Last Dance at the Discotheque for Deviants by Paul David Gould

Author:Paul David Gould [Gould, Paul David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781800182226
Publisher: Unbound
Published: 2023-05-04T00:00:00+00:00

13

MARCH 1993. Moscow

Dima

A man’s bare torso hovers before his eyes, in and out of focus, sharp then blurry, muscles glistening with sweat – some image stuck in his head, no doubt, some memory imprinted from Yuri’s porn shoots … Only, no: those piercing, flinty eyes – they’re exactly like Yuri himself. Even now, he’s reeling from Yuri’s punch to his jaw; even now, Yuri is raising his fists, ready to sock him one again. No, Yuri, please Yuri, no—

Blinking his eyes open, he wipes the sweat from his forehead and peers blearily through his fingers. A sigh. The torso is that of Jean-Claude Van Damme, the familiar poster above the bed on Oleg’s side of the room. For a second, as he recognises their old pin-up, it’s as if nothing has changed these past few weeks. As if he and Oleg were still at Valery Ivanovich’s.

Outside, however, the corridor echoes with the shouts and laughter of the student dormitory. He hears doors being slammed, a snatch of pop music on a radio and the slap-slap of flip-flops on linoleum. Inside the room, four single beds are crammed into a space barely larger than their old bedroom. Across from him is Oleg’s bed, tidy and looking somehow cold and still, like it hasn’t been slept in. Nearer the window, separated by a table and pushed hard against the walls, are two more beds, those of Oleg’s new room-mates, also empty.

He reaches for his rucksack, rummaging around until his fingers locate the envelope Jamie gave him when they met for a second time. Inside is the address of some apartment in Khimki – along with the wad of dollars and hundred-rouble notes he extracted from Jamie as his price. In the next day or two, he needs to keep his side of their deal and go check out this address. Jamie told him his newspaper’s secretary had dug up something about bribes and contracts – how that’s linked to Kostya’s death, God knows. He counts the cash, making sure it’s all there.

The door swings open. In comes Andrei, one of Oleg’s three new room-mates, wearing a Soviet sailor’s vest and blue tracksuit bottoms. Greasy cooking smells waft into the room from the frying pan he’s balancing in one hand. An enamelled kettle hangs from the other. Kicking the door shut behind him, Andrei plonks the frying pan, kettle and two forks on the table.

Andrei looks at him. ‘Want some fried eggs, Dima?’

‘Da, spasibo.’ He quickly hides the envelope, hoping Andrei didn’t catch sight of the cash, then lowers his feet to the floor – clammy painted floorboards, same as in his old room at Valery Ivanovich’s – and pulls on his sweatpants and T-shirt.

He knew Oleg’s new room-mates, Andrei and Timur, before he dropped out of film school – not very well, since he was always skiving classes, but enough for Oleg to persuade them to let him crash here for a few nights. A bed has become available because Slava, Oleg’s third room-mate, is away for the week at his new wife’s parents.

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