The MisFit: The Early Years Page 8
Simon wore rubber boots—the kind children wore for tramping through the mud. He would dispose of the boots in Vesterbro the next day.
“I’ve already breached the lock on the dining room windows,” he said by way of greeting me and Dimitri. “Took off my boots and had a walk around. The maid’s deaf or asleep or dead. That television would wake a corpse.”
His non-stop chatter grated my nerves, and I wanted him to shut up. I let him run down, then shoved the note at him. He nodded and turned for the side garden. Dimitri and I left. We would meet him later at the same bus stop where we’d gotten off. There was still the chance the driver might recognize me and Dimitri.
I believed that likelihood diminished if he saw us with Simon, but God, what I’d give to stay in the neighborhood. Wait until my mother came home with The Carp. Listen to her screams when she found the note.
I had labored over those eight words longer than I’d spent on my four-page personal essay.
Eyes are everywhere. We are watching you, slut.
Chapter 48
Applying Pressure
The police came shortly after midnight.
Who else would ring and ring and ring the doorbell at such an hour?
Get up, Emma. I ran a hand through my hair and pinched my cheeks. I practiced yawning and rubbed my eyes. Tousled hair. Pink cheeks. Red eyes. All signs of a studious boy too sleepy to hear the doorbell.
The slap of Emma’s slippers in the hallway sent goosebumps snowshoeing up and down my arms. Oh, God, this was going exactly as I planned.
Voices at the front door rose, faded, stopped.
Emma tapped on my door and whispered, “Michael? Wake up, please.”
The door banged open, and the overhead light came on. Blinking, I rose on one elbow. “Wh-what time is it?”
“Step out here, Michael.”
What the hell was The Carp doing in my doorway? “Is something wrong with my father, Emma?”
“What’s going on?” Dimitri scuffled into my room, scratching his head, his pajamas rumpled.
My knees wobbled as I swung my feet over the side of my bed. “I have no idea.”
“Come out here,” The Carp boomed. “Both of you.”
“You’re scaring them, sir,” Emma said.
Thank you, Emma. I stood, and Dimitri moved next to me.
“Scaring them?” The Carp laughed. “The devil couldn’t scare these two.”
“Sir,” Emma said.
“Out here,” he repeated. “You have some explaining to do.”
“I’d like my bedroom slippers,” Dimitri said in a voice most people would think was frightened.
“You don’t need your slippers,” The Carp said, his tone dismissive. “Sergeant, did you come here for a reason other than standing there like a sheep?”
“Mr. Ambassador, I don’t think—”
“Bring those boys out here, Sergeant. Now.”
The policeman thrust out his chest, but muttered, “This is most irregular, Mr. Ambassador.”
“Take it up with the police commissioner.”
Bastard. The sergeant’s face broadcast his contempt like a neon sign.
Welcome to the boat. I avoided meeting the policeman’s eye and stepped into the hallway—crowded with Emma, The Carp, and the sergeant. Was The Carp afraid we’d make a dash for the bathroom?
Our small circus rolled into the living room. Dimitri and I took turns yawning. He and I headed for the sofa.
“Remain standing,” The Carp ordered.
Emma opened and closed her mouth, but put her hands on our shoulders.
“Please sit, Fru Bakke.” The bastard pointed at the sofa.
The sergeant escorted her around us, mumbling, “We’ll be out of here in a few minutes.”
“We’ll be out of here when I am satisfied these two hooligans are telling the truth,” The Carp said.
You should live so long, bastard. I raised my eyebrows at him but said nothing.
“Where were you tonight between nine and ten-thirty?” The Carp asked Dimitri. “And don’t look at your pal for the answer.”
“I don’t need to look at my friend. I was studying. In my room.”
“Did he go to his mother’s house tonight?” The Carp snarled.
“He was studying. Like me.”
“Someone saw you. You and a man and Michael Romanov.”
“I was studying. In my room.”
“The bus driver recognized you.”
My stomach dropped. Careful, he’s a carp. Feeding off the bottom.
Dimitri said, “The bus driver is mistaken.”
The Carp whipped around, facing me. “I want a sample of your handwriting.”
“All right.” Did he think I was stupid?
