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The Bullet and The Rose	By : MrsSaruman Category: S through Z > Snatch Views: 1780 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Snatch, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Prologue
- 2-One
- 3-Two
- 4-16 December 1998
- 5-Three
- 6-Four
- 7-Five
- 4
- 5
- 6
Three

�� I hold
Casey�s first letter in my hand and smile ruefully.� That one must have been difficult for him to write.� I remember my shock the first time I read it
and my tone as I called my mother, demanding answers.� She had just sighed and said �Kh'ntrem, Seda.� Es unem glkhcav[1],�
meaning she did not want to discuss it.�
I had slammed down the phone in disgust.� She had to have known.� I
shake my head and tuck the letter away.�
Poor, poor Casey.� I cannot even
begin to think what that revelation had done to his already shaken psyche.� His mother had been a drunk, and his father,
my father, was too busy juggling work and one family to have time to
worry about another.� When he passed, he
left them nothing.� I learned all of
this after writing Casey back, professing no harm done and asking to get to
know him better.� That�s how the letters
started.� I save each one of them to
read and re-read, hoping I can learn something of this sad young man.� I have never seen his face, but I know his
soul.
�� The door chimes again and I look up
and wince.� It�s Boris.� I force a smile across my mug and step out
from behind the counter and begin extending my hand before I forget.� Boris never shakes hands with women.� Boris tries not to deal with women at all,
or even touch them unless it�s for his own pleasure.
�� Zd`rastvuyte,
Shopgirl,� he says to me.
�� Good
morning, Mr. Yurinov.� Would you like to
step in the back?�
�� He
nods and follows me into the storeroom behind the counter of my store.� �We have a problem,� I�m saying as I
walk.�
�� We?� he asks, the Cossack accent
thick on his tongue.� �If it involves my
payment, milaya moya[2],
then you are the one with the problem.��
I can hear the sarcasm dripping out of his mouth, and I know he means
every word he says.
�� I turn to face
him.� �That�s just it, Mr. Yurinov.� After bills I only have enough to pay you
two-thirds of what you�re asking for.��
He begins to open his mouth but I raise a finger.� �Please, let me finish.� Now, if you give me an extra week and a half
I can get to full sum to you, or you can just take what I have now and I�ll get
the rest to you when I can.�� There, it was
said.� I had been dreading this meeting
all morning.�
�� Boris made a clucking
noise in his throat and shook his head.�
�Not good, devochka, not good at all.�
I thought we had an agreement; I get the five thousand pounds at the
first of the month.� This is the first
of the month, Shopgirl.�
�� It�s bribery
anyway.� As long as you get the money,
why does it matter?� Give me another
week and a half, please.� Pazhaloosta,[3]
Boris!�� The Russian feels thick on my
tongue, but he might be more amenable if he hears the plea in his native
language.
�� Instead his eyes
harden and small fires flare in his pupils.�
Then, I see only spots.� It takes
me few seconds to realize the Russian has backhanded me. Rage flares up in my
chest and I have to chase down the spasm in my hand.� Hitting him back would just end in me spending the rest of my
days at the bottom of the Thames or in a junkyard somewhere.�
�� He pulls me close to
his ear.� �The one thing I hate more
than a self-empowered woman is a woman begging.� Don�t condescend to me, girl.�
I will give you one more week to come up with the rest you owe me for
not running your business into the ground, or you will have a lot worse to
worry about than a reddened cheek.�� He
runs his finger across his throat and I take the hint.
�� I hang my head in a
proper show of humility.� �I�m sorry,
Mr. Yurinov.� It won�t happen
again.� I�ll get your money to you by
this time next week.�� My cheek feels
hot, and I know I�ll have a red mark there for the rest of the day, if not into
tomorrow.� Tears well up in my eyes, but
it�s not from the pain.� It�s the false
modesty, my pride, and my inability to do a goddamned thing about my plight.
