Ever since he had taken care of Milla, things were working out for Mircea. Ivan quietly went back to the UK, and Piotr moved Mircea up in the Ukrainian organisation. Now that the Church’s interference had been dealt with, he travelled to Belarus, to secure a bevy of beauties for the club in Northern Cyprus. He freely threw money around the place in Minsk, keeping everyone happy; the local thugs were impressed by Mircea’s good suits and fluent Russian. He’d managed to smuggle in some tablets disguised as drugs for his jaw, so everyone was having a chemically induced good time, while Mircea had a steady supply of painkillers at the ready.
The problem of Mircea’s jaw was handled with a cortisone shot from Piotr’s drunken chief surgeon. As with everything in Vinnytsia, they must have cut the cortisone with something; every now and then Mircea still felt a slight twinge, which he was careful not to react to. Everything had to smooth about him, mandible included. Word spread about his little run in with the Church. Andrei, one of the bosses in Minsk, was particularly impressed. They were drinking one night over business talks, and Andrei eagerly clinked his vodka glass with Mircea’s. “I hear you put on quite the show in Vinnytsia,” he slurred. “Practically started a riot against the Church!” Oleg hadn’t dumped Milla on the church steps, as Mircea had wanted, but he couldn’t slip an unconscious girl bleeding heavily from her shattered mouth into a Church unnoticed. There was quite a scene when Oleg unceremoniously deposited Milla in a pew, possibly even bigger than the one Mircea had caused. Mircea’s wounds were at least internal – the sight of so much blood on Milla caused a panic. Fortunately, Dmitri had led a mob of protestors to the church, so no priest or German missionary came looking for Mircea. Rocks had been thrown through the stained-glass windows, and the priest had been attacked. Mircea hadn’t heard anything about Michael…the pantywaist was probably hiding in the side chapel when the crowds came. At any rate, the message was received: don’t interfere in our business! Belarus was even more backward than Ukraine. Mircea often reflected how good it was not to be a tourist in the place: the only sights were the crumbling Soviet buildings and the surprisingly attractive native population. Beautiful girls would do anything to get out of there. Minsk was very tightly controlled by the Russian mafia; Mircea could flatter and bribe all he wanted, but he wasn’t going to get what he needed in the capital. A few discreet inquiries indicated that the countryside was the place for him to conclude business. With Andrei’s blessing, Mircea moved into the smaller towns. As long as he gave the best looking girls to the Russians, he was free to gather his supple young fools. The girls understood that their good looks were their ticket out of Belarus, and we very compliant. No one was crying to the Church for help. “We were worried that the missionary societies who managed to get a foothold here would put a spanner into our works,” Andrei told Mircea. “But if we take a page out of your book, they won’t be a problem!” He clinked yet another glass of vodka with him, and Mircea began to worry about the effect the drink would have with the painkillers he’d been taking. He could drink with Andrei, but he didn’t trust him for a second. There was a terrible scar down Andrei’s right cheek, and he had a reputation as someone who solved the most minor of infractions with serious measures. Drinking steadily with him, Mircea didn’t want to think about what would be in store for him if he made the mistake of passing out on Andrei’s turf. “I should go. I have a plane to catch.” Mircea was hoping to get to the UK, not Cyprus, as everyone thought he would. He wanted to relax in civilised surroundings for a while, and have a real doctor look at his jaw. Andrei roared with laughter at Mircea’s excuse to leave. “The plane will wait for you,” he declared with bravado. Mircea was sure that was true in Minsk, but he had a connecting flight in Warsaw to worry about. He told Andrei as much, who raised his eyebrows drunkenly. “Warsaw?” he repeated, then spat out a few profanities about the EU. “Aren’t you going in the wrong direction for Cyprus?” Mircea cursed the vodka that had clouded his brain. “I have some business to attend to first,” he said quickly. His mind scrambled for a reasonable explanation. “Paperwork!” That was the excuse he’d always used, as the machinations to get false documents for the girls did take a long time. Andrei grunted. “Things are easier if you go through Moscow. But no, you have to please the EU puppets…” He lapsed into another round of invective against the EU. The Russians regarded the EU as poachers, having taken their former Soviet satellites and the Baltic Republics. “Cyprus is in the EU,” Mircea reminded Andrei, hoping he would pour himself another vodka and be lost in a drunken rant about politics. “Northern Cyrus isn’t!” Mircea smiled patiently, although his jaws ached. “It’s better to go through Cyprus than having to bother with Ankara.” As expected, this set Andrei off on an anti-Turk tirade. The Russians held so many people in contempt, Mircea often wondered if they liked anybody. He sat back in silence, trying to think of how he would make his escape. “So you’re off to Warsaw, to get your paperwork done. Very well, go, go!” Andrei said suddenly, his complaining about the Turks, EU and everyone else done. “It’s good to have someone with your character to do business with,” he told Mircea appreciatively, leaning over and kissing his cheeks. Mircea couldn’t help but groan when a drunkenly misjudged kiss landed on his sore jaw. Andrei reacted immediately. “What is this noise?” he demanded, jumping to his feet. “You are