The Executioner: Part One

by Ana Calin

  I stood once again alone on the porch. The wind blew sharply through my hair indeed, the cold penetrating my bones. Maybe it had moments before too, but Damian’s presence kept me from noticing. I looked out in the distance, shivering at the void that had built up inside me as strings of white fell from the sky faster and faster, hatching across the dark horizon. As the wheezing intensified I had this sudden feeling that something was terribly wrong. I braced myself and hurried inside.

  Damian stood in the candlelit, lukewarm main room with his group of boisterous friends, keeping a reserved smile in place as they laughed and tempted him with liquor. He looked at me just once, which was hardly a surprise, given my competition, namely Svetlana. She danced like a sexy snake circling the bearded singer as he played and in and out of Damian’s field of vision, probably spurred by vodka and scotch.

  Her grin stretched wide and defiant as she saw me. The sight punched me in the stomach, and I had to look away.

  I spotted Leona and George on a sheepskin, and sat by them.

  “Here, sista,” George stammered. “Wash down the jealousy before it combusts.” He offered me a plastic cup of white wine thinned with snow – maybe Cotnari, but the label had been peeled off, so I couldn’t tell for sure. I gulped it down, grimaced at the taste of vinegar it left on my tongue, and handed it over for a refill.

  “Keep it coming,” I encouraged a grinning and complying George. I hope it numbs me fast.

  “So, who you planning to bed tonight if Damian Novac’s not available?” George inquired.

  I choked on the liquor, and coughed so hard I thought I’d spit out bits of my lungs.

  “You’re being a jerk!” Leona slapped the back of George’s head. Any other guy would’ve probably snapped at her, but not George. He grabbed the nape of her neck and planted a drunken smooch on her lips.

  I redirected my gaze, my eyes darting from Damian to Svetlana.

  Freaking wine gave me a headache that intensified as Svetlana’s dance took ever more sensual turns. Other girls accompanied her, their lids heavy from drinking, and their moves erratic and ridiculous. But Svetlana . . . she danced like a professional ballerina in elastic jeans and tight wool top, throwing her platinum hair back with lascivious moves, spinning and stretching to the bearded singer’s guitar and voice. You can leave your hat on, Joe Cocker. Couldn’t be better. All that training with the mobster sure gave results.

  Probably too controlled to watch with a hanging tongue like the others, Damian resorted to throwing her glances once in a while, sipping from his own plastic cup. She kept looking at him, smiling and winking every time she caught his eye, but he knitted his brows, as if something grew heavier on his mind with every minute. The blizzard began raging, and he made his way to the window, apparently focused on something outside. His jaw hardened. Good God, was he handsome . . .

  I drank cup after cup of sour wine, switching my attention to the bets George and Leona placed on who was going to crack and touch Svetlana first. I flinched as George slapped a banknote on a loose wooden floorboard, right by the bottle. It unbalanced dangerously.

  “Here, all in,” he stammered. “It’s gonna be the biker, that’s who it’s gonna be. He can’t keep his hands to himself for long, he’ll grope her.”

  It took only a glance in the direction of his not too discretely pointed finger to realize he talked about the older guy with wiry curls who’d brought up my dad’s name earlier, and who now sat drinking and grinning a lecherous grin too close to Svetlana’s dancing legs.

  “I don’t have any money, but I’ll bet ya a whole bottle it’ll be Hector,” Leona said, gesturing to the bearded singer with her plastic cup.

  “And what would you do with a bottle, my love?” George mocked, slipping a skinny arm around her shoulders.

  I couldn’t help a smile. They looked like a freckled frog and a fiery princess in love. Leona was toned and sinewy, her olive skin healthy and smooth. The firm buns and boobs, the high cheekbones and bad girl eyebrows made her crazy sexy, while her long-lashed, chocolate eyes exuded mysterious wit. I often compared her to the fiery gypsy Carmen, enhanced with the brains of Virginia Wolf.

  “You’re underestimating me, Georgey,” she retorted in a seductive mock-tone. “I’m afraid it’ll be you singing naked in the snow if you take just another sip.”

