Doctor Gavrilov (2 page)

D
MITRY GAVRILOV knew at once that he was being followed. It had started yesterday. He had noticed someone watching him when he left the house that morning, and seen the same man again when he returned home from the tube at Kilburn. He had seen nothing that morning but now, as he walked up the Finchley Road, he saw the man in a black jacket coming up behind him at a discreet distance.

He stopped at the traffic lights. Cars rushed past him so fast that he felt dizzy. The autumn sunlight glanced off the glass and metal in sharp shards of light which hurt his eyes. He screwed up his eyes and glanced around, but the man was not there. Yet as soon as he started to walk, the sensation of being pursued struck him again. The lights changed, the traffic halted, but he was afraid to step forward, as if there were a gaping hole in front of him into which he might fall. His head felt light, as if it had swollen and filled with air like a balloon; it was as if everything around him was suddenly closer yet further away; he couldn't see properly, but couldn't say what was wrong with his sight.

He looked across the street and realised that there were specks dancing in front of his eyes, little points of nothingness as if holes were being torn in his vision. It was as if the reality of the world was being stripped away to reveal the void behind. Then he realised what it was; it was the beginning of a migraine. Though he'd experienced this before, it was still frightening; he saw a low wall and sat down on it, waiting for the aura to pass.

A black dog ran past him down the pavement, moving awkwardly, giving little darting glances across the road as if it wanted to cross. The sight of this dog with its curly black hair, lolling tongue and white-rimmed eyes filled Dmitry with an acute sense of foreboding. He felt some disaster was imminent, but was powerless to stop it. When the dog came to the crossing, it lurched forward into the road just as the cars began to move; he heard a high-pitched squeal of tyres on the tarmac as a car swerved to the left to avoid it, and then a grinding of metal as the car hit the van beside it a glancing blow. The dog, seemingly unaware, rushed across the road, along the pavement and out of sight.

The drivers got out, shouted at one another and exchanged details; traffic dammed up along the road. Car horns sounded loudly and people on the pavement stopped and stared. Dmitry sat still, his hand in front of his eyes, trying to blot it all out.

The man in the black jacket sat down on the wall beside him. Dmitry tried to ignore him, but after a few minutes he turned his head to look. The man's face was not clear; the little holes in Dmitry's vision had merged into one large central gap, a spherical emptiness where the man's face should have been. He saw only an impression of his skin, a doughnut shape of flesh, and the grey-brown hair sticking out around it. He could see the plump hands resting on the dark trousers, the black fabric of his jacket, and the large, polished tan shoes.

Dmitry looked to the left, catching out of the side of his vision an impression of a round, florid face. Then he looked away.

The man moved in a little closer, so that Dmitry could feel his breath stirring the tiny hairs on his own skin. The voice spoke softly next to his ear. ‘You could make a lot of money, if you wanted to.'

The man spoke Russian. He spoke it like a native, but there was a hint of something else, some individual accent that Dmitry struggled to place. It shocked him both because he did not expect to be addressed in his own language but also because the man seemed to echo Dmitry's own thoughts, the thoughts he had just been having before he felt the onset of the migraine.

He turned to look at the man again, but the grey hole was still there. Flashing lights were now beginning to circulate around its edge, cogs within cogs, flickering and grinding without a sound. He screwed up his face, trying to bring the man's features into view.

‘What did you say?'

‘You heard me.'

‘Are you offering me work?'

The man laughed. His fat fingers pulled a gleaming cigarette case out of his jacket and flipped it open. He drew out a cigarette and tapped it several times, before popping it into the space where his mouth should have been. He raised a lighter and snapped it, and then clouds of grey smoke drifted out of the missing face.

Dmitry put his hand in front of his eyes. It was a long time since he had experienced a full-blown migraine. He could not remember how long the aura lasted.

‘You will be offered some work shortly. My advice is, take it.'

‘What kind of work?'

‘You will see.'

‘Who are you?' It came out of Dmitry's mouth as if unbidden, and his voice sounded too loud, sharp as broken glass.

‘Oh, I think you know who I am.'

Dmitry looked at him, at the round, soft, florid face, the little darting eyes, the curved mouth with cruel contours. He realised that the flashing lights, the migraine scotoma, had vanished, and knew that there would be a brief respite before the headache followed.

‘It seems a pity,' said the man, ‘To have all that knowledge and not use it.'

‘What knowledge?'

The man looked at him, amused. Dmitry noticed that one eyebrow was thicker and higher than the other, and that this, in combination with the curved mouth made the man's face curiously lop-sided. He looked away, and realised that his hands were trembling.

The man inhaled again on his cigarette. ‘There's no point in denying it. I know everything about you.'

‘Not everything.'

‘Well, perhaps not quite everything. I'm sorry, do you smoke?' Belatedly he offered Dmitry a cigarette.

Dmitry refused, jumped up from the wall and walked up the road. The man fell into step beside him. Dmitry walked faster; the man walked faster. He stopped, and the man stopped. It was intolerable.

Dmitry clenched his fists, stopped dead, spun around. ‘Will you leave me alone!'

His head was hurting now, a tight band of pain forming around the temples. The man smiled, and bowed slightly. Again he offered the shiny cigarette case. ‘Which brand do you like?'