too good to accept the embrace of a Russian?” A lot of heads in the noisy club were turning to look at Andrei and Mircea. A few of Andrei’s bodyguards closed in, and Mircea could hear the blood pounding in his ears. “No, no!” he protested. “Andrei, brother, of course not! It’s just that-“ “It’s just what?” Mircea could see the bulges of guns stashed conspicuously in the bodyguards’ jackets. He swallowed, feeling faint. It was probably best to tell the truth. “My mouth still hurts,” Mircea confessed in a low voice. “You know…from the sorcery the Church pulled.” From the look on Andrei’s face, Mircea could tell that he had estimated Andrei’s superstition correctly. He was as lily-livered as Ivan in that regard. Andrei bent down to whisper to Mircea. “They cast a spell over you?” Mircea pulled a brave face. “Yes. But I am still here.” Surprisingly, Andrei didn’t laugh in triumph. “Have you done a deal with the devil, boy?” he asked, looking genuinely aghast. Mircea’s head started to spin, and not just from all the vodka he had drunk. “No, of course not! I took care of the priests!” “What have you done?” Andrei breathed, looking frightened. “Who are you?” It was time to take a stand, armed bodyguards or not. Mircea rose to his feet slowly, wanting to avoid the danger of swaying in inebriation. “I am the man who cannot be stopped,” he proclaimed grandly. “No priest’s black magic can destroy me!” One of the bodyguards pulled out a gun, but Andrei pushed his hand down. “Be careful,” he warned Mircea. “Your mouth still hurts. This is a dangerous war you have started, with something greater than man.” Andrei drew back – there would be no more comradely embraces from this man. “Go,” he said to Mircea, sounding less like a boss giving his blessing and more like a coward distancing himself from disaster. “Go,” he repeated firmly, flinching back when Mircea tried approach him. Mircea calmly straightened his jacket. It was important that he looked like he was taking his leave, not like someone being sent away. “I’ll see you soon,” he said to Andrei. “We have much business to conduct!” He wondered briefly if someone would follow him, and shoot him in an unobserved place, but he saw Andrei’s bodyguards fall obediently back into place as Andrei took his seat again. Mircea really was free to go. A club bouncer escorted him to a car, which drove him back to his hotel. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief, then grinned broadly. This hurt his mouth, but it did not bring Mircea’s sense of triumph to an end. I am the man who cannot be stopped!
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Cara was unrepentant when I called her back; she didn’t see anything wrong with “telling the truth”. I asked her if my reminding her how she didn’t get enough CAO points to study chemistry at Trinity was fair game then, and she grudgingly admitted I had a point. She wouldn’t apologise, but she agreed to come to my dinner party. I avoided the trap middle children fall into; I didn’t tell on her to my older sisters or parents. It’s amazing how patterns from our childhood never leave us!
At work, Sheila had interesting news for us on the Athletes Against Exploitation campaign. She’d had some offers of sponsorship. “The first is from Carib Rum. They’re new and don’t have a lot of budget, but they want to get in on a good beneficial campaign. They could be a partial sponsor, at best. I’m working hard on Latex Inc…” She let her voice trail, and left us on the campaign open mouthed. “You want a condom manufacturer to sponsor an anti-prostitution campaign?” I asked incredulously. Sheila nodded with a “so what?” expression. Jimmy looked embarrassed. “Doesn’t it kind of go against their “safe sex” message?” He asked. “I mean, they’re not endorsing the sex trade, but surely they want everyone to be safe, even when breaking the law.” “They have the kind of budget we need,” Sheila insisted. I focused in on how she said working on getting a deal with them. “What are they dragging their feet on?” I asked. Sheila’s cheeks grew bright red spots. “They’re not sure how to position anti-prostitution with protection,” she mumbled. I liked the way she used the word “protection” instead of “safe sex”, but she wasn’t fooling anybody. Jimmy did his best not to look triumphant, and the rest of us pretended not to notice the irony. “Is there anyone else we can reach out to?” I asked, changing the subject for Sheila. “Feminine products, maybe? Surely the people who make tampons and sanity towels want to be seen to be fighting against sex trafficking.” There were murmurs of assent, but Sheila shrugged. “We can try, but you’ll find a lot of the paper and textile companies who produce feminine sanity products like to be involved in health campaigns, like fighting Toxic Shock Syndrome or vaccines against HPV. They’d be another partial sponsor, like Carib Rum.” “So worth approaching, then,” Jimmy concluded. Sheila nodded. “But we still need big guns,” I inferred. Sheila nodded again. “It costs a lot to get athletes and sports teams involved,” Sheila said. “They’re willing to wave or reduce their fees, but there are the events to pay for.” I grimaced. “I’ll admit that I have my doubts,” I told them. “We’ll be having a sports gala to protest about the very thing that goes on typically at sports galas. For me, it’s kind of like asking a company famous for making gooey desserts to sponsor Overeaters Anonymous.” “But that’s what we do,” Sheila reminded me. “Companies are interested in breaking the stereotypical views of them. We’d ask the desserts company to promote a new fat-free product that we can launch with Overeaters Anonymous. We want to host sporting events that make a point of not having prostitutes –“ “And discourages guests from hiring sex workers,” Jimmy