by Lily Hyde
“Why would I be jealous of having a father that hits my mother?” Masha snapped. She could have bitten her tongue out a moment later.
“At least I’ve got parents!” Anastasia cried. She jumped up and Masha snatched her fingers out of the way just in time as one of the silver sandals came stamping down. Then they stormed off along the corridor. A door slammed.
Masha rolled over onto her back. How she hated Anastasia, with her frilly dresses and her girly white socks and her boring princess games. She stared at the ceiling, and sighed. Hating her wasn’t going to help. It had been stupid to shout like that; now she’d never persuade the other girl to let her out.
“Nastya!” she called. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean it. I should never have said that. Nastya!”
The door down the landing opened. Anastasia’s sing-song voice came out of it. “Stupid Masha’s locked in the ro–om. Stupid Masha’s locked in the ro–om…”
Masha stifled a scathing response. Instead she called again, “I’m sorry. Please let me out.”
“Bet she really needs the toilet. Bet she really needs the toilet…”
Masha scowled. It was true, and she didn’t want to be reminded of the fact. “Please. I’ll give you whatever you want, or do whatever you want.”
“What have you got?”
What could she possibly have that Anastasia didn’t have already, and miles better? “Rollerblades,” she offered at last. She had Gena’s in her backpack.
“Hate rollerblades.”
Masha pulled her knees up. She felt something digging into her thigh, and reached into her pocket in puzzlement.
“I know what I’ve got.”
“What?”
“A star. A magic one. It’s from a princess.”
Anastasia snorted. “As if.”
“Look.” Masha pushed the star Fyodor Ivanovich had given her under the door. It caught the light from the yellow room and gleamed brilliantly in the dim corridor.
The silver sandals appeared again. Anastasia came down the landing, and before Masha could grab it back she had seized the star. She laughed tauntingly. “It’s just an old decoration off … off a … a … from a Christmas tree or something. But thanks anyway.” She took a few steps back and sat down, playing with the star in her lap. It shone between her hands with a strange glow of its own, as though still radiating the sun in the yellow room. Anastasia’s fingers turned and stroked it dreamily.
“Where’s Aunt Anya?” Masha asked at last.
“At the hairdresser’s. I was there too but I came back on my own.”
“Why?”
“I was sick.”
Masha was interested. “Did you twizzle too much on those chairs that spin round?”
“No,” said Anastasia, rather too quickly.
“It’s just, I did that once. It was awful. I was sick all over the place. It was really embarrassing.” Masha’s cheeks felt hot just remembering it. “My mother sent me home as well, she was so annoyed.”
“Mama didn’t send me home. I’m not supposed to go anywhere on my own. But she had all the dye on her hair; if she’d gone out it would probably have turned her head purple or something, so she had to stay. I made her call me a taxi.”
“I really like Aunt Anya,” said Masha. “She’s so pretty.”
Anastasia said nothing. Her fingers continued to play with the star. She balanced it on the floor on one point and spun it round. It turned lazily, flashing and glittering.
“I came here to see her,” Masha said. “I think she knows what my mama was doing, where Uncle Igor sent her. I thought she might help me.”
“What with?” The star fell to the ground, and despite the thick carpet it gave a tiny musical tinkle.
“With finding out what it’s all about. Where Mama was, and why she’s so scared, and why Igor’s chasing her, and where the enchanted place is, and when it’s midsummer’s eve…”
“It’s midsummer’s eve today,” said Anastasia.
“I know. How do you know?”
“Of course I know. Ivana Kupala. It’s the night when you look for the magic fern flower, and if you find it you find your heart’s desire.”
Yes, of course Anastasia would know. All those fairy-tale games Masha had always thought were so stupid.
“Nastya?”
“Mmm?”
“Please unlock the door. I want to go to my mama. She’s in awful trouble and I need to help her.”
Anastasia picked up the star and lifted it somewhere out of sight. With a soft rustle of fabric she shuffled along the floor towards the door. “You’re so thick, Masha. You’re such a baby.”
