A Negotiable Instrument

Chapter Seventeen

It was late. Outside, the pale, apathetic sun had long since sidled off to its winter lair to hang its head in shame and prepare for the following day's insipid reprise. There was no sign of the moon. She hid behind the gathering storm clouds, no doubt embarrassed by her diurnal sibling's lacklustre display. Inside, the offices were quiet, as if in hushed anticipation, waiting for the storm to break, for an uncertainty that was almost palpable to be resolved. It was the time of day when shifts changed. The opportunist pickpockets, hooligans, and men of business who practised their coldly calculating arts in the harsh light of day were scuttling off like so many crabs on the beach retreating with the ebb of the tide. The drunks, rapists, and murderers who inhabited the dark watches of the night would soon stir from their fetid depressions.

Tursunov had trudged back from the hospital, shamed and unsettled by Irina's kindness. He was in no mood to face any of his colleagues, or to deal with any of the paperwork that had accumulated on his desk, but he couldn't think of anything else to do. Radostev was nowhere to be seen, which was a small consolation, and Dolmatov had left a few minutes before he got back.

Glebov had looked in on him some time earlier, but Tursunov had made it clear he didn't want company. The clerk appeared again, this time on the pretext of looking for a report that had been mislaid, and stood waiting just outside the door until Tursunov noticed him.

'What do you want this time, Glebov?' Tursunov demanded.

'The weather is going to get worse, sir,' Glebov said.

'Well? What of it?'

'We just thought that you might want to leave before it does, sir.'

'Who is this we, Glebov? Are you trying to get me out of the way? What are you up to?'

'We,' Glebov said, seeming to shrink under Tursunov's withering glare, 'that is, I just thought you looked tired, sir.'

'Are you trying to tell me that you are concerned about my health?'

'We, that is I, that is, well, yes, sir,' Glebov stammered.

Tursunov grunted and looked down at the paperwork on his desk.

'Is this the report you were looking for?' he asked, holding a sheaf of papers out to the clerk.

'Yes, sir. Thank you.' Glebov took the papers and backed towards the door.

'Thank you, Glebov,' Tursunov said as the clerk reached the door. 'I think you might be right about the weather.'

'Yes, sir.' Glebov smiled, a shy smile that lit up his face.

'My stepmother used to say there is no such thing as bad weather, just a bad choice of clothes.'

'My mother used to say that a pig doesn't get any heavier just because you weigh it. I never did understand that.' Glebov was still shaking his head in puzzlement as he left the office.

Tursunov sat back in his chair and stared blindly up at the ceiling. He came to a decision, stood up, and struggled into his outdoor clothes. The walk home was cold, the arrival colder still. He had always felt comfortable in the apartment, had felt it was a home. Now it stood empty he could feel its resentment. He missed Maximka's serious little face breaking into a gleeful grin when he came through the door. He missed the warmth and the smell of cooking that enveloped him as he took his coat off. He even missed Galya's accusing look, he realised, when he arrived home late.

Throwing his coat and hat onto a table he went into the kitchen and rifled through the cupboards until he found what he was looking for. Glass and vodka bottle in hand, he went through to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. The first mouthful pricked the nerves in his mouth, rousing them from their hibernation, making them greedy for more.