Strange Are the Ways

by Strange Are the Ways (retail) (epub)

  ‘Yes.’ He stroked her hair. She said nothing. His hand strayed to her cheek. He wiped the tears with his finger. ‘Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.’

  ‘I’m not crying,’ she said. ‘Don’t come again. Please don’t.’

  ‘No. I won’t. I promise.’

  But, of course, he did.

  * * *

  Major Kostya Illyarovich did not actually dislike Katya Bourlova, though it could hardly be said either that he particularly liked her. But then, on the whole Kostya liked very few people and of those he did not one was a woman. Women were pretty things, but useless, diverting on occasion, talkative always, emotional to the point of boredom. Their best – in Kostya’s opinion their only – useful purpose was served in a man’s bed; the measure of a woman’s worth in his case was the amount of trouble to which he would be willing to put himself to get her there. Katya’s infatuation amused him; he actually enjoyed the torment he knew he could inflict upon her. His indifference to her feelings was far from assumed. He played her throughout that year like a fish upon a line; a very small fish the escape of which would not be much rued and which, if caught, would merely be tossed back without a thought. The girl was a virgin without a doubt. For his pleasure Kostya did not like virgins; they cried and mewled and had no idea of how to serve a man. But for his pride, that was another matter. A woman, they said, never forgot her first lover; there were many women who remembered Kostya Illyarovich. And this one burned for him. He saw it in her eyes. Her young flesh was warm and smooth. Her teeth were sharp. Perhaps she might be worth a try. The woman with whom he had been carrying on an until now extremely satisfactory affair was becoming a bore; worse, her husband was returning to the city. Sitting one early winter night in the gaming room of his favourite drinking den on the Islands he tossed a coin.

  Laughed, and bought a round of drinks when his Tsar’s head glittered at him from the table top.

  * * *

  The note was delivered a day or so later. Katya’s hand shook as she slit the envelope; the writing could only be his. She had not seen him for weeks, had all but given up looking for him. Throughout the summer and into the brief transition of autumn he had flickered in and out of her life like a flame, tormenting her half to death. She had not, of course, been able to escape the long summer trip to Finland. Beside Kostya how gauche, how very young the young men had seemed. How safe. How boring. Back in St Petersburg she had sent him a note to which he had not bothered to reply. Then he had turned up at a party and danced with her all evening before disappearing again – on manoeuvres he had said, but much as she had wanted to she had not believed him. Now here it was, the invitation she had looked for; a small supper party, with friends, at their apartment. He had never introduced her to any of his friends, never indeed bothered to take her anywhere that might be thought of as personal. She looked at the address, laughed a little, softly. How very convenient! Just a stone’s throw from the Turnakov mansion where Jussi lived! She experienced a moment’s twinge of worry; was it perhaps too close? Might she ruin their convenient arrangement by bumping into someone who could put two and two together to make an uncomfortable four? She dismissed the thought. Re-read the note. Nothing would stop her from attending. Nothing. She ran to her room. Outside the window it was snowing steadily. Winter had come early this year, the river was already frozen, the stoves in the apartment had been roaring for weeks and the winter windows had been fitted. She settled herself at her small desk, reached for a sheet of perfumed paper.

  * * *

  It snowed heavily all week with hardly a break. She could not, to her annoyance, contact Jussi. She had told her mother that she was going to the theatre with him that night and that they would have supper with friends afterwards. ‘I’ve told him not to bother to pick me up,’ she said, airily. ‘We’re having drinks with Elisabet and some friends first – old Zhorik can take me in the sledge. Jussi will see me home.’

  ‘Not too late, young lady.’ Her mother was sitting at the mirror, her maid plaiting and twisting the gleaming lengths of her hair. She had found herself wondering more than once lately if, with Mischa so often away, she was too lenient with Katya.

  ‘Of course not.’ Katya leaned to drop a kiss on her mother’s bare, smooth shoulder. ‘You’re looking very nice. Where are you going?’

  ‘The Princess Starovich has asked me to join her committee for the care of disabled soldiers. At least, I think that’s what it’s in aid of. There really are so many of these good causes! I’m to have supper with her.’

  ‘Aha!’ Katya winked, gracelessly. ‘Aren’t we going up in the world?’

