Russian Roulette

Russian Roulette

On the 31st of December, as meaningless a day as any other, Lee
Yankovich picked up his imaginary camera and closing the door behind
him, stepped out into the winter sun. The sun caught his eye and would
have flashed off the lens, had there have been one. He walked through
the wood. The leafless state of the trees made it seem unusually
spacious. The frost-bitten ground crunched underfoot; leaves squeaked.
Squirrels scampered up the trees, strangely visible. Coming up the hill
the sun's horizontal rays cut across the ground, blinding Lee and
leaving long shadows.
Having escaped the cold by boarding a southbound double-decker, Lee
pressed his forehead against a top deck window. He was looking outside
for something he could snap. The grease from his skin clammed up the
window. The upper deck smelt vaguely of burgers and urine. A novice
cyclist stopped to allow the bus past; the light glimmered off of his
bald head. Someone had written a couple of verses on one of the
windows:
'Let the bloke at the mike strum.
Let those people chat. I'll come
'Round soon; flick the switch on, shake
Off a heavy heart. I'll wake

To see what's around: Pastel
Clad lasses scoffing meat;
A flame flirting with heat;
Someone willing distance away.'

Then it said: 'Role with it.'

Around Tottenham Court Road, Lee woke up. His camera, thank God, was
still there. He got off just before Leicester Square and walked
straight into a small small street, one without any cars. A man in a
suit brushed aggressively past. The sun glittered from a small puddle.
Lee moved forward a little, slowly and steadily. He rested his camera
on a piece of street furniture. It was lighter than other cameras,
which was good, but it was still nice to relieve his shoulders of the
weight. He paused there a while. The cold hurt his nose, like hay
fever. A homeless man, with a big yellow blanket draped across his
shoulders wondered by, staggering slightly. Lee could smell him. So
could a man in a suit with big shoulder-pads and a mobile phone stuck
to he right ear. His brisk walk swerved to avoid touching the blanket.
Lee's camera snapped.
Lee crouched there a while, past the time when his knees began to ache.
A song came into his head. It reminded him of painful times. He tried
not to think of it, so it grew louder to annoy him. He returned to his
photography. There was a bright red jumper. In it was a snotty kid. The
jumper's left sleeve suffered as it stood in for a tissue. The boy's
right arm suffered as it was yanked forward by a woman who was probably
his mother. Lee's camera zoomed in, and snapped again.
Lee found he was hungry. He rose painstakingly to his feet. After a
while he wondered into Waterstone's bookshop on Trafalgar Square, where
he could escape the cold and buy a double chocolate brownie. There he
rested his camera, and relaxed. A man approached him and asked if he
could read the copy of the Guardian that was on the table. Lee couldn't
care less. The gentleman sat down. Lee glanced at him. He had dark hair
and brown eyes, and a slight scar beneath his right eye. He had a
briefcase. He was very well shaven.

Dan Shakleton was Jewish, his family had changed their name from
'Schinkelstein' in 1939. He thought he could recognise Lee from some
place or another: school, a pub, a beach. He didn't eat at the caf?. He
liked the smell there: coffee and cake. He liked the crumbs, and the
chocolate residue on the inside lip of white-porcelain cappuccino cups,
when the drink was half cold and half drunk. It was warm inside. He too
had song lyrics stuck in his head: 'I just needed someone to talk to, /
You where just too busy with yourself.' He thought he recognised Lee,
so decided to try to start a conversation. "Killing," he said, "do you
think you could do it?" Dan found he had to repeat the question. After
a pause he did, "Killing," he said presently, a bit louder than before,
"do you think you could do it?"
Lee was not taken aback. He answered quickly and flippantly, "Don't
see why not."
"Up close and personal?" Queried Dan.
"If I had to." Lee had hardly woken from his daydream.
"Have you thought about it?"
"Have you?"
"Would you do it tomorrow?"
"Are you interrogating me?" Lee got frightened. He started
imagining.
"No." The answer came swiftly. "You want to know what it feels
like."
Lee looked at the paper. Someone had written something above the date,
December the 31st, as meaningless a day as any other. They'd written,
'Role with it.' "Did you write that?"
"No." Said Dan. What makes a day special? Only events can make dates
stick in your mind. The 1st of September - German tanks rolled. The
11th of November - the machine guns stopped. "I'm gonna give real
significance to the 1st of January." Said Dan. "We all die. Whether
it's now or in fifty years, it's going to happen. It doesn't matter
when."
"Shut up!" Lee said suddenly, cutting Dan short.
"Oh! I'm sorry." Dan could feel his face burning. It had turned red. "I
was only jo?"
"Shut up!" said Lee. "No you weren't." Dan was quiet now, for the first
time since he had opened his mouth. "Well done." Lee smiled. His
imaginary camera, through lack of attention had dematerialised from
thin air into even less. "Well done," he said again, "You've got my
attention. Now tell me why."

