by Keith Short
He’s Russian. ‘I thought I was free to go anywhere in the building, as long as it wasn’t marked as private.’ She summoned her courage. ‘I’m Abram’s nanny and I don’t yet know many of Mr Chekhov’s staff. Can I ask who you all are?’
The thin man smiled, but she could tell it was contrived. ‘Forgive me, madam, my name is Brigadier Slomensky and I report directly to the pakhan. These are some of my men and I do know who you are. With respect, you shouldn’t be wandering around in these lower levels unaccompanied. You should be restricting yourself to the baby’s nursery areas.’ Slomensky pressed the button and the lift ascended. ‘I’ll have a word with the bookkeeper,’ he said, with contempt in his voice. ‘And I’ll take you and the child back to your quarters, if you don’t mind.’
She submitted to Slomensky without question; she was the newbie here and although she didn’t like his rudeness, she’d need to find out how important he was before she could stand up to him. Back inside her private quarters, she fretted and mulled over what she’d just observed. Were these men really part of Chekhov’s organisation? I suppose an oligarch needs to protect himself with armed security – but knuckledusters? And who was this bookkeeper Slomensky referred to?
CHAPTER 4
After several weeks of internal reorganisation, Malkin was finally ready to deal with Slomensky. Malkin was only the bookkeeper but sitting in this chair of power made him feel indestructible. He feared no man, not even the scowling old brigadier who was sitting in the captain’s chair in front of him, waiting to be told why he’d been summoned. And he’d planned carefully for this interview – just like Chekhov would have done.
‘Tell me, Comrade Slomensky, what do you think of our current organisation?’
Slomensky looked surprised by the opening question but launched into his response with a gusto worthy of the old men of the Kremlin. The organisation was black shit and just as soft. His fellow brigadiers spent their time cavorting in the wine bars and fornicating with the painted English slags who hung around in them. They neglected their jobs, their warriors and their duty to the pakhan. His own brigade alone ensured the profitability of the bratva. He was the only brigadier to continue to uphold the mafiya tradition.
Malkin had to agree with everything Slomensky was telling him. The organisation had fallen apart as a result of Anatoly Chekhov’s deteriorating health. He’d watched it happen himself, standing by helplessly as the bratva’s warriors ran amok with their extortions and thuggery and the brigadiers failed to exercise control – they themselves no longer being accountable to a higher authority. They’d all been too busy enjoying the comfortable lifestyle that London offered, funded by the money they’d pilfered from their own pakhan.
‘The young upstarts I have to put up with in our current organisation,’ Slomensky went on, clearly aiming the remark at Malkin himself, ‘they’re not of the old tradition. They don’t appreciate our objectives and they don’t lead by example.’
Slomensky obviously considered himself superior to the other brigadiers of the Chekhov bratva. The bastard was even mocking his comrades behind their backs and belittling him at the same time. But he had to remain calm in the face of such a slur – that was what Vladimir Chekhov would do in this situation.
‘None of them have earned the badge of Vor,’ Slomensky said, snarling. ‘When was the last time one of our warriors was made up to Thief in Law? I can tell you that Anatoly Chekhov personally conveyed this honour on me following my regular demonstration of outstanding leadership.’
Although he was boasting, once again Malkin had to agree with him. The old brigadier was to be admired for his achievements. He was entitled to be proud of that star he would no doubt have tattooed on his shoulder, the badge of the Thief. He was a made-man of the mafiya, a follower of the code of the Vor. But Slomensky was old school and didn’t fit the new organisation – they had to get back to the business in hand. ‘Dear comrade, please stop,’ he said, holding his hand up like Chekhov would have done. ‘These traditions you refer to are no longer what we need in our organisation. This is what our new pakhan wishes to address with all haste.’ He gave a condescending smile to the embittered old man.
Slomensky ignored him and continued his tirade. ‘This extravagant house you all live in. This is not how we would have behaved in the days of old. We worked hard, we pursued our quarry, we made our money. But we redistributed it, fed it back into the brigades. We didn’t pay for pantry maids and butlers and swimming pools. Why did our pakhan feel the need to do this?’
