The Good Thieves

by Katherine Rundell

  ‘This is different. I have a proper plan. Plans are the thing I’m good at.’

  ‘You ever stolen anything before?’

  ‘Well, no, not exactly—’

  ‘Exactly. Every new person you work with is just another chance of getting caught. No.’

  ‘What about those boys? I saw you with them—’

  ‘I don’t work with them. I owe them – or they say I do. Once I pay them off, I’m never doing any of that again: not pickpocketing, not lock-picking, not anything.’

  ‘I know that! I could see – from your face – back at the party – I could see that it wasn’t simple. But this is different – it’s stealing back.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Would you consider it if I said I’ve found a way that you couldn’t possibly get caught – because I have! I swear.’

  ‘No.’ And Silk shifted away, her back an effective punctuation mark. ‘Leave me alone.’

  But Vita did not write that in her red book. Because she did not intend to take no for an answer.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Vita woke early the next morning, before the sun rose. It is difficult to sleep when you are besieged by hope. She ran her thumb along the paper edge of the red notebook.

  She unpacked her binoculars from her suitcase: they had been her father’s, and one eye was cracked, but she could use the other like a telescope. She crossed to the window and stared out, expecting to see a few people sleepily hauling themselves to work.

  Instead, she saw a white horse. It was little more than a speck, out on Seventh Avenue by the Park, galloping through the empty streets of the grey dawn-lit city, a boy riding bareback and coatless, his head ducked down against the bitter wind, laughing. A black bird flew overhead, keeping pace with him.

  Vita leaned further out, focusing the one good eye of the binoculars. The boy’s sweater was scarlet, and it shone, even in the dark. With a swoop to her chest, Vita recognised him: it was the boy from Carnegie Hall. Not the boy who had jumped, but the shorter, white boy. He rode leaning forwards, rear in the air, urging his horse on, his hair falling into his eyes. Vita had never seen a horse move so fast.

  She didn’t let herself stop to think about what was wise. Swiftly she dressed in her skirt, jersey, scarf, and boots, coaxing the left one over her foot, which still throbbed from the night before. She pulled on her ivory-coloured trench coat which had, once, belonged to her mother, taken in at the wrist and waist. She wrapped it around herself like armour, pushed the red book into her coat pocket, and stepped out into the city.

  She was just in time to see the boy canter down the street and come to an abrupt halt. He swung down to the pavement, and leaned in to whisper in the horse’s ear. Then, as calmly as if he were escorting it in for a Bach piano concerto, he led the horse up the pavement towards the vast front doors of Carnegie Hall.

  ‘Wait!’ called Vita.

  The boy whipped round with the speed of the guilty. His face was flushed, but when he saw who it was, he grinned.

  ‘Oi! Don’t do that! I thought you were my father!’

  His accent was strong, and not English. Spanish? thought Vita. She crossed the road towards him. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Taking Moscow in,’ he said.

  Russian! she thought.

  ‘She’ll be hungry,’ said the boy. He was not tall or broad, but when he grinned it was so vivid that he appeared to take up most of the street and at least half the sky. ‘And we mustn’t be caught.’

  ‘Isn’t she allowed to be in the street?’

  ‘It’s not that she’s not allowed – she has to be exercised twice a day – but I’m not supposed to be the one who does it. Samuel is. Also, I’m supposed to take her in the back way.’

  Vita ran her hand down the horse’s muzzle. It was soft as swan’s down. ‘Hello,’ she whispered. ‘I hadn’t expected to see a thing as fine as you, not today.’

  A gust of wind whipped Moscow’s mane into the air, and the boy shivered. Vita pulled off her scarf and offered it to him. She expected him to politely refuse, but he took it with a grin and wrapped it round his neck.

  ‘Thanks! What’s your name?’ But, contrary to the usual convention, he didn’t stop to wait for an answer. ‘I’m Arkady. I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? When Samuel was trying the double-tuck spin out of the window?’

  ‘I’m living opposite you for a couple of weeks. I’m Vita.’ She stroked Moscow’s heaving flank. ‘Where does she live?’

  Arkady grinned. ‘Do you want to come and see?’

