The Actuary's Wife

by K T Bowes

  Mikhail shook his head, still in denial. His eyes pleaded towards men who couldn’t help him. “Net, I had no men zer.” His blue eyes flashed with an emotion akin terror and Emma blanched. Someone in the woman’s band of soldiers had served two masters. Mikhail pointed a wavering finger at Christopher, who was in the process of edging slowly away from the Chinese man next to him. “Hack cheated you! It’s his fault.”

  Christopher bit his lip as the Contessa turned the beautiful side of her face towards him. Emma saw his lazy wink and gulped, waiting for a gun to end his reign of seduction. She witnessed the scarred side of the woman’s face and the remains of her lip turned upwards in response to his flirtatious Irish smirk. “Oh, I don’t think he cheated me out of anything,” she simpered, her injuries overridden by the sexual woman still within. The Triad glanced sideways at Christopher and Emma bit her sleeve, surprised to feel a lone tear trickle down her cheek as stress overwhelmed her.

  The Contessa turned back to Mikhail and his bodyguards sent nervous glances to each other in silent communication. She produced another knife from her copious sleeves and ran it along the Russian’s aged cheek. “No,” she purred, “everything began with you. You just couldn’t help yourself, could you, greedy old man?”

  The Russian nearest the Contessa raised his gun and aimed it at the back of her head. Horror filled Emma and she stood without regard for herself, screeching, “No! Don’t hurt her!” Her words echoed around the stone walls, reverberating for moments as the Chinese woman moved and the shot was never fired.

  Christopher reacted first, jabbing the nearest Russian in the face with his elbow, disarming him in one fluid movement and savouring his graceful slide to the floor, his nose smashed. The Triads watched in surprise as Ray leapt from the nearest pew and battered the other Russian with a brass candlestick, laying him out next to his unconscious friend. A deep gash along Ray’s cheek dripped blood onto his shirt and he moved with great effort.

  The Contessa turned her ruined face towards Emma and studied her with great concentration, lowering the blade. Mikhail moved backwards out of range and kept going, scurrying past Emma like a crab. She stood, frozen to the spot as Ray glanced once at her, shaking his head. Rohan appeared in the centre aisle, his hands in his pockets and his nose bleeding, followed by the Contessa’s other two men. “You’ve made a mess, Contessa,” he said, his tone casual.

  To Emma’s surprise, the woman flicked up her hood to cover the spoiled features and eyed Rohan with a look of superiority, staring down her nose at him with undisguised haughtiness. Jealousy blossomed in Emma’s heart at the revival of her former belief; the Contessa desired Rohan. The gathered men had viewed the horror of her face but at the tall Russian’s arrival, she covered her scars with an immediacy born of passion.

  Emma opened her mouth to speak, but found it covered by a hand which reeked of cigarettes. A sharp point pierced the soft skin below her jaw and Mikhail’s voice whispered in her ear. “Big mistake, Emma Andreyev. You say too much!”

  Fear paralysed Emma and she saw the misty face of her unborn child drift across her inner vision as the blade pressed harder. “Sorry,” she whispered, the word unintelligible behind the gnarled hand and couched in her own ragged breathing.

  “Zatknis’,” Mikhail snapped. “Shut it!”

  “No, no, don’t do that,” Christopher called across the distance between the altar and the stone pillar. “This doesn’t involve her. This is between us.” The worry in his voice exacerbated Emma’s dread and she felt her legs tremble beneath her. Mikhail held her up with his hand over her mouth, the blade digging further into her neck as Emma slumped against his wizened body.

  Emma she sensed her husband’s proximity, desperate to see his face one last time before his spiteful uncle slit her throat. She wanted to beg him to look after Nicky, knowing inwardly she didn’t have to ask. Christopher moved towards her, his face wracked with anxiety, wearing a shroud of fear which didn’t suit his casual Irish blarney.

  Rohan spoke to his uncle in Russian, his voice low and even as he wiped blood from beneath his regal nose and advanced towards Emma. Mikhail ignored him, pressing the blade deeper into Emma’s neck and dragging her backwards. It stung, biting into her soft flesh without regard and she felt warmth trickle into the neck of her sweater. “See how it feels?” Mikhail hissed. “You take from me, I take from you.” He cackled like a mad man. “This wasn’t the game, Actuary, but it’s worked in my favour for once.”

