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JACK OF DIAMONDS

CHAPTER 25

By ben woestenburgPublished 2 years ago 21 min read
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JACK OF DIAMONDS
Photo by Kai Bossom on Unsplash

Chernetsov wiped the tears from his eyes and sat back down in his chair. He was looking at where the dirt and soot rubbed against the sides of the buildings, all the way down to the distant river--like a line slowly descending and melting into the distance. The skies were clear, and he didn't know if that was good or bad. He could see the tops of several ships masts, looking like thin spindles because of the distance. With sprit and spars and rolled canvas sails tight, he followed the rise and fall of ships hulls along with the steady rhythm of the current. Everything was soon lost as the morning light came in through the window. He could see steady black clouds of soot rising up from steel hulled, twin funnelled cargo ships who'd soon enough be raising anchor and plying their trade along the Atlantic lanes.

He was willing to look almost anywhere else, he realized, except at the bloody stump that had once been Anatoly’s foot. It was just too much for him to take in at the moment, and he was grateful no one was there to see his tears. Ask him ten years ago if he’d have ever imagined himself sitting at the foot of his son’s bed weeping, he would’ve said no.

No one could’ve imagined how much his life would change over the last ten years, least of all himself. First, there’d been the Great War which had prefaced the Revolution, then the death of the Tsar, his family, and finally, Civil War. How was any of this possible, in this day and age? The retreat from Russia would have to go down as the greatest mass exodus in Russian history. And through it all, he’d done everything he could think of to try and stop the juggernaut that was the Revolution. He’d had no time to think, or concern himself, with the health and welfare of his own children, not when his immediate family—his mother, father, sisters, brothers; aunts, uncles, cousins, all of them—were either dead, or dying.

He looked down at Anatoly again, suddenly overcome with guilt at not having been a proper father to him. He knew it could’ve been worse—it could’ve been a lot worse. The doctors told him Anatoly should’ve lost his entire leg, and had they not acted as quickly as they had, he would've. A simple reminder that it can always be worse, can’t it? Which only served to remind him of last night’s fiasco. It didn’t explain it, it didn’t explain anything—but it served as a reminder of everything else that had gone wrong in the last three weeks. He couldn’t understand how everything in his life had just fallen apart as it had, but it seemed that it had. The White army was in retreat—and a humiliating retreat—much the same, he imagined, as the Irish Republican Brotherhood. They'd lost their Irish Civil War—and rightfully so, he told himself. But with the Brotherhood being forced to disband, they’d simply re-emerged as the new Irish Republican Army.

If they’re calling themselves an army, it’s only a matter of time before things start to unravel then, isn’t it?

The Brotherhood.

It was difficult getting it into his head, the idea of an Irish Republican Army. All the same, he told himself, they'll be a relentless adversary. He opened a silver cigarette case, pausing before lighting a cigarette, he was staring at his reflection in the window. They’d needed the guns as bad as we did, and were just as desperate to rearm. Chernetsov knew they’d hunt him down and probably kill everything he held dear. He couldn't understand how Anatoly being pushed over the bannister wasn't the Brotherhood sending off a warning. Again, that’d be things getting worse now then, wouldn’t it, finding out that it was them behind it all? He took a long pull on his cigarette—the tiny red cherry obscuring his face in the window’s reflection—as he looked down at empty space that was Anatoly’s missing foot.

The boy looks peaceful enough, but how long do you think that’s going to last?

He felt certain that by now the Brotherhood knew it was Anatoly who’d hijacked their guns. He supposed it was prudent to assume the Brotherhood had been searching the docks and warehouses in and around London since the night the guns first disappeared. That they hadn’t been found was a testament to Kazakoff’s elaborate planning. It was only a matter of time before they started looking further afield, and when they did, it didn’t take long before they found them.

We have to get him out of here, he told himself, looking down at Anatoly, sleeping peacefully.

