Whatever It Takes Page 2

  Define all right, Roman thought. Nothing would be right again. But Arkady brought him into the house, sent an unprotesting Dima elsewhere, and led Roman to his study.

  “Sit down,” Arkady said.

  Roman balanced on the edge of the chair, his stomach fluttering. This was when he would be sent away. This was when he’d hear which orphanage he’d be going to. Easy to think he’d rather live on the street but he knew how hard that would be and he wasn’t stupid. He needed a roof over his head, food in his stomach, clothes on his back.

  Arkady sat on the other chair. “I am so sorry about your father.”

  Not as sorry as me.

  “The police are investigating. They’ll find who was responsible.”

  No, they won’t. They never do. Well, not when they don’t want to.

  “Someone obviously wants to do harm to me and my family. I have enemies but I had no idea they’d stoop to blowing up my car. I’ve decided to send Dima to a boarding school in England. Out of danger. I want you to go with him.”

  Roman started. What?

  “If you’d like to.”

  There was a choice? An orphanage in Moscow? A struggle to survive on the streets or a new start in England? Even though he’d be with Dima, there was no choice. He knew what his father would be telling him to do.

  “I’m very fond of you, Roman. You’re a good boy. Respectful and hard working. A credit to your father who died doing his job, protecting me and my family. Now it’s my turn to look after you. Will you go to England?”

  Roman nodded.

  “In return for me paying for your education, I’d like you to look out for Dima. Encourage him to study. Keep him out of trouble. Watch his back. As much as you can. Could you do that?”

  The idea that he could stop Dima from doing anything he wanted to do seemed impossible but when Roman thought of the alternative… He accepted there was no alternative, and he nodded.

  Arkady smiled. He was like a shark with sharp white teeth, his slick dark hair brushed back from his forehead. He’d always frightened Roman a little. His father said Arkady was a shrewd businessman and not to be underestimated.

  “I will do all that I can to find out who did this and when I do find them, I promise you, they will pay.” Arkady’s eyes glittered with menace.

  Roman believed him. “When do we leave?”

  “As soon as I can arrange everything. Pack what you want to take. If there is anything you wish to keep but not take, pack that separately and I’ll look after it. I’ll buy your uniform and anything else you need when we reach England. I’ll also pay you an allowance. The same as I give Dima.”

  Roman bit his lip. That wouldn’t go down well.

  “Do you want to stay here in the house tonight or in your own room?”

  “My room.” Roman’s voice cracked when he spoke.

  Arkady nodded. When he pushed to his feet, Roman rose to his. He swallowed hard then held out his hand. “Thank you for this opportunity. I won’t let you down.”

  Arkady shook his hand, squeezed too hard and Roman bit the inside of his cheeks to stop himself flinching. As Arkady stared at him, there was something in his face that Roman didn’t recognise, some emotion that didn’t feel appropriate, but then Arkady released him and the moment passed.

  “On your birthday,” Arkady said. “I am so sorry.” He shook his head. “I’ll arrange the funeral. You’re not to worry about a thing.”

  Roman sighed. His father believed death was the end, that funerals were for the living. It was what Roman believed too. His father was gone. Nothing could change that.

  It was hard not to look at the remains of the car as he returned to the flat, difficult to go back down the stairs knowing his father would never be there with him again. There was so much Roman had wanted to say, had wanted to tell him, including the huge secret he’d hoped his father would be okay about, but now he’d never know how his father would have reacted to hearing his son was gay. His throat tightened.

  He put his bag and saxophone on the floor and went into his father’s bedroom. The bed was neatly made, the way his father always left it. Roman kicked off his shoes and lay on top, pressing his face into the pillow, then curling himself around it.

  “Papa,” he whispered. “Papa, Papa, Papa. I miss you so much.”

  He could still smell his father, the citrusy soap he used, the unique scent of his body. Roman felt choked by grief. How could he go on without the most important person in his world? He wished he’d not gone back for his saxophone, wished he’d been sitting beside his papa when the bomb detonated.

