Oksa Pollock: The Last Hope

by Anne Plichota

  Two streets away, in the small house on Bigtoe Square, Oksa was hopping up and down beside the phone impatiently, chewing her nails. Every thirty seconds she started to dial Gus’s number, which she now knew by heart, then broke off before the last digit. She was dying to speak to him about her amazing discovery, and yet something was stopping her. She didn’t doubt him for a second, but what she desperately wanted to tell him was pretty mind-blowing even for her. So, glued to the spot by the phone, shaking with contradictory emotions, she tried to face facts: it was too soon to talk about… that. She just wasn’t ready.

  When Pavel came out of his bedroom, he found her lying on the floor by the phone, looking agitated and trying to concentrate on a sample menu her mother had scribbled on a scrap of paper the night before when she’d come in from the restaurant.

  “What are you doing there, darling?” he asked in concern.

  Oksa jumped.

  “Er… nothing,” she stammered. “I was just waiting for someone to bother to get up and have breakfast with me,” she said as flippantly as possible. “I’ve been hanging around in this draughty hall for forty-eight and a half minutes!”

  “It’s all your mum’s fault,” replied Pavel, defending himself, his eyes sparkling roguishly. “You know what I’m like—if it were up to me, I’d be out of bed at the crack of dawn!”

  Oksa burst out laughing at this outrageous assertion.

  “Yeah right—only if you believe that dawn is around 10 a.m.!”

  Pavel gave a sigh, which was meant to sound pathetic but which merely made Oksa giggle.

  “What’s going on? You’re very cheerful this morning!”

  Marie Pollock had just drowsily appeared at the top of the stairs.

  “My daughter is the cheerful one,” replied Pavel. “She’s cheerfully persecuting me.”

  “You poor thing,” said Marie, winking at her daughter.

  All three sat down in the kitchen to enjoy a hearty breakfast and the mood continued to be light-hearted—outwardly, at least, because the thoughts running through Oksa’s mind were as heavy as lead. Molten lead. Even while she was devouring thick slices of buttered bread, she was in turmoil. On several occasions she almost opened the floodgates and told them her secret. Should she get up and make a solemn announcement? Or slip the information into the conversation casually, naturally? Or even better: give them a demonstration! Send that tea towel by the sink flying into the air? Add a little creative chaos to the perfect rows of spice pots on the shelves? The idea was tempting but Oksa couldn’t do it. She couldn’t do anything. Or say anything. To anyone. Not yet.

  I’m going to have a bath, Mum,” said Oksa.

  “Okay, darling.”

  Lying in the hot water, gazing at the tiled wall as it gradually misted up, Oksa tried to make sense of her muddled thoughts. She felt exhausted and at the same time brimming with energy. How complicated everything was… something fantastic was happening to her, she knew that. She’d always dreamt of being able to do what was now well within her capabilities. But it also terrified her. She rested her head against the rim of the bath and shut her eyes. Then she heard a strange noise, initially very faint, sounding a long way off, but coming closer and swelling until it mounted an assault on Oksa’s eardrums. She sat bolt upright in fright, trembling as she realized the horrific nature of the noise, which she could now hear clearly: it was the strange, terrifying sound of women screaming. She stiffened, listening intently, wondering whether she should come out of the bathroom or stay put. But after a few seconds she realized that the screams weren’t coming from somewhere inside the house or from outside. No—the screams were coming from her. They whirled through her mind and swept over her from head to toe, paralysing her with horror. Then, just as suddenly, they fell silent and vanished. Startled, Oksa looked round and, feeling slightly reassured, she sank down into the hot water until only her face was showing. Her heart had only just stopped racing when she noticed a golden shimmer on the steamy tiled wall. She moved her hand under the water to see if the reflections were coming from the bath, but this had no effect on the remarkable colour of the shimmering patch, which remained unchanged. Oksa closed her eyes and when she opened them again the brightness had gone.

  “Perhaps I should try to get more sleep,” she thought to herself. “What if I’m starting to see things now?” It had all seemed so real, though!

