It sometimes seemed as if the prize Mircea was aiming for was dangling in front of him, but constantly being yanked away. Ivan and Piotr wanted him to be expand their business into Cyprus by going into Belarus, but now they had a condition. Mircea had to help solve a problem in Ukraine first; some of the workers in their “businesses” were talking with foreign charity activists, and potentially the police.
Mircea didn’t understand this – they paid the local police off regularly to give them free reign. Vinnytsia was remote and uninteresting to most of those foreign busybodies who would come in and lend a sympathetic ear to local whingers. Besides, what human rights infractions were involved? No one was forcing those stupid girls to prostitute themselves. It was tit for tat – they came to be “discovered” and get out Vinnytsia – they knew that wasn’t free. It was the way of the world, and everyone understood. “Are the police trying to shake us down for more money?” Mircea asked. Piotr shook his head, but not in his usual dismissive way. “The police aren’t the problem,” he explained. “The Church is getting involved.” Mircea may have been baptised to appease his ageing grandmother, but he was a true communist at heart. He missed the days of his youth, where there was no Church interference in your business. He screwed up his face, thinking of the recent Catholic paedophilia scandals that were rocking the world. Probably some hypocrite in a collar was getting jealous that he was losing his fresh meat to Mircea and his colleagues. “I didn’t think the Church was interested in girls,” he jeered. “Of course they are,” Piotr countered. “Girls are mothers of future converts! And think about it – if there’s one thing the Church hates, it’s prostitutes.” Uncharacteristically, Ivan perked up at this. “What about that story of let he who is without sin cast the first stone?” Piotr clicked his tongue. “They love ex-prostitutes.,” he clarified. “They like to be the saviours of fallen women everywhere.” And therein lay the problem. Mircea had no time for theological debate. “Who’s going to the church?” he demanded. “We need to get a better grip on the girls.” “Obviously.” Piotr was glaring at Mircea from behind those sunglasses. Mircea was thinking fast, knowing how important solving this problem was to his future career. He thought about some Japanese samurai movie he had seen, where the teacher of martial arts stressed that his pupils were not to be afraid of the sword. The master of the arts feared the hand that swung the sword. They could beat the girls for going to the Church, but that would only make the sainted hypocrites seem more appealing in their outreach. To solve this problem, they had to go for the man wielding the sword. They had to take care of the Church. “We should pay the Church off,” he suggested. “Make generous donations to their building funds.” Ivan seemed a little cowed in confronting the Catholic Church in Vinnytsia. “You can’t buy the Church!” “You can buy anyone,” Mircea countered, and he was pleased to see Piotr’s smile. “The Church is no stranger to fiscal scandals. I remember hearing about them selling tickets to heaven not too long ago.” Piotr laughed huskily. “I like your way of thinking! Maybe we should offer these missionaries free trips to heaven with our girls.” “Get a picture of one of them with a whore,” Mircea said. “That way, we own them outright.” Ivan wasn’t grinning with them. “What if they don’t fall for the bait?” he asked. He really seemed to think these Holy Joes were saints. Mircea, however, was a firm believer in the perfidy of man. “We’ll offer them something else. Every man has his weakness.” Piotr was looking impressed. “You’re a cold-hearted bastard, aren’t you?” Mircea met his gaze. “Aren’t you?” Piotr was a little taken aback by Mircea standing his ground. His smile faltered, then recovered. “All right, then, go and talk to these meddlesome priests. Find out what they want, and what it will cost us. But make sure to drive a hard bargain.” As if Mircea needed telling. “At your service,” he said, in mock subservience. He could tell Piotr’s eyes were widening behind the sunglasses. Ivan was still in doubt. “Maybe we should get some indulgences off them, just to be sure.” He folded quickly under Mircea’s and Piotr’s stares, bursting out into laughter that rang out loud and false.
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Kate rang me at work with some good news. She asked me if I had seen the paper – an odd thing, considering she’s a teacher, and I work in PR. I had to admit I hadn’t (an even odder thing!) “The red light prayer is working,” she told me. “They’ve made the biggest bust in America!” I tried to press her for more details, but she had a class to teach. I went straight online after I hung up.
