The Pure

light, she looked like a different person. She was dancing woodenly, self-consciously, and there was something compelling about that. He caught her eye and she looked away, then recognised him and smiled. He moved closer and danced to the rhythm in his ribcage.
    ‘Hi,’ he said, his voice fighting with the music. She shrugged, and he put his mouth close to her ear.
    ‘Hi,’ he repeated.
    ‘Hi,’ she shouted back, and giggled.
    ‘What’s your name?’ he yelled. ‘I can’t remember. Sorry.’ The girl said something he didn’t understand. He bent his head low and she repeated it into his ear; she did not flinch as he rested his hand in the small of her back.
    ‘Mariska.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Mary.’
    Uzi smiled and moved away. She held his gaze, then looked down coyly. He understood – and was surprised – that there were no hard feelings. Last time they met the chemistry had been there, but she was simply too young, too innocent, too pathetic. It had all been too easy; she had been absurdly impressed by his world-weariness, his stories – all lies – about being a Russian presidential bodyguard. There had been no thrill of the chase.
    He thought back to the stories he had told her last time, trying to remember the details. Russian presidential bodyguard – yes, that’s right. But for how many years? Eight? Ten? Had he admitted to having a son? Had he told her his age? He was getting sloppy. But it was instinctive, this lying. Even now that he had left his old life behind, he found it hard to tell the truth. His training had left an indelible mark, had changed him irreversibly. It had been designed to. For weeks on end they had assigned him a false identity, sent him out into the streets, then arrested and interrogated him, violently; then immediately assigned him another false identity and released him on to the streets again, only to pick him up and interrogate him once more; and then there would be another identity, and another, all day, for days at a time, until he had become used to maintaining a cover story, and withstanding torture for it. Until he had almost forgotten who he really was. Until his true identity had become irrelevant.
    Mary, he recalled, was studying English in the mornings, working in a Hungarian café in Soho in the afternoons. She had been heading to some sort of music festival, he couldn’t remember which one. She was nothing but a child, really. They existed in different worlds.
    A new song was playing now, something with a thudding bassline, blow after blow to the heart. Again he felt that something bad was going to happen, but he shrugged it off. A mist grew in his abdomen, rising to his chest, intensifying, and suddenly he wanted this girl. Fuck the consequences. He began to dance like a beast in a mating ritual. A few of the other students glanced at them, then turned away. Mary smiled in the blue-and-pink light and he found himself smiling back, feeling physical pain at her innocence. It was like looking into a mirror and seeing everything he was not.
    He was sweating. As one song bled into another and the dance floor became more and more crowded, they became separated from Mary’s friends, who were now dancing in a knot twenty-five paces away. Uzi was jostled – again, he thought, by accident. He bent low to speak to her.
    ‘How was the festival?’
    She looked at him, wide-eyed, and smiled. Now their bodies were touching.
    ‘You remember.’
    ‘Of course I remember.’
    ‘Festival was very nice.’
    ‘Good.’
    ‘Your name – it was Tommy?’
    ‘That’s right, Tommy.’
    ‘From Russia?’
    ‘That’s right. Tomislav.’
    She laughed, and suddenly, in the flashes of coloured light, she looked powerful, like a goddess. Uzi felt sick. For a while they continued to dance, and he felt the blood rush into his neck and drain again.
    ‘Shall we get a drink?’ she shouted. He nodded. She took his hand and led him from the dance floor. The lamb leading the wolf, he thought, the rabbit leading the huntsman.
    The air was close and humid as they left the club and stepped into the blackness of the night. Mary was tottering slightly, holding on to his arm, and he was supporting her, his hand straying on to her hip. He was drunk; nothing concerned him any more. Sweat had plastered his hair to his forehead. One-handed, he lit a cigarette and the girl laughed at something. She had her phone out – it had cartoon stickers on it – and she was trying to send a text.