He tried convincing himself that last night’s plan had been good, but in reality, it hadn't been any good at all. What plan ever is? The meeting had always been set to take place at the docks in Plymouth. He'd wondered about that, but there was no other reason other than that’s where the ship had been headed. If the ship would’ve been scheduled to dock in Liverpool, he was pretty certain that’s where the meeting would’ve been. The whole idea had been to stow the guns under the cover of darkness once the ship was docked. Getting the guns out of London when he did had been the best thing Anatoly could’ve done. As far as Chernetsov knew, there’d been no practical reason for the guns not to be properly stowed away in the ship's hold—but things have a way of going tits up when you least expect anything to go wrong. Horribly wrong. The ship had been held up for whatever reason—nautical, mechanical, weather--did it really matter? All he knew was that the ship had been delayed. As a result, they’d been unable to stow the guns in its hold. His first thought at seeing the guns was that they didn’t even have enough tarpaulin covering the damn crates. He could see the BSA name stencilled on the sides of the boxes. As well as invoice numbers.

And with everything else going wrong the way it had, he was thinking someone had to have betrayed their location to the Irish. How else would they have known where to find them? They knew the exact warehouse. He had to think and figure out who it could’ve been. He refused to think it was one of his own. It broke his heart when he'd learned that Michael and Andrew had failed to escape the burning building. Together with Anthony, the three of them had been with him since before the Great War. He'd trusted them. They’d all done their turn and served their country. They’d proven their loyalty. while the few men Kazakoff brought along knew nothing of the intended meeting, or the guns.

He looked down at Anatoly’s stump, dropping his ashes on the floor before staring out of the window again. The sky was clear all the way to Paris, he thought, thinking how wonderful it would be to be sitting there right now, sharing a light supper with Colette.

And when will I ever see her again?

His first thought as to who may have betrayed them was the farmer—the pieman, O’Dowd. But he'd seemed just as shocked as everyone else at how things had escalated. He’d seemed genuinely shocked to see the guns in the warehouse, as much as he’d tried to keep his personal issues pushed aside once he’d discovered he was dealing with the Solomon brothers.

He must’ve known they were involved, and yet, he still agreed to meet with them. Why do you suppose he'd agree to that?

But if it wasn’t O’Dowd, then who? The Solomons? That would’ve been his first thought, because it was the obvious answer. But the obvious answer was never the direction a person’s mind should take him. No, I’ll have to look into it deeper, he told himself. It was possible that they’d been betrayed by the Italians, but it seemed unlikely. Italians were honourable men who prided themselves on honesty when it came to business. They were only dishonest to their own adversaries, but that was simple ambition. A man didn’t rise to the top without stepping over the corpses of his predecessors.

The door opened soundlessly and Bubbi walked in, looking at Chernetsov with what he could only describe as a look of cold, calculated, disdain, as if he was responsible for Anatoly falling off a railing he had no business being on in the first place. Her eyes were red rimmed and had an icy hardness to them he’d seen many times over the years—again, it was as if she blamed him for something out of his control. She walked to Anatoly’s bedside, picking up his hand and kissing it gently before laying it down again, she patted it gently as she laid it over his heart.

There’ll be tears in her eyes again, soon enough, he told himself, and mumbled a silent prayer to her empty God for a speedy recovery. He knew deep in his heart that she didn’t blame him—not entirely. If she blames anyone, she blames herself. At this moment, he told himself, it doesn’t matter what I say to her. He told himself he could understand her reasoning, but only to a point. Even if she’d been in the room as it happened, he knew she was likely to blame him nonetheless. She was the boy’s mother, first and foremost—Anatoly’s mother, not his—and as such, felt responsible for the welfare of all her children.