�� It seems to satisfy
Boris.� �Remember, girl.� Next week.��
He shakes his finger under my nose and exits my shop.
�� I reemerge from the
storeroom and sniff, surreptitiously wiping unshed tears from my eyes.� My face stings.� Oh, my pride, I think and smile a little ruefully.� Now I had to come up with an extra two
thousand pounds in a week, which means I could kiss any idea of entertainment
goodbye.
�� My bad fortune didn�t
stop me from craving a drink.� I pick up
the phone and dial.
�� Denovitz Jewelers,�
came the answer.
�� Susie?� I ask.
�� No, this is
Alex.� Would you like me to get Susan?�
�� No, no no.� Alex, this is Seda.�
�� Oh.� Hullo, Seda.� What�s cooking?�
�� I�ve had a right
horrible day.� After your dad lets you
off, you and Susie want to come down the pub for a few?�
�� There is a pause.� Muffled noises come through the receiver,
and I assume Alex is asking her sister about my offer.� A clacking noise ends the whispers as Alex�s
earrings hit the phone.
�� Affirmative,
captain.� We�ll meet you at The Three
Doors at, say, seven?�
�� Perfect,� I answer,
already looking forward to an evening of alcohol and laughter.� I had known Susie and Alex for several
years; they were my companions in mischief and drunkenness.� The only thing I really had to complain
about was Susie�s bad habit of trying to set me up with men.� I would go out with them to keep my friend
happy, and although every one of them had been decent I could not generate a
sincere interest in any of them.� Most
of them had been fairly innocent, nice Jewish boys and I couldn�t seem to bring
myself to corrupt them.� I want someone
harder, someone as disillusioned with everything as I am.� My mother doesn�t understand why I�m still
single, but it�s hard to explain to your parent that most of the male gender
disgusts you.� They promise you the
world, and once they know you�ve fallen for �em, then the expectations of clean
houses and kids and dinners at home come to call and you�ll never get out to
the pub to have a beer with your mates.�
At 26 years old, I don�t think I have much chance of marriage
anyway.� It�s not that I don�t want
to get hitched eventually, I just have a feeling that my nights will be spent
in the embrace of a stranger for as long into the future as I care to
look.� I admire Susie�s tenacity and her
hopeless romantic dreams, but it�s just not what I have in mind.
�� I realize I still have
the earpiece of the phone in my hand; the dial tone sounds harsh in my
ears.� I return it to the cradle and
busy myself with the string of crystal beads I had been undoing when I was
interrupted by the brutish looking man.�
I pause, thinking about his offer.�
A night out with Charlie would be very much enjoyable in the next few
weeks, but after this morning�s other visit, I feel the drain on my pocketbook
already.� In actuality I do very well
for myself, but I drink too much, and that costs money.� I never really grew out of the pub culture I
embraced at sixteen, nor do I want to.�
I figure that in my old age, there are few joys left to me, so I might
as well enjoy a pint when I can.� I
doubt they have decent ale in Hell.�
�� I sit back on my
heels, my hands sliding underneath the crystal beads, and I relax for the first
time all day.� The beads are cool to the
touch.� On impulse I hold a strand
against my red cheek and close my eyes.�
It�s almost as if I can feel power humming through them, but I know it�s
my own strength rather than some crystal-power mumbo-jumbo the hippies are
always talking about.� My cheek has quit
stinging, but there�s still the matter of my pride.� I sigh, and then curse in Armenian.� When I was younger, my mother would always tell me that pride
would be my downfall, and the older I get the more I am beginning to understand
that.� I could never step down from a
challenge or take a blow; I was the one who was always righting wrongs,
imagined or otherwise.� It�s earned me a
bit of a reputation around these parts, but at least I don�t get bothered on
the Tube so much anymore.� I�ve always
blamed my standoffish-ness at the fact that in stocking feet I only stand a