‘Nothing! I don't smoke! Fuck off, to the devil with you!' Dmitry made a gesture as if to strike him with his fist. Instantly the man backed off, still grinning inanely. ‘Very well. We shall meet again, very soon.'

Dmitry watched the small, dark figure retreating down the pavement, and noticed that he was walking with a slight limp.

At home, his wife Katie was walking up and down, with their baby, Alexander. They'd chosen the name because it worked in both Russian and English; but now he was only known by the shortened form, Sasha.

She glanced at the clock. As she paused for a moment in her jiggling motion, the baby cried louder. She held him tightly, talking in a soothing voice, her arms aching with the effort of holding him. Only ten minutes more of this purgatory, she thought, and she could go and fetch her daughter home from school.

Then abruptly, the baby stopped crying. His little body stopped struggling, he opened his mouth to yawn, and fixed his blue eyes on her. As she rocked him, his eyes slowly shut and then his head flopped gently back against her shoulder. She sank down into the chair, adjusting him on her body, and gazed down at his tiny features, now perfectly composed in his pale, round face.

A long shaft of sunlight came in through the tall windows, lay in a bar across the floor, and illuminated the fuzz of hair on Sasha's head like a little halo. Katie sat there, savouring the silence and the sudden peacefulness in the room. She did not have enough of these moments. For a moment she was able to push all her worries to one side. Everything was getting easier. Her husband had some work, Sasha was sleeping better, and Anna seemed happier at school. In a few months she would be able to find some childcare and try to get back to work.

Consciously, she drew in deep breaths, unclenched her fingers, tried to shrug the tension from her shoulders and relax her limbs. Sitting here, in the bright warm sunlight, the memory of his crying was just a distant dream.

Her eye travelled around the room, fell on a letter on the table next to the jar of daffodils. Immediately her bright mood receded. Katie knew the letter was bad news. She had held the envelope up to the light and managed to read, I am sorry to inform you. That was all she had needed to see. He had not got the translating job he had applied for. Another rejection might be too much for him. They wouldn't be able to pay the bills.

It wasn't meant to be like this. She had been so independent, once, had worked in radio journalism, a job full of challenge and excitement. She could get back, when the children were a bit older, but it would be difficult, she'd lost most of her contacts. And she loved the children, she had wanted them so much, and she wanted to do her best for them.

She glanced at her watch. She stood up and gently placed the baby in the pram in the hallway; as soon as he touched the mattress he woke and started to whimper. She locked up and pushed the pram out into the street; once she was walking along his crying mercifully ceased. As she approached the school gates, she saw two mothers, Jenny, the mother of Anna's friend Charlotte, and another she didn't know the name of. They were talking about local schools. Katie wondered whether to stop and join in the conversation, but this subject irritated her. Jenny smiled at her, and she stepped forward, thinking of asking Charlotte round for tea, but then Anna came running towards her. Her face was bright, flushed with excitement. ‘Mitya said he'd take me to the park.'

Katie saw Dmitry standing behind Anna, holding her coat and lunch-box. She turned and went towards him at once. Anna had been told she could call him Daddy but she never did. Perhaps she reserved a hidden place for her father in her heart, though she never mentioned him and never seemed to want to. Katie was both relieved and upset by Dmitry's offer. If Dmitry took Anna to the park, it would delay him knowing about the letter. But for her it meant another hour at home alone with the baby; it was too cold for her to go with them and sit and feed him in the open air.

She stood in the street, watching her husband. She could see from the stiffness in his neck, from the frozen expression of his face and its whiteness, that he had a migraine. She felt sorry for him, asked gently, ‘Why don't you come home first and lie down?'

He looked up at the sky, over which grey clouds now formed a thin blanket. ‘I don't want to lie down, I shall only feel worse. Don't worry, I've taken a pain-killer. I'd rather take Anna.'

Anna let go of Dmitry's hand and ran ahead of him into the playground, her long, dark hair streaming behind her, her coat flapping. Dmitry followed more slowly and sat down on the bench. It was getting cold now and the sky had darkened; it was dreary, damp and bitter. Dmitry thrust his hands deep into his pocket and waited, his head throbbing distantly through the numbness the painkillers caused.

After a short while another man came into the park. He was alone, and stood there, watching the children play. After a few minutes he came and sat at the far end of the bench. He was quite young, had short, dark hair and an olive complexion, and he was wearing casual clothes, jeans, trainers and a leather jacket. He looked nervous and it crossed Dmitry's mind that he might be a child molester.

Dmitry smiled and waved at Anna as she called to him from the top of the wooden climbing frame. The man inched nearer, clearing his throat. He said, quietly, respectfully, in English, but with the hint of an accent, ‘Dr Gavrilov…'

Dmitry went hot and then cold all over with something that was close to fear, a kind of shock, a recognition. He said, still staring straight ahead, ‘Please go. I am not interested.'

‘There would be a great deal of money involved.'

‘I do not want your money.'

‘My Government…'

Dmitry turned to him for the first time. ‘Yes, who is your Government?'

The man hesitated for a moment. ‘I do not need to reveal this at the present time. But your skills, your knowledge, would be very valuable to us. We would pay you highly for them.'