I’ve heard enough. ‘Comrade! It was not our beloved old pakhan who set this up. It was Vladimir Chekhov, our new pakhan – Anatoly’s son. He put up the money. He arranged for the engineers to build our magnificent subterranean complex. He also paid the many fines for road closures and noise pollution during the construction period.’ He sat forward in his chair and lowered his voice. ‘We’ll always make our living outside the law, but we no longer want to be seen as corrupt. We want to be respectable in the eyes of the police, the law courts and everyone else.’ He was asserting his new authority and he could tell he was getting the upper hand; Chekhov would surely have been proud of him. ‘Have you never realised this, comrade? Well, realise it now.’
Slomensky was staring down at the polished wooden floor. Like the rest of this magnificent chamber, it was an expensive refurbishment in the style of a period long vanished and the old brigadier wouldn’t like that one bit. He must be seething with rage. What would Vladimir Chekhov do in this situation? I know. He stood up, turned his back and gazed up at the ceiling. After a deliberate pause, he returned to his chair to find Slomensky goggling in astonishment.
‘Comrade, it has given Vladimir Chekhov immense pleasure to do all of this in the heart of his father’s domain. This deeply located sanctum provided his father with a place to plan his business and execute his key decisions. You realise, of course, that the authorities have always been aware of the nature of our business, but Vladimir Chekhov provided the cover his father needed for all these years, that air of respectability. This is, after all, just the UK residence of a rich Russian family.’ Slomensky clearly begrudged the way in which the organisation was changing and this counselling would no doubt leave him devastated. The fearless warrior of old was a broken man. It was time to pounce. ‘My dear comrade, you’re looking tired. You’ve served our pakhan well in your time. You gave him your absolute loyalty and devotion for all those years and I can tell you that both he and his son have appreciated this. But there are to be changes. You’ve completed your service, comrade. Anatoly Chekhov is at rest, God bless his soul. His son has taken over and you have our permission to retire.’
Slomensky squirmed in his chair. Malkin could see that his implication of familiarity with Vladimir Chekhov galled the old man. The old brigadier’s white bloodless knuckles gripped the chair’s curved arms while his face reddened with the increasing pressure of blood in his head. He was in a state of shock; now was the moment to deliver the final blow and finish the job.
‘You can walk away with dignity and pride, Illyich Slomensky. Feel secure in the knowledge that our bratva is in good hands with Vladimir Chekhov at its head. Enjoy your retirement, comrade. We’ll provide you with ample funds to do so.’
CHAPTER 5
It was several weeks before Jean had her first proper discussion with the house manager, Mr Malkin. It confirmed her first impression of him from her interview day: he was an affable and courteous man. He asked how she’d settled in and answered her many questions, constantly smiling and bowing his head. He suggested she start swimming lessons with Abram. ‘It’s Mr Chekhov’s idea,’ he told her. She was concerned about this at first; why hadn’t Chekhov mentioned this to her himself? It seemed so premature for a young baby to be in a swimming pool. But they must know what they’re doing. They continued chatting for an hour and, at the end of their discussion, Mr Malkin casually mentioned that he’d arr
ange the first swimming lesson for the next day. She went to bed feeling content that evening; she’d already earned their trust. But she wasn’t sure about the swimming; it niggled away at her into the early hours.
When she arrived at the spa with Abram and the duty bodyguard, she was met by a fifty-something woman who introduced herself as Lidia Leonova. Lidia was a fierce-looking Ukrainian with the build of a shot-putter, cropped and bleached hair and a manly gait. She explained that she was due to retire soon. Perhaps this was to be her last job at Goldhurst – Abram’s swimming instructor?
‘I’ll go and change. Back in a jiffy.’
‘I will hold the baby while you get ready. Yes?’