put in. “We need to focus on the use of prostitutes, not just the call girls themselves. Prostitution is illegal; let the Gardaí worry about that. We want to address the parts of society that says using people for sex is OK.” From the confused look on Sheila’s face, it was clear that she didn’t understand why Jimmy was making that point. “What Jimmy means is that we have to focus on the root of the crime,” I helped. “Switching venues for prostitutes is not what we’re promoting, it’s changing the way we think about sex trafficking. Having an escort-free event is not our goal; having men emulate their sports heroes in not hiring one is.” This was all too technical for Sheila. She waved her hands. “Okay, let’s not over-think this,” she said. “We need to find more sponsors for this campaign; we can argue about the details of the message later.” Theresa, the events manager assigned to this campaign, weighed in. “I think Lisa’s point about hosting sporting galas to combat what normally goes on is what we should be doing,” she said. “I think it’s right to make an example of what they should be like. Personally, I think we should ask major hotel chains for sponsorship. They know what’s going on – that’s why many of them have lifts that can only be activated by room keys, to prevent access for prostitutes. Let them speak out against prostitution!” Jimmy snorted. “Hotels are very sensitive about curbing the actions of the paying customers,” he pointed out. “As long as it’s quiet and doesn’t make a mess, they’ll turn a blind eye. There’s no way they would risk offending a regular high income guest by even hinting that what he is doing is unwelcome!” “I still think it’s worth a try,” Theresa argued. Sheila shook her head. “I’m with Jimmy on this one,” she said. “Let’s brainstorm. What else do you do at a party? You drink, you eat, you’re entertained…” “Before the ban, you smoked,” Theresa supplied. We all looked at her, thinking. “Nowadays, you have to go outside to smoke. My smoker friends all tell me it’s a great way to meet people, make hook-ups…it’s probably also a great way to pick up a prostitute.” Jimmy shrugged. “We can ban smoking, but it has its advantages, good and bad.” We all turned to look at Sheila. My boss famously underwent a three month course of hypnotherapy two years ago to quit smoking. It was a tempestuous time in the office, as she had had a period of resistance, but it finally worked, and she kicked the habit. “Smoking’s a great way to network,” she admitted. She sighed nostalgically. “Sometimes I feel as if I’ve lost out. A lot of executives and influential people smoke, so it was kind of like being in an exclusive club.” She hasn’t smoked a cigarette since therapy, but there are plenty of times when she tells us she misses them. I always thought it was just a yearning for a familiar habit, but it was the old lifestyle that went with it that she missed. Suddenly, she slapped the table with her palm. “That’s it!” she cried. We all looked at her quizzically. “Who has lots of budget, but can’t advertise?” she asked us. “The Church?” Jimmy asked, looking at me. I frowned, and Sheila playfully threw a crumpled-up post it note at him. “No…come on, think!” Sheila encouraged. A light went on in Theresa’s head. “Tobacco companies!” she shouted. “They’re banned from advertising, so they sponsor events!” “And who else needs so badly to be connected with a good cause?” Sheila asked. “Let the tobacco companies join a crusade that isn’t against their product!” She leaned over the table and grabbed Theresa into an awkward hug. “Brilliant idea!” she praised. Theresa looked a bit flustered, but she wasn’t above taking credit. “Thank you,” she murmured proudly. Jimmy looked peeved that his contribution to the idea was overlooked, so I patted his arm gently. “I’ve got to get on to my old contacts who never thought they would hear from the likes of me again,” Sheila was saying, gathering up her things. “Great meeting, everyone! With any luck, we’ll have cracked our funding concerns!” Mumbling to herself about no one believing an anti-cigarette convert would contact tobacco companies for help, she bustled out of the meeting room. There was a surprised hush in the room after she was gone, which Jimmy broke with a laugh. “Piece of cake!” he breezed. “All our meetings should be this easy.” Mircea always looked forward to spending time in London, as it was the epitome of living successfully in his eyes. It had always been his goal to live in there, in that jewel on the River Thames. It symbolised every capitalist’s dream, with well-stocked stores and unbelievable variety, offering things that were as rare as hen’s teeth in Eastern Europe. While frugal Western Europeans flocked East for cheap dentistry, Mircea put his hope in British dentists for his jaw problem , but the news in the British capital was not good.
The diagnosis was he had a terrible misalignment of his mandible, one that caused extreme pain when eating, singing, yawning or simply breathing. The very expensive dentist he went to on Harley street took enough X-rays to make Mircea glow in the dark. He also made extensive plaster models of Mircea’s teeth to replicate his bite, coming to the conclusion that Mircea would need a massive amount of medical intervention to combat the problem that was causing him such pain. In the opulently decorated dentist’s office, Dr Searle put the model of Mircea’s teeth down on a side table, shaking his head. “Your teeth are very crooked,” he sniffed in his haughty accent, peering over his glasses at Mircea in the examination chair. “I haven’t seen such a bad case in 30 years of practise!” He examined his manicured fingers for a moment, then frowned at Mircea’s mouth. “Still…that should not be the reason for the extensive pain you say