Free Bitter Remedy by Conor Fitzgerald Page A

in English and Turkish that if she played her cards right, she could soon buy her freedom, and he might even invest something in her to help her on her way. He set out the terms, and estimated that in 18 months, she would have paid off what he had paid to get her, plus the rent and board. He nodded encouragingly and Alina took a chance and asked about Nadia.
    He listened, then told her he had no plans to ‘hire’ any more girls for his club, and for all he knew Nadia had been sold on. Then he reverted to Russian and she lost track of what he was saying, and she simply nodded.
    ‘You didn’t understand me, I can see.’ He traced a line on the frosted glass with his index finger. ‘Some persons are very bad, rau , kötülük , порочный , cattiva gente , you know?’
    She nodded.
    Fyodor pointed an accusing finger at his own chest. ‘Me, no. Not so bad. They kill, you know. Arabs, Italians, Turks. Killers.’
    Offering her freedom, then warning her of the dangers. She was getting wise to the tricks already, but the dangers were no less real for all that. She had heard certain names whispered: the names of people in whose employ no woman wanted to end. There were sadists and killers out there, more interested in pain than gain. People who used large banknotes to snort coke, put gold flakes in their cocktails, and would pay good money for a beautiful young face just for the pleasure of taking a box cutter to it. You were never so bad but there was somewhere worse. She hoped Nadia was OK.

Chapter 8
    Only tall men can stride, thought Blume, watching the short, balding figure with the waxy skin approach him. The man had hurled open the door with force and violence, like a jealous lover, but then been quite fastidious about closing it. Halfway across the room, he paused to mop his forehead. Lying in his bed, Blume began to wonder if this might not be some sort of creepy doctor, because it certainly could not be Silvana’s fiancé.
    The man came over to Blume’s bedside. ‘ Ehhi! Saluti . I’m Niki. Niki Solito.’ He turned round to Silvana, still lingering at the doorway, and ordered her out. ‘Wait for me at the car. I’ll just say hello to the commissioner here.’
    Silvana bent her head down meekly. ‘Don’t be too long, Niki.’
    When she had gone, Niki offered Blume his hand.
    ‘So you’re Silvana’s fiancé?’ he asked, reluctantly taking the proffered hand, which was warm and damp.
    ‘Absolutely.’ Niki affected not to notice Blume’s incredulous tone. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his tight-fitting trousers and produced a small clear bottle of Amuchina disinfectant gel, which he rubbed into his hands, filling the air between them with an insulting lemony scent.
    ‘Only because you are sick,’ he explained. He put the bottle away, stood back, and grinned at him, showing teeth small and white as a child’s. ‘Alec Blume, Alec, Alec, Alec!’ as if he and Blume were old pals meeting after too long an absence.
    ‘Niki, Niki, Niki, Niki,’ replied Blume. ‘How do you spell that?’
    ‘With a K.’
    ‘With a K,’ said Blume, manoeuvring himself to the side of the bed and sitting up. ‘And your surname?’ Automatically, he cast around for his notebook, which wasn’t there.
    ‘Solito.’
    Blume had never owned a shirt as white as Niki’s. The buttons gleamed like pearls, the massive collar shone in the dim room as if it had its own source of light. Perhaps the whiteness was exaggerated by the contrast with the triangle of sunbed-treated skin, visible down as far as the third unfastened button, where the edge of a blue and red tattoo peeked out. Niki slid his hand in and massaged his breastbone. He caught Blume’s eye.
    ‘I have a condition, but I keep myself fit.’ He slipped his satchel off his shoulder. ‘Very fit,’ he added. ‘In fact, I have come to consider my curse, which is diabetes, the real version not the one fat people get, as a blessing in disguise. Without it,