Doctor Gavrilov (46 page)

Dmitry looked at her, saw her struggling to take in this information. For a moment, he felt hope. Would this change her view of him? Would she realise that what he had done was not quite as dreadful as she thought? Would she, now, be able to forgive him? But before she could continue, Tim butted in.

‘Let me get this straight. You –'

‘You are a journalist. This is impossible. I am not going to talk to you. Haven't you caused enough damage? Don't you see what your blundering around has led to?'

‘On the contrary, I thought that was what you wanted. After all, it was
you
who talked to
me
.'

Katie seemed desperate. She put her hands over her ears. She said, ‘Stop it, I can't stand this. Don't be too hard on Tim, Mitya. He did agree to keep your name out of the papers.'

Tim added, ‘Which, you should realise, I could undo at any time.'

This was too much. Dmitry leaped up, putting up his hand to strike him, but Katie put herself in the way. She cried out, ‘For God's sake, Mitya, don't do this, and you, Tim, shut up!' She looked from one to the other in despair. She said, pleading, ‘It's so late… I don't think I can take this. Mitya, can't we talk some other time?'

Dmitry could not believe that at this point she could turn him away. He said, ‘I can't leave. I have nowhere to go.' He laid his head down on the table, felt the hard wood press against his cheek. The pressure of it was reassuring, convincing him that he was still conscious, that he could still feel something, still connect with physical reality. He knew now that he had come to the end of his strength; he was unable to carry on any longer. He felt as if he might die, as if his body was so exhausted and so grief-stricken that his heart would simply fail to go on beating.

Katie leaned over him, put her hand on his shoulder. He felt the soft pressure of her palm through the fabric of his shirt, and inhaled her unique scent. It was agonising. She said, very gently, ‘If you like, if you can't move… you could stay the night downstairs in Tim's flat.'

Dmitry turned his head towards her. What else could he do? He raised himself up a little; despair had gripped him like iron shackles, he could hardly move. He said, ‘All right.' Katie handed Tim the key from the hook; Tim took his arm and helped him to his feet. He let himself be helped downstairs. As Tim closed the door behind him, he flung himself across the bed.

Katie went upstairs and sat on the edge of the bed, staring straight in front of her, horrified at seeing Dmitry in this state. She wanted to go, now, and speak to him, tell him they could work something out, that he would be able to see the children, and that maybe in the future they would be able to see one another without pain; then she thought that this would make things worse. As she pulled off her dressing gown and lay down, Tim came in, leaving the door ajar so they would hear the children if they woke.

Tim sat down beside her, his hands resting on his knees. ‘Why did he have to come here? Is he mad? Doesn't he realise how much it upsets you?'

Katie said, ‘Of course he felt he could come, after all, he is still my husband. He has a right to talk things over with me, to see his son…'

‘What, at this hour? Without asking?'

‘He didn't know about us, he thought I would be alone. Why are you so angry? Is it because you're afraid that I still love him?'

Tim put his hand on her arm and she let it lie there, unable to respond. She realised, with a jolt, that she felt revulsion at his touch. She rolled away from him. He leaned over her and asked her, ‘But you do still love him, don't you?'

‘I don't know, Tim… Can love really end?'

Tim lay down beside her, on his back, staring straight up at the ceiling. He said, ‘You don't feel the same way about me.'

‘No. It's different. But perhaps it's better that way.'

‘I don't think so. It wouldn't work out in the long term… it's pretty clear to me what you feel. I have to be honest with you, Katie, I see the way you look at him… I don't know if it's worth my carrying on with this.'

There was a hardness in his voice that she had never heard before, and she felt panic rising. She didn't want this conversation, not now; if she followed it through to the end she could see herself ending up alone, without Dmitry, without Tim. It had seemed downstairs as if they both wanted her, but, underneath, she saw that it was not like that at all. She could see how fragile her relationship with Tim was and how he was jealous of her feelings for Dmitry; she had sensed also Dmitry's disgust that she had been sleeping with Tim. But could being alone really be worse than what she had now? She knew that, deep down, she was afraid to be on her own, to find out and confront who she really was. She turned to Tim and said, despairingly, putting her arms around him, ‘Tim, I need you; is that so very different from love?'

Katie couldn't sleep. At some point in the night, probably at around three o'clock, when her body was at its lowest ebb, she thought she heard the front door catch click and something move on the stairs. She thought at first that it must be Dmitry; she lay still, tense, wondering whether to feign sleep or to get up now and tell him to go away before Tim woke up and there was another scene. There was silence; then another muffled footstep. She heard the door to the other bedroom creak and sat up, alarmed, in an instant; surely he couldn't go and wake the children? She got out of bed on the far side, anxious not to wake Tim, and took two steps towards the window.

The door crashed wide open.

She saw a gun in a gloved hand and a hooded head behind it. She would have cried out but she had no voice. Tim, woken by the sound of the door-handle smashing against the wall, sat up and put out his hand, switching on the light. His eyes, coming awake, registered his fear and horror; he shrank back against the wall, pulling up the sheet as if it would offer some protection. She heard him whisper, ‘No… oh, no.'