you’re having. Something else is causing this – stress? We probably need to address any emotional issues you may be having that are contributing to this problem.” Mircea’s blood boiled at these casually spoken words. He was not a hysterical fool – he was a serious businessman with an acute physical problem. He grabbed the armrests of the examination chair and began to heave himself out, an action that alarmed Dr Searle. “I say, steady on! Sit back down!” He laid his hands restrainingly on Mircea’s forearms, which Mircea swiftly shrugged off. “I do not have emotional issues!” Mircea hissed. “All right, but you have a very serious issue with your jaw,” Dr Searle argued. “We have to at least fit you with a bite appliance to correct the misalignment of your teeth.” Seeing Mircea relax back into the chair, Dr Searle tutted in exasperation. “We have a long road ahead of us in terms of recovery. You’ll need to get your crowns and fillings redone, and you might need orthodontics – a brace for your teeth.” Mircea’s head swam, trying to picture himself with a mouthful of metal like some gangly teenager. “A long recovery?” he repeated in a whisper. Dr Searle affected a soothing smile. “Quite.” Mircea’s hands turned to claws on the armrests. “How long?” “We need a good four to six months for any significant improvement on TMJ problems,” he told Mircea. He wrinkled his aquiline nose, as if selling something foul. “In your case, I would imagine a longer period.” Mircea set his jaw and prepared again to launch himself from the chair, but the pain he felt nearly made him pass out. 4 to 6 months? I don’t have time for that! He struggled to keep his eyes open, carefully easing his mouth open to ease the discomfort. “Would you kindly stop trying to spring out of the chair?” Dr Searle asked in exasperation. “The only person you’re having any impact on here is yourself! I see that six months in treatment seems unacceptable to you, but after that near-fainting spell brought on by extreme pain, I don’t see any alternative!” “A shot,” Mircea suggested desperately. “Of what, whiskey?” Dr Searle scoffed. Seeing Mircea trying to talk in his discomfort, he threw up a well-manicured silencing hand. “I know you’re thinking of cortisone, but I wouldn’t recommend it. You have a serious problem which needs to be corrected through intensive therapy.” Mircea itched to smash the supercilious dentist in his mouth, hopefully doing some damage that would cause the good doctor pain similar to what he was enduring. “I think I should get a second opinion,” Mircea growled, trying to sound as haughty as Dr Searle. He rose from the chair unsteadily. Dr Searle was not impressed. “By all means,” he retorted calmly. “I hope you find someone who will tell you want you want to hear, but any reputable medical professional will confirm my diagnosis and prognosis.” He rinsed his hands in a sink in the corner of the office, clearly enacting the phrase I wash my hands of you. “Be sure to collect your bill on your way out,” he called out indifferently. Mircea made a mental note to hire some goons to rough the arrogant dentist up. “Can’t you at least prescribe me some pain killers?” MIrcea mumbled. Dr Searle shook his head. “Over the counter medication should take care of it,” he said dismissively. Mircea had visions of Piotr himself bashing Dr Searle’s patrician face in. “Thank you so much for nothing,” Mircea intoned in the best posh accent he could muster. He had no intention of stopping at reception to get the bill – let Dr Searle send bailiffs to the phony address in Southwark he’d given him. The dentist flapped his hand irritatedly at Mircea, shooing him out of the office. Mircea threw himself into a taxi and headed straight for the club Piotr’s syndicate owned in Elephant and Castle, with the goal of scoring some powerful sedatives. That business was swiftly transacted, but he was surprised to hear from the drug-dealing bouncer that Ivan was in the back office. After swallowing the pills, Mircea went in to pay his former boss a visit. “I never thought I’d find you here,” Mircea said by way of greeting as he entered the office. Ivan’s leg was encased in plaster, but he seemed much healthier than when Mircea had last seen him. No more designer sweat suits for Ivan now – he was wearing a casual sport jacket with jeans that had been cut open to accommodate his cast. Upon seeing him, Ivan limped over to embrace Mircea heartily. “I no longer have to go to Ukraine,” he told Mircea happily. “As I kept my mouth shut over what really happened to my leg, Piotr signed this club over to me, effectively buying out my partnership.” Ivan went to pour some vodka for his guest, but saw Mircea cringe. “Your jaw is still hurting you?” Ivan asked in a hushed voice. “Bloody useless British dentists can’t help me,” Mircea told him, trying to sound unconcerned. “Who’s our medical connection here? I need another cortisone shot.” He sank on to the couch in the office, wanting to seem carefree, but Ivan’s eyes widened as he watched him. “You need to take this more seriously,” he counselled after a pause. “We don’t know what the Church did to you, but if the dentists can’t help you –“ Mircea groaned loudly. “Ivan, I don’t need any of your superstitious nonsense!” “You’re the one with a face yellow from pain!” Ivan barked back, slamming the vodka bottle on to the desktop. “You may not believe the Church did this to you, but you are not a well man. You look like hell, and a handful of illegal drugs is not the answer.” “So what should I do?” Mircea mumbled, feeling the sedatives he’d taken starting to kick in. “Go back to that German Holy Joe and ask him to pray over my painful mouth?” Mircea closed his eyes, finding it hard to keep them open. He saw Michael in his mind’s eye, chanting Latin as he