The Miranda Contract (3 page)

Chapter 4

The Mad Russian

T
he skies were
always steel grey in the old country, reflecting the hard land beneath, and the constant of death all around. In his youth, so distant now and entwined with the mists of invention and re-invention, he would often watch the skies for signs. The old women nodded at him, knowing but not knowing, and the men walked around him, eyes averted. He was never young, though, and no one knew his story or his blood. He was simply there one day, walking through the village, eyes to the skittering clouds which seemed to glow with far-away lightning. No one asked where he came from. There were rumors, frequent crossings of chests and pursed lips, but no questions.

They named him after the Hebrew woman at the edge of the village who took him in, and then they tried to forget about him and the storm of that day which threatened but never really broke.

In his office overlooking Collins Street, thousands of miles and many decades later, Galkin watched as a new storm brewed in the distance. So much had changed since those early days, but more recently, storms like the one outside brought him back to those older times. He still watched the skies for signs, but decided long ago to make his own way in the world instead of waiting. Looking back at his reflection in the window he realized just how far his strategy had spread from one hemisphere to the next, from one generation to the next. Losing five years had made everything that much clearer. The pattern was becoming unmistakable. And it gave him some pleasure.

Even at the end of his life he could see the potential of the world, the possibility of his legacy.

“Contact has been made?” he asked without turning back to the room. His breath frosted on the glass.

The boy behind him was slouching on a sofa, boots crossed at his ankles. It irritated Galkin but the boy was worth overlooking a few insolent indiscretions. Sohail had been with him for nearly ten years, raised on the fringe of Melbourne with a purpose in mind, a part to play. As Halo, the boy had been one of Galkin’s Small Gods, bringers of chaos, the generation of broken hope. The memories brought a faint smile to his face, creased as it was.

“Danny met his mum this afternoon,” Halo said, flipping through a magazine. “Had a chat over some chicken.”

“How is he?” Galkin asked softly, the breath clouding the glass again.

Halo dropped the magazine and shrugged. The mirror reflection of the boy played with Galkin’s mind and for a second he thought he caught glimpses of his own son and then his grandson. The movement was so natural, so unguarded. Galkin turned around.

It was not Halo’s style to be so casual.

“You play with me, Sohail? You withhold from me? From me?”

Halo straightened up quickly, stood up and clasped his hands behind his back, at attention like the little soldier he was. Galkin held his stare for a few more seconds, the temptation to reprimand further, tantalizingly close, prickling his skin, ready to strike.

“Dan’s fine, he’s good.”

Behind Galkin, the skies darkened. Halo noticed: it was clear in his eyes.

“He knows you’re back in town,” Halo continued. “Theresa told him you were back, looking for him. She did what she was told.”

Galkin nodded once. The ploy to send the mother was a risk, but to announce his own return in person, to just appear before the boy, was unthinkable. The mother’s fractured state of mind, her cocktail of guilt and remorse and anger had its purpose. She had always been easily manipulated, although not altogether trustworthy. It was a gamble, of course, but a necessary one in the fine act of setting up his grandson for the next move. Perhaps, the final move.

“You worry me some of these times, Sohail,” Galkin said. “We will not fail.”

Halo relaxed slightly, hands shifting from his back to the pockets of his jacket. Galkin could sense it in the subtle shift of adrenalin, the softening of the edges. He blinked and saw the boy as a collection of electrical impulses, connected, heightened and then receding. The fine network was right there in front of him, so precious and so vulnerable.

Just a prick here or a scramble there. Such little alterations and the boy could be a twitching mess on the floor. Maimed, broken, dead: it was all possible.

“Danya…” he sighed, dismissing Halo with his hand. The storm spread across the city, turning the late afternoon into night. Up and down the street, and even across the city, lights were flickering on, fighting back the darkness. But Galkin knew that sometimes the darkness just had to come out. There could be no stopping what needed to happen; the pain would be fleeting in the grand scheme of things, the transformation worth every tear, every bruise on his grandson’s body.

He ran his fingers across the glass, tracing the line of his own face. Danya was seventeen now, almost a man, but cut off from his father and grandfather. Aimless, wandering. Galkin frowned at himself, taking the wordless blame for his son’s failure, his unearned hubris. The signs were there early, in childhood; the irrational responses, the urgency, the desperation to be seen and heard and, worse, the need to be listened to. No child demanded more from its parents. Galkin could still hear the cries, the high-pitched wail of his son which seemed to carry itself through infancy and into childhood. But it didn’t stop there; rather, it seemed to intensify, to careen its way through adolescence and then into adulthood.

