Richard House - The Kills

Lexi speaks in Russian. His voice quiet. He sets a bag at his feet. Slowly, as if repressing the urge to react, to give himself away. His hand grips and ungrasps.

‘Speak to me in English.’ Tomas invites Lexi to sit down. Lexi holds a second bag in his hands. Tomas holds out his hand and Lexi crosses the room and passes him the bag, then sinks slowly onto the opposite couch.

Has he ever met anyone so malleable?

Inside the bag is a good deal of money. The notes bound together again with rubber bands. The night’s takings from the club, which should, Tomas guesses, be secure in a safe. Tomas resists making comments. He looks into the bag, indifferent, then sets the bag aside. Money makes sense to Tomas in situations where it’s lacking, where people are struggling, and where the gaining of it has meaning. That’s why it’s called currency. But here, in a smart house, expensively furnished, in Cyprus no less, he finds it squalid. He can empathize with most situations and predicaments, understands all other cardinal sins, except greed. Greed he finds intolerable, ugly.

‘Kolya?’

‘I said speak to me in English.’

Lexi swallows before making himself clear. His voice comes sticky and particular. ‘Kolya sent you?’

Tomas shakes his head.

Lexi, already crestfallen, slumps lower in his seat. ‘Lev.’ This is a statement, not a question.

Tomas can’t help but smile. On one hand the situation is writing itself. On the other it’s much more complex than he would like it.

‘Lev.’

Tomas picks a thread out of his mouth. A dog hair, short and coarse.

Lexi looks at the wet patch in the middle of the carpet — in outline, not unlike Alaska — then back to Tomas.

They remain looking at each other, Lexi weighted with sorrow.

‘I can call someone? There is someone I would like to speak to.’

Tomas shakes his head and Lexi gently nods.

‘I can get you the money. You want to know where the money is?’

‘This is no longer about the money.’

Again Lexi nods.

‘Please.’ His voice now grainy and small. ‘I would like to call someone. He is expecting me.’ Lexi draws deep, uneven breaths in an attempt to hold his dignity. The man shivers, and can’t steady the vibration breaking his words. ‘I would like to explain to him. I don’t think he will understand.’

Tomas again shakes his head.

Lexi looks at him directly. ‘He has nothing to do with this. Please. He has nothing to do with this. You have me. Take the money. Please.’

The dog, without regard to either of them, patters behind Lexi’s couch, looks to Tomas, squats and pees again.

‘What’s wrong with your dog?’

‘The dog?’

Tomas has to repeat the question, as the question, clearly, is off-script. ‘The dog. The dog.’

Lexi’s brow unfurrows slightly, perhaps hopeful. ‘She has diabetes.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Her name?’

‘Don’t ask me. I’m asking you. What is the name of your dog?’

‘Mishka.’

Tomas sits forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘I want you to kill your dog. Take a knife from the kitchen and kill your dog. I want you to put this animal out of its misery.’

Lexi is struck with grief. His expression slips register, becomes honest, mouth slightly open, his brow creased, sorrowful and pained. He rises, ageing right before Tomas’s eyes, he shakes, appears unstable, turns to go to the kitchen, but isn’t able to take the steps, to move his feet. The man can’t stand completely upright, can’t straighten himself. It’s also clear that Lexi is so terrified that he will do whatever Tomas demands, perhaps with the hope that whatever happens to him, whatever Tomas has in mind, it will be swift and decent.

Tomas now actively dislikes him. A man should always have dignity. He regrets the direction this has taken.

The walk to the kitchen takes a long time. It’s probably not a good idea to tell him to get a knife. But Lexi isn’t thinking, is in some animal state where he’ll do whatever Tomas tells him. Tomas lets him walk to the kitchen, and when the man doesn’t come right out he follows after.

Lexi stands over the counter with a steak knife to his ribs, testing, finding a proper space between them. The man is shaking so badly he can’t hold the knife steady. Tomas picks a cup up from the counter. He knows these situations, knows exactly what to do. Push the event off-kilter.

‘Tea?’ he says, holding the cup at eye level.

To Lexi, this is nonsense. Exactly as it should be.

Tomas punches him in the temple with the cup, and Lexi’s head hits the kitchen cupboard. Tomas punches again, left hook, without the cup, left temple, to knock him out. He isn’t sure that Lexi is unconscious, but the knife is free. One blow, blunt and certain, and Lexi won’t be the same person when he wakes.

Tomas picks up the knife and tells himself that enough is enough.

* * *

The Russian wakes and finds himself laid out on the couch, a wet towel wrapped about his head, and Tomas sat at the edge of the opposite couch with a cup of tea. Tomas has had a shower. His hair is neatly combed. The dog is missing.

‘Where were you going?’ Tomas points the cup to the bedroom. ‘The suitcases. Where did you think you’d go?’

Lexi attempts to sit upright, fails, appears to be looking for his dog.

‘Where’s the German?’

‘He doesn’t know anything.’

‘Concentrate on the question.’ Tomas speaks very slowly, and hopes he didn’t hit Lexi too hard. ‘Where is Mattaus Falsen? I want to know where he is.’

Lexi’s head jolts on hearing Mattaus’s name. ‘Limassol. He’s staying in Limassol.’

‘Now you’re lying to me.’

‘He’s in Limassol. I took him back to his hotel before I came here.’

‘In Limassol?’

Lexi nods.

‘Which hotel?’

The man refuses to answer, looks fearfully at Tomas but refuses to answer.

‘Tell me the hotel and room number.’

‘The Miramar. Room 709.’

‘When did you intend to see him next?’

‘Tonight. I go back to the club before they close.’

‘What time is he expecting you?’

‘Four,’ Lexi stutters, ‘four or five.’

‘And were you both intending to leave?’

Again, Lexi nods. ‘He thinks this is a holiday.’

‘Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going back to Limassol.’

Lexi gives a cautious nod. His eyes intent on Tomas.

‘Good.’ Tomas sets the cup down and stands up. ‘I have to tell you, this is against my better judgement.’

As Tomas turns the car to the road another dog starts up a bark. A cold yip, sharp in a humid night. Glassy. At this moment it becomes clear to Tomas how problematic this is — the dog, Lexi, have compromised his preparations. It isn’t unfixable, but it isn’t clean. His decision to stay in the house, on the expectation that Mattaus and Lexi would return together, was, in hindsight, a poor choice. While this is messy, Tomas thinks he can find a satisfactory result. Neither strategy, Rike, Mattaus, is working.

* * *

It’s possible that he hit Lexi too hard. The man can’t focus. Worries about his dog. Can’t speak without a stutter, and Tomas hates to hear a stutter. Lexi operates within a bubble in which much of what is spoken is misheard, and Tomas wishes there was a simpler resolve. This idea is too complex. This is what happens when he works ad hoc. He shouldn’t be driving at this hour. He shouldn’t be wasting time, because this might possibly be a terrible waste of time.