  Emma’s eyes darted towards the altar, seeing Ray’s ashen face in her fading vision. His expression filled with heartbreak at the panic in her eyes and Emma yearned to apologise for her disobedience and unkind words. She needed to tell him his job was safe; Rohan would honour their verbal contract.

  “I’ll get Sergei,” Rohan offered. He stepped into Emma’s eye line and she breathed a sob of relief. Rohan would fix it; Rohan fixed everything. Her husband pulled his phone from his trouser pocket and held it up screen outwards. “Let her go, Uncle and I’ll phone him.”

  “Nyet!” Mikhail spat. “You had your chance, ublyudok!”

  Rohan’s eyes narrowed and he lowered his phone. “Why do you call me that?” he asked, his face hardening. Emma groaned, understanding the Russian word for bastard and recognising the warning vein pulsing in her husband’s neck.

  “Because you are!” Mikhail said, laughter cackling in his throat. His palm over Emma’s mouth impeded her breathing, forcing her nostrils to flare against his index finger, her brain fighting for oxygen. Her gaze took in the Contessa, her body stood with statuesque grace, a beautiful woman not reduced by circumstance. The four Oriental men flanked her like a stone guard of honour, motionless.

  Mikhail’s mirth made him lose focus and Emma saw Christopher tense, ready to charge, his fists balled next to his sides. Her heart ached, knowing he was too far away. Rohan’s eyes flashed, seeing the old man’s distraction. He waved the phone in front of his face again, the carrot before the stick. As Emma’s breathing became laboured, she felt Mikhail’s grip loosen.

  With a stellar effort she clamped her teeth hard on the soft flesh of his gnarly index finger. Emma gripped, feeling the skin flatten beneath her front teeth as Mikhail let out a gargantuan wail. The blade against her neck shifted, drawing a painful wound down her skin, six inches from start to finish and as his hand slipped, she let go and screamed. The frightened sound split the air, deafening her and the old Russian in its intensity.

  Rohan moved but not fast enough, listing on his prosthetic leg as he lurched forward. Christopher was too far away and the Triads watched the scene unfold with dispassionate interest as though they collectively studied a TV documentary on how not to approach psychopaths.

  Emma heard him arrive as she kicked backwards, contacting shin with her heel and seizing another hunk of nicotine stained flesh between her teeth. The frantic scrabbling of claws on the stone floor gave her hope as Farrell launched himself from metres away, sinking his teeth into the soft flesh of Mikhail’s thigh. The dog held on, snarling and dragging the man away from Emma, his brown eyes alight with loyalty and the thrill of the game. His front feet gripped Mikhail’s leg, claws sinking into the old man’s flesh and holding him prone for a volley of savage bites. Rohan reached Emma as the dog pulled the man to the stone floor and he yanked his wife out of harm’s way by her arm.

  “No!” Rohan shouted, but too late. The Contessa’s skillful blade zipped through the air like a silver trick of the light and pushed itself through Mikhail’s right eye. His hands flapped uselessly as he fell backwards, dead before he hit the stone floor with a dull thud. The dog let go, looking momentarily perplexed until Christopher’s shrill whistle gave him focus and he bounded over to his friend.

  “Emma, Em, look at me!” Rohan’s soft fingers stroked Emma’s face as she gulped against his shirt. She heard the dog’s happy panting and felt Christopher pull her hair back to check the wound on her neck. Rohan widened his eyes and shook his head.


  “Not the doctor,” Emma gasped. “Don’t get that doctor.” Emma’s irrational heart told her she’d rather die than have the Ukrainian abortionist’s hands on her.

  “I won’t, Em,” Rohan promised, cradling her into him and bearing her weight as she sank earthwards. “We’ll clean up and get out of here,” he whispered. “It’s not safe.”

