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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

‘Oh you poor thing,’ the one on the left says, eventually. ‘Please, sit down with us. What happened? Do you have any money at all?’ She slides her drink towards me. ‘Here, have this. I think you could use it more than me. I’ll get another.’ She turns, gesturing to the barman, and the other one lays a hand on top of mine, and I close my eyes, remembering. Soft hands, soft lips.

‘What’s your name, dear?’ the other one says.

I sniff, stifle a sob. ‘Thank you both, you’re so kind. I’m … I’m Carrie. My name is Carrie.’

Moscow

29

The journey wasn’t so bad in the end. The three-and-a-half days flew by. After the charming hospitality of the gin-and-tonic ladies of the standard-class carriage, and their insistence on pushing 100 dollars each on me ‘to get me through’, I’d almost felt a little guilty when I saw them lifting that red wheelie case off the train, waving at me as I calmly walked away from them along the platform. They had no idea what they’d given me, and neither did I, until I opened it, sitting on a bench outside the railway station. Fifty thousand rubles. That will certainly ‘get me through’ – thank you very much, ladies. It’s their own fault for being so stupid.

I’d spent that first night in the dining car, playing cards and drinking with the other night owls, then moved elsewhere in the morning. It was just as easy to find new companions for the other two days. Befriending the French students and finding out about the spare room in their four-berth had been another stroke of luck. I got off the train with a spring in my step, the events of Irkutsk and all that went before erased from my mind – for a while, at least.

I asked the taxi driver – another ubiquitous track-suited, chain-smoking oaf – to take me to the best hotel he knew. Quite the opposite to the arrival in Irkutsk, when Carrie had insisted on being taken to the dump that she’d pre-booked – which was a blessing, in the end. It’s much easier to get away with things in places like that, where the staff don’t really give two fucks about what their clients are up to.