When Sveta turned the light on, a matter of seconds later, Gor discovered he had been wrestling Valya. At this close range, and with her orange hair disguised by the shadows, he saw, finally, that he knew her. Many years before, and as a brunette, she had been one of his most reliable and accurate bank clerks. How strange life was, and oddly comforting at times. ‘My dear Valentina Yegorovna!’ he said, voice shaking as he sat back on his knees. ‘Forgive me, if you are injured?’

  He felt a pang of guilt as she remained heaped on the floor, crying and laughing at herself. She had broken a nail on his forehead, which was bleeding.

  ‘Be calm, everyone! There is no fire here!’ Sveta’s voice rang out from the doorway, where she panted. She steadied herself, and took in the situation, looking for the helpers, and the ones who needed help. ‘Vlad, Polly, please right the table – carefully, beware of Madame Zoya’s toes, I think she is still in a trance. Alla, please assist Madame Zoya, we must ensure the spirits have left her and that she is unhurt. Nastya, please help Gor and Valya to their feet, and apply a cold compress if necessary. Breathe, Valya, breathe, that’s it! She looks a little … Oh, really now, please stop crying! Anybody would think you were afraid. There is no need to be upset. We’ve just made a little mess here, that’s all. There’s no harm done. All will be well.’ Her tone warmed, as if she had been talking to Albina, and her tight smile was replaced by one that held genuine warmth. ‘I have to say, it was a very … energetic spirit—’

  ‘Energetic? It was evil!’ Polly’s words rang out loud as she stood at the head of the table, hands on hips.

  ‘—but I’m sure its intentions were good!’ Sveta countered. ‘There is nothing to fear!’

  ‘Nothing to fear? I’d say plenty to fear!’

  Sveta’s brow furrowed. ‘Come now, everyone … help your neighbour, and take your seats quickly! Hush now!’

  Polly and Vlad righted the remaining chairs as the other sitters collected themselves up and shook themselves off, some having a glass of water, and some wishing for something stronger. The broken candles were scooped up and put away, and the ruined tablecloth bundled into the bin. Valya squared her shoulders and wiped her nose, laughing a little at her own nervousness as Gor apologised to her again for their coming together. She nodded and smiled, looking down into the yellow spotted handkerchief he offered her. Perhaps he wasn’t so bad.

  Zoya alone did not move, still seated in her place, staring at the opposite wall. Her chair had been knocked backwards and now rested, two legs on the floor and two legs in the air, against the rococo chest of drawers behind her. She reclined with a far-away look in her eyes, murmuring something, fingernails gently scratching at the purple material covering her thighs. Polly pushed Alla aside and flicked the chair back upright, catching Madame with her forearm as she slumped forward. Leaning over, she peered into her irises and tapped at her cheek with sharp, insistent strokes. ‘She’ll be with us shortly.’

  ‘You’re such a professional, Polly,’ muttered Alla.

  ‘Here, Madame, have a little sniff of smelling salts … that’s the way.’ Polly smiled.

  The circle reconvened, the glassy-eyed sitters taking their seats, and a cold quiet descended over their heads. Down in the street a cat screeched. All eyes were on the table, and Gor shivered.

  Etched into the shiny black wood in a large, childish scrawl, there was one word:

  Suspicion

  ‘What else can I get for you, eh?’

  ‘Nothing, really. I am quite all right.’

  Sveta poked her head into every recess in the kitchen, turning up a cheese rind, the end of Friday’s now exceedingly hard loaf of bread, and two gherkins. Gor ignored her and stood in the hallway, pressing the buttons on the telephone, once more trying the now-familiar number. The line clicked through with thumps and bumps, the telephone at the other end eventually buzzing, on and on. But still his cousin did not pick up. Where could he be? Out drawing, no doubt. But for three days running?

  ‘Gor, people who are quite all right don’t hide away in their apartments all weekend. You’ve nothing in the fridge! We can’t have you fading away. We’ve got magic to make, and rehearsals to hold and …’ She employed her sweetest cajoling tone, but Gor simply shuffled past her and folded himself into his armchair, immoveable as the war memorial glowering over Azov from the hilltop. Sveta persisted: she needed him to show some life, to react with some warmth. It would make her feel better. He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair as if drilling holes.