  He didn’t wait for a reply; he did not seem the kind of person who waited. He clicked his tongue at the horse, which shadowed him like a dog, and ran up the pavement to the Hall. Vita followed.

  He pushed open one half of the huge double doors – ‘I left it unlocked,’ he said, ‘but don’t tell my father –’ and Vita found herself in the reception of Carnegie Hall.

  The sweeping staircase was wide enough to drive three elephants up it abreast – if you had had some elephants to hand. Its gilt banisters shone in the first morning light, and reflected gold up to the crystal chandeliers overhead. Ticket offices lined the far wall. Everything was impeccably clean. Vita looked at her nails and put her hands behind her back.

  ‘This way,’ said Arkady. ‘I have to take Moscow to her stable, before I get caught.’

  Their footsteps rang unnaturally loudly as they ran across the hall, Moscow clip-clopping after them. A large lift, with gleaming mahogany doors, stood open. Arkady led the horse inside. Vita followed.

  ‘The stable … is in the lift?’

  ‘Of course not. Third floor,’ said Arkady, and pressed the button. They emerged and hurried down a long corridor. He seemed to notice Vita’s stunned expression. ‘Usually we tour with tents, and a special train car for the animals, but in the winters we try to find somewhere with a theatre. Some of the families rent flats. My mother and father, and a few others, we sleep above the theatre.’

  Vita looked around with wonder. ‘So … you’re performing at Carnegie Hall?’

  ‘Of course! Every night at seven p.m. Not me, obviously – they won’t let me until I’m fourteen – but my family.’

  ‘How long have you been on tour?’

  ‘Forever! Too long! Since I was a baby.’ He seemed surprised. ‘Haven’t you heard of the Lazarenko Circus? Where do you live, in a cave? In a hole? In Belgium?’

  ‘No! In England.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, as if he considered all four roughly equivalent. He pushed open a door at the end of the corridor, and led the horse in. ‘This is the Gold Ballroom. You can rent it for parties, after the opera.’

  Dawn light struggled into the room. Along the walls there were paintings of women with vertical hairstyles and men with horizontal moustaches. They seemed to thrum, as if they had captured some of the music of old.

  Moscow trotted across the wooden floor to a space in the corner, where straw was piled high, and a trough of water stood. She began to drink, watched by a portrait of George Washington. The light caught her flank and cast it into pure silver.

  ‘She’s amazing—’

  ‘Shh,’ said Arkady. ‘Wait.’ And he whistled, and called out: ‘Ko mne!’

  Before Vita could ask him to translate, something huge and roaring came hurtling out of the far corner.

  It leaped straight at Arkady’s face and Vita gasped, searching around her for something to throw.

  The thing put both paws on Arkady’s shoulders and began to try to lick the insides of his nostrils.

  ‘This is Cork,’ said Arkady. He pushed him away, laughing. ‘Sit, Cork! He was a stray. I found him in the Park a few months ago and my parents let me take him in. At least, sort of. My mother did. Technically, my father doesn’t know. He doesn’t come in here.’

  The dog was the size of a bear. His fur was blonde-white, and he was so huge that, even sitting, his head came up to Vita’s ribs.

  ‘What breed is he?’ She held out her
palm, rather warily, and the dog dipped his muzzle to her skin. His nose was very soft and wet, and gentle as a breath of air. She scratched behind his ears, and the dog let out a whine of pleasure.

  ‘A mutt. All the best dogs are mutts. I’m pretty sure he’s part Alsatian, and some Labrador. I think his father was a Caucasian Ovcharka. Watch!’

  He made two fingers into a gun, and pointed them at the dog.

  ‘Bang!’

  Cork staggered backwards, collapsed on to his side, and let out a howl. Arkady laughed, and clapped once: the dog rose on to his hind legs and walked a few stately paces, his muzzle in the air. Then he rolled over and over, spun in a circle, marched backwards, and the boy barely had to move; Cork seemed to read his mind.

  ‘He’s brilliant! He’s so clever!’ said Vita. ‘And he has the face of a king.’

  Arkady gave her his sudden smile. ‘I know. Most people are afraid of him, because—’

  ‘Because he’s big enough to eat a person and still have room for dessert?’

