East of the Sun
Copyright © 2012 Janet Rogers
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1-4783-5448-8
ISBN-13: 9781478354482
eBook ISBN: 978-1-62347-506-2
Once upon a time, east of the sun and west of the moon, there was a different place, but not too different . . .
First words of many old Russian folktales
Contents
It was a welcome change to suffer neither delays nor tiresome stops and starts. At this hour, the normal chaotic traffic had long since disappeared. The city’s streets were deserted and the dark car could continue on its route unhindered. In the back seat Robert Preston glanced at his watch, then peered over the driver’s shoulder to look at the temperature reading on the dashboard: 2°C. Out of habit he quickly converted it to Fahrenheit – just under 36°. The season had turned, and he could smell the coming cold in the night air. He shivered in his coat at the thought, and laid his head against the headrest, briefly allowing himself to feel the full extent of his fatigue.
‘Everything all right, Mr Preston?’ the driver asked, his hand hovering in front of the heater setting.
‘Everything is fine, Sergey, thank you.’ Robert sighed. If only that were true. If only he knew where to find the answers he so desperately needed. If only this moment would pass and life could return to relative simplicity again. Tonight the burden of having to find solutions – and soon – felt too heavy. It had been a long day and he just wanted to get home.
Maybe it was the way the car suddenly, unexpectedly stopped, or maybe he had known long before this night that something would happen, but in the instant his body lurched forward, he knew with immediate certainty that danger was near.
He looked out of the tinted window, but was a fraction too slow. Before he could make sense of what was happening, the door was yanked open violently. The blow that followed knocked him sideways with such brutal force that his head hit the empty leather seat next to him with a dull thud. A moment of dizziness. He felt someone pull on his legs.
It was then that fear engulfed him. This was no accident. He kicked wildly, using all the power he had left in his legs. For a brief second his foot made contact with something or someone. Urgently, frantically, he clawed at the frustratingly smooth surfaces, but his fingers couldn’t find a proper grip and he was helpless to prevent his body from being dragged out of the car. As the cold night air entered his lungs, he noticed a smear of his blood left behind on the seat and dread filled him. Was this it?
The face hovering above him was in the dark, but behind it he glimpsed the faintly illuminated street name: Denezhniy Pereulok. Money Lane.
Perhaps it was meant to be this way.
T
he Russian passengers applauded, as always when the plane landed, their joy at arriving safely back in the motherland evident on the smiling faces and sudden chatter around Amelia. She was impatient to get off the plane for various reasons, the first of which was the strong smell of garlic and alcohol coming from her neighbour, a smell exacerbated by the stale air inside the plane. Out of the corner of her eye she watched as his heavy eyelids started to lift and his slightly ragged, unshaven face awoke from what appeared to be much-needed rest after an obviously heavy week.
Around her people started switching on mobile phones to call their families and loved ones. She listened to snippets of their conversations and closed her eyes to conjure the face of her own loved one, but today it was elusive. She kept her eyes closed for another moment, trying to concentrate. It was of no use. A flicker of anxiety about her inability to summon that face, she left unexamined for the moment. Today she couldn’t let herself get distressed. Today required focus. She turned her attention to the world that lay beyond the small window at her shoulder.
From the sky there had been a moment of shock at how beautiful the land below looked from afar. Views of the meandering river and forest land surrounding the city had made her feel as if she’d arrived at the wrong destination. Down here on the runway it was an entirely different picture. It was November and the true cold had not hit Moscow yet, but the barren, grey landscape around the ugly buildings of Sheremetyevo airport looked cold and inhospitable. The snow that so magically transformed the city into a place of beauty from the air had been cleared away here and in places piles of dirty snow were waiting to be carried away. Despite the fact that she was anxious to escape the confines of the plane, the scene outside was so uniquely Russian, so stark and unsympathetic, that she felt a small shiver of hesitation about entering the country again.
This was not a place that had been kind to her. Quite the opposite. However, everything that she had done in the past two weeks – since a moment of boredom had prompted her to read a discarded newspaper in a London café – had led to this moment. She had finally, voluntarily, returned.
Her cosy home in London seemed like a distant memory already. She thought of all the hours she’d spent over the past year on sanding, fixing and painting to turn the neglected old house into a sanctuary. It felt like ages since she’d turned the key in her front door when in reality it had only been a few hours since she’d left it all behind. The knowledge that she wouldn’t be sleeping between those freshly painted walls tonight was unnerving, but much as she was tempted to, she couldn’t possibly turn back now. Not after everything she’d done. And not done.