Chernetsov felt that she probably still blamed him for a great many things over the years, the first of which was taking her away from her family home. Maybe blame isn’t the right word? Accountable? There'd always be some degree of accountability as far as she was concerned. Again, it was something he felt he could understand. Still, it was an old bone of contention as far as he could see, and one she wasn’t prepared to let go of, not under the present circumstances. It didn’t matter that he had helped her family with their escape. They had somehow managed to send word they were en route to Shanghai, and he had even managed to find them a freighter bound for England. He doubted if it mattered to Bubbi that he’d purchased the tickets in their names. He’d supposed they had nothing with them except the clothes on their backs, all the time hoping they’d at least had the presence of mind to take whatever they could.

But none of that matters as far as Bubbi’s concerned.

Still, he loved her. He loved her more than any of the past mistresses he'd had, more than he loved Colette, and the memory of Paris. He couldn’t begin explaining it to himself, let alone anyone else for that matter. All he knew was that he loved his wife and swore to himself he’d do whatever it took to make things right. If that meant leasing a home for her family in Shanghai while they waited for their ship to England, he would.

And what, exactly, do I have to do to make it right?

His one need was to protect his family. Is that even possible, he wondered? It was only a matter of time before things began to escalate, and he wondered if he was prepared to go to war with the new Irish Republican Army?

By william santos on Unsplash

Gabrielle sat on the small bench outside of the hospital, huddled tight against the cold. Just another late night worker waiting to start her shift, she told herself. And what sort of a job would that be, she asked herself? She had the look of a woman waiting for the sun to drop below the horizon—or so she hoped. She knew there was no knowing what anybody thought if they happened to see her sitting as she was. Her breath came out in small white puffs, lost on the wind like the distant cry of a child. She began blowing on her hands, at the same time looking up at the third story window of the hospital across the street as the setting sun reflected off the dirty windows. She was wondering if there was any way she could climb up the fire escape without being seen.

It’s a simple enough thing, she told herself, except for the man across the street.

The idea of holding a pillow over Anatoly’s face while he thrashed about as she slowly suffocated him was something she’d been toying with for hours. She could also see it was something better left for the cover of night. She knew she’d be able to reach the bottom rung of the fire escape once she dragged over one of the bins under the stairwell. Standing on them would be a lot easier than jumping up and missing the bottom rung, she told herself—a lot less frustrating, as well, she reminded herself. But what if the man across the way hears her dragging the bins over?

Do I really want to follow through with this?

She’d felt a certain thrill yesterday, pushing Anatoly from the railing he’d been stupid enough to climb up on. Seeing him look up at her and memorize her face from where he lay on the floor didn’t concern her, either. She’d wanted him to know it was her. Still, if he woke up and saw her standing over his bed with a pillow in her hands, she was certain he’d call out. All the more reason to do it under the cover of night, she told herself. Any nurse on duty would think he was simply having a bad dream—how many patients had bad dreams as they slept?

Besides, she could hide in the shadows once they turned the lights down.

A shallow gust of wind worked its way up the narrow lane, rooting along the curb side as if it was a living thing, collecting dust and loose papers before slapping up against her legs and going around her—going through me, she thought—as she pulled her coat tighter.

She saw the familiar figure of Chernetsov’s wife leaving the hospital, walking down the front steps with short, practiced steps. She looked taller than Gabrielle remembered her. She also looked stately in a matronly way—almost regal—wearing a long fur coat with her hat pulled down at a jaunty angle against the setting sun. The cobblestones were slick with the day’s earlier, light rain—reflecting the sun’s last light to the point where it was almost blinding—and Gabrielle could see the sheen off the cobblestones glaring like so many tiny mirrors, so much so that she had to shade her eyes. Chernetsov’s wife paused before attempting to cross the street, pulling the brim of her hat down as a shield against the harsh sunlight.

The man across the street was smoking a cigarette next to another collection of garbage bins. He offered a mock salute to her and Chernetsov’s wife turned away, ignoring him. Gabrielle saw the man laugh. She watched the woman’s breath steaming out in gentle plumes, and Gabrielle thought it was uncanny how the woman didn’t let the cold bother her—and why would she, wearing a coat like that? she thought.

