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After everything is settled, I return to the sixth form boys’ building. Instead of going to my room to unpack my things, I head straight for Iakov’s room, knocking sharply on his door.
Silence answers me at first, but I wait patiently. Eventually, a grunt resounds from the other side of the door.
“Come in.”
I enter the room and close the door behind me. Even though it’s almost eleven in the morning, the curtains are still shut. An enormous body forms a mountain underneath the blankets.
The mountain shifts. A corner of the blanket is pulled down to reveal dark almond-shaped eyes blinking slowly.
“What,” Iakov says, the inflection of his voice indicating an accusation rather than a question.
I fling his curtains open, flooding the room with daylight. A scene of chaos is illuminated: a black duffel bag slumped into the desk chair, a crumpled school uniform hanging on the wardrobe door, two empty beer bottles glistening next to the bed, a pile of cracked boxing gloves shoved into a corner.
“Get up,” I say, yanking Iakov’s blanket off him. “It’s nearly eleven, for god’s sake.”
Iakov throws an arm across his face and then says his favourite word. “Fuck.”
“Had a good holiday with Papa Kavinski, huh?” I ask.
“Don’t call him that,” Iakov grunts.
He rears up to sit at the edge of his bed. Grabbing a bottle of water from the floor, he drinks in long, loud gulps. He’s wearing black boxers and nothing else. Stark daylight falls over him to reveal a map of bruises and cuts over his back, his ribs, his arms and legs. Some of them are old and fading, with yellow edges, while others are mottled, raised and red, betraying more recent injuries.
I resist the urge to avert my eyes. Sometimes, looking at Iakov is physically painful.
Iakov doesn’t seem ashamed of the way he looks, and he has this way of never explaining his injuries which makes it impossible to question him about them. His bruises are like his tattoos, black boots and buzz cut: unapologetically a part of him.
Iakov downs the water and tosses the bottle onto his blanket. He stands with a groan and stretches, his bones cracking as he twists his torso around. He shoves open his en-suite bathroom door, stands in front of his toilet and unceremoniously starts pissing.
“What do you want, then?” he asks over his shoulder.
“I’m not having a conversation with you while you’re urinating.” With a grimace, I shove the duffel bag off his desk chair and take a seat. From the bathroom, I hear the sound of the toilet flushing then the water running. Iakov comes back out with his face and hair dripping with water, his toothbrush in his mouth.
“Go on, then,” he says, leaning one shoulder against the wall and brushing his teeth with unnecessary aggression.
“I have a favour I need to ask you,” I tell him.
“Yea?” He lets out a low, growling laugh. “It’ll cost you.”
“A favour for a favour—I know.” I link my fingers together and lean back into the desk chair. “This one’s a big one.”
Iakov nods, then disappears back into the bathroom, where I hear him spit and rinse his mouth out. He returns and crouches by his duffel bag, rifling through it.
“Big favour, huh?” he asks without looking at me.
“Yes.”
He looks up. “Need me to kill someone?”
It’s impossible to tell whether he’s being serious or not. His tone is solemn, but then Iakov is always solemn, even when he’s being sarcastic. Equally, Iakov strikes me as the kind of person who is fully capable of taking a human life—I wouldn’t even be surprised to find out he already has.
That’s the reason I’m here, after all.
“No, I don’t need you to kill anyone. I need to give you some information before I tell you the favour, but you have to swear you won’t tell a soul.” I raise an eyebrow. “I mean that, Iakov. Not a soul.”
He nods. Grabbing a zipped black case out of his duffel bag, he tosses it on the bed and then sits down. Leaning forward, he props his elbows on his knees and looks directly at me.
“Right.” His voice is low and solemn. His black eyes are fixed on mine. “I swear.” He jabs his chin out. “Tell me.”
