a . . . children’s fund! In my will! You can’t have it!”
“Shut up,” the barefoot man said tiredly, stepping away from the piano, out the door, and into the hallway.
The girl stood with her back to the mirror, still deathly pale, still wearing the blood-spattered T-shirt. Her lips moved, but Aspirin could not understand the words.
“Yes,” the barefoot man said. “Here you go.”
Again he reached under his shirt and took out a small clear package. He gave it to the girl. A long pause hung in the air. Aspirin saw a set of strings through the plastic. He saw that the girl wanted the strings, but was for some reason afraid of approaching the man and taking the package out of his hand.
The barefoot man opened his hand. The package slowly (or so it seemed to Aspirin) floated onto the tiled floor.
“See you later, kid,” the barefoot man said. “Have fun crashing your dreams.”
He left, closing the door behind him; the temperature inside the apartment went up a few degrees.
Even if it hadn’t, Aspirin was sure he’d be sweating anyway.
“I had to wash everything,” Alyona said. “My T-shirt . . . and my pants. I hung them up to dry—do you mind?”
She stood in front of Aspirin, wrapped in a white towel, looking a lot younger than her real age.
“That’s fine,” Aspirin said with no particular interest. He sat on the floor sorting out his CDs. The stereo system waited patiently, its empty tongue at the ready.
“I can sleep in the chair, like last night,” Alyona mumbled.
“There is no need for that,” Aspirin said just as indifferently. “Go ahead, choose the best bed in the house. It’s all yours, no need to be shy.” He waved his hand around the room. “The apartment is yours. Well, rather, it belongs to your masters. You will probably be sent to your next assignment soon.”
“You didn’t understand anything at all,” Alyona whispered.
He looked at her. The girl wrapped the towel tighter around her body.
“I am a little hungry,” she said softly. “May I take some bread and butter? There is some in the kitchen, I bought it today.”
“Alyona.” Aspirin dropped the CDs and reached for the girl; he almost touched her shoulder, but at the last minute stopped himself. “Let’s play nice.”
“I’d like that,” she said and smiled, as if she had been waiting for those words.
“I am sorry I hit you,” Aspirin managed.
“No worries.” The girl nodded. “I understand. You were frightened.”
“Frightened?”
“You are scared all the time. But it’s understandable. It’s pretty terrible here. Even Mishutka can feel it—he seems so sad all the time. May I take a little honey for him?”
“You may,” Aspirin said neutrally. “Tell me something, Alyona . . . They must have really scared you. No wonder you’re practically shaking at the mere sight of that.”
“Please don’t talk about him,” Alyona asked softly. “Not now.”
“Then you are scared.”
“I am,” the girl admitted sadly.
“What sort of an organization do they have? A cult?” Aspirin asked with a great deal of caution. “Hypnosis, perhaps? Demon worshippers?”
Alyona curled up in an easy chair, covering her knees with a towel, looking like a little terry cloth snow pile.
“Are you afraid of demons?” she asked staring into Aspirin’s eyes.
“What is there to fear?” Aspirin giggled. “It’s people I am afraid of. Like your buddy there.”
“He’s not human.”
“Is he a demon?” Aspirin giggled again. “And you spoke with him in demon language?”
Silently, the girl studied her left hand with a hangnail on the index finger.
“Do you have manicure scissors?”
“In the bathroom,” Aspirin responded automatically. “Just admit it, you and he are in cahoots, aren’t you? You’ve played a nice trick on me, haven’t you? He wouldn’t have taken you anyway, right?”
The girl climbed off the chair and turned toward the bathroom, the end of the towel trailing after her.
“He would have taken me,” she said without looking at Aspirin. “You are a coward and a traitor—without a doubt. But you helped me once again.
“And that matters.”
The bathroom door locked behind her.
Tuesday
“And so, my darlings, Tuesday morning is a Tuesday morning, and it is always quite sad, because here we are facing a new working day, but there is a tiny little circumstance that should comfort both you and me—and the said circumstance is that it is not a Monday morning, hence we’re one baby step closer to our Holy Grail, also known as the weekend . . .”
This sort of rubbish came out of him naturally; he was quite capable of producing