Instead of death, an official had come, with dirty shoes and a big black briefcase, the caretaker in tow. They’d let themselves in and covered their noses as they spoke. The doctor had been called, the union, and more.

  The leaves had still been on the trees, there had been warmth in the air, the sound of bees …

  So he’d let them take him, like a child: a brown-paper label tied around his wrist, they had packed him off, no goodbyes or hellos, to a place with mud and wind and salt marshes, and a lone pine tree. He’d lost himself along the way, like a leaf blown on the wind. The crayon rubbed the paper. He could smell the wax.

  Shortly before supper, he dropped the crayon stub, exhausted. There it lay before him, the map of his recent past. He could follow it, tracing with his finger, right up until Vlad.

  Vlad, who had let him speak, who had nodded, smiled, questioned, and most of all, listened.

  When would Vlad come back? He had a tickling in his bones, a clawing in his brain, something trying to get out. The story wasn’t quite finished; it wasn’t quite right. If only he could work it out!

  The door scraped.

  ‘Do you need the toilet?’

  Anatoly Borisovich did not turn his head.

  My Name Is Sveta

  Sveta regarded herself in the full-length mirror of the bathroom as the horizon swallowed the sun. Electric light was supposed to be flattering, but the black polyester dress stuck to her every dimple and bulge. A slip would be unavoidable.

  ‘Mama! Come out of the bathroom! You’ve been in there for ages!’ Albina shouted, hammering at the door with her fists. Sveta smiled: the door had been closed for no more than twenty seconds. The child was a live-wire. Such spirit!

  ‘Yes, baby-kins, I’m coming.’ Sveta’s sweetness at home, around Albina, was a secret she treasured closely. By day, in her persona of Svetlana Mikhailovna Drozhdovskaya, part-time teacher of English, she was strict, often demanding, blessed with an eagle’s glare and a sigh of admonition that could knock a goat off its feet. She took her teaching seriously. After all, Years 2–6 presented a critical stage in pupil development: they could still be encouraged, their horizons expanded. Occasionally she scared the more timid ones with her passion: she could see their bottom lips trembling, their brains churning to butter as she demanded more of them than they were used to. But they would thank her when they were older if just a grain of that passion was left imprinted on their souls. Sveta knew she did a good job. She received the largest bouquets on leavers’ day, as well as the best fruit each new term. And, of course, a large dollop of the children’s respect, which was at least as important.

  She leant towards the mirror and applied a rich clot of lipstick. She considered its effect, head on one side, and decided it would do very well. In her bones, she knew her talents were wasted. It was all very well making future plumbers and book-keepers recite Shakespeare with something approximating a British accent, but it lacked challenge. There was a hole in her life. Not a man-shaped hole, but a hole, nonetheless. Maybe that was why she loved mystics and psychics, and maybe that was what had made her answer Gor’s advert. The excitement of … something else. She gazed into the mirror and imagined the fit of the bodice, the feathers at her shoulder, the glint of the tiara. The magician’s assistant, or the acrobat’s assistant: this was the life she had not lived, yet.

  She had not lied when she told Gor she’d made her acrobat go. She had no regrets. But she needed a teaspoon of the extraordinary: a chance to be brave and to feel mystery, whether it lay in the bottom of a teacup, flitted around a candle, or was secured in a magical cabinet.

  She dotted powder on her nose as Albina rained blows on the door. Tuesday’s rehearsal had been very strange. Firstly, Gor had telephoned her in the middle of the afternoon to remind her of their appointment, something that was clearly unnecessary. Secondly, he had insisted on staying on the line for a further ten minutes to lecture her on the drought in Central Asia, while she was in the middle of trying to set her hair. And thirdly, when she’d actually arrived, he’d been by turn aloof and excitable, rushing from one trick to the next, from room to room, darting between the lights and the props, hands shaking. There had even been a flush of colour in his cheeks, at times. Strangest of all though, he’d attempted to smile – a number of times. She didn’t yet know Gor like a brother, but she knew him well enough – smiling was a bad sign. She had been tempted to telephone him in the intervening days, just to check that he was alive. But he was unlikely to answer the telephone, or even the door. She dearly hoped Madame Zoya would be able to give him the comfort he needed tonight.

  She opened the bathroom door.

  ‘I don’t know why you bother with that lipstick, Mama. You still look old,’ the girl smirked, pushing past to take her place before the mirror.