  ‘Exactly! But he only ever bit me a little bit, when I first met him, and only because he was scared. And anyway most of the skin grew back. Stupid!’ he said. ‘But you’re not stupid.’ He looked hard at her, sweeping over her with his eyes, taking in her watching expression, the intensity of her gaze. ‘So. In that case …’

  ‘In what case?’

  ‘I can show you my secret.’

  ‘The dog isn’t your secret?’

  ‘No!’

  And he crossed to the vast window, threw it open, and whistled.

  Vita’s first impression was that they were being attacked, and that their assailants had wings. She ducked as dozens of birds came skimming in through the window and filled the ballroom, landing on top of the paintings, drinking from the horse’s trough, flocking round Arkady’s head.

  At first, most of the birds seemed brown, but as she looked, she saw the variation in their wings: the white speckling on the breast of the thrush, the pure white of the doves, the tropical orange of the blackbirds’ beaks.

  ‘They know it’s feeding time,’ he said. ‘They wait, in the trees nearby, every day.’ He pulled handfuls of seed from his pockets, and almost disappeared beneath the storm of feathers.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘take some,’ and he poured seed into her hands. She found herself besieged by warmth, by sharp beaks and imperious feet and feathers beating against her cheek. Then the food was gone, and they abandoned her, returning to pick at the seed around Arkady’s feet.

  ‘Are they tame?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Not like you mean – not circus-tame. Mostly it’s only that they know me and I feed them.’ Already some of the birds were leaving, the way they had come. ‘But two of them are different.’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘The crows. I raised them from chicks. They’re still young. One’s over there, on the portrait of the constipated-looking Admiral. That’s Rimsky.’ His voice rang with pride as he said, ‘She knows her name – they both do.’

  ‘Really?’ Vita had never heard of a bird knowing its name, and scepticism must have crept into her voice because Arkady scowled at her.

  ‘Rimsky!’ He made a whistling, hissing sound through his teeth. The crow took off, sweeping in three lazy flaps to land on Arkady’s outstretched hand. She hopped up Arkady’s arm to his elbow, leaned over to the boy’s breast pocket, fished a crust from it, gave him a peck on the thumb, and took off again.

  Arkady sucked a small amount of blood from his thumb. ‘Bird affection takes a bit of getting used to. They’re as clever as dogs, crows – they bring me presents from the street. Look!’ He pulled a shining silver button from his pocket. ‘Rimsky gave me this yesterday.’

  ‘Where’s the other one?’

  ‘Rasko?’ Arkady laughed. ‘How would I know? Anywhere, in the whole city.’

  ‘But you said they’re tame.’

  ‘Yes! But I didn’t say he’s my servant.’

  A question was tugging at Vita. ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Feeding all those birds, taming the crows – Why?’

  ‘One day, I’m going to have my own act. My family works with dogs – six poodles – and Mr Kawadza, he works with the horses. But I want more – I want a circus made from … ach – there’s an expression in Russian – it means, the hidden wilderness. You know? There’s so much that’s alive, even in the streets of the city, if you look for it. I want horses, because horses love to work – but also old mutts and crows – maybe squirrels – maybe mice, if I can work out how – all dancing to the same waltz together. Like a city turned into an animal ballet. Can you imagine?’

  ‘It would be amazing.’

  ‘But it’s hard. After the revolution in my country, all the circuses were nationalised – there was nowhere in the whole of Russia we could have a theatre of our own, so we had to tour. Touring, touring, for nearly ten years! And every place, I get to know the birds, and then we move. I won’t be able to take Rimsky and Rasko when we leave – they can’t live in a cage. I want to stay still – I don’t care where. But Papa says he’ll either buy the perfect building or none at all – which I think is just his way of saying no.’

  He turned to close the window, and as he did, a large rock came flying out of nowhere and struck him on the back of the head. Or … no, Vita saw. Not a rock: a crow.

  ‘Rasko!’ Arkady laughed. ‘See! He’s named after Raskolnikov – you know, the murderer? Like I said, the kindness of birds is a painful thing.’

  He stood, a crow on each shoulder, the dog at his heels, the white mare watching him from across the floor. This, Vita thought, was how gold ballrooms should be used.

