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Enlighten Me  - Episode 15 (narrating - MacBride)

I take my phone out and call Pavel. Briefly, I give him instructions on meeting us. Hearing Al struggling intohis clothes, I offer my help.

‘Let me alone, Mac!’ he snaps at me.

‘God, do you always have to be so fucking...’

‘Stubborn’ you mean?’

‘Fucking right. For no good reason too.’

‘I can do without your help!’ hesays, throwing a box of surgical gloves in my face. Twisting away, I easily avoid the box.

Outside, Pavel’s waiting with the car. Throwing Al’scoat into the front seat, I thrust into the back. He follows me, slamming the car door.

‘What’s wrong with you two?’ Pavel asks, surprised.

‘And, who the fuck are you?’ Al spits out at him.

‘That’s enough, Al! Pavel’s with us.’

‘Right! And, where are we going, Mac?’

‘My place.’

 ‘Your place, what a wonderful news!’

‘Pavel! Stop the car! Kick him out!’ I shout, fed up.

‘Yeah! That’s right, Mac, kick me out of the car.’

‘Well, listen to you. You call. I arrive and you still won’t enlighten me!’

‘Enlighten you on what? If you were smart enough you would have never gone to my bloody flat.’

‘Why do you need me here so desperately? What’s this shit you gotten yourself into?’

‘I haven’t gotten myself into any shit! That’s how you perceive it, Mac.’

‘And until you convince me otherwise, yes … SHIT!’

‘I don’t have to convince you of anything. Stop the fucking car, I’m getting out.’

‘Pavel, let the damn son of a bitch out!’ I chock with anger.

‘Mac…Take it easy, man,’ Pavel cuts in. Engulfed in in an awkward silence, we drive on.

My Trickster' book by Seraphima Bogomolova

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Image by Dalle3, image prompt by Seraphima Bogomolova

You! - Episode 14 (narrating - MacBride)

‘When I cannot look at your face I look at your feet’. - ‘Your Feet’ by Pablo Neruda

With Al’s intense blue eyes on me I feel compelled to step back. Looking at himlying there, his hair framing the pale skin of his face, his charming smile directed at me, I feel emotionally torn.

‘What the fuck’s this all about, Al?’ I suddenly blurt out, losing control.

‘And what do you think it is all about, Mac?’ he replies, the smile disappears from his face in an instant.

‘I have no fucking idea! You tell me!’

Stifled by my roaring emotions, I turn away. An electrifying silence falls between us.

‘Mac, you have not changed a bit.’ he starts.

‘No, Al! You haven’t changed a bit!’ I cut in.

Avoiding my eyes, he looks down.

‘Mac, I know I owe you a lot, but it is the way you are that makes me wonder if I can ever rely on you. Why can’t you just let me be, trust me without questioning?’

‘Trust you?’ I cry out in contempt, ‘Trust you, after what you had done? You vanish from my life without a trace, not even a note, leaving me to wonder why for ten bloody years!’

‘I know, the evidence is against me, but sometimes in life the cruellest cuts are the softest,’ hesays lifting his head and locking his piercing eyes on mine.

‘I don’t believe you, Al.’

‘If you don’t believe me, then why are you here?’

Tearing the tubes from hisarm, he  lifts himself up, and steps onto the floor. In his hospital gown he looks almost innocent, vulnerable.

‘Why are you here, Mac?’  he repeats, glaring at me with his raging blue eyes.

‘I want to help you...’

‘What makes you think that I need your help?’

‘But it’s you who called me! You wrote me a note asking me to be in your flat, wait for you there!’

‘Mac, all I asked of you was to be in Moscow! I never wrote any notes to you!’ Suddenly, hiswhole body starts shaking. Turning pale, exhausted, he sits back on the bed.

Struck by a sudden thought, I hurriedly go over to a small wardrobe tucked in the corner of the room. Swinging its doors open, I grab his clothes and throw them on the bed next to him.