  Emma bit back a hysterical laugh. Not safe meant something very different from the mess surrounding her. It meant asbestos and busy roads, not men with stab wounds to the face and their blood pooling on a mediaeval church floor. Farrell jumped up and licked Emma’s fingers as she clung to Rohan, offering comfort and doggy solidarity. She sank her fingers into his ruff and held on, feeling his excited trembling.

  “Clean up Em’s blood and leave the rest,” Rohan commanded.

  “What?” Christopher sounded aghast. “We can’t do that!”

  “I mean it! Get rid of our prints and Em’s blood and let’s get out of here.”

  Emma smelled a flowery fragrance and pulled her face from Rohan’s chest, seeking its powerful origins. The Contessa’s half smile, half grimace greeted her. “Thank you,” the Chinese woman said with grace, her speech slurred on the melted side of her face. She reached out a scarred hand and touched Emma’s wrist. “I thought I didn’t care about dying anymore, but I do.”

  Emma nodded, a million words crowding into her brain. She let go of the dog and used her sleeve to wipe her tear stained face, alarmed by the blood on the front of her sweater. “Is it over?” she asked, her voice louder than she intended. She ran a hand over her swelling stomach and the Contessa’s eyes followed the movement. “I need it to be over,” Emma said, an edge of pleading in her voice.

  The Contessa barked an order to the four men standing close and they nodded as a collective and turned to look at Christopher. With a glance at Rohan, the Irishman shrugged and directed the Triads and Ray to wipe any surfaces they’d touched. “We’re done,” the woman said, bowing regally to Rohan. “A life saved in exchange for a life.”

  Emma saw something like sadness in her husband’s eyes and her heart constricted in misery. Mikhail’s death was the cost of hers, in exchange for warning the Contessa before the gun ended her pain; a circle of destruction completed.

  Ray ran outside to the white van, jangling its keys in his hand as he jogged through the side door. Farrell sat on Emma’s foot, bashing her thigh with his forehead as he repeatedly looked up at her, his upside down face comically comforting with his smiling lips. He panted and Emma saw a line of Mikhail’s blood on his flank. She clapped a hand to her mouth and Rohan clasped her round the waist and hauled her upright. “Don’t puke, Em!” His voice held an edge of panic mixed with humour. “Hack will hate you forever and we don’t have time to clear up. Come on, devotchka, don’t leave them DNA.”

  Emma put a hand up to her painful neck, feeling the slick blood move under her fingertips. “Hurts,” she gasped and Rohan nodded.

  “It’s not deep, Em. Trust me; I can take care of it.”

  Emma nodded and tried not to focus on the bodies littering the sacred church. Her vicar father would have been devastated. Mikhail lay where he fell, his body sprawled with the limbs at awkward angles. Emma pointed at the space where the knife should have been and Rohan followed her gaze. “Gone!” she said.

  He nodded. “She took it with her,” he replied. “Evidence.”

  The Triads moved as a unit, obeying Christopher’s expert direction, but the Contessa’s graceful presence was absent having collected her lethal knives before she glided from the crime scene. “Get her out of here!” Christopher called as Rohan examined his wife’s wound in the dim light. Emma watched conflict cross her husband’s expression and shook her head.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I’ve got my car keys.” She fumbled in her pocket and dropped them, hearing the metallic clatter on the stone floor. “You stay and do your job.”

  “I’ll go with her.” Ray appeared next to Emma. “You’re better at this.” He waved his arm towards one of the Chinese Triads wiping the end of the front pew with precise movements. The white cloth in his hand seemed incongruous in the surroundings.

  Rohan looked to Emma for confirmation and she nodded in acceptance as Ray took her upper arm in his capable hands. “Leave the plaque,” she said, registering the confusion on her husband’s face. “Leave it for the police,” she added. “I never want to see it again.”

  Ray nodded. “Paul will sort it out. She’s right. Leave it.” He supported Emma to the side entrance, checking the street for anyone passing by. “Act drunk,” he told her. “Lean against me and look casual.”

  “I can’t!” Emma groaned, putting a hand up to the stinging wound which smarted in the freezing night air. Her fingers touched sticky blood, no longer running but clotting the void in her soft tissue.

  “Do it!” Ray snapped. “Unless you want to be identified when they find this mess tomorrow.”