When Jean returned from the changing room, Lidia was already in the pool, bouncing up and down with Abram so that on each landing he dipped in and out of the water up to his waist. ‘See how he loves water,’ she said, as Abram cackled with glee. ‘He is going to be a good swimmer, I think.’ At that, Lidia tilted Abram face down on the water and let him go. He sank beneath the surface and slithered forward and downwards.
What’s she playing at? The helpless baby was going to continue his involuntary surface dive and glide towards the bottom of the pool until he was several metres out of reach. Jean dived into the pool but before she could reach him, Lidia scooped Abram out of the water, raised him over her head in one smooth motion and restarted her bouncing-dipping game. Her feelings a mixture of relief and embarrassment, Jean said nothing – although she secretly wanted to throttle Lidia.
She left the rest of the swimming lesson to Lidia, who’d obviously done this before. After half an hour, Lidia declared that it was enough for Abram’s first day and asked Jean to bring him back at the same time tomorrow. ‘I will not be here later in the week. You must make sure he has time in the pool every day but no swimming without me.’
The daily swimming lessons continued. Each morning, a different bodyguard turned up and accompanied them to the spa. And each day they’d be met by a different female attendant. But unless it was Lidia supervising the session, Jean would never let go of Abram and the bodyguard and staff member would monitor her every movement. The day’s combination of bodyguard and staff member seemed to be random, except for the days when Lidia attended. On those occasions, they were always accompanied by the same bodyguard. Whenever Jean saw him outside the spa, they’d greet each other with a silent nod. There’s Lidia’s minder, she’d think.
Abram was becoming more confident in the water; Lidia was bringing him on in leaps and bounds – literally. And her own confidence and well-being were improving by the day. She missed her job as a community nurse but she’d adapted well to her new role. Her servile existence was constrained within the bounds of this mansion but, compared to her home life with Robert and Mary, this was freedom beyond her wildest dreams.
Jean’s probationary period was complete. Once a week, she was permitted to leave Abram with one of the female attendants for a few hours and take a stroll, go shopping, do whatever she liked within reason. She missed Abram on those days but there was a sense of relief in her freedom from round-the-clock household security. Today was her own time; she put to one side her concerns over the organisation she worked for and started to savour her solitary ramble. Here at Hampstead Heath, she enjoyed her liberty among other walkers and cyclists and relished listening to the banter of the office workers as they wolfed their packed lunches.
It was warm on the Heath today. She breathed in the scent of cut grass blended with the smells wafting from London’s traffic and the moisture from the Heath’s evaporating ponds. This was a fantastic day for taking in the capital’s unique atmosphere; she felt like a new person – until she met Robert.
He appeared from nowhere and walked by her side, his steps tramping in unison with hers. ‘Hello, Mum. How you keeping?’
She was startled. Her first reaction was to look at his eyes and see if she could tell what sort of state he was in. His eyes were glazed over but at least he appeared lucid. ‘Nice to see you, Robert,’ she said, without conviction. It was no surprise to find Robert in these parts; the Heath could turn into a foreboding place during the dark hours and she was sure this was where he bought his gear. But what was he doing here during the daytime? He’s found out where I live and he’s been following me.
‘Well, it’s nice to see you too, Mum. You haven’t visited us for a while.’
She was trembling – in the company of her own son. ‘You got the note I left you about my new job?’ she asked, without looking at him. ‘I told you, it’s live-in and I won’t be coming home as often. But the household bills are still being paid.’ She forced a smile. ‘I thought you and Mary would be pleased about having the run of the place.’ No change there.
‘Well that’s kind of you, Mum. But there are expenses associated with running a house, aren’t there?’ Robert’s demeanour changed. He grabbed her upper arm from behind and forced her along the path.
She tried to convince herself this wasn’t happening, but she knew what Robert was capable of and fear welled up inside her. She had to placate him. Don’t panic, he’s handled you like this before. ‘Take it easy, Robert, no need to rush around the place. Tell me how you and Mary are getting on.’
