Mark Blair - Stroika

Five floors below, cars and bicycles hugged the embankment, an endless stream of traffic making its way homeward. She wondered what had befallen him. Had he got himself into more debt? But then he would have come to her as he was planning to do. Or was this some random burglar chancing his luck at one of the better apartments in town? Her thoughts were interrupted by the click of the front door and someone being shoved roughly into the living room. Quickly, she slid back the mirrored wardrobe door and squatted down inside, leaving it a quarter open. Outside, she could hear whoever it was moving around the apartment. She caught the exasperated sigh of a man. He entered the bedroom breathing heavily. She imagined him looking around the room, at the chaos. At any moment she expected to be discovered, for him to slide open the wardrobe door.

‘So where is it?’ a voice said. ‘Your twenty-four hours is up.’

‘You’ve made a mess of my place. My daughter won’t be best pleased.’ It was her father’s voice, slurred from alcohol.

‘Wasn’t us, it was your mate, Lev; he couldn’t help us either. But he won’t be bothering anyone anymore.’

Viktoriya’s blood ran cold.

‘Where’s the passport,’ asked another familiar voice she could not place.

‘I don’t know. I sold it,’ her father said belligerently.

‘You’ve got five minutes,’ sneered the second man.

Viktoriya knew she would only have seconds before she was discovered. She slid back the wardrobe door and pulled up the sash window a few more inches. Below, perhaps only three feet down, stood a wide ornate plinth stretching right and left to the building’s edge. It looked solid enough. She had no time to weigh up her situation; it just seemed a lot more dangerous inside than out. Easing herself over the windowsill, Viktoriya dropped onto the stone shelf and shuffled sideways away from the window. As long as they didn’t look out, she thought to herself. Heart racing, she edged along the stone ledge towards the neighbouring apartment, leaning in against the wall, her hands flat against the stone, her feet gingerly trying to find a secure purchase. Two feet from the next apartment window, her right foot slipped on loose plaster. Struggling to find her balance, she lunged for the wooden frame and grabbed it. She took two deep breaths, trying not to panic, and looked back at the window she had exited, half expecting a head to appear and spot her. She needed to get off this cliff face and call for help. Edging her way level with the window, with the sill at waist height, Viktoriya looked in on an empty kitchen. There was no way of knowing whether the occupant was in, but staying out here, five floors up, about to be discovered, was not an option either. The window was firmly shut and locked from the inside. Carefully, she tugged off her short leather jacket and placed it against the window. When the next car horn sounded, she drove the jacket through the glass with her elbow. The glass shattered inward. Expecting someone to come rushing in at any moment, she quickly released the inside latch and pulled up the sash window. Fortunately, it gave easily. She slipped in and landed on the kitchen floor feet first and stood stock-still, expecting the door to burst open at any second. She tried to picture the layout of the apartment. If it was the same as her father’s it would give onto a small hall off which the bedroom and living room extended. Carefully opening the kitchen door, she peered out. The flicker and booming sound of a television reached her from the living room. She edged out into the hall and peered through the crack of the door jamb. An old lady with a rug over her legs sat in an old leather armchair staring at a TV screen, a smile on her face. Relieved, Viktoriya opened the apartment door. The corridor was empty. She stepped out, closed the door and rang the bell. There was a pause. She wondered whether the old lady would actually hear it with the TV turned up so loud, but the next second it opened.

‘I’m from the floor above,’ Viktoriya announced. ‘I’ve just moved in. I was having a window frame repaired and the workman managed to knock his bucket of tools off the ledge. It was on a rope. He heard breaking glass; I think it may have been your window.’ It sounded improbably true, she thought.

The old woman looked momentarily confused.

‘Would you mind if I checked; I am very happy to pick up the bill and get a glazier over here straight away? Can I use your phone to call him? Mine’s not working.’

‘I thought it was Mr Ikanov that lived upstairs,’ she said suspiciously, not opening the door further than six inches.

‘He moved out,’ said Viktoriya. She reached into her handbag and handed the woman a business card. Time was running out. This seemed to reassure her.

‘You best come in then,’ she said finally, and opened the door onto the kitchen. The old lady looked through the gaping hole that was once the window.

‘Something seems to have happened,’ she said, pointing outside and at the street below.

‘Let me see,’ said Viktoriya. The old lady pulled back. A small crowd had gathered on the pavement around a motionless body. One or two faces looked upward. Across the street she caught sight of Bazhukov climbing into a car with another man. Bazhukov, why hadn’t she thought of it before – it was his voice. She looked back at the inert crumpled figure and at the familiar dark blue coat that was her father’s. It was all too much to take in. How did Konstantin know about Antyuhin’s passport, if that was indeed what they were looking for? It would only be minutes before the police arrived and worked out from which window her father had fallen. She had to find that ID before they did.

‘I have to be going,’ she announced suddenly, her voice trembling. ‘You have my card. I’m going to send someone round.’

The door to her father’s apartment was closed. She opened it and quickly slipped in. The flat was in even more of a mess than when she had entered only half an hour ago. Bazhukov and his companion had ransacked the place a second time. Maybe he had found what they were after? Where would her father have hid it if it were here? Her eyes darted round the room at the turned-up furniture, broken crockery and ripped-open cushions. Her eyes alighted on an old photo of her mother in a new frame. It struck her as odd, out of keeping. He rarely mentioned her mother. She picked it up and turned it over. The cardboard backing was fixed by three small hinged fasteners. She flipped them sideways and pulled off the cardboard back. The ID card her father had shown her in the café fell to the floor. She picked it up. Why had he not given it to them? But then it was her father she was thinking about, not anybody… maybe he had simply calculated it would end badly either way and decided not to give them the satisfaction – he was bloody-minded enough. Anyway, this was not the time to speculate, she chided herself. She stuffed the card into her pocket and dashed out of the apartment to the lift.

As she stepped out on the ground floor, two stern-faced policemen walked in past her. Viktoriya flagged down a taxi and ordered him to take her to Pravdy. She guessed Kostya would be at his club now.

The taxi driver ogled her in the rear-view mirror.

‘Keep your eyes on the road,’ she snapped.

‘No problem!’ he said gruffly, as though she had misunderstood his prurient attention.

By the time she arrived at his club on Nevsky Prospect it had begun raining. The club doorman rushed towards her with an umbrella and sheltered her inside.

‘Thank you, Erik.’

‘I’ll tell the boss you’re here.’

‘No need.’

The bar was already busy with punters chatting up girls. On a circular stage two girls gyrated to the throb of beat music while men, both single and in small groups, looked on, beer in hand. A third dancer peeled off her top to catcalls from the male audience.