Russian Paul

The following is a work of fiction, inspired by the very real unsolved death of my father, twenty years ago. This story has been written and rewritten many times but never on paper. This story contains untruths and truths, the likelihood of which is yours to decide.

The Briefcase

I swear some nights smell urgent, like something is going to happen and the phone is a microsecond away from ringing. I lent against my balcony door, taking a long inhale from my cigarette, and felt the first sticky sweet warmth of a new summer come in against my skin, and blew the smoke up to the windows high above me in a self indulgent plume.

Above me was a sky in transition, chatter carried a little further over the shops and restaurants of my little pocket of peace in the middle of the city, while I stood barefooted, running my hands over the flaky paint of the doorframe. Even the thought of taming the slept in curls from the night before on the top of my head again to go out was exhausting after my one thousandth meeting of the week, so I stayed content and restless, watching the world dress itself up for me, and turn its lights on.

I looked over to the case that got delivered to me three days ago shoved behind a chair. It had gotten lost in a sea of meetings, parties and other shit I had to do. I hadn’t had the time to take back someone's lost luggage, their fault not mine, but the night was my own, so I stubbed out my cigarette and dragged it to the fading light streak on the floor. I hadn't read the luggage tag when I took it in, I should have. I might've gotten out sooner.

Paul David Porter

Curiosity gave way to adrenaline, dripping through my veins like a numbing agent. This was my fathers. He had died twenty years ago by all accounts, and I remember my mum crying with relief for three days. I never knew much about him save that she always told me to run if I ever saw a tall man that I didn't recognise whenever we moved house, (this move was my 32nd since she made me change my name). I popped the uncoded locks on either side too easily, and tipped the contents gently onto the floor. A passport slid over papers written in a language I didn't understand and in the back, a face to match the name. I’d only seen a picture of him once before, this man was older, had a full beard and eyes like mine, only emptier. For 29 years I’d barely said his name let alone held something of his, this felt like nothing inherited should feel.

Whoever dropped this off knew where I lived. I ran the thought over in my head again, they know where I live. I left the briefcase open on the floor, like an open heart surgery patient that can't be stuffed back together and shut off my lights. It was dark now but I could see well enough from the street lights to make out a bottle of wine in the kitchen, forgoing the glass completely, I glugged hard and screwed my eyes shut in case by the time I’d opened them, something would be different.

‘If you ever see a very tall man you've never seen before scream as loud as you can and run as fast as you can’, repeated like a prayer as young as I can remember. I sat my bottle next to the case and emptied the last of both.

Nothing else in there except a very old pack of matches and a tie clip. I tip the briefcase over and dust puffed onto the carpet,

‘What the fuck’ I breathe to myself as I pick at a groove at the top of the case, it flaps open and more money than I had ever seen in real life floods my lap, bunches of it, some stacked and some loose exciting me for precisely one second because this no more felt like a gift than a horse head in my bed would have.

Two things are stuck to the lid. A baby's face trapped in a keyring, with the unmistakable sticky out ears of my own, and next to it, a small black book. I ripped off the browning masking tape and flipped to the first page, I don't know whether I was expecting it to be written to me but I can't read Russian. I know these are addresses though, next to names, times, dates, and phrases translated for himself, crude drawings of buildings with their entrances circled.

My lap full of money had almost slipped my mind, and I reached for my phone.

Neon Soup

I was calling her again but this time it wasn't a drunken plea, my ex was the only one that would be intrigued enough to listen to something this warped. It rang off, I mocked myself for my choice in confidant as I licked my thumb, counting the money silently as the phone rang unanswered. 20K in total, Jesus.

The screen flashed and I mashed the button,

“About Goddamn time! Look you have to come here, I-” I answer, in my very best assertive and not at all overly emotional voice when I hear the voice at the other end of the phone is not hers. My armpits prickle with adrenaline sweat like tiny cactus punctures, and I clapped my hand over my mouth in a mute scream.

“Charlie,” the voice is low and feigns familiarity, I dodge the window as if he could see me and slide my back down the wall, closer to the floor seemed safer.

“What do you want?” My voice cracks but I try to sound bigger than myself.

