by Ru Pringle
‘Does this look like Phone Warehouse or a branch of Boots?’
She swallows. Attempts a smile. ‘We’re no threat to you. We got caught up in the fighting at Oban. Did you hear of it?’
He nods, still regarding her as though she’s asked him to pet her unicorn.
‘The place was bombed,’ she goes on. ‘We escaped in that boat down there, but the navy has a blockade south of Mull. We urgently need to let people know we’re alive, and to try and find a way out of our situation.’
He blinks at her. ‘And you honestly expect the ’phone network to be working?’ Her heart sinks. ‘That’s the first thing the separatists made sure …’
The captain’s eyes defocus a little. He looks up to a corner of the ceiling and nods. Her skin prickles. Unless she’s much mistaken he’s wearing an earbud, and they’re being watched on camera.
As if to confirm her suspicion, he says, ‘Please excuse me for a moment.’ Then he strides briskly through the doorway of a corridor at the back of the bridge.
Coira attempts a smile at one of the black-clad goons with the guns. He’s chewing gum with the expression of a cow chewing cud. He doesn’t smile back, so she just stands with her hands behind her back, whistling quietly.
‘We’re to take you to the tower,’ says the captain, returning.
She swallows. ‘Me? – And my friend?’
‘Orders are to take just you. Your “friend” can do what he likes, but if he comes any closer, understand that his day will be cut short.’
It’s what she half-expected, but as the boat powers up and surges towards the shore she feels a pang of dread. The sun is just disappearing behind a low point in the hills to the west. It shines through the glass of the increasingly looming tower. The boat is even faster than it looked. Hardly any time has passed before she’s watching a small army of uniformed flunkies dragging hawsers ashore to tie it to the concrete jetty.
A gangway is lowered. The captain beckons her along it. A couple of armed men in the by-now-familiar black suits are waiting to guide them along a freshly tarmacked drive towards the foot of the building. There are no logos that she can see. Everything seems completely anonymous. The two dangerous-looking smaller helicopters are silent now, squatting on their concrete pads like angular dragonflies.
People watch them pass. Most look civilian, many of them dressed in colourful sweaters and trousers that look made for golfing. The women in particular are mostly middle-aged. Some wear dressing-gowns, others what could be expensive evening wear. Half of the faces on view seem to be part-obscured by bandages or dressings.
Coira’s starting to feel a bit like Neo after taking the red pill.
There’s a porch area at the foot of the building, where big glass doors open soundlessly. An extravagantly-uniformed menial wafts them through. Inside is a towering atrium. Lit by ranks of LEDs clearly set to mimic sunlight, the space is thick with full-grown palms and other tropical foliage, and smells like a rainforest. What must be very rare parrots and parakeets flutter between fronds and branches. The floor is a modern mosaic of local stone. It hosts people chatting, sitting in upholstered benches or wheelchairs, or strolling through the greenery. Tiers of artfully curved balconies rear on all sides.
Coira’s legs stop moving.
‘What the actual fuck?’
The captain pauses, and turns. He doesn’t say anything. Just gestures her forwards with a kind of withering paternal stoicism. She strides after him with as much dignity as she can muster.
They come to the foot of twin transparent tubes housing lifts, which turn out to be neo-Victorian cages of burnished brass. She’s gestured into one, and they glide skywards through dangling creepers and flocks of birds.
‘Seriously,’ she says. ‘What is this place?’
It’s obvious she won’t get any answer – at least not from this guy. So she buttons her lip, resolving to wait to see what this weird new twist of fate has in store. The lift slows, and they step out on to a disconcertingly glass-floored balcony. It seems to be near the top of the building. With the guards still shadowing, she’s led along a short corridor to a double door of what looks, amazingly, like solid rosewood. It achieves the neat trick of being both expensive-looking and quite tasteless, with blocky, almost Soviet lines, and ostentatious industrial handles which appear gold-plated. The guards arrange themselves either side of the door, and the captain gestures her inside.