  “You all right in there, Oksa? You still alive?”

  Pavel Pollock was on the other side of the door asking how she was. As usual. Every time she took a bath—and this had been since she was old enough to do so alone—he’d call out to her every three minutes or so to check that she was all right.

  “Yes, Dad, I’m just drowning myself,” she replied in a mock-serious tone. “And I plugged in the hairdryer because I want to dry my hair in the bath. Oh, and I forgot, I used bleach instead of bubble bath.”

  “Fine, make fun of a poor man concerned about the well-being of his darling little girl!”

  “Oh, it’s a hard life being a darling little girl,” muttered Oksa with a smile.

  “Okay, call me if you need anything.”

  “No problem, Dad, don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  Oksa couldn’t help smiling. “The legendary Russian OTT-ness,” she murmured, sinking beneath the water.

  She climbed out of the bath a few minutes later. Wrapping herself in her dressing gown, she noticed a large star-shaped bruise on her stomach around her belly button. Oksa wondered when she could have got such a bad bruise. It hurt a bit but, given its size and colour, it wasn’t too bad. Perhaps it had been when she collapsed after feeling so ill, on her first day at school? It looked as if she’d been punched and that was exactly how she’d felt just before her fall.

  Weird! She looked closer. What an odd shape! “I’ll have to show it to Baba, she’s bound to have some ointment for it,” she thought. She got dressed and went upstairs to see her gran, who greeted her wearing a long midnight-blue velvet housecoat embroidered with brightly coloured Russian motifs.

  “You look amazing, Baba!”

  “Thank you, Dushka. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. I wanted to see you because I have a large bruise on my stomach. I was sure you’d have some cream or oil to put on it.”

  “Show me.”

  Oksa lifted up her T-shirt. Seeing the bruise, Dragomira put her hand over her mouth in amazement.

  “How long have you had that? Why didn’t you show me before? Has anyone else seen it?” she gasped breathlessly.

  “Hang on a minute, Baba, that’s a lot of questions for a tiny bruise! No, I haven’t had it long, I’ve only just noticed it, but I fell over three days ago, so I might have hurt myself then. Er… what was your last question?”

  Dragomira didn’t say anything, which was totally out of character as she was normally so chatty. She seemed stunned and euphoric at the same time. She looked at her granddaughter, her eyes shining, muttering incomprehensible words which, Oksa thought, were probably Russian.

  “Baba? Have you got some cream then?” she repeated.

  Dragomira roused herself, still looking incredulous, and stammered:

  “Yes, yes, of course, Dushka.”

  Once Oksa had gone back downstairs, Dragomira went up to her workroom. The two Lunatrixes, who were brushing the shelves with tiny feather dusters, greeted their mistress deferentially. Dragomira patted their rumpled little heads absent-mindedly and sat down at her desk. She switched on her computer, opened her email programme and tapped feverishly on the keyboard:

  Leomido, something incredible has just happened: it’s the Mark. There’s no doubt about it. Come as soon as possible! I’ll contact our friends.

  From: your affectionate sister.

  She clicked “High Priority” then “Send”, her heart racing and her hands shaking. Her face lit up in a smile and a strange light flickered in her eyes. She couldn’t help giving a sigh, which sounded like a
cross between a groan and a whoop of delight.

  “Is something vexatious tormenting Your Graciousness?” asked the Lunatrixes, rushing to her side.

  By way of reply, Dragomira began to dance round the table in the middle of the workroom. Floating vertically three feet above the floor, she spun round with her arms in the air, clapping and singing at the top of her lungs. The frizzy-haired potato-like creature clambered onto the table and waddled heavily, running its fingers through its luxuriant mane, while another creature lethargically undulated its fat, wrinkled body. The plants moved their leaves in rhythm, except for the Goranov, which seemed frightened by this sudden frantic activity. Apart from Baba Pollock, none of them knew what had caused this outburst. Still, none of them thought twice about joining in cheerfully with their mistress. The whole workroom was celebrating.

  “My valiant creatures, my dear Lunatrixes, the Mark has reappeared!”

