Snegurochka by Judith Heneghan (best ebook reader for laptop .TXT) 📕

a park. No – I tell you what – we’ll all go out this afternoon – in the car, down to Khreschatyk. I’ve got some recording to do at the central market and we’ll visit the dollar store near the office. We need to normalise things – find ways to make you more independent. Kiev is an incredible city once you start to scratch the surface. There’s so much I want to show you.’

He stoops, rubs his hand across her shoulders. Rachel fixes her eyes on the curve of her son’s cheek.

‘It might help . . .’ He falters, still searching for the right words to express an unfathomable doubt. Then the doorbell rings and they are both spared.

It is Zoya, his fixer. Zoya always likes to be at press conferences forty minutes early. She’d honed her English by listening to the World Service and identified herself as the BBC’s eyes and ears in Kiev long before Lucas arrived. Now she is relegated to errands-runner, occasional translator, driver of the office car. She’s a small, round-hipped woman of thirty-six whom Lucas assumes to be at least a decade older because of her bleached yellow hair and the nicotine-stained teeth she only shows when she’s picking them. She pokes her head into the kitchen, her shiny forehead creased into a frown.

‘The dezhornaya is angry,’ she says, nodding at Rachel. ‘Dirty nappies are coming down the rubbish chute. They make a bad smell. If you must use the disposables you will have to carry them down to the waste bins yourself. I am passing the message to you, however I am not your messenger. Now, please, the car is downstairs and we must not be late.’

Lucas smiles and rolls his eyes at Rachel, as if to reassure her that he’s the one in charge. Then he and Zoya are gone, both lighting up before the front door shuts behind them.

Rachel doesn’t notice, until she looks for it later, that Lucas has taken her book.

* * *

‘How is your wife enjoying Kiev?’ asks the Finance Ministry’s press officer.

Lucas turns round. Zoya has ensured he is early for the press conference; the drab room with the usual nylon backdrop ruched in dusty folds behind the podium is still only a quarter full. Vee and Teddy are talking near the exit; their heads are angled towards each other. He pulls distractedly on his ear. They look as if they’re discussing something interesting.

‘Oh, it’s all good, good . . .’ he murmurs, wondering how the man with mousy flat hair and watery eyes knows about his wife. Maybe Vee’s been talking. What’s his name? Torin? Tarin? Zoya would know, but Lucas has sent Zoya off to buy more batteries for his audio recorder.

‘The BBC is a fine broadcaster,’ says the press officer, resting an arm on the back of the neighbouring chair. ‘Reputable. We are glad to have you here.’

Now Lucas sits up a little, leans forward, drops his cigarette on the floor. He’s heard this sort of thing before, reported by colleagues on recces to Belarus or stints in Moscow or Berlin. It’s usually the preamble to some sort of threat. Empty, these days, but old habits die hard. It might make a good opening for a FOOC – From Our Own Correspondent. He needs an angle that’ll interest Radio Four, not just the World Service.

‘I see you like popular culture.’

‘What?’ Lucas frowns.

‘Jurassic Park.’ The man is pointing to the inside of Lucas’s jacket. ‘I know this book. Steven Spielberg is making a film.’

‘Oh!’ laughs Lucas, sheepish, loud enough for Vee to look over. ‘It’s not mine. I don’t read that stuff. It’s my wife’s, actually.’

The man nods, as if expecting Lucas to say as much.

‘Well, my country has faced many difficult times. There is more bad news today. I, however, like to swim against this tide. Ukraina has a brighter future.’ The man isn’t looking at Lucas; he’s looking at the back of his hand, his fingers flexed, as if admiring a new ring. ‘We can work together. On a strong story. A story we are proud to show the world. There is someone I would like you to meet.’ At these words the man leans in and though Vee is still watching, and might even be strolling over, Lucas doesn’t move, doesn’t catch her eye because already he is thinking he’ll save this one for himself.

Chapter 3

Zoya is driving down the broad, straight carriageway of Lesi Ukrainky towards the city centre. Lucas lounges in the front passenger seat, one long arm slung around the base of Zoya’s headrest. Rachel sits behind Zoya with Ivan on her knee. Her arms are clamped tightly about him.

Rachel looks out of the window at the spindly plane trees and the grey buildings and the shop signs that all use the same blocky orange Cyrillic letters. The words are in Russian, not Ukrainian. She spells out the sounds she recognises: kee-no-tay-ah-ter – cinema; khleb – bread; kee-nee-gee – books; sok-ee – she doesn’t know that one. The beat of each word helps to distract her from the fact that Lucas has taken her book. She needs it back but must wait until they are alone.

‘Ffsh,’ whistles Zoya as they approach a large pothole. A broken-down trolleybus parked on the right means they cannot avoid it. As Zoya slows and eases the car across the ruptured tarmac, Rachel peers up and sees ten or twelve white faces all staring down at her from the stranded bus.

Zoya is sitting on a cushion to give herself some height. Today she wears a white pompom hat with a fake fur trim, even though it is only the middle of October and the heating is on full blast. The hat flattens her permed and peroxided hair and the pompom bounces against the headrest as the car bumps and sways. She drives carefully, with a frown of concentration, but Rachel cannot tell if this is because Zoya is concerned about the baby or because she fears for the