9

Ilya stared at the closed door for far too long after Julien had gone, hoping that he'd come back and… And what?

Give me his number when I have no phone? But Julien didn't know that. He could have offered anyway. What if there was an emergency? What if I set fire to the flat? What if someone else starts a fire? I didn't check on ways to get out! He took a deep breath. Sometimes his brain ran too fast.

What Ilya really wanted was for Julien to come back and give him a hug and tell him everything was going to be all right. Except neither of them knew if that was true. He chewed his lip. If he wasn't going to get a hug, then he'd have liked Julien to say he'd see him when he got back. Except he hadn't said that because he didn't expect to see him.

Ilya had to face the fact that he had one night here and then he had to leave. He had money and whichever passport he chose to use, so where should he go? It was a big decision and the more he thought about it, the more it felt like a decision he wasn't up to making at that moment.

He moved the washing to the tumble drier, rubbed his aching arm, then wished he hadn't because touching it hurt. It also felt a little warm, but then he felt warm all over with the sun blazing in through the big windows. Maybe going to live somewhere hot was a good idea. He'd need fewer clothes. His money might last longer.

His head was hurting too, now. He ought to have something to eat, but he didn't feel hungry. Maybe he'd find something he fancied to eat in the shopping centre. Once his jeans were dry, he'd head over there.

He'd taken in what Julien had said about using fifty-pound notes, but if he spent enough in a shop, he didn't think it would be a problem. What he couldn't do was buy a coffee and expect them to accept a note of that denomination. Although he remembered a conversation with Dimitri, his former boss, about a cup of coffee made from beans grown in Japan that would use up five of his fifty-pound notes. Blyat! Ilya wasn't that sort of extravagant.

What had happened to his money in the St Petersburg bank? If it had been closed, where had the money gone? And all his things from his flat? The items he'd made? Since they'd not appeared at Sandridge, he had to assume they were lost. As was his job, teaching at the International Jewellery School. It made his heart hurt that his life had been snatched away from him.

He wondered what lie Dimitri had been told about him leaving, what his friends had been told. If anything. He missed Anatoly and Vasily and Karp. Even Arkady. Ilya felt bad now about the way he'd treated him. He'd had a taste of his own medicine with Julien. His friends surely wouldn't believe Ilya would just leave without saying goodbye. They had to be concerned.

Even so, Ilya couldn't hope for any help from St Petersburg. Everyone knew better than to cross Mikhail Morozov. Ilya's father might spend much of his time travelling, but he still had power and influence in Russia. He wouldn't let himself go down the rabbit hole of thinking his friends were in conversion clinics. If they were, there was nothing he could do.

What job can I get? The lump in his throat grew larger. After all that time trying to make a name for himself as an artist… But to continue would chance revealing his whereabouts. Though he could give himself a new name, or maybe move in a slightly different direction with his work. Avoid enamels. Make larger pieces for gardens using wire and not small things with silver? What else could he do to earn money? Work in a shop? A restaurant? He had a better chance of working in the UK than he did anywhere else in Europe. He didn't have a national insurance number but with his British passport, he could apply for one.

While he was waiting for his jeans to dry, he explored the apartment. Julien's room didn't look much different to the room Ilya had slept in, except the wardrobe held a couple of designer suits along with smart casual wear. Every dress shirt was white or black, whereas most T-shirts were grey or navy blue. Julien needed a little colour in his life. Except not the rainbow colours I'd bring.

He found very little to suggest that this was a home, or maybe Julien wasn't a knickknack type of person. Ilya's windowsills and shelves in his St Petersburg apartment had been full of things he'd made and bought. He'd had lots of books in English and Russian. He missed his kitchen, which was full of cooking paraphernalia. Had been full. It did make him wonder if Julien had another place to live that no one knew about, which was the reason he'd risked bringing him here. Or maybe he just didn't like clutter.

It was a risk letting him stay, Ilya understood that. Julien trusted him enough to leave him with the keys, but not enough to allow him to stay longer than a night. For all Ilya knew, Julien had arranged for someone to come and ‘take care of him' and not in a way that was kind. I'm going to die in a ‘botched robbery'? He didn't want to believe Julien would do that, but… He didn't know him, not really. But he clung to the knowledge that Julien had stopped that guy shooting him.

There was a bottle of paracetamol under Julien's washbasin and he took two capsules, drinking from the tap to swill them down. Hopefully, he wasn't sickening for something because he really didn't feel very well.

