The Circassian. "Wrong Side"

by Bob Bidecant

7.5

  General Kalashnik stopped in the foyer of his hotel and handed his room key to the receptionist. He tapped an envelope on the desk as he spoke.

  ‘Do you have anybody here who you trust to deliver this letter?’ He dropped the white closed envelope on the desk. The receptionist picked it up and read the address.

  ‘It’s not too far from here. The boy can take it on his pushbike if you like.’

  ‘Tonight!’ said Kalashnik as he dropped three shillings onto the desk. The receptionist’s eyes opened, a whole day’s wage was in front of him.

  ‘Within an hour, quick enough, General?’ he smiled.

  Kalashnik stepped outside his hotel and looked at the grey London skies.

  ‘The weather here is worse that Moscow.’ He said to the doorman who held an umbrella above his head.

  ‘Would you like a cab Sir?’ he asked him. Kalashnik held his hand out palm up.

  ‘No, it is not raining, why do you have an umbrella over my head?’ The doorman closed the umbrella and offered it to the General rolled up. Kalashnik waved it away and took one of Evdokimoff’s cigars from the top pocket of the new suit he had handmade the day before. The doorman produced a light for him like a street magician.

  ‘I think I will walk to the restaurant tonight. I need some fresh air.’ He blew a large cloud of smoke into the doorman’s face, enjoying his own humour and walked down the steps.

  Yashkin poked the driver sitting next to him.

  ‘There he is, get ready.’ They waited for Kalashnik to turn a corner and walk along a small cobbled street.‘Let’s go.’ Yashkin said. The driver tapped the young horse once and it moved off. They got to the turning and stopped. Yashkin looked along the street it was empty.

  ‘Now!’ he said.

  The driver whipped the horse as hard as he could, it burst forward at a great speed, the pain searing across it flanks. He whipped it again and it sped up even faster. Once more and the horse was galloping blindly down the cobbles trying to outrace the whip. Kalashnik heard a noise behind him and stopped walking. He turned to look as the horse raced only inches past him. The side of the cab caught him fully in the face.

  ‘Stop.’ Cried Yashkin. The driver heaved on the long wooden handbrake and stamped on the foot brake as well. The wheels skidded along the wet cobbles and the horse locked its legs as the reins jerked its head back. It swerved to the right, then the left and finally stopped. Kalashnik was lying on the cobbles, a pool of blood spread slowly around his head. Yashkin jumped down and walked back quickly to him. He bent down and turned him over onto his back. The General’s face was unidentifiable; it resembled a bloody washrag that had been wrung out. Yashkin grimaced as he looked.‘Fuck, you are in a mess General.’

  He heard a low moan come from the body.

  ‘He is still alive.’ Yashkin called to the driver.

  ‘Finish him quick before anybody comes.’ The driver called back nervously. Yashkin lifted his foot and stood on the Generals neck. He heard a muffled groan and he lifted his other leg off the floor to add to the weight already on Kalashnik’s neck. Yashkin bounced up and down forcing all sixteen stone down. He heard a crack. Kalashnik stopped making a noise and he took his foot off the man’s neck. He looked around; there was nobody in the street. He was about to walk away when he noticed three cigars lying next to the body. He picked them up and jumped inside the cab.

  ‘Let get out of here.’ He called as he tried to wipe the blood from the cigars.

  7.6

  The train came to a stop, clouds of steam billowing out and completely hiding the train engine. Mikael scanned the passengers as they began stepping onto the platform. He smiled as the face of Abraham peered out and looked around. Abraham stepped slowly onto the cast iron step and then onto the concrete platform. He had always been a fit man but something about his demeanour worried Mikael he looked very old.A porter followed him from the carriage with a large suitcase and placed it onto a trolley as Mikael threw his arms around the old man and hugged him.

  ‘Didn’t think I would miss you old man. Julia is dying to meet you. She wanted to come with me but she got a headache and changed her mind. Where is mum?’ He dropped a penny into the porters hand and dismissed him, pushing the trolley himself. Abraham smiled; Mikael could still ask so many questions at the same time. His smile vanished as he spoke.

