An Autumn Hunting

Chapter 41

I’d faced guns, knives, the occasional broken bottle, but never the possibility I might be kicked to death. Tynaliev would weep with laughter, once he’d got over his anger at not being able to kill me himself. Dead may be dead, but who wants to be a laughing stock into the bargain?

‘Don’t worry, Mr Borubaev, I don’t want you dead. Yet. But it will amuse me to watch Achura show you that being a kathoey isn’t all lipgloss, implants and mascara. You have to know how to survive as well, and theirs can be a cruel world.’

‘We shook hands, agreed the deal. Why would you jeopardise that?’ I asked, wondering how I could talk my way out of a beating.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that. I fully intend to keep my word, work with Mr Aliyev. I’m just not sure whether or not our little venture requires your future presence.’

I listened, but all my attention was on Achura as she advanced towards me. I jerked a thumb in the direction of the driver who stood near the gate.

‘Put him in a dress and size twelve heels, he’d still look more like a woman than you,’ I said, hoping to anger Achura into a mistake, something to allow me a second to take advantage. But the insult passed her by, her stance that of a feral animal waiting to pounce. Suddenly she pivoted on one foot, swung through three hundred and sixty degrees and aimed a kick at my head. I pulled back, felt air move in front of my face.

‘She’s merely playing with you, Borubaev,’ Quang said. ‘Much more fun for her and me if the fight doesn’t end straight away.’

I moved backwards, feeling my way with my feet, not taking my eyes off Achura. I was learning a new lesson; when you fight someone with Muay Thai skills, you don’t just watch their hands. Achura launched an elbow at my face, a knee at my groin, then dragged me forward.

I could smell tobacco on Achura’s breath, but the habit hadn’t slowed her down at all. Even if smoking didn’t kill me, it looked like a smoker would. Every blow was pulled at the last second, leaving me staggering, confused, but so far unhurt. It felt like dancing with a mad person, one whose every move was unpredictable, a choreography from hell.

‘Time for the red paint, I think,’ Quang called out. A strange way to describe blood, I thought, but stood still, panting, sweat dribbling down my back in the humid air, as Achura stepped back, walked with indescribable grace to the veranda and smeared red chalk upon her fists.

Even as I was puzzling out the significance of the chalk, Achura hit me over and over again, each blow nothing more than a tap but leaving me dazed and confused all the same. I was used to fist-fights in Bishkek bars, watching two men square off, drunkenly telegraph each blow which took an eternity to land. This was like being enveloped in a swarm of bees, impossible to swat away.

After less than a minute, Achura stepped back, made a wai of respect and walked away around the side of the villa. I hadn’t landed a single blow, and felt as if I’d endured fifty.

‘Just in case you were wondering about my thoughts on leniency,’ Quang said, mockery and scorn clear in his voice, ‘each of the red marks on your clothes and face is a memento of where Achura could have landed a fatal blow, while you were still wondering whether to put your fists up.’

‘So loyalty pays off,’ I said, hearing the tremor in my voice, hating myself for it.

‘And disloyalty pays the price,’ Quang said. ‘In your case, humiliation, rather than pain or death. This time.’

I nodded. There didn’t seem to be anything I could say.

‘Please, go into the guesthouse and clean yourself up. There should be clothes there that will fit you.’

As I walked past him, Quang pulled a theatrical face of disgust.

‘And shower, Mr Borubaev,’ he said. ‘You stink.’