‘Here, get dressed.’

My Trickster' book by Seraphima Bogomolova

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‘Rendezvous’ - Episode 13 (narrating - Al)

My faintly beating heart softly echoes in the vacuum surrounding me. Weightless, flying through a world of unconsciousness, I sense a pulsing energy reaching out to me. Sucking me in, it draws me out.

I open my eyes and slowly regain consciousness. Blinking from the bright sunlight, flooding the hospital room, I pull the oxygen mask down and take a deep breath. Beside me, a man is slumped asleep in a chair. His head, lies buried in his arms.

Glancing down I see the man’s thick, slightly curly hair, his muscled arms in the sleeves of his knitted white sweater.

‘Mac…’

 Hearing a soft knock at the door, I pull the oxygen mask back on, and close my eyes.

Someone walks in, softly approaching my bed. I can feel the presence of the visitor, standing over me, quietly peering down at me.

In a few seconds, I hear the visitor walk to the door and exit the room, the door softly closing behind him.

I wait until his footsteps recede into the depths of the hospital corridor and open my eyes. On the bedside table I notice a vase of pink tulips.

Stirring, Mac shifts his body. Lifting his head up he looks at me.

My oxygen mask on, I look back at him.

He straightens up and locks me into an awkward embrace. His arms around me, I feel his heart pounding strongly close to mine.

He draws back and smiles. ‘So, Mac, you’ve made it to Moscow after all,’ I utter, pulling the oxygen mask down.

My Trickster' book by Seraphima Bogomolova

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Image by Dalle3, image prompt by Seraphima Bogomolova

‘Coma’ - Episode 12 (narrating - MacBride)

I’m on the top floor of a half-built building across the street. Standing in the window gap, I look through binoculars, focusing on the windows of Al’s flat. The flat is dark. There is no movement there.

Pavel is in his position, watching the rear exit of the building.

I glance at my watch: ‘7.00pm.’

Putting the binoculars down, I reach for a takeaway box standing on a pile of bricks and finger out a golden glistening meat pie – ‘pirozok’. As I munch on its soft ‘flash’, a car pulls up in front the entrance. Out steps a man in a dark blue coat. Accompanied by his driver, the man heads up the stairs.

I bring binoculars to my eyes and focus on the man in the dark blue coat.

He enters the lobby of the building and stops by the lifts. Behind him, his driver stands, shopping bags in his hands.

As the lift arrives, the man in the dark blue coat turns to the driver, saying something. In the bright light of the lobby, I instantly recognise Al’s face. Al and his driver enter the lift.

I move my focus to the windows of his flat.

Soon, the lights come on in the ‘7B’. Al, still in his dark blue coat, enters the living room. Taking his coat off, he drops it on the floor and sits down on the sofa. In a short while, his driver enters the room, carrying a vase with pink tulips. Placing the vase on the table, he leaves.

Al gets up and comes over to the window. Silhouetted in the bright lights of the flathe looks out. Staring right at him, I wonder: ‘What on earth has happened?’

Suddenly, a man in a black mask, comes behind him and clamps his hand over Al’smouth.

I drop my binoculars and rush down. Running down the street to the rear exit of the building, I try to call Pavel on his mobile.

As we reach the seventh floor, we find the door of Al’s flat unlocked. We push it open and burst in. In the living room, Al is lying on the sofa, his dark blue coat over his sprawled body. I tear the coat off and quickly check his pulse. Shaking him, I try to wake him up.

‘Call for a fucking ambulance!’ I scream at Pavel, who stands dumb-struck next to me.

As we race to the hospital, the slow beep of Al’s heart beats mechanically out into space.

My Trickster' book by Seraphima Bogomolova

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Image by Dalle3, image prompt by Seraphima Bogomolova

Chapter 2: MacBride

If it doesn't matter who wins or loses, then why do they keep score- Vince Lombardi

‘Mask’ - Episode 11 (narrating - Al)

I pull the door open. Stepping inside I head to my living room. Sergei follows me in.