His eyes turned and looked at Katie. Katie couldn't do anything; she was paralysed; her limbs would not move. The man, with a flick of his wrist, indicated that she should move back. Then he turned and fired at Tim, once, twice, three times. The sounds, with the silencer, were muffled thuds; she caught a glimpse of Tim's head, of something strange happening to it, his face suddenly changing, and a spray of blood hitting the wall. She knelt, curling herself up into a ball, hiding her head under her arms. She crouched there, waiting for the shots which would kill her. But they didn't come.

She listened to the long, long silence; then she heard the sound of footsteps going down the stairs.

She opened her eyes. The floorboards gleamed in front of her in the light of the lamp. Nothing moved. She couldn't look at Tim; he might be alive, but she couldn't do it, she didn't want to see. It was better to stay like this and not to see anything. She was aware that she was shaking; perhaps she was just cold. What was she going to do? What if she looked up and found Tim was smiling at her, if this was just a bad dream? Surely if she waited he would get up out of bed, and come to ask her what was wrong?

But he didn't. She opened her eyes and looked up for the briefest moment, but there was only the red stain of blood on the wall and large red splashes on the sheets.

And then she heard more sounds, sounds which filled her with terror; of shots ringing out and echoing in the street outside.

Dmitry had not been able to sleep for long either. He woke in the early hours with a pounding head and dry throat, and lay in the dark on the bed fully dressed, thinking of Katie upstairs with Tim, in bed with him, holding him, perhaps even making love to him. No, he couldn't think of it. Of course he could not complain about it, he had left her, she had the right to look for happiness elsewhere, but still he couldn't endure the thought of it. He blamed Tim; he had taken advantage of her situation, when she was lonely, frightened. He felt violent, murderous thoughts towards him.

He got up from the bed and went to pour himself a glass of water from the kitchen tap, then sat in the living room, staring into space. He thought he heard someone moving round upstairs and then he heard something strange, a dull, thudding sound. Whatever it was, it made him wide awake, his ears straining for any further sound. He realised that he was suddenly, terribly, afraid. He leapt up, and went to open the door into the hallway. Someone was coming down the stairs; not running, but quickly, with muffled steps. Dmitry waited, easing the door off the catch, and then, as he saw a shadow in the hall, he gently pushed it open.

He saw the back of a hooded man holding a gun, removing the silencer. He knew at once what this meant. As the man opened the front door, Dmitry leapt forward and sent him flying, down the steps and on to the paving stones. The gun fell from the man's grasp, span across the stones and into the hedge. Both of them dived for it. Dmitry got there first, grabbed the gun, rolled over, and scrambled to his feet. The gun, a semi-automatic, felt heavy and awkward in his hand. The man lay on the ground; Dmitry saw his dark eyes turn upwards in dismay, but he felt nothing, no anger, no pity; all human feeling seemed to have deserted him. He knew what he had to do; he slipped off the safety catch, stretched out his arm, and fired without an instant's hesitation, several times. He was not a good shot, and he wanted to make sure; he did not want to risk his own life and besides, he thought that this man had killed Katie. He walked over, looked at the body in the orange light of the streetlamp, saw his open eyes staring upwards and the dark hole in his forehead. Perhaps he was a Libyan, perhaps he had been hired by the CIA. He was, without a doubt, dead. After the deafening sound of the gunfire, everything was very still. Over the road, one or two lights came on in the houses.

Still holding the gun, Dmitry turned and ran into the house and up the stairs, pushed open the door to the children's room and turned on the light.

They were both sleeping, quietly; he could see that they were safe and hear their gentle breathing. He turned off the light and went into the front bedroom, trying to prepare himself for the horror he envisaged. On the bed Tim lay sprawled on blood-stained sheets, his hair a tangled mass of red. Katie was crouched in the corner, her head between her knees, her hands pulling at long strands of hair, rocking herself backwards and forwards and making plaintive, whimpering sounds. He rushed towards her and bent over her, touched her to see if she was hurt, but she shuddered convulsively and pushed him away. He said, ‘The children are all right. They're sleeping, he didn't touch them.' She was so shocked she couldn't speak, her teeth chattered loudly, but she seemed to understand, she nodded slightly. Then, staring at him wildly, she wailed, ‘Tim's dead, isn't he? I can't look. I can't look. Oh God, please look for me and tell me if he's dead.'

Dmitry went over to the bed. Tim had been shot, at least twice, in the head. Dmitry put the gun down on the bedside table and picked up the phone. The dialling tone sounded unnaturally loud in the silent room. He said to Katie, ‘I think he's dead, but I don't know for sure. Ask for an ambulance. Say he's injured, don't tell them he's been shot.' He dialled 999; it took a surprisingly long time for someone to answer. He handed her the phone and she said, in a trembling voice, ‘Ambulance.' He heard a man's voice ask what was the matter and she said, ‘Something's happened… I think he is dead.' She gave the address. The man tried to keep her talking but Dmitry took the phone from her and hung up and then, in case they called back, took the receiver off the hook.