  Truth be told, George did already have some difficulty rounding his words, and his gaze was foggy, his eyes deep-set in his long, narrow face. The sandy hair looked like a mop on top of his head, disheveled as if he hadn’t combed it in weeks. Welcome to the club.

  “We’re both too impaired for activities as extreme as betting,” he said with a peace-making wave of his hand. “Let’s stick to black runs.”

  Joke aside he kissed her, taking her lips between his thirstily. I tried to look away, but it’d been almost a year since my own lips had been touched, and longing kept me staring and feeling like a pervert. I cleared my voice, and George drew away with a crooked grin and an apologetic shrug.

  “Besides,” he said, “Svetlana only has eyes for Novac.”

  No shit.

  I decided to call it a night and headed to the small chamber we called the bedroom, straining not to glance at Damian.

  The leftovers of some candles lay around in pooled wax. Only now did I notice the beds – four of them – were mere bunks, probably with straw under the grey, dirty sheets. Maybe they’d served for construction workers until late autumn. But since the place had been abandoned over the winter, humidity had infested it with the smell of mold. The cinder was weak in the terracotta stove.

  I dropped onto the same bunk where I’d curled up next to Damian before, sniffing for his scent and wishing for the old Russian novel that I’d lost on the train. It had the power to make me forget my situation.

  I closed my eyes, and sleep came in spurts and then fled completely as people trickled into the room. I counted eight from under half-closed eyelids – still better than counting sheep. Then more followed.

  A woman cuddled behind me, stepping on my legs when I resisted her siege and stiffly held on to my position by the edge. She stank of alcohol, and I eventually recognized her as one of the “outsiders” – people from the train who’d come to the same shelter, but weren’t part of our group, like the biker who’d exposed my connection to Tiberius Preda.

  The other bunks were quickly taken, and the rest huddled on jackets and sheepskins on the floor. None of them thought of feeding the fire, relying on the body heat of their partners or friends to keep warm, as I relied on the lady’s who now snored charmingly by my side. The blizzard intensified, whipping against the window. It was a steady roar that mingled with drunken moaning – mostly from the couple who were doing it on the floor.

  “Stop!” the girl said, loud enough for me and everyone else in the room to hear if they were awake. She sounded familiar, but not familiar enough for me to identify her.

  “Aw, you like it rough, then?” The man’s voice was not only too thick, but also feverish, matching his snogging on her skin.

  “Get off me, you fuckin’ dog!”

  My eyes snapped wide open, searching for the scene. All I could see were the girl’s white arms and long denim legs moving, my brain editing the meaning of it – she was trying to protect herself. A few others sprang from their sleeping places, while some mumbled groggy-headed.

  A guy managed to light a candle after repeated attempts – I could tell by the lighter sparks and cusses – and, as he brought it close to the screaming girl, I gaped in smitten disbelief.

  Svetlana’s face was drawn with fear. The rings around her now bulb-like eyes were deep trenches and her top was torn, revealing small, white breasts with pointy nipples.

  Others from the main room burst in. I took a few shy steps toward the scene when a man ripped from the bundle, using the confusion to walk casually to the door. His contour was big – maybe a fleshy person, yet not exactly fat – and I knew on the spot it was the biker who�
�d watched Svetlana dance. The same man who’d spoken up my father’s name. As I knew he was her aggressor. With a cry I drew attention and pointed at him, but what followed left me stunned and sweating.

  Chapter Three

  Two guys rushed to him, head first like angry bulls, but the man spun round and slammed his fists into their faces – right first, left second.

  One of the boys stopped, but the thinner one attacked again. Another punch sent him flat on his back. Before the others could react, the biker sprinted for the door, bumping hard into a tall frame like a ball against a mound.

  Damian.

  In the light of an oil lamp the bearded singer held beside him, he glared icy daggers at the biker, blocking his way out. After only a few seconds of hesitation, the biker bent from his waist and thrust himself at Damian, who moved out of the way and caught him by the jacket, pulling him up straight. He slammed the bastard’s face into the doorframe, and I heard wood cracking – or maybe it was the man’s bones. The biker groaned, and his body turned to jelly.