  Fury surged into his heart. Why hadn’t his father checked the car? Why hadn’t Arkady been the one to die? He was angry with whoever planted the bomb because they’d got the wrong person. Then angry with himself for forgetting the saxophone.

  Don’t.

  Roman could hear his father’s voice in his head as clearly as if he lay next to him.

  Take the opportunity offered.

  Make the most of it.

  Life will get better.

  Be happy.

  Make others happy.

  Remember I live on in you.

  Be the best man you can be.

  Make me proud.

  Roman couldn’t sleep. He pulled his father’s suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and began to pack his precious things. Photos of his parents, and those they’d taken of him. The cup his father always used, that before had been Roman’s mother’s favourite. The book on rocks his father had bought for him. A few of the unusual rocks that he and his father had found, including a fragment of a meteorite. Roman went through the flat judging every item. Take or leave. He wanted everything of importance with him. Anything he left behind might disappear despite what Arkady had said.

  The funeral was a quiet affair. Just Roman and Arkady attended and Roman was glad Dima wasn’t there. Roman wore a new dark suit and shoes Arkady had bought for him and he carried two roses, an even number for a sad occasion. He felt he ought to cry but he’d shed no tears since that day.

  He stood and thought about his father who was no longer able to feel the heat of the sun on his face, no longer able to see flowers and smile, no longer there to talk to Roman about rocks, no longer able to roll his eyes when Roman played a wrong note on his saxophone. But still he didn’t cry. Something in him had broken.

  Roman wondered how much there was left of his father to put in that coffin. There could be no final kiss as he’d given his cancer-destroyed mother. Roman let the ceremony wash over him, and the priest’s meaningless words and the walk to the grave.

  He threw a handful of coins and dirt onto the coffin and he was glad when Arkady took him back to the house, glad there was no meal, no one to steal his grief. The numb feeling was comforting. Better than feeling hurt. Keeping his emotions in check made him feel safer, more secure. It was something to remember.

  He would never celebrate his birthday again.

  Roman and Dima flew to England on a private jet, accompanied by Arkady, an over-excited Raisa and the new bodyguard, Igor, who was nothing like Roman’s father. Igor never smiled and hardly spoke. He carried a gun and his eyes were constantly moving. He was a big brute of a man with wide shoulders, muscular arms and short grey hair.

  It was the first time Roman had been in a plane or out of Russia. He sat glued to the window, amazed by the view, the intensity of the blue above the clouds, the beauty of everything from so high up. Though the first glimpse of England disappointed. Grey like in Moscow. They landed at Farnborough airport, which Arkady said was to the southwest of London and Roman thought how much his father would have loved this.

  Roman showed the immigration officer his passport and visa, paid for and fast-tracked by Arkady, and he was allowed into the country. The customs official didn’t even look in their bags, not that Roman had brought anything he wasn’t supposed to, and a short time later they sat in a large hire car with their luggage in the boot. Roman’s suitcase and sax
ophone were dwarfed by the number of bags Dima had filled, even though he’d sent a trunk on ahead. Roman hadn’t played his saxophone since his father had died. He wasn’t sure he’d ever play it again, but he’d keep it forever, look at the piece of metal still embedded in the side of the case and he’d remember the hard-learned lessons of that day.

  They stayed three nights in a smart hotel in London. Another first for Roman who’d never been in a hotel before. He and Dima shared a room much to Dima’s annoyance. Roman wasn’t thrilled either but had the sense not to show it. When Arkady snapped at Dima for his attitude, Dima was even meaner to Roman. Roman was taller than him, which annoyed Dima. Thinner than him, which also annoyed him. Roman’s breathing annoyed him. He understood. Well, he understood a little. Dima was jealous of the attention, jealous that Arkady was kinder to Roman than he was to his own son.

  But you still have a father.