put his hands on Mircea’s shoulders. He giggled at the image. “Look at you,” Ivan said in disgust. “You’re high and practically melted into my couch!” He swore in Russian, and Mircea heard him pick up the phone on his desk, asking for help in getting some Moldovan idiot out of his office. “Don’t say Moldovan like that,” Mircea pleaded softly, eyes still closed. “Like I’m some dog dirt you wiped off the sole of your shoe. Why does everyone hate us?” Ivan’s voice was not unkindly. “Maybe it’s because you wouldn’t lie straight in bed,” he answered. “Always twisting and turning, like some kind of shape-shifting demon. You speak so prettily, in so many languages, but you can never trust a word you say.” Mircea heard the door to the office open, and footsteps come in. Keeping his eyes firmly closed, Mircea imagined it was Michael come to nurse him, gently lifting him from the couch. He wracked his brain, trying to remember some German. “It hurts,” was all he could manage. These were not words that would move Michael. “Please, brother,” Mircea continued in Russian, remembering Michael’s mother. “Please make the pain stop.” Even though it was Michael he saw in his haze, it was Ivan’s voice that he heard. “We’ll take you to our doctor,” Ivan promised, “but there’s only so much he will be able to do.” Mircea reached out unsteadily, and someone clasped his upper body to keep his arms still. “Please forgive me if I’ve offended you,” Mircea implored, trying to open his eyes. Behind his eyelids, Michael was shaking his head mournfully. “There are so many people you need forgiveness from,” Ivan’s voice told him sternly. He heard a soft clicking of the tongue, and Ivan’s tone softened into pity. “You poor little lost Moldovan soul.” Mircea was floating now, rising above Ivan and the pain. “Forgive me,” he kept murmuring. Before everything went dark, he could see that Michael was not alone in his mind’s eye. He was holding the hand of a woman bent over in pain. Thinking it was the old woman from the Church, Mircea wanted to ask her forgiveness as well. Michael took the woman tenderly into his arms, as if he were protecting her from Mircea. Mircea fought to reach them, but everything suddenly sank into a nice thick black darkness. “Michael,” Mircea wailed before blacking out. I had terrible jitters that Saturday night, waiting for my guests to come. It seemed so silly to be worried about meeting with people I spoke to regularly, but the fact that we were trying to achieve something made it worrying. What exactly, I wasn’t sure. I wanted to win Cara’s heart over. I still was upset that she had thrown Peter in my face. She knew how hurtful it was, but I had yet to hear an “I’m sorry.”
Kate was concentrating on witnessing to Cara and Niamh – she is the only person I know who has successfully led someone to Christ (me!), so she has the confidence I lack in that direction. It was more than her gentle arguments, it was the concern and care she showed me over the first few months when I started coming to church that won my heart over. I would have given up on a person like me a lot sooner – when I got over my initial grief, and started to feel better (even wading out into the dating world again), I felt I didn’t need the “God-botherers”. Other people I called friends kept telling me to get over it, to move on. I was still young, and had a good career going – I didn’t need to tie the millstone of religion around my neck. But I didn’t trust the suitors who were trying to get me into bed – my dad’s warning about not giving the milk away kept ringing in my ears. I noticed how those “friends” started to treat me like a leper when I stayed single, not trusting me around their own boyfriends. I didn’t want to pair up with someone just so I wouldn’t be lonely. I didn’t want to end up rejected and alone again after another five years. Kate was the only one checking in on me, when my friends left me out of their dinner parties. Kate was the only one inviting me to singles events and not regarding me as competition. She was the only one who convinced me that I was worth loving – because God loved me. In the kitchen, I was praying for the millionth time over the steamed rice – please, Father, let me be a light shining for you tonight! The door buzzer sounded, and I jumped so hard I spilled scalding water all over the floor. I threw a towel down and went to open the door. It was Kate, bringing flowers. “Thanks you’re early and I have to mop the floor!” I said in one breath, turning and running back to the kitchen. I could hear her laugh in puzzlement behind me. She calmly came into the kitchen as I wiped up the water. “Ooh, save some of that for the flowers,” she commented, helping herself to a vase I keep beneath the sink. “Everything else under control?” she asked, filling the vase with water. “More or less.” I threw the wet towel into the sink. I took in the flowers she was unwrapping to put in the vase. They were a bright, colourful bunch. “Those are nice…not expensive, I hope?” “Discount supermarket,” she grinned. “If I were your boyfriend, you’d have my head!” I folded my arms, remembering my days with Peter. “If you were my boyfriend, you wouldn’t have bothered,” I sulked. I turned down the heat on the steaming rice. “I hope you like Thai fusion,” I said. “I’m assuming that when you say fusion, you’re keeping in mind that I can’t take spicy food,” she replied, bringing the vase full of flowers to the table as a centrepiece. “It’s a gentler recipe, with coconut milk and coriander,” I told her. “And turkey instead of duck.” She made a face and nodded. “My doctor thanks you for that!” She turned back to me and sighed. “She’s on me to lose weight,” Kate told me, patting her ample hips. “I keep telling her I want to be a positive role model for larger