Chapter 5

"Ohhh look!"

They passed another vineyard and Michelle stuck her nose out the window.

"It's beautiful!"

Kirill smiled.

It had been his idea. He didn't know where he kept coming up with these romantic suggestions, since before this he didn't think he had a single romantic bone in his body. But apparently he had. A long scenic drive through French countryside, visiting cute little villages and historic churches and a cosy bed and breakfast to top it all off. He'd done the whole works. Miraculously, he'd also stopped thinking about sex. He was thinking of congratulating his penis.

The Renault tore around another corner, leaving the vineyard behind them as well as a cloud of dust.

"You drive like the devil," she muttered.

He grinned.

"You can always drive."

"I can't drive on the right side of the road," she complained, swallowing down a mouthful of water from her bottle. "And I can't drive a manual."

"You can always learn."

"It's okay."

"Well then you shouldn't complain about my driving," he said, raising an infamous brow.

She huffed and sat back in the seat, closing her eyes.

"You win."

He gave another grin.

God. They sounded like a married couple.

"How do you drive manual, anyway?"

"You have to change gears for different stages. You should know that."

"I do. I just- ugh, I don't know why I asked."

"I suspect you have just never tried to do it," he said, his eyes never leaving the road. "It's not that hard. Especially for someone like you."

"What do you mean, someone like me?"

He glanced over at her. "You're intelligent. If you want to do something you can."

Michelle sat in silence for a minute.

"Can you teach me? Now?"

Her voice was shy, soft.

He pulled over, startling a few cows by the side of the fence.

He got out of the car. She'd already shut the passenger door. She looked nervous.

She got into the driver's side, and he into the passenger seat.

He clicked on his belt and put a hand over her's.

"There are three pedals instead of two," he pointed. "The one on the very left is the new one, the clutch."

She nodded.

"You probably know how the stick shift works," he continued, his hand moving her's to cover it. She nodded.

On his instruction, she practised changing gears with the park brake on.

He nodded in satisfaction. "The best way to remember is press clutch, change gear, press accelerator and release clutch. Once you have that it is easy."

Kirill was a good teacher.

He was patient, and he gave clear, easy instructions. It wasn't long before she was tearing through the hills herself.

"Oh my god!" Michelle yelled, her face alight with joy. "I CAN DRIVE MANUAL!"

Kirill sat in the passenger seat looking smug.

The Renault drove around another corner.

"Thank you," she said in a more demure tone.

"You're welcome." he said modestly.

"Why didn't you learn before?" he asked after a few minutes.

"I didn't have the right teacher," she said, flicking a grin towards him.

His smugness level hit an alarming all time high.

They reached Dijon just past lunch. Hungry, they scoured the town for an eatery, and then trotted about, sight seeing. They arrived at the bed and breakfast tanned and happy.

The building was a refurbished 17th century townhouse. Pink jacaranda trees lined the courtyard. They had a large suite on the first floor, furnished tastefully in taupe, ebony and ivory. Sumptuous curtains lined the windows. Everything was charming and immaculate. And there was only one bed.

It was a big bed. But there was only one of it.

Both of them looked at it. And then Kirill announced he was taking a shower, and Michelle went to unpack her clothes.

One bed, he thought derisively as the water ran through his hair and down his spine. Of course there was only going to be one bed. Only couples booked these sorts of boutique hotels. Maybe it'll finally happen then, he thought, dreamily. His penis heard him.

Uh oh.

Control.

Control.

Celibacy is good.

She's in the next room!

He had to make it quick. He palmed himself slowly, thinking of her. He grit his teeth to stop a moan. He imagined her face, her lips. On his cock. In the shower…

He was panting slightly.

His release came hard and fast, leaving him gasping. He closed his eyes and breathed hard.

Goddammit.

It had better happen soon.

He turned up the heat, making sure all traces were gone before he finished up. His face was hot from the steam, but he'd survive. He'd die if she knew what he'd been up to.

He'd taken his clothes in with him to the bathroom. He took his time to shave, still basking in the afterglow of his handy work.

When he'd come out, she'd finished packing. She was lounging about, reading something on her Kindle. Music was wafting from her laptop.