For some reason, Gabrielle found herself drawn to the man across the street. He didn’t seem to be doing anything. He was watching her, which Gabrielle found curious. Most of the people about her were making their way home after a long day at work, but he was standing beside three garbage bins, smoking a cigarette, waiting. That's when Gabrielle realized he wasn’t looking at her, but watching Madame Chernetsov. Gabrielle watched the man slowly reach back and pick up one of the three lids, placing it on one of the two other lids to his left.

It was something meant to draw her attention away from the window, Gabrielle reasoned. Madame Chernetsov looked at the man when she heard the banging lids, and just as quickly looked away when she saw the man smile at her. At the same time a lorry came speeding around the corner. There seemed to be plenty of room and plenty of time, but the driver turned the wheel at the last moment, and Gabrielle watched in horror as Chernetsov’s wife was struck, her body sent airborne where it landed on the curb side, broken and bloodied.

There was a scream from several of the pedestrians nearby.

Gabrielle watched the man at the garbage bins place his hands in his pockets and walk away.

By insung yoon on Unsplash

Chernetsov stood at the side of his wife’s bed looking down at her shattered body. They’d counted…what…he couldn’t even remember how many broken bones they told him she had. It was too many to wrap his head around at the moment. Her spleen was damaged, her large intestine perforated—he didn’t even know there was a smaller one—and they took out part of her liver; her kidneys were damaged and one of her lungs had collapsed. Her skull had been fractured when she’d hit the ground. Tears spilled down his rough cheeks unchecked as the doctor tried explaining all the grizzly details, and the consequences of those details. He wasn’t listening though—not really—he couldn’t hear the man above the roar inside his own head. He wiped the tears off his face with a degree of anger, telling himself it couldn’t possibly have been an accident. He refused to believe it was an accident. In fact, you’d have to convince him that it wasn’t deliberate. Everything that happened over the past ten days and more, was more than he could wish upon any man.

It’s funny—in a strange sort of way—how the first thing that comes to mind is Anatoly being pushed from the balcony. That’s where it all started.

Or did it?

He had no idea who the woman was who pushed his son off the railing—or what her motive may have been. At least everyone agreed it was a woman. But Anatoly lost part of his leg because of the fall, and now they were telling him Anatoly would probably be condemned to a wheelchair. He doubted if he’d ever find out the identity of the woman who pushed Anatoly off the rail, and wondered if he should raise the reward?

Now someone tries to kill Bubbi.

And while his son’s attacker could quite possibly remain a mystery, it was more than obvious the Irish had made their first move against him. In retaliation for the guns, he reminded himself. He had to remind himself it was business. He’d heard several of the witnesses say the lorry came around the corner too fast, and that the driver had lost control; there were some who said he'd sped up as he came around the corner; and others still who said the driver had turned into her.

Intentionally.

He was grateful she was still alive of course, hopeful that she’d fight to hold on, but her injuries were extensive. The doctor told him he should prepare for the worst—a just-in-case precaution, he’d added—and Chernetsov felt the chill of the statement cut through his heart as if it was a cold knife. He wondered if the doctor had given up on her? It sounded as though they’d all given up on her.

Prepare for the worst? How do you prepare for the worst?

And suddenly, out of nowhere, a part of him wondered how he’d feel if it was Colette laying here on the bed, instead of Bubbi. He chided himself for thinking about her at all—especially at a time like this. All the same, it was a hard question for any man to ask himself, and he knew it. It's a harsh presentiment of the future’s possibilities, he told himself, but with everything that's been happening, would I be shocked to hear she’d also been attacked? Should I warn her? He wondered how she’d handle that sort of news? Would he feel compelled to rush over to her bedside as well—leaving his wife’s side to attend his mistress’s needs?

