Managing to break up the argument with news of her own about the breakup from Tim, Flash told her he genuinely thought it was the best thing to do, while Tank gave her a great big hug as she apologised to him for the things she'd said after the laminium ball match. The three friends... now four... would have found it almost impossible to be much happier. Everything, it seemed, was back to normal, if the word 'normal' could ever be used to describe their lives.
17
A Gremlin in the Kremlin
Only having had a few hours of sleep after the vast amount of alcohol he'd consumed the previous night, his head felt it had been hit like a shovel. Nowadays it was very hard to find real Russian vodka, but those guys seemed to have had an endless supply of the very best stuff. The inside of his mouth and both the top and bottom of his tongue felt red raw, just as they should after what he'd imbibed.
When he'd left his flat yesterday, the idea had been to try and drink away his worries. Well, that had been the plan on entering the usual bar that he drank in. Sitting there on the barstool, drinking watered down, cheap vodka, all alone, with only the barman for company in the early afternoon, he was deeply aware that most of the customers wouldn't arrive until much later on, one of the main reasons he frequented this particular bar. Deep down he knew that he was a very sorry drunk... an alcoholic in fact. It wasn't something he'd ever admit to, but somewhere locked inside his mind there was the tiniest voice in the darkest corner, afraid and alone, mouthing the word... alcoholic. Because he was a very sorry drunk, he liked to drink alone... to just sit on the barstool and knock back drink after drink after drink, all the time staring glassy eyed at the TV on the wall with the sound turned down. Occasionally the bartender would ask if he'd like the volume turned up. But he always refused, preferring his thoughts for company instead.
The previous day had started no differently from countless others. Having drunk enough to make a normal man at least a little unsteady on his feet, he contemplated the future that lay in store for him. His gambling debts... oh his gambling debts. It had only started out as a bit of fun with some of his work mates. But how quickly it had spiralled out of control. First it was just as much as he could afford on a night out... the next month... half his salary... then... oh then! The offer to borrow from The Establishment... well, if you can call a hardcore, gunrunning drug lord's organisation The Establishment. It was just a little at first, enough to win back all he'd previously lost, and the interest on the loan. Or so he'd thought. It was easy really. He was a great gambler... or so he believed, but was just having some bad luck... which as any good gambler knows is bound to change sooner rather than later. At least, that's what he continued to tell himself. Not having been back to The Establishment for over a week now, he knew it was only a matter of time before he got a knock at the door. Having no savings, barely any possessions... save his desktop computer, his laptop and a few other pieces of hardware, there was certainly nothing that would even come close to covering the scale of the debt he owed to the very scary, and by now 'disappointed' men at The Establishment.
As his feet crunched through the fresh snow, he batted fluttering snowflakes out of his eyes with one of his gloved hands, feeling the weight of his laden backpack through both his shoulders as he strolled past the awe inspiring Bolshoi theatre. Walking nearly two miles so far since leaving his flat, which although it doesn't sound much, in these temperatures it was a gruelling trek. With the weight of history from all the iconic landmarks around threatening to smother him, his mind returned to the previous night.
Things changed dramatically when the other man walked through the door of the bar, and out of all the places he could have sat (don't forget the bar was empty), he sat down right next to me. I sat still, not acknowledging him at first, as he ordered a shot of vodka, and when it arrived he threw it straight down his throat. Immediately he spat it out, followed straight away by every curse I'd ever heard of, essentially telling the bartender exactly what he thought of his watered down excuse for vodka. I smiled at that. Of course it was watered down... name me one bar that doesn't do that? Catching my smile out of the corner of his eye, for a split second I thought his rage might turn on me... but it didn't. Asking me what was so funny... and I told him. He said he knew somewhere that sold the best original Russian vodka there was, and asked if I'd like to go there with him. I remember thinking about his question for an age. His face appeared friendly, if a little haggard. Dressed roughly, not dissimilar to me, his eyes... there was something about his eyes. Maybe he was wearing contact lenses, but the eyes themselves looked as though they'd seen so much... anguish, so much pain, so much... brutality. But still, at the time it seemed like an offer I couldn't refuse... and so I didn't.
Looking back, the bartender's frightened face should have set alarm bells ringing. It didn't. Whether it was the cold or the watered down vodka that I'd already consumed, who knows... but on our journey, I really started to struggle. It was very unusual. My normally logical brain was having trouble functioning even on the most fundamental level, and it was only once we'd arrived at the building, and made our way down the slippery, cobbled steps, into the basement, that I realised I might be in trouble. By then, it was way too late.
His friends, associates, call them what you will, welcomed me with open arms. It was surreal. There were scantily clad girls, champagne and of course exactly what he'd promised... vodka so smooth and strong that it would have been fit for any Russian king or queen. Time passed in a smoke filled haze. There were dice games, card games, drinking games... scantily clad girl games. I just sat and enjoyed the vodka. All track of time was lost, probably even before I'd arrived there. As quickly as I'd arrived and joined in the fun... everything just stopped. Like that, no warning... nothing! From out of the shadows a man appeared. It was dark, filled with cigarette smoke. The drink made me unsteady on my feet. I remember feeling sick and fighting the urge to puke. I can also recall feeling fear, genuine fear. I'd suddenly gone from being deliriously happy, to being afraid for my life. It didn't sober me up enough for what happened next. I sat down, not quite of my own free will, but it was a relief not to be swaying about. The man from the shadows limped over to our corner table. I say limped... I think it was limped. I'm sure he had a walking stick. The 'tap, tap, tap' on the wooden floor was the scariest thing in the world at the time. I was boxed in, crowded by so many large figures. They all seemed to know who I was, that I worked at the Kremlin, building computers. They had details about the construction, the guards, the other stuff, my bosses, the shifts we all worked... everything!
Deep, heavy breaths crystallised in front of him as he continued his journey. Glancing over his shoulder at the Metropol hotel that he'd just passed on the other side of the street, its splendour jumped out at him and slapped him around the face, shouting, "You will never be able to afford me!" God he hated that place, with all its well dressed foreign visitors gliding in and out of the... now how did he overhear someone describe it the other day? Oh, that's right... 'amazing art nouveau masterpiece covered with multicoloured mosaics and sculpted stone'. At that very moment in time he hated it all. Despite the freezing cold, the snow and the wind, sweat positively poured off him... down his back, his neck, his legs, under his arms and he could feel his palms sweating like they belonged to an unfit, elderly squash player. By now he'd nearly reached Resurrection Gate; although it wasn't the original structure, it was an exact replica and usually inspired him each and every time he saw it. Not today.