“I just want to get out of here and—”
Anastasia interrupted her. “Get a pen.”
“What?”
“Or a hairgrip. No, you wouldn’t have one, not with your pathetic haircut. Get a pen from the desk.”
“What for?”
“I can’t believe you don’t know this.” Anastasia sounded so superior that Masha wanted to hit her. “Just get one. It needs to be a ballpoint.”
Masha was so confused she couldn’t think of a cutting comment. In the end she got up and went over to the desk, where there was a jar full of pens and pencils. “All right, I’ve got one. What’s it for? Why can’t you just open the door?”
“Unscrew it and take out the middle bit, the refill.”
Again, Masha was so flummoxed that she did as she was told. “OK.”
“Now come back to the door.”
“And?”
“Use it to poke the key out of the keyhole.”
“What for?”
“Duh!” Anastasia began to chant again. “Thicko Masha’s stuck in the ro–om…”
“Oh!” Masha couldn’t believe she’d been so slow. She knelt and slipped the long narrow refill into the keyhole. After a few moments poking and rattling, the key fell out. Masha lay down again. She could just reach it with her fingertips under the door. She drew it towards her, picked it up, and turned it in the lock.
“Oh well done,” said Anastasia sarcastically. She was leaning against the wall, still twirling the star between her fingers.
“I’d have thought of it on my own,” Masha said heatedly. “Anyway, why should I know how to get out of locked rooms? My papa never—” She stopped at the look on Anastasia’s face, and took a deep breath. “Thanks,” she said. “You saved me.”
Anastasia stuck out her tongue. “You got yourself out, all right? I didn’t help you.” She pointed down the corridor. “Toilet.”
Anastasia was waiting for her in the kitchen afterwards. They both hesitated, staring at each other with odd shyness. Masha had always thought she disliked Anastasia so much, she wasn’t sure how to start being nice to her. At last she said, “That room…”
“What about it?”
“It’s not really meant for me, is it? Whose is it?”
“My little sister’s.” Anastasia turned away towards the door.
Masha remembered Igor’s words yesterday in the flat. My wife adores children, and my darling Nastya would love to have a little sister. “Where is she then?”
“She had cancer,” Anastasia said over her shoulder. “Ages ago, before Papa got really rich. The only proper treatment was abroad but my parents couldn’t afford to send her.”
“You mean – she died?” The other girl didn’t answer. “I’m so sorry,” Masha said lamely.
“I don’t really remember her.” Anastasia tossed her head. “And you could never take her place, so don’t go thinking you could.”
“I’d never think that.” Masha followed her out of the kitchen door, remembering she was in a hurry. “I just want my mother back.”
She was already through the side gate Anastasia had unlocked when the other girl suddenly took her arm.
“What?”
“I like the star,” Anastasia said. “It’s my lucky star.” She closed the gate between them and ran back towards the
house.
Masha stared after her for a moment. But there was no time: she had to run to the bus stop; she had to work out what to do. There was no knowing when Igor would come back and discover she had gone. She couldn’t return to Ira’s flat and to Granny, because he would look for her there straight away; and anyway, they didn’t want her any more: Granny had decided to go to the village without her. She had to find her birthday present; it was today or never. But she could only think of one place left to go, just one safe place that no one had found yet…
At the end of the road a bus came into sight. She sprinted to the stop and hurled herself between the closing doors.
She was going to the island.
Chapter 18
Masha changed back into the rollerblades on the bus. She thought she was going to need them. How could she have been so stupid as to go to Igor’s house? She’d lost so much time, and she had an awful feeling she’d said or done something there that had betrayed Mama irretrievably. She’d been so foolishly confident, believing that finding out the truth about her mother would solve all the problems. All that talk of Ivana Kupala and her heart’s desire had distracted her into thinking that the whole puzzle was going to unravel to its conclusion, laid out as neatly as the church and the dovecote had arranged themselves in her dream. Oh what an idiot she was!