Many times he wished death upon his son, his own blood; but there were lines you could not cross.

The son ultimately perished in the flames of his own creation and Galkin noted some kind of poetry in that. He could not articulate it, of course, and had no real desire to do so; but there was no doubt that dying in such an irreversible, public manner seemed to reflect the nature of his son.

He sighed, and then pushed himself through the window; his fingers pressing into the suddenly malleable surface, peeling it back so he could step out and onto the impossibly narrow ledge outside. The night air was charged with the coming storm and as Galkin breathed out he thought he could feel the city’s undulating energy enter him.

When his whole body passed through the window, it closed up behind him, perfect again – remade. It was a simple matter for him to spread the molecules, tease them apart to let him through. People often forgot that the Mad Russian was more than a simple parlor magician.

There was real power in his blood.

In fact, there was real power in all of his blood. His attention turned to the west, down into the metropolis where his grandson slaved away at a pathetic job, serving pathetic humans their pathetic and fleeting desires. It suddenly appeared prophetic the way Danya was lost to him in such a bleak, colorless world. And now, five years later he would bring his boy back into his rightful position.

“Pain will transform you, bring you back to me.”

Inside the office, Halo edged towards the door. The boy was familiar with Galkin’s power, but such unnatural actions like walking through walls, still managed to capture an audience, even a streetwise one. Galkin let him go without a word or even a glance. Halo was, after all, simply a mouse scurrying back to the streets. He was a good boy, really. Useful, resourceful, perhaps even a little like Galkin himself. But in the end he was not blood.

And therefore he was ultimately expendable.

Chapter 5

Dan

B
ack at his
apartment, nestled in between a Chinese restaurant and a Skin and Beauty salon, Dan kicked off his trainers and folded himself into the sofa, swinging his legs across the arm rest to the chair beside him. From that angle he could clearly see the television as well as stretch himself out fully to unlock the kinks he’d collected on his pizza delivery run.

Outside he heard the police and ambulance sirens. A helicopter swept low over the city and a car alarm was droning down in the basement car park across the street. But Dan was home, and out of what was turning into an impressive rain storm. His shoes were off, his phones were on silent, and he could breathe slowly again.

He shared the second-storey place with Brian and Noah, both of them in their twenties and earning decent salaries. Dan had met them through Brian’s little brother, at a time when they were desperate to replace a recently absconded flatmate. Dan was still in high school but he was juggling enough part time jobs to pay thirds in the rent. And he was the only serious option in a series of unsuitable applicants.

Less than a year later and even Dan was beginning to sense that having a teenager in the apartment was cramping their style. Brian was now on what he referred to as a fast track to management in human resources, and Noah had conjured up a premature mid-life crisis at twenty-four and discovered that he was an actor, even though his qualifications were in accounting. In fact it was Noah’s inability to match Brian’s income that allowed Dan to stay on for as long as he had, and even though he hated to admit it, Dan was only too aware of the situation.

The apartment itself was what real estate agents called a generous two bedroom townhouse. It was close to the train station, but not too close. It was within walking distance of the essentials but with three men living in a two bedroom place, Dan was relegated to the study nook – a minor setback he didn’t mind being burdened with given the alternative was going back into foster care or, worse, back to live with his mother. The nook was wide enough to accommodate his fold-out sofa bed and there was a ledge with enough room for his belongings.

Originally, Dan had only expected to stay for his final exams. Foster care hadn’t worked out, and the nook provided him with a place to feel safe, to cram for the tests and to ground himself in a seriously unwieldy time.

As he lay on the shared sofa looking towards the television he realized that, although he was comfortable enough, the screen was blank. He closed his eyes and rubbed at his forehead trying to decide where the others had misplaced the remote control.

Normally he’d just command the television to turn on, sending out an invisible pulse from his mind which would force a connection and bring up the images. He could sense it laying dormant in the corner of the room almost like it was asleep, gently snoring. But there were house rules in the apartment, rules which had been hastily discussed and implemented between Brian and Noah a number of weeks before. There had been an incident, or perhaps a series of incidents, involving the fusing of wires and a small house fire. It wasn’t particularly Dan’s fault. It was an old building and the landlord was more interested in harvesting rent money than in maintaining the integrity of the place. And that meant that the landlord hadn’t kept the wiring in good working order. And that, in turn, meant that when Dan absently played with the electrical networks he unintentionally overloaded the antiquated system. And that, of course, led to the small fire in the wall.