women to the girls, but she’s having none of it.” Kate is big, but not obese. I’ve heard she can move really fast when she has to, to break up a fight in the schoolyard, or catch a bus. To me, Kate wouldn’t be Kate if she slimmed down. Being large gives her gravitas. “Well, then, I’m sure your doctor would not like the coconut milk,” I said, making a worried face. Kate threw up her hands mockingly. “Too bad she’s not invited!” “I’m your friend and I love you, so I’m not impartial, but there’s nothing wrong with you,” I told her. Kate rolled her eyes. “Dr Duggan would be on you to lose some weight, too,” she said. I widened my eyes in alarm, but Kate shook her head. “There’s nothing wrong with you, either. Dr Duggan is just one of these fanatics, always running marathons and stuff. She’s sound as a pound generally, but she wants us all to be svelte little dollies.” Marathons? “I take it she’s slim.” “Ah, but there’s the thing. She used to be big. There’s nothing worse than a recent convert to fitness!” I checked on the turkey in the oven. “That’s what my boss says,” I told Kate. “She says there are no more anti-smoking people than ex-smokers! She says she lost half her friends after she finally quit, but good riddance. She doesn’t like to be around smoke anymore.” I thought of our campaign and how Sheila had to go back to her old friends and laughed. Kate looked at me curiously. “That’s the news I have about Athletes Against Exploitation. You will never guess who our sponsor is.” Kate is very sharp. “From what you were just talking about, I’m guessing tobacco companies?” I didn’t like losing the element of surprise, but I nodded. Kate let out a hoot of laughter. “Well, well, who’d have thought? Big tobacco does some good!” “That’s precisely why they are doing it. They can use some good publicity.” I had to admit, it was a genius move on Sheila’s part. As she has to go back to her old friends, it’s a very courageous one. I thought about her courage and sighed. “Kate, will you pray with me?” I asked. “I need God’s guidance in talking with Niamh and Cara tonight.” “Do you need help in forgiving Cara? It can’t be easy for you, having that open wound between the two of you.” “It isn’t,” I admitted. “I’m still shocked that she could turn on me like that. I mean, we fight, we disagree on things, but this just came out of nowhere.” “There might be something going on with Cara that we don’t know about,” Kate pondered. “I think she was lashing out against you when Niamh started to be more sympathetic, but maybe there’s something else. When my students lay into each other like that, there’s usually something else they’re struggling with. One girl turned really nasty on everyone, and it turns out her parents were getting a divorce. Maybe she figured all the detention she was getting would bring her parents back to at least talking with each other, but all they did was blame each other for her bad behaviour.” Kate shook her head sadly. “My heart went out to that girl. I got her volunteering in a nursing home as part of her ‘punishment’…those nice old ladies and gents took her mind off the problems at home. All she needed was a mature, stable influence. She became a prefect after that.” My older sisters were prefects, and Cara had her heart set on being one too, but the headmistress of her school didn’t see it. I tried to talk Cara out of it, as I always thought head girls were prissy, but she was very insulted by not being chosen. I liked being different from my sisters, as it gave me a slight “bad girl” reputation, but Cara wanted to be seen as the good, responsible girl. Not out of any sense of duty, like my eldest sister; Cara always seemed to make her reputation at the expense of others. Cara was forever telling on her classmates and everyone else, which didn’t get her much sympathy with the other girls or the teachers. I thought about Kate’s story of her troubled student, and wondered if Cara’s picking on me was a cry for help. Maybe; maybe she was just resorting to her old trick of pointing fingers to make herself look good. Kate took my hands and we said a prayer to open everyone’s heart that night. I let Kate do the talking, even though my pastor assures me that the Holy Spirit takes our clumsy words and makes sense of them. We had just said “amen” when the buzzer went. Kate gave my hands an extra squeeze and went to open the door to Cara and Niamh. “Failte,” I called, then smiled when I saw Niamh had brought flowers. Hers were roses, and looked more expensive. “If you don’t have another vase, we’ll take the one from mine,” Kate said, but I had another vase. Cara had brought wine, a bottle of white, as I “didn’t usually have anything but red” in the house. “You should have asked what she’s cooking, to see if white wine goes with it,” Niamh scolded. “I’m fine with red,” she said to me. Cara’s expression darkened, and I fought back a smile. Niamh was acting a bit like Cara so far. I took the bottle from my sister. “We’re having turkey, Thai fusion style, so white and red will go with it.” I put the bottle in the refrigerator while Kate replaced her flowers with Niamh’s roses on the table. They did their own introductions – covering my gaffe as the hostess of not introducing my guests to each other. Fortunately, not one seemed to notice my oversight, and they all sat down on the couch, chatting. Kate zeroes in on the topic at hand. “There’s excellent news from Lisa’s job – they have a sponsor for the anti-trafficking campaign!” Kate announced. “I thought sports teams were having their stars speak out,” Cara said, helping herself to the prawn crisps I had put out. “They are, but we needed someone to pay for all the events,” I said. “That’s great,” Niamh said. “Is it drink companies? They usually sponsor festivals and charity