“Your mother is hysterical.”
What a pity. “Why?”
“Because of your note, you little bastard. She was just beginning to relax after your last trick.”
“What trick is that?” I added sir a second too late for courtesy.
“Do you know the old woman at the pet shop died?”
“What pet shop?” I’d read the account in the paper. Dimitri and I could hardly believe our good luck.
“If you come near your mother again, I’ll have you thrown in jail. You and your friend are misfits. You don’t belong in normal society.”
And you’re a bully. I swallowed the derision clawing my throat. Let him bluster. Misfit that I was, I’d saved the best for last for my hysterical mother.
Chapter 49
A Loose Thread
Ten days later, on an unseasonably warm spring evening, my father, Dimitri, and I burst through the front door of my mother’s house in Hellerup. An anonymous letter—obscene, in my father’s words—had reached him in Siberia. Sent via the bank, the letter could not be traced.
Simon, I had realized, was more trainable than I first recognized. After three rehearsals, he entered the bank with the request to forward the letter immediately to Herr Romanov and left without incident.
We pushed past the open-mouthed maids and caterers—there to serve the celebrants at my mother’s forty-fifth birthday. The drawing-room door stood open. We strode through it like conquering heroes. My heart was racing. My mother was about to get a birthday gift she could never have imagined.
She sat in the middle of the candle-lit room, surrounded by laughing people who adored her—including The Carp. He gazed at her with the eyes of a cocker spaniel.
“Aliina Pajari Romanov!” My father’s voice rattled the chandelier’s glass prisms.
Silence fell over the crowded room. My mother grabbed for The Carp’s hand.
He lifted his chest and looked down his nose. “You are not welcome here, Nikolai.”
“I do not intend to stay. I am here to give the mother of my sons my petition for divorce.” He threw a packet in her lap. “You will find included the grounds for my claim. Those grounds will become public should you ask for anything—anything—from me.”
He made an about-face, and Dimitri and I marched out of the room on either side of him. I turned and smiled at my mother—deathly pale, but so beautiful I felt stunned. She did not yet know it, but she was about to open her death warrant.
Chapter 50
The Last Laugh
My mother shot and killed herself that same night—three months after Alexei’s death.
A pile of ashes filled an ashtray on her bedside table. The divorce documents lay strewn on the bed next to her body.
The police and The Carp questioned my father regarding the ashes. He refused to cooperate. He left the next day for Siberia without giving me and Dimitri any details.
Not that I needed details. I knew the grounds for divorce. Thanks to Simon’s contacts, I manufactured them. I didn’t even tell Dimitri what I had done.
My only regret? I wished I’d seen my mother’s face when she opened the two photographs I’d sent my father anonymously. Did blood rush out of her face or into it? Did she
faint? Did she scream? Puke? Strike someone?
Thanks to Simon’s friend who specialized in taking porn photos, my mother’s and brother’s faces were unmistakable from pictures I provided. The naked bodies locked in a carnal embrace belonged to a whore and a friend the photographer provided.
Exposed in the flesh, did the models resemble my mother and my brother?
Well, the pictures fooled my father. As for my mother . . .
She never defended me against a world that considered me a freak. A monster. A pervert. She didn’t give a damn. Between us, no maternal-filial bond ever existed. She justified her neglect by nurturing and devoting herself to her older son’s existence. Protective as any she-animal in the wild, she gave her own life to ensure Alexei’s memory remained untarnished.
Not a loss to the world, in my opinion.
In bed that night, I slept as deeply as I had the night I killed Alexei. Why not? I’d gotten away with three murders, and I didn’t intend they’d be my last.
***
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by AB Plum
Cover art: Boulevard Photografica/Patty G. Henderson
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Acknowledgement
Short of gifts of rare gems or bank-account infusions or Super Bowl ads, not many means exist for thanking my two amazing critique partners, Marjorie Brody and Linda Madl. Each has given me innumerable hours of reading and feedback—not to mention encouragement. Thank you.
Author Bio
AB Plum lives and writes just off the exit to the fast lane in Silicon Valley. Hobbies include marathon walking, aerobic dancing, and reading. Watch for the second installment in The MisFit Series: The Lost Days.
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