  ‘Thank you for your concern, but all is well. I appreciate you … dropping by, but it’s not necessary.’

  ‘Well, Albina’s at karate club, so I just thought—’

  ‘And you don’t need to call me every morning either—’

  ‘But it’s no trouble at all!’ she cut in. ‘And I do feel responsible, for the fright you had—’

  ‘I did not have a fright.’

  ‘You did!’

  ‘I was alarmed by the other people, and the noise, and that stupid woman grabbing my head—’

  ‘Yes, Valya left you battered: what nails she has! I can still see the marks.’ She plunged forward to fuss over the scabs at Gor’s temple as he drew further back into his chair. ‘It wasn’t deliberate, I’m sure.’

  ‘Yes! No! Of course not! But that’s not the point!’

  ‘So, you’re not hiding away because—’

  ‘I’m not hiding!’

  ‘So, you’re not staying in, because you were scared?’

  ‘No! I needed time … to think!’

  Sveta returned to the kitchen. ‘You must have some ham around the place?’

  ‘The séance was a trick, of course: nothing but a sham. Knocks and candles! Spirit writing! What rot!’

  She poked her head around the door. ‘But you saw it yourself? No one could have forged the writing – there was no opportunity. And what about the smoking candles – supernatural, you must admit?’

  Gor shook his head. ‘Sveta, you think that because it excites you: you lack logic!’

  ‘And you want to explain away everything, when sometimes it’s just not possible!’

  ‘Think about it!’ He pushed himself from his chair and began to pace the room. ‘The table was under a cloth – the writing was already there. It could have been done at any time. And the candles – that was some sort of powder, added before they were lit. I’ve been smelling smoke around here for days …’

  Sveta stood in the doorway, mouth puckered as if eating something unpalatable: half a lemon, or some imported yoghurt.

  ‘Well … if you’re going to be stubborn about it, I suppose it could have been a trick … But why?’ Sveta laughed at the possibility and clutched at the fat plastic beads at her neck. ‘Why would Madame Zoya write fire on her table? Did it mean anything to you, the message?’ She cocked her head.

  He hesitated.

  ‘Gor?’

  ‘No!’ he snapped, striding past her to the kitchen. ‘What has Madame Zoya against me, eh?’ He stared at the calendar. ‘Is this all linked? The séance was just the culmination of all this …’

  ‘What, what? More horrid things?’ Sveta’s cheeks wobbled as she clucked around him, eyes on the calendar and the peppering of Xs that ranged its dates like pock marks on a teenager’s skin. ‘Are these all …?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. All unpleasant events. The letter …’ He pointed at a date two days before. ‘The letter was very odd: no words. Just … just a dozen dead moths. And tapping.’

  ‘Tapping?’

  ‘On the windows … As if someone … as if someone wants to get in.’ Gor scrunched up his face and rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. ‘Started a few days ago.’

  ‘Scary!’ said Sveta with a shudder.

  ‘There is no such thing as the supernatural! I will not be cowed!’ He shook a fist to no one. ‘The séance was arranged as a consequence of strange events, and now they are multiplying. But what’s afoot?’ His eyes slid to Sveta. ‘You …’ he said, ‘you are keen on all this nonsense! Did you have a hand in this?’

  She looked over her shoulder. ‘Who? Me? Why would I want to scare you?’

  ‘Huh! Well, I don’t know, Svetlana Mikhailovna! You tell me?’ He took up pacing again. ‘You seem very keen to get to know me, to involve me in your family. And this all started when I met you. Maybe you’re after something, huh? Making yourself indispensable, in my hour of need?’

  Sveta’s jaw dropped. ‘After something? With you?’

  ‘Well, why not? You’re not a stupid woman, and it takes all sorts!’

  ‘All sorts?’

  ‘Why did you answer my advert?’ He stopped before her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The real reason?’