She somehow presumes the doors will open automatically, but they don’t, so after fruitless seconds waiting she meekly pushes one aside and pokes her head through the gap. She’s half expecting to be confronted with a sinister bald man in a 1960s swivel chair, stroking a cat.
In some ways, she’s not that wide of the mark.
Coira finds herself gazing at a panorama of West Highland seaboard through a wraparound window wall. Across the water she can make out the hills of Sleat and the wild mountains of Knoydart, south of which her vantage point’s high enough to reveal the freshwater ribbon of Loch Morar snaking into the distance. Everything’s washed with startling sunset hues. It’s like the sky’s full of firelit smoke and the sea reflecting it is a river of blood.
Also facing the view, in a skeletal black swivel chair before an entirely transparent desk at the room’s centre, a man is sat with his back to her. Chin propped in one hand, he’s studying a huge display screen that’s equally transparent, save for images and blocks of text. Some, she sees, are from news blogs.
Most of the images show a face. The same face.
And it’s terribly familiar.
‘Ah,’ the man declares conversationally, clapping his hands together as he spins his seat round to face her. ‘This is a most unexpected pleasure. Unless I am very much mistaken, the infamous Coira Keir.’
COIRA FEELS NAILED to the floor. She can’t move; can’t even speak. She checks and finds that at least her mouth isn’t hanging open. Is this it? she thinks, numbly. The end of the line?
The man stands. He has shoulder-length dark hair, greying slightly, and a neatly trimmed goatee. His accent sounds Russian. Possibly Polish, she thinks – but, no, he’s Russian. Her eyes rake the room for detail. Besides the desk, there’s just a handful of wall-mounted hardwood shelving containing books that look like collector’s items plus framed photographs and a few trophies. The photographs are mainly of people she assumes to be family, although there’s one showing a younger version of the man before her with an elderly Vladimir Putin. She sees his eyes travel discreetly down the length of her body and back up. Not lasciviously, she thinks. Coolly assessing.
He’s wearing the most perfectly tailored suit she’s ever seen.
‘You may or may not know me,’ he says, pocketing his hands as he steps nonchalantly towards her. He moves like a dancer and, while his build is slight, he compensates with an utter assurance she’s seen in very few people, all of them rich. Close up, she’s surprised to find that he’s little taller than she is. ‘I am Yegor Rotislavovich Gryanov. But please. You may call me Yegor.’
Well inside Coira’s personal space now, he lightly seizes her hand and gives a tiny bow. Something is bubbling through layers of mental fog.
‘You own a football club. In England.’
He smiles at this. ‘“A” football club. Some would say the football club. Yes – this is true. Although it is mainly a hobby of mine. I have invested quite heavily in England over the last few years.’
‘And now Scotland?’
He makes a wavering gesture with his hand. ‘Not so much. This –’ he gestures around the office, ‘it is more like, also a hobby. And, I will be honest with you. My investments in all of the UK are looking …’ he purses his lips ‘… shall we say, uncertain right now. I must tell you, this is a surprise for me. Rule Britannia! Except, now this funny little country that gave for us the industrial revolution, now this country is tearing itself in pieces. And why? Because carbon this revolution put in our atmosphere is making people in coun
tries it was invading to finance this revolution all now trying to escape here. Hilarious! Don’t you think? You are …’ he snorts. ‘How do you say – hoisted by own …’ He snaps his fingers. ‘What is it? Never I can remember this word.’
‘Ehm … petard?’ she offers.
‘Yes!’ He slaps his hands together. ‘Yes, petard. I must admit, I have absolutely no idea what one of these things is. But I understand the metaphor.’
Now that he mentions it, Coira realises she doesn’t know either.
‘So, it is fortunate that I have my thumbs in many pies.’ He sighs, pacing as he turns to the window. ‘Ah, but still there is somewhere in my heart for the old not-so-United Kingdom. And why not? With money, you can buy a whole island, complete with castle, all for yourself. Sure, here the neighbours are not so reliable any more. But show me any place now where good neighbours can be guaranteed?’
He whirls back to her.