The FBI made the biggest bust in American history in sex trafficking, rescuing over 100 children. They were all girls, aged 13 to 17. I opened every linking article I could find to the story. Statistics showed girls were the most vulnerable group when it came to trafficking, especially runaways or those in foster care. The FBI said these girls were targeted because they had nowhere else to go – a third of children running away from home will typically be lured into prostitution within 48 hours. I put a hand to my mouth. I was beginning to pray to God to protect these children, but He already had. I switched to a prayer of thanks, but couldn’t get my mind off the news. I kept reading one article I’d found – the people victimising these girls were usually affiliated with organised crime. Most disturbing was their use of big national sporting events – the kind I help promote – to “ply their wares”. It seems people attending these events are the most likely to use prostitutes. They have the highest amount of disposable income, and see the sex trade as part of the entertainment of these big events. I felt an icy shiver go down my spine – how many people had used our charity sports galas to hire a prostitute? I sent an email to a reporter we do business with, asking him if he’d seen the news from America. I also asked him about the sports events connection – did he think that went on over here, too? His reply came ten minutes later: of course. He told me security was always on the lookout for call girls at the private functions, but that was lone girls looking for customers. If they came in as guests, there was nothing they could do. I wondered how many of them were children. The reporter didn’t rule that out as a possibility, but he figured the prostitutes would have identification to make them adults, at any rate. If they’re all legally adults, does that make it any better? He asked. I shuddered, and went back to my research. One of the articles I’d read described sex-trafficking as modern day slavery. A top officer in law enforcement had described it as a crime against basic humanity. If people felt so strongly, why was it still going on? What could we do, aside from prayer, to stop it? The bust stayed in my mind all day. My colleagues had heard of it, but hadn’t made the connection to what we do with the sports events. Some were outraged, thinking that anything they did tied into the sex trade, but some were dismissive. “What can we do?” one of the events managers asked. “We keep away the kerb-crawlers, but if a famous player has a high-class escort on his arm, we can’t stop him!” “We do PR,” I reminded her. “We can at least get the message out that this is wrong, and we don’t condone it.” “Like have a campaign against it,” Jimmy, a fellow account manager, backed me up. “Like that whole Responsible Sports theme we had two years ago. We were talking about drinking, but it could just as easily be about not using prostitutes!” “Like that campaign actors are doing in Hollywood,” I said. “We could get some big name players to say how it’s wrong to hire prostitutes!” “Let’s get some of those anti-trafficking charities in on this,” Jimmy suggested. “And the ones that fight for children’s rights. They’d be glad to help, and probably even know some athletes who would be only too glad to do this.” He went off to contact the charities, while I worked on the campaign, coming up with slogans, arranging appearances and photo calls. We’d have to bring in some companies as sponsors, as the charities only had so much to spend on advertising. Seeing as this was a hot topic, with the recent bust and all, food, and drink companies and retailers were only too glad to jump on the bandwagon. I was in the middle of brainstorming catchphrases for slogans when Cara called. “Niamh told me to tell you your Red Light Prayer is working,” she said. I nearly dropped the phone. Niamh said to tell me? I pulled myself together. “I told you prayer works,” I reminded Cara. She was still sceptical. “Well, now we’re seeing proof of that. But I think 100 children is just a drop in the ocean.” “It was over 100, and just think of those lives that have been saved,” I stressed. My jaw felt tight, and I concentrated on the things Kate said to her students to encourage them. “Every journey starts with a single step. When you feel like giving up, think of the goal you set, and why it’s worth it! In life-“ “Okay, okay!” Cara interrupted me. “I get it – every success, no matter how small, counts.” She sighed. “How’s Niamh?” I asked. Cara sounded confused. “She’s fine.” I think we both knew how meaningful it was that she thought of the Red Light Prayer and me. It wasn’t often I got to be a good example (meaning, it wasn’t often that I was effective!) “I’m glad she remembered me,” I said finally. “Tell her thanks.” Cara snorted. “It’s not like she’s going to go to bible studies with you or anything!” That jibe rankled, but I didn’t respond to it. I said goodbye to my sister and hung up. In my mind, an image was forming. An international football player’s face was smiling up from a photo. Prostitution is not my game was the caption beneath him. Mircea had never been in a Catholic church before. He had been confirmed at an Orthodox one at his grandmother’s insistence, a long time ago. There was just as much gold paint in the Catholic church, and almost as many pictures of saints. But the pews amazed Mircea – as a child, how often did he long for a place to sit while the priest had droned on in the Orthodox church? And there weren’t only pews – there was a cushioned bench to kneel on as well. Decadence, Mircea thought.