  Her mother smiled, easily. ‘We do our best, my dear. We do our best.’

  ‘Right.’ Katya danced to the door. ‘I’ll tell Zhorik to hurry home after he’s dropped me at Jussi’s. We can’t have you being late for the Princess, can we?’

  It was all almost too easy. She had, she told herself, faintly alarmed, become so adept at deception that she no longer had to think about it. ‘You can drop me here, Zhorik, then you won’t have to turn in the Turnakov courtyard. Mama particularly asked for you to get back quickly. She’s waiting.’

  Grumbling as always the man did as he was bid. Katya stood on the swept pavement, shaking out her skirts, watching as the sledge moved off into the darkness. Then, uncomfortably aware of a heart that was beating rather faster than normal, she slipped around the corner, away from the mansion and towards the building in which Kostya’s friends lived.

  * * *

  There were no friends.

  She knew it the moment he opened the door. No friends. No servants. Just Kostya. He was dressed in soft, baggy trousers tucked into flat leather boots and a sumptuous dark silk shirt, full-sleeved, embroidered in gold thread, belted at the waist, that emphasized rather than concealed the broad, barrel chest, the muscled arms. Behind him a table was laid for two, dishes of caviar and of smoked fish, a bottle of champagne, a bottle of vodka already broached. Por a fraction of a second she stood quite still, the words of greeting silenced on her lips. Black eyes in a flat, barbarian face challenged her. ‘Welcome,’ he said, and took her hand, brushing it with his lips.

  She stepped across the threshold. The winter windows were in place, muffling sound; the apartment was very quiet, and very warm. A tiled stove occupied one corner of the room, in another was set the dining table. At the far end of the room comfortable chairs and settees strewn with cushions were set upon softly-coloured rugs. There were bronze statues upon a shelf, the curtains were of heavy gold velvet. It was a perfectly lovely setting, warm and luxurious.

  But there were no friends.

  And at the far end of the room a door stood open; in the dim room beyond could be seen a bed, heaped with furs.

  ‘I think,’ she said, a little shakily, ‘that I should leave.’

  He shrugged, careless, gestured with hands outstretched, his eyes, exasperatingly mocking, still upon hers. ‘You won’t even try the champagne?’

  The champagne was good. The food was good. The setting was seductive. ‘Where are your – friends?’

  He reached for the bottle – the champagne was for Katya, he was drinking vodka. ‘Regrettably –’ he grinned his wolf’s grin ‘– they had to go away.’

  ‘Rather suddenly?’

  ‘Rather suddenly.’

  As always he fascinated and repelled her at the same time. His strength all but hypnotized her; his very ugliness attracted her. The dress he had affected for the evening, obviously – almost mockingly – deliberately, emphasized the barbaric nature of the man. He made no attempt whatsoever to disguise his intentions.

  She must leave before things got out of hand.

  She knew, beyond doubt, that if she did she would never see him again.

  The champagne swam in her head. Stupid, stupid! What was she doing here? And yet she stayed, a lamb in the lair of the wolf.

  From outside, despite the muffling effect of the windows, came a faint, violent crackling.
She lifted her head. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s nothing. A demonstration, perhaps. These vermin should be put down.’ He stood up, came round the table towards her. ‘I’d put them down. Personally. Every man, woman and tit-sucking brat of them.’

  She had no single doubt that he meant what he said.

  He stood behind her, slid his hands over her shoulders, down onto her breasts.

  ‘I think – perhaps – I should go home,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, no.’ The corded, horseman’s arms were like iron bands about her shoulders. ‘Not now. A while ago, perhaps, I might have let you go. But not now.’ She could smell the vodka on his breath. She turned her head away.

  He laughed. Lifted her like a doll from her seat.

  The unchecked violence of the man dazed her, his strength was overwhelming. He laughed as she struggled. In his own brutal need he took no care, no heed of hers. Savagely he violated her, with his mouth and with his fingers and with the ramrod of his body. When at last, sore and weeping, she gathered her torn and soiled clothes he watched her, stretched upon the fur covers of the bed, his hands behind his head.

