Everything about ballet class; the movement, the music, the repetition, was soothing with ingrained familiarity, even if he could feel the lingering effects from the fact this was his first exercise in three days. The instructions in English, not Russian not German and not French. In November, December and January he had been a guest star in Paris and then Stuttgart. After talking to Vladimir, then later with Luci last night, Sasha was strangely homesick and wanted to see them so much and could not wait for this two month long engagement to be over, as he had a month planned in New York. At class, their were no longings, no recriminations, no memories, just him and his body.
The Ballet Master, Mark, had greeted him with surprise as Sasha was supposedly resting. "Three days missed class, is beyond the pale. If I had done that with Maria, she would have whipped my legs raw for not actually being dead. Myra Longbridge missed class for four days, off sunning herself somewhere tropical and Maria told her that she had no place in her studio for lazy bitches. So three days off maximum, unless you can't walk. Vladimir does class everyday, except when injured, even Christmas." Alex had had three days bed rest after open heart surgery, he could have done class then, no problem.
He paid no mind to stripping for a quick wash after class, he'd lost any sense of modesty after Miss Stellenbosch, Yassen and Niles. The bruises were fading into the background, no real ache nor the wonderful sharp sting and lingering throb of impact. All things considered, a small discomfort in a life littered with real agony. The bathroom was busy with two of the soloists who were also changing for other appointments and commitments. Alex noted their chatting had stopped as he washed under his arms, obviously they had taken note of the grey/yellow marks on his wrists from handcuffs, the rings of finger marks on his lower arms and the mottled mess on his back and chest.
Alex was so tempted to be dramatic and state to the crowd that this was nothing compared the beating he received in Quito, when he had pissed blood for days. After, he'd distracted the National Police with a bit of petty theft, letting Misha finish his deal. After a short chase, rather than arrest the street kid, they'd just given him a lesson in life South American style. Ecuador, was one place he had no desire to ever to go back to. Columbia and Mexico were also on that list. Never a dull moment with Misha. Even if you liked living on a knife edge. Misha had got him a doctor who over prescribed ketamine, that stuff was wicked. God, knows what the hell he's talked about when under the influence.
Was life here going to be like returning to Brookland? Whispers and sly looks, as the dancers discussed the new member of the company, one who had attained notoriety in Russia for both technical brilliance and for caustic relationships. Here he was bringing his own repertoire of works to perform as well as several guest performances of the Royal Ballet's catalogue. Critics compared his early performances for Manfred and Vladimir as maverick, with the mix of modern and contemporary and his highly unusual change back to classical ballet, many stating he had been rebelled against Maria's very strict training.
Now he was going to be discussing the past with Edward. He was rehashing things he had not really thought over since, just pushed to the back of his mind. He had done things for Misha without any thought of consequence or conscience. Strange considering the things he had been discussed with Edward were not even the worst bits. He had lived for the moment, for each drink, tablet, fix or orgasm. Just living day to day, moment to moment. Situations where Alex had just gone along with Misha, without worrying about right or wrong. Life had taught Alex that there were only shades of grey, when men like Blunt were as bad as Sarov, as they all thought they were going the right thing. One teenagers life meant nothing, when compared to their big picture. Everyone was expendable and no one was innocent. He had been branded a target through his paternity alone.
It had all been fine, until one day in November 2002, something had changed when they were in Caracas. It was no longer a party, when Alex had started the day with his new breakfast of choice: glass of tequila, a handful of Tylenol and two lines of cocaine. Misha had said enough was enough. Yep that was Alex even today, he was an alcoholic and drug addict. Even now, he could murder a drink. He would pass on the cocaine, but hell those first fixes had overridden all the guilt, nightmares and self-hatred. That chemical high had made Alex, not a carefree teenager, just a person who was a good approximation of functioning.
Alex struggled with his daypack, as he did not have an allocated locker at the rehearsal rooms yet and frankly could not be bothered with organising one. He stood in the hall, waiting for his taxi and telephoned Terrence Pritchard. He really would be pushing doctor patient confidentiality when he told his shrink he enjoyed cleaning up problems for Paul and Misha, it made him feel something other than empty, not excitement, just alive, like he was real. With those thoughts he knew he was out of control and in need of new boundaries, goals and probably his own padded cell.