She sat on the seat as if on prickles, willing the bus to move faster through the sticky heat. There was no one to help her now; nobody wanted her any more. Like Mama, she had to get to the island. She had to hide.
When the bus finally reached her stop she jumped off and sped towards the market. She wheeled round the corner and was halfway across the road when a great black shape seemed to materialize out of nowhere. Terrified by its suddenness, she flung out her hands to stop herself. They landed on a scorching car bonnet. It was the black Mercedes, and Igor was already emerging from the back door. He fixed her with his livid, ruthless stare, and she felt helpless as a mouse pinned by the hawk’s shadow.
“The idea was that your mother would come to you,” he said, and though his voice was quiet, Masha knew he was furious. “But I suppose now we’ll just have to go to your mother, won’t we? Get in the car.”
“No,” said Masha. It came out as a strange squeak.
Igor’s feet were clad in pointed black shoes as mirror-shiny as his car. His sheeny grey trousers had perfect creases in them; his shirtsleeves were fastened with fat gold cufflinks. He smiled at her slowly and absolutely without mirth, a smile which just kept getting wider and wider and more and more full of gold teeth. His hand reached out for her. “Get in the car.”
Masha’s feet came to life. With an incredible, satisfying, solid whoosh the wheels on one rollerblade hit the ground and zoomed along it. And the other, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh! until she was flying along the pavement beside the fence. She’d never moved so fast in her life. She heard shouting, car doors slamming behind her, the roar of an engine. She didn’t look round. The wheels struck the ground and skimmed onwards with fabulous power; the bars of the fence flicked past. And here was the gate to the market. She wheeled through without faltering.
The market was a blur of red and green and yellow. People, lots and lots of people. She dodged and zigzagged without for a moment losing speed. Piles of glossy redcurrants, buckets of apricots, stacked bunches of green parsley and dill. A sack of tomatoes – splat! There went one under her wheels. Melons! Big yellow rolling globes, and she rolled through them making arcs and wiggles; and here was an old lady with strings of salted dried fish that rattled like dead leaves against her arm as she whizzed past. A string was caught around her elbow – never mind! She shook it off – sorry can’t stop – dodge those towers of soap and toilet rolls and whoa! Here were eggs, got to be careful, she was speeding off again and – oops, squish, there went a pile of juicy red … what? Eugh! Something horrible, guts, big slabs of red flesh and a hot meaty smell like the gates of hell, and here was the butcher’s axe glinting down just a hand’s breadth from her head, quick-quick and now snip-snap – what was that? Mousetraps was what it was, tumbling to the ground and snapping like lots of wicked little jaws, oh no…
She burst out of the gate at the other side. Her heart was banging like a hammer in her chest. This street was blissfully empty. No angry stallholders chasing her. No black Mercedes. She wheeled down the road, leaving a trail of squashed food behind her. Someone might notice that. She moved over to the verge. It was harder rollerblading through it, but the grass would hopefully cover her tracks.
She carried on, pushing as hard as she could with her legs, until the market was round the corner and she was among the garages. Then she turned into a little alley between fences, full of scrubby lilac bushes. She crawled in among them until she was sure she was out of sight, and then she collapsed.
The heat settled on her like a blanket. Only now, her legs started trembling so much she could hardly unlace the heavy boots.
Masha sat there for a long time. She wasn’t really thinking about anything. The heat was a greyish, heavy weight that stifled thought. She watched the dusty lilac leaves, and through them the road that shimmered and baked. The occasional car passed, or rattling buses crammed with people. No Mercedes.
The leaves trembled, and a liver-brown dog pushed its way in beside her. It sniffed at the wheels of the rollerblades and gave them a tentative lick.
“Shh!” Masha whispered. The dog looked at her with calm yellowy eyes and sat down, alert, like a guard dog. She tickled its ears gently, and felt comforted.