“Charlie get the book and the key and get out of the house,” this guy’s giving me orders,

“Charlie run, they are at the door, Charlie, please run-” the phone cut out as I heard the first crack of my door buckling, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck... I cover my ears for a second and breathe hard. Think. Get out. The phone skittered across the floor from my hand but there's no time to grab it, get the book. I stuffed as much as I could into the case and darted my eyes around the room. Run, where? The balcony.

The door wasn't going to last long and I could hear they were so nearly through, the bone crunching sound of my door splintering into pieces. I ran across the floor like a frightened dog and prepared myself for a breath before I looked at the solid pavement below, and jumped.

My feet hit the floor and I was sure my shins had snapped in two, the pain gurgled up from my throat and stunned the neon city outside into silence for barely a second, winded as I scrambled for the handle of the case. My face was pissing blood from the fall, my legs beat into gear and I ran, weaving and shoving past the crowds of the different nightclubs. ‘Where the fuck do I go where the fuck do I go,’ breath rasping acidic in my chest as I took a sharp left, winding through the alleyways where its quieter, every quick slap of my foot sounded like a giant echoing breadcrumb as I looked for the familiar glow of Chinese lettering above me. Two shots in the distance, I stopped. My breath a roar in the air, too loud, soft though against the high pitched screaming filling the streets.

Seriously guns? I kept running, my thighs burning and tight as I turned to the market and slowed. The market’s quiet, the odd Chinese regular buying dinner barely notices me, but Amy peers at me over bifocaled eyes and waved me off to the back. I really hoped they didn't find me here, Amy was the first sweet lady that I found when I moved here, barely speaks a word and I’m sure she's over a hundred but she was always kind to me.

I slammed the briefcase down at a nearby table a little louder than I meant to, and opened it up, as the boy who waited the tables jerked his head upwards from behind the counter in a familiar nod at me and disappeared, probably getting my regular order. They might have a few huge dudes burst through the beaded curtains and open fire at any moment though, so it's only polite to order.

I fumbled inside and closed my hand around the book, snapping the case back shut. I rubbed my hands over my face while my pulse slowed, and I turned to see what sort of state I was in in the warped mirrors, and for a brief second, if you take away the beard and twenty years, I’d look just like him. Same sharp jaw, same upturned nose and dark eyes, give or take a few eye bags and streaks of blood drying into my skin.

‘What were you into dude,’ I spoke to the book. The waiter I know stalked by me and I grabbed him by the towel stuffed into the back of his pants,

“Hey! Sorry hey, have you got anything that I can, you know,” I waved a hand over my face and he scanned it for a second, and nodded, handing me his towel for my swollen and bloody cheek. .

“HaiYa pretty dodgy you la. Need me? Protection,” he winked and flicked a toothpick from one side of his mouth from the other and punched the air twice in a mock attack. If this kid is hitting on me right now a woman coming in here all beat up must not be all that strange I think. I flash a quick smile and he sucks the air through his teeth and goes back to lean on his counter.

I let myself simmer in the peace of the clinking bowls and flickering lights for a second, I bowed my head and traced the indentations of his writing on the lined paper. He’s dead and I'm being hunted, some fucking birthday card I think to myself.

No wonder I never knew what he did. I always thought the biggest problem in my life was fading into the ordinary, not hiding from armed men with a big fat case of money that could well be the reason I die.

I lifted my pack of cigarettes in the air to show loverboy, he nodded and I lit one, holding the smoke in as long as I could and puffed it over dear dead fathers words.

My usual hot and sour soup was delivered while I fixated on the book. I started to thank him but he was still leaning over the counter, this time flirting with a hostess. There was always something about the soup here that reminded me of moving house, comforting. I moved it closer, and picked at the napkin under its porcelain rim.

The napkin is not a napkin, it's a letter, most likely from the waiter I think, ‘not quite the time dude,’ I mutter but I flicked the top open while the riot of Chinese swears floated from the kitchen, settling my nerves.

I push the table back, soup upturned and my legs below me barely able to hold me. Run.

“Jesus Christ” I half yelled, spilling my full mouthful. I held my hand up to them, “Don’t I’m fine, Jesus I’m fine.’ They're here, my vision tunnelled as I fished the polaroids out of the pool on the table. It's him, barely recognisable through the blood on his face and the gag in his mouth but it's him. The picture’s dated, 01/02/2019, that's three days ago, and twenty years after his ‘death’.

It's ransom, the money is ransom.