Oksa Pollock: The Last Hope (10 page)

I
MMEDIATELY AFTER SAYING GOODBYE TO
G
US
, Oksa went up to her room. Once she closed the door behind her, she felt every muscle and nerve in her body relax and the tension subside. It was so quiet here that she knew nothing bad could happen to her and that she was completely safe from the world and its dangers. She then moved on to the evening’s top priority: swapping her pleated skirt and blazer for threadbare jeans and a bright orange T-shirt.

She ran her fingers through her hair, lay down on her bed for a few minutes and then, unable to stay still any longer, she got up again. She was just about to head upstairs to Dragomira’s apartment when she heard the front door bang: her mum had just come in from work. Oksa rushed downstairs to see her. It was so nice when she was at home.

“Hello darling! Did you have a good day?”

“Ugh, a killer of a day. But don’t worry, as you can see, I survived! I was just going up to see Baba.”

“Wouldn’t you like to have a bite to eat with me instead? I know you have your little habits,” acknowledged her mum, gazing at her daughter. “But your gran is busy with your father and some friends, and they mustn’t be disturbed.”

“Oh! Baba’s Band? In that case, they’ll be chatting for ages. Not my idea of fun, thanks.”

When the Pollocks lived in Paris, Dragomira liked to have friends over to her apartment regularly and they’d talk for hours, drinking tea as black as coffee—a custom which she seemed keen on continuing here in London.

“Yes, there’s a large Baba’s Band this evening,” replied Marie Pollock, laughing. “But that’s nothing to do with us. Come on, I’ve made some
piroshki
filled with meat, just the way you like them. It’s my turn to spend some time with you for a change!”

Sitting at the kitchen table, mum and daughter devoured half a dozen of the little Russian pastries fresh from the oven, then attacked a sausage, before polishing off the Camembert. Oksa was enjoying sharing some moments of intimacy—and pigging out—with her mum; she wouldn’t have swapped these precious hours for the world. Brimming with happiness, she kept glancing over at her mum with sparkling eyes and Marie smiled back radiantly in reply.

“How’s the restaurant going?” asked Oksa, after talking about school for ages.

Marie had always worked with Pavel. In Paris, her husband had done the cooking while she’d managed an army of waiters and run the restaurant with great panache.
“An iron hand in a velvet glove!”
said Pavel, who admired his wife’s flair more than anyone. Now they were opening their own restaurant, Oksa knew her parents would have to work even harder. And deep down, she was sorry that was the case. Evenings spent as a family were going to be very few and far between…

“The work’s almost finished, but your father is convinced that nothing will be ready in time for the opening, you know what he’s like. The workmen are going flat out, but he’s always breathing down their necks. I really feel sorry for them! Fortunately Pierre’s there and he’s much less hyper… I’m glad they’ve become partners. Your dad’s such a worrier—it should do him good. Even if I’m starting to lose hope of ever seeing him relax… but we just have to put up with it and accept him how he is. After all, that’s why we love him, isn’t it?”

Oksa nodded energetically.

“What about your lessons?” said Marie, changing the subject. “Do you want to show me what you’ve been doing?”

Enjoying all this attention, Oksa rushed off to find her schoolbooks. They’d unpacked all the boxes, so now they had to get used to the new house, which was so English with its cosy rooms, temperamental plumbing and sash windows, and so unlike their Parisian apartment. Oksa had very mixed feelings about it all: everything was here, the furniture, the objects and the people she loved. But it was all in a new city—an unfamiliar and so far rather hostile environment. At least, where school was concerned. The house on Bigtoe Square was actually very nice and London was incredible, Oksa loved it. All those parks and museums—it was really amazing! So was the British way of life, which was a natural combination of laid-back attitudes and politeness, eccentricity and sophistication. She liked it all, but she still needed some time to feel really at home.

