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

His expression of suffering is exaggerated by the dark shadows around his eyes, and the pallor caused by being drained of blood. A sick, feeble grin curves his mouth, but the mirth and the triumph don’t make it to his bleak eyes. I look down at him, as passionless as an executioner.

‘You did well,’ he chokes, blood trickling from his mouth.

The man is insane: he wanted to be killed by his own son. I watch as the life ebbs out of him. The flat falls eerily silent. Like a soundless dream. Carefully I lay mama back on the floor. Sitting up against the kitchen cabinet, I pull my knees to my chest and look at my hands. My bloody hands. I’ve just killed my father. No amount of horror can prepare a child for that tearing knowledge. I’m a killer, forever tainted by my father’s blood. But I don’t scream, I don’t cry, I don’t break the sacred silence. Mama’s spirit might still be around.

I stand, go to the sink and wash my hands until they are clean. I look up and see my reflection in the window. Blood is dripping from my hair onto the collar of my shirt. I hold my head under the running water and rub my hair until the water runs clear.

There is blood on mama’s cheek too.

I take a tea towel, wet it, and go back to clean her face. There. Her face is clean. I sweep away the lock of hair that has tumbled over her cheek. Then I close her eyes so she’d have the look of someone asleep and dreaming peacefully.

I exhale heavily. ‘Shall we play one last time, Mama?’ I whisper.

In my head her voice, happy and free at last, says, ‘Yes, lyubov moya.’

‘Let me open a window first. It smells like the butcher’s shop,’ I tell her.

I go to the window and open it. A blast of freezing cold air rushes in as I turn to walk to the piano. We kept our promise to my father and it has been nearly a year since I played.

I open the lid and all the old memories rush back. I forget that my parents are lying dead on the floor. I play mama’s favorite pieces, and I swear it feels exactly as if she is sitting beside me, her long, white fingers moving on the keys.

I am so lost in the music I don’t hear the man come in. It is only when he stands right in front of the piano that I notice he is there. I stop playing and look up at him. He has dark, dark eyes and he is wearing a shiny red shirt, a thick gold chain, and an expensive long black coat.

‘I killed him,’ I say, shivering in the cold air blowing in from the open window.

‘You saved me the trouble,’ he replies.

I continue to look up at him.

‘Well,’ he says finally. ‘You might as well come with me. We could do with a good foot soldier.’

I knew he was a bad man, but I left with him. Mama was good, but was no match for bad. I learned that papa was no spy. He was not like James Bond. He was just a member of a group of thieves. Bad men.

From now on I will be bad. Bad always kills good.

I no longer have an appetite for violence

– Aleksandr Malenkov

Twenty-seven

Dahlia Fury

Pay the ticket, take the ride

The journey is excruciating. I never managed to contact Zane despite the fact that I tried his number numerous times. Finally, the taxi arrives a few blocks from the house. The taxi driver was right; the road ahead is chock-a-block with standstill traffic. It is only four o’clock, but it’s already dark and starting to rain. I thrust some money at him and jump out of the taxi.

‘Please, God. Let me be on time,’ I pray.

I start running down the street and realize that the smart heels I am wearing are doing me no favors. I kick them off, and with the cold, wet pavement under my feet, I start to sprint hard, avoiding people on the street. I run as fast as I can, the freezing evening air shocking my throat and lungs as I inhale faster and deeper. There doesn’t seem to be enough air as I fly forward. My lungs feel as if they will burst.

The urge to stop and take a rest is overpoweringly strong, but I fool my body into thinking my goal is only until the next streetlight. Just until the next, and the next, and next until finally, just when my thighs feel as if they are burning, my breath is like thunder in my ears, the muscles in my stomach are trembling, and a frightened scream is locked in my throat, I round the corner into our street.