  Roman said little, did exactly as he was told and all the time he watched, listened and learned. He thanked Arkady for everything he bought for him, uniform and sports clothes and laptop. He knew there was money in his father’s bank account and Arkady told him it was Roman’s but he’d invest it and put it into an account for him to use when he came back to Moscow.

  After two days of shopping and a little sightseeing, Raisa stayed at the hotel while Igor drove the three of them to Oakhurst Academy near Canterbury, in Kent. It was a warm early September day, the sun was shining and his father had been dead for two months. Even with money, not everything could happen quickly.

  Roman pressed his face to the car window and stared out while questions bombarded his mind. How long would this be his new home? Would he fit in? Would he be able to cope with the lessons? Would Arkady pay for him to go to university here or would he have to go back to Russia? Would he have to do military service?

  Take each day as it comes, his father would have told him.

  The car eventually pulled off the motorway onto a country road and finally through ornate metal gates onto a long drive lined with tall trees. Dima never looked out of the windows for the entire journey. He was too busy on his phone. The one thing Roman didn’t have. Arkady had told Dima to let Roman use his if he needed to call him. Roman knew that wouldn’t happen. He didn’t want a phone. He had no one to call. His friends were no longer part of his life.

  Beyond the trees were green fields. Up ahead, the school building was nothing like Roman had imagined. It was old with tall windows, the brickwork smothered in ivy. The entrance looked like a church with a clock above the door and towers either side.

  As they emerged from the car, two boys wearing royal blue blazers like the ones Dima and Roman had been bought hurried towards them.

  “Welcome to Oakhurst.” The blond boy smiled at them but Roman couldn’t smile back.

  “What are your names?” asked the dark-skinned one.

  Roman was glad he’d been able to study English at school though he wasn’t as good as Dima who’d studied it for far longer.

  “Roman Nikítich Sorokin.” He held out his hand. “What’s your name?”

  “Charlie Wingham and this is Matthew Ryeland.”

  “I’m Dima Arkadyevich Grekov.”

  The boys shook hands with him too, then with Arkady. Igor stayed in the car.

  “If you’d like to come this way,” Matthew said.

  The three of them went into the school with the boys. The entrance hall was very grand, with a double winding staircase, and smelled of polish. Wooden panels lined the walls and old paintings hung there along with boards filled with names and dates written in gold letters with headings Roman had trouble reading. Latin?

  He felt excited and apprehensive, but he made sure to show nothing on his face.

  When it was time for Arkady to leave, he hugged Dima first, then Roman and Roman found himself clinging to him, anxiety tightening his hold.

  Arkady patted his back. “You’ll be fine,” he whispered. “Be your father’s son.”

  Once Arkady had gone, Dima’s attitude hardened, and Roman’s excitement faded.

  “Don’t bother me,” Dima snapped in Russian. “Don’t come near me. You don’t deserve to be here, sluga.” Servant.

  Roman said nothing. Arkady had asked that they share a room and Roman wished that hadn’t been allowed. When they met the two boys they were sharing with, almost the first thing that came from Dima’s mouth was that Roman would do whatever they told him to.

  “Put all my things away while I go exploring,” Dima ordered him in Russian. “If you don’t do as I say, I’ll tell my father things you don’t want him to hear.”

  He put away Dima’s things. Pick your battles his father always said.

  One day there would be a huge battle and Roman would win.

  He’d never thought it would be easy to be at school in England, but it was harder than he’d imagined. Roman was homesick and lonely. His childhood had ended. When Dima was moved down a year to be in the same class as him, Dima took out his fury on Roman. Rugby tackles a little too violent, the occasional shove into a wall when no one was looking, Roman’s things untidied before a bedroom inspection.

  Not speaking English fluently made life extra difficult and Roman was determined to put that part right at least. He asked for extra help and sat for hours in the language lab listening to and repeating English conversation. He tried as hard as he could in every subject. He loved computers, had a knack for understanding what others didn’t. He dreamed of being the best hacker in the world. He wanted to stay invisible.

