by Sean Hancock
He scans me head to toe. “You speak Russian?” saying it in his mother tongue. Tammuz poses the same question in English.
Still addressing Sergei, I say, “My father is from Ryazan.” That was Inga’s place of birth. The best lies never veer too far from the truth.
He grunts. “I am from Kolomna; you know it?”
“Yes,” I reply. “I have relatives there.”
He glances at Tammuz. “Boyfriend?”
“No, but we have known each other many years.”
Pointing at the scratch marks, Sergei says, “You do that to his face?”
“Yes, it’s a long story.”
Sensing he’s being talked about, Tammuz says, “What’s going on? What did he say about me?” So, I reach out to touch his arm reassuringly.
Sticking to Russian, Sergei asks, “Why has he brought you here?”
“To introduce me to Viktor. Do you work with him?”
“He is my brother. What do you want?”
“I have something for him. It’s very important.”
“What?”
The rain is heavy now, so I glance skyward. “Can we talk inside?”
“Answer now,” he says. “Or leave.”
Improvising again, I slip my bag off and rest it on the floor, opening the side pocket now, reaching inside to grab a handful of fifty-pound notes. Straightening, I say, “When Tammuz went to prison, he owed Viktor money. I’m here to settle that debt.”
Sergei orders me to put the money away, but I continue waving it in his face until he has no choice but to usher us inside. He says, “Wait here,” when we get to the lounge, and he disappears into an adjoining room via a sliding door, which he closes after him. I see a glimpse of a kitchen through there, and classical music seeps through, along with the smell of garlic and onions.
Tammuz is a ball of nervous energy. “Fuck, Sam, you speak Russian and didn’t mention it?”
“Lower your voice,” I say, stuffing cash into the front pocket of my jeans, taking in our surroundings: high ceiling, crystal chandelier, dark wooden floors, glass coffee table, open fireplace, flat-screen TV, an aerial photograph of central London on the wall, and Union Jack cushions on the sofa. There are Russian influences as well—some traditional red dolls and a watercolor of the Kremlin—but they are few and far between.
“I’m good with languages,” I say, glancing at the family photographs placed throughout the room, most featuring a very pretty girl with a beauty spot on her left cheek.
Hello, Dina.
The large, powerful-looking guy with the receding hairline and wide nose has got to be Viktor. There’s something familiar about that face . . .
“Why didn’t you tell me you could speak Russian?” Tammuz says. “Pretty crucial information, don’t you think?”
“Didn’t ask.”
“Why the hell would I?” he says. “And where’d you get all that money? You steal it?”
“I’ve told you, I’m not a thief.”
“Why were you giving it to Sergei?”
“I was offering to pay your debt to Viktor.”
Color drains from Tammuz’s face. “He ask for it? Tell me exactly what he said.”
“No. I offered.”
“You fucking what? Why? I didn’t say you could do that.”
“To get us in.”
Tammuz carries on swearing but stops when Sergei reappears. The Russian looks at me, saying, “Viktor will see you alone.”
Tammuz is getting more and more agitated. “Speak English. What’s going on?”
I ignore him.
“What about Tammuz?” I ask.
Sergei replies, “He stays with me.”
I nod, and Tammuz demands to be looped in. I tell him Viktor wants to see me alone, and he says, “That doesn’t make sense,” before raising his voice. “Hey, Viktor, what’s going on—”
Sergei cuts him off with a shove. “Shut up mouth,” he says, speaking English, the accompanying glare promising worse if Tammuz doesn’t fall into line.
“I won’t be long,” I say, grabbing my bag. “You need me, I’m just through there, okay?”
“This isn’t happening,” Tammuz says. “You stay; I’ll go,” but he only gets as far as the sliding door.
Sergei closes it behind me, saying, “That was last chance.” His tone is aggressive. I’m ready to burst in there if I have to, although it sounds like Tammuz has gotten the message.
