Cold Blood. Alex Shaw

       Chapter 6

      City Centre, Kyiv, Ukraine

      Breathing deeply but steadily, Snow pumped his legs up the hill and past the Ukrainian parliament, the Verhovna Rada. It was 7.15 a.m. and he was halfway through his morning run. The guards outside were used to seeing joggers in the park opposite, but Snow was the only one to run on their side of the road and directly past them. It astonished him how close he could actually come to the entrance without being challenged. Cresting the hill he increased his pace and ran past the presidential administration building. His route, which he had now perfected, took him down Pushkinskaya, across Maidan and along Khreshatik, up the hill past the Hotel Dnipro to the Verhovna Rada, the presidential administration building and back down the hill, this time via the Ivana Franka Theatre, then through Passage before finally running uphill again and into Pushkinskaya.

      On days that he felt he needed to push himself, he would stop halfway at the Dynamo Stadium and complete a few laps of the track before continuing on his way. Today, however, he felt hampered by a mild hangover. It was Monday morning and Arnaud’s first day at Podilsky, yet they had both decided the night before to have ‘a few pints’ at Eric’s. Snow was glad that Mitch was in Belarus on business and that Michael Jones hadn’t made it; otherwise, it would have become a heavy session. Fifteen minutes later he was stretching outside the front of his building as the street sweepers made their way towards him.

      ‘Fancy a coffee?’ Arnaud was on the balcony above, cup in one hand, waving. Snow needed no second invite and within minutes was walking from the shower to kitchen. Arnaud had made toast and was busy buttering a thick slice as he read an old issue of the Kyiv Post.

      ‘You should have told me you were going to jog. I’d have come too.’

      Snow finished drying his hair and dropped the towel on the empty seat. ‘After what you drank last night?’

      ‘Hmm, maybe not.’ Arnaud bit into his toast. As Snow poured himself a coffee, Arnaud noticed a faint, long scar on Snow’s right leg, stretching from just below his boxer shorts to just above the knee. ‘How did you do that?’

      Snow sipped his coffee. ‘I was in a bad car crash a few years back. Lucky to survive actually.’

      ‘Sorry, I didn’t know.’

      ‘How would you?’ It was too soon for Snow to share his past with his new friend. Snow surveyed the table. Arnaud had made a large pile of hand-cut toast and set out two plates. Snow sat and took a couple of slices. ‘You’d make someone a good wife.’

      Arnaud looked up, his lips caked in crumbs. ‘I’m open to offers.’

      For the previous day and a half, since Arnaud’s arrival, he and Snow had mostly got drunk and ogled women. Snow found himself liking Arnaud and seeing in him himself ten years ago. They’d started with a tour of the city centre, beer bottles in hand, purchased from a street kiosk. Snow had led Arnaud up Prorizna Street and along Volodymyrska, pausing at the Golden Gate (the medieval entrance to Kyiv), the old KGB (now SBU) building and two cathedrals, which Arnaud had already forgotten the names of, before pointing out the British Embassy. ‘If you ever get stopped by the police, just say “British Embassy”,’ Snow had advised. ‘The local militia are a bit scared of stopping a foreigner and will think you’re a diplomat.’

      They then met Michael Jones and his wife in a small, open-air bar on Andrivskyi Uzviz, the steep, cobbled tourist area which led down to the oldest part of Kyiv, Podil. There Arnaud had been excited to see the vast range of ex-Soviet militaria on offer, in addition to paintings, amber jewellery and numerous matrioshka (Russian dolls) of all shapes and sizes. Snow managed to persuade him not to buy a fur hat; instead he bought two Vostok automatic KGB watches, a hipflask, and a set of matrioshka painted with the faces of Soviet leaders. The vendor said that if Arnaud supplied pictures of his family he could have a set of matrioshka hand-painted for him. Arnaud agreed and had already started mulling who should be the biggest and who the smallest. He finally decided on his dog, then his sister, but only just.

      ‘How are you enjoying Kyiv, Arnaud?’ Michael had asked, his wife, Ina, sitting at his side.

      Arnaud looked down the street at a pair of local girls. ‘The beer and the scenery are great.’

      Michael, who had already finished three pints, or half-litres as they were served in Ukraine, let his face crease into a dirty-toothed smile. ‘You’d have to be either bent or stupid to have an unemployed knob here!’

      Michael sniggered while Ina nudged him in the side. ‘What? It’s true for sure.’

      ‘So, which are you then?’ Arnaud had looked at his flatmate.

      Snow finished his mouthful of beer. ‘The exception to the rule.’

      Ina smiled and touched his hand and Arnaud felt slightly embarrassed. Was there something he didn’t know about? ‘How long have you been here?’ he asked Michael.

      ‘Me? Phew, too long!’ He sniggered again. ‘I came in 1996 for four months and stayed ten years. I could apply for a Ukrainian passport!’

      ‘Has it changed a lot?’

      ‘Some things. When I came here there were no supermarkets and people bought their meat on the street.’

      ‘Michael, that’s not true.’ Ina felt the need to defend her country. ‘We always could buy meat in the Gastronom or the market.’

      ‘Which was on the street!’ Michael quickly swigged more beer.

      ‘Michael!’ Ina was annoyed. When the men got together they became just as silly as the schoolboys they both taught. ‘We have more shops now since independence and there are more places to go.’

      ‘Expensive places,’ Michael, who was known for his conservative spending on all things except beer and cigarettes, added.