Филип Керр - Dead Meat

‘I’ll arrange some tickets for you to come and see me at the Bolshoy, if you like.’

‘Just the one would be fine.’

She took out a notebook and a pencil. ‘Tell me your address and I’ll send you one.’

I thought for a minute. I could always stay with my mother and my sister for a few days, but I couldn’t see how I could go and live there permanently any more than I could have gone back to my wife. I explained about how my wife and I were seeking a divorce and that she had better send the tickets to the police headquarters on Petrovka.

She made a note of the address and then looked concerned.

‘But where will you live?’ she asked.

‘I’ll find somewhere I expect,’ I said and changed the subject. ‘Are you married?’

‘Divorced.’

‘You know,’ she added tentatively, ‘if you’re looking for somewhere, there’s a spare room you could have.’

‘Really? No, I couldn’t.’ But my thoughts were already racing ahead to something altogether more connubial. Did beautiful ballerinas ever fall for policemen outside of the movies? I thought it more likely that my tone-deaf daughter would become a concert pianist. ‘Could I?’

‘It’s not much of a place,’ she said. ‘Besides, it might be handy to have a policeman around. After all, it’s not very safe these days.’ She showed me the air-pistol she carried in her handbag. ‘You know, I often come back quite late at night.’

‘Look, are you sure? I mean, you don’t really know me. I mean, I could be absolutely anyone.’

But she had convinced herself of the merit of her idea.

‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘It might be quite nice to come home and know that there was a policeman in the place.’

‘Well, you know what they say,’ I said. ‘It’s a lot cheaper than owning a dog.’