  Damian turned him around and faced him, keeping a grip on his jaw. “In a hurry?”

  A streak of blood trickled from the biker’s temple down his cheek, and he struggled to stand on his feet. Damian’s muscles snaked under the pullover as he slammed the biker’s back into the doorframe again.

  “I see you’re big on brawling,” he hissed, glancing at the two boys who were now supported by their friends on each arm. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”

  The biker’s mouth curled—the grin of a nutcase who enjoyed pain. “I might ask you the same thing.”

  “Why do you pick fights, Rocky?”

  The man didn’t reply, yet voices rose in chaotic explanations that said everything and yet nothing. “Attempted rape” and “Svetlana” made it to my ears though, and certainly also to Damian’s. But, to my surprise, it didn’t seem to anger him. On the contrary, his arms fell off the biker, and his glare softened a little.

  “You’ve had too much to drink. We’ll deal with this when you’re sober.”

  “That’s no justification.” I stepped in out of sheer instinct. “This guy’s a potential rapist. I’m sure this wasn’t his first time and it won’t be the last, especially if we let him off the hook.”

  Damian’s eyes fell on me with a flash.

  “You’re quick to judge, Alice.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. He couldn’t be that thick. “Quick to judge? Look at her, Damian.” I pointed at the group behind me, assuming from the calming whispers that Svetlana was still among them. “She’ll be traumatized, whether this asshole went the whole way or not. What he did leaves scars, ugly scars.”

  He didn’t follow the direction I pointed in, but kept staring at me.

  “I wasn’t talking about Rocky here,” he said. “I was talking about me. You’re quick to judge me.”

  I stopped breathing.

  “I wouldn’t let this asshole off the hook in a million years,” Damian went on. “But I won’t smash his face while he’s drunk either. That would be unfair, don’t you think?”

  He took a few steps closer, and blood flooded my cheeks.

  “If you’d given me the chance,” he continued, “I would’ve said Hector and I would take our friend to the attic and tie him up until his mind clears. And when we get out of here, we’ll turn him in.”

  The nasty biker laughed, but there was no amusement in it. Rather madness.

  “Turn me in . . . And to whom, Executioner? To the cops, or your friends at BioDhrome, along with the rest of these rats?”

  Who? What?

  Damian blinked, as if recovering from a blow he hadn’t seen coming. He turned to the man and stared at him, while the others behind me shuffled and whispered. My eyes darted from him to the man in leather.

  “What is this?” Damian hissed.

  “How long, Executioner? How long until we start drawing blood this time?”

  Before he could speak again, Damian grabbed one of the biker’s arms, and Hector another. I instinctively looked at Hector, hoping something in his face, his reaction, would give meaning to all this.

  The bearded singer’s features shimmered in the light of the oil lamp he carried. He looked robust, his small eyes shadowed by bushy eyebrows, and he had the nose of an eagle. His skin had the color of ripe olives, which made me think of a gypsy, the rich beard adding to the grim air. But his face betrayed nothing besides sternness, there wasn't anything I could read or interpret.

  The biker tried to jerk from their grasp, but he didn’t stand a chance. I heard muffled bumps and cusses as they took him up the creaky stairs to the attic.

  As soon as they were out of hearing range, voices surged in the room. People bundled around Svetlana, while the woman who’d slept by my side just stared at me, propped on an elbow. She had puffy eyes, and her expression fit her overall hippie appearance.

  “Are you all right?” she inquired.

  “Why wouldn’t I be? I’m not the one who almost got raped.”

  “No. But the Executioner guy seems to have special interest in you. I’d be worried, I guess.” A faint grin took shape on her face. “Or maybe I’d just be horny, you know, from the looks of him.”

  Don’t go there. “Do you know anything about this Executioner business?”

  She shrugged. “Rapist or not, I tend to believe that Marius bastard, given his career. If he called pretty boy Executioner, he must’ve had a reason.”

