He wouldn't have died if the words of his father hadn't entered his head. "You can't be looking in all directions at once, so always be looking in the direction the danger's coming from," his father had said. It had terrified him. How did you know from which direction the danger was coming? Of course, his father had meant it metaphorically, but a six year old boy does not understand the subtle complexities of adult communication, and for weeks after being told these words of wisdom the young Nikolai Kryvenko had gone everywhere in a panic, his head twisting this way and that, trying to do what his father had told him was impossible - be looking in all directions at once - just in case there was danger coming.
Now, as an adult, Nikolai understood what his father had meant, and even saw some wisdom in the words, but he had never quite managed to rid himself completely of the childhood fear that phrase had engendered. In fact, every time he felt anxious, uneasy or threatened those words would flash in his head like a neon sign only serving to heighten any misgivings he might have - as was the case now.
It was late, it was dark, and the car had chosen to break down in one of the worst parts of Kyiv. There was noise, there was drunkenness, and to top it all he'd left his mobile at home. Nikolai had felt nervous as soon as the engine died, and the nervousness had grown when it had failed to restart. Now, as he walked down the badly lit prospect, holding the hand of his five year-old son, Dmytro, dodging the drunks and the gangs of youths, nervousness had escalated to anxiousness. And then the words of his father had popped into his head.
Svetlana Pamprova took a step forward and looked down at her feet, though they were a blur through her tears. Whore! That's what her mother had called her. Svetlana hadn't wanted her mother to know, had tried to hide it from her, but somehow she'd found out and her rage had reached a new level of fury.
Whore! That's what Mikhail had called her when Svetlana had told him. She had been scared to do so, ashamed, but she'd had to tell someone, to share the burden, and he held half the responsibility, did he not? He was the one who'd so cruelly rejected her when she'd first told him she was pregnant. "Who is the father?" he'd sneered: such an unfair comment to make. He knew he'd been her only lover. It had hurt so much she'd run from him in tears, and then he wouldn't take her calls or reply to her SMSs.
Svetlana raised her eyes skyward, the light but incessant rain blending with her tears. "What could I have done?" she implored. There was no answer. Svetlana had long ago given up expecting answers from that direction. That was where her mother got her answers, and what answers - self-righteous, judgmental, cold. Still, Svetlana threw her head back and roared at the night sky: "What else could I have done?"
He wouldn't have died if Nikolai hadn't crossed the road to avoid the drunks crowding obstreperously around a kiosk. He did it because he thought he was looking in the direction from which the danger would come. As he crossed the road, Dmytro in tow, his eyes darted left and right, making sure 'the direction' wasn't traffic. "And that's what's absurd about your ridiculous words," he thought. Danger can come in many guises from any direction. It was impossible to be always looking the right way. Of course, that was not what his father had meant. He had not been referring to physical danger. "Son," he had said when eventually noticing the anxiety his words had caused, "in life, in love, in business, it is important to know where the danger lies, and to always keep a part of one eye focused on it." But it was too late, the damage had been done.
"And you would have been better trying to keep an eye on physical danger yourself rather than your 'life, love and business' nonsense, then you might have seen danger coming," Nikolai thought. He'd loved his father and mourned his passing more than some thought healthy, but the irony of his death was not lost on Nikolai.
He couldn't contain a wry smile every time he thought of how his father had died while on a business trip to the UK.
He'd known the traffic there traveled on the other side of the road and that one should first look right rather than left when crossing a busy street. Unfortunately, this fact had temporarily eluded him when he'd stepped into the path of a double-decker bus, looking in exactly the opposite direction of that from which danger was coming.
Nikolai allowed himself the wry smile once again. "You silly old fool," he thought.
Svetlana took a step forward and looked down at her feet. She could see them less clearly now that the rain had fallen in her eyes and her tears flowed faster. "What else could I have done?" The words had ran through her head so many times in the last few days, and she'd tried to convince herself that there had been no other course of action, but she'd failed. There had been other options open to her, with or without her mother or Mikhail. She could have done it alone. But she hadn't. She had gone to the doctor, lain on his table, her legs up in stirrups, and had her baby sucked out of her. She had been scared certainly, but she had also wanted revenge. She'd phoned Mikhail and told him. "It's gone," she'd spat. "No need for you to worry now."
"I wasn't worried," he'd replied coldly, and hung up the phone. She'd tried calling him back, but he hadn't answered. And the phone had remained unanswered. Tonight she had gone to Mikhail's apartment, to try one last time. But he had looked at her with disdain, called her a whore and slammed the door in her face.
He wouldn't have died if Nikolai hadn't been spooked by a noise coming from an alley as they passed. He moved out from the buildings towards the road, looking over his shoulder. Then he remembered how in every lousy slasher movie he'd ever seen a victim was always attacked from the front while looking over his shoulder. His head spun round.
His mood had lightened a little. You can't always be looking in the direction from which the danger will come. His father had proved that, and his reminiscences had sparked another memory in his mind.
His father had taken him once on one of his business trips to England, and the supplier he was visiting had laid on a parachute jump for him. Nikolai had got to go along too. During the training the instructor had told them they would be landing in a field that the local farmer kindly allowed them to use. "He often grazes his cattle in the field, as he is doing today," the instructor had informed them. "So if you find yourself coming down on a cow, there is no point in shouting at it. Cows don't look up, they have no conception of up. Just give it a good kick when you're in range and it will get out of the way quick."
Nikolai's father had found this terribly droll and quickly adopted it as another one of his sayings. "Remember Nikolai, cows don't look up," he would say. "And neither do a lot of people. Always try and see the complete picture."
Svetlana took another step forward, eyes still firmly fixed on her feet. Guilt raged inside her. How could she have done what she'd done? She tried to hide from it, but the truth was there - she'd aborted a life for revenge. Putting her hands on her stomach she rubbed the place where the baby should have been. Whore! That's what they said she was. She summoned all her guilt and rage inside her, ripped open her blouse exposing her bare breasts to the cold air, and lifted her skirt up round her waist. Whore is what they said she was, and whore is what they would get. Svetlana looked straight ahead and took one more step, off the roof of the six-story apartment building.
He wouldn't have died if Nikolai hadn't been spooked by a car roaring past far too close to them, and hadn't repositioned himself halfway between the buildings and the road. He looked down at Dmytro and said, "I won't fill your head with such nonsense," unaware that he would never get the chance. Suddenly the tiny hand he was holding was ripped from his. He stared down in disbelief. A whore had fallen out of the sky and landed on his son. All he could see was a little foot sticking out from under her, her naked breasts and thighs shining with the rain. She was quite obviously dead. "Whore!" he yelled, and kicked her off Dmytro. He bent down and cradled the boy to him. He too was quite obviously dead, his head hanging like a rag doll's with all the stuffing in the neck displaced.
He held the lifeless body in his arms and roared in anguish and grief. The words of his father's two idiotic sayings danced before his eyes, and he didn't know whether he should have listened more - or less.
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