It was a Thursday, and the Church was open, even if mass wasn’t being held. There were a few people there, kneeling in front of altars and lighting candles. Mircea noted that each candle cost 50 kopeks – he had to admire the way the Church was turning a profit. You can get a candle at the store for less than that, but it isn’t in front of a saint! He itched to think of a way he could make money off everyday objects at the club. A few people were waiting to go into the confessional, and Mircea considered joining the queue. But he wasn’t here to see the priest; he wanted to see the missionary Piotr claimed was filling the girls’ heads with nonsense. After all, I’m promising them a better life, too! He was pretty sure the missionaries didn’t take confession, but he didn’t see anyone else around. An old lady was giving him the eye, reminding Mircea of how his grandmother used to watch him. She was always convinced he was up to no good, and most of the time, she was right. Mircea decided to turn on the charm with the old girl, and gave her a bright smile. She clutched her purse close to her as he approached. “Hey, don’t be afraid,” Mircea said to her, taking her arm. “This is a church, after all!” She wrenched her arm free, so Mircea held out a 50 kopek coin to her. “Say a prayer, if you’re so worried,” he told her. She took the coin, her eyes never leaving Mircea. He reached into his pocket and got another 50 kopek coin, which he dutifully dropped into the candle box. “I hear there are foreign missionaries at this Church,” he chattered, striking a match to light a candle. “Do you know where they are?” The old woman glanced at the candle he had lit. “Michael’s in the side chapel,” she told him, still clutching her purse. Mircea noticed the coin he gave her was still in her hand. He took it from her, and dropped it into the box. He lit a candle for her with a fresh match. Michael. She said it the German way. “What’s Michael doing in the side chapel?” he asked. “He is with the volunteers, sorting out the clothes and toys they have collected for the mission drive.” She edged around Mircea, getting on one bent knees to say a prayer in front of the candle he lit for her. Mircea scoffed. “They are collecting things from here to send to some even poorer place?” The old woman glanced at him, not moving her head from facing the statue. “It’s for the poor here,” she hissed. “So who makes the donations?” Mircea asked. He noticed the few people in the church were looking over at them, so he lowered his voice. “I mean, times are tough! Who here has the funds to give to the poor?” I must be in the wrong business! The old lady turned her head to glare at Mircea. “Michael arranges things with some local factories.” So that’s how he gets to talk to my stupid employees-! Mircea sure hoped no one skimmed from his till at the laundry or café to give to this holy conman. He gripped the old lady’s shoulder in a gesture he hoped was kindly, but from the way she flinched, obviously was not. He smiled as he turned and left. The side chapel-? It was as it should be – the side chapel was at the side of the Church, a small alcove off the main building. It was a much simpler room – less gold paint, fewer icons and statues, except for a big one of the bleeding Christ. A small group of people were gathered there, going through items from several boxes. Everyone stopped and stared as Mircea entered the room. “Michael?” Mircea asked. He didn’t intend it, but it came out Russian – Mikhail. He was a stocky man, younger than Mircea had expected. He looked at Mircea wearily. “I’m Michael.” One of the women with him looked nervous – he reached out a calming hand to her. Michael looked expectantly at Mircea, waiting. “What can I help you with?” Mircea hadn’t expected his Russian to be that good. Most of the foreigners in Ukraine didn’t bother, expecting everyone to speak English, and growing exasperated when they couldn’t. This guy is good. “You’re collecting for the mission?” “Do you want to make a donation?” Michael was worthy as an opponent. Mircea smiled, thinking this was easier than he had expected. A donation. That’s the Germans for you – upfront, tell you what they want. Aware of the other people in the room –witnesses- Mircea turned on the charm. “Your Russian is awfully good.” “So’s yours.” Mircea’s smile vanished. Michael continued, “My mother was Russian, from eastern Ukraine.” A do-gooder with a local connection! Mircea emitted a laugh. “Ah. You don’t look German.” It wasn’t true – Michael may not have been blond, but he looked very Teutonic somehow. It was probably the rude health that emanated from him – he looked like he could hike up the Alps in Lederhosen without breaking a sweat. “You’re Moldovan?” Michael nodded at Mircea’s suit. Mircea felt at a loss – it was the first time someone identified him correctly on the first guess. “Romanian, actually,” Mircea lied, thinking of the passport he preferred travelling under. Michael didn’t look impressed. “So you want to make a donation?” Mircea paused. This is one tough customer! “Perhaps we could talk about how I can help your mission.” He had to get him away from the church, away from the prying eyes of the volunteers, to get down to the business of finding out how much it would cost to get the Church’s nose out of his business. Michael stood firm, shaking his head. “If you are who I think you are, a donation is not the best way you can help the people here.” Mircea couldn’t help it – his mouth fell open. A few of the people with Michael looked terrified – a middle-aged man put a protective hand on Michael’s shoulder, which he patted reassuringly. He continued to stare Mircea down, waiting for the next move. “If I am who you think I am?” Mircea parroted, not sure what Michael meant. Michael sighed. “You know. I don’t want your money. I have a good idea of where it comes from, and I want no part of that.” Mircea didn’t like the way this foreigner was talking to him. Who did this half-Russian do-gooder think he was? “You don’t want money?” he scoffed, folding his arms in incredulity. Michael gave him a wry half-smile. “If I take your money, you’ll think you own me. You don’t own anyone.” Those words were unwelcome to the point of being infuriating. Mircea was seeing red, and his jaw suddenly spasmed. He grabbed the side of his head, nearly staggering from the pain. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he roared, and the group of people around Michael closed in tighter in fear, whimpering. “I’m a servant of the Church,” Michael answered, his voice calm and steady, and somehow louder than Mircea’s. “Who are you a servant of?” Mircea was gripping his jaw with both hands. His head felt like it was splitting. He dropped to his knees, something which made the people in the chapel gasp. Mircea’s jaw throbbed, and tears were welling up in his eyes. The people around Michael were murmuring excitedly, and he was shushing them. “I think you should go to the hospital, if you’re in pain,” Michael called to him. “Whatever you do, I think you should leave here.” Mircea started to hyperventilate. What sort of unearthly powers did this man possess? What was he doing to him? How dare he do anything to him! “I’m going to-“ Mircea tried to shout, but his words were garbled, and his mouth was not cooperating with him. The tears were streaming down his face, and all he could do was moan. Michael put his arms around the terrified parishioners. “Go,” he ordered Mircea. Embarrassingly, all Mircea could do was crawl. He meant to tell this Michael that he would be back, but no words could form in his aching mouth. Painfully, he managed to make it back into the main part of the church. The old lady he had been speaking to earlier screamed at the sight of him, crying and crawling. The priest came out of the confessional at the sound, and ran over to Mircea. “What’s wrong with you, my son?” he asked, helping Mircea to his feet. “Hospital,”, Mircea managed to croak before losing consciousness. There were minor ramifications at work, having started a campaign that no client had requested. As we didn’t have a client, we weren’t technically being paid for Athletes Against Exploitation. But as we’re in PR, the fact that we’re pioneering it (and will be forever associated with it!), it’s great publicity for the firm. I found myself having a quick meeting with my boss at my side with the owner of the company, Eileen McGrath-Roth, in the coffee kitchen.
“Who came up with the name?” Eileen asked as an opener. She has a reputation of being quick tempered and impatient, but she seemed genuinely interested. “I did,” Sheila, my boss, supplied. “But Lisa here came up with the whole idea.” Sheila thumped my back heartily, a laddish gesture that made me want to cough. Eileen raised an eyebrow at the thump, and then turned a dazzling smile on me. “Are you a do-gooder, Lisa?” she asked. She had lipstick on her top teeth, which looked a little like fresh blood. She had a reputation as a shark, and red marks on her teeth completed the picture of her as a predator. My reputation as a Christian had preceded me. “She is,” Sheila put in. “Lisa has this thing with her church…what is it called? The stop-light action?” “The red light prayer,” I clarified nervously. “It’s a prayer you say at every red light, asking God to stop the sex industry.” Eileen’s smile broadened. “But this is a campaign…the prayer wasn’t enough?” she asked. Her lower lip dropped a bit, so I could see she also had lipstick on her bottom teeth. She looked like she had just finished a feeding frenzy, but