She was humming along.

He went to sit by her.

"What are you reading?"

"How to count in Russian. I can, but I'm rusty."

"What can you count to?"

"One hundred."

He nodded.

"The music. It is beautiful."

She tilted her head up to look at him, smiling. "It's one of my favourites. It's by Rachmaninov."

She switched off her Kindle. "It's sad and beautiful."

Her head swayed in time with the music. "He must have been a deeply lonely man."

Kirill wrapped an arm around her.

"Geez, you're warm."

She snuggled close to him.

"You took a hot shower?"

He just nodded.

"What keeps you doing it?"

She was picking spots of lint off the sofa and looked at him with a smile.

"What do I do?"

"Play piano. What drives you?"

She paused to think.

"I love it."

"That's it?"

She shrugged. "That's it."

"There must be days, times where you must- get sick of it."

"Of course," she said simply, still picking. Something else had come on the laptop now, something a little more cheerful, with a running cascade of notes. "Especially when I was younger. There are days where I have a rest. But that's all it is, a rest."

She slipped down to lean against him. "Usually when I am like that I know it is because there is something else in my life bothering me. When I play, it is like my mind is being sorted. I can think properly, understand myself properly."

She fingered the fabric of the sofa, satisfied there was no more lint. "I suppose I think of it as my very old friend."

"What is this music now?"

"Miroirs. No 3. By Ravel. French composer."

"You like his music too?"

"I do, but I'm careful with him. Sometimes he composes masterpieces, and others…I'm not sure what happened. Rachmaninov's more stable."

He paused, listening.

"Are you ready to go out? Or do you want to shower?"

Michelle thought. "I'll have a quick shower."

She got her things ready and padded over to the bathroom. She came out about a minute later, sniffing daintily.

"Kirill?"

"Yes?"

"It smells…of camembert cheese in the shower."

Kirill lifted a brow.

"Yeah, I know it sounds stupid. But I have a very sensitive nose, and-"

Her eyes widened. Then they narrowed.

"Never mind," she said curtly. Then she walked back in and shut the door.

Busted.

They ate in a quiet bistro in Dijon, neither of them talking much. The shower incident was not mentioned, though Michelle coughed when the cheeseboard came out, with a large portion of Camembert. She refused to touch it.

When they got back to the inn, neither of them mentioned the bed. They just wriggled into it, side by side. His arm went around her.

"Where did you grow up?"

Michelle smiled. "Well, I grew up in Sydney's west. I'm a Westie. You can tell by the way I talk."

"We had a house on a hill with an enormous garden. There were two huge mango trees. Every summer we'd get a good haul. We'd have birthday parties in the backyard, and it was big enough to fit quite a few inflatable pools."

She sighed, thinking. "And then we moved. I had dreams of buying that property, and some stupid developer came and bulldozed it and built an atrocity of a mansion."

She paused. "Shithead."

"And the new house?"

"The new house was fine. The backyard was big, just not as big. We got a dog. He's still miraculously alive. He's about 18 years old now and eats as much as a horse."

"What did you do growing up?"

Michelle laced her fingers through his. "Piano, school, tennis. I loved school. I was the academic sort. But I had fun too. Played sport, played in bands. It was lovely."

A wave of nostalgia hit her. Thinking about those times was like thinking of another life, a bygone era.

"Both your parents are alive?"

"Yes. My mother is a…real businesswoman. My dad's semi retired, but it's driving him crazy. He used to call me everyday, and I finally had to tell him to stop."

She stifled a giggle. "Dad's very sensitive, so he took offence. He calls my brother, now."

"You have other siblings?"

"Just my brother."

"Older or younger?"

"He's younger than me by seven years."

"You are close?"

Michelle smiled again and rested her head on his shoulder. "Yeah. He is a difficult pain in the ass sometimes, but yes, we're very close."

"He lives in the States," she continued. "He moved there about three years ago to be with his partner. We Skype, regularly enough, and text. But I miss him."

Kirill nodded. He couldn't help it. He liked knowing more about her. "And your parents? They miss him."