To Dan it was ancient history, but he knew Noah was still upset about it. So, as Dan lay watching the blank television screen, he resisted the temptation to simply activate the set with his mind. Instead, he turned his attention to the remote and he tracked the batteries and signal to the ledge above the gas heater. The remote was an equal distance away from him as the television.

It was as if Noah had done it deliberately.

“You’re home early,” Brian said from the doorway leading to the kitchen.

Dan arched his neck to look around and acknowledge his flatmate. He immediately severed the link he’d established with the remote control and sat up looking at Brian as if he’d just been caught out. Brian looked equally as uncomfortable as Dan.

“What’s up?” Dan asked.

“We’ve got to talk,” Brian said, as if from a script. Dan could imagine the two of them arguing over who would talk to the ‘kid’. Brian must have scored the short straw, or else Noah had thrown one of his theatrical fits. Either way it was clear that Brian found himself in a difficult and unwanted conversation with Dan.

“What’s the matter?”

“We can’t really have you here anymore,” Brian said. “The place isn’t big enough.”

Dan hadn’t expected an eviction, or at least, not that night. He’d been working hard since the morning and all he wanted to do was curl up and switch off his brain, to close his eyes and sleep. Brian, on the other hand, wasn’t about to let him rest. He stood in the doorway, not coming closer. Dan wanted to run.

“So, you don’t really fit in here anymore, Dan. School’s finished,” Brian said. His hands were stuffed in his pockets and he affected a disinterested stance, eyes watching the space just above and to the left of Dan’s head. Dan wondered if he spoke like this with his clients.

“I don’t take up much space,” Dan said, discreetly pulling his legs off the chair and trying to look innocuous.

“Yeah, but it’s space, you know. It’s not about how much you take up as it’s that you do take it up. The space, I mean.”

“Right.”

“And Noah’s girl’s getting serious, sending out the signals, you know? And let’s be honest…” Brian finally met Dan’s gaze, as if the word ‘honest’ required a certain degree of connectedness. It was only a brief moment and then Brian rolled his eyes and looked to the ceiling.

“Yeah.”

“Ever since you and Stacey and the party…”

Brian waved the details away with his hand, eye contact well and truly gone. It was as if he was waving away the details they both thought they knew while neither one really had any idea at all. There was some confusion over whether Noah and Stacey were still seeing each other, some escalating flirtation and then a morning that followed which featured an explosive Noah and an awkwardness that just never seemed to dissipate.

“Noah’s been weird about it,” Dan suggested.

“We’re all a little weird about it, Dan,” Brian said.

“No, Noah’s gone and … and gone weird about it. But he’s weird about a lot of things lately, as if you haven’t noticed. Like the newspaper, the crappy newspaper every morning, folded just right. And how he has to be the first to use the coffee plunger, as if we’ve all got leprosy or something, and don’t start on about the bloody cups.”

Dan stood up and a pulse of angry energy rippled through the lounge room, making the lights shimmer slightly and setting the clocks on the DVD player back to a flashing default. He pulled back on the wave, hoping Brian hadn’t noticed, but Brian hadn’t really paid attention to anything apart from the ceiling features.

“It’s our name on the lease,” he said.

And that was when Dan realized the truth. In classic shared accommodation style there were the official occupants and then there were the sub-letting, sub-human occupants who slept on a pull-out bed in the study nook.

“Are you going to give me notice?” Dan asked.

Brian waved his hand again and Dan wanted to yell at him to stop playing the hand waving act. Instead he stood there and watched Brian walk back into the kitchen.

“This is notice, Galkin,” Brian said.

Dan felt his fists clench and he raised them up so he could see the whites of his knuckles. Just below the surface he knew that he was capable of letting loose, that if he wanted to, he could turn the apartment into a swirling maelstrom of lightning and destruction.

He could hear his grandfather’s voice. The coaxing, reassuring commands.

He shot a glance at the kitchen and heard Brian preparing something. He looked back at his fists and unclenched them, freeing his fingers and watching them separate slowly.

Dan didn’t follow his grandfather anymore.

He wasn’t a brainless kid.

The room was suddenly too hot and too crowded, even though Dan was the only one left. Brian’s continued presence was felt, but the noises coming from the kitchen provided nothing but a dismissive reminder that he wasn’t wanted anymore.

His sofa was still in its place, wedged into the nook which looked smaller than it ever had before. There was no way he would sleep in it again, no way he could pull it out and crawl inside the covers. It had always been an inconvenience, jutting out into the lounge area, but now the whole idea of it was suddenly and irreversibly gone. Like dust.