Brushing his help off, I get out of my coat, drop it on the floor and plunge into the silk embrace of the sofa. Relaxing, my eyes soak in all the familiar shapes and welcoming textures of my home.

I hear Sergei unpacking shopping bags in the kitchen. Done, he comes over carrying a crystal vase with the pink tulips I received from a mysterious visitor. Placing the vase on the coffee table in front of me, he throws a quick glance at me.

I wave him good-bye.

As the door closes behind him, I listen to the sounds of the flat, then stand up and go to the window. Pressing my head against the cold glass, I reach for a curtain and gently stroke it with my hand.

Outside, in the dimly lit street, I single out familiar silhouettes: the Uzbeck Embassy and the half-built blackness of the building next to it; the empty sockets of its windows intently staring at me.

A whiff of musky scent hits my nostrils.

‘Don’t do anything stupid.’ I hear behind me.

Instantly, a gloved hand is clasped over my mouth. Steered away from the window, I am pushed onto the sofa. Standing over me is a broad-shouldered man, his face hidden behind a black mask. We study each other a while then, still keeping an eye on me, he steps away from the sofa.

Silent, I watch him. He shifts uncomfortably. A sudden burst of laughter erupts from my body, shaking me uncontrollably. The man in black mask waits, watching me, then comes over and slaps me across the face.

My head jerks sideways. I lose my balance and topple over.

***

The broad-shouldered man in the black mask, stands by the sofa, peering down at the man lying motionless across it. He quickly checks his pulse, then throwing one last glance at him, picks up the dark blue coat from the floor and covers his body with it. Briskly walking out of the flat, the broad-shouldered man in the black mask closes the door behind him. Using the stairs, he goes down. As he reaches the rear door of the building, he takes his mask off and exists the building.

My Trickster' book by Seraphima Bogomolova

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Image by Dalle3, image prompt by Seraphima Bogomolova

Flat - Episode 10 (narrating - MacBride)

‘Secrets and lies, the love in your eyes, everything is made to be broken’. - from ‘Lost’ by Beautiful darkness

On the way to Pogorelsky, thoughts flood through my brain in a jumbled wash of emotions. With a crazy sense of Déjà Vu in my gut, I climb the steps to his building.

Everything seems strangely familiar.

In the lobby, a suspicious stare of the concierge greets us. We give him a friendly nod, but he stops us. Looking us up and down, he questions us then, satisfied, lets us go.

We take the lift up to the seventh floor.

At the door to Al's flat, the big shiny ‘7B’ in brass letters set into smooth wood panelling, I pause, sharing a hesitating look with Pavel. Then, taking a deep breath, I undo the locks.

A beautiful space greets my eyes. Large floor to ceiling windows framed with sumptuous curtains allow even the weak winter light to flood in and illuminate the furnishings. Momentarily at peace, I wander from room to room. My heart feels constricted yet my body tingles all over.

A pair of large crows flies by the windows, disrupting the light. A new uncomfortable sensation wells up. I turn and quickly head out. Downstairs, a question in his eyes Pavel greets me.

‘We need to leave, now!’ I say, forcefully steering him away.

As we move down the street, a large black S500 Benz pulls up in front of the building.

My Trickster' book by Seraphima Bogomolova

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Image by Dalle3, image prompt by Seraphima Bogomolova

Pavel - Episode 9 (narrating - MacBride)

‘Who needs enemies when you got friends like that’. - Spanish proverb.

The doorbell rings.

‘Pavel!’

I kick the door wide open. Pavel in a heavy wool coat and a knitted hat steps back as it swings by. I greet him faking a shot to his gut. Flinching, he dodges to the side.

‘I need to fix you a real Russian cure for that hangover, ‘ Pavel grins and strides in, a large shopping bag in his hand.

