Andrea Bennett - Two Cousins of Azov

‘Huh! Did you hear that? I hope he broke his ankle,’ said Albina.

‘The scoundrel! He deserves it!’

‘Whoever it was,’ said Albina, ‘it was definitely human.’

‘Definitely.’

They picked their way across the roof to the spot where the figure had stood.

‘What’s that?’ Gor pointed with a bony finger towards a swaying silver birch. Albina pointed the torch. There, in amongst the branches of the tree, hung a long pole, a plastic face mask, the kind you might buy at the flea market up in Rostov, attached to one end.

‘Well, I’ll be damned! There’s an end to it, Albina,’ said Gor with a satisfied snort and a tug on his beard. ‘There’ll be no more faces at the window, I feel.’

‘And no more tapping,’ smiled Albina.

Polly’s nights were becoming indistinguishable from her days. She seemed to spend most of her time now walking in the twilight, or sitting shivering on a collection of stinking buses. Just a few days ago she had been a princess, ready to claim her kingdom. The keys to her future had been within her grasp. But now everything was crashing down. She could hardly move with the weight of it. She hadn’t been to a lecture for days. She hadn’t slept. She’d lost her job and her boyfriend. But worse, much worse, the old men, so frail, so decrepit, were just not giving in.

Her right ankle throbbed. She could hardly think with the pain of it. She felt raw, half dead, crazy with the disappointment of it all. Sparks went off behind her eyes every time she moved her foot. It might be broken. It would have to stay broken: she couldn’t lose now.

Monday morning was spent staring at the walls, chewing tablets she’d stolen from the pharmacy, smoking endless bitter Pall Malls and trying to think up a plan. She had to get things straight.

Crinkle-cheeks was not nearly poorly enough. Instead of turning to a jellified mass of ga-ga, bed-bound and terrified, he was getting better. She almost had to laugh at the idiocy of it. She had thought it would be so simple to scare him into relapse: she knew all his fears, after all. She knew the weight of conscience that pressed on him, the visions that preyed on him in his twilight days. She’d paid him a couple of visits, quietly, at night, to put the fear of God into him. It had worn her nerves, used up all her cunning. But he had proved detestably resilient; hadn’t really turned a hair. And soon he’d be going home, to the flat she’d promised to a tenant; the same tenant whose deposit she had already spent. The same tenant who was due to move in within days. She would have to charm him. That’s what she would do: embark on a passionate affair, perhaps; persuade him to sign over his apartment, and then hurry him on his way.

And as for Papasyan: the girl was making him brave. He wouldn’t have dared go up on the roof on his own, that much was clear. But now there could be no more tapping: she couldn’t even make it up the stairs. The old goat had stuck fast, and no kind of haunting had shifted him. She had to admit, her psychological approach had failed.

At about midday, long after her room-mates had scuttled away for lessons and whispers about sex and sanctions, she levered herself off her lumpy mattress, quelled the shaking in her arms and brushed her hair, the full hundred strokes. She would start with the easy, and she would be neat. The black tights went on, eventually, the wool skirt, the boots – although she couldn’t fasten the right one. She applied a light powder puff, ignoring the blue-grey bags beneath her eyes and her growling stomach. There was no tea, no pryaniki , no bread. As she shivered on the trolleybus into town, the pills in her stomach frothed up in her bile like an evil milkshake, and she almost puked.

Her journey over, she stretched her face as she made her way around the White Flamingo’s displays, practising a smile. Her skin felt odd: rubbery, heavy on her bones. Her gaze washed over the hatted heads and sloping shoulders, seeking out grey hair, pallid skin, the dead eyes that probed. Maybe it had been a mistake to be offhand with her at the séance. Maybe she would be difficult. Polly would have to flatter and woo, pet and prime. But the old bag would come across. She wouldn’t abandon Polly in her hour of need.

A job at the White Flamingo would be a stopgap. It could work: there would be ailing women, lots of gossip, in-roads to people’s families. The possibilities were endless – if dull. She just needed a foot in the door, and to borrow some cash.

The clunky boots dragged and her palms sweated under her gloves. She approached the counter, an approximation of a friendly smile arranged around her teeth, and raised her dark eyes.

‘Alla! It’s good to see you! How are you?’

Alla’s head came up. She gave Polly a grey stare before turning away, hands busily writing price labels for garish Polish socks.

‘You wanted to talk to me about your stomach, the other day? I’m sorry I haven’t been around much. You don’t look well, and that’s the truth.’

Polly waited, knowing the woman would be unable to resist. But instead of snapping the bait like a piranha, Alla said nothing, simply sniffing loudly and turning away to carry on writing in her neat, looping script.

‘Or was it your feet?’ Polly persisted, nails tapping on the counter. She pushed her face towards the older woman and raised her eyebrows with concern. She waited. Her ankle throbbed. ‘Or your you-know-what?’ The words came out half garbled.

‘I don’t want your help.’ Alla didn’t look up, but her thin upper lip curled as she spoke. ‘Go away.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re a disgrace!’ Her head snapped back, face sharp. ‘Please move away from my counter. You stink!’

A dull blush spread across Polly’s cheeks. She laughed.

‘You’ve heard, then. But, you know, you shouldn’t believe everything you hear. It’s just gossip. Let me—’

‘How could you do this to me? How could you…’ Alla sniffed again, her hands curling on the unwritten price tags. ‘Sex on the counter. After everything I’ve done—’

‘It was a mistake! Everyone makes mistakes! But I need your help—’

‘You’ll get no more help from me! I won’t be seen talking to you, to be frank. I’m a respectable woman.’ Alla moved away, going to the other end of the counter. Polly followed her, stumbling.

‘You promised my mother—’

‘I’ve already telegrammed your mother!’ They stared at each other. ‘So unless you’re going to buy some socks, get out.’

Polly leant over the counter, eyes bulging. ‘But I helped you! I listened to you, day after day. I got you tablets, really good deals! Now I need a job, and you can get me one. Come on!’ Polly’s hands closed around Alla’s, but the older woman leapt away, dropping socks all over the floor.

‘You, work here?’ She stared at the younger girl, her face a smear of disgust. ‘Leaving prints of your backside all over the counters? You’re joking!’

‘How dare you?’

‘Oh, I dare! You’re not getting a job through me. I helped you before, I won’t do it again!’ She paced to the other end of the counter and began writing out a label. Polly watched her intently for a moment.

‘You know, it’s no wonder your stomach’s been bad,’ she said with a purr, ‘when you think about what those tablets I sold you really were.’

Alla’s head shot up, socks forgotten. But Polly had already disappeared into the crowd.

Sveta heard Albina before she saw her. A slamming door followed by the cheery clatter of mugs going over on a tea trolley, a flurry of voices, and…

‘Mama! We’ve been having such fun!’ She bounded through the door and onto the bed, flinging her arms around Sveta’s neck, pressing her face into her chest before drawing back with an assessing look. ‘You haven’t done your hair! And no lipstick?’ Albina gazed into her mother’s face. ‘What have you been doing here?’