was ready for more. I swallowed. “Of course it is. It’s what moved me to start Athletes Against Exploitation.” I glanced at Sheila. Eileen stopped grinning and nodded. “God uses PR, just like everyone else.” Eileen focused her laser-like gaze on me and looked at me questioningly. “That doesn’t offend you, does it?” There was an ominous silence pause as Eileen waited for me to answer, and I could hear Sheila shifting from foot to foot. I asked God for strength, and held Eileen’s gaze. “No,” I told her. “I’m not offended - it’s true. “ I kept telling myself that when I thought some of the things I did for work were frivolous. Eoghan, my pastor, kept reminding us that God uses everything for His glory. I could hear Sheila breathe a sigh of relief. “God moves in mysterious ways!” she laughed. That certainly was true, even if it sounded glib. Eileen didn’t raise a smile at this, and Sheila’s mirth promptly vanished. After a tiny pause, Eileen straightened her jacket, and smoothed non-existent wrinkles from her sleeve. “Well, it’s good work,” she declared, giving me a small reflection of her famous shark smile. “Let’s just see if we can get a client behind this!” Eileen McGrath-Roth was ever the businesswoman. She excused herself, and looked meaningfully at the clock on the wall. Taking the hint, Sheila and I scurried back to our desks. “Well, that’s the official stamp of approval,” Sheila said. “Let me find a client who will back this up.” I was a bit numb after our meeting with the owner, so I didn’t say anything. Have I done enough? I asked God. Should I have said more? “It’s not like you to take initiative like that, and start campaigns,” Sheila said to me. She has this thing about emulating Eileen, but she’ll never come close to being a scary go-getter like her. She can’t stop conversation with a look, or command everyone’s attention in a heartbeat. “You said I should take more chances,” I reminded her, something I do a lot. Sheila tends to forget what advice she gives you, making you have to explain why you’ve done something she’s recommended. Caught off guard, she smiled robotically. “I did, didn’t I?” She’d clearly forgotten. I nodded. “Well, it’s good. It’s raising your profile here.” The way Sheila’s voice was quivering made me wonder if she saw me as threat now. I threw her a bone. “Hey, you’re the one who came up with the brilliant campaign name.” Sheila genuinely smiled now, clearly pleased. “I have some calls to make,” she said. “Let’s find a client before today is over!” She hurried off to her office. As soon as she was gone, Jimmy, the colleague who had helped me rope in the charities, swooped over my desk. “How’d it go with the big boss lady?” he asked expectantly. “I lived to tell the tale,” I reported. “She’s on board.” He gave me a high five. “Way to go! What’s next?” “Sheila’s finding a client who will pay for this. I’m just happy the message is getting out.” Jimmy sat on the corner of my desk, nodding. “I had no idea how prevalent the sex industry is,” he admitted. “I mean, I knew it’s there. I’m not naïve. My brother works in sales with a major software company, who do a lot of business abroad. When his company was hosting a fair for all the subsidiaries in Europe and the Middle East, one of the executives from the Dubai office asked him where he could find a woman for the night.” Jimmy’s normally bright features darkened. “My brother had some phone numbers…” Wow. This was more direct than Tommy’s clients going to a lap dancing club. “Phone numbers?” I echoed. Jimmy sighed. “I asked him for a number…I thought I’d give it to one of the women’s charities, but my slick brother is too smart for that one. He says the less I know, the better.” Jimmy gave me a sad smile. “I wonder what he’d make of our campaign.” I thought of Tommy’s colleague. You can’t outlaw sex! “He’d probably laugh at it.” “You can’t laugh at the arrests they made in America,” Jimmy offered. “I looked into it…some of the prostitutes were girls. I don’t care how sophisticated and liberal you are, that’s paedophilia. Something I thought we knew only too much about in this country.” I was only too aware of what a bad name the Catholic Church had nowadays. I thought about the word, paedophilia. Literally translated, it meant a love of children. Most dictionaries will label it a perversion. I would define it as a crime. “If all the prostitutes were of age, would it make it less of a crime?” I asked, repeating what my contact, the reporter, had asked me. Jimmy shook his head. I was thinking about something I had read online from an anti-sex trafficking charity. “Do you think there’s a difference between a prostitute, and a person who’s been trafficked?” I asked Jimmy. “Aren’t they the same?” It was my turn to shake my head. “One is a person who may have