  ‘M-my father will kill you,’ she said, torn between sobs and a storm of fury. ‘I’ll have you c-court martialled! Pig! You’re nothing but a pig!’

  The flat, Tartar face smiled. ‘Perhaps, little sow. Perhaps, yes, I’m a pig. But your father won’t know.’ He left a small, intent silence. ‘Will he?’

  Tears of rage, of pain, and of sheer, awful humiliation streamed down her cheeks. She snatched her heavy cloak from the chair where he had thrown it, leaving hat and muff where they lay. All she could think of was to get away. She fled from the apartment, stumbling in a tangle of feet and skirt as she flew down the wide, circular staircase, praying she would meet no-one. Outside it was bitterly cold and a winter fog had settled, swirling from the river, drifting moisture that froze as it settled onto her clothes and her loosened hair. Her mouth was sore, she could taste blood. Great God, what a sight she must look! How could she go home like this? The pig had been right, of course, bitterly, faultlessly right. She would die before she would admit to her parents what had happened. But now – what was she to do? What refuge, however temporary, was open to her?

  The first thought was the only one. In the hazed light of a street lamp, fog choking her, tears all but freezing on her cheeks, she turned in the direction of the Turnakov mansion.

  The lights in Jussi’s apartment, on the ground floor across the courtyard, glimmered against the fog. The relief was so great that she stopped for a moment, leaning against the wall, grateful for the sheltering, swirling mist, breath hiccoughing in her throat. She was aware of a burning discomfort, there was a foul wetness between her legs. She felt filthy. She stood perfectly still, and very straight, breathing deeply. Katya Bourlova might be spoiled, she might on occasion be downright stupid, but she was her father’s daughter and she did not lack in spirit nor in strength. She needed a moment’s respite, she needed a helping hand. Instinctively she knew that if Jussi were here he would offer both. From there she could manage alone.

  She slipped along the wall, avoiding the main gate with its fussy watchers and wardens, moved into a sidestreet where she knew there to be a small garden gate that Jussi, for his own reasons, made it his business to see should be left open. It gave easy access to the back yard of his suite of rooms, which were totally independent of the rest of the house. She lifted the latch. As she had expected, the gate opened soundlessly. She gathered her cloak about her, sidled through, shut it behind her. The back wing of the house loomed before her. The light from Jussi’s windows glowed softly in the smothering fog, which was thickening with every minute.

  The back door was unlatched. Afterwards she wondered at their lack of care, could only think that the pressure of emergency had led to the oversight. She stepped into a small room that housed harnesses, fishing tackle, skis, skates, a small sledge. She followed the glimmer of light into a shadowed hallway, up the stairs into the living quarters. At the sound of voices she stopped. Damn! Jussi had company. The door to his living room was ajar. She flattened herself against the wall. Froze.

  The first thing she saw were the guns. Not sporting guns, not the guns that accompanied any gentleman on a trip to the country, but fearful weapons, heavy and deadly-looking. Machine guns, and rifles. Carrying them several young men and one young woman, roughly dressed, stood in a group, their concerned faces all turned to where Jussi stood, propped against a table. His head was thrown back, his fair face very pale, his right shoulder a bright and bloody mess of ragged material and torn flesh, at which a young man picked with tweezers, quickly and efficiently and with a face clamped against sympathy as his patient flinched beneath his ministrations.

  The sheer shock of the tableau took the breath from Katya’s lungs and set her trembling, cold as death. She stood for a moment, still as an animal that scents danger. Then, very slowly, she began to inch silently backwards.

  The voice that arrested her came from behind her. ‘Prying, Katya my dear?’ Elisabet asked, coldly. ‘My goodness, if you’re that inquisitive, perhaps you should find out exactly what’s going on?’ A firm hand propelled her along the corridor and with a small push into the lighted room.

  Every eye turned to her; and every eye was hostile. She stood clutching her cloak about her, looking from grim face to grim face. She saw the movement of hands towards guns. ‘Jussi,’ she said, faintly, and then again, louder and more firmly, ‘Jussi? What – what in heaven’s name is going on?’

