The Day of the Lie by William Brodrick

Author:William Brodrick
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2012-08-26T11:53:15+00:00

Chapter Thirty-One

When a journey ends one looks back. Certain features that were obscure en route stand out with ruthless clarity And the one that most troubled Anselm, now that he’d arrived at the guilt of SABINA, was his treatment of Irina Orlosky He’d trampled over a weak, already defeated woman. He’d stomped around in the mud of her failings, showing off that Old Bailey footwork. It had been ugly, unnecessary and almost certainly harmful. Again he found that the Hilton’s showers weren’t up to the task. And this time the situation was worse than before: the inner dirt that wouldn’t shift was of his own making and he couldn’t blame Frenzel.

The recognition sent Anselm first to a florist and then to a rundown corner of Praga, a central district on the east bank of the river. This was where Stalin’s army had watched the Nazis crush the Uprising of 1944. It was where the Tsar’s troops had massacred 20,000 civilians following the Uprising of 1794. It was where Brack’s personal assistant now lived, a survivor without her name.

Anselm walked into a narrow courtyard of tall cramped buildings. Paint blistered off the crooked window frames. Red and black graffiti marked the cracked walls as if they were stitching to hold the place together. Higher up, the stucco had fallen away, the remnant oval sections like flaking scabs on the facade of orange brick. It was early evening and the light was slipping away with something like relief. Having stepped gingerly through an open, communal door.’ Anselm mounted a creaking staircase and halted on a second floor landing. Rapid gunfire sounded from behind Flat 8. It ceased abruptly on Anselm’s firm knock. A long, sliver of light appeared like a drawn blade.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Anselm to the dark, spectacled face. ‘I was rude, superior and insulting. You were right. I have no idea what it was like. Can I have some tea? My name is Anselm.’

The door chain slid from its groove.

‘Yes, of course, come in … I’m … I’m Irina.’

Taking the flowers, she smiled uneasily, one hand nervously brushing back her grey hair. Set against the dull wallpaper, the bunched yellows and greens turned bright. She held them out like an Olympic torch, beckoning Anselm to follow, but he paused by an open door just inside the entrance. Stretched out on the faded carpet lay the podgy son dressed in a Man United top and camouflage trousers.’ his legs splayed, his hands gripping a plastic Kalashnikov. Secure behind a cushion for a sandbag, he was shooting Afghan insurgents on a large computer screen, his kill rate mounting against the clock.

‘Please, this way,’ she called from the kitchen at the end of the short corridor, her voice embarrassed, already pleading for more understanding, already fearing another kind of condemnation.

The room was small and clean, the white enamel on the cooker chipped but shining. A small, polished window looked on to the courtyard and a fragment of sky Anselm drew back a chair by a small Formica table and said.

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