  ‘Mum isn’t with me Mikael, she became very ill after Emma’s death and she still hasn’t recovered. She was much too ill to make the crossing by ship.’ Mikael’s whole body was numb. All the questions he wanted to ask about Joe and his horse and the running of the farm disappeared from his thoughts. He did not speak as he continued pushing the trolley out of the station. Abraham held onto his arm as he climbed into the waiting carriage, then Mikael spoke to the driver who nodded. Jacobson had invited Abraham to stay in his home for Mikael and Julia’s wedding. He explained to Abraham,

  ‘Lord Jacobson suggested that I bring you through London on the way home to let you see the sights but you look tired and I am not feeling in the mood for sightseeing after hearing about mum. I have told the driver to go directly back to Lord Jacobson’s home.’ Abraham smiled.

  ‘Yes I am tired.’ He agreed. Mikael took Abrahams hand.

  ‘It must have been a terrible sacrifice for you to leave mum at the farm. Then stay alone on a ship for six weeks on the trip to England.

  ‘Mum insisted that I come, she couldn’t bear the thought of you getting married without any of your family present. It was hard to leave her but how could I miss your wedding? Anyway the trip was a good time to collect my thoughts and gave me time to finish writing this.’ Abraham squeezed Mikael’s hand and handed him a small book. The cover was old and worn, a piece of lace, originally black but now nearly white with age held it shut.

  ‘What is it?’ Mikael asked, he turned the book over and held it under his nose.

  ‘It smells old. Abraham placed his hand on top of Mikael’s.

  ‘Inside this book is the story of our trip from your old home to your new one in Africa. I kept it hidden at the farm for many years. I lost count of the amount of times I went to throw it on the fire, and then changed my mind. Now you are to be wed I think that you should know the whole story.’ Mikael looked up at him.

  ‘You kept a diary?’Abraham nodded.

  ‘Yes, you never asked about your childhood, but I always thought that one day you will want to know more about it and where you are from.’ Abraham turned Mikael’s hand over and dropped something into it. Mikael lifted his hand closer to the lamp and looked at the small charm hanging on a chain.

  ‘What is it?’ Mikael asked.

  ‘It is the charm your mother gave you for good luck.

  I hid it for a very long time. I was scared somebody might see it and start asking questions. Even now they could still send me back to Russia and execute me if they found out I am still alive.’ Mikael hung it around his neck.

  ‘Thank you.’ he sighed.

  7.7

  The hotel busboy leaned his pushbike against the railings and rang the bell. After a few minutes a servant appeared.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Letter for a Lord Jacobson.’ The servant took the letter and ushered the boy away. He closed the gate and delivered the letter to Jacobson who was upstairs on the outside veranda. Jacobson had been waiting for the letter; he looked pensive as he read it.

  “Date is confirmed. T, will arrive in London next week. Use the Circassian.”

  The street was in darkness as the driver stopped outside the main gate. Jaak stepped out.

  ‘Kill the girl too, they are all Russians Jaak. Don’t believe anything else they tell you.’ Gurin repeated the final instructions that Evdokimoff had given him earlier as Jaak walked away. The driver drove twenty yards further and then turned the carriage around and pulled up under a tree several yards away from the main gate, he extinguished the lamps and Gurin and Mikhailov
ich sat inside in the dark. Jaak waited at the entrance until the servant arrived. He looked in disbelieve at Jaak as he unlocked the large gate.

  ‘Good evening Mr Mikael, you are home earlier than I expected.’ Jaak looked at the servant without speaking. He followed him along the gravel path and to the main door. Gurin spoke quietly.

  ‘That’s it, he is inside. Now we will have to wait to find out what happens.’ The servant continued speaking as they walked.

  ‘Lord Jacobson is on the rear veranda Sir. We can go through the garden.’ Jaak followed him around the side of the house and into the garden; he stopped at a set of stone steps and pointed towards the top. The servant offered to take his cloak but Jaak pushed his hand away.

  Jaak climbed the white concrete steps until he reached a large veranda. Built at the back of the house to entertain guests during the summer it stretched several yards over the Regents Canal, a man made waterway that ran along the back of Jacobson’s property. Jaak reached the top and looked around. Jacobson stood with a drink in his hand looking out over the balcony into the water directly below him. A servant tidied the cushions on the wicker furniture situated around a small glass table. Jacobson was deep in thought; he did not hear Jaak approach. The veranda had several windows attached to the main building but only one door linked it, which was closed. It was secluded, perfect for Jaak. Jacobson turned as he heard his footsteps he looked shocked.

  ‘Hello Mikael, what are you doing back so early?’ then he realised how rude he sounded.