mere five feet three inches, which has always been a major source of
frustration for me.� When I was still at
home, I remember looking at my sister with jealousy; she is tall like my
father, and used to be statuesque before getting knocked up for the fourth
time.� Now she�s doughy, and I don�t
feel so bad.� I always took after my
mother: I�m small in stature and darker in color although I have a few
decidedly English traits.� I�m forever
thanking whoever�s upstairs that I didn�t end up with the amount of body hair
I�ve seen on my aunt Hova.� My mother
used to tell me that her father was one of the tallest men in Armenia, but I
find that hard to believe since my mother, my two uncles and my aunt all ended
up short.� My grandmother, Dziadzan
Yeghiazar, had the distinction of being shorter than I am now, which I find to
great delight.� I remember when I was a
child I hated my mother�s family, with their foreign names and strange language,
but these days I�ve learned to accept my heritage.� Now it�s not so much ethnicity as personal characteristics that
annoy me about my mother, but I guess when it comes down to it she�s still my
mum.� She put up with years of suffering
as a child and my father�s infidelity, as well as raising three thankless
children.� I guess I have to give her
that, alibi grudgingly.�
�� The
chime over the door rings again.� I
raise my head to peer over the counter and smile.� �Oi!� I yell out and wave.
�� The
woman standing by the door smiles as well.�
�Hullo, Seda,� she says.
�� I
stand and arch my back, satisfied to hear its pop.� �How�s life today, Pauline?�
�� She
shrugs at me and then begins to rub the stubble on her head.� �Same as every day, Seda, old mate.� I�m on lunch and I decided to see what
you�re up to, although it doesn�t look like much.�� She raises an eyebrow at the strand of crystal beads I hold in my
hand.
�� Oh,
these old things?� I laugh.� �I�ve been
trying to untangle them for days now.�
When it�s finally done they�ll make something a lot prettier, but I�m
about ready to give up.�� I sigh.� �I don�t understand why people don�t bother
to do things like this before they give it to me.��
�� Because they know
it�s going to be a pain in the arse, so they save it for you to do.�� She pauses to check her wristwatch.� �D�you want to go get a nosh?�
�� I shake my head at
her.� Pauline McCaslan has been a good
friend for years, and I always value her talent for cheering up dark days.� �No, I can�t today.� Boris stopped in earlier and let me know
very clearly that I owe him the rest of his money in a week�s time.�
�� Pauline winces at me
and points to my cheek.� �So that�s the
reason for your special color of blush today, eh?�
�� I nod.� �But Alex, Susie, and I are headed to the
Three Doors at seven tonight if you want to drop by.�
�� All right.� I�m off at eight, but you know how late
Reggie always is.� I might be there
until nine, but I swear, I�ll kill him one of these days.�
�� Why don�t you just
let The Man know?� I ask.
�� Pauline makes a sound
of disgust and waves her hand.� �You
think he�d care?� He�s got a finger in
every pie all over the city, and you think he�d care about one bookies?�
�� But it�s his
bookies.�
�� As long as no one robs
it or steals from the till he doesn�t care what happens.� If he�s making profit, he�s happy.�
�� I�m glad it�s not me
that has to deal with him.�
�� Pauline smiles.� �No, you just have to deal with rich
annoying foreigners and miles of beads.�
And I don�t know about you, but I�d rather deal with Brick Top than
Boris the Blade.� At least Brick Top is
civil to women.�
�� I hold up a
finger.� �That�s if you don�t
fuck with him.�
�� But I don�t.� I�m on his good side.��
�� Then you�re
lucky.�� I sigh.� �Oh, the burdens of just trying to stay
alive.�
�� Shopgirl, you do well
for yourself.� You always play it off
like you�re struggling, but after all is said and done you always manage to
find a way to come out ahead.� Worry about
today.� The rest will work itself out.�

��
��

[1] Armenian:
�Please, Seda.� I have a headache.�

[2] Russian: �my
sweet�

[3] Russian:
�please�
- 4
- 5
- 6
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The Bullet and The Rose

Three