been kidnapped or led away under false pretences, whereas the other one willingly entered into the sex trade, for whatever reason.” Jimmy caught on. “Oh, so one is a victim, and the other made bad choices, so she’s partly responsible?” He folded his arms across his thin chest. “No. I don’t think anyone goes into prostitution really willingly. It’s a last resort, at best. They’re being exploited – someone is taking advantage of their weakness.” I admire Jimmy. In some ways, he’s what you would expect of a PR executive; brash, talkative and flamboyant, but in other ways he’s really remarkable. The way he helped me on this campaign, for instance. How insightful he is in other ways. “I have to admit, I used to look at it that way. That prostitutes were bad girls who went looking for trouble,” I told him. He raised an eyebrow at me, so I explained. “Here I am, doing my best to be a good girl. I know nobody would believe me, but I’m tempted…I have needs, like anybody else…and these women are selling their bodies, getting paid for sex.” “You think they enjoy it?” Jimmy asked. “No. Especially when I read about how they don’t see the money they earn. How I think of the customers they must have to deal with.” I shuddered. “It’s not all lonely good-looking businessmen like the movies would have you believe!” Jimmy smiled, then leaned in, lowering his voice. “Have you ever met a prostitute?” he asked. I shook my head. “They’re not happy people. They’re not proud of what they do; they’re trapped.” I wondered how Jimmy knew prostitutes. “In Scandinavia, prostitution isn’t illegal, but buying sex is,” I told him. Jimmy leaned back, and nodded. “I like that. Make the people who perpetuate the system the criminal.” He got off my desk. “Better go earn some money,” he said. He paused. “I mean, in a legitimate, honourable way!” “They say people who work in PR are like prostitutes,” I reminded him. Jimmy gave me his sparkling smile. “Well, then, let’s move to Stockholm, where our clients will be the criminals, not us!” I laughed dutifully, and watched Jimmy go back to his desk. Please, Lord, help us find a client who will finance this campaign! Mircea was having a headache so strong not even the massive painkillers he was on could dull it. The humiliation of waking up in a hospital bed, that unctuous priest at his side! That embarrassing diagnosis – arthritis of the jawbone. He would have preferred a venereal disease. There was fun in getting an STI. Old women got arthritis. Probably that old crone back at the church had it, from kneeling in front of statues all day.
Worse was Piotr and Ivan finding out. Mircea made a point of not contacting them. He managed to get the priest to go away, after having accepted some rosary beads first. He called the bar manager to come and get him, and he sent Oleg, the waiter. Mircea could tell from the minute he saw Oleg that that idiot of a bar manager had let word slip, and everyone knew of Mircea’s affliction. Unsurprisingly, Mircea’s two bosses were waiting for him at his apartment above the bar. “The hospital, Mircea?” Piotr asked, once the door was closed behind Oleg. “What the hell happened?” “I have a problem with my jaw,” Mircea mumbled, cringing. “I repeat, the hospital, Mircea? Did someone hit you?” Mircea could see the Belarus proposition fading away rapidly. He felt faint. No, no, no! This is my chance…! “No one in the church would hit you,” Ivan said. “What happened?” “No one hit me,” Mircea told them wearily. “I have a problem with my jaw…” “Do you have a note from your mummy?” Piotr taunted. Mircea’s forehead grew damp with perspiration. He didn’t know how he was going to get out of this. Ivan suddenly gasped. “They did this,” he whispered ominously. This threw everyone off guard; even Piotr snapped his head round to look at Ivan. Before he could ask the question, Ivan was jabbing his finger into the air. “The Church…they have special powers. They did this…whatever it is …to Mircea.” As frightened by the experience as Mircea was, he glared at Ivan. “They did not!” he hissed. He thought of Michael, standing calmly but powerfully, telling him to go. He shook his head, trying to clear the image, but it only made him see stars from the pain. “See! They’re doing it again!” Ivan cried, and Piotr slapped the back of his head. “Shut up, they’re not doing anything!” He turned to Mircea. “You, pull yourself together. What kind of a business is this we’re running here? Ivan believes in holy spooks and you’re having a hysterical pregnancy or something. You’re making us look bad!” “I know!” Mircea said through the agony. He put a hand to his head, and felt how hot his skin was. He was burning up with the pain, but he fought to stay steady on his feet. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but it’s not the Church.” He shot Ivan a look. “It’s not going to slow me down. I’ll handle it.” “You can barely stand,” Piotr pointed out. “You’re wet with fever…” “I’ll take antibiotics!” “You need to go back to the Church and make them stop,” Ivan whispered. He stepped away, out of Piotr’s reach. “Go to another Church. Ask them to cure you.” Exasperated, Piotr turned and savagely punched Ivan in the throat. “Would you shut up with the superstitious nonsense?! What the hell kind of show am I running here?” Ivan clutched his neck, making gagging noises. Piotr kicked him, knowing it is best to strike while the person is weakened. Piotr turned back to Mircea, pushing Ivan down to his knees with one hand. “Look at the two of you! This is not the way to do things!” He reached into his waistband and pulled out his gun, cocking it. Ivan whimpered hoarsely, and Mircea swayed on weak legs. “He had an idea,” Mircea said, looking at Ivan. Piotr turned the gun on Mircea. “Don’t you start-!” Mircea held up his hands. “I’m not turning stupid, but pitting the churches against each other is not a bad idea.” Gently, he touched his jaw, experimentally opening his mouth wide. He heard a slight click, but it did not hurt. “I’ll go to the Orthodox one…I was baptised into it. See if I can make a deal, saying the Catholics pulled some black magic voodoo on me.” He loosened his tie to unbutton his shirt. It was so hot. “If the fools in this town are anything like Ivan, they’ll believe the Catholics out a hex on me. I’ll make them turn away from the Church!” “I’m not a fool!” Ivan protested. Piotr turned the gun in his hand and smacked him with the butt of it. Mircea winced, both at the blow and the realisation that Piotr hadn’t uncocked it. Turning back to Mircea, Piotr burst into wild cackles of laughter. “You are one sick bastard,” he said to Mircea appreciatively. Ivan moaned, and struggled to get to his feet. “It’s not right,” he mumbled. “I don’t care what you say!” he shouted preemptorily at Piotr. “Look at what they’ve done to you,” he pleaded with Mircea. “It is a physical ailment,” Mircea said, having troubled with the word ailment. “The Church didn’t do this, but if those stupid girls believe they did, this is great for us.” “How are you going to get better?” Ivan asked. At the hospital, they mentioned wiring his jaw. The thought alone made Mircea tremble. “I’ll have this seen to in England,” he said. “I don’t trust the incompetents here. Their painkillers don’t work, for a start.” Piotr felt in his pockets for pills. He tossed a small phial to Mircea, who stumbled to catch it. “Take some of these, and go straight to bed,” Piotr advised. “But don’t get too better. The way you look so wrecked now is really convincing.” Mircea tried to smile, but his mouth hurt too much. “Maybe I should go down to the bar, let a few more of our employees see me,” he suggested. Piotr grinned, but behind him, Ivan started shaking his head. “What if going to the Orthodox only makes it worse?” Ivan asked in a whining voice. “If one church can do this to you, imagine how-“ Ivan was interrupted by Piotr shooting him in the leg. Mircea forgot all about his own agony as he watched Ivan slump to the floor. He stared in dumbstruck awe as Piotr grabbed the collar of Ivan’s sweatshirt. “If we weren’t friends, you’d be dead,” Piotr spat. “I’d be putting you out of your gullible misery! Did you not hear what we are telling you? The Church did not do this! The Church did not just shoot you…is that clear?” “I’ll tell Vladimir you shot me,” Ivan moaned. Vladimir was their boss, in Odessa. Piotr tightened his grip on Ivan’s collar. “I’ll tell Vladimir how you started yelping like a peasant, believing the church can perform magic!” Piotr shook Ivan. “What will Vladimir think of you then?” “You didn’t have to shoot me,” Ivan said in a low voice, and silently, Mircea agreed with him. “It was an accident,” Piotr said dismissively. “I had to do it. A slap didn’t shut you up.” He let go of Ivan’s collar and ripped a sleeve off his sweatshirt. Putting the gun back in his waistband, he bent down and tied the sleeve around Ivan’s leg, like a tourniquet. “We’ll have to take you to another hospital. There’s one outside of town, where the drunken head surgeon owes me some favours. He’ll get that bullet out.” Ivan whimpered at the thought. Piotr grasped Ivan by the armpits and hoisted him to his feet. “Let’s go,” he said to Mircea, starting to drag Ivan out of the apartment. “We’ll get Ivan patched up, but won’t tell the stupid bumpkins he was shot. Let them think the Church pulled some sorcery on both of you…that will scare them away!” None of it was going according to his plan, but Mircea didn’t protest. That could have just as easily been me getting shot, only it wouldn’t have been in the leg… |