  ‘I’m sorry I meant that I thought your fathers train was due at Ten, where is he I am dying to meet him.’ He looked around for Abraham as Jaak stepped closer towards him. Jaak smiled at him with closed lips. Jacobson smiled back, looking at his face. Then his smile suddenly disappeared as he realised, he wasn’t looking at Mikael.

  ‘You?’ He said.

  The long thin knife entered Jacobson’s jugular and appeared out of the back of his neck. Jacobson dropped his glass and slipped slowly to his knees without making a sound, he lifted his head and stared in Jaak’s eyes. Jaak watched the life slowly drain from him, no feelings of compassion, no guilt, only emptiness impossible to fill. Jaak pulled the knife out of him dispassionately then turned and walked towards the door leading to the bedrooms.

  7.8

  Jaak opened the first bedroom door and looked inside the elegant room. He could smell a mixture of oil paints and perfume, so pleasant he felt slightly drunk from the aroma. It was so different from the tiled prison that had become his four-walled world. He decided that he was not going back. The lamps were low but there was enough light for him to look at the stunning paintings all around. Next to the window, a newly finished painting sat on a wooden easel. Jaak leant close to it; he could smell the fresh paint. It was a portrait of a couple standing on the rail of a ship, holding hands and obviously in love, he turned up the lamp and stared at the man’s face. He was shocked, it was him in the picture, and Jaak’s mind reeled. How could she have painted a picture of him? There was a small signature in the corner of the painting. “Julia Jacobson.” He turned and looked at Julia as she lay sleeping. She moved her head. Jaak realised she was the same woman as in the painting. He walked silently, without waking her and sat on the edge of the bed, watching her sleep. She opened her eyes and looked at him. Jaak slipped the knife into his belt.

  ‘Darling, what are you doing in my bedroom? My Uncle will go insane if he finds you in here.’ She sat up and looked around, noticing that he was still wearing his heavy black cloak. She reached out and pushed her fingers through his. Jaak sat there on the bed feeling her warm touch. He thought of Emma, imagined holding her hand. He felt warm and safe. He wanted to put his head on the pillow and sleep next to her. He smiled happily.

  ‘Oh God have you cut yourself, Mikael?’ Julia felt Jaak’s hand was wet. She turned his hand over and saw Jaak’s hand covered in blood.

  At that precise moment, the maid saw the body as she reached the top step, she dropped the tray she was carrying and screamed. The shrill echoed around the house, the dogs outside began barking frantically.

  ‘Lord Jacobson has been murdered.’ The maid screamed again.

  Julia looked deep into his beautiful green eyes and she knew he was Jaak.