‘Just get a fucking march on!’ he shouted, ignoring the startled looks of picnickers to either side of the path. ‘You and me have business to do.’ They must have looked so unnatural as he trooped her forward. The passers-by stared at them but there was madness in Robert’s eyes and one after another they averted their gazes. He pulled her towards him and hissed so loudly that she could feel his spit in her ear. ‘Don’t look back at them. Keep walking.’
‘Where are we going?’ she asked but received no answer. Robert steered her out of the park and headed towards a nearby cashpoint. ‘You’re hurting me, Robert.’ She felt the tears rolling down her cheeks – tears of pain, tears of sadness. What had she done to deserve this? She’d brought him into this world, that’s what she’d done. And he’d turned into a monster like his father. A monster on hard drugs in this case. She could see no remorse in her son for the physical distress he caused her as he twisted her arm up her back and demanded she withdrew two hundred pounds. He tightened his grip as she tried to squirm free, making it appear to onlookers that he was supporting her, helping this poor lady with today’s modern technology. Robert was clever when it came to such matters.
She took the money from the cashpoint and handed it over. When Robert finished counting the ten-pound notes, he licked two of his fingers and prodded them against her lips, forcing her head back. It was the first kiss from him for as long as she could remember. ‘Thank you, Mother. Now just fuck off back to your life without us,’ he said, before merging into the passing crowd. Robert vanished, and so did her money.
It was a bad dream. The warm day now felt cold and she was frozen to the spot where he’d left her. It wasn’t Robert’s profanities or his contempt for his own mother that hurt her most. It was the without us. How could he refer to us when he’d stripped his own sister of her dignity, used her as currency? She meant nothing to him. We both mean nothing to him. The heist was brutal and impersonal, leaving her aware of the mental prison from which there was no escape. Worse still was the realisation that she’d lost all maternal feeling for her son. And there was something else bothering her. She felt as if someone had been watching this encounter with Robert – following her every movement. Perhaps it was someone from the Chekhov household, seeing what she gets up to on her day off? Why didn’t they help me?
Abram looks ready for his swimming lesson this morning. It’s as if he knows where he’s going. The child was showing signs of real intelligence. And Lidia’s minder was the perfect gentleman, – politely opening doors for her, nudging Abram’s tummy like a gentle giant. Yet he looked distinctly edgy today. She was beginning to feel nervous herself as she watched him hold the door open to allow two big men in
to the lift. As the door closed, the three men cast anxious looks at each other. Why didn’t they start the lift? She raised an eyebrow at Abram’s bodyguard.
‘Going down – yes? The swimming baths? Is it something I’ve said?’
The answer came from one of the others. ‘Madam Douglas, before we make our descent to the pool, we have a matter of extreme importance to discuss with you. This baby you have with you, he must be taken away. This is not a good place for him to be brought up. You must help him to escape from Goldhurst and we will pay you one hundred thousand pounds for your assistance.’
‘What? You’d have me kidnap Chekhov’s only son? For money? You must be mad. He’s asked me to look after this child and that’s what I do.’ She looked him straight in the eye and at the same time pointed to the bodyguard. ‘And he’s looking after the both of us.’ She turned to Lidia’s minder for support. ‘They lay one finger on this child, we tell Chekhov, right?’
The bodyguard shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands. ‘I think you need to listen to them,’ he said, ‘and we should also discuss this with Lidia.’
All three men studied her. Those people she’d met in the lift only two weeks ago – they came across as mobsters. But they were on Chekhov’s side, weren’t they? And these people in the lift now – they wanted her to take Abram away from Chekhov? It was confusing. Like a civil war within a criminal organisation and with Chekhov at the head of it. Was Chekhov a gangster himself? Whoever he was, he’d entrusted her with his son and she had responsibilities. Terrified, she stared into the distance beyond the claustrophobia of the lift, pulling Abram close and resting her chin on top of his little head. She’d protect him with her life if she had to. But who was she protecting him from? Who were the good guys and who were the bad guys? The lift descended in silence.