When I was living in Munich not so long ago, I was lucky enough to
become friends with a very sweet Canadian girl called Emily Grant. She
has long dark hair, a kind face, and brilliant eyes. On the 31st of
December, she was walking along the Thames' northern bank. One of her
palms, sweaty, gripped a small bottle of Famous Grouse scotch. It was
almost empty. The sun was busy setting into the river, casting its
dimming rays across the water.
Lee and Dan too were by the river. Dan was talking, persuading. Lee's
gaze had been fixed on his hands, clenched together, resting in his
lap. They sat on a bench, facing the water. People were beginning to
appear for the festivities ahead. Lee looked up, his eyes followed the
river. Occasionally he noticed someone and studied them for a moment.
Out of the crowd came a woman. He knew her. His heart clenched. An
intense burning cold gripped his whole chest, the opposite of deep heat
and greater. It seized him, spreading like wildfire down the back of
his arms. It froze him. He wanted to hide, but couldn't move. She came
closer. He'd been wrong. It wasn't her. An involuntary inaudible sigh
escaped him. The sensation still held strong across his body. Dan was
still talking. The woman he'd seen had been Emily.
Lee continued to watch her. He was scared that she might still be who
he'd thought. He knew it was irrational. So what? He watched as she
strolled against the current. Alone? Yes she was alone. But she seemed
blissful. He watched as she wondered over to a frostbitten car. He
watched as she carefully removed a red glove and with her finger wrote
something on the car's window. (Dan having lost his audience moped
angrily down the pavement.) Lee watched in amazement as she moved aside
and he saw what she had written. She'd written, 'Role with it.'
She crossed the pavement. The wind caught her hair. It blustered
against her frozen face. She stepped up onto the barrier. Beneath her
black water lashed up against stone. He was watching. Her heart went
cold. She jumped. Lee felt hit as if by a bolt of ice. Sliced open. He
was already at the wall and with the one motion flung himself past it.
Water engulfed him. No light. No sound. Then air and the moon, filling
his eyes. He contorted, gripped by the biting cold. He saw her, grabbed
her, pulled her towards him. With all he had he kicking and pushed and
held her. He went under. Silence again. He struggled for the surface.
Her weight was too great. Pure darkness surrounded him. He became calm,
peaceful and empty. Then he surfaced. Oxygen and life burst into him.
He thrashed at the water. Then he found his footing, the edge, steps
upward.

She was still wet when he eased her out of the taxi. Wet and shivering.
Her hair fell heavily over his jacket. Inside he piled blankets over
her. She still shivered. He held her. She was quiet now. She'd not
spoken, not said a word. Just shivered, a glazed look over her eyes.
She'd smiled too. He lifted her and pushed his arm around her. He
pulled her towards him. Held her close. Her heart beat pulsated through
his body. Soon she stopped shivering.

Daylight broke through the curtains. Lee was still holding Emily, my
friend. The radio said something of a bomb in Kings Cross tube. Of
fourteen dead and dozens maimed. He held her closer and switched the
radio off.