‘But forgive me. Again, my mouth is getting the better of me. My ex wives: each one of them are telling me this. “Yegor”, they are telling me, “Yegor, always the sound of your voice. You are loving it more, I think, than you love me”! So …!’
He claps his hands loudly, twice. Coira turns to see the doors being opened by two flunkies in the uniforms of hotel attendants. A third, more extravagantly attired, bustles into the room and waits with an air of innocuous attentiveness that must have taken years to perfect. The poor man is wearing embroidered white gloves.
‘Ms Keir – this man will escort you to your room. There you may like to … how do you say? Freshen up.’ He looks her up and down once more. ‘Also, you will find there some more comfortable clothes.’
She’s immediately suspicious. ‘Clothes for what?’
‘Tchyo za ga ’lima – for dinner, of course! It is almost dinner-time, after all. There are matters I should very much like us to discuss. And it would be much more civilised to do this over maybe a little food; maybe some wine …’
He places a hand on his chest. ‘But – I apologise: perhaps you have eaten?’
She says nothing for a moment. ‘No.’ In fact, she’s seriously hungry.
‘Then I look forward to joining you … shall we say, seven o’ clock? This will give us a little less than one hour and a half.’
His eyes flick to the porter, or concierge – or whatever the hell he is, who silently beckons her out of the room.
COIRA’S TAKEN BACK along the echoing internal balcony to an anonymous wooden door. She’s ushered crisply through it.
Inside is the biggest apartment she has ever seen.
‘Madam: the bathroom is through the door to your right.’ The porter speaks like a Scot who’s been told to sound American. ‘Behind those mirrors you will find closets with dresses and other evening wear. They should fit you perfectly.’
‘Dresses?’ How does Gryanov know my size?
‘Madam: your stylist will visit at seven o’clock.’
‘Stylist …?’ Stylist? She’s aware she’s sounding like a very selective parrot. She’s not entirely sure what a stylist even is.
‘Enjoy your suite and your evening, Madam.’
He vanishes like smoke, closing the door behind him.
Coira stands in the intimidating space, blinking. There’s a queen-sized four-poster bed carved from something like mahogany. With gilt-edged mirrors, acres of dark wood, and subtle nods to tartans and Paisley wallpaper, the theme is a modern take on Scottish baronial. It almost succeeds in avoiding vulgarity, despite the polar-bear rug on the floor, complete with snarling head. The carpet is so deep it’s like walking on a mattress.
Wearing Alistair’s dirty borrowed trousers, T-shirt and threadbare fleece, she shuffles out on to the balcony. It’s a chilly evening. The air smells faintly of burnt heather and wet peat. Over the mountains, the sky is like fading embers. The sea is a slick of lava. She can just make out the dark speck of Alistair’s boat.
Having watched the light fade, she shivers and drifts back inside. One of the ceiling-high wall mirrors slides silently open as she approaches, revealing a room bigger than her own kitchen, with clothes rails on each side and a mirror for a back wall. There are at least twenty dresses here, in various styles. She runs her fingers along them. Most, she confesses, would probably look good on her.
I can’t deal with this.
She goes to the bathroom. Its walls, ceiling and floor are different shades of white marble. The taps, needless to say, are gold. A circular whirlpool bath big enough for a party bursts to life at her approach, presumably activated by a sensor. It’s already full, steaming and capped with foam. Over on a marble pedestal by the sink …
She walks over and smiles. Stacked on a silver tray like Ferrero Rocher are enough tampons of different grades to last her well over a year, along with a little basket containing a variety of discreet holders and drawstring bags. Pride of place, however, is given to little decorative napkin, on which sits a freshly cut rose and a familiar little white box.
She can barely believe what she’s seeing. She doesn’t think even her friends knew she was using a Mooncup.
Okay, this is getting positively scary.
She puts a hand in the bath. It’s hot, but not too hot. Perfect, in fact. Despite herself, a Cheshire cat’s grin breaks out over her face. Clothes tumble to the floor.
