Richard House - The Kills

‘This is nothing.’

‘He takes the money on the stairwell, between levels. There are no cameras on the second stairwell.’ Tomas explains that the system isn’t clever, it’s snatch and grab, essentially, so simple you’d only know it was happening if you saw it with your own eyes. Perhaps he has this wrong, he admits. It’s possible.

He wants information on the German. He wants a guarantee, if he’s right, that Kolya won’t act on this information tonight.

* * *

Berens returns to his apartment, showers and changes. He picks up his car and drives to Larnaca, then further, following Kolya’s directions beyond the airport toward the cape. The air here is swampy, damp from the sea. On high tide the land floods, and the road sparkles with sea salt. Another salt flat, considerably larger than the one at Akrotiri, runs alongside the road and beyond this a small village built on a flood plain, on what was once a malarial swamp. He follows Kolya’s map with ease, because there isn’t much to it, three right turns in the entire drive. The final section has no street lights. He continues along the road which dips down and levels out at the edge of the salt flats. The road continues straight. Tomas dims his headlights and drives toward an area of palm trees, a grove which shelters a single building, and when he comes to the bungalow Lexi has recently hired he finds the gates closed, the lights off, no sign of the car. No one at home.

* * *

He takes his time. He drives the car further down the track, not hidden, but out of view.

It’s simple luck that the bedroom shutters are raised enough to allow air into the room. The grille covering the lower pane is loosely fixed to the wall and comes away with little persuasion. This is basically an invitation.

Tomas slides into the room and slips feet first onto the bed. He sets himself carefully down and turns on the bedroom light. There’s little sign of intimacy in the room. The bed is unmade. There are clothes scattered to one side. Two pillows lie lengthwise down the centre, and it appears that only one person has slept here. At the end of the bed, side by side, are one small holdall and three large suitcases. Inside the holdall he finds a set of freshly laundered clothes and a wash-bag which contains condoms, hair gel, small samples of aftershave. Lexi is leaving. The drawers and closets are empty. Tomas lifts the valance and looks under the bed. There is nothing to be found in the entire room. No indication either of where he might be going.

Disappointed, Tomas opens the bathroom door and discovers, inside, sat on its hind legs, a dog. A svelte black Dobermann.

But of course, a dog.

Tomas does not move.

The dog does not move. Neither does it growl.

They are, it appears, locked together: Tomas standing by the door, the dog seated beside the shower. Across the floor lie scattered scraps of the shower mat the dog has ripped to pieces.

Tomas remains absolutely still, his hand on the door handle, then, slowly he starts to retreat. The dog dips its head and growls, a small overture, but a growl. An introduction to trouble. He can’t shut the door. At any movement, his best guess, the dog will lunge, and he will need to jump back and pull the door closed. It’s doubtful that he can manage this. The Dobermann sits the same distance from Tomas as Tomas stands from the bedroom. The odds aren’t great.

The dog breaks the impasse.

First, it urinates in a half squat. A broadening puddle on the tiled floor. A pool which joins, dot to dot, the scraps of torn matting, and takes an unnecessary amount of time. The dog looks at him as it pisses. Eye to eye. Intentional.

Second, it yawns, and shows, even in the slice of light spilling from the bedroom, a strong set of teeth.

Third, it stands up, walks by Tomas, and sits square in front of the bedroom door.

The dog looks from the door to Tomas to the door. It’s a slow series of movements, brimming with expectation.

Tomas returns to the bedroom. One step at a time. He keeps his movements controlled, limited only to what is necessary. He steadies his breath. He creeps back to the window, and begins to sneak wide of the bed and the dog.

As soon as Tomas approaches the bed, the dog begins to growl.

It isn’t much of a threat: a guttural roll. Almost sub-sonic. A warning.

The dog makes no complaint when he approaches the bedroom door, and when he opens it the dog trots through. The house is silent except for the dog’s claws on the tiles. Then, right in the hall, right before the doormat, the Dobermann again positions herself so that she can watch him while she squats and takes a long slow piss. The same in the living room. The same in the kitchen. In each room the dog silently demands entrance, and then urinates. Copiously.

Finally Tomas takes a seat in the sitting room, on a white couch. The room, even in the darkness, is too mannered. White carpets, white furnishings, white walls, white paintings flecked with texture, a mania for white.

The dog sits up alert. Ears pricked. Watching him. Watching the exits.

* * *

A car turns into the driveway. On the side table is a heavy onyx lighter. He waits for the key to turn in the lock. The lighter handsomely fits his grip, his fingers comfortably span the stone. Hungry, his stomach tightens and growls. For a moment the dog turns to look at him. Then back to the door. Tomas flexes his hands, then stretches his arms to his shoulders. He takes deep breaths, sits forward. Ready.

First the dog — make your intentions clear, define your terms — second, the thief, Olexei.

* * *

The lights come on in the hall, and he hears Lexi’s exasperation, swearing, in Russian, from the door. It’s clear he’s alone. Mattaus is not with him. Tomas listens. There are two conversations. The greeting, in Russian, to the dog, and a conversation on the phone, in English. The dog, now sat in the doorway between the sitting room and the hall, is delicately focused, poised. A picture.

Tomas listens as Lexi speaks. Is he inside? Or is he still at the door?

‘No. I’ve said. I’m done. That’s what I’ll tell them — pause — You’re getting shit from your family. I’m taking shit every day. At some point you just have to stop and consider if it’s worth it — pause — If they won’t let me — pause — What do you mean if they won’t let me. They don’t have a choice — pause — With Kolya? What about him? — pause — I’ll just tell him. This is how it is. I don’t want to do this any more — pause — You need to replace your phone. No. I’ll bring you one. No. You don’t need to. Forget it. I’ll give you one.’ There’s more frustration. ‘I come home and she’s shit all over the place. I shut her in the bathroom, in the en suite, and she manages to get out. The house is full of — pause — You can imagine.’ (He’s still only in the hall.) ‘I can’t stand it. It smells so bad in here. Something has to happen. I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it, but I think I have to do something. Maybe she’s senile. Maybe? I don’t know — pause — Later, then. Yes. An hour. It’s so late I don’t think so — pause — OK, in an hour. Truss.’

When Lexi comes into the sitting room he turns the light on, then stops, just freezes when he sees Tomas.

Tomas fixes Lexi, a dry welcome, not unexpected. Lexi slips his phone into his pocket and looks for a moment like he might run.