  ‘Albina, that isn’t kind. I am forty-three, and I look forty-three, that is all.’

  ‘You look old. Look at me! I’m young and … and …’ Albina regarded her body, twisting and turning in the mirror. ‘And … fat!’ She stuck her tongue out at her reflection and puffed her cheeks. ‘You feed me the wrong food, Mama. You’re making me fat. We should have Danish yoghurt every day! Why don’t we have Danish yoghurt? That’s what the other girls have.’

  Sveta smiled as she walked towards the bedroom. ‘We don’t need imported food. Those yoghurts are full of chemicals. And think about the kilometres they have to come.’

  ‘You’re so old fashioned!’ Albina followed her from the bathroom. ‘Just because it’s imported, it doesn’t mean it’s bad.’

  ‘Yes, but it doesn’t mean it’s good either, malysh. When I was little—’

  ‘Boring!’ bellowed Albina, ‘Boring, boring! Why are you always talking about you? You don’t care about me at all! You won’t even buy me yoghurt!’ She stomped from the room, feet thudding on the parquet as she headed for her lair. ‘You won’t buy me anything!’ she added, slamming her door.

  Sveta looked after the girl and breathed out slowly. She hadn’t thought having a daughter would be like this. She could dimly remember her daydreams from before Albina was born: she’d envisaged a companion, with similar tastes, who would help with the cooking, go to dance lessons, enjoy the poetry of Pushkin and the pop of Alla Pugachova. Someone who would cherish her, and read to her in the evenings. Not someone who would teach a parakeet to swear. She smiled and wriggled into her slip, patting it down this way and that. You never knew what you were going to get. That was half the fun.

  She renewed her lipstick for luck, and went to the hallway for her galoshes. She could make out Kopek saying something disgusting and her daughter humming a TV jingle for processed cheese.

  ‘I’ll see you later, sweet-ums!’ she called out. ‘Auntie Vera from next door will be here at seven, so not long to wait. Make sure you take your bath.’

  Albina’s head poked through her doorway at the end of the corridor. Kopek was sitting in her hair. ‘Tell Mister Papasyan … tell him I hope he feels better.’

  Madame Zoya’s apartment sprawled on the top floor of one of Azov’s oldest buildings, right in the town centre. The four flights of stairs up to it were wooden, steep and uneven. Sveta passed bricked-up doorways, crooked nooks and niches, and the banisters themselves resembled sinewed, twisting snakes. She puffed, cursing the slip that stuck to her tights, threatening to bind her legs as she moved, and her hand trembled as she pressed the perished buzzer of Flat 13. After a long wait, silent but for her panting, the door opened a crack.

  ‘What business?’

  ‘The spirits!’

  The door creaked open a few centimetres. Before her in the half-light stood a tiny, wizened woman, her puny body entirely swathed in shiny purple, including her head, where perched an attempt at a turban. It sat upon her strangely solid hair like a purple hen on a blue-black nest. Piercing black eyes, accentuated by a smudge of violet eye-liner, peered out around a long, sharp nose.

  ‘Madame Zoya.’ Sveta took a little curtsey. ‘Thank you for arranging this.’

  The eyes crawled over Sveta. There was a grunt and a yawn, and the head craned forward, the light from the stairwell throwing its contours into sharp relief: a face ancient and creviced, like Mount Elbrus. ‘My dear, my dear … erm, dearest. I have just woken from my preparatory nap. Who are you?’

  Sveta’s cheeks wobbled with confused indignation as she introduced herself, adding, ‘I am with Gor Papasyan, of course. You recall? We spoke on the telephone. We have met many times before, Madame.’

  ‘Of course! I recall everything, child, there’s no need to explain. It is an honour to be of assistance to the gentleman, and indeed, your good self. I have heard so much about the gentleman – at the library, in the theatre, when I go to collect my pension, and of course at the Elderly Club. Sadly, he is not a member. I am thrilled, I must tell you. He is of a more interesting quality than most I get around my table.’ She cackled, and paused, head snapping from side to side, her hen-turban quivering. ‘Where is he, anyway?’

  ‘He is making his own way here, Madame. I did offer a lift, but he wanted to be alone.’ She leant forward. ‘It is his pride, I think. You’ll have heard about his pride?’