matches.” “We got some funds from a new rum company, but the big bucks are coming from the cigarette makers.” Niamh and Cara were open-mouthed. “Don’t be surprised – think of all the big car races. Tobacco sponsors them, as a way to get their name out, because they aren’t allowed to advertise.” “Through this campaign, they get to associate their name with something good!” Kate explained. “You’re taking money from people who cause cancer?” Niamh asked incredulously. She was a medical professional, after all. “Hey, think like George Bernard Shaw,” I argued. “In the play Major Barbara, he had the Salvation Army being funded by whiskey makers and arms dealers! He said who cares where the money comes from, as long as it does good.” I found myself thinking that then we could take money from pimps, and looked to Kate for help. “It’s not ideal,” she admitted. “But some people would argue against sponsorship from drink companies for the same reasons. What’s important is that we get the message against prostitution and exploitation out there.” Niamh shrugged. “Let tobacco spend its profits on something good,” she reasoned. “No one is forcing you to smoke, unlike what’s happening with sex trafficking.” I was thinking about what Jimmy said, how prostitution is trafficking, and no one really chose to go into it. “Thanks so much for coming tonight,” I said to Niamh, and then remembered Cara. “You too, of course!” She made a face. “If this is the kind of discussion we’re going to be having all night, let’s open a bottle,” she moaned. “No hello, how was your week but straight into the ethics of who should pay for an anti-trafficking campaign.” She went and opened the fridge, getting her bottle of white out. “Where’s the corkscrew?” Kate and I exchanged a glance. The evening was off to a roaring start! As Ivan predicted, there was only so much his sports doctor could do. He got a cortisone shot to the jaw, which hurt terribly, and the needle scratched bone. Seeing that Mircea had already taken drugs to dull the pain, he wouldn’t give him a shot to deal with the remaining aches. He had a friend who was a dentist, so they agreed to send Mircea on to him for more treatment. Ivan’s bouncers carried Mircea out to the car. As Mircea wasn’t in any fit state to tell them what hotel he was staying in, they dropped him off at one of the seedy apartments the syndicate owned. Some thug was being serviced by a prostitute in the bed, so Mircea was deposited on a lumpy couch in the front room. He slept fitfully, being aware of people going in and out of the flat. He was sure someone posed a cigar in his mouth and took pictures of him with a camera phone, but as he also thought dragons were circling overhead, he couldn’t take on oath on the subject. He was shaken back to consciousness by one of the bouncers from the club a day later.
“Ivan said to let you sleep it off, but we need you out of here,” he was told. Mircea felt dizzy and itched all over. “I need to take a shower,” he said, but the bouncer shook his bulky head. “Do your toilette somewhere else. We need this place for a party!” He roughly lifted Mircea to his feet. A stale sour smell assaulted his nostrils and he dry-heaved. “What is that stench?” The bouncer gave him a sour look. “You.” A quick sniff at his armpits confirmed this. Mircea wondered if some of it didn’t come from the old couch. His feet had swollen from sleeping with shoes on, and he wobbled as he tried to walk. “Where are we?” he asked the bouncer, wondering how he was going to get back to his hotel. The bouncer named some part of London he’d never heard of. A taxi would hopefully be able to find its way out of there. He felt in his back pocket for his wallet, which felt a bit light. He pulled it out and checked – there was only a twenty pound note left in it. He started to swear and was going to shout, but the look of deadly apathy the bouncer gave him stopped that. He forced a smile and pocketed the wallet. “Can I get a taxi somewhere around here?” he asked. “We’re to take you to see the dentist,” the bouncer informed him. Mircea raised his eyebrows – this he wasn’t expecting. He followed the bouncer out the door, passing some shifty-looking characters on the stairs, on their way up to the flat they had just left. Mircea glanced after them. “Doesn’t look like much of a party,” he said. The bouncer shrugged. “It’s a card game. The whores and music will come later.” It sounded like an evening Mircea would be glad to miss. He shivered when they hit the cold air outside of the building. Looking at the sky, Mircea could see that it was only late afternoon. A minivan was parked at the curb, its motor idling. The bouncer shoved Mircea into the passenger seat, and spoke a few gruff words with the driver, a skinny teenager. The driver nodded, and the bouncer shut the door . “Whew, you stink, mate,” the kid said to Mircea as they drove off. “So sorry; I didn’t have time for a bubble bath.” Mircea looked around the streets as they drove. “Where are we going?” “Watford.” Mircea had never been there, but he knew it wasn’t on the list of must-see places in London. “I’m to see a dentist,” he told the driver. “I have some polo mints in the glove box; your breath smells about as bad as the rest of you!” Mircea mumbled some thanks and opened the glove compartment. Beneath some maps and an A-Z guide, he found half a roll of breath mints. He wished they would make something like that for the rest of his body – he apparently had sweat the chemicals out. “So you’re off to see Dr Dracula,” the kid said. Mircea didn’t answer, as he didn’t know what to say. “I call him Dracula, ‘cause he’s from Transylvania or somewhere,” the driver added. “He talks like a movie villain, real vere are you goink type stuff.” The driver glanced over at Mircea. “You don’t