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Violet

SJI Holliday
Chapters (50)
  1. Cover
  2. VIOLET
  3. VIOLET
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraph
  6. Contents
  7. Prologue
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. Epilogue
  48. Acknowledgements
  49. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  50. Copyright

Cover

cover

VIOLET

S.J.I. HOLLIDAY

VIOLET

Dedication

To JLOH – my favourite travelling companion.

Epigraph

‘If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything’

—Mark Twain

Contents

  1. Title Page
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. Prologue
  5. Beijing: 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. Beijing – Ulaanbaatar: 5
  10. Ulaanbaatar: 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. Ulaanbaatar – Irkutsk: 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. Irkutsk: 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. Irkutsk – Moscow: 28
  33. Moscow: 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. Moscow – Berlin (flight): 33
  38. Berlin: 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. Epilogue
  45. Acknowledgements
  46. About the Author
  47. Copyright

Prologue

The body lies broken on the dusty, potholed track. The sky is a fading bruise of purple and grey, the alleyway illuminated by the faint lemony glow from one of the low-level windows at the back of the hotel. Parched, weedy-looking shrubs; gritty, dirty soil, and the ever-present hum of a generator somewhere close by mingles with the tinny sound of a radio from one of the rooms higher up. A mangy dog appears, its unclipped toenails scraping the cracked concrete. It sniffs. Whimpers. Before starting to lick at something dark and wet that’s pooling on the ground near the dead man’s head.

The hooded man pushes the body slowly with his boot and the dog starts circling, saliva dripping from its hungry mouth. The man makes a clicking noise with his tongue, stamps his foot once, hard.

Shttt shttt.

The dog whimpers once more, then slinks away into the thick night.

‘Tell me what happened,’ the hooded man says. He spits out a chewed matchstick and takes a pack of crumpled cigarettes from his back pocket.

‘I told you on the phone.’ The young woman’s voice shakes as she tries to compose herself. ‘He fell … He was climbing up the balconies. He was nearly at ours. I … we … we shouted at him. We threw things. Tried to get him to stop. We told him we would call the police.’

‘What did he say?’ He lights a cigarette. Puts the used match back into the box.

‘Nothing. He just … He laughed. Then he said, “Let me in, little pig … Or I’ll huff and I’ll puff, and blow your house down.” It was creepy.’

The hooded man snorts. ‘What does this mean? “Little pig…”’

Leetle peeg.

She shivers. ‘It’s from a nursery rhyme. It’s the Big Bad Wolf—’

‘Wasn’t he with Red Riding Hood?’

‘Another one.’ She shakes her head. ‘I guess there are lots of wolves in fairy tales.’

He blows a series of perfect smoke rings into the air above him. ‘Not just in fairy tales.’ He coughs up a ball of phlegm and spits it on the ground, and she feels a light spray misting across her sandalled feet.

She swallows hard, trying not to retch. Whimpers, just like the dog. ‘Please,’ she says. ‘Please help me.’

The hooded man shrugs. ‘Why don’t you go to police? If it was accident? Like you say?’

‘But … but what if they don’t believe it? I’ve heard things. Bad things.’

‘Bad things about wolves?’

Bad things about Russians, she thinks.