I focus my attention on Viktor, who is sitting at the far end of a white marble island with gas stove built in. Steel pans are overhead, and knife handles stick out of a large wooden block. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata emanates from an expensive-looking speaker, the haunting piano melody reminding me of Ashkai, who is a huge fan of classical music.
Viktor is facing my direction but hunched over a bowl of steaming red soup. A chunk of bread, metal-rimmed spectacles, and what looks like an alcoholic drink are also on the counter. Glass doors frame Viktor. There’s a good-size garden out there, a weeping willow in the corner, its branches and leaves heavy with rain.
Speaking Russian, I say, “Sorry for disturbing your meal,” while walking toward him, bag hanging by my side, picking up a whiff of vodka, noticing a black and white photograph from the late nineteenth century of Tower Bridge on the wall, the thing partially built, an event I witnessed firsthand.
When Viktor—older than Sergei, strong shoulders, weathered face—eventually glances up, I’m struck by a powerful sense of déjà vu, dizzied by it, and I’m trying to process what that means as I come to a halt adjacent to him and put my backpack down. “Can I sit?”
Viktor grunts and waves a hand, which is when I notice something about the right side of his face. The skin below his ear and around his jawline is mottled and discolored. It’s obviously a birthmark, which means it’s connected to a previous life cycle, most likely one of his deaths. Racking my brain for connections, I perch on a stool and say, “Look at me, Viktor,” speaking Russian, needing to put the pieces together. Instinct tells me it’s important.
After removing the spoon from his mouth, Viktor, who is as ugly as he is arrogant, uses a napkin to wipe his pink and fleshy lips. Speaking English, he says, “What so special about your face I should look at it?” He has less of an accent than his brother, but has a deeper, more commanding tone. I can feel the toxicity of his aura. The air is thick with it.
He’s wearing a white shirt speckled with red soup, its top three buttons undone and with a thick carpet of hair poking through. He has rings on his fingers and a tattooed neck that reads “nikomu ne doveryayut” (trust no one).
“It’s not my face I’m interested in, it’s yours.”
He takes a drink and flashes his wedding band. “You are too late.” He reaches for his glasses and puts them on, taking a good look at me now. “My wife is away in Russia, so maybe I make exception this time.”
The bespectacled leer offers a very good clue as to who this man is (I would know that look anywhere), but it’s something else about his now magnified eyes, something I missed before, that confirms his identity.
“I am offended,” I say, surprised by how calm I’m feeling.
“Because you are pretty? You want be ugly? World lonely place for ugly woman.”
“I am offended because you don’t remember me.”
“I know you?”
“Very well.”
He narrows his eyes, one of which is larger than the other (just like him!), in half recognition. “Ah, one of Zlata’s whores, yes? You have long hair before? You should grow back; short hair for man.”
“No. I am your daughter. At least, I used to be.”
His joyless smile unveils crooked, coffee-stained teeth. “Come sit on lap then; be good girl for Papa.”
“Does Dina sit on your lap?”
His expression changes. “You know my daughter?”
“I know you fuck her.” I say it to test the water, no longer thinking about ayahuasca, Meta, or Ashkai; ins
tead, I wonder how this demon energy was able to return to the Earth plane so quickly. I’m hoping, for Dina’s sake, history has not repeated itself.
Why have our paths crossed like this? There must be purpose in it. Am I to inflict pain and suffering on you, as you did to Elsie for so many years, or is this an opportunity to choose love over hate?
I know in my heart and in my bones it’s the latter; that’s what Ashkai would advise. I just don’t think I’m ready, not yet . . .
He looks at me as if I’m nothing. “Pretty face but dirty mouth like whore.”
“At first I thought it was strange for a Russian to have Union Jack cushions and pictures of London on his wall, but your affinity for this city makes total sense now. Do you remember your life here, Mr. Farish? I hope you don’t mind me calling you that?”
He points at his temple, index finger twirling. “Crazy like rabid dog.”
“And that birthmark on your face, does it still burn?” I’m remembering the smell of Mr. Farish’s charred flesh, his corpse being dragged away from the blazing fire. Too bad that he doesn’t remember it.