When she came back to the living room, her mum was sitting on a chaise longue by the fireplace, so she paused for a moment to watch her unnoticed. Marie Pollock was a tall woman with a creamy complexion. Willowy yet strong, she had a positive, calm temperament. Although on first impression she seemed easy-going and unruffled, she actually had boundless energy and was very resilient. She always wore understated clothes in solid colours, which reflected her discreet nature. Tonight she looked attractive in a bluish-grey silk dress, with her hair gathered in a loose bun. But Oksa noticed her worried expression and the lines creasing her forehead. Tiredness, probably… Admittedly, all traces of the recent move had disappeared in a few days. No one would have thought that the Pollocks had just arrived; Marie must have worked flat out to achieve this. The few years she’d spent in China had left their mark on her character and her tastes. She’d created a look for this room which was unexpectedly Oriental in character. Despite being built on the same model, all the neighbouring houses boasted motifs like lace, floral
prints and leather or taffeta upholstered chairs. But the Pollocks’ home was completely different. Near the fireplace stood the grey stone statue of a mandarin who appeared to rule the roost, and there was a bamboo mat on the floor beneath the red lacquer coffee table on which stood a vase holding a large bunch of anemones. Hanging from the ceiling, an enormous yellow oiled-paper lantern shed a golden light over the walls, which were decorated with masks from Peking opera, examples of calligraphy and photos of Oksa. The décor of the two lower floors and the floor reserved for Dragomira and her baroque world formed a sharp contrast with the outside appearance of the house. Oksa loved these contrasts; they suited her family down to the ground. Not to mention her life at present… She sat down on a chaise longue upholstered in black brocade near the window and opposite her mum, who was listening carefully as she talked about her lessons. After doing her maths and English exercises, Oksa went over and curled up next to her mum. Nestling in the crook of her shoulder, she affectionately played with a long strand of her mum’s hair and drank in her perfume, the one she’d always worn, with its base notes of white gentian. After a few minutes, worn out by this difficult day and comforted by her mum’s warmth, she fell asleep with clenched fists.

When she reopened her eyes, Oksa realized she was still lying on the chaise longue in the living room. The only light was filtering in through the windows from the street lights around the square. Oksa was covered with a cosy quilt embroidered with lotus flowers, her head resting on a cushion.

“Mum?”

There was no answer. Oksa got up, feeling a little groggy from dozing off. She turned on a lamp and looked at the clock: nine o’clock. She’d only been asleep for an hour. Should she go to bed or did she feel up to doing something else? She didn’t really know. Having nothing better to do, she launched a small fireball at the hearth to rekindle the fire, which had gone out.

“Yes!” she said, punching the air in triumph.

Then she noticed a large sheet of paper on the table in front of her. A note from her mum.

Feeling a little dazed, Oksa gathered together her school things and went up to her room. She put on pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt, then brushed her teeth, although she still didn’t want to go to bed right away.

“I know, I’ll go and kiss Baba goodnight.”

She hadn’t seen her gran since the night before, when she’d put that ointment on her stomach. Instinctively, she lifted up the bottom of her T-shirt to see what had happened to her bruise.

“Ooh! What’s
that
?”

The ointment had worked quite well because the bruise was no longer black and blue with hints of yellow and brown, as it had been a few hours ago. But there was still a strangely distinct outline around her belly button which formed a perfect eight-pointed star about two inches high. The lines were so even that they looked as though they’d been drawn with a purple felt-tip using a ruler. The skin was slightly puffy but it didn’t hurt any more. Intrigued and slightly worried, Oksa headed for the stairs and went up to see Dragomira.

O
KSA STOPPED ON THE LANDING AND LISTENED
. I
T SOUNDED
as if a lot of voices were discussing something very serious. Although they were speaking softly, some of them weren’t managing to keep their voices as low as the others, because the odd worried word could be heard through the closed door. “
Strange kind of reunion
,” Oksa thought. “
They don’t seem to be having much fun in there
.” She moved even closer and decided to take a peek through the keyhole. She recognized Dragomira from the back with her braids coiled around her head. Her father was sitting stiffly in his chair to one side. Opposite him, a woman with brown hair whom she didn’t know was watching Pavel closely, frowning. She heard a voice that she recognized as Leomido, Dragomira’s brother.

“But you must admit we have to ask ourselves the question, my friends.”

She was dying to go in, if only to hug her great-uncle, whom she adored.

“Don’t you realize what you’re asking of me?” rang out her father’s voice. “A few weeks ago, when this
problem
—so to speak—arose, I did my utmost to plan our escape under the best possible circumstances, you must give me that, Dragomira. But, make no mistake, that was just to protect my family. I’ve never made any secret of my opposition to the possibility of going back.”

Oksa had never heard him sound so serious. And yet he certainly knew a thing or two about playing the tragedian! What was going on? What were they talking about? What was all this about an escape?

“We all have families, we’ve all become Outsiders,” continued Pavel Pollock in a choked voice.

