Dead Ball by Tom Palmer (snow like ashes series .txt) 📕

He fell asleep quickly.

THE INVITATION

Danny got back to the hotel from his walk and went to breakfast on his own. He stood near the entrance to the restaurant. He hoped other guests would think he was waiting for someone.

He’d enjoyed being out in the city before 7 a.m. Watching people going to work. Struggle in the snow. Buy newspapers. Park their cars. Argue with each other. Normal lives; not the touristy things that always looked staged. Normal life was always more interesting.

And the snow was beautiful, smoothing the hard edges and high buildings that Danny had objected to. He felt excited. Like a kid going sledging. He remembered doing it with his dad before he was blind.

Danny had spent a bit of time watching a pair of policemen. To see how they worked. What they were like. Then they’d spotted him and moved to come over to him. So he’d left – and returned to the hotel.

But hotels freaked Danny out. He wasn’t really sure what he was meant to do at the best of times. But now? Should he stay near the restaurant entrance to be seated? Or sit down and wait to be brought food? Or help himself to the tables of fruit and cereal and meats?

Standing there, confused, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He jumped.

‘Danny.’

It was Holt.

‘I’m sorry about last night,’ Holt said. ‘I got tied up.’

Danny nodded. He still felt left out, but he wasn’t going to throw a strop. He knew Holt had pulled a lot of strings to get him to Moscow.

‘It’s OK,’ Danny said. ‘It’s your job.’

‘Anyway,’ Holt nodded. ‘I’ve got some news.’

‘Yeah?’

‘We all had a press release slipped under our doors this morning.’

‘Who?’

‘The media. There’s going to be a massive reception tonight for the press, the players and the FA. At this rich guy’s country estate. And we’re all invited.’

Danny assumed Holt meant he could go too, but he didn’t want to push it.

‘You’re coming,’ Holt said, reading his mind. Then he stopped himself. ‘I mean, would you like to come, Danny?’

That evening two coaches arrived – both silver with black-tinted glass. They were accompanied by four large black people-carriers. All with tinted windows too. And what looked like a police light on top. Although there were a few centimetres of snow on the streets, there was none in the hotel grounds. It was as if it was too posh to be affected by the weather.

It was bitter outside. Danny felt the skin on his face was beginning to freeze.

He went over to have a look at one of the people-carriers, but Holt pulled him back.

‘Watch it,’ Holt warned.

‘Why?’

‘Just be easy round these guys.’ Holt nodded at a pair of men eyeing them. Short cropped hair. Huge muscles. Tight black T-shirts. Scruffy jackets. Stubble. Pistols stuffed down their trousers.

Danny stepped back. ‘Who are they?’

‘Tupolev’s private army,’ Holt answered.

‘Who?’

‘Tupolev. The guy who’s putting on the reception. He’s a… an oligarch.’

‘Like Abramovich?’

‘Yeah, but richer.’

‘Richer than Abramovich?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Why does he need a private army?’

‘Status,’ Holt said. ‘They all have one. Makes them look hard. And cool. And – I suppose – to genuinely protect them. There’s plenty of people who’d like a piece of Tupolev’s action.’

‘How come you know so much about it?’ Danny asked.

Holt shrugged.

Danny and Holt got on the coach. A few of the other journalists nodded to Danny. They were friendly with him. Even though he wasn’t one of them.

‘So how did he get his money? This Tupolev?’ Danny asked, once they’d sat down; Danny had headed for the back of the bus like he always did on school trips. He remembered reading about a rich Russian: his name had begun with T. Was it him?

‘Don’t ask,’ Holt said.

‘Why not?’

‘I’ll tell you later.’ Holt was making gestures. Putting his finger over his lips, shaking his head. Then tapping his ear.

‘What?’ Danny said.

Holt shook his head again.

‘Shall I shut up?’ Danny said.

Holt nodded. ‘Let’s talk when we’re off this coach Dmitri Tupolev has kindly put on for us.’

They drove first through Moscow. Along the enormous highway that cut through the city. Huge grey buildings either side of them. Then massive parks. Spectacular churches. Spindly tram wires overhead. Snow piled in heaps at the side of the road.

But the coach was warm. Its heating on full blast. Danny soon forgot it was freezing outside. Minus ten.

The traffic was heavy – and endless. Filthy grey and white cars stopping and starting as they edged over the river. The only features standing out were the red walls of the Kremlin and the enormous statue of a bearded man languishing on the steps of a large oblong building. White shading his left side.

‘That’s Dostoevsky,’ Holt said.

‘Who?’

‘He wrote Crime and Punishment. A novel. The first detective novel,’ Holt explained. ‘A man kills two old women with an axe and tries to work out why he did it. You should read it. It’s a laugh.’

Danny made a mental note. He would.

Once they were out of the centre, the coach picked up speed. First they saw miles and miles of apartment blocks. Twenty storeys high, like blocks of flats at home; but each block the width of ten English blocks of flats.

‘Most people in Moscow live in blocks like that,’ Holt said.

‘Right,’ Danny murmured. He was glad he lived in a terrace back home.

As they were talking a message came in on his phone. He checked it.

No. Still boring. More pls. C xx

Danny winced. He knew Charlotte was joking, but it was important to him that she was impressed. He needed something more.

Once they’d passed the apartment blocks, the scenery opened out to a white featureless land. And after that endless trees, thin silvery trunks covered in snow.

‘Those trees go on for hundreds of miles,’ Holt said. ‘That’s it after Moscow.’

After another half-hour the coaches, still tailed by the black people-carriers, turned off on to a smaller road, then one smaller still. The atmosphere in the coach had been chatty and excitable