“I’m sorry. I forgot.”
“Well, for God’s sake, get changed into something respectable and I’ll call for a cab.”
“I don’t want to get changed.” Kenny Mountford hadn’t really formalized the idea before, but he suddenly knew that he wasn’t going to change his clothes until Charlie Fenton agreed to give him the part in his next production. He was going to immerse himself in the role of a Semfiropol Boy until that wonderful moment. “And don’t try to change my mind,” he added in his best Ukrainian accent.
“What the hell are you talking about – and why the hell are you using that stupid voice?” demanded Lesley-Jane. “If we don’t leave in the next five minutes, we’ll have missed all the paparazzi. And if you think I’m going to be seen at a Tom Cruise premiere with someone dressed like you are, Kenny, then you’ve got another think coming!” Her face was so contorted with fury that she no longer looked even mildly pretty.
“Listen,” Kenny continued in his Ukrainian voice, “I’ve got more important things to do than to-”
He was interrupted by the phone ringing. Lesley-Jane turned away from him in disgust. He picked up the receiver. A seductive “Hello” came from the other end of the line. The man’s voice was vaguely familiar, but Kenny could not immediately identify it.
“Hello,” he replied, still Ukrainian.
The tone changed from seduction to suspicion. “Who is this?”
Then Kenny knew. “Charlie,” he enthused, reverting to his normal voice, “how good to hear you.”
At the other end of the phone Charlie Fenton sounded slightly thrown. “Is that Kenny?”
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
The director still didn’t sound his usual confident self as he stuttered out a reply. “Oh, I just… I was… um…” Then, sounding more assured, he said, “I just wanted to check how you were getting on with your infiltration process.”
“I thought you weren’t going to be in touch for three months.”
“No, I, er, um… I changed my mind.”
“Well, in answer to your question, Charlie, my infiltration is going very well. I’m already working for a gang.”
“That’s good.”
“They’re Ukrainian,” he went on, reassuming the accent to illustrate his point. “And, actually, it’s good you’ve rung, because there’s something I wanted to ask you…”
“What’s that?”
“How deep do you think I should go into this character I’m playing?”
“As deep as possible, Kenny.” With something of his old pomposity, the director went on: “My style of theatre involves the participants in total immersion in their characters.”
“I’m glad you said that, because I’ve been wondering whether I should actually be living in my house while I’m doing this preparation work. A Ukrainian gangster wouldn’t live in a Notting Hill house like mine, would he?”
“No, he certainly wouldn’t.”
‘So what I want to ask you is: do you think I should move out of my house?”
“No question. You certainly should,” replied Charlie Fenton.
He took a grubby room in a basement near Goldhawk Road and, as he got deeper into his part, Kenny Mountford realized that he could no longer be Kenny Mountford. He needed a new identity to go with his new persona. He consulted Vasili and Vladimir on Ukrainian names and, following their advice, retitled himself Anatoli Semyonov. He also cut himself off from the English media. He stopped watching television, and the only radio he listened to on very crackly short wave was a station from Kiev. He bought Ukrainian newspapers in which at first he couldn’t even understand the alphabet.
Meanwhile, the tests set by Fyodor got tougher. On top of the dealing, Kenny was now delegated to join Vasili, Vladimir and other of the Semfiropol Boys in some enforcement work. Drug customers dragging their feet on payments, prostitutes or pimps trying to keep more of the take than they were meant to… to bring these to a proper sense of priorities called for a certain amount of threatening behaviour, and frequently violence. In such situations, as with the drug dealing, Kenny – or rather Anatoli Semyonov – did what was required of him.
The thought never came into his mind that what he was doing might be immoral, that if he were caught he could be facing a long stretch in prison. Kenny Mountford was acting, he was researching the role of Anatoli Semyonov with the long-term view of appearing in a show created by the legendary Charlie Fenton. When such a conflict of priorities arose, Morality was for the petty-minded; Art was far more important.
As he got deeper and deeper under his Semfiropol Boys cover, Kenny saw less and less of Lesley-Jane. He didn’t feel the deprivation. He was so focused on what he saw as his work that his mind had little room for other thoughts.
At the end of an evening with Vasili, Vladimir and some baseball bats, which had left a club-owner who was behind on his protection payments needing three weeks’ hospitalization, the three Semfiropol Boys – or rather the two Semfiropol Boys and the one prospective Semfiropol Boy – reported back to Fyodor.
The gang leader was very pleased with them. “This is good work. I think we are achieving more since Anatoli has been with us.” Vasili and Vladimir looked a little sour, but Kenny Mountford glowed with pride. He had reached the point where commendation from Fyodor was almost as important to him as commendation from Charlie Fenton. “And I think it is time that Anatoli Semyonov should be given his final test…”
Kenny could hardly contain his excitement. In his heavily Ukrainian voice, he asked, “You mean the one that will actually make me a fully qualified member of the Semfiropol Boys?”
Fyodor nodded. “Yes, that is exactly what I mean.” He gave a curt nod of his head. Vasili and Vladimir, knowing the signal well, left the room. A long silence filled the space between the two men who remained.
It was broken by Fyodor. “Yes, Anatoli, I think you have proved you understand fully the role that is required of you.”
Kenny Mountford could hardly contain himself. It was the best review he’d had since The Stage had described his Prospero as “luminescently compelling”.
“So what do I have to do? Don’t worry, whatever it is, I’ll do it. I won’t let you down.”
“You have to kill someone,” said Fyodor.
At first Kenny had had difficulty with the amount of vodka-drinking that being an aspirant Semfiropol Boy involved, but now he could match Vasili and Vladimir shot for shot – and even, on occasions, outdrink them. They tended to meet during the small hours (after a good night’s threatening) in a basement club off Westbourne Grove. It was a dark place, heavy with the fug of cigarettes. Down there in the murk no one observed the smoking ban. And, having seen the size of the barmen, Kenny didn’t envy any Department of Health Inspector delegated to enforce it.
He was always the only non-Russian speaker there, though his grasp of the language was improving, thanks to an online course he’d enrolled in. Kenny had a private ambition that, when the three months were up, he would return to Charlie Fenton not only looking like a Ukrainian gangster, but also speaking like one.
That evening they were well into the second bottle of vodka before either Vasili or Vladimir mentioned the task which they knew Fyodor had set Kenny. “So,” asked Vladimir, always the more sceptical of the two, “do you reckon you can do it? Or are you going to chicken out?”
“Don’t worry, tovarich, I can do it.” He sounded as confident as ever, but couldn’t deny to himself that the demand made by Fyodor had been a shock. Playing for time, he went on, “The only thing I can’t decide about it is who I should kill? Just someone random who I happen to see in the street? Would that be the right thing to do?”