Boris Akunin - He Lover of Death

‘This is where they’ll have the meet, there’s no other option,’ said Sprat, pointing to a trampled bald patch where four paths came together. ‘They won’t go into the grass, there’s cowpats all over the place, they’ll get their shoes filthy. And that’s the barn right there.’

The barn was rotten – sneeze and it would collapse. It had been built once upon a time to store straw, but it wouldn’t stay standing much longer, that was clear. It was less than a stone’s throw from the bald patch, ten paces or maybe fifteen.

They climbed up the ladder into the loft, full of last year’s straw. Then they settled into the hideaway, pulling the ladder up after them, so no one would get inquisitive and come over.

Sprat glanced at his watch again and said: ‘Three and a half minutes past five. Almost two hours to go. Why don’t we play a hand or two, fifty kopecks a time?’

He pulled a deck of cards out of his pocket. Senka was so frightened his hands and feet were freezing, he had cold shivers running up and down his spine, and Sprat wanted to play cards!

‘I ain’t got any money.’

‘We can play flicks. Only straight ones, mind, no twisting, my head’s not that hard.’

As soon as they’d dealt the cards, they heard voices. Someone had come up from behind, from the direction of the railway.

Sprat put his eye to a crack and whispered: ‘Hey, Speedy, take a gander!’

There were three men walking round the barn. They looked like bandits all right, but Senka didn’t know them. One was huge, with big, broad shoulders and a small head, shaved clean; one was wearing a cap, but even from up there you could still see that his nose had caved in; the third was short, with long arms, and his jacket was buttoned right up.

‘The bastard,’ Sprat hissed right in Senka’s ear. ‘That’s what he’s up to! What a lousy cheat!’

The men came into the barn, but Senka and Sprat could still see them through the cracks in the ceiling. All three men lay down and covered themselves with straw.

‘Who’s a lousy cheat?’ Senka whispered. ‘Who are they?’

‘The Ghoul’s a lousy cheat, that’s who. Those are his fighters, from his deck. The big one’s Cudgel, the sixer. The one with no nose is Beak, he’s the eighter. And the little one’s Yoshka, the Jack. Ah, this is really bad. This’ll be the death of us.’

‘Why?’ Senka asked, frightened.

‘Yoshka’s no good in a fight, but he never misses with that gun of his. He used to work in a circus, snuffing candles out with bullets. If they brought Yoshka it means there’ll be shooting. But our two will have left their guns at home. And there’s no way to warn them . . .’

This news set Senka’s teeth chattering. ‘What’re we going to do?’

Sprat had turned all pale too. ‘Hell only knows . . .’

They just sat there, shaking. Time dragged by, then seemed to stop completely.

Down below it was quiet. Just once they heard a match being struck and caught a whiff of tobacco smoke, then someone hissed: ‘Cudgel, you ugly mug, d’you want to burn us alive? I’ll shoot you!’

There was silence again. And then, just before the clock struck seven, there was a metal click. Sprat mimed for Senka: that was the hammer being cocked.

Oh, this was really bad!

Two light carriages drove up to the bald spot from different directions.

Sitting on the box of one carriage – a classy number in red lacquer –was Deadeye, wearing a hat and a sandy-coloured three-piece suit, and holding a cane. The Prince was sprawled on the leather seat, smoking a papyrosa. He was done up like a dandy too, in a sky-blue shirt and thin scarlet belt.

Sitting on the box of the other carriage, which wasn’t as fancy as the first, but still pretty smart, was a woman with hands the size of ham hocks. Her fat red cheeks stuck out from the bright flowery shawl wrapped tight round her head. It looked as though two watermelons had been stuck down the front of her blouse – Senka had never seen breasts like that before. The Ghoul was riding behind, like the Prince. He looked pretty ordinary: stringy and balding, narrow snaky eyes, greasy hair hanging down like icicles. He was no eagle from the look of him, no way was he a match for the Prince.

They met in the middle of the bald patch, but didn’t bother shaking hands. The Ghoul lit up, and glared at the prince. Deadeye and the huge woman stood a bit farther back – Senka supposed that must be the way it was done.

‘Shall we kick up a racket, eh, Speedy?’ Sprat asked in a whisper.

‘But what if the Ghoul only put his men in the barn just in case? Because he was afraid the Prince might try something? Then it’s the shiv for you and me.’

Senka was really afraid of making a racket. What if that Yoshka started firing bullets through the ceiling?

Sprat whispered: ‘Who can tell. . . OK, let’s watch for a bit.’

The men in the meadow finished their papyroses and threw them away.

The Prince was the first to speak. ‘Why didn’t you come with your Jack?’

‘Yoshka’s teeth have been bothering him, his cheek’s swollen right up. And why do I need my Jack? I’m not afraid of you, Prince. You’re the one who’s scared of me. You brought Deadeye along. A woman’s a match for you.’

Manka chuckled in a loud, deep voice.

The Prince and Deadeye locked eyes once more. Senka saw Deadeye drum his fingers on his cane. Maybe they’d guessed there was something shady going on.

‘If you want to bring a woman, that’s your business.’ The Prince put his hands on his hips. ‘Lording it over women is all you’re good for. When I’m the ace, I’ll let you run the mamselles of Khitrovka. It’ll be just the job for you.’

The Ghoul didn’t rise to the bait, he just smiled and cracked his long fingers: ‘Of course, you, Prince, are an outstanding hold-up artist, a man on the make, but you’re still wet behind the ears. What kind of ace would you make? It’s barely five minutes since you got your deck together. And you’re far too reckless. Every last nark in Moscow’s after you, but I’m a safe pair of hands. Do the decent thing and stand down.’

The words were peaceable, but the voice was jeering – you could see he was riling the Prince, trying to wind him up.

The Prince said: ‘I soar like an eagle, but you scrounge like a jackal, you feed on carrion! You’re a fine talker but Moscow isn’t big enough for the two of us! You’ve got to be under me, or . . .’ And he slashed a finger across his throat.

The Ghoul licked his lips, cocked his head and said slowly, almost gently: ‘Or what, my little Prince? Be under you . . . or death, is that it? And what if that Death of yours has already been under me? She’s a handsome girl. Soft to lie on, springy, like a duck-down bed . . .’

Manka laughed again, and the Prince turned crimson – he knew what the Ghoul meant. And the Ghoul got what he wanted – he’d driven his enemy wild with fury.

The Prince lowered his head, howled like a wolf and went for the man who had insulted him.

But Manka and the Ghoul obviously had everything arranged. He jumped to the left and she jumped to the right, stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled.

Down below the hay rustled, a door banged and Yoshka flew from the barn, though the other two stayed put. He had a shooter in his hand – black, with a long barrel.

‘Stop right there!’ he cried. ‘Look this way. You know me, old friend, I never miss.’

The Prince froze on the spot.

‘So that’s how you operate, is it, Ghoul?’ he asked. ‘No respect for the rules?’

‘Quite correct, little my Princeling, quite correct. I’ve got brains, and the rules aren’t made for people like me. Now both of you get down on the ground. Get down, or Yoshka will shoot you.’