Did you make it to the window, Mother? Were you brave enough to jump?
“It seems I did not do enough to banish you from this world,” I say. “That tells me you are an old soul, which means you should know better.”
Viktor chuckles. “This joke, yes?” and then in Russian, “I do not have time for games. You told Sergei you had come to pay the boy’s debt, but there is more to your visit. What do you want? And choose your words carefully, for I am not a patient man.”
I want to hurt you, my inner voice whispers, Mozart playing on the speaker instead of Beethoven now, but I know that is not an option. To punish Viktor for Mr. Farish’s crimes would be deeply wrong and something the universe would hold me accountable for. The truth is, I don’t know this man; I may think I do, but I don’t.
“I have come to ask you a question,” I say, also speaking Russian, the voice in my head saying, He is still a monster; look at how he manipulated and exploited Tammuz.
Viktor tips the rest of his drink down his throat, the veins in his face suffused with red. He’s an alcoholic, just like Mr. Farish. “Ask.”
Now is my chance to get things back on track, to start enquiring about where I can get my hands on ayahuasca and explain that I’ll pay well over the odds if necessary, but instead I say, “Why did you hand Tammuz over to the police?” . . . as if it even matters . . .
“He is your boyfriend?”
“No.”
“What is your relationship?”
“We are friends.”
“He told you I went to the police?”
“No.”
“For what reason do you accuse me?
“Because you are an arrogant man who cares only for himself.”
Stop looking for a reason to hurt him, Samsara.
“Because he quit working for you and was no longer useful.”
Focus on what you came here for.
“And because he loved your daughter and you didn’t want to share her.”
Viktor unfolds his arms and removes his glasses, placing them on the marble work surface. Seeing him do it triggers feelings of shame and vulnerability. Mr. Farish always took his spectacles off before hitting his wife or abusing his daughter. Stuff like that is very hard to forget, let alone forgive.
“You are very brave,” Viktor says, his face somewhere between angry and impressed. “I deal with ruthless men, cruel men, murderers, and thieves. Even these dogs, who fear nothing, fear me. But you, who I could crush like a bug”—he slams a fist down—“face me with the courage of a lion. Is that what you are, little whore, a lion?”
I remain silent.
“Why aren’t you afraid?” he asks.
“Because I am stronger than you.”
The corners of his mouth turn up, but it’s more of a snarl than a smile. “What makes you so sure?”
“Fear empowers you. Without it, you are nothing. I learned this long ago.”
“Power and fear are the same; they are brothers.”
“Evil men are feared. True power comes from love.”
“You speak like a woman,” he says, opening a drawer to his right, “a very stupid one.” With practiced ease—though I could have stopped him if I wasn’t distracted and, let’s face it, curious—Viktor points a gun at me, silencer attached. “I am known for my temper,” he says. “Many times I have made bad decisions because I am angry. That is why I have started listening to classical music, so I can be calmer, more reasonable. How do you think I’m doing?”
I use the footrest of my stool to stand and lean forward, letting the nozzle of the silencer press into my forehead. I feel no fear at all.
His eyes widen with astonishment. “You claim you are my daughter,” he says, “but you would make a much better son.” Snapping his arm back, he attempts to strike me with the butt of his gun. The big Russian is slow, so I have time to duck, lying flat against the cool marble as he swipes thin air. That’s when I do something I know I will regret.
Viktor roars and leaps out of his seat, dropping his gun in the process, dealing with the bowl of hot soup I stupidly pushed onto his lap, the one that’s just hit the floor and smashed into pieces. When he looks up, I’m standing beside my stool, survival instincts taking over.
Viktor, who has madness in his eyes, bends for his weapon. In that time, I grab two things: a large steel pan from above the stove, which I use to intercept the two bullets aimed at my head, and a knife from the wooden block. Throwing fast and precisely, I bury the knife’s blade in my attacker’s throat.
Viktor drops his gun and reaches for the knife, his eyes burning with fear and rage, chest hair and shirt turning the color of his trousers. He splutters the word “shlyukha” (whore) before looking over my shoulder, hissing, “ubit yeye”(kill her).