“That’s true,” replied a woman’s voice. “But none of us have ever forgotten who we were or where we came from. Pavel, you’re Dragomira’s son, you know what that means.”

“Furthermore,” added Dragomira, “we’ve just had to leave again in a frantic rush. But you know very well it’s merely another reprieve. We’ll never be safe. Anywhere.”

Oksa couldn’t hear what followed. Startled and unsettled by what had just been said, her mind was spinning. Immediately the cogs of her imagination began turning: her father and her gran were leading a conspiracy! A secret society. A gang of spies. Of course! Spies from the East, naturally. Or worse: members of the powerful Russian mafia. “
Oh please no, not the Russian mafia
,” she thought, chewing her lip, as she pictured bloody battles between rival gangs. Her curiosity aroused, she put her eye up to the keyhole again. Suddenly, she saw something go past—something… “
Aahh! What was that
?” she exclaimed, instinctively pressing her hand to her mouth to stifle her scream. She jumped back in shock and rubbed her eyes, convinced she was seeing things. “
I’m hallucinating! I must be
dreaming! Yes, that’s it, I’m dreaming
.” She pinched the back of her hand hard to check and grimaced in pain. No, she was definitely awake. Which meant that what she’d just seen had been all too real. She’d only caught a fleeting glimpse of it, but it was totally mind-boggling. She sat down on the first step of the landing and, with her hands over her eyes, tried to recall the
thing
she’d seen. A plump creature with a small, flat nose and
sticking-out
ears, a disproportionately large mouth and huge round eyes. Its only human aspect had been its blue dungarees. Oksa took a deep breath and decided to take another look through the keyhole. She had to accept that she hadn’t been seeing things because the creature was still there, just as she’d seen it, near Dragomira, holding in its hand a tray laden with glasses.

She was about to run away as fast as her legs could carry her when there was a massive thunderclap just above the building. A sudden gust
of wind mingled with rain rushed in through the open windows and all the lights began to sizzle, winking on and off fitfully and making the light flicker. Suddenly the bulbs went out with a sharp crack. The room was plunged into shadow, but none of its occupants seemed to react to this odd phenomenon—or to the appearance of an orange octopus-like creature which immediately took over from the malfunctioning lights. Stationed in one corner of the living room, fluttering just below the ceiling, this odd mollusc gently waved its bright tentacles, allowing everyone to see as though it were broad daylight. Too amazed to run away, Oksa concentrated on the keyhole.

“Ahem, ahem, Your Graciousness, there is a piece of information which needs to be communicated,” said the creature in a small, rasping voice.

Oksa frowned sceptically. “
Your Graciousness
?” she wondered.
“But what on earth does that mean? They’re all crazy!”
The strange creature was trying to attract Dragomira’s attention by coughing so hard that it was almost choking. Baba Pollock turned to it and, seizing its protruding ears, pulled hard. It stopped coughing immediately and bowed:

“Your Graciousness must be respectfully thanked for the rescue of her Lunatrix from suffocation. But you should receive the knowledge that someone has placed their eye in the keyhole.”

Dragomira and Pavel gazed at each other for a couple of seconds without saying a word. Then, looking mortified, Pavel nodded slightly and Dragomira got up to open the door. Oksa had descended several steps after hearing—and understanding—the creature’s warning, but it was too late to hide.

“Oksa, grandchild, come here!”

Dragomira called, her voice trembling with emotion.

“Baba, I didn’t mean to! I didn’t see or hear anything, I swear it! I just wanted to say goodnight.”

“I know, Dushka, I know. Don’t be afraid. Do you want to come in and say hello to a few old friends?”

Dragomira held out her hand invitingly. Oksa went back upstairs and her gran hugged her tighter than usual. Pavel, who’d joined them on the landing, kissed Oksa nervously. His eyes were bright and he looked very troubled. This was nothing unusual for him, but he did seem particularly agitated.

“Are you okay, Dad?”

“I’m fine, sweetheart, I’m fine,” he said hurriedly.

The three of them walked into the apartment. The feverish mood in the room was heightened by the subdued lighting and the obvious concern on the faces of the other people in there, who were watching Oksa. They all stood up when she came in.

“Leomido! I knew it was you!” Oksa rushed over to her great-uncle, who flung his arms around her in a hug.

“How are you, my lovely? You’ve grown!”