  “The Mark has reappeared? The Mark has reappeared? But what does that mean?” asked the golden-crested wrinkled creature. The others looked up at the ceiling and sighed wearily.

  “I’ll explain it to you, Incompetent,” offered the frizzy Getorix. “I’ll explain…”

  “It’s an extreme gloriousness!” exclaimed one of the two Lunatrixes. “Is hope possible? That is the crux of the matter, isn’t it, Your Graciousness?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Dragomira, looking thoughtful again. “I don’t know yet… but I have some very important things to attend to now, so please don’t disturb me.”

  The creatures immediately went back to their snug niches hollowed out of the walls of Dragomira’s workroom. She sat down at her computer and got on with writing emails, sending messages to her godfather, Abakum, and other close friends scattered all over Europe. Once she’d finished, she descended the narrow spiral staircase and went out through the double-bass case, closing it carefully behind her. Then, her mind seething with excitement, she stretched out on the red sofa, her head resting on three soft cushions, and became lost in thought.

  9

  CONFRONTATIONS

  IT WAS MONDAY MORNING, AND OKSA AND GUS WERE racing to school on their rollerblades. Oksa was still feeling confused. It felt like she was suffocating; her secret took up a great deal of room and seemed to grow bigger with every passing hour. On many occasions she’d found herself heading for the phone or computer and she’d very nearly given into the temptation of telling Gus everything.

  “I’m going to explode,” she thought mournfully on Sunday evening as she flopped onto her bed.

  Fortunately, she’d slept like a log after drinking a special potion prepared by Dragomira: Fairy Gold Elixir made from parsley, wine, honey and Incompetent slime, her gran had told her. Incompetent slime? Probably a Dragomiran joke…

  Today she had to cope with two hours of lessons with Dr McGraw, physical sciences at nine in the morning and maths at eleven. What a dreadful start to the week! To cheer herself up, she told herself that she’d be able to relax for the rest of the day afterwards. Until tomorrow. McGraw was a real pain.

  As soon as they got to school, the two friends put their rollerblades in their lockers. Merlin was waiting for them, along with a group of girls who were gazing ardently at Gus, giggling nervously and nudging each other.

  “Stupid idiots,” muttered Oksa, glaring at them.

  Usually she found this sort of behaviour entertaining. But today—why?—she felt exasperated.

  “What?” asked Gus, as impervious to the simpering girls as usual.

  “Hi!” interrupted Merlin, walking over. “I was on the bus and saw you shooting past.”

  “Oh, Oksa was born with wheels on her feet,” replied Gus, with an amused glance at her.

  Merlin whistled in admiration. Oksa turned round, feeling her face go red.

  “It’s probably time to go in now,” she said hastily, adjusting her pleated skirt.

  The first hour, Dr Bento’s English lesson, went very quickly—too quickly for the liking of all the Year 8 students in Hydrogen. And at nine o’clock they dragged their feet towards the science room. Gus was the first to enter and to greet Dr McGraw, who was banging a nail into the wall.

  “Sit down, please, and no talking! If that’s possible, of course,” he said by way of a welcome, without turning round.

  As they all took their seats, he finished hanging a small picture showing the holographic image of a strange, dark spiral, which puzzled quite a few of the students. After making sure the picture was suspended securely from the nail, Dr McGraw turned round and coldly fixed each of the students in turn with his dark gaze, as if trying to unmask the person responsible for a foul murder. The man seemed perpetually suspicious of everyone, although no one knew why. Then, after this frosty inspection, he turned his back on them and began writing the day’s instructions on the board. Suddenly the heavy silence was broken by the clatter of a pencil falling onto the floor. Dr McGraw froze. Without even looking round, he snapped: “Miss Beck! Do you need help controlling your unusually lively pencil this morning or do you think you can manage unaided?”

  “Sorry, sir,” mumbled poor Zelda, bending down to pick up her pencil. A few of the students exchanged surprised looks. Others nervously lowered their heads. Oksa gave Zelda a little smile to cheer her up and the girl tossed back her long chestnut hair and gave her a despairing look in return, her large brown eyes misting over.

