Resurrection. The Underwood and Flinch Chronicles: Volume One.

Chapter Three

3

 In a remote, rather shabby, country villa on the Spanish island of Ibiza, Anton Marashov was trying to relax and keep cool in the heat of the afternoon. There was no air conditioning in the villa so a free-standing fan was all Anton and his colleague, Ivan Trushko, had to circulate the air between them. Both men had packed inadequately for their brief stay. As a result, they both now sat in their underwear. Anton rolled the cold can of Cruzcampo beer over his forehead. ‘Shit, it’s hot. Give me Moscow winter any day.’

 Ivan took a large toke on the joint they were smoking and handed it to Anton. ‘You hate climate wherever you go; it’s always too hot or too cold. If we were in Moscow winter now you’d be saying exact opposite.’

‘I would not,’ Anton reached for the joint. As he did so, he noticed Ivan’s big hand pressing down on the armrest of the white sofa. ‘Ivan, you idiot! You’ve got blood on the sofa.’

 Ivan’s heavy brows knitted. ‘Where?’

 ‘There,’ Anton pointed to the armrest.

 Ivan saw the red stain. Then he looked at his hands; there was still blood all over his knuckles. He showed it to Anton. ‘Oops. It is the English. I forgot to wash hands.’

Anton groaned. He dropped the joint in the ashtray and stood up. ‘That’s because the sight of blood on your hands is so fucking normal you don’t see it anymore. You have to get into habit of washing in-between beatings.’ He dragged the coffee table aside, wincing as it screeched on the tiled floor. Ivan rubbed his bloody knuckles on his thighs and Anton slapped his shoulder. ‘Come on, don’t just sit there, we have to get it cleaned up before it stains.’

 Ivan waved Anton back to his chair. ‘Relax, you act like woman. Sergei doesn’t care about this place.’

 ‘Of course he cares about it. He owns it; it’s part of his investment. You don’t believe me, you can ask him yourself later. When he gets here, he’s going to want answers. If there are bloodstains on your answers, that’s okay. But bloodstains on his sofa? That’s bad.’

 Ivan grunted dismissively. ‘He didn’t even pay for it. That fat little German gave it to him.’

‘No. Sergei took it as debt payment because the German couldn’t pay what he owed.’

 ‘He was lucky Sergei didn’t kill him.’

 ‘Yeah, well maybe you won’t be so lucky if you get blood all over his sofa. Now get up.’

‘What for?’

‘So I can take the cover off, you fucking blockhead.’

 Ivan’s smile faded. ‘Don’t call me blockhead, Anton. It’s not nice to call people names. Names like Rat Boy, huh? You remember how regiment used to call you that in Chechnya?’ Ivan was a big man and a natural baritone, but Anton knew well the deeper note of menace in his voice; he had heard it often enough.

‘Okay, I’m sorry. I’m just worried – for you, that’s all.’

Ivan’s expression softened. ‘You are like my brother, Anton. You look out for me, no?’

‘Yeah, that’s right. Now, will you get up and go and wash your hands? I need to get this cover off. Hopefully the blood hasn’t soaked through to sofa underneath.’

Ivan got up. At six-foot-four he towered over Anton like a tree. He laughed and sauntered off in the direction of the kitchen. Anton pulled off the sofa cover and checked the arm rest. Thank God, the blood hadn’t penetrated. He gathered up the cover and looked at the stain. It wasn’t too bad. If he got some soap onto it and ran it under a cold tap, he should be able to get it out. If not, fuck it, they’d just have to go to Ikea and get a new cover. The German had liked Ikea; it was everywhere. The villa was like an Ikea show home. Anton took the joint from the ashtray and took a toke. He looked out into the kitchen to where Ivan now shook his wet hands into the sink.