In the kitchen, clearing the empty beer cans off the table, he puts his grocery bag down and starts unpacking it: out come a big jar of pickles, a bottle of vodka, and a 'Stolichnaya' sausage.

***

Seated across from each other, we sop up eggs with hunks of bread.

‘So, where the hell were you?’ I demand.

‘I, er… I was… I mean… in a club. I met a girl...’ Trailing off, he stares at his plate.

‘You fucking shit!’ I say in disdain.

Focusing on the food we fall silent.

‘He had this letter delivered to me. Didn’t even come in person!’ I break the silence. ‘Here read it,’ passing the letter to him, I get up to make some coffee.

‘So, he wants you to go to his flat and wait? Sounds like bullshit to me,’ says Pavel, crunching on a cucumber.

Blinded by sudden anger I push myself up from the table. I know he wanted me to come! But, this run around, maybe Pavel’s right. Suppose the note isn’t from him. Then, who is it from? Who would want me to wait in his flat and why? ‘Let’s go. Drive me over to Pogorelsky!’ I say to Pavel, grabbing the bunch of keys he’s sent me.

My Trickster' book by Seraphima Bogomolova

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Visitor - Episode 8 (narrating - Al)

Light filtering through a slit between the hospital curtains crosses the bed and illuminates the handsome features of a patient’s face resting on the pillow. Throwing an admiring glance at the patient, a nurse places a glass of water on the bedside table then tiptoes out of the room.

***

Woken by the pain in my arm, I open my eyes and take in the blue bareness of the hospital walls, the clinical whiteness of the sheets, and the transparent plastic of the table by my bed. Feeling an urge to see the light outside, I lift myself from the bed, and limp toward the window.

In the twilight of the early winter evening, a gentle light streams from the street lamps, bouncing off the shiny bodies of cars parked at the curb. As my eyes glide along their smooth surfaces, I stumble on a blacked-out Mercedes S500.

Exhausted, I return to my bed. My eyes closed I drift away but a loud bang jerks me back to reality. The door slams open. In storms Kazimir.

‘Where’s my agreement?!’

Propping myself up in bed, I give him a sly smile.

‘Wipe that damn smile off your face! You know I hate it!’

In two quick strides he reaches my bed. Lowering his face to the level of mine, he hisses into my lips:

‘Do not even think of crossing me!’

I stare right back into his raging eyes.

He straightens abruptly, his lips trembling. Slamming the door behind him, he stalks out of the room.

‘Svoloch!’ I mutter.

A nurse knocks and comes in, a vase of pink tulips in her hands.

‘Your friend was here this morning and left this for you,’ she says, placing the vase on the bedside table. ‘My friend?’ I echo puzzled.

My Trickster' book by Seraphima Bogomolova

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Letter - Episode 7 (narrating - MacBride)

‘We are asleep. Our life is a dream. But we wake up, sometimes, just enough to know that we are dreaming’. -Ludwig Wittgenstein

Dim daylight filtering through the blinds, I lie in bed, drifting in and out of awareness. A phone rings, stops and rings again. I peel off the bed and stumble into the living room. Clothes, empty bottles and dirty plates greet me in silent rebuke.

The ringing stops.

Head throbbing, I stand in the living room and gaze at the mess around me. The buzzing starts again. I scan the room, my glazed eyes trying to locate where it’s coming from. My jacket! Fumbling in twisted pockets, I drag the phone out.

It’s Pavel!

 ‘Where have you been? Just get your ass over here!’

 I jab the phone off and drag myself back to the bedroom.

 ‘And where the hell are the girls?’

 Exhausted, I flop onto the bed. The last days’ events start coming back to me. Slowly, swimming into focus, things begin to make sense again. I haul myself up and head for the kitchen.

A bottle of Irn-Bru in my hand I drop into the nearest chair. A white envelope lying on the floor catches my eye.

His letter!

I slit it open and shake the contents onto the table - a single typed note and a bunch of keys.

