by Terry Jones
The three adults stood there frozen for a few seconds. Only Freddie kept on struggling.
Now, at this moment, something strange happened to Malcolm.
He had spent a lifetime avoiding personal danger and confrontation. He seldom got cross (except when he was reading History Now!). He’d always regarded himself as an easy-going sort of chap, but there was something about seeing his son struggling in the arms of a gangster, in the middle of the night, that tapped into a deep well of anger buried inside him. The anger came gushing up like an oil spill.
He flung himself at the stranger, without thinking what he was going to do. He found he had grabbed the man by his head, and his thumbs were going into his eyes. The man screamed, as he staggered back against a tall wardrobe. Freddie leapt free. The door of the wardrobe splintered, such was the violence of the attack. The wardrobe itself tottered back against the wall, upsetting the vast pile of objects that were stacked on top of it.
Amongst these objects was an old-fashioned Singer sewing machine. It dated from the 1920s, when things were still made out of first-class materials. The machine itself was made out of cast iron and it was screwed onto a heavy wooden base. It was a triumph of solid workmanship, and, when it fell, it struck Anton Molotov right on the back of his head.
In his surprise, Malcolm let go of him. Anton gave a sort of grunt and sank to his knees. But Malcolm’s deep well of anger had by no means run dry, and he leapt onto the man’s chest and, grabbing him round the neck, banged his head on the floor, again and again, until Angela ran forward and pulled her husband off.
They looked at the intruder.
Anton lay on the floor, not moving at all.
“Oh my God!” whispered Angela. “You’ve killed him!”
Malcolm was coming to his senses. The fury was spent, but he found he was trembling so much that he couldn’t move.
Angela knelt over the man’s body and felt him.
“He’s still breathing,” she said, in a tone of voice halfway between relief and regret.
“Rope!” whispered Malcolm, and he grabbed a length of cord from a pile that had fallen with all the other things that were stacked on top of the wardrobe.
In a few minutes, Anton was trussed up like a joint of meat from the butchers. He was just starting to come to.
Freddie was clinging to his father, too astonished to even cry.
At that moment Glenys appeared.
“What on earth’s going on?” she asked.
Chapter Thirteen
When Grigori Koslov read the note his first reaction was cold, white fury. His second reaction was panic.
Eva watched her husband read the note with interest. She had handed it to him, having already read it herself. She smiled as she saw the waves of emotion passing through him.
She thought: I can read him like a book! No! Like a barometer!
She watched the storms of panic give way to fairer weather, as a glint of resolve entered his eyes.
The note had read: ‘We have your man, Anton Molotov. We will only release him, when we hear that you have withdrawn the planning application for numbers 26 and 27 Highgrove Park.’
And there was a photo of Anton tied up and looking very unhappy.
They had Anton! Boris Zolkin had kidnapped his son! Well Anton was virtually his son, wasn’t he? At that moment, it was as if a vast floodlight had suddenly been switched on. Grigori saw the world and himself clearly for the first time, and he knew, in that moment, that Anton Molotov was the only person in the whole world that he really cared about.
His wife read all this in his face, and she turned away.
If she, Eva, had been kidnapped, Grigori would have shrugged and gone on as usual. It hurt her to the quick to know that she was not as important to her husband as that … that oaf, Anton.
“Who do they think they are dealing with?” muttered Grigori. “Has Boris taken leave of his senses?”
“Perhaps it’s not Boris?” said his wife.
“Of course it is! Who else would try to stop my plans?”
Eva knew there was no point in arguing. Grigori had marked his enemy. No force on earth could stop him. Only death itself.
Chapter Fourteen
Trevor Williams was heart-broken after he heard he’d won the lottery. Not even Cynthia could cheer him up.
“God has really got it in for me!” he kept saying angrily, stabbing at his lobster.
“But it’s wonderful that you won!” said Cynthia, laying her hand on his arm.
“One digit! I ask you!” He glowered at Cynthia’s hand. “And I’d have scooped the lot! I can’t bear it!”
“But you won £20,000,” said Cynthia. “That’s not bad.”
“One digit!” repeated Trevor. “£3 million!”
There was a silence for some moments. Then Cynthia said, “You could buy a nice car with £20,000.”
“Huh!” replied Trevor. “I could buy a lot of nice cars for £3 million.”
Cynthia gave up after that, and they ate their meal in a gloomy silence, punctuated by Trevor’s groans and occasional murmurs of “three million” under his breath.
When he asked for the bill, the waiter returned with the manager. The two of them approached the table full of smiles. The manager bowed.
“Sir and madam, your meal this evening is on the house,” he said, hardly able to contain his pleasure in giving this information.
“What?” Trevor’s eyes narrowed. There was something fishy about this.
“You are our 10,000th customer, and we wish you to celebrate the fact with us! Congratulations!”
The waiter produced a bottle of champagne.
“On the house, sir and madam, of course!” said the manager, as the waiter let the cork hit the ceiling and everybody in the restaurant applauded.
As they sipped their champagne, Trevor was furious. Cynthia tried to comfort him, but it was no use. They had become the talk of the other tables.