  ‘Yes, and I hear he keeps himself to himself.’ She crinkled the corner of an eye at Sveta, holding wide the door. ‘Come in, child, and make yourself comfortable. I am expecting a crowd tonight. Oh yes, everyone wants to know what is troubling our mysterious Armenian. I think they’re interested in his money, to be frank. There are stories of gold. You know he was a bank manager?’

  Sveta’s previous contact with Zoya was limited to a series of unsuccessful try-outs at the Amateur Dramatics Society, and various psychics’ meetings at a friend’s house, where the lady sometimes turned up and scared them all to death. Being received in the doyenne’s dominion gave her a frisson of excitement. She was led into the salon, large and high-ceilinged, with long, curtained windows all across one wall. Her first impression – that it was impossibly dark, over-filled with furnishings of every era and studded with horrifically stuffed animals – was swiftly overtaken by the smell. The air that hung between those ancient walls was heavy with incense, rich tobacco and a noxious spirit: rum, perhaps. It smelled like the kind of place where things happened. Sveta’s hands were clammy with excitement.

  Zoya hopped around the room, her spidery fingers rearranging half-full ashtrays and ugly ornaments. ‘I need to concentrate!’ She stopped to sniff at a half-smoked cigar. ‘Ah! Yes, I am recalling.’ Her eyelids fluttered. ‘Our cast of characters: here’s the run-down: we’ve got Alla from the White Flamingo – she’s poor at channelling energy, a bit floppy all round, but she gives me discounts on rum, so it’s a benefit to have her. And there’s Masha from the Palace of Youth – she’s very keen on dance and men; but then, aren’t we all?’ She stopped to wheeze. ‘Then there’s Nastya from the library, who has a thing for elderly folk: she’s quite nosey, fairly experienced and … erm, hang on.’ She lit the cigar and puffed a smoke ring into the air. Sveta coughed. ‘Where did we get to? Oh yes, of course! There’s Valya, from the bank. She is a sceptic, but she frightens easily. She’s been coming for a while. Her husband passed away but he won’t talk to her. Now …’ She fixed Sveta with a bright black eye. ‘Valya will be bringing her lodger, the handsome Vlad – he’s a medical student, works at the sanatorium. He’s new. Came round the other evening to introduce himself: helped out with some DIY – I have to check new sitters’ credentials, you see. He was most helpful … really quite delicious.’ She shut her eyes and pouted. ‘And he’s bringing Polly. She’s a friend of Alla’s … sort of. Troubled background, she’s been once before, but … we’d best not … She’s a medical student also, works in a pharmacy – good for supplies!’ Zoya cackled, cigar smoke erupting from her mouth and rising lazily to the ochre ceiling.

  ‘But I haven’t a clue what their souls are like! Ha! Now, can you tell me more about Papasyan, before he gets here? I’ve done a little digging, but …’ She clawed at Sveta’s sleeve with her sharp fingers.

  ‘Well, no, Madame, not really. He is a very private person. But the silent telephone calls, noises in the hall, the headless rabbit, the moth sandwich, the face at the window: all these things suggest, to me at least, magic, or spirit movement, or some other—’

  ‘—manifestation of evil intent?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yesss!’ Madame Zoya stretched out the word as a snake hisses in its coils. ‘Hey ho! We must get the table out, and put up a barricade – to stop the smokers from collapsing the balcony. Believe me, it will be necessary. Here, pass me that stool, will you? And the bookcase, just shove the bookcase over here,’ Zoya commanded in her curious, gravel-crunch voice.

  Sveta was momentarily immobile, utterly surprised at being commanded to shift furniture while wearing a slip. ‘Shouldn’t we wait, Madame, until a man gets here …’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Zoya, her head cocked to one side. ‘You look strong, I’d give you at least seventy-five kilos, no?’ Sveta blushed. ‘Don’t doubt your own abilities! Take that end, and on my count: ready, heave!’

  The ladies shifted the fully laden constructivist bookcase across the wooden floor and into the doorway to the balcony.

  ‘There! That should prevent any accidents,’ Zoya laughed. ‘Now, let’s make sure we have the lighting levels right.’ She flicked a switch and they stood together in total blackness.

  ‘Madame Zoya? I think that is a little dark.’

  ‘Aw …’

  ‘No, really, Madame.’

  ‘Nonsense! How am I to concentrate if we have light annoying my eyelids! I think that is about right.’

  ‘But Madame Zoya, I cannot see anything.’