 Dear Juan,

 You’re reading this so you’ve made it to Moscow. I wish I had called you earlier. I promise to tell you all about it when we meet. Soon.

 Please use the keys. Go to my flat on Pogorelsky. Stay there until I can get to you.

AL

'My Trickster' book by Seraphima Bogomolova

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‘Toro’ - Episode 6 (narrating - MacBride)

‘Do you ever have a single thought that originates from above the waist?’-Lawrence Jamieson

Penetrating my soul, the cold sends an involuntary shudder of bitterness and anger through me. I remove his letter from my pocket. Like an ancient talisman, the secrets of its unknown contents, the lack of any inscription are at once a powerful incentive to reaching out and connecting to him again.

I stuff the letter back in my pocket.

The bar in the centre of ‘O2’ has been quickly filling up since my arrival. Ordering several servings of sushi, including my favourite ‘toro’, I down some more Kauffman.

Not bothering with the niceties of chopstick dining, I have attracted the oblique interest of a pair of girls seated across the bar: a dark Georgian-looking one, and her friend, a pale blond. Two perfect enticing examples of single, successful Muscovites.

Between mouthfuls and shots, I take the two in with my eyes. The slow side-to-side motion of their stools reveals random but enticing hints of cleavage cupped softly by the silk of their gowns. Hands reaching out, lightly touching one another in conversation, they secretly eye me.

Smiling in anticipatory satisfaction, I toss back the last piece of ‘toro’ and order a bottle of Moet Rose Imperial. Taking the bottle and glasses I make my way over to them.

***

Outside, slightly dazed, I stand at the hotel entrance watching the girls’ blazing red Audi 8 being concierged before us in the huge portico. The Blonde at the wheel, the Dark One and I in the back, we peel out into the Tverskaya evening.

'My Trickster' book by Seraphima Bogomolova

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Shot - Episode 5 (narrating - Al)

Either pull the trigger or get that fucking thing out of my face’.- Corky

The order coming as a complete surprise, the dazed stripper turns her head to Kazimir thinking she has misheard him.

‘What are you looking at? I said, kiss him!’

In the momentary confusion his order creates, I forcefully push the stripper away, and stand up.

‘Svoloch!’ I throw at Kazimir and start for the exit.

‘Where are you going?! I’m not done yet!’.

I ignore his question and head for the door through the tables and spellbound strippers. In the hall, I collect my coat and emerge onto the street, where Sergei was instructed to wait for me. His car parked slightly down from the entrance, he flashes its lights twice and glides softly toward me. I open the door and slide into the back seat. Accelerating, Sergei takes off towards Zamoskvorechye.

In the cold embrace of the leather seat I sink into my thoughts. Searching through the events of the past week, I try to grasp how things suddenly could have taken such a sinister turn. The answer escapes me.

I look up at the night sky. Big fluffy snowflakes silently descend, casting a magical white blanket over the city. Rolling the car window down, I stick my hand out trying to catch these intricately branched ice crystals.

As the car turns off Bolshaya Ordynka to Pogorel’skiy, I catch a glimpse of the digital clock: it’s 4:35 AM. I still have plenty of time before my meeting with MacBride.

We pull up before a set of brightly-lit stairs leading to the glassed entrance of a residential building, tucked between the Uzbek Embassy and the Church of St. George Neokesariyskii. I step out onto the pavement covered by a thin layer of sparkling white snow. Turning, I smile and wave Sergei good-bye. He waits, watching me from the car. Ascending the stairs, I leave fresh footprints in the snow.

A gunshot shatters the night.

I gasp and stumble. A burning pain lances through my arm, blood quickly soaking the sleeve of my coat drips into the snow.

Falling, I catch a glimpse of the security staff rushing from the building, and Sergei’s face twisted in horror as he races from the car towards me. I reach out with my uninjured arm trying to break my fall before collapsing on the stairs. ‘Holy shit!’ is the last thought that runs through my mind.

