You Don't Own Me 2 (The Russian Don 2)

He stands.

‘Wait, Doctor,’ Stella says, standing up herself.

‘Yes,’ he says politely.

‘I don’t understand. Is she going to be OK?’

The corner of his lips turn down in a deprecating gesture. ‘God willing,’ he says softly. Then he walks out. Not looking at Stella, I walk out of the room. In the corridor I meet Shane.

‘I’m sorry, man. I’m so sorry. I just heard from the guys.’

I nod.

‘Look, let me take care of Lenny. You stay with your woman. She needs you.’

I look at him and feel as if I finally know the definition of the word bleak. For me, time has stopped. I hear him talking. I see people walking by us, but I don’t feel anything. I know I am breathing, and I know my right leg is shaking restlessly, but I can’t feel it.

‘No need,’ I tell him. ‘Dahlia’s not about to come around for some time. I’ll take care of him. He’s mine’

He frowns. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely,’ I say, and walk towards the toilets. I get in there and I vomit my guts out. Then I wash my face, dry it with some paper towels, and go out of the hospital. I stand at the entrance and smoke a cigarette. I have two hours to kill.

Tiptoeing in after washing our hands to see Dahlia is the saddest occasion of my life. She is unrecognizable. Her head is bandaged, an oxygen mask is over her face, there are countless IV tubes coming out of her connecting her to beeping machines. We are only allowed to stay for five minutes.

‘You can try to talk to her, if you want,’ the nurse says with a smile, but both Stella and I are so horrified we don’t say a word.

Once the five minutes are up she herds us out and we stand in the corridor for what seems forever, unable to comprehend that the person in that room is Dahlia.

‘Do you need a lift somewhere?’

She bites her lower lip and shakes her head.

It is three o’clock in the morning. ‘Come on,’ I say to her. ‘Noah will take you home.’

She follows me like a lost lamb. We part in the car park. The rain has stopped and I stand for a few seconds watching them get into the car and drive off. I think I’m putting off the moment I reach home, or maybe I just don’t want to leave her here.

The whole street has been cordoned off and Anton has to drop me at the edge of the police tapes before driving away. The blackened car is still there and the place is crawling with policemen and their forensics team. One of them calls to me. He is wearing a cap and holding a clipboard.

‘I live there,’ I tell him, pointing to my house.

‘Right, you are,’ he says.

Yuri opens the door for me. He doesn’t try to offer any words of condolence because he is like me in that way. He recognizes words for what they are. Ultimately empty. He nods respectfully and disappears into his station.

As soon as he closes his door the house feels like a tomb. There is not a single sound. I walk up the stairs quietly. I open my bedroom door and my eyes glance at the bed. I need a shower. I get into the bathroom and look in the mirror.

That is when I come apart. I lose myself. The ice melts. The pain slams into my solar plexus and I remember the way her face felt against mine, the way she would smile at me, and the tears start falling, at first lightly, then a deluge.

I hang on to the sink and bawl my eyes out like a fucking baby. I didn’t tell her that I loved her. I never once told her. She was willing to give up her life for me and I wasn’t brave enough to tell her I love her.

‘I love you, baby. I love you,’ I sob.

I switch on the shower and get into it. The water washes away the sweat, the tears, the blood. I come out, dry myself and pad over to my bed. I lie on it and stare blankly at the ceiling.

She has to come out of it. She has to. I will make her come out of it. I get up, dress, and call her sister. It’s not an easy or a short call. A bomb blast calls for a lengthy explanation.

After the call, I go downstairs and Yuri comes to the door. He opens his mouth to say something, but I raise my hand and he snaps it shut.

Without a word I leave the house and drive to the warehouse. I have business to take care of.

I’m gonna show ya, what’s really crazy.

Thirty

Aleksandr Malenkov

Lord, have mercy on us

Christ, have mercy on us

-Mozart–Requiem

The early morning air is cold with more than a bite of frost in it and it chills my lungs just to breathe it in. I switch on the music and listen, my ears pricked up like those of a leopard. Even though the stereo is old and cheap, the empty warehouse — well, it’s empty except for a desk and a chair — has such good acoustics it makes the individual notes shimmer and sparkle.