Page 65 of The Half Life of Valery K

He put his forearms on the window and rested his head against them, soaking up the sound of the traffic. It was two in the morning, but half of Moscow seemed to be on its way somewhere. Hopefully it would keep up all night. Then things wouldn’t get too quiet.

Shenkov folded down on the windowsill just next to him to see out too. Valery tried to remember how he looked here in the electric glow from outside, shirtsleeves turned back, collar open. When his grey eyes came up, tinged violet from the lights of the sign of the hotel opposite, they were full of warmth. ‘Everything all right?’ Shenkov asked.

‘Fine?’

‘You look sad.’

‘I’m not going to let you have that much alcohol ever again. All this taking an interest is disturbing.’

Shenkov only smiled. ‘I take an interest all the time, but usually I have the good judgement to keep it to myself.’

Valery kicked his ankle gently. ‘Fuck off, go to bed.’

Shenkov ignored him. ‘Are you married?’

‘I was,’ Valery said to the traffic. ‘Before prison. Why?’

‘You must want to get back to her.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Those girls at the bar were flirting with you like there was no tomorrow, but you ignored it.’

‘Those people were being polite because I was the human shield between them and the rapist-looking nutters in the window. Not everyone looks like you. Some of us are creepy little abacus people.’

‘Stop fishing for compliments.’

He tried to laugh, but then it died. ‘Do you mind if we don’t talk about this? Svetlana and I got married so that she could – well, it wasn’t like you and Anna. I’m not for any of that. I’ve never been. Obviously.’

‘What do you mean, obviously? Have you looked in a mirror?’

‘Don’t make fun of me, please.’

Shenkov frowned. ‘I’m not.’

‘If I look sad it’s because this is the happiest I’ve been for years, and you did that, but you aren’t even one tenth mine and you never will be,’ Valery snapped. It shocked him, how desperate he was for it to stop, like he would have been if Shenkov had been holding his hand into a fire. ‘In five minutes you’ll be back with your family, and one day you’ll be transferred away, and you won’t remember my name, because I’m no one, and that’s how it should be, that’s how healthy minds think. But I’ll just – stop, and you’ll always be important. But that’s rancid, and so when you’re gone, and I think about all this, they won’t be good memories; it will just be shameful. I try not to jab sticks in your sore places, Shenkov, so if you’d maybe return the favour.’ He had to press his hand over his eyes.

Shenkov touched his wrist and guided it away from his face with one hand, and held his neck with the other. He didn’t kiss him, just came an inch more than halfway, then shied back to half. Valery froze hopelessly. It wasn’t real. Just alcohol.

Twenty years ago he would have said so. He might even have been angry. But he was too tired to say it now, and had been too tired for years. Being wanted for an hour, even when it was just a mirage of vodka fumes, was a lot better than not at all. At twenty-six, he hadn’t understood what not at all meant.

He expected to be shoved against the wall. Cheap violence was how these things went and it was always awful as much as it was reassuring. Every nerve in him was braced for it, wound too tight, but it didn’t happen. Shenkov stayed sitting, and only interlaced their hands.

When he woke, it was early, and he had a second of total confusion during which he couldn’t remember where he was or why, and the horrible thought occurred that the Lighthouse and freedom and all of it were nothing but the rags of fever dream. It came back quickly, though, with the sound of the traffic on the road below. The room was dark, the blackout curtains shut, but there was just enough light where they didn’t quite meet to show that it was morning. Moscow; the hotel. Right. He felt himself go slack with relief and then realised someone else’s arm was across him. Fitted close to him still, Shenkov was warm against his back.

He stared for a long time at the lamp. There was just enough light to sheen on the steel base. If he could get up now, there was every chance Shenkov had drunk enough yesterday not to remember anything at all, or at least, to remember so hazily that he would never have the confidence to mention it.

And if not; if not, if Shenkov was ashamed enough and humiliated enough, they were never going to talk again.

He knew dimly that there existed people who didn’t care one way or another, but he had never met any and he was pretty sure that most of them had been shot by now.

Despite all that, his whole body ached with relief to wake up like this, close to someone else. Too late, he realised his eyes stung; when he blinked, tears tapped against the pillow, and his lashes scratched. The sound seemed immense in the silence. He swallowed hard, painfully aware that his ribs would jolt if his breath caught too badly, and eased Shenkov’s arm away, raging at himself.

The phone rang.

Twenty to eight wake-up call.

It made both of them jump. Valery snatched the receiver and dropped it again, fast. He sat with his hand still on it. Shenkov was upright too, just a shadow and a few silver traces in the line of daylight from the curtains. Valery wanted to say something and couldn’t. Shenkov didn’t either. He must have been cold in the night, because he had a jumper on now, and he was pulling the sleeves over his hands as though he would have liked never to touch anything ever again.