'My Trickster' book by Seraphima Bogomolova

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Ritz - Episode 4 (narrating - MacBride)

‘Expect nothing and accept everything and you will never be disappointed.’ -Laurence Overmire

Glancing periodically at the mirror, I wonder where Pavel is. Changing onto the notorious MKAD, the former ‘road of death’, we head northwest round the ring. As the snow thickens into blustery clouds swirling in the wind, we arrive at the Kutuzovsky Prospekt exit and turn right. Grinding exasperatedly forward, we move in fits and starts, sometimes halted completely.

A large delivery truck creeps along our taxi. I see my chance and grabbing my bag squeeze quickly out of the car. A hail of blistering Russian follows, only to die, cut off by the slamming door.

I breathe a sigh of relief and blend into the foot traffic, funnelling for the Metro entrance. Emerging on Tverskaya Street, I dodge late-morning traffic, heading for the Ritz entrance.

My phone buzzes: ‘O2 lounge, faberge chairs, noon’.

Exhausted I slump into a lobby chair.

‘How does he know my every move?’

***

Mandarin red and gold damask covered chairs line up in front of panoramic glass windows of the ‘O2’ lounge. Their distinctive egg shape signals ‘faberge’. Heading to the eggs, I’m suddenly overcome by a surge of sickening.

A shiny red shoe pokes out from behind the first egg. Lifting her blond head, the occupant turns to face me, and smiles.

The next set of eggs, and no sign of him. Struggling for one agonizing moment, I continue. At the last pair, an elderly, distinguished looking man rises extending his hand.

‘Welcome to Moscow, Monsieur MacBride! Allow me to introduce myself: Jacques Moreaux.’ He greets me, speaking in the unmistakable French of a citizen from Geneva.

Enveloped by bitter disappointment, I surrender into the warm embrace of the red cocoon.

Taking the large cigar, he’s been savouring, Mr. Moreaux motions to a nearby waiter.

‘What can I get you?’ He asks, smiling at me.

The waiter returns with a coffee for Mr. Moreaux and an iced Kauffman Reserve vodka for myself.

‘He disrupts my life, summons me here and what?! And even doesn’t bother to show up! The least he could do is to be here in person!’

Shooting a filthy look at Mr. Moreaux, I down the fiery liquor in a gulp and slam the glass to the table.

Completely unruffled by my fury, Mr. Moreaux pulls a crisp white envelope and passes it across the table to me.

‘He wanted me to give you this.’ With barely a glance, I stuff it into my pocket. He picks up his cigar and takes his leave. Worn out and angry, I sit in utter exhaustion for a while and then order a bottle of Kauffman.

'My Trickster' book by Seraphima Bogomolova

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‘Kiss Him!’ - Episode 3 (narrating - Al)

‘I desire you solely to fulfill all my erotic pleasure. Taboo fantasies with us are our secret treasures’. - ‘Manly Brain Heads’ by Butterscotsh

A blacked out S500 Benz zooms through the night city. Boiling with rage, a man in the backseat stares, unblinking, out the window. His cold, black eyes, glaring in the shadows, reflect Moscow’s streetlights as they flash by.

The car hisses alongside the curb and stops before the 911 Aurora, a club on Petrovka 18/2. Throwing an abrupt order at the driver, the man steps from the car onto the glistening surface of asphalt. His dark blue cashmere coat streams behind him as he strides to the club door.

Inside, the crimson-lipped hostess in a long open back dress greets him at the entrance. Tossing her his coat, he impatiently brushes past, and signals to be shown in.

***

It is past midnight.

Exchanging a glance with the 911 hostess, whose lips deliver a silent message, I walk towards his table, making my way through dozens of glistening strippers, moving to the throbbing pulsations of the club music.

Stopping at the table where he sits, his face turned towards the stage, I fasten my eyes on his profile. Sensing my presence, he turns around. The insistent beat of the music’s crescendos slam our bodies with feverish vibes.

