She carried on laughing so long that I sat up properly to look around. No one was watching. She wiped her eyes.
‘OK, maybe you didn’t kill Sandra.’
‘We didn’t touch her. That’s the silliest thing I’ve heard. Think about who Sandra was embarrassing.’
Her husband. Of course that made sense, but I wasn’t sure.
Leila held her hand out to me, and I took mine away. ‘Think about it properly. You really like it there. You fit in.’
‘Oh, I do. I love Moscow. But I think I would have liked it under the Tsars too. It’s just a beautiful place. Shame about who’s in charge.’ I stood up and tried to look steady. ‘Right, I’ll be off.’
Leila smiled. ‘It would be so easy. It would just be as if you were chatting to friends. Like chatting to Eva. She sends her regards.’
Eva. Was that what they held over me?
‘No, I’m not going to work with you because of Eva.’
I took a step away, back towards the path to the main road, and the bus back to the station. I felt relieved, now that she’d shown her hand. Eva wasn’t enough of a pull. She’d made her choices and I had to accept that I wouldn’t learn the truth.
She said, quietly, ‘Poor Ivan.’
‘Ivan?’ I stopped and turned back to look at her.
‘We had a long chat with Ivan. I think he was hoping that you’d confirm his story. But if we’re not going to talk, I don’t see how you can do that.’
Oh God, Ivan. His degree and his family, everything at risk because he spoke to me. What had he lost?
She hadn’t even stood up. She knew where I was going and where I’d been. She smiled, and I knew Kit was right. If I took one step towards her, my life wouldn’t ever be my own again. I wouldn’t have the choice to stay or leave, all my decisions would be made for me. Anyone I liked would be at risk.
‘Tell Ivan I’m sorry,’ I said. I walked away to catch my bus.
"Cliff Pirate"
by
E.V. MANN
At night, I lay in bed listening to the tickle of pebbles and slate. I can always hear it, above the slicing Icelandic winds, or the abrasive Saharan rains which leave red sand on the doorstep. The gentle crumbling of the cliff is louder than everything in my mind.
The front of my house looks the same as ever. The small gate, which still needs painting, guards the pea gravel path. It’s the house I used to live in. I remember it from when I was younger, but somehow I am back there, as if I never left.
I don’t know if old friends are shunning me or have forgotten they knew me, but they no longer call with their moth-eaten furs and growling voices. My only visitors now explain, a little slower each time, exactly how perilous life is.
As if I wouldn’t know.
Sometimes they draw little maps on envelopes of places I would be safe.
‘I know it’s temporary,’ I tell them. ‘I do know, but I have time.’
‘This house could crumble at any moment,’ they say. ‘You don’t want to be here when it falls in on you.’
I laugh, thinking how silly it would be to be buried alive with all the space of the sea right there, knocking at the back door.
They look sadly at me, and with horror at the disappearing garden. They measure it, maybe slightly shorter than the last time, and leave, crunching away.
Perilous. I like that. It makes me feel like a pirate on the high seas.
The last storm took the garden statue and tried to rattle the sash windows out of their grooves. I pushed them all open, propped the doors wide with furniture, and let the wind pass right through, my hands tight over my ears and the sea spray stinging my eyes. I waited it out and the morning was shiny like a poisonous berry, the sea slinking back.
It was a tough victory. All my books were ruined.
After a storm, I always look down on the people who come in their raincoats, with toy-sized picks and brushes, to search for the stone-hard bodies of ancient creatures, curled around the astonishment of death.
They wonder at the statue of Lenin amid the dinosaurs.
I wonder at them, and call out, ‘Lenin is always here!’
I look out to sea, the pirate of my perilous ship. I refuse to curl up and I refuse to crumble. My garden is two steps long now, but it is still there, and I am still here, the only witness to the rocks the sea hurls at me, chipping away angrily at the land. I collect my own rocks and keep them by the door to throw back.
It is my house, my one remaining wind-bent rosemary bush, my land. The sea grumbles away to itself. One of us has to win, but I think I have a chance.
Acknowledgements
As ever, I have relied on many kindnesses in writing this book. Sue Dawes is the best, and most creative, reader any writer could wish for. The talented Bieke Dutoit shared her knowledge of Moscow and the Russian language (any errors are my own). Also thanks to Moira Forsyth, a brilliantly sensitive editor, and to all those at Sandstone Press for their help.
I am also grateful to the women who travelled alone to Moscow and published their experiences: Marguerite Harrison in the 1920s, Santha Rama Rau and Sally Belfrage in the 1950s, and Sheila Fitzpatrick in the 1960s. All braver women than I am. Also in the 1960s, Adrian McIntyre’s account of life as a businessman in Moscow added some often bizarre details, as did Martin Nicholson’s memoirs of life inside the British Embassy in Moscow.
My husband, Mark, has been both inspiration and solver of plot problems. My children would also like to be mentioned: Alfred, George, Henry and Mabel, maybe you’ll read this one.
More from Sarah Armstrong
An atmospheric, cleverly written exploration of the intensity of sibling relationships, The Insect Rosary is chilling and evocative: a story full of dark humour, unexpected tensions and unanswered questions, leading to an unbearably tense conclusion.’
Elizabeth Haynes
‘The Insect Rosary is a brave debut about sisterhood and the damage done to fragile minds when their truth is blatantly denied, within the context of a period of recent history which is still painfully contested.’ Anne Goodwin
AVAILABLE NOW!
All Shona wants is a simple life with her young son, and to get free of Maynard, the ex who’s still living in her house. When her teenage daughter goes missing, she’s certain Maynard is the culprit. Her mother, Greta, is no help as she’s too obsessed with the devil. Her Uncle Jimmy is fresh out of prison and has never been entirely straight with her. Then there’s the shaman living in her shed…
‘An intriguing and compelling story, told with the most sensitive of brush strokes, about how family myths and misfortunes are passed down the generations through shifting layers of truth.’ Liz Trenow
AVAILABLE NOW!
The Wolves of Leninsky Prospekt Page 24