The Circassian. "Wrong Side"

by Bob Bidecant

7.3

  Putchin stood up and grabbed his coat and hat, he didn’t need to be told twice he could have a weekend off.

  ‘Thanks and good luck tonight.’ He called out as he left. He walked back to his accommodation and fumbled under the bed. He pulled out an old canvas bag. He looked at the package inside and then threw some clothes and a book to read. He turned down the lamp as he left his room and hailed a passing black hansom cab as he stepped into the street. It took him to St Pancras railway station. He studied the timetable for several minutes and then stepped up to the glass ticket booth.

  ‘I wish to go to Brighton please.’

  ‘Second class to Brighton,’ repeated the elderly clerk. ‘Single or return?’

  ‘Come back mean return? I sorry I am Russian my English not so good.’ Putchin pushed his face close to the glass and smiled at the clerk.

  ‘Yes return mean comeback,’ said the clerk patiently, he smiled back at Putchin.

  ‘Second class to Brighton return thank you.’ Putchin pushed three coins to the clerk and waited. The clerk pushed a ticket and the change back to him. ‘Platform three leaving in twenty minutes.’ Putchin walked passed platform three and then kept going. He held his hand up showing the ticket at the collector who just waved him through.

  ‘Run or you will miss it, go on quick Sir.’

  Putchin jumped onto the step as the train slowly pulled away. He found an empty seat and sat down with his bag on his lap, leant his head against the side of the seat and fell asleep.

  ‘Ticket please?’ a young man asked, waking him. He handed the inspector his ticket and looked at his watch, he had been asleep for more than an hour.

  ‘You’re on the wrong train mate. This ticket is for Brighton that’s completely the other way. This train goes to Harwich.’

  Putchin slapped his forehead and stammered as he said, ‘I Polish, my English not good sorry, sorry. I on wrong train? Can I buy new ticket please Sir?’

  ‘That’s alright mate, calm down, it’s an easy mistake for a foreigner. I can give you a new ticket but I can’t reimburse you for the other ticket.’ Putchin handed over the money and received his new ticket. He smiled to himself as he leant back into the seat. He opened the canvas bag that he had been holding. Inside amongst the clothes was the package Gurin had given him to take to Brighton. Luckily, he had decided to open it and look at what he was delivering

  ‘Fuck you and your Circassian killing machine.’ He spoke under his breath.

  He had a bad feeling about tonight. Something wasn’t right but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He was not going to be in London if it went wrong, he had been in prison once and he did not want to go back again. Tomorrow he would be in Amsterdam.

  7.4

  Evdokimoff waited until they had both gone and then rang the bell on his desk. The servant looked in.

  ‘Bring him here now please.’ He ordered him. The servant returned, a large built man with a broken nose followed him and sat down. Evdokimoff looked at the large man, he was too big for his badly cut Russian made suit.

  ‘He looks more at home in a boxing ring than in a suit.’ He thought but smiled instead.

  ‘Sorry for the wait, Yashkin.’ The man who had been waiting for him in another room for the last hour did not complain. He had been in a boxing ring for many years but now he did less work and earned more money. He had worked for the Count many times in the past and he did not talk much. Evdokimoff knew Yashkin could be trusted to keep his mouth shut. Evdokimoff explained in detail the three men he wanted him to kill, then he detailed the times and place he wanted him to carry out the executions.

  ‘The first one must look like an accident. The other two you can do what you want, as long as you dump the bodies where nobody can find them. Did you bring a weapon with you?’ he asked him.

  ‘Yes I brought one with me, I don’t like using strange guns, sometimes they don’t work when you need them to.’ Yashkin replied. It was the most Evdokimoff had ever heard him say at one time. He handed him a small package. Yashkin opened it and whistled.

  ‘You’re paying me in full?’ He was surprised; it was normally fifty per cent in advance and the rest on completion.

  ‘I know, but I am leaving for Paris. I trust you to complete. I will see you in Moscow.’ He said. Yashkin waited for a moment before getting up.

  ‘Did I forget something?’ asked Evdokimoff.

  Yashkin coughed, his eyes fixed on the wooden cigar box. Evdokimoff followed his gaze and opened the box.

  Yashkin smiled and took one. He always liked Evdokimoff’s cigars. He nodded and left.