  ‘That’s the point.’

  ‘Don’t the spirits seek the light, Madame? Just gentle light – candles?’

  ‘Candles?’ Zoya considered. ‘Ahhh! Yes, I think you’re right. I will find some.’ She flicked the light switch and went to rummage in a drawer that sounded like it housed a thousand jigsaws, all with no lids.

  A buzz proclaimed the arrival of the first guest. Zoya hopped back to the room, three red candles in her hand. ‘Look, new ones, still in wrappers! Right, erm … sorry my dear, what was your name?’

  ‘Sveta,’ said Sveta flatly.

  ‘Don’t be offended, Sveta dear, it is my age. Now remember: for the séance, it will be your job to ensure there is absolute calm. I will be otherwise engaged.’

  ‘Yes, Madame Zoya. All will be calm,’ said Sveta seriously. She would employ her teaching skills to ensure the conversation with the spirit world was orderly. She flexed her hands and cracked her knuckles.

  A procession of young and curious, old and experienced presented themselves at the door. Sveta took coats, smiled and tried to imbue calm into every handshake. Her own hands felt sweaty. When would Gor arrive?

  The bell buzzed. She leapt to open the door, expecting Gor’s morose features, and stood transfixed, the breath solidified in her throat. Before her stood the beautiful young man she’d seen at the Palace of Youth.

  ‘Good evening,’ he murmured, grey eyes caressing hers.

  ‘Yes?’ said Sveta with a breathless smile, her eyes moving to his parted lips as her heartbeat fluttered beneath her breast.

  ‘We’re here for the séance,’ the tall, dark girl at his side spoke. Sveta jumped at the words: she had not noticed the girl. Dark eyes assessed her.

  ‘Ah, Vovka, you made it then?’ Valya cried from across the hallway, bustling forward, gold teeth flashing, her plump hands extended in welcome.

  Sveta stood her ground. She wanted a proper introduction.

  ‘My name is Sveta, I am assisting Madame Zoya this evening. And you are?’

  ‘Vladimir Petrovich, but please just call me Vlad.’

  ‘Oh, how modern!’ Sveta held out her hand. He took it in his, and placed his lips to her skin.

  ‘Polina,’ said the girl, ‘people call me Polly.’ She smiled, her eyes gazing over Sveta’s head, and pushed past into the flat.

  ‘Shoes off!’ Sveta commanded as their heels tapped over the threshold.

  ‘I thought you’d got lost,’ said Valya over her glass of compote. ‘Alla and I waited on the corner for ages, but we had to give up: she was getting her trouble.’ Valya gave Polly a meaningful nudge, and the girl grimaced, moving swiftly into the next room.

  ‘I am so sorry, Valya,’ Vlad took up her free hand and kissed that too.

  Her face glowed. ‘Let’s go into the salon. You met Madame Zoya the other night, didn’t you? You’ll have to show me your handiwork!’

  ‘By all means, but one moment! Let me get rid of these boots.’

  Sveta’s lips twitched as she patted her hair in the hallway mirror. Behind her, Vlad’s buttocks curved like twin moons as he bent to slide off his boots.

  ‘It was nothing,’ continued Vlad. ‘I did a little inventory of work that needs to be done, took a look at the balcony.’

  ‘You’re such a good boy!’ smiled Valya.

  Gor was the last to arrive. He paced about the hall and said little, trying to ignore the curious eyes that blinked at him around the doorpost of the salon. He clutched his coat to him and would have kept it on if Sveta had not insisted.

  ‘Oh come now, Gor, the spirits will not come if they think you are about to leave!’

  ‘The spirits will not come, full stop! Sveta, listen.’ He stood before her, pale and miserable. ‘This is all nonsense, and I should not have come. I was wrong to let you think this could help, but I did not want to hurt your feelings. I—’

  The words disappeared as Madame Zoya swept upon him, as far as a tiny woman with a purple chicken on her head could sweep.

  ‘My dear Gor!’ she clasped his hands to her bony bosom.

  ‘Madame Zoya,’ he eyed her carefully, ‘I don’t think we’ve met?’

  ‘Not in person, as such, but I feel I know you: your aura is so strong, Azov positively reeks of it!’ She grinned, showing twin rows of tiny brown teeth book-ended by sharp canines. ‘Let me assure you, it is never too late to wrestle with fate. I am thrilled you have chosen me to help you tonight!’