them. On her way home, on the tramcar, her guilt had been so intense she’d thrown up. Leo and Raisa had blamed the sweet snacks and the motion of the tram. That night, feverish, she’d lain in bed, crying, scratching her legs until they bled. How could she have betrayed the memory of her parents so easily? Leo believed he could win her love with new clothes, rare foods, day trips, and chocolate: it was pathetic. She’d vowed that her lapse would never happen again. There was one way to make sure: she’d taken the knife and resolved to kill him. She’d stood, as she stood now, ready to murder.
The same memory that had driven her into the room, the memory of her parents, was the reason she hadn’t killed him. They wouldn’t want this man’s blood on her hands. They would want her to look after her sister. Obedient, silently crying, she’d allowed Leo to live. Every now and then she’d come back, creeping in, armed with a knife, not because she’d changed her mind, not for revenge, not to murder, but as a memorial to her parents, as a way of saying she had not forgotten them.
The telephone rang. Startled, Zoya stepped back, the knife slipping from her hand, clattering to the floor. Dropping to her knees, she fumbled in the pitch-black frantically trying to find it. Leo and Raisa were stirring, the bed straining as they moved. They’d be reaching for the light. Working by touch alone, Zoya desperately patted the floor-boards. As the telephone rang for the second time she had no choice but to leave the knife behind, hurrying around the bed, running toward the door, slipping through the gap just as the light came on.
Leo sat up, his thoughts sluggish with sleep, intermingled dreams and reality-there had been movement, a figure, or perhaps there hadn’t. The phone was ringing. It only ever rang because of work. He checked his watch: almost midnight. He glanced at Raisa. She was awake, waiting for him to answer the phone. He mumbled an apology and got up. The door was ajar. Didn’t they always close it before they went to sleep? Maybe not; it didn’t matter, and he headed into the hallway.
Leo picked up the receiver. The voice on the other end was urgent, loud:
– Leo? This is Nikolai.
Nikolai: the name meant nothing to him. He didn’t reply. Correctly interpreting Leo’s silence, the man continued:
– Nikolai, your old boss! Your friend! Leo, don’t you remember? I gave you your first assignment! The priest, remember, Leo?
Leo remembered. He hadn’t heard from Nikolai in a long time. This man was of no relevance to his life now and he resented him calling.
– Nikolai, it’s late.
– Late? What’s happened to you? We didn’t start work until about now.
– Not anymore.
– No, not anymore.
Nikolai’s voice drifted off, before adding:
– I need to meet you.
His words were slurred. He was drunk.
– Nikolai, why don’t you sleep it off and we’ll talk tomorrow?
– It has to be tonight.
His voice cracked. He was on the verge of crying.
– What’s going on?
– Meet me. Please.
Leo wanted to say no.
– Where?
– Your offices.
– I’ll be there in thirty minutes.
Leo hung up. His annoyance was tempered by unease. Nikolai wouldn’t have got back in contact unless he had cause. When he returned to the bedroom, Raisa was sitting up. Leo shrugged an explanation:
– A former colleague. He wants to meet. Says it has to be tonight.
– A colleague from when?
– From…
Leo didn’t need to finish the sentence.
– Out of nowhere, he calls?
– He was drunk. I’ll speak to him.
– Leo…?
She didn’t finish. Leo nodded:
– I don’t like it either.
He grabbed his clothes, hastily getting changed. Almost ready to leave, tying his shoelaces, he saw something under the bed, something catching the light. Curious, he moved forward, crouching down. Raisa asked:
– What?
It was a large kitchen knife. Near where it lay there was a notch in the