  Emma leaned into Ray’s masculine body, allowing him to press his head against hers and screen their faces from onlookers. She felt Farrell against her knee and reached down to encourage him for his stellar obedience under duress. “Can you get in by yourself?” Ray hissed, clicking the central locking remotely. Emma nodded and climbed into the passenger seat, her energy dissipating from shock and injury. The dog scrambled into the foot well and sat on Emma’s feet, resting his head on her knee. Ray stripped off his jacket and passed it to Emma before fastening his seat belt. “Put that on and cover your neck,” he warned. “In case we’re stopped and fasten your seat belt. Let’s not give them an excuse.”

  Emma’s fingers fumbled with the jacket, hauling it on over her sweater in the small space. The dog scrabbled over her feet as Ray reversed out of the parking space, not waiting for Emma to finish. They travelled along the main street at a dignified pace and the click of Emma’s seat belt killed the flashing light and irritating bleep from the dashboard. An oncoming car flashed its lights at them, sending Emma into a panic. “What’s that about?” she asked, her voice high pitched and fretful.

  “Cops!” Ray said. “It’s a warning there’s one parked up or worse, a traffic stop.”

  “What can we do?” Emma said, jerking her head around. “We need to warn Rohan!”

  “How?” Ray snapped. “Just keep your head down and stop panicking.” At the junction with Coventry Road he turned right and drove steadily towards the end of town. “They must be on Northampton Road so I’ll double back and go across country.”

  “What about Rohan?” Emma whined and the dog rested his head in her lap, keen to soothe her anxiety. Farrell gave a sigh which summed up Emma’s sense of futility.

  “They’re used to this, miss. They’ll get cleaned up and out of there; faster without us getting in the way.”

  “What did you fetch from the van?” Emma asked, hearing Farrell’s collar clink under her foot. The dog jerked to attention, his tail thudding against the carpet as his face disappeared to check it out.

  “Gloves and stuff for cleaning up,” Ray replied, concentrating on the road ahead. He slowed the vehicle and looked around him. “I’ll head out to Lubenham,” he confirmed. “Then take the back roads through Marston Trussell and Clipston and come out on the main road south of Great Oxenden.” Having made his decision, Ray settled and drove with care.

  “What will Rohan and Christopher do when they leave the church?” Emma asked, her mind inevitably straying back to her husband’s plight. “Will they run into the police?”

  Ray shook his head. “I doubt it. My guess is they’ll lock up the church the same way they unlocked it and then head out somewhere nearby to disable the camera feed. Any security person checking in the last hour would see the feed looping and assume it’s all ok. But the boys can’t leave it that way. Hack must disable it and then screw it up so there’s no view from before they arrived. He’ll stay around to log in and do that.”

  “How do you know this stuff?” Emma asked, distract
ing herself from the pain under her jaw. The smarting was replaced by a dull ache which spread across the right-hand side of her face and into her temple. “Did you learn it in the army?”

  “No.” Ray shook his head and concentrated on the road ahead as he made the turn onto back roads in sleepy Lubenham village. “Hack explained when I helped him load the van this afternoon.”

  “I’m sorry I said you were fired,” Emma whispered, the engine noise almost obliterating her apology.

  Ray smirked. “You can’t fire me, miss; I know too much.”

  Emma watched the dark countryside whiz by. “Where did you go when you left me in the car?” She sat up straight. “The plaster cast! I left it by the side entrance.”

  “They’ll get it, don’t worry. Your husband’s good at this; Hack said so.”

  “I’m not sure I want him to be,” Emma muttered. She remembered Adam Jameson’s blank eyes and pooling blood and shivered.

  Ray saw and pressed his hand over hers, wincing at the wet nose which pushed its way into the embrace. “Hold on, miss. We’ll be back at the house soon.”

  Emma laid her head back against the head rest and Ray shook her hand. “Don’t go to sleep, miss. Keep talking.” He glanced sideways and removed his hand to navigate a tight bend. “I told you to stay in the car and then cut round the front of the church.” His lips pursed as he stressed the words, ‘stay in the car.’ “The front doors were unlocked but closed and the wood creaked as I opened it. I saw them gathered around the altar.”