  7.9

  The maid ran back down the steps towards the gate of the small enclosure where the dogs were kept. The lock was stiff and she struggled for several seconds with the key. Finally the lock opened and she threw the gate open and went inside. She tried to release them but they were pulling madly at their chains and she couldn’t get the clips off. She pulled one more time and the chains fell to the floor, the dogs were free. The three bulldogs raced into the house and up the main staircase, finally released from their kennel they flew along the upstairs landing barking madly. The dogs charged into him, biting his legs, he lunged at the biggest with his knife but the second bulldog gripped his forearm. He swung his arm around and slammed the dog into the wall behind him. The dog yelped but refused to let go. Without thinking, he swung a second time and kicked out his right leg, acting purely to escape their grip on him. As his foot left the floor the dog pulled hard and Jaak lost his balance. He fell back against the wall and slid down into a hunched up position. He lifted his arms to protect his face as the dogs released their grip on his legs, sensing their victim was defenceless. The largest dog leapt up, two paws on his chest and lunged for his throat. With mouth open, Jaak felt its teeth against his skin; shut his eyes waiting for the inevitable bite to come. There was a yelp. He felt the teeth scrape against his skin and then nothing. He opened his eyes, the dog had been hurled away from him, he watched as it slammed into the opposite wall and fall to the floor, unmoving. He felt teeth pulling the flesh from his leg, the pain screaming up into his brain. He looked down at the small bow legged, muscular bulldog that gripped his leg with such force. A huge bear of a dog opened its jaws and crushed its teeth into the back of its neck. The bulldog cried in pain as it let go of Jaak’s flesh. The larger dog shook its head at an amazing speed, breaking its neck, and then dropped the dead animal from its mouth as the third dog attacked it. The last bulldog was a bitch that could fight. She released her grip on Jaak’s other leg. Sensing the new danger, she turned and went directly for the larger dog’s throat. She could stand her ground with any size dog her genes repressed any fear. But, this was no street dog, this dog also fought without fear, and it was five times her size. She attacked it repeatedly trying to find the killing bite to bring the bigger animal down. They fought ferociously, each ripping pieces of flesh from the other. She took one last desperate leap towards its throat as it stood up on its hind legs, as tall as a man. The bitch made a fatal mistake, as she leapt up, her mouth open teeth bared; the larger dog twisted his head down and grabbed her unprotected throat. She struggled vainly for several seconds and then was still. The large dog knew it was over, he stood panting, and slowly released the bitch and dropped her body onto the floor, smelling the body. Jaak moved his hand to raise himself. The dog turned its head and looked up at Jaak, it growled, a long deep rumbling noise that came from deep within its huge body. Jaak did not twitch a muscle; he sat with his back against the wall, and watched the dog. It growled again, stepping slowly towards Jaak, long white teeth inches from his face. Jaak held his breath as the dog stared into his eyes, its ears flattened against its head. Blood dripped from the side of its mouth, mixed with saliva; its lips drawn back exposing purple gums. Its nose twitched as it smelt the stink of the Sanatorium that permeated Jaak’s skin. Jaak couldn’t hold his breath any longer, he let the air out of his lungs slowly, his mouth only inches away from the long sharp teeth, the dog was so close he could see pieces of hair and skin from the bitch still between its teeth. Jaak wanted to take his gaze away from the dog’s eyes, but was afraid if he did, the dog would attack. Crazily thinking that his eyes were somehow protecting him. The dog stopped growling and sniffed Jaak’s breath. The lips returned over the te
eth and the dogs ears slowly lifted. Jaak watched the dog’s body relax but it did not move its face away from Jaak. Suddenly it barked. Jaak smelt the bad breath as it did. It lurched forward and Jaak closed his eyes, waiting for the teeth to rip into his face. The dog licked him. He opened his eyes and the dog barked again. It lay down in front of him, panting. Its face covered in blood. It licked its lips several times tasting the other dog’s blood, then sniffed Jaak’s leg, and licked the wound in his leg. He cautiously stroked its head.

  ‘I remember you,’ he said. ‘You are Emma’s dog.’

  Jaak thought about Emma. He smiled as he thought of her face and her smile. Then his thoughts turned to her dead broken body, lying next to him in the back of the wooden carriage. Her beautiful but dead eyes looking at him, as he struggled to release himself. All he wanted to do was hold her. He felt his anger rising. His bloodlust returned. He looked around the corridor, he had unfinished business. He pulled himself slowly up using the side of the doorframe to help. He backed away from the dog and walked slowly down the hallway. The dog followed him wagging its tail.

  ‘Good boy.’ Said Jaak. Leading it back to the bedroom where he shut the door behind it.

  7.10

  The Russians heard the screams coming from the house. Hidden inside the cab, Gurin sat closest to the window. Mikhailovich sat opposite him both looking at the house. Neither man saw Yashkin standing behind them outside the carriage. The barrel of his service revolver poking through the open window.

  ‘Fuck, what is Jaak doing in there? We have to go inside.’ Gurin broke the silence; he reached inside his jacket and slipped his fingers around the handle of his pistol. He mentally prepared himself to run into the house shooting.

  Yashkin looked at Mikhailovich, he also had his back to him, Yashkin had killed so many times he had developed his own execution methods, depending on how many people he had to shoot. He learnt many years ago that the first shot was always in the body, it was a bigger target, and then next, the head shot. However, when there were two targets, like now, he had developed his own slightly different tactic. He always shot the first man on the left in the body, then swung the gun to the right and shot the second one in the body, lifted the gun and shot the second in the head and finally swung the gun back to the first man and shot him in the head too. It was faster, there was less chance to miss, and it incapacitated both of them quickly, making it difficult to return fire and hit him. He steadied the back of his hand against the window frame and carefully brought his gun up and aimed between Gurin’s shoulder blades. He wiped the rain from his eyes, held his breath and squeezed the trigger. The young horse leapt forward, startled at the sound of the thunder. The driver pulled hard on both reigns to hold him still. Yashkin had fired wide and high. Gurin slumped forward head butting the inside side of the cab and falling back. The small twenty two-calibre bullet entered the left side of his neck and missing bone, exited through the left front side and embedded itself into the wooden window frame of the cab. Yashkin cursed the horse; he swung the gun to the right. Mikhailovich looked around and saw the gun pointing at him. He instinctively held both his hands out to protect his face. Yashkin found it amusing that the man thought somehow his hands could stop a bullet, he fired twice, the first one hit Mikhailovich in the chest and Yashkin raised his arm and aimed at his face. The skittish horse tried to bolt again, this time at the sound of the gun. Yashkin’s second shot went too low and missed completely. Angrily, Yashkin swung the carriage door open and stepped inside, determined to finish the job. He raised his hand and fired at Mikhailovich’s head. Swearing under his breath as he did.