Finally she got up. She pulled her sandals out of her backpack and put them on, then set off down to the river carrying the rollerblades. The dog came with her.
Gena was at the bottom of the sandy bank, eating raspberries from bushes that had escaped the allotments.
“Masha! Where’ve you been?” he said when he saw her. “Mama sent me to find you because you were gone such a long time. What have you been doing?”
“Nothing.” Masha felt incredibly tired. She could hardly lift one foot after the other.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing.”
Gena held out a handful of raspberries. “Well, anyway, you’ve got to come back now. Mama’s friend is coming round in a couple of hours to take you to the village.”
“Didn’t you know? I’m not going to the village,” Masha said dully. “I can’t come back now.”
“Why not?”
“There’s something I have to do. Two things.”
“What things? Can I come too?”
“No.” Masha put down the heavy boots. “Thanks for the rollerblades. Look, please tell Ira and – and Granny that I’ll be back soon.”
“But where shall I tell them you’ve gone?” Gena frowned. “Masha, where have you been? Did you know you’re carrying a mousetrap around?”
Masha looked down. Sure enough, a sprung mousetrap dangled from the hem of her T-shirt. She opened it carefully and dropped it on the grass.
“Don’t tell them anything,” she said. “Don’t tell anyone you’ve seen me. Not anyone. Especially Igor. Promise?”
“All right, I won’t tell Igor.” Gena was staring at her. “Promise. Is he looking for you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” You can’t trust anyone, Masha thought. Ira is throwing me out. She believes Igor. Granny doesn’t want me. Even Gena probably thinks I should go and live with Igor.
To be on the safe side, she set off into the allotments, in the opposite direction to the river. Then, when she was out of sight of Gena, she doubled back along a different path leading towards the river and the island. She noticed she’d lost the dog. Feeling lonelier than ever, she walked along the hot, airless path, between grasses tall enough to hide her from prying eyes. The pole of the dovecote was visible on her left, poking into a sky clotting over with dense grey clouds. Ahead, the thin trickle of smoke from the island spooled upwards.
How was she going to get across the water to her mother? Hopefully
Nechipor would turn up, as he always did, opportunely. And then perhaps he would come with her in search of his treasure buried in the enchanted place, before it was too late to find her heart’s desire.
Chapter 19
Where on earth had Masha been on the rollerblades? Gena wondered. The wheels were completely clogged up with what looked like squashed fruit and eggshells and other less savoury things. He searched around for a stick and sat down to clean them, all the while thinking about what she might be doing now and why she was so worried about Igor and what he was supposed to tell his mother.
He scraped away absently. It was going to be boring here all summer without Masha. She made up such good games. Like this stuff about the trolleybus and the grave and everything. Gena still wasn’t sure if he really believed it all. But true or not, it was fun.
Maybe Masha had gone to look for the enchanted place. Wasn’t today her special day, her second birthday? That thing about the calendar was weird. Who would have thought something as mechanically real as the date could turn out to be so arbitrary? Gena felt enormously pleased with the knowledge somehow. It was as if something as solid as the grass and the sky had suddenly shifted, folded up into a piece of paper with a mathematical formula on it. It was just so interesting and satisfying to unravel in your mind.
A dog barked. It was a liver-brown stray, barking and growling furiously at something behind him. Gena looked round. Creeping silently along the sandy track was Igor’s sleek Mercedes. It eased imperceptibly to a halt, and a tinted back window rolled down. Igor’s head stuck out.
“Hello there, young man,” he said jovially. “What are you doing? You look bored.”
“Oh, well…” Gena shrugged. His eyes strayed to the long shiny lines of the car. He could see his face mirrored blackly in the door.
His reflection swayed and slid towards him as Igor opened the door and got out. “Want a ride?” he offered. “Move over, give the lad a turn,” he said to the driver, who emerged in his mirrored sunglasses smoking a cigarette, as always, and directed at Gena a sinister, eyeless smile.
Gena hesitated.