"Definitely. Sometimes I think they're clinging onto me, because he's gone. But I suppose it's only natural."

"What about your family?" she asked, after a short while.

Michelle felt Kirill stiffen next to her. She looked over at him, worried. His eyes were staring at the ceiling with a faraway look.

"It's okay. You don't need to- if it's painful."

Kirill kept on staring.

His mother had been the only good thing in his life. She just had a talent to pick the worst guys in existence to be with.

He glanced over at Michelle. She was cozied up against him, her eyes closed, but he knew she wasn't sleeping.

"I'm afraid my childhood was quite different from your's," he said in a soft voice as he stroked her hair. "I almost envy you."

Her eyes opened. She was listening.

"I don't know who my father was."

He spoke in a flat, emotionless voice.

"My mother raised me. We lived in Tolyatti, a city southeast of Russia. We stayed in a- not a house; it was like a small building attached to a house. The man who owned it rented it to my mother. He told me he came to her when she just had me, and she was desperate."

"We stayed there in peace for a few years. And then came another man, and another child. He would abuse her, hit her, scream at her. And then he left. I was five."

"Shit."

She touched his arm. "That's awful, Kirill."

"At least he left. It was just me, my mother, and the baby. My mother had to go out and work, so I minded her."

Michelle smiled a little. Thinking about Kirill holding a child made her go gooey.

"And then came another man. Same thing happened. Another child. Another girl."

He shifted a little on the bed to look at her. "Are you sure you want to hear the rest?"

Michelle looked back at him. "Yes," she said as she squeezed his hand.

He nodded and continued. "Then there came another man. It was me, Nika and Katya. I was fourteen. Nika was nine. Katya was five."

Kirill's mouth grew tight.

"He was a pedofil."

Michelle gave a small gasp. "Oh no, Kirill."

"He used to come into our room. We shared a bedroom. My mother slept in the living room. He wasn't interested in me," Kirill said. "He was interested in Nika."

"The first night he did it, I tried to stop him. He kicked me in the ribs so hard I thought I'd died. I tried to tell my mother. I think she already knew. But he was too strong for her."

"What happened?" Michelle said softly.

There was a silence.

"Kirill?"

"I killed him."

Michelle froze.

She felt Kirill's hand on her jaw, turning her face towards him. "You wanted to know," he said.

She swallowed.

"He killed my mother."

She looked at him then, in pity and horror.

"What happened?"

"As I said, she'd tried to get him to stop. They got into an argument. She pulled out the kitchen knife. He grabbed it from her. Stabbed her."

Tears fell down Michelle's face.

"I saw what happened," he said in a soft voice. "I remember not very much. All I remember next is I was on his chest, and I was beating his face. The knife was already between his ribs. A policeman had to pull me from his body."

He looked at her, his eyes green, full of emotion.

"A lot of people called my mother a whore. Said she didn't deserve any pity. She got herself into her own mess. But to me she was only my mother. She was a good mother. She was just terrible at life."

Her tears were coming hard and fast now, and Kirill reached for the tissue box.

"Here," he said gently, lifting the tissues to her nose. She blew.

When she'd stopped weeping she snuggled close to him again. "I can't imagine what you've been through," she whispered. "What happened next?"

"I was charged with manslaughter. The judge was lenient on me; I was a minor, I was under fourteen, and the circumstances were in my favour. I got a suspended sentence. It was dismissed after some time."

"And Nika? And Katya?"

"We were separated. We went to different foster homes. The new baby was given up for adoption. We lost contact."

"That's so sad, Kirill."

He nodded. It wasn't completely true. Nika still wrote him letters. He would respond with brief, curt notes. But that part of him he felt he was not ready to share.

"And then you joined the police force?" she said, curling a finger through her hair.

"Da. When I was eighteen."

"That's nice then," she sighed and snuggled onto his chest.

He stroked the side of her arm absentmindedly. "What is?"

"You chose a job that fights injustice. It's poetic. It's like you are avenging her, with your life. She would be very proud of you, Kirill."

I doubt it, he thought. He ran his fingers through her long hair. She smelled nice. He put his nose on her head. Like jasmine.

They fell asleep in one another's arms.