By the time he'd had a coffee, his jeans and shorts were dry and he changed into them. He'd have to manage with Julien's T-shirt which would be mostly hidden by his coat, but when he tugged that on, he flinched. Not just with pain; the sleeve was stiff with blood. Luckily, it was a black coat so not obviously stained. He took everything with him in his rucksack, just in case he had to run. His stomach churned. Is that my life now?

The shopping centre was only a few minutes away, but Ilya was out of breath by the time he got there, even though he'd not hurried. He'd been battered by his treatment over the last month but when he'd been given physical work, he'd managed it without getting short of breath. Mostly. He didn't know why he felt so weak.

On the outside, Battersea Power Station probably looked much as it did when it had supplied London with around a fifth of the electricity it needed. It was one of the world's largest brick buildings and it looked amazing. As it did inside. Light poured from vaulted skylights into Turbine Hall A, with Art Deco detailing all over the place. The architects had done a brilliant job. The place wasn't busy, though when Ilya checked out the stores, he thought he understood why. There were a lot of expensive designer shops. No cheap brands.

He wished he had the energy to go into the Lego shop. He used to love Lego. After he'd walked past, he changed his mind and went back. There were a lot more sets available now than when he'd been a kid. Pointless buying anything, but as he turned to leave, he saw a stand full of bricks and a sign saying ‘build your own Lego figure' and he spent the next few minutes trying to find parts that looked like Julien.

He made three in the end. All with dark hair. One in a morning suit, one in a grey T-shirt and black trousers and Superman. At the till, there was a display of Lego figure keyrings, one of which looked as if it had been dipped in a rainbow. That would be me. When they let him pay with a fifty-pound note, he thought he could tell Julien he was wrong. Until he remembered he wasn't going to see him again.

The next thing he bought was a wallet and when he was trying on clothes in a changing room, he transferred some of his UK money to it. Standing at the till and pulling notes out of his rucksack looked shady.

Usually, he enjoyed shopping for clothes, but today it felt like a chore, merely something to tick off on his survival list.

Clothes, underwear, socks, shoes, coat.

A case or bag to carry them in.

Lube and condoms. He didn't want to prostitute himself, but if he was desperate, he'd rather be prepared.

A phone. Possibly tricky.

Somewhere to live. Even trickier.

A job. Ah well.

He stopped trying things on because it was too exhausting, and just bought what he thought would fit. He sagged a little when he passed the Apple store, because he would have loved the latest iPhone, something not officially available in Russia, though they could be obtained via imports from other countries. But he had no bank account and no address to get a phone contract. Though maybe he could buy a prepaid SIM card to use with an iPhone. He ground to a halt. He could ask and he could definitely buy an iPad. He went back.

Ilya made his decision quickly. His pulse quickened at the idea of getting online and even though he couldn't use it yet, he still bought a phone. He suspected not many customers paid that amount in cash, but his money was accepted with no reaction, particularly when he upped his Russian accent and made such a fuss of this being his first iPhone.

He put the phone and iPad in his rucksack. If someone decided to snatch his shopping, he didn't feel well enough to chase them. There were still things he wanted to get, but he couldn't cope with more. He managed to buy a SIM card, and suitcase for all his shopping, then he was done. Food didn't matter, lube and condoms didn't matter, going to sleep did.

The suitcase and rucksack were abandoned just inside the door of the apartment. He felt ill now. It was more than being tired. He had a temperature and his arm was on fire. He made himself drink an entire glass of water before he kicked off his shoes, then crawled under the duvet. Maybe when he woke, he'd feel better.

He felt worse. He barely made it to the bathroom before he threw up. Not that there was anything to throw up. Not food anyway. What came out of his mouth was yellowish-green stringy stuff. Ugh. The dressing on his arm was wet, but not with blood. He didn't have the energy to take it off and he was a bit afraid to look at what was happening underneath. His arm was hot and swollen, which screamed infection. He kept drinking and took more paracetamol, because there was nothing else he could think of to do.

The bed sheets and his clothes were soaked with perspiration, but he felt too ill to get undressed. Everywhere hurt, not just his arm. Should he knock on a neighbour's door and ask for help? But that involved more effort than he could currently manage. He wanted to sleep and not wake up until he felt better. As he lay shivering, he wondered if maybe Julien was going to have a body on his hands anyway.

Oh God, I don't want to die.