  ‘I wanted to be a magician’s assistant, you stupid old goat! I don’t need or want anything else – not from you, not from anyone! I just wanted a little razzmatazz.’

  ‘Ha!’ He stared at her, eyes drilling into her soul. ‘Not for the money, but for the “razzmatazz”! Unbelievable!’ He shook his head and slowly walked away. ‘So now you know there is no “razzmatazz”, why are you still around: bringing me cutlets, cups of tea – checking up on me?’

  ‘Well, this may come as a surprise, but it’s because I feel sorry for you! Yes – sorry!’

  He turned, nodding violently. ‘Ah! Sorry for me!’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘You, sorry for me?’

  ‘Obviously.’ She folded her arms. ‘Perhaps I should go.’ Sveta put the cheese rind on the sideboard and smoothed her cardigan. When he said nothing, she turned for the hall.

  ‘Wait!’

  She turned back.

  ‘What else do you know about me, Sveta?’ He thrust himself into his armchair and eyed her suspiciously.

  ‘What do you mean? Only what you’ve told me. Only what you said at the séance.’

  ‘Is that all? Albina, when we first met: she asked if I was a millionaire.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s just … gossip.’

  He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Everyone knows you were a bank manager …’

  ‘And it follows that I’m a millionaire?’

  ‘Yes! No! Oh, Albina was just repeating what she’s heard. It means nothing. She meant no harm. You are being rude, Gor!’

  He bit down his reply, eyes bulging, and blew through his cheeks, mouth slack. ‘You are right!’ His head dropped into his hands, and he seemed to crumple. ‘I am sorry, Sveta. I … forgive me. I was rude. I don’t think you’re … the one. But you are the connection in all of this!’

  ‘Nonsense!’ She squared her shoulders. ‘You are! All I did was set up the séance.’ She smiled, her blue eyes silvered with tears. ‘I’m not a bad person. I am your friend.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he conceded, with a tepid smile. ‘Maybe. Don’t get upset! Here—’ He passed her a spotted yellow handkerchief. ‘But how do we make sense of all this? What does it mean? Tell me more about Madame Zoya? Does she often host séances?’

  ‘Every few months, when there is demand.’

  ‘And …?’

  ‘She relays messages, gives people signs. The people who come are lonely, or feeling guilty, or maybe just sad. She gives them a chance to talk, to share, and, you know … hope. I hear she reunited Alla – the woman from the White Flamingo, you remember – with her cat.’ Sveta smiled with a hint of self-mockery. ‘It gave great comfort to Alla.’

  ‘A cat. I see. The others there … that orange woman, Valentina—’

  ‘Valya, yes?’

  ‘I know her … she worked under me at the bank. And the dark girl …’

  ‘Polly? From the pharmacy?’

  ‘Yes. I recognised her from somewhere. I can’t put my finger on it—’

  ‘Azov is a small place, Gor. There is no strangeness in you recognising these people, surely?’

  He was silent a moment, eyes intent on the wall, and then shook his head. ‘You are right. I am suspicious of everyone, and where’s the point? But tell me: this séance was … an oddity – more violent than usual?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was a show for me, then?’

  ‘You don’t think someone – linked to banking – might be holding a grudge? I don’t know, maybe … if you didn’t give them a loan, or something like that? Revenge?’

  ‘That kind of thing was extremely regulated. It was not a world of intrigue, believe me.’

  ‘So, you didn’t make any enemies?’ She smiled slightly and raised her eyebrows, as if talking to a child.

  He passed a hand across his eyes and hunched away. ‘I don’t want to discuss it.’

  She frowned. ‘Very well. Let’s talk about something else. Don’t upset yourself.’

  The clock ticked.

  ‘I think the “sawing me in half” trick is a great one, don’t you?’ Sveta began.

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded.

  ‘And do you think my assistant-ing is improving?’

  ‘It will do, very well.’

  ‘I think it’s just as well we have chosen not to do the Wheel of Death, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes … it seems to have dry rot.’

  There was a pause before they both spoke.

  ‘Let’s go and talk to Madame Zoya!’ said Sveta.

  ‘I really should be going to the dacha,’ said Gor.

