Chapter Six

SCHERLONK went the electronic key card lock of the hotel bedroom door.

SCHLUMP went a plastic carrier bag onto the floor as Boris dropped it, striding through the door in a very good mood.

He breathed a big happy sigh and went to the mini-bar, pulled out a couple of vodka minis, sat in the armchair and drank them down in a one gulp Russian manner.

Alma had been woken from her near-coma by the door opening and was sneaking a peak from under the sheets.

Hmmm, she thought. “Not bad. Won’t be TOO much of a sacrifice”. She sniggered a little silent snigger. She was eyeing his well built tight body and beginning to think naughty thoughts.

Boris sat in the chair for a moment, looked around the room, happily, as though he wanted to tell some good news to someone. He got up. Paced about a bit. Sat down again. Got up. Looked out of the window down to the park. Sat down again. Like a child on Christmas eve waiting for Father Christmas to deliver the goods. Up, down, up, down... rub hands together, grin to self. Ants. Pants.

In her now pretend sleep, Alma sighed heavily, to catch his attention and to try to break into this silly performance of his. It was getting irritating. But she just wanted to watch him for a little bit longer. Suss him out a bit more.

Boris’ attention was caught and he calmed down a little. He went to the bag on the floor by the door and pulled something out of it. Alma couldn’t quite see what it was, but when he started to peel it, while idly looking in the mirror at the room behind him, she saw it was an onion.

“Good God, what’s that for?” Alma wondered, though not for long, as he took a huge bite out of it then polished it off in four more bites.

“Eugh.” she shuddered. “Nice bum though” she thought, trying to compensate for the onion eating. “I could just give that a little squeeze while I’m trying to get him going, won’t take much... I’ll just stick my nails in see what happens and then maybe we’ll .... OH MY GOD, what the flaming pie of hell is he DOING?!” (Alma had a rather verbose inner dialogue).... as Boris stuck some little white earphones in his ears and started to boogie. He started to wiggle that tight little backside of his and as he twirled round, with an imaginary dancing partner in his arms, Alma had a vision of “Strictly Ballroom in Gorky Park”.

Boris carried on in his dancing reverie, in a rather un-gangsterish way. If his colleagues could see him now, thought Alma, in her endless internal conversation with herself, he’d probably end up in the bottom of the Tagus by the morning. She was also trying to desensitise herself to this ridiculous behaviour... how could she shag a foxtrot wannabe?

Boris gave another happy sigh as he tired of dancing, looked out the window a couple more times before taking off the earphones. He looked for a bit more vodka, but as usual, the minibar had just two of everything. He opted for a couple of Pernods and a couple of Martini Rossos. “I feel sick, I feel sick” said Alma’s innards “...going to have to snog that in a minute” they continued... “ gonna be difficult....” they gagged on.... “but gotta get back my precious thing.” they went on... “gonna, gotta? what? why? vodka, pernod, onion, martini, vodka, onion, pernod, onion, onion, martini, ROSSO”... Alma and her innards were in a spin.... she desperately tried to cling onto the image of the tough, dark and handsome Russian gangster she had intended to shag (which was surely going to land up on her list of fantasies if she ever managed to get shagged again in her life) to get her through... she was surprisingly close to getting to the Precious Thing, since it was less than twelve hours since she’d arrived in Portugal....this was all meant to BE in the great scheme of things... she was meant to get the Precious Thing back... she was meant to be doing this superficially sexy Russian - well he DID look like George Clooney from the back - her house was meant to burn down.... oh, god, here I go....

Alma was just about to fake a wake up in a sexy come hither kind of a way, when Boris stretched out his arms, yawned and pulled off his black polo neck. Underneath was a kind of wrapping, no, a corset. “Back trouble” said inner Alma... “I’ll try to keep it gentle then!” inner snigger.

Boris undid the hooks at the back of his elasticated corset. An enormous gut literally spilled out at the front and the sides, in a wave of pure blubber. Taking his jeans off, he left on only his leopard print extremely tight y-fronts and sank back into the armchair.

Alma just said a barely audible “no” to herself and decided that she would have to find another way to keep Boris close. And although Boris fell fast asleep in the armchair, she didn’t sleep for what remained of the night.

***********

As the sun rose, so did Boris (as they all do). Luckily, Alma was already in the bathroom, for that vision would have finished her and any future fantasising about Russian gangsters.

By the time she was out of the bathroom, Boris was dressed. With appalling breath.

“Good mornink, Alma, we’re going for a little drive.... I’ve just got to go to the bathroom, and we’ll be off.

***********

They drove out of Lisbon, into the countryside.

It was beautifully sunny and the air was hot, so to counteract Boris’ Siberian air conditioning, Alma opened her window. She was still completely destroyed from lack of sleep, so drifted in and out of a deep doze as they went along.

After a couple of hours they arrived at a farm in the middle of some deserted countryside. Just olive groves and dry grass all around.


“Conceição!” called Boris and a short but broad women in a polyester wraparound sleeveless housecoat (do you want me to draw a picture?) trotted out of the house.

“Ai! Querido Borisisinho, meu russosinho!” she said as Boris and Alma got out of the car, Alma squinting at the daylight after the darkened windows of Boris’s BMW. “And who is the menina?” she asked kindly.... “ai! you’ll get a cold! you have no shoes!!!!!!!!!! ai ai ai! You must be another little russasinha!”

“No, no,” said Alma “British. And we British don’t catch colds from having bare feet” she continued.. irritated by such nonsense...but she checked herself... “don’t be rude... you haven’t had any breakfast”

“Actually, I’m starving.... is there anything to eat?”
Conceição beamed. “Of course, querida” and ushered Alma into the farmhouse.

“Sit, sit” and Alma sat. The old lady brought to the table some watery slime with oil floating on top and tiny bits of pasta sunk to the bottom and a grey hunk of bread.

“This’ll put some colour back in your cheeks,” she said, “but no, that would mean you’re terribly sick, oh god, I don’t know anymore... shoes, no shoes, hot, no hot, cold water, hot water..... I spend far too much time with foreigners and you’re all a bit crazy.” Conceição went on... though more muttering to herself as she waddled around the kitchen, maniacally finding things to tidy.

“Christ. A looney.” thought Alma.

Boris seemed to have disappeared once she had eaten her greasy water and rock hard bread so, she went off for a walk round the farm to try to clear her head. Lack of sleep was really getting to her sense of reality.

Alma walked through an olive grove wondering what the hell she was actually doing here... since Boris had said almost nothing to her in the car, just repeatedly hummed a little bit of “Love is in the Air”.

She stopped to look closely at a dead lizard on the ground, when someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned, expecting to see mad Boris.

With a black eye, a tooth missing from the front and a bit of a limp, it was Mr Pyre. Kevin Bloody Pyre.



by Vitriolica
illustration by blogless Pete.