The night sky was dark. A thick cover of clouds obscured the stars and the moon had turned its back on the world. Beth was thankful. Her curtains were thin and any sort of light would have stung her eyes. She had a headache and lay still in her narrow single bed. Her temples throbbed every time she moved.
She had taken her time in returning home, wandering through central London for almost an hour. She had brushed the lives of thousands of people - lawyers, tapping out emails on their mobile devices; tourists, armed with their cameras; would-be artists, scratching some sort of a living by working in bars and restaurants but always hoping for their big break.
But eventually she had to return and she made her way to the bus stop. When she finally found it, she still hesitated, watching four different buses pass by until she eventually boarded one.
As a result, it was almost dusk when she finally faced the inevitable confrontation with her stepfather.
Kevin had not been happy to find out that Beth's plea had been rejected. She told him as much as she dared about her conversation with Dmitri Voronov, leaving out the particulars of his indecent proposition. Knowing him, he would have only been more furious if he found out she had turned him down.
Not that his fury had been blunted by what she had withheld. His anger had been on the verge of out of control, driven by his panic. But at least he had not beaten her black and blue.
Instead he had delivered only a single blow. Nevertheless, it had been forceful enough to knock her off her feet. When she had fallen, she had banged her head against a wall.
Beth had been on the receiving end of enough head injuries that she was fairly sure she didn't have concussion. The pain had since faded but it had yet to disappear entirely. She could not even shift around to get comfortable on her old lumpy mattress. Wriggling was more than enough to set the world tilting and turning around her.
Hopefully after a couple of painkillers and a good night's rest, the only lasting effect would be a slight bump and another bruise to add to her growing collection. If only that ringing would stop so that she could fall asleep.
"Ringing?" Beth frowned, murmuring to herself.
She hadn't imagined the sound. The doorbell was ringing. Slowly and carefully she sat up, wincing at the new wave of pain. Tilting the clock by her bedside so that she could read the display, she was even more confused. It was almost three in the morning.
"Who the bloody hell would that be?" she asked out loud.
Suddenly her blood chilled. She forgot her headache as it was replaced by a pang of fear. Would Dmitri send his men so soon?
"Beth!" Kevin roared from the other room. "Go and tell whoever that is to fuck off! They have already woken up your mother."
She had run out of both energy and courage. Without protest, she hauled herself out of bed. It was cold - heating was another luxury unless there was a genuine risk of hypothermia - so she pulled on a pair of slippers in the shape of lions and a threadbare dressing gown.
Uncertain as to what she might find at the front door, she scanned her room for some sort of weapon. Her old school hockey stick was propped against the wall in the corner. Picking it up, she grasped it tightly in both hands before making her way downstairs.
Whoever was outside was persistent. They were alternating between ringing the doorbell and knocking. By the time Beth reached the door, the noise was constant, which did little to help her headache.
Turning the door handle, she stood back from the gust of chilled night air, still holding the hockey stick. On the doorstep stood a man who reminded her far too much of a certain Russian. He was also impeccably dressed, his shirt collar and tie peeking out from above the buttons of his fine woollen overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat on his head. with the same cold, unrelenting features and imposing build. There was no doubt about it - he had to be associated with Mr Voronov.
"Dobryy vecher, Miss Noble," he inclined his head.
Beth blinked. "Pardon?"
"In my homeland, that is how we say good evening."
"Oh. That's... interesting," Beth said, more than a little taken aback.
She hadn't known what to expect when she opened the door. It could have been a bunch of thugs. Or it could have just been a local drunk, lost on his way back from the pub.
She certainly hadn't thought she'd come face to face with someone who appeared to be a complete gentlemen. Even if he was in some way connected with a less-than savoury character.
"My name is Ivan," again he inclined his head. "I apologise for disturbing you at such a late hour but Mr Voronov asked me to visit you on a matter of great urgency. He did not tell me you would be playing games."
At Beth's confusion, he glanced pointedly at her makeshift weapon, raising both of his hands in the air and stepping back. Taking the hint that he meant her no harm, with some hesitation, she put down the stick.
"In Victorian times, I have read, young women would greet strangers with a poker."
"I don't have a poker," Beth retorted sharply to hide her embarrassment at having been caught out.
"And for that, I am grateful"
His polite demeanour unsettled Beth. The way he was making polite conversation made her uncomfortable.
"Why did Mr Voronov send you?" she refused to be sidetracked from the fact a stranger had paid her a visit in the early hours of the night.
"He wanted to give you ample warning."
"Warning? It was cold but the temperature around Beth suddenly felt as if it had dropped even further.
"Da. Warning."
"Warning about what?"
"When I have left, some of his acquaintances will be paying you a visit."
"You mean he sent you to warn me that he will be sending more people?"
"Correct."
Beth frowned. If violence was about to ensue, then why would Mr Voronov want to warn her in advance?
"But why?" she vocalised what she had been thinking.
Ivan shrugged. "That is not my business. I work for Mr Voronov. I do not question him."
"And how does he know that I won't just call the police?"
"He doesn't. but he does know that you are not a stupid woman."
"I'm flattered," Beth muttered.
"And only a stupid woman would call the police when Mr Voronov is involved," Ivan continued as if he had not heard her.
Beth lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. "Maybe I am a stupid person. Maybe Mr Voronov does not really understand me. Does he even know that I never finished school?"
"Da. He researched you well. He also knows that after you dropped out of school, you continued to study and until recently were one of the most frequent visitors to the local library," he recited, as if he were reading from a file. Which he probably had done, before he had memorised it. "Your favourite books are by Evelyn Waugh and Iris Murdoch," he added.
Beth visibly recoiled. Her skin crawled. She had seen the file of information that Mr Voronov had collected. Nevertheless, thought of him knowing what she liked to read was even more indecent than the way he had examined her in his office. She had never felt quite so exposed. If he knew that sort of details about her, goodness know what else he had found out.
"How does he know all of this?" was all she could ask, even though there were hundreds of questions racing through her head.
"Again, that is not my business."
Beth's palm tingled. She wanted to reach for her hockey stick.
"Well, whatever your business is, you've warned me now," Beth said defensively, standing in the doorway to bar his entry. "So unless you want something else, go away so I can call the police."
"My business here was not to warn you." Ivan paused deliberately for emphasis, his tone infuriatingly calm, like a patient teacher explaining something to a wayward pupil. "Mr Voronov sent me with a message," he announced.
Beth eyed him with mistrust. "A message?"
As far as she knew, people usually preferred to deliver their own messages - unless they weren't the sort of messages that their recipients wanted to hear.
"Da. Mr Voronov would like you to know that his previous offer still stands."