  He already knew how to look after himself, to be tidy, organised and self-reliant, but there were new things to learn here. Rules to follow, some of them strange. They were up at seven with an hour to shower and dress and revise for tests before breakfast at eight. Punishments were given for stupid things: walking on the grass, the wrong look at a person, a tie not fastened correctly, trousers too long, a shirt hanging out. Never Roman, often Dima but there was nothing Roman could do if Dima had been caught by a master.

  Penalties were weird. Cutting the grass with scissors, colouring in a sheet of paper using only a biro, writing out page after page of Latin, raking the gravel on the drive. Older boys punished younger ones for not carrying their books, not cleaning their shoes, for looking at porn magazines, for not wanting to look at porn magazines. Roman was careful. Dima wasn’t.

  But something stopped the older boys from messing with Roman and by default with Dima. Roman’s attitude, his expression? Maybe because Dima was already taking more than a pound of flesh? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. Maybe that was it. Him not caring meant they drew little satisfaction from ordering him around. He remembered reading that criminals in Russia, in order to avoid getting beaten in jail, hurt themselves more than the guards would have, showing how tough they were.

  Roman wasn’t tough. But not appearing to care gradually morphed to not caring and Roman knew something was withering inside him: the innate decency his father would have wanted him to have.

  The bathrooms were shared. Roman found it difficult not to glance at the others, but he couldn’t risk being found out. There were boys who he guessed were gay, but he avoided them. He wouldn’t give Dima ammunition, but Dima fired anyway, calling him gay, a fag, a shirt lifter. Roman let it wash over him. Just words.

  Much to Roman’s astonishment, Dima was popular. Maybe because he was generous with his money and fun, sometimes reckless—knowing he had Roman at his back to fix records, alter marks by hacking into computers, put a teacher’s car back where it should be, pacify those who wanted to report him. Despite all the help he gave Dima, the bastard still lied about him and instructed others not to be his friends. Roman found it easier to keep to himself.

  The food was mostly horrible. He didn’t spend his allowance on snacks from the tuckshop. He saved it. Used it to bribe those who might make trouble for Dima because despite everything, he kept to the promise he’d made to Arkady. Roman tried not to give Dima any reason t
o complain to his father about him, though he guessed he did. Roman had got him out of trouble several times, owned up to things Dima had done so Dima wasn’t put in detention, intervened when Dima argued with other boys. Roman had even taken a beating from an older boy to save him. He watched Dima’s back. He let Dima copy his homework. He lied to protect him and longed for the day when he never had to see or speak to him again.

  Roman learned what he needed to do to survive. Not just survive but thrive. Doubts, fears and tears had no place at Oakhurst. Emotion was unsafe. Friendship was an illusion. There were drugs but he avoided them. He had no interest in cigarettes or alcohol. Boys snuck out to have sex. He didn’t, though he wished he could. But he had no idea how to safely find a man to have sex with.

  Silent compliance at school made life easier so Roman was a quiet boy and put on the right kind of face. He tried to stay in the shadows but there was something about him that everyone noticed, teachers and pupils. He was well thought of despite his isolation and despite Dima’s lies. Inside his heart, he held most boys in contempt, for their backgrounds, their money, even their vulnerability. They had no idea what life was really like. Not all had a father, but none had seen their father burn to death.

  Roman grew to like the school and its eccentricities. It made him smile that pigeons roosted above the French classroom and occasionally shat on books. He liked that the masters wore gowns that made them look like giant bats. There was no litter, no graffiti, no love even if he’d wanted it. He sometimes chose not to go back to Moscow with Dima when it was the holidays. He never felt comfortable there. So he’d lied and said he was spending the time with a friend but instead he stayed at school.

  Gradually, Dima grew to tolerate Roman. Roman did so much for him that Dima no longer wanted him gone. He thought he was Roman’s friend, but he wasn’t. No one was. Roman was on his own. It was what he wanted, though he felt trapped, as if he was an alien from another planet and had no spaceship to make his way home, maybe no home left to return to. He was running but with no destination in his head.