You Don't Know Me (The Russian Don 3)

‘But I said such nasty things and made you so angry.’

‘Do you really believe that just some silly words could change anything for me? I would die for you, Tasha Evanoff.’

I run sobbing into his arms. He holds me tight. ‘My poor, poor Tasha,’ he croons. He pulls me away from him slightly and strokes my hair. ‘Don’t come to see me anymore, OK? Leave it all to me. Don’t do a single thing.’

I feel the pain of his words like a knife in my chest, but I nod.

He kisses my wet eyelids one by one. ‘I promise you’ll be mine, or I’ll die fucking trying.’

Like a fool I start sobbing again. I hardly ever cried before I met him. Now I’m like some sort of broken tap that can’t stop gushing.

‘Shhh … my darling.’

‘I don’t want you to die,’ I bawl.

‘We all have to die. It’s how we die that counts. I’m not afraid to die for you.’

‘My father—’

‘I’m not afraid of your father. I may have a card up my sleeve.’

I stop crying and stare at him. ‘Really? What?’

He smiles. ‘You seriously think I’m gonna tell you?’

‘Give me a clue what it’s about?’

‘No.’

Then the taxi comes and he walks me to the street. At the open door of the cab our fingers linger. In the light of the streetlamps his face looks distant and sad. Both of us know this could be the last time. I kiss him on his cheek. His skin is warm and bristly. I inhale the smell of him one last time and turn away blindly. The waterworks have started again.

Twenty-nine

Tasha Evanoff

Ten Green Bottles

I leave my grandma in the kitchen enjoying her pot of tea, slip my shoes off, and I take the stairs two at a time. The house is still and gloomy. My father must still be asleep.

I open my door. I don’t know why, but I have the craziest … I mean it’s just so stupid that I could even think something like that … but I actually think Sergei is wrapped up in his blankets, so fast asleep he did not hear me come in.

The fantasy that he is asleep continues as I walk towards him. Even though the air in the room smells funny. Metallic and sweet. Even as I stand over him, my mind stubbornly refuses to believe what I am seeing.

Then it hits me and my legs give way beneath me. It feels as if I am under water. There are no sounds, there is resistance to my movements, and everything is happening in slow motion as I fall to my knees in front of him.

In slow motion my hand reaches out, grasps the edge of the blanket, lifts it, and that is the moment the slow dream ends. With a startled shriek of horror, I fall backwards onto my butt. In a mad panic fueled by terror and disbelief, I scramble away on the palms of my hands, my heels kicking, scrabbling, and scurrying on the ground like some demented four-legged animal. My back hits the wall and I stop. I sit propped up against it, breathing hard, and staring in utter shock at my beautiful, beautiful beheaded baby.

Someone came into my bedroom and beheaded my baby!

Chopped off his head.

It is completely severed from his body and whoever that sick monster was, he has placed Sergei’s head at the end of his tail. It is the most grotesque sight I’ve ever seen in my life. Slowly, I crawl back to him.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to run away from you. I love you.’

I reach into his basket and my hand touches his fur. There is no more give to his still skin, so his fur feels hard and cold. I flinch. Sergei has been dead for a long time.

How he must have suffered.

How frightened he must have been.

There is an A4 size paper on his body wrapped around something. I unfurl it. It’s one of those tiny tape recorders that bosses use to dictate things for their secretaries. I read the note. Only three little words but they turn my heart into a fist of ice.

One by one.

In a daze I press play on the tape and the nursery song Ten Green Bottles starts playing. The innocent but strangely eerie children’s song seems obscene beyond all words. The greatest insult to Sergei’s bloodied, mutilated body. I fling the tape to the wall and it crashes and opens. The tape flying out and bouncing. It falls close to the treat I gave Sergei.

He never ate it.

My hands clench with a sick helplessness.

I go to the bed, my knees knocking together, and pull the sheet off. I fold it into four and spread it in front of Sergei’s little body. Kneeling in front of his bed, I bend down and pick him up. His severed head first. The congealed blood is like runny jelly underneath him. My hands immediately become dark red.