talk like that…you speak English good.” Flattered as he was, Mircea couldn’t help but correct the kid’s grammar. “Well, I speak well. Thank you.” “Don’t be full of yourself, mate,” the kid advised. “You’re still a foreigner!” “So are all the people you work for,” Mircea reminded him, although he couldn’t be absolutely sure. “Why do all you guys want to come over here, anyway?” the driver asked. He must have deduced from the strong body odour that Mircea wasn’t a boss, and that he could chat casually with him. “Why don’t you want to stay at home?” “It’s business,” Mircea told him. “We go where the opportunity is. And since we’re educated and cultured, we can. You won’t get far in life if you don’t broaden your horizons, learn a language or two.” You snot-nosed brat; born in a great place! You wouldn’t be able to claw yourself out of the cesspit I come from! The kid laughed at Mircea. “Everyone speaks English, innit?” “Some of us better than others,” Mircea said pointedly. “Well, talk good all you like. If you have good connections, you don’t need education or languages.” He threw Mircea a proud smile. “I’m getting what I need from my dad!” Mircea groaned. Another spoilt urchin, born holding a winning lottery ticket. This little fool thought he had it made, because his father was some kind of a gangster. “If your dad is in this business, you’d be speaking Russian!” “Don’t need to. Told you – everyone speaks English.” Mircea wondered who the kid’s father was. No self-respecting Russian would let any child of his grow up without knowing the mother tongue. “You see how things are…we’re all from the East. Your dad lets you speak only English?” The kid shrugged. “I live with my mum. She’s English.” “But what about your dad-“ Mircea persisted. “I don’t know my dad. Don’t have to. He gets me good gigs, like driving. This is my van, and one day I’ll have more. I’ll buy into a fitness centre, and a club. I don’t need anything. No diploma, no languages.” He winked at Mircea. “You can speak all the languages you want. All you need is a well-connected dad.” Mircea thought of his own background, and how a father was the one thing he lacked. No one ever told him who he was – his mother said he was in the Romanian army, but his grandmother hinted that he was some kind of Soviet, Georgian or Armenian. They probably didn’t know the truth. Mircea used the convenient fiction of his father being a Romanian soldier to get his passport. His grandmother had him almost convinced that he didn’t need a dad, but the more heirs in the family business he met, the more Mircea wished his mother hadn’t been so promiscuous. “I think it’s better to be a self-made man,” he told the driver. “A self-made man with a good leg up,” the kid corrected. “All you need is a head-start – look at us. You’re sleeping rough, and I’m my own boss!” Mircea lost patience. He was sick of this silly pup lording it over him – who could this gangly kid’s all-powerful papa be? He grabbed the scruff of the kid’s neck, careful to cause enough pressure to make the driver cry out, but not drive off the road. “Reality check: you’re a stupid kid with a minivan! Stop talking above your station!” The driver gasped, his mouth twisted wide in pain. “Get your hands off me!” “Stop talking nonsense and I will,” Mircea said. “You have no idea who I am…didn’t your English mother ever tell you appearances can be deceptive?” If this were Ukraine or Belarus, I’d have you kneecaps whacked off for being so cheeky! The kid slapped at Mircea’s arm. “Yeah, well, you have no idea who my dad is!” Mircea held firm. “Oh? Is he the prince of Wales?” “Anton Kirilenko!” Mircea let go of the kid. So, this was Piotr’s little half-brother. He tried to figure out how badly he had miscalculated. Probably Piotr wasn’t too fond of any brother by a different mother, but it was best not to antagonise him. The apology he was half-forming left a bitter taste in his mouth; he couldn’t grovel to a stupid teenager. The kid rubbed his neck. “I may be small potatoes now, but someday I’ll be your boss. You and dozens of Eastern European wannabes like you!” “Your father is Eastern European,” Mircea reminded him. “But he’s not a wannabe. He’s a Russian diplomat, with fingers in hundreds of different pies!” And hundreds of illegitimate buns in various servant ovens! Mircea thought. The driver gave Mircea a superior look, and waved a trembling finger at him. “You’d best show me some respect, my lad!” Mircea winced. “I’m in pain,” he said finally. “I’m not myself today.” He didn’t want to say the actual words, I’m sorry. “Yeah, well, keep your filthy hands to yourself.” The kid sat up in his seat, trying to raise his physical presence. Mircea bit his tongue, visions of enforcers beating the snot out of this little rapscallion dancing in his head. As if he were psychic and could see these visions, the kid flashed Mircea a warning look. They drove on in angry silence, and then the kid turned into a multi-storey car park. “We’re here,” the kid announced. Mircea felt apprehensive – was this a trap? Was he going to be beaten in a garage for disrespecting Anton Kirilenko’s kid? But the driver unhooked his seatbelt and got out of the minivan. “What are you waiting for?” he asked Mircea. “I’m supposed to escort you in and then drop you off at your hotel.” Relief flooded Mircea, and he fought to keep an impassive expression. He nearly jumped out of the passenger seat, but didn’t want to seem like an over-eager dog. He hadn’t miscalculated with his show of force – the driver was still a kid, after all. Mircea couldn’t see any physical resemblance to Piotr; apparently he had none of his insane aggression either. Piotr must have gotten that from his mother, Mircea mused, stifling a laugh. Silently, he followed the kid into the building. |