“I hate being used for publicity like this!” he said. “I’m going to the bathroom.”
As he got up he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose noisily. Just to show that he accepted the free meal and the champagne under protest. As he hurried off, a scrap of paper fell out of his pocket.
Cynthia picked it up. It was torn from an exercise book and it had some words written on it in capital letters. Cynthia read ‘DROP THE OPPOSITION OR ELSE’.
When Trevor returned, Cynthia asked him, “Who on earth sent you this?”
The way Trevor stared at the scrap of paper and then tried to grab it out of her hand, told Cynthia all she needed to know. He hadn’t received it, he had written it.
Chapter Fifteen
Glenys brought Anton his tea in bed. It had become a habit since he had become a lodger in the house.
Malcolm had argued strongly against untying his son’s assailant, but both Angela and Glenys pointed out that unless Malcolm was prepared to go to the lavatory every time Anton needed to go, they would have to at least untie his hands.
But it had been Freddie who finally persuaded his father. “He’s OK,” said Freddie. “I like him.”
Anton for his part had sworn that he would not try to escape.
“I like it here,” he had explained. “I don’t want to go back to my life of crime. Anyway, it was just meant to be a holiday job.”
The truth is that Anton had been suffering for several years. He had been suffering from the stress of his tasks. He had been suffering from the constant fear of reprisals, and he had been suffering from knowing that he wasn’t really cut out to be a villain. When he was honest with himself he had to admit he was hopeless at it.
Why couldn’t Grigori Koslov see he was hopeless? Anton had seen others who had bungled a single job, and who – as a result – had ended up at the bottom of the river or fallen under an express train ‘by accident’.
Why didn’t that happen to him? Why was he allowed to make mistake after mistake? It wasn
’t fair! It put him under such strain. Was Grigori playing cat and mouse with him? Was he saving up some specially nasty end for him?
He had now been staying with Glenys for more than a month, and he hoped against hope that Grigori would forget about him.
He knew all about the demand that Malcolm had sent Grigori, because he had supplied Grigori’s address. But he secretly hoped his boss would refuse to drop his planning application, so that his hosts would not have to hand him over. He wanted to go on like he was, living with Glenys and Malcolm and Angela and Freddie for the rest of his life.
He knew that was not really possible, but it was what he secretly hoped.
This morning Glenys drew the curtains for him.
“Good morning, Glenys,” said Anton.
“Good morning, Anton,” said Glenys. “It’s another beautiful day!”
The sun streamed into the small bedroom, making the rose-covered wallpaper throw a pink glow over everything.
“I’ve brought you a biscuit with your tea,” said Glenys.
“You’re very kind,” smiled Anton. “You’re very kind indeed to me.”
The truth was Anton had never met many people who were kind to him. His mother had been kind to him. The village butcher had been kind to him, and given him kidneys when he thought the other customers weren’t looking. The village priest had been kind to him. But then Anton had realised what the village priest wanted from him in return and had run away.
That was about it, until he met Glenys.
Glenys sat at the end of Anton’s bed, while he dipped his biscuit in his tea. “I thought we could motor over to Melton Mowbray and look at the pies,” she said. “We could even buy one.”
“A pork pie would be nice,” replied Anton. “Yes, I was thinking that too,” said Glenys. She sat there for a few moments lost in thought, and then she added, “It’s funny how sometimes two people can think exactly the same thoughts at exactly the same time.” “I was just thinking that too,” said Anton.
“Isn’t that odd?” “Yes, it is,” said Glenys. Suddenly Angela appeared at the door of
the bedroom. She was as white as the china cup
Anton was drinking his tea out of. “Where’s Malcolm?” she said. “He went for a run,” said Glenys. “Something terrible’s happened!”
Chapter Sixteen
When Cynthia heard the news her heart seemed to freeze over. She had been hoping against hope that she would not have to go to the police, but now she knew she had to. She knew her duty and she refused to shirk it, even when it meant destroying her own future.
Ever since she had picked up the scrap of paper that had fallen out of Trevor’s trouser pocket in the restaurant, her world had started to fall apart. Or rather the world she had hoped for had started to fall apart even before she possessed it.
She had never actually spoken to Trevor about getting married or even about how much she loved him, but every minute of every day at work had been filled by those thoughts. Every piece of filing she did was guided by whether or not she would catch a glimpse of Trevor, or whether it would involve asking Trevor a question or not.
She and Trevor had had sex, of course, but that was what you would expect in an office, wasn’t it? Cynthia really didn’t know, but Trevor seemed to assume that’s what you did and that was good enough for her.
Somehow the sex had made it more difficult to bring up the question of how much she loved him. Nevertheless, she had seen her future as Trevor’s wife and as the mother of Trevor’s children. Now she was going to have to destroy that dream.
It was all the fault of those wretched Highgrove Residents. They’d started it, by objecting to some planning application. She knew how worried Trevor had been by them poking their noses into council business, and stirring up trouble. It was enough to drive anyone insane.
And that, it seemed, was what had happened to Trevor. It was the only explanation.
