Free The Eyes of Lira Kazan by Eva Joly Page B

complain that she had turned down a page in a book he had lent her. She had apologized but that hadn’t been enough, he had insisted on giving her a lecture as though she was still twelve years old. His only way of feeling alive was to repeat the same thing louder and louder. Perhaps everyone became like that in the end.
    Paddington, the end of the line. Lira decided not to plunge into the Underground. It was already eight and not yet dark. It had been a hot day and this was a good time for a walk. She set off, heading east. She had found a small hotel just beyond Soho; it was not particularly comfortable but the sheets were clean. The brown and beige carpet on the other hand appeared to have absorbed thirty years’ worth of dust; the pink walls were hung with bad watercolours of blue lakes and grand houses hidden behind trees – another world, to be sure. But it was central and within the magazine’s budget. It would take about three quarters of an hour to get there.
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    She cursed herself for having gone about things clumsily with Nwankwo Ganbo. On the train, so as not to forget any
details, she had jotted down what he had told the students, all the techniques and world-banking mechanisms that were employed to make things presentable. It was all a long way from the official language spoken by the City of London financial analysts and the experts in Russian affairs whom she had spoken to since coming to London. Perhaps she should try to see him again. She was less worried about her article than about having failed to get his attention. She felt that they were alike; she recognized the tension in him. She decided to write down as much as she could that night and go back to Oxford the next day; he’d understand. If she came back, he’d understand. And then Polina would be there. They would go shopping and see the bright lights and the crowds, and eat the Thai food they both loved. They so rarely had a chance to be together.
    She hurried on, keen to get to work. There was no table in her room, she would have to work on the bed, sitting on the nasty synthetic flowery bedspread. At Tottenham Court Road, the station nearest to her hotel, she stopped and bought a packet of cakes and a carton of fruit juice to consume while she worked. As she paid, she asked the man at the cash desk the way to the hotel, just to check. Left, and then straight on to the crossroads, the man said, and after that he spoke too fast. Oh well, she’d find it. She turned left onto Charing Cross Road, down Denmark Street towards a crossroads, still thinking about her article. She liked Nwankwo’s image of the masked ball. She hesitated, turned right. Perhaps a vampires’ ball might be a more effective idea… Suddenly two hands grabbed her shoulders, no, four hands, two men, one on each side of her. She could hardly see them, it was dark now. She pulled away and slapped her attacker’s face, scratching with her nails, and kicked her leg in the other direction. But the other man pulled her backwards and threw her to the ground. Thinking she was now at his mercy he leant over her. She kicked both legs into his stomach, pushing him away and getting up, but the one she had
scratched was already behind her and caught her by her hair. She shouted but no one heard. She elbowed the first man in the face. He let go. She ran, but not for long. The two men caught her by her jacket and she turned to face them. She caught a hand (protect your face, always protect your face – that’s what she had learnt) about to punch her. But then came another blow, and another, and another. She backed against a wall, she didn’t know where she was, she shouted as loud as she could. They were surprised by her resistance, but it had only delayed them. They were too strong. She begged them, offered her purse, but they didn’t react or say anything. They weren’t muggers, or even rapists. They looked at her coldly with tense