  Jussi had pushed himself from the table, shaking off help. ‘God Almighty, Katya,’ he said, helplessly. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I – I came – to –’ Her voice tailed off. She cleared her throat. ‘Jussi – what’s happened? Who are these people?’ Her dazed brain, belatedly, started to work. ‘The shooting – earlier – it was you? You’re one of these – these terrorists?’

  ‘No, Katya.’ Elisabet stepped into her line of vision. Her voice as steady and as firm as the small but lethal-looking pistol that was held in two competent hands and levelled unwaveringly at Katya’s head. ‘Jussi isn’t a terrorist. Jussi is a Finn.’

  ‘Lissi!’ Jussi’s voice was edged grimly with pain, yet carried more authority than Katya had ever heard in it before. ‘No!’

  Elisabet turned a calm face to her brother. ‘It’s a pity,’ she said, coolly rational. ‘But she’s seen us. Seen you. She has to die. Doesn’t she?’

  The silence that followed the words rushed in Katya’s ears like water. Nothing in the world had prepared her for this. She swayed a little. Elisabet’s knuckles whitened as she tightened her grip on the gun.

  ‘Oh, Katya!’ Jussi smiled, painfully. ‘Trouble just follows you around like a little lapdog, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Stand still, Jussi! You’ll start the bleeding again!’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Katya said, desperately calm. ‘Just let me go. I won’t say anything. I promise.’

  Jussi shook his head.

  Elisabet clicked her tongue impatiently. The gun was steady as a rock. ‘Jussi?’

  Pain flickered in his face. He bowed his head for a moment, grimly fighting it. When he straightened his face was very white, yet the gleam of a smile showed in his eyes. ‘Katya likes Finland,’ he said. ‘Don’t you, Katya? So – why don’t we just take her with us?’ He looked at Katya. ‘I’ll just let Heimo here finish digging out the bullet he’s making such a mess of finding and then we’ll please everyone, my lovely. We’ll elope.’ He laughed a little, stopped abruptly, coughing.

  She shook her head, dazed.

  His face hardened. ‘You’d rather die?’ he asked. ‘For a sensible girl I can’t say that you appear to be thinking very clearly?’

  ‘Jussi, don’t be ridiculous. It’s going to be hard enough to get you out of the city, without taking her –’

  ‘Shut up, Elisabet.’ For the first time Jussi appeared to take in the details of Katya’s a
ppearance. Her cloak had fallen open revealing the torn and dirtied dress. A massive blue bruise discoloured the whiteness of her bared shoulder. Blood still smudged her lip. His eyes narrowed, something like distaste flickered in his face. ‘You look as if you’ve been in a war of your own,’ he said. ‘Lissi – get her something more sensible to wear.’

  Katya tried once more, desperately. ‘Jussi, please! Just let me go! I swear I won’t tell –’

  ‘Jussi, for God’s sake let me get at this thing. Half the city’s looking for you and you can’t travel until I’ve finished and got you patched up –’ The man who had been treating Jussi’s shoulder laid none-too-gentle hands on him and forced him back against the table. ‘Stand still, or by Christ I’ll tie you down!’

  Jussi turned his head to look at Katya. ‘Katya – this is no game. You come, or you die. That is the only choice.’

  ‘I’ll come,’ she said.

  With no sound and little grace, Jussi fainted.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jussi Lavola’s sister, fiercely wary, fiercely protective, did not trust their unexpected and troublesome guest an inch further than she might have been able to throw her, and she made no bones about showing it.

  ‘One move,’ she said, expressionless, tossing a dark woollen riding suit upon the bed, ‘just one – and I’ll kill you. I’m a very good shot. And I’ll do it. You understand?’

  Numbly, Katya nodded.

  ‘Get yourself cleaned up and changed for God’s sake.’ The pale eyes raked her with sudden unfriendly scorn. ‘You look like a refugee from a whorehouse.’

  A bowl of water stood beside the bed. Trembling with shock and with an all but unendurable humiliation Katya hastily splashed her face. Dispassionately her captor stood and watched her, not allowing her the boon of even a pretence of privacy. Close to tears, Katya tried with shaking fingers to unhook the fastenings of her wrecked dress, the dress she had chosen with such care and such excitement earlier in the evening, the dress that now, torn and dirtied, fairly shouted her stupidity and her guilt to the cold-faced young woman who watched her.