Friday, July 14, 2017. Daily Brit Wit.
BRITISH for underwear. (Also, sometimes referred to as knickers, though usually in a humorous situation.)
*Here's the second part of the Pasha series. This takes off from yesterday's Flat found here.
"Pasha's turmoil firmly grips low in his belly and causes him to double over, gasping for air and his knees. If he paid the passing thought any mind, he'd have wondered why his knees hadn't given out and he was familiarising himself with cement. He can't catch his breath, though.
A tentative hand hovers for a beat or two over his shoulder before Pasha's skin burns with touch, a solid weight anchoring him to reality.
His reality is bleak now.
'Zoya,' he wails his sister's name, pleading and desperate, as if to call her forth and shatter this farce.
His palms dig in eye sockets roughly. Suddenly, he rights his posture but the hand on his back doesn't fall. Pasha glances left to meet the steady gaze of the officer.
'What became of Zoya and Ekaterina?' His voice is scratchy and he has to clear it several times before he's properly understood. His accent is more pronounced, too, but blessedly the bobby doesn't ask him to repeat the absolutely gutting question once he's struggled all the way to the end.
'We're investigating still,' he begins, tone subdued but not tinged with pity. Loads of empathy pour from the man's posture and expression, no doubt due to hundreds of similar experiences. He holds out his arm in silent invitation for Pasha. They walk toward and then inside Pasha's flat.
It remains unsaid that Pasha must identify his sister and her wife yet.
A niggling thought prods him, but Pasha doesn't have his full facilities about him to pay it proper mind.
He's ushered round his foyer and he's spooked to see his home turned to rubbish. Based on what he can tell, it appears as if someone destroyed his property prior to the Met's arrival. The police sweep the area combing for evidence and certainly are trundling about with no intention of contaminating the scene.
A shudder runs up and down the length of his spine upon referring to his home as a crime scene.
The officer has no time to forewarn Pasha before he identifies his sister's-in-law crumpled form, outlined in a russet pool, nestled at the foot of the stairs. The lack of warning –even perhaps it wouldn't have made a damned difference– results in Pasha spinning right and vomiting inside a half-full pottery vase. The sharp tang of metal, perhaps and most likely iron, wafts around and then mixes with his emptying stomach.
It's the unspoken confirmation Pasha's given the officers and various personnel milling round. Only now, he need speak their names aloud to cement it. He quivers and heaves, though thankfully the vomiting has entered a (temporary) hiatus.
'That–' he gulps in air, stays facing the wall and jabs a thumb in the general direction of his sister-in-law. 'That's Ekaterina,' he confirms.
The platinum blonde locks of the woman would be hard to miss, let alone her favourite aubergine jumper that he saw her wearing just this morning. Was that only six hours ago?
He must turn around and undergo his first out of body experience as he watches a team gather up charming Ekaterina and zip her inside a black body bag. It's another cemented sight confirming Pasha to his new reality. The wavelengths between his motor skills and brain appear not to be computing, incompatible, as he can't divert his attention as the body is transported outside. And then he's being lead over spilt blood and up the stairs. He ends up inside the guest bathroom, but the two (alive) bodies block his view.
Until they don't. His stomach roils and Pasha's out of body experience closes with a crashing collision with the doorjamb, sharp in his trapezius. Suddenly, he's freezing despite the humidity still lingering on the foggy mirror.
'Zoya,' he moans.
His sweet, beautiful baby sister lies in a compromising position. She hangs partially inside the bathtub, legs outside and pants visible and naked upper torso hidden by ceramic. Since her back is toward the door and head craned slightly, Pasha can imagine she was attacked from behind, in the process of showering. Her dark hair appears darker, ebony instead of deep, rich mocha, and wet. Odd. A beat passes before his breathing returns heavy upon comprehension of her hair wet with blood not water. The rioting returns inside his belly.
He squeezes his eyes tightly and shakes his head rapidly.
'Please,' rasps Pasha eventually, 'how?'
He can't speak beyond monosyllables and refuses to open his eyes. Because if he does it's all true and real.
The officer whom he walked with inside answers. 'Blunt force trauma from the looks of it, though it won't be official until they're examined down at the morgue.'
That prodding nudge returns full-force and Pasha can's ignore it any longer. He gasps. He should have known better than leaving his sisters here unprotected, alone.
'Do you have an inkling of who could want to hurt your sister and sister-in-law, sir?' The officer asks not unkindly.
And Pasha nods."