  Arkady picked his nose and studied the snot. He sighed. ‘It’s black,’ he said. ‘The city makes it black.’ Rimsky pecked at the snot on Arkady’s finger. Arkady looked at Vita. ‘You’ll keep this a secret?’

  ‘Yes!’ said Vita. The thought that had been prickling at the back of her mind pushed itself forwards. Before doubt could creep in, she forced herself to ask the question. ‘Can you keep one in return?’

  She outlined her plan to Arkady, swiftly, while Rimsky fluttered around them, pecking at her shoe. She showed him the red book, pulling it from her coat pocket and laying it on the floor between them.

  Arkady did not, like Silk, say no; he did not even say yes; he laughed until he choked and Rasko took off in high dudgeon.

  ‘I should have known! You, a thief!’

  ‘It’s not stealing if it’s stealing back …’ began Vita, but he wasn’t listening.

  He ran his fingers along her writing on the book: THE PLAN. ‘I knew there was something! So quiet, but your face with that look – like you’re always watching – like you’re thinking eight things at once. Brilliant! Otlichno! Show me the book again? Emerald necklace, ancient house, train journey, break in, run away, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Vita.

  ‘Easy! What do you need me to do?’

  ‘I can pay you,’ said Vita. ‘Not right now, but when we sell the emerald …’

  Arkady glared at her. ‘I don’t need money.’ He thumped his chest. ‘I will do it for the glory! We’ll go down in history – like Robin Hood! The good thieves!’

  ‘But I don’t want you to think—’

  ‘I said, what do you need?’

  ‘I need to get over a wall – a high wall, in the middle of the night. And there’re two guard dogs. They’ve been trained to kill. Can you help?’

  ‘The dogs, yes! Wonderful! All dogs, all the time! The wall – how high?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe fifteen feet – maybe twenty? Or more?’

  Arkady was suddenly serious. ‘For that, no. I’m not a climber. For that, you need someone else.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You need Samuel. Samuel Kawadza. He can fly.’

  Far in the recesses of the building, a door slammed, and there was the sharp hoot of a tin whistle.

  Arkady jumped. ‘My father’s awake. You need to go. Com
e back tonight!’ he said. ‘For Samuel!’

  ‘When? And what do you mean, fly?’

  ‘Too many questions! I don’t know – whenever everyone else is asleep.’ Arkady pulled her to the window, and pointed. ‘You can jump out.’

  Vita peered down. The breakfast traffic below was already bustling.

  ‘Wouldn’t I break my leg?’

  ‘Only a small one, maybe.’

  Vita looked down at her red shoes. Arkady’s gaze followed hers, to the shape of her shoe, the thick sole, the way her leg bowed outwards.

  ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I’d take the elevator. Why walk when you can ride? Come!’

  ‘You don’t need to come with me. I remember the way.’

  ‘Fine – quick, then. Have this.’ Arkady reached into his pocket and thrust a handful of birdseed into Vita’s fist. ‘Put it on your window sill after dark and wait – I’ll send Rasko to get you when it’s time!’

  And soon Vita found herself on the street, the morning growing swift around her, looking up at the Hall. Nothing had changed, and yet it looked entirely different, now she knew it stored horses in the ballroom.

  As Vita crossed the road back to the apartment building, she saw the paperboy, barking the New York Times headlines.

  ‘Cyclone Louie shot dead in a diner! Louie Zwerback dead!’

  Vita’s forehead prickled, and adrenaline jerked through her fingers; she was afraid before she knew why she should be. She searched in her coat pocket for two cents, took a paper, and read it on the street corner.

  ‘Louie Zwerback, a notorious Brooklyn smuggler, has been gunned down as he drank coffee in an all-night diner. More on page 3.’

  Vita wrestled to turn to page three, the paper flapping in the wind.

  ‘The hit on Zwerback appeared to be a simple job gone wrong; several people were injured, and the assassins, who covered their faces, fled after stripping Louie of his signet ring.’

  Vita’s chest was solid ice. She felt inside the pocket of her red skirt and took out the ring. She looked at the initials, LZ, stamped on the gold disc. Her first instinct was to throw it down the grate of the storm drain. But a voice in her head jerked her hand back: Evidence. She stopped herself and pushed it deep inside the pocket of her skirt.