‘We need to talk,’ I say.

 ‘I see you like the process much more than the result,’ he replies.

 ‘I thought we had an agreement!’ I insist.

Turning away, he signals a waitress to bring champagne.

 ‘Agreements can be broken. I thought you would have learnt that by now.’

He brings his cigar to his lips. Inhaling deeply, he blows a cloud of smoke at me. I glare at him in an intense silence as the cloud of smoke slowly dissipates around my face.

The waitress brings the champagne. His eyes fixed on me, he orders her to stay.

‘Strip for my friend!’, he hisses, throwing money in her direction.

The woman hesitates for a second, unsure if she should act on the order.

 ‘I said, strip for my friend!’ he barks.

From the corner of my eye, but still fully focused on him, I observe the woman’s sensual movements, her glistening skin, her body twisting and writhing in the stripper’s trance. With each turn and twist she comes closer and closer to me, until finally, she leans in and brings her face to mine. I see her widely open eyes and feel the heat of her body pressing in.  

‘Kiss him!’ he orders her.

'My Trickster' book by Seraphima Bogomolova

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‘Blinking Dots’  - Episode 2 (narrating - MacBride)

The local weather: -15 C.

It’s dark.

Outside, the bundled ground crew waits in the harsh glare of the terminal lighting. The plane touches ground, turns off the runway in a wide arc and starts lumbering down a snow-blown taxiway.

In the immigration hall of Domodedovo International Airport, hundreds of passengers converge on too few customs agents.

A sturdy looking man, a travel bag on his shoulder, finds a line and edges slowly forward. He moves, patiently waits, moves again. Reaching one of those Russian strangely attractive female customs officers, he smiles and hands his papers over to her. Impassively, she asks him the usual questions.

***

In the bright lights of the terminal, I scan the throng of impatiently waiting friends, relatives, drivers and assorted hangers on. Amongst them I spy a man wearing a fake leather coat, a sign with my name in his hands. I nod. He silently turns and leads me out toward a snow-grimed, yellow taxi, parked awkwardly at the curb.

As I follow my silent companion, I’m carefully looking for Pavel. But nothing! I experience a slight pang of unease.

***

Pulling onto the highway, the taxi enters the forested region that embraces Moscow in a thick coat of green. I peer through the window trying to catch blinking dots of dachas in the distance, the country villas much beloved by apparatchiks of the former Soviet Union, but now by the new alpha-dogs of Russia: the ‘oligarchs’ and their henchmen.

As we continue to drive, I notice a blacked-out Mercedes S500 that has been stalking us at a discrete distance. It’s not Pavel. I know his car.  My phone buzzes: ‘Go to the Ritz-Carlton’.

'My Trickster' book by Seraphima Bogomolova

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Chapter 1: Return

'Do you know what my favourite part of the game is? The opportunity to play... '- Mike Singletary

Return - Episode 1 (narrating - MacBride)

He calls, emphatically saying I must come. His voice arriving from the past, jerks me back to a place I thought I'd exorcised from my brain. Why is his memory still so powerful?

No reason, no explanation we just need to meet in Moscow in a week! He gives me all of a week. Reluctantly, but sensing a secret burning, an unresolved need, I agree.

How will I feel, behave, react to seeing him again, and handle that almost palpable sense of powerlessness I always felt when I was with him, a powerlessness to resist him?

Too late now, the die's been cast.

***

With my eyes closed, flying silently through the night, I can almost imagine him: the power of his energy, a firm rhythm of his footsteps, as we stroll in the rain… Like memories smeared on shards of shifting glass, he cuts back into my mind! A most rare and most beautiful species - instinctual and sensitive, but strong and assertive, funny and full of wit, but purposeful and serious; open and fair, but hidden and Delphic: a certain sense of him that I have always wanted to capture, but, honestly, how can you capture a deer?

'My Trickster' book by Seraphima Bogomolova

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