Slipping into the water provides a moment of pure, almost sexual bliss. She has a strong feeling she’s a lamb being softened up for some kind of slaughter, but for the moment can’t bring herself to care. She puts her head beneath the surface. Blows bubbles. Fuck, I needed this. The bath’s countless water jets are fiercely effective, and she positions herself to play the strongest ones over her sorest bits. She finds herself almost dozing off. Looking at her watch, realising she has minutes before her “stylist” arrives, she begins applying soap and shampoo.
As she’s towelling herself dry there’s a brisk rap on the bathroom door. ‘I’m Mika,’ an Indian-sounding voice announces. Then a woman dressed elegantly in a sari walks straight into the bathroom.
‘… The fuck?’
Despite indignant protests Coira bundles the woman outside, slams the door, and locks it. Having inserted the Mooncup, she dons an improbably fluffy white dressing gown and confronts the intruder in the bedroom, wearing an expression that just dares her to complain.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mika. Now, you were saying?’
Mika primly directs her to the dressing room and drawers containing a startling spectrum of underwear, from corsets and Spanx to scraps of almost transparent lace. She looks expectant. Coira returns the look with nails in. The woman starts fidgeting, finally turning away in a manner that makes it clear she’s dealing with an intolerable prude. Coira chooses knickers and a strapless bra somewhere between the two available extremes, pulls them on under her dressing gown, and confronts the woman with crossed arms.
‘Now we pick a dress,’ Mika says, brow furrowing as she gestures Coira towards the closet. She begins rifling through the dresses. ‘Off,’ she orders, waving an imperious finger at the dressing gown, without breaking her stride. ‘We’ll need that bra off too, for now.’
Why do you assume that just because you’re a woman it’s okay to look at my tits? Despite the thought, Coira tosses everything but her knickers to the floor. The stylist’s studying her with critical detachment, as though she’s clay to be sculpted.
‘My goodness – everything about you is so pale, my dear. It’s like you were made in monochrome. And what is it with all these bruises and cuts? Don’t be telling me you walked into a door. No man is worth that. You take my advice right now and leave him! And these arms …’ She squeezes one of Coira’s biceps and tuts. ‘What have you been doing, dear? Lifting bricks?’
Coira feels her hackles rising to a point not far short of physical violence, but the infuriating woman is already holding up a dress. It’s a kind of sheer, glossy silver-blue, of the kind she wouldn�
�t have been seen dead in since her student days. It’s almost ankle-length, but has a slit all the way up one thigh.
‘You … you’re serious?’
Mika rolls her eyes, motions for Coira to lift her arms, and pulls the dress down over her head. She continues to fuss, pulling and adjusting, regarding Coira with the air of an art buff examining some massively confronting exhibit. She seems satisfied, however, because she orders Coira back in the dressing gown, before physically pulling her into the bathroom. Coira finds herself sitting on an Art Deco chair amidst a flurry of scissors, with clumps of short hair raining down around her.
‘We really do not have enough time, my dear,’ the woman is prattling. ‘But let’s see what we can do. My goodness: who on earth was it that cut your hair?’
‘I did. With a Stanley knife.’
This seems to make Mika flustered. Coira smiles to herself. By the time her hair’s washed and blow-dried, twenty minutes later, she has to admit she looks rather good. Then the makeup comes out.
‘Do you have to?’
Mika’s eyes and nostrils flare. A surprisingly strong hand jerks Coira’s jaw round so she’s facing the wall mirror. ‘Do not worry, I’m getting the message. I’ll keep it subtle. Your complexion can’t really handle fireworks anyway.’
After being further interminably fretted over, plucked, daubed and dabbed with tweezers, brushes, pencils, pads and other hazily familiar implements, Coira goes back to the closet and puts on the bra and the dress. She looks at herself in the mirror. Mika joins her and footles with her bust, smoothing down the dress unnecessarily.
‘My dear,’ she says. ‘You scrub up rather well.’
Coira has to agree. She’s almost grateful. Mika, however, is beginning to rummage through a drawer she’d been unaware of, which has slid out of the wall below the shorter dresses. She’s alarmed to see that it’s full of shoes.
‘I am not wearing fucking heels. No – I’m serious!’
ALISTAIR IS GETTING TWITCHY.