He told himself it wasn’t something that should be crossing a man’s mind at any time—and certainly not when he’s standing over what was probably his wife’s death bed. He wondered what kind of a man that made him? Was he any different from how his father had been? Was his behaviour a mirrored reflection of his father? He thought he might have avoided his father’s influence because he’d been sent off to school in England. But his father had a mistress—and probably had her until the day he died.

Charnetsov thought the fact he had a mistress at all was proof he was insensitive to his wife’s needs. And is the answer as simple as that, he wondered? But by God, he thought, to all outside appearances it gives the impression that I'm a man who can’t devote himself to one person. What made me think I needed a mistress in the first place? And where's the answer to that one, he wondered? Was it because friends told me I’d need a little something to keep me occupied later in life? Their wives were no longer interested in them, they said, or else they’d lost interest in their wives. How long did he think it would be before Bubbi lost interest in him, they asked?

Bubbi had never shied away from that part of her duties, Chernetsov reminded himself—not in that respect. That’s what he loved about her. She’d never approached that part of her life as if it was a duty she had to perform—to have it over and done with so she could leave the room and clean herself. If there was anything to be said about Bubbi, he thought, it's that she enjoyed moments of intimacy; more than Colette, he seemed ready to admit.

And while Colette was young and seemed eager to learn—God, how she was eager to learn—he’d spent half his lifetime with Bubbi. They’d learned the intracacies of each others’ bodies, together. He remembered teasing her nipples to life, and how she never left his bed once he fucked her that first time. She made a habit of waking him in the morning sucking him off—something she’d lost interest in over the last five years of their marriage—and he wondered if that was why he’d so readily found himself attracted to Colette. She’d yet to master the art of fellatio, but she was eager to learn.

And was he willing to keep that part of his life a secret? He was no different from any other man caring for his mistress in the city. And not in Plymouth where it made sense, but London, with a second apartment in Paris he let out to an employee on the understanding the apartment would be available at a moment’s notice. He didn’t go to Paris enough to prove himself a nuisance; when he did, he brought Colette. It was never as good as when he brought Bubbi. And he had to ask himself, again, if he'd feel as bad if it was Colette laying in the bed?

Bubbi opened her eyes briefly—he was sure it had to hurt they were so swollen—and he found himself catching his breath. He’d been holding her hand without realizing it, and felt her squeeze his hand and then sigh, falling back into her pillow and sinking into unconsciousness as though she were a swimmer drowning in the pool. He kissed her hand and surprised himself to find tears welling up in his eyes again. He let out a gasp, as if he’d realized for the first time that she might die.

Prepare for the worst…

He let out another gasp; a cry of anguish he tried choking back. He could feel the trail of tears rolling down his face. He wiped at them with his hands. Hard. He’d failed her. He knew there was little he could do to save her, now. It was all up to her and her will to live. He found himself sinking to his knees, praying to a God he didn't believe in anymore, holding her hand and sobbing. He’d wanted so much to give her a lifestyle that offered her a position in society. But while they weren’t blue bloods, his family’s wealth went back more than a hundred years; even to the Napoleonic Wars. The family was worth more than any failed Duke, or Earl.

And that was something that never mattered to Bubbi.

How could he think he deserved her love when he’d betrayed her in the most intimate of ways? He’d crossed a line of betrayal he doubted he could ever erase. In a forgiving world, it was the unforgivable. And if she knew that now, with death approaching, would she choose to live on? Would she give up? Was he worth living for?

He found himself propped up in an overstuffed leather chair with several blankets tucked around him. He vaguely remembered climbing into the chair, and thought he remembered a woman helping him up off the floor. He felt devastated, and told her, just in case. She'd tried to reassure him, telling him everything would be fine. If you believe it will, it will, Bubbi always said. He wanted to believe that everything would work out fine.

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About the Creator

ben woestenburg

A blue-collar writer, I write stories to entertain myself. I have varied interests, and have a variety of stories. From dragons and dragonslayers, to saints, sinners and everything in between. But for now, I'm trying to build an audience...

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