The Mountain Shadow

‘Who hasn’t got something against Russian writers?’

‘Really? What about Aksyonov? Everybody likes Aksyonov.’

‘Fuck you,’ I whispered.

‘What about Turgenev? Turgenev is funny.’

‘Yeah. As funny as Gogol.’

‘Gogol wasn’t strictly Russian,’ Oleg clarified, whispering hoarsely. ‘He was a Ukrainian Cossack. One of the great Cossack writers.’

‘Enough.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Oleg whispered, his hand on my arm. ‘Are you a writer? That’s it, isn’t it? Ha! How funny, two writers, engaging on a quest together.’

‘Oh, shit. ’

‘By the way,’ he asked. ‘What is our quest?’

With the Russian, it might be possible to surprise the three men, let me have it out with Concannon, and get out again without anyone getting hurt but Concannon, and me. Without Oleg, I’d have to cut Concannon’s men, which was why I wanted Oleg with me. But he was a writer. A Russian writer.

‘Then there’s Lev Luntz,’ Oleg whispered hopefully. ‘I love him.’

‘Shut the fuck up,’ I whispered back.

I straightened up, and looked around. The long, wide street had nature frontage on one side with a railway line behind. The Nissen hut factories on our side were silent, stretching away from us like so many burial mounds.

There was no-one in sight, and even the wandering pariah dogs were scouting other ranges. It was peaceful, in the way that dangerous places are if you’re not scared of them. I was channelling that peace, because I was scared, and I wanted to stop Concannon without more blood, but I didn’t think it would be that easy.

‘By the way, why me?’ Oleg whispered. ‘Why not your friend Didier, or someone else?’

‘You really wanna know?’

‘Of course,’ he said, searching my eyes. ‘It could be good material.’

‘Because I’ve got friends who’d go with me, but they might get hurt, and I’d feel bad about that, but I won’t feel bad if you get hurt. You see that, right?’

‘I see that,’ he whispered, grinning happily. ‘And it’s a very good reason. If I was in the same spot, I’d buy your life, too.’

‘I’m not buying your life, Dostoevsky. I’m buying your time, in a fight. Are we clear?’

‘Clear,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’m glad we had this talk.’

‘Well, here’s another talk. If you go near my girlfriend, I’ll cut you.’

‘You’ve got a girlfriend?’ he whispered, incredulously.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Well . . . ’

‘If you make a Russian-writer move on her, I’ll cut you.’

‘I got the cutting part the first time,’ he whispered. ‘It’s not something you forget.’

He was grinning at me, and I couldn’t read it. He was either a pretty happy guy, wherever he was, or there was something he knew that I didn’t know.

‘What?’ I frowned.

‘You’ve really got a girlfriend?’ he asked.

‘Keep your Russian epic away from her.’

‘I got it, I got it,’ he grinned.

‘What are you grinning about?’

‘It’s just so much fun, to do some shit worth writing about with another writer. We should work on a short story together, after this. I’ve got some great ideas.’

‘Will you cut it out. We could get seriously fucked up here. This Irish guy’s crazy, and tungsten hard. Stay sharp.’

‘Okay, okay, take it easy. I’ve got twelve thousand bucks invested in this. Let’s fuck up the Irishman and his friends, and get drunk.’

He started sprinting toward factory 4A, alone. Russians.

I sprinted after him and caught him outside the entrance. We slipped around the side of the huge, curved hut to sneak a glimpse in a raised window.

Concannon was there with two men, playing cards on the bonnet of an immaculate red Pontiac Laurentian, partially obscured by a silver dust cover.

‘Are you good?’ I whispered.

‘Good for what?’ Oleg whispered back. ‘What’s the plan?’

‘We walk in through the door and I challenge the Irishman.’

‘Don’t you think we should sneak in?’

‘If I was a sneak-in guy, I would’ve brought a gun.’

‘You didn’t bring a gun?’

I opened the door and walked into the empty factory. Oleg was a step behind me as we crossed the floor. We stopped a few steps from Concannon and his friends.

The Afghan’s hands were in his lap. The Indian’s hands were in his lap. I didn’t know if they had guns or not.

I knew where Concannon’s hands were. They were applauding.

‘You’re more fun than a drunk nun,’ he applauded. ‘I heard you were dead. I see it was just a vicious rumour.’

‘Let’s do this,’ I said. ‘Just you and me, alone.’

‘Is it a fight you want, boyo?’

He was still grinning. I’d learned how much you can come to dislike a happy grin.

‘I want you to stop all your shit, and stay away from me, and my friends. If you agree to that, I’ll sit down, and beat your ass at poker.’

‘And if I don’t?’

Cold stars filtered through wet light glittered in his eyes.

‘Then it’s you and me, right here, right now, and we’ll settle this, once and for all.’

He leaned back in his plastic chair, and smiled.

‘Put your gun on him, Govinda,’ he said quietly.

It was the Indian guy who had the gun. The Afghan stood up, his cards still in his hand.

‘Yes, boss,’ Govinda said.

‘Get up, Govinda, and stand beside his friend.’

‘Yes, boss.’

Govinda stood up, and moved away from the car.