  ‘I am going to shoot that fucking horse too.’

  A second crash of thunder and the horse leapt forward, the driver could barely contain him. The third bullet hit Mikhailovich in the chest. Gurin struggled to release the gun from his jacket, the material had become entangled in the trigger and he couldn’t get it out of his pocket. He fired through the material and hit Yashkin in the leg. The horse was startled yet again and Yashkin lost his balance and fell backwards hitting his head on the back of the carriage as the horse leapt forward. Then as the driver stamped his foot on the brake, he fell forward towards the opposite side of the carriage. As he toppled forward, his knees hit the wood under the seat and he fell into the space between Gurin and Mikhailovich. A second shot rang out, the horse took another step forward and then it was quiet. Gurin laid back against the carriage seat his left hand trying to stem the blood from his neck wound and managed to get the gun from his pocket; he aimed at Yashkin and fired again.

  The carriage driver dug his boots into the footrest and pulled the hand brake on with all his strength. He climbed down onto the street. He lifted the side lantern from the carriage and holding it up, he peered cautiously inside. On the left hand side of the carriage, blood had sprayed across the cream interior, looking like a red skeleton’s hand stretched out on the fabric. Yashkin was kneeling between the seats, face down on the front seat. The driver pulled him up by the shoulder.

  Gurin was ready to shoot again. He was dead. Blood was running from his right nostril, as if punched in the face.

  ‘He shot himself in the face.’ The driver called out.

  Gurin lowered his gun. Yashkin had accidently fired as he fell, the bullet entered through his nose and lodged in his brain. Gurin lifted his leg and booted the body ungraciously towards the door. The driver stepped back out and looked around the empty tree lined street. He pulled Yashkin’s body out of the cab with both hands; it fell in an untidy heap on the cobbles. He looked back in at Gurin.

  ‘Go, quick, get us out of here.’ Shouted Gurin in Russian. The driver slammed the door and climbed back up to his seat, unlocked the brake and whipped the horse’s rump. The horse leapt forward as the whip cracked along its backside. The back wheel hit Yashkin’s body and ran over his legs; the driver didn’t bother to look back. As the carriage sped along, Gurin moved next to Mikhailovich and checked his wounds‘Not long before we reach a hospital,’ he said. ’How did the Jew manage to walk right up to us, was the driver asleep?’Mikhailovich felt himself slipping away. He knew he was dying.

  ‘He wasn’t a Jew, I have seen him before, and he works for Evdokimoff. He must have ordered us killed.’ he gripped Gurin’s arm.

  ‘Evdokimoff! Why?’ Gurin asked.

  ‘Because we knew he sanctioned Feliks Vetrov’s killing.’

  ‘But Evdokimoff ordered it.’ Said Gurin angrily.

  Mikhailovich gripped his arm once more even tighter.

  ‘He is cleaning up his loose ends, Alexi.’ Gurin felt the grip on his arm loosen and Mikhailovich’s hand dropped onto the seat. He was dead. He thought for several seconds then made a decision. Gurin banged on the carriage and called for the driver to stop. The driver jumped down and opened the door. Gurin pushed Mikhailovich’s body out.

  ‘He is dead; help me get the body into the woods.’ He told the driver. Gurin followed holding a handkerchief to his neck. The driver dragged the body across the muddy grass and into a small hedgerow.

  ‘Pull him further out of sight.’ Gurin called out.

  The driver pulled him two yards further and looked up.

  ‘Is this far enough? He asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Gurin and shot him three times. ‘I am cleaning up my loose ends too.’ Gurin walked unsteadily away and towards a busy street, he raised his hand and hailed a hansom cab.

  ‘Get me to a hospital, I have had an accident.’ He told the cab driver. The driver looked at the blood still pouring through Gurin’s fingers and down his shirt.

  ‘You’re not getting in my cab like that.’ He drove away. Gurin carried on walking for several hundred yards more and then collapsed onto the floor. He looked up at a crowd standing around him, anxious faces looking down at him. Then he passed out.