When she’d found the threatening note in the restaurant, she knew he had been intending to send it, but she had persuaded herself it was just a one-off. It was probably of no importance. But then she had searched the wastepaper basket after office hours, and even looked in Trevor’s desk.
She had found a dozen similar notes, all threatening someone with something if they didn’t stop protesting or objecting.
She felt sad that Trevor had been driven to such desperation, but she could understand how he felt. Perhaps he was just getting something off his chest. She was sure he didn’t really mean any of those threats.
But now she knew he did. It was all over the newspapers and the TV.
“A wave of violence erupted last night in a quiet area of Hampstead,” the newsreader had said. “During 10 minutes of mayhem, two people were killed, many wounded and one house was blown up. Police have cordoned off the area, and are appealing for witnesses to come forward.”
Cynthia’s heart had sunk lower with every word the newsreader spoke. How could she ignore the appeal for witnesses? She could not.
She would have to step forward and hand over all Trevor’s notes. Trevor would be arrested. He would be tried and sent to prison and her future would be destroyed.
Perhaps she should ask Trevor first? Perhaps she should check if he had done all those things last night? Perhaps he hadn’t? Perhaps it was just a coincidence?
But Trevor was not at work that morning. He was missing. She rang his home, but there was no answer. No one knew where he was.
If she had had any reason for excusing him, she would have held back, but she could not delude herself. She had to hand over to the police all the evidence she had.
Chapter Seventeen
“They what?” said Malcolm.
“They’ve blown up our house,” repeated Angela.
“Our house?” said Malcolm.
“I keep telling you. Yes!”
“Who? The Council?”
“No. They don’t know who. Somebody.” Angela suddenly felt weary. Thank God they’d decided to stay with Glenys in Leicester. Malcolm had been talking about going back, because he was fed up with commuting from Leicester. It was an hour and a half’s train ride.
“That’s three hours a day!” he’d complained.
But they’d stayed on another week. Lucky them.
“Apparently a car drove down the street about 6.00 pm last night, shooting at passersby.” Angela was reading from the newspaper. “Paul Edgar was wounded in the leg. Mr Clarkson received a chest wound, and several people walking their dogs received multiple injuries. Lady Chesney was killed outright, and so was Mr Kendrick. The car drove off at high speed, and then our house exploded.”
“What?! Over a planning application?!”
Malcolm sank into a chair, which had a load of dirty dishes and mugs on it. He didn’t notice.
Then he muttered, “The bastards!” A blinding rage suddenly overwhelmed him.
Three days later, Malcolm found himself on a plane heading for St Petersburg.
Malcolm was not one for heroics, and normally he would have avoided any confrontation, but this was different. His wife and son were being threatened. He had to confront the man or men who were threatening them.
Nobody knew what he was up to. He didn’t even know himself at first. He had cooked up an excuse about a manuscript he needed to look at in Edinburgh, and secretly booked the plane. He already had Grigori Koslov’s address from Anton. All he had to do was find the man and … and then what? Reason with him? Buy him a pair of slippers? Give him a good talking to? No.
As he sat sipping a gin and tonic, a calm came over him. He suddenly understood why he was on this plane, why he was heading for St Petersburg. He knew what his errand was.
He was going to kill Grigori Koslov.
When he first saw the house where Grigori lived, he nearly turned around and went straight back home again.
“Well, I guess I knew the guy must have enemies, but there must be some way to get in.”
The house itself
would have been very attractive had it not resembled a concentration camp. It was a light blue colour and built mainly from wood, with pretty pillars at the front. Around it, however, was a five-metrehigh electrified fence, complete with guards who were, at that very moment, staring at him. They didn’t look as if they were going to invite him in for a cup of tea.
“Think!” Malcolm told himself. “What examples from history do we have? Siege of Syracuse 214 BC? The Romans got in during some feast when the citizens were all drunk. But how will I be able to tell when Koslov is drunk? No. I know! Siege of Alexandria 1366!
Someone managed to crawl into the city through the sewage pipes, and then opened the gates at night.”
But a quick tour of the drains around the house soon convinced him that that was not a practical solution. The guards were getting more and more interested in him as he circled the house. Malcolm was forced to walk away from the scene of his intended crime.
A little further down the road was a small line of shops with a run-down café. He sat himself at a table by the window, from where he could just see the main gate, if he leant forward. He ordered a black tea and sat there trying to think.
There’s something obvious I’m missing, he thought. After a short while the gate opened and a car slid out and disappeared down the road.
“Maybe that’s it?” he muttered. “I should let him come to me.” But how could he do that? Write Koslov a letter? Say “Come and meet me or …” Or what? “Or I’ll blow your house up like you did mine? Or I’ll come and shoot everyone in your street?” That would hardly encourage Grigori Koslov to agree to a meeting. Even if he did meet him, he’d have tough guys hanging around, ready to pounce.
As Malcolm was thinking these things a van pulled up in front of the café, blocking his view of the gate. The side of the van bore a crude picture of a bunch of flowers and writing in Russian which read ‘Courtesy Flowers, Kolpino’.
The driver came into the café and nodded at the samovar of tea. “One,” he muttered.