I turn and see Sergei in the doorway, eyes fixed on his older brother, a man he clearly idolizes. His face reflects shock and loss, but the emotion is quickly replaced by cold calculation.
“Tammuz,” I shout, Viktor falling with a thud. “Run!”
Instead of coming for me, Sergei closes the sliding door and disappears into the lounge.
Viktor is lying on his back, and I have to dig under his heavy, still-twitching body to retrieve the weapon he tried to kill me with.
You were defending yourself, Samsara. You had no choice.
I straighten as the doors to the lounge slide open. Tammuz is being pushed through the gap, nose bleeding, eyes streaming, Sergei holding a gun to his head with its silencer attached. These guys are dedicated to the art of killing discreetly. Using Tammuz as a human shield, Sergei fires at my head. I hit the floor and curl into a ball, the bullets shattering one of the glass doors behind me as cold air and heavy rain gush in from the garden.
“Please don’t hurt me,” Tammuz says, voice trembling. “I don’t want to die.”
I sit upright against the base of the island, Viktor’s corpse by my feet. I check that there’s a bullet in the chamber and say, “Stay calm, Tammuz. This will be over soon.”
He says, “I haven’t done anything. Just let me go, please. I haven’t done anything.”
As if that ever matters.
The second glass door is still intact, and I can see their reflection in it, Sergei still shoving Tammuz forward. The island is on their right, so I crawl back to where my bag is on the opposite side, keeping low, knowing there are only two possible outcomes here.
Tammuz and I die or . . .
I make a run for it and dive into the lounge, more bullets missing their target as I roll and stand in the same movement. I tuck the gun into the back of my jeans and race for the front door, slamming it behind me so that Sergei hears, pulling my hood up in case of witnesses and running down the concrete stairs, hardly noticing the driving rain. Turning left and left again, I grab a trash can and use it to leap over the wall into Viktor’s garden. Entering the kitchen via the m
issing door, I pull the gun from my jeans as I head for the lounge, skirting the broken glass.
I hear Sergei before I see him. Tammuz is yelping and begging for mercy.
I peer into the lounge and see Sergei, his back to me. He pulls his baseball cap off and throws it on the floor, putting the gun on the glass coffee table.
Tammuz is a tight ball on the sofa, trying to protect himself from the fists hammering down like meteorites. Sergei pauses at intervals to ask questions, his voice measured and efficient. “Who is she? Where she go?” Tammuz is saying he only met me yesterday and that I’m from Devon, swearing to god that’s all he knows.
“Tell me where she is or I cut balls.”
“No need,” I say, speaking English. “I’m right here,” pressing the gun into his bald spot. Then in Russian, I say, “You so much as flinch, I’ll kill you.” Then back to English with, “Tammuz, listen carefully . . .”
Sensing he’s no longer in immediate danger, Tammuz uncurls and stands, shuffling in the direction of the front door, scared and disoriented. “What happened in there?” He points toward the kitchen. “Is Viktor dead?”
“We can talk later.”
“I’m not interested in your lies,” he says, pulling his phone out. “I’m calling the police.”
“Viktor tried to kill me, Tammuz. It was him or me. I had no choice.”
“I don’t want to hear it. Everything you touch turns to shit.”
Before he’s able to dial the third nine, there’s a gun pointing at his head.
“Put that down. Now.” Then in Russian, “Do not give me a reason to kill you, Sergei.”
Tammuz looks up. “You’re out of control.”
He’s right. I’m a loose cannon, dangerous, unpredictable, and as much as I tried to show Viktor how fearless I was, the truth is I’m petrified of absolutely everything. I’m out of my depth and drowning, and I don’t know what to do.
Desperate for Tammuz to stop judging me and because I am determined to find a way out of this mess, I present a hunch as truth. “You went to jail because of Viktor,” I say. “He tipped the police off; did you know that?”
“What?”
“You were no use to him anymore, so he threw you under the bus.”