Free Amber by Stephan Collishaw Page A

for her lost love, Kastytis.’
    Before I turned off the desk lamp, I glanced around to see whether there was anything needing my urgent attention. There were bills that needed settling, but I was in no mood to deal with them. I gathered them together and pushed them into a leather briefcase to take with me. Switching off the lamp, I turned to the heater. As I extinguished the flame and bent to check it, I noticed a shadow flit across the door. Straightening up, I turned to call that the shop was closed. A dark shape stood outside, face pressed to the dirty glass, peering through.
    â€˜We’re closed,’ I shouted.
    The figure did not move. Irritated, I took the key from the desk and shuffled over. As I approached, the figure stepped back, away from the glass. It was an old lock, and the key fitted awkwardly, so that I had to jiggle it to get it to turn. It undid with a solid clunk. The door flew open, catching my wrist, twisting it painfully. Astonished, I stepped back as the figure moved forward rapidly, entering the shop, pushing the door closed.
    â€˜ Zdrastvuy , Antoshka,’ the man said. ‘It has been a long time.’
    â€˜Kirov.’
    The lean figure nodded and grinned humourlessly, turning the key in the lock.
    â€˜Don’t want any of your customers disturbing us, now, do we?’ he said.
    â€˜I thought you were in prison…’ I stammered.
    Kirov laughed. He threw back his closely shaved head, his mouth opening to reveal gold teeth that glinted dully.
    â€˜I would have come to see you at home,’ he said, ‘but when I telephoned this morning you were not in.’ I was about to explain I had been in the shower, but stopped myself. In his presence the familiar feelings flooded back; feelings I thought I had left behind, that the years and the haloperidol and vodka had scratched from the surface of my memory. The stink of thornbush. The scent of wood smoke. Oil. Sweat. Fear. Dust billowing up from the wheels of the APC. For a moment I was back there, in Afghanistan. I stood rooted to the spot, unable to speak, unable to move. It was as if he had leapt from my dreams; my nightmares.
    â€˜What do you want, Kirov?’ I asked, finally.
    â€˜To renew old acquaintance.’ He chuckled, wandering over to my desk. He placed the door key on the table and picked up one of the tear-shaped amber beads, examining it closely. ‘In these times of mourning it is important we all pull together, no?’ He grinned again, dropping the amber on to the table.
    â€˜He always was fascinated by amber,’ Kirov continued, settling himself in Vassily’s chair. He waved his hand, indicating I should sit. Reluctantly I did so, opposite him. ‘Never understood it myself,’ he said, ‘not unless it was worth something. Very few of the stones and jewellery we smuggled out of Afghanistan were worth much. There was just the one, really. Just the one.’
    His fingers formed a tight steeple, the tips resting against his lips. He gazed over them, his piercing grey eyes settling on me, examining me.
    â€˜You would know all about that one, wouldn’t you,’ he said.
    I shook my head. ‘No, Kirov, I know nothing.’
    â€˜Oh, come now, Antoshka, he told you nothing? You know nothing of the bracelet?’
    Again I shook my head.
    â€˜We got it in Ghazis,’ he said, gazing at me, openly examining the effect of his words. He laughed as if this were funny, but as he chuckled his eyes continued to stare at me stonily.
    â€˜Vassily told me nothing,’ I said. ‘You really are talking to the wrong person.’
    â€˜You think you owe him something? I know, you’re an honourable man, Antanas. The question is, was he?’
    â€˜What do you mean?’ I said.
    Kirov eased himself forward in Vassily’s chair. A sly grin crept across his face.
    â€˜Vassily. Was he an honourable man? Was he worthy of your gratitude, your