Londongrad

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

“What?”

It was four in the morning. It was raining. Water sluiced down the windows, and I was awake and still dressed, but in no mood for drunks at the door and I yelled at the intercom, fuck off. It buzzed again. Out of habit, I grabbed the gun Tolya gave me, went down, yanked open the front door. What? What!

Still in her party dress, Elena Gagarin stood on the steps. She looked scared. Her face was streaked from the rain, make-up smeared over it.

“I want to stay here tonight,” she said. “I am sorry for breaking glass at club.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Come in if you want, I’ll make coffee, and I’ll walk you home.”

“I saw him.”

“Who?”

“Friend of Valentina.”

“Which friend?”

“This guy, he was at the party. Greg, he calls himself. I’m going in my house, he calls to me, and I say, go away, go away.”

“What else?”

I wasn’t sure if this woman, Gagarin, had picked up on what I’d been telling Fiona. Being with her felt like having napalm sprayed on you.

“Greg threatened me once. Said I shouldn’t listen to what Val tells me. I don’t understand. I could sleep in your bed, but we don’t do anything.”

“How do you know Greg?”

“I told you. I am friend of Valentina, of Tolya, best friend, BFF, you say.”

“I’ll walk you home,” I said. “Now.”

“I’ll go, I don’t beg,” she said suddenly, turned her back to me and marched to the door.

“Let me walk you,” I called.

She didn’t answer. Just went out into the rain, back hunched over, heading for her place. She told me it was just around the corner, and I went upstairs and and sat down in front of the TV, waiting for late calls from New York. I must have dozed, and I was still in the big leather chair, watching reruns of the Canadian women’s curling team, when sirens woke me. I looked at my watch.

It was five in the morning, and by the time I got to the window, only the faint screams of the sirens were left behind, like a bad, bad hangover.