaque,” Emma said, her brown eyes wide, “what will happen?”
“We will give him a plaque,” Christopher said with a smirk. “We just won’t give him the real one.”
Emma squeezed her eyes shut as she digested the riddle. Ray spoke. “We’ve made a duplicate, miss.”
“How?” Emma asked, her face screwed up in disbelief. “It’s made of bronze!” She glared at Christopher. “Or are you going to reveal you’re really a master sculptor underneath that Irish-James-Bond exterior?”
Christopher preened himself at the backhanded compliment and Rohan sighed. “No. He bought polymer clay in liquid form from the art shop in town. That’s what he was baking.”
Emma turned in her seat to look at Rohan. “But it’ll come out backwards and instead of indented, the words will stick out, in reverse. That won’t fool anyone.”
“Duh!” Christopher postured, moving out of the way so Ray could wash his hands in the Belfast sink. Emma watched the white splashes pool on the metal draining board, wrinkling her nose at the mess.
“The clay formed the mold,” Rohan said. “We baked it in the oven on a low heat to let the mold dry and now they’ve filled it with plaster of Paris.”
Emma couldn’t prevent the smirk which lit her rosebud lips. “So you’ve had a craft afternoon together,” she said. “Was it fun?”
“Ha bloody ha!” Christopher retorted, glaring at Rohan. “I told you she wouldn’t appreciate it!”
“Oh, I do,” Emma said. “I just don’t understand how something made of plaster can look like a bronze plaque from the late 1800s.”
“Paint effects,” Rohan said and looked at Emma with expectation.
“Me?”
“Da, your art at school was amazing. You won that trophy for your competition entry in Year 11. Remember?” Rohan leaned forward, his face earnest.
Emma ran a tired hand over her face. “I don’t believe this.”
Christopher spilled the contents of a plastic bag over the table. Paint pots, tubes of colour and brushes clattered in front of Emma. “Here you go,” he said with enthusiasm. “The Actuary said you’re great at that kinda stuff.” He waved a hand in the general direction of Emma’s chest as though she contained a blueprint on counterfeiting artifacts.
The three men watched her with such absolute faith in her abilities, Emma found it hard to breathe under the pressure of their expectation. She reached out a tentative finger to stroke the bristles of a short stippling brush and the men gave a collective sigh of relief. Emma turned to Rohan, worry etched into her furrowed brow. “I didn’t say I’d do it,” she protested. His scratchy bristles felt rough against her cheek as he leaned in to kiss her temple, his blue eyes radiating pride.
“You’re brilliant,” he confirmed. “What happened to the art work?” he asked. “They displayed it in a gallery for a while, da?”
Emma shrugged and swallowed the lump in her throat. “Lost,” she replied and Rohan looked disappointed. Emma blinked back a hideous memory of his mother’s wrath as she spotted the likeness of her own wickedness in the witch who patrolled the candy house.
Rohan turned to the other men, expounding on the parts of the oil painting he remembered. “It was Hansel and Gretel,” he said. “The sweetie house was so real, you could taste the sugar.” He nodded, his eyes soft. “You promised I could have it,” he said, frowning at the memory.
Emma floundered, tears rising like floodwater behind her eyes. Her blood pressure hiked as her mind revealed the image of Alanya smashing the canvas to pieces in the back garden and lighting the incinerator. The wooden frame crackled as the flames licked along its length and her stunning artwork melted in the heat, the oils merging into one hideous colour. “Don’t move!” Alanya screamed as Emma took a step backwards, her sobs audible even over the hissing, crackling fire. “You did zis!” She stabbed a crooked index finger in Emma’s direction. “You mock me and now everybody sees.”
“Sees you for who you are!” Emma hurled in reply and her stepmother moved quicker than she anticipated, delivering a sharp slap to the girl’s cheek. The skin stung and Emma touched her face, feeling the heat rise. Her legs buckled and she found herself on the back door step, grappling behind her with her hands for balance as another slap followed.
“After everything I do for you!” Alanya stood over her, eyes bulging in their sockets as anger poured out. “You show my syn!” she screamed and there it was; the reason for her anger. Rohan’s last weekend visit home before deployment was a magical farce of homemade dinners and joviality. Emma nursed the secret of her pregnancy, waiting for an opportunity to talk to her husband of a few months and beg him not to leave.
Stress over the deployment made him snappy and in the only hour they had together, they went to bed and then argued. Emma ran from the house in distress and when she returned, he’d al
ready gone.
“Emma?” Rohan’s concerned expression brought her back to reality from the miserable annals of her past and Emma jolted forward in time with a heaving sob.
“I can’t do it!” she hissed, shoving her chair back with her legs. It skittered across the tiles with a jarring scrape. “I don’t paint. I can’t.” Her breath came in short gasps and she turned and ran from the kitchen, her socks pattering on the floor as her mind replayed her winning canvas melting before her eyes.
“Emma!” The kitchen door slammed as Rohan followed. Emma kept running, slipping on the wooden floor as her socks failed to gain purchase. “Don’t make me run, please!” Rohan pleaded, throwing his prosthetic leg out sideways to get the complicated joints to move faster.
Compassion made Emma skid to a halt at the bottom of the stairs and she stood rigid, her body heaving in a mixture of embarrassment and misery at the memory of the three stunned male faces in her kitchen. She detested the drama of female hysterics and Emma covered her face with her hands, livid with herself. Rohan spun her round and cradled her into his body, showering kisses on the top of her head. “What happened, devotchka? Tell me.”
“I don’t want to do it,” she sniffed. “Please don’t make me?”
“Not back there,” Rohan breathed into her hair. “Before. I saw in your face the agony of something dark. Tell me about that.”
Emma swallowed and the memory surged in front of her face again, Alanya’s fury and the blows from her fists raining on the sixteen year old’s head. “Your mother was the witch in the painting,” Emma panted. “She burned it and beat me.”
Rohan swore in Russian and crushed his wife to himself. “I didn’t know,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Em, I didn’t know.” He lowered himself onto the stairs, high enough to straighten out his prosthesis. Emma slumped onto his good leg, nestling into his breast like a child. She breathed the scent of his deodorant, masculine and safe as it enfolded her and gave her enough security to calm. “So much I didn’t see.” Rohan rocked her, massaging the back of her head and pressing kisses into her hair. “Forgive me?” he whispered and she raised her tear streaked face and studied him.