At last people started moving at the front of the plane. Sour whiffs accompanied her neighbour’s sighs and grunts as he collected his few belongings and shuffled into the aisle. When she’d made doubly sure she had the notebook and valuable wad of papers she’d so carefully collected over the past two weeks, she followed the stream of passengers into the airport building and down the familiar stairs to the passport control area where the normal pushing to get into the shortest line ensued straight away.
Sheremetyevo was notorious for the chaotic nature of its queues at passport control and Amelia had to stand her ground to avoid losing her place, but when she’d finally succeeded in staking a claim to a spot in one of the crude lines, she looked around her to take it all in. She’d waited here many times before and apart from brighter lighting in the waiting area, very little appeared to have changed. The same tired faces and faint smell of old sweat surrounded her. On occasion in the past the process had taken in excess of an hour, but today the lines moved relatively quickly and it took only twenty minutes before she reached the front.
Her heart hammered in her chest as she stepped up to the booth. A platinum blonde officer with severe black eyebrows and a surly expression took her documents. Long moments passed while the woman stared at the passport and newly acquired tourist visa. It had been a toss-up between using her diplomatic credentials and getting a single-entry tourist visa, but she’d finally opted for the latter, mainly because she wasn’t sure her diplomatic card was still valid, but also because she wanted to keep a low profile. The visa had been fairly straightforward to get with the help of a travel company, but the hostile face scrutinising it now looked distinctly suspicious. The woman raised her eyes and looked at her prey intently. Amelia knew the drill: make eye contact, keep your own face neutral, say nothing. The officer tapped on a keyboard in front of her, looked at Amelia again and frowned.
After several more minutes, during which it became clear that she was in no rush to deal with the cause of her concern, she finally called her supervisor over. Amelia’s stomach tightened as she watched the supervisor repeat the process of inspecting the documents and scowling at what she saw. It was an effort not to ask them if there was a problem, but she knew she had to stay in control.
Only speak when spoken to, she reminded herself.
Never volunteer information – one of the first and most valuable things Robert had taught her.
After more intense scrutiny, the two conversed in hushed voices. By now the passengers in the queue behind her were getting fidgety. She could feel their stares, ranging from curious to suspicious, on her. If she delayed them any longer, their impatience would soon turn to hostility. Amelia willed her cheeks not to turn red. She breathed slowly, hoping for composure and finally, to her utter relief, the blonde officer, after a last nerve-wracking word with her supervisor, pursed her lips and emphatically stamped the page before she slid the passport back over the counter.
Quickly, before anyone could change their mind, Amelia exited into the baggage claim area, exhaling as she headed towards the luggage carousel. Were her diplomatic credentials still in the system and had they somehow raised concerns because she hadn’t used them in almost a year? Was there suspicion because she was travelling on a tourist visa? Was her identity flagged in the system because of Robert? There was no way of knowing, but there was no time to dwell on it either. Although she felt suddenly conspicuous, as if there were hidden eyes watching her every move, she focused on moving through and out of customs control with as much composure as possible. Once outside the glass doors, she breathed more evenly. Whatever the reason for the scrutiny, she felt a small thrill of triumph at being able to cross hurdle number one off her list: she’d arrived at last, she’d managed to enter the country successfully and the most important thing now was to focus her energies on the task at hand.
Anticipating the normal barrage of taxi offers, she’d booked a car in advance and soon it was speeding through the city’s outskirts. To her relief the driver made no attempt at conversation and Amelia was able to look out at views of snowy roads without interruption. Everything was so familiar, yet felt so distant. There was a time when she’d yearned to understand all the small things that made this place so unique. It had seemed crucial to gain at least a measure of understanding and she’d celebrated every tiny success she’d achieved. Now she knew she would never be a part of this world she had chosen to return to. She also knew that she didn’t ever want to be a part of it again. Her return was necessary, but temporary.
The Moscow River was already frozen over in places. A memory came to her of walking along a side branch of the river with Robert once, the water moving slowly but continuously so that the sound of ice shards breaking accompanied them all the way until they’d reached the bridge that had led them away from the river. She remembered clearly how good that day had been, filled with the excitement of exploring a new place. She turned to look the other way. Beautiful, fresh snow on the grey trees by the side of the highway stirred a forgotten emotion in her chest.
Soon, however, they reached the less attractive areas of the city – kilometre after kilometre crammed with ugly billboards fighting to be noticed and old apartment blocks that looked just about ready to collapse. She wondered about the lives behind the depressing façades. Maybe someone somewhere behind a grimy window knew something about Robert’s disappearance. Maybe.
What, if anything, would she discover in the days to come? Would she be able to put the events of the past year behind her? Would she be willing to?