It was about six months since Oksa had seen him. She might have grown, but Leomido looked exactly the same: tall and lean with fine features, clear blue eyes and a radiant smile brightened by exceptionally white teeth. Looking very distinguished, he was wearing a black velvet frock coat with garnet pinstripes over impeccably cut woollen trousers. His shock of white hair was tied back with a large plum-coloured bow.

“How elegant you look!” exclaimed Oksa.

Leomido Fortensky was Dragomira’s eldest brother. He’d been a renowned orchestral conductor and now lived on the rugged Welsh coast. His wife had died before Oksa was born and his two children, Cameron and Galina, lived in London. Seeing him here in his sister’s apartment was quite an occasion, because Leomido rarely left home.

“Good evening, my dear Oksa!”

“Abakum!”

Delighted to see the person who’d just greeted her, Oksa threw herself into his arms. Abakum was Dragomira’s godfather. He’d also left France and a few weeks earlier had moved for good to the country house he’d owned for years, an ancient, superbly renovated farmhouse about thirty
miles from London. A sturdily built man, he was very tall, despite a stoop, with a short, neatly trimmed beard and an animated expression. He radiated an aura of great wisdom. However, despite being naturally unobtrusive, his charismatic presence meant that he always attracted attention wherever he went, although no one could exactly say why. He’d watched over Dragomira since she was born. Both of them had worked together in the herbalist’s shop she’d run in Paris and he’d proved as much an expert as she in the field of botany.

As soon as she hugged Abakum, Oksa was again beset by the terrible sound of women screaming which she’d heard before in the bathroom. She felt the blood drain from her face and she paused for a moment, glancing at Abakum in surprise and fear. But the old man also seemed to be suffering from severe discomfort. His face was distorted and he nervously clamped his hands over his ears. A few seconds later, the screams faded away.

“Abakum, are you ill?” asked Dragomira hastily.

“Thank you for asking, Dragomira,” he replied, regaining his composure. “I have a bad earache which causes stabbing pains I could well do without,” he added, without taking his eyes off Oksa.

“Earache?” asked Dragomira in astonishment. “Where did you pick that up, my dear friend?”

“God knows,” said Abakum with a mysterious smile. “But we mustn’t let ourselves be distracted by these little inconveniences. Please Dragomira, why don’t you introduce our friends.”

“Oksa, I’d like to introduce Mercedica de La Fuente, an old friend from Spain.”

“Good evening, Oksa,” replied the Spanish lady with a little nod. “It’s a great honour to meet you.”

Mercedica was tall and thin. She had an oval face framed by dark hair so black it was almost blue, gathered in an enormous, complicated bun. She was wearing a poppy-red suit with a high collar which made her look very imperious. With eyes as dark as her hair, she studied Oksa with intense curiosity.

“Tugdual?”

Abakum had just called to a fourth guest, whom Oksa hadn’t noticed. Sitting nonchalantly in an armchair at the back of the living room, his long legs hanging over one of the arms, the young man who’d been called stood up and came over. About fifteen years old, he was the strangest person in a group which was already very eccentric. He was dressed entirely in black in an overtly Goth style: skirt over trousers, and a tight-fitting shirt hung with heavy silver chains, crosses and charms. His eyes, lost in his pale, emaciated face, covered with piercings, were heavily circled with deep mauve make-up and partly hidden by a long strand of jet-black hair. This gave him an expression of despair mingled with hostility. There was something so unusual about this gloomy youth that Oksa couldn’t take her eyes off him.

“Hi there,” he said, with icy intensity, before sitting down again.

Oksa felt herself blushing foolishly, embarrassed at meeting this strange young man in her pyjama bottoms and T-shirt—a totally incongruous thought, given the circumstances, but the more she tried to banish it, the more embarrassed she felt.

“Tugdual is the grandson of our very dear friends Naftali and Brune Knut,” explained Dragomira, rescuing her from her awkwardness. “He’s staying with Abakum for a while.”

Everyone looked intently at Oksa. However, despite the smiles on everyone’s faces, she began to feel uncomfortable. She could think of better things than being the focal point in a group, even one so familiar. And there was another, more worrying, problem: she’d just stepped right into something way beyond her. “
This is no laughing matter
,” she thought to herself. The moment that odd creature had seen her, an inexorable chain of events had been set in motion. She couldn’t turn the clock back now.

“Well, I’d better leave you all to it,” she said politely, trying to make her escape, although she knew it was futile. “See you tomorrow, Baba?”

“Oksa, I think you should stay for a moment,” said her father looking troubled. “There are some things we’ve got to tell you.”