  Marius. The biker’s name. “His career?”

  “Reason my ass,” a young guy with braids cut in, dropping down onto the bed next to the woman and offering her a beer can. “Marius is completely drunk, he talks gibberish.” The can hissed as he popped the tab. “Here, this’ll get you functioning better than coffee.”

  It’s already coffee time? I turned to the window. Dawn slowly drew a bloody horizon across the mountainous contour, and I was beat. I cuddled behind the woman – by the wall this time, so that she could keep conversing with her braids guy.

  The sleep I got was tormented by daylight, snoring and bad smells. I finally got up about noon, with a headache and a sensation of weakness all through my body. I barely carried myself to the kitchen, mind numb and lids swollen.

  The voices around me sounded painfully cheerful. They stabbed my brain, tempting me to skirt around the overpopulated room, but it contained the only sink where I could wash my face and teeth. Toothbrushes and as good as all items for personal hygiene had been abandoned on the train – unlike the booze – so I rubbed my teeth with my finger, bent over the rusty, enamel-peeled sink. The freezing water smacked me full awake.

  “Svetlana kicked the bastard in the balls,” a boyish voice said. My eyes followed it to discover a small guy with frizzy locks leaning on the counter by the fridge.

  “How would you know, you weren’t even there,” a round young man with face piercings intervened. He turned to the mug-holding, open-mouthed girl the locks guy had been talking to. “It was Damian Novac who punched the guy senseless. He would’ve barged in to save Svetlana sooner, but he and Hector had been in the attic, looking for lamps and other useful stuff that might help us survive several days of isolation or the road to the nearest village or town.”

  I didn’t know if that last part was any truer than the kick in the balls, but it was plausible.

  I eventually found Leona putting together something to eat on a clay plate – a rarity.

  “Wow, I didn’t know people still used these things.” I looked over her shoulder and reached for a bite. She slapped my hand away.

  “This ain’t for you, sweetheart. Make your own.” She was stiff and frowning – so either preoccupied or nervous.

  “Breakfast or clay plate?”

  She glanced around, making sure no one listened.

  “I’m taking this to the attic,” she whispered, and I instantly felt like a guilty accomplice.

  “You’re most certainly not! If anyone feeds that animal,
it should be someone who can tame him.”

  “You mean Novac or Hector? Neither are here, and this is my chance.”

  What do you mean they’re not here? Where are they and what do you need a chance at?”

  “Because they won’t allow anyone up to the attic. I need to talk to him, and I don’t know how much time I have until they’ll be back.”

  “So, where are they?”

  “Novac went with two others to look for the nearest village or town, if they find one within a mile or two. They’ll bring back help and food. Hector stayed back as the watchdog, but right now he’s cutting wood in the barn.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  Leona shook her head. “No you’re not. Stay here, and make sure no one comes up.”

  “Why are you doing this? What can you possibly want with the guy?”

  She looked aside through the window. It was the first time Leona formulated sentences in her head before she spoke them to me, which drew serious alarm.

  “Don’t think, Leona, talk! Do you know him?”

  “I don’t, but Svetlana surely does.”

  “Okay . . .” It did come as a surprise, but stayed so for only a moment. It actually made sense. I’d heard most rapists turned out to be from the victim’s close circle. “But what’s your business with him?”

  “He has information I need. If I’m right, his name is Marius Iordache, and he’s an investigative reporter with Gardianul.”

  I tilted my head back, inspecting her. “And that is important because . . .”

  “Because he wrote an article about a certain Executioner.”

  “And why is that important?”

  “You still ask? You heard him call Novac that yesterday.”

  “So Damian’s the main character of the guy’s fantasy.”

  “Don’t mock. The Executioner is the name of a file classified by the Romanian Intelligence Service, the R.I.S.”

  The news came like a blast on the back of my head. “What?”

  She looked aside and bit her lip, but didn’t answer. I opened my mouth several times before I could speak again. “And you drop this on me as if nothing?”