  “Take out your notebooks,” ordered their teacher, “and copy down this exercise.”

  Still facing the board, he went on writing. Two minutes later he broke off again. He turned round to glare at Zelda, who’d been so flustered that she’d accidentally let her bag slip off the back of her chair.

  “Since you’re determined to go on disrupting my lesson, Miss Beck, allow me to disrupt your timetable by giving you two hours’ detention.”

  “But, sir, I didn’t do it on purpose!” said Zelda, tears in her eyes.

  “Oh please! Don’t think you can get round me by whining and turning on the waterworks—that kind of soft behaviour just leaves me cold.”

  “Naturally…” murmured Oksa.

  Dr McGraw turned to her.

  “Does Miss Pollock have something she’d like to share with us?”

  Startled, Oksa paused, then took a deep breath and said bravely:

  “I just think two hours’ detention for a bag falling on the floor is a bit harsh.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence before their teacher replied, during which all the students sat very still.

  “Miss Pollock, thank you for your heroic speech, but I can do without your opinion,” he said curtly. “Those two hours’ detention are well deserved and it isn’t your place to question them. Now shall we continue with the lesson? This interruption has gone on far too long.”

  He turned round and continued writing on the board with barely suppressed irritation.

  “Really, he’s going too far,” thought Oksa. She felt angry and frustrated at this glacial man’s severity. And to think she had the means to make him pay… she could make the board fall on his head or send all the pages of the book on his desk flying—she had no end of choice. The idea soon became irresistible. A few seconds later, the felt-tip that their teacher was holding literally flew out of his hand and hit the ceiling before tumbling to the ground. Was it by accident or design? Whatever the case, the sharp little noise made by the falling pen was bound to irritate Dr McGraw. Everyone held their breath. Exultantly, Oksa squirmed on her chair, making the four metal legs screech against the polished wood floor. Gus glanced at her in alarm, just as their teacher stiffened dangerously. Then a guttural, frightening roar erupted.

  “MISS POLLOCK!”

  Oksa’s heart looped the loop in her chest. Dr McGraw still had his back to the class, but no one needed to see his face to know that he was really furious.

  “Miss Pollock!” he thundered. “Get out of this classroom now!”

  Oksa’s smile vanished and she looke
d panic-stricken. Her blood ran cold and her ears felt blocked by mounting pressure. All the students looked at her in surprise. None of them knew why their teacher was picking on her. Trying not to show her growing distress, she proudly strutted out of the classroom without a glance at the terrible Dr McGraw, who impassively watched her leave.

  Once outside, though, her bravado disappeared. She was both furious and frightened at being sent out. She wandered along the corridor for a moment, looking into classrooms through the windows occupying the upper half of the walls. Dr McGraw had sent her out, but she didn’t know where to go. Just because she’d made her wretched chair scrape along the floor…

  “It was a bit extreme,” she said to herself, shocked by what she regarded as a real abuse of power.

  She continued walking down the corridor, nervously biting one nail. As she was walking past the bathroom, she came face to face with a student coming out of the boys’ toilets. Horror of horrors! It was the Year 9 bully who’d barged into her.

  “Now you’re lurking round the boys’ toilets, are you, you snotty little brat?” he hissed right in her face, prowling around her like a lion circling his prey. She froze, unable to move.

  Then, violently and unexpectedly, he pushed her inside.

  Oksa fled into the cubicle at the back and cowered there, even though she knew it didn’t offer much protection. She was at the Neanderthal’s mercy, caught like a mouse in a trap. But what did he want with her? Why was he picking on her? It didn’t take him long to find her.

  “Ah, there you are! Not so high and mighty now, are you?” he yelled, glaring at her, his dark eyes as piercing as poisoned arrows. “You got sent out of class, did you? Her Ladyship thinks she’s the genius of the century, but she’s just a pathetic loser!”

  “I don’t even know you! I’ve never done anything to you. Why won’t you leave me alone,” she said, trying to defend herself.