…
The restaurant was open, light and airy. The ballet dancer moved purposefully with silent footfalls through the tables to the one occupied by Edward Pleasure. It was early enough that only two other tables were occupied. He was underdressed in an eclectic mix of loose clothes reserved for practice, comprising large training trousers with tights underneath, t-shirt, vest, sweatshirt, loose scarf and trainers. His hair un-styled and only damped down when he had washed. Edward was sat in a shirt and jacket, no tie.
Edward looked at the man called Sasha, and tried not to think of the broken boy called Alex. "Good Morning, Sasha. It's good to see you. You must have had a good night's sleep because you look much better."
"The hotel provided an excellent breakfast to welcome me home. Even had black pudding and I haven't eaten that for years. I move into my new apartment later on today, nice place in Grosvenor Square." His home for two months was rent free as he was borrowing the London home of Dieter Sprintz.
Alex sat looked over the menu. They had agreed yesterday that it would be work first. "Did you invite Liz to join us later?"
"She can get here for one. She has a scrap book of you notices and interviews and thanks you for the birthday presents you sent her. Especially the diamond bracelet from Columbia. She never wears it because she assumed it was stolen."
"Yeah, but it's not like the former owner is ever going to miss it. He's reinforcing part of the main highway to Venezuela. I was there for the concrete pour. Better in my pocket than in his, waiting for some CSI to excavate his mouldy corpse." Alex then noted the digital recorder was on. "I didn't kill him, I was only there as Misha's bodyguard, who am I kidding I was always just his personal entertainment, he was discussing some financial transfer with the Marianas Cartel. The whole internment was meant as an example to Misha, if he fucked up then he and I would be part of the next bridge abutment. Why do bad guys never understand subtlety." Alex had never asked who it was or what they had done to deserve the fate of being encasing in concrete alive. Knowing the nut job in charge, the unfortunate schmuck had dared to look at Bruno's sister the wrong way. Alex had the sneaky feeling he had only survived after making conversation with Constanza because Bruno had caught him giving Misha a blow job earlier.
As Edward switched off his digital recorder and put away his notebook, he looked sad and worn. "I'd like to say that's great were finished; but God, Alex, please tell me it wasn't worse than that. Hindsights, a wonderful and terrible thing, but I would like to think we could have worked things out. You found a home with Maria and Vladimir. What did I miss that made you run?"
"It wasn't you, Liz or Sabina. It was the simple fact that Tulip Jones legally still had guardianship. I overheard the conversation when she refused your offer of adoption. I could not trust her and she obviously still wanted her hooks in me as I was a liability. I got out by burning myself. I had run away to give myself time to think and I was planning on getting a job, finding somewhere to live, moving on with a new name. Then I met Misha, we talked, we clicked. He took me nightclubbing and had drunken sex. I like sex, its one of those fleeting moments you can drown everything shitty out."
Alex then suddenly realised that Liz was stood behind him as he could smell Rive Gauche, her favourite perfume. He turned and then stood up, unsure on how to greet this woman. He had met Edward with guarded hostility, but he had tried to apologise through inappropriate gifts. He took in the fact she was still as slim and stylish. He then laughed loudly and full of mirth, on his foster mothers wrist was $50K worth of diamonds and platinum. "You're wearing your bling! I was sure you'd get it fenced, even on the black market you'd get enough for a nice holiday."
Liz Pleasure moved forward purposely making obvious she was going to hug, remembering the jumpy, touch shy teenager. The pair hugged. Nearly ten years had passed, but she had been happy that Alex had found happiness by moving at a tangent to his past. She was not bitter, just a realist that they had all been in an impossible situation. "Edward has already bought me tickets for your opening show. I saw you in Paris in December, but I was too chicken to go to the stage door. I wanted make sure when I saw you again you wouldn't run."
Alex moved to pull out the chair for the mother he had rejected. "Liz, Truth is I'm still running. Three years at Novosibirsk was just about all I could handle of staying put. I was starting to do really stupid things, best to move on and start again when that starts happening."
…..
"Hi, Doc. I'm here to tell you that I'm loosing the plot. Its OK, I think I can handle being both Sasha and Alex, again."
"Are you thinking of yourself as two separate entities?"
"Yeah, Serge always said Sasha was the dancer and Alex was the moody arsehole who drank. Sometimes I like to think Alex Rider died at some point between Cairo and Bogota. I'm cool with still being called Alex, but the version of Alex in my head is a complete psycho."
The ex-army officer surmised the last place-name was significant, "What happened in Columbia, Alex?"