  ‘Dacha? It’s getting dark, and it’s raining!’ Sveta was firm. ‘Have the silent phone calls stopped, hmm? And the burning smells?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sleeping better, with this tapping going on?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And the horrid letters, the headless rabbit – you enjoy all that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So: you say Madame Zoya is a fraud, and I say that she isn’t, but either way, we must talk to her: if she is trying to scare you, we must know why! And if she is sincere, we must ask for her help. She might know something we don’t.’

  ‘It’s all so black and white to you, isn’t it? She might know …’ He closed his eyes. ‘Sveta, there are things you don’t know,’ he said slowly, ‘about me. Things I have done … shameful things, terrible things. I … It’s not so simple.’ He opened his eyes and stared at the calendar.

  ‘That’s as maybe.’ Her chin tilted as she came to stand before him. ‘But I know one thing, Gor: deep down, you are a good man.’

  She held his eyes until he looked away.

  The Ideas Incubator

  Polly hurried along the creaking corridor. The hand-written posters advertising the flat were finally done. They had taken longer to copy out than she had expected, and she still wasn’t ready for her shift at the pharmacy. She would be late. She smiled to herself: it didn’t matter.

  She stood in the doorway to the wash room. Every one of the working sinks was taken. Girls chattered and argued as they scrubbed, their pants around their ankles, flannels, soap and towels balanced in hand or hanging from string bags. How she loathed the wash room. But the shower-block was worse with its blatant peep-holes and green-algaed floor. A voice in her head asked if she wouldn’t rather live in the flat herself. It whispered of quiet and solitude. But she knew it couldn’t be: only hard cash and Palekh boxes could buy tomorrow. A girl pushed past her into the hall, and she dashed forward for the vacant basin.

  Stripped to the waist she bent over to swish her hair under the tap, her spine knobbling the moon-washed smoothness of her back. The Turkish shampoo smelled like jam and lathered like it too. She’d pinched the bottle at the pharmacy, and now wished she’d chosen with more care. No doubt Maria Trushkina only ever pilfered the best.

  The pharmacy: incubator of her clever idea. She had thought of it over the summer, during those endless, airless afternoons when they trailed in off the streets and stood at the counter, chattering about how they wanted to live at home but needed some help with the toilet and washing, and those sores, and sometimes they couldn’t remember what day it was or if they had taken their medicine and sometimes, yes they took too much. And yes, they never slept at night because of all the funny noises and the criminal gangs and the fear of theft. And they really missed their no-good children and their no-good grandchildren – because they never came to visit any more. They had all this space, all these rooms, all these things, and they all needed cleaning and dusting and winding and mending, and wasn’t it a bother? And no, they didn’t keep their money in the bank any more because the banks were full of thieves and the money was worthless and instead they bought jewellery and trinkets and cameras and chocolate and hid it under the bed. Speculating: they were investing for a future that simply wasn’t theirs, and in doing so, they were stealing hers.

  It was a good idea, a big idea. She just had to make it work. So far, the results were mixed.

  She returned to her room, dressed unhurriedly, put her damp hair in a taut bun and set off down the gritty staircase. In the foyer, black leaves blew in at the door as girls huddled around ancient, half-dead radiators waiting for their dates.

  ‘Hey, Polina!’ She heard the screech before she registered the dark scuttle across the floor. The concierge was at her side as her foot touched the floor. ‘How was the séance on Friday?’

  ‘Scary, Elena Dmitrovna. Very scary. The spirits turned the table over.’

  ‘Never! Did they have a message for you – any warnings?’

  ‘Me? Well, the way I interpreted it, they said that I would be very rich, some day. But I knew that anyway. As for the rest … they said old people shouldn’t be nosey. Do you have a more meaningful message for me – via telephone, perhaps?’

  Polly held out her hand.

  ‘I haven’t been paid since August, you know,’ said Elena Dmitrovna.

  ‘That’s a shame.’ Their eyes met. ‘The message?’

  Polly stretched to take the paper from the old woman’s hand, but she snatched it away, huddling into the corner.