#dvoynik

Writing prompt: Your friend calls to say they saw you in the back of a police car yesterday and ask what happened.

Janice shuffled her feet, drummed her fingers on the coffee-shop counter. There was a sour smell underneath the familiar coffee notes, like a backed up drain. The rain outside fell from a sky the colour of slate, great heavy drops breaking on the ground. She couldn’t remember when it had last been dry. Finally her coffee was ready – did they deliberately employ only the slowest of the slow here? – and she could take a seat. Those at least were comfortable, great deep leather things that practically swallowed customers whole. God, what was that smell, had something died in the customer toilets? She took a slim little smart device out of her bag, slid a finger along the power strip. Her finger hesitated over the contacts book icon. Should she call Roshan? Maybe it was none of her business – they’d hardly spoken since the divorce. But word had reached her on the grapevine that he’d gone a little strange since they split. If he was in genuine trouble she might be able to help. Or to gloat, depending on the trouble. She brought up the contacts list, tapped his number before she could think better of it. Hell, she’d die of curiosity if she didn’t at least find out what had happened. “Hello?” “Roshan? It’s Janice.” “Oh, um, hi. It’s been a while.” Did he sound more nervous than she remembered, or was that just a combination of a bad connection and a tinny speaker? “I know. Look, are you in trouble Rosh?” “I… what?” “Only I saw you yesterday and I know it’s not my place anymore but-“ “You saw me? Christ Janice, are you outside my house with a camera or something?” “What?” “I haven’t been out all weekend, I have a sprained ankle. What do you mean you saw me?” “Oh Rosh, don’t lie. I know it was you. I was coming out of the precinct and saw you in the back of a patrol car.” “In the back of a - fuck!” The line went dead.

Janice stepped out of the cab, almost lost her footing on the uneven pavement. This was a rough area, the roads and streets neglected by city authorities. The driver had demanded payment up front and a twenty percent extra to even bring her here. She knew things had been hard for Roshan, but didn’t realise it had gotten this bad. His house was set back from the road, twenty feet of bare dirt masquerading as a yard. The storms had turned it into a quagmire, and the cracked paving stones that passed for a path notably sunk under her feet as she approached. The house itself was a poorly maintained, single storey construction, paint flaking off its wooden front. The windows were barred and a surprising number of CCTV cameras covered the front of the property. Several of them looked to be freshly installed. The cab driver had asked why she wanted to come to a neighbourhood like this. To be honest she wasn’t entirely sure. After Roshan had hung up so abruptly the day before she’d tried to call back a couple of times, but with no response. Between that and everything else she’d been worried enough to extract his new address from a mutual acquaintance and come out here in person to see what was up. This was just the sort of behaviour she’d promised herself never to indulge in when she filed separation papers, yet here she was, knocking on his door. There was a long pause, the sound of shuffling footsteps from inside followed by the rattle and thud of chains and deadbolts. A high whine fell silent, a sound she hadn’t noticed until it was suddenly gone. Finally the door opened a couple of inches and her ex-husband peered out at her. He was bleary eyed, unshaven, a manic twitch in one cheek. “Jesus Rosh, you look like shit.” “Why are you here Janice? You should go.” “Look, I want to help with whatever trouble you’re in. Can I come in?” “You can’t. Help, I mean. You can come in though, I guess.” He stepped back, let the door swing open. A thick cable trailed from the back of the door to a power socket. A chest high pile of sandbags bisected the corridor, a pump action shotgun leaning against it. Roshan, she now noticed, had a pistol and a large knife on his belt. "What is all this?" He'd never been into guns when they were married. He'd been out hunting once with her parents and come home complaining of sore ears and a bruised shoulder. "It's necessary, is what it is." "Oh God, are you planning some kind of Waco standoff? What were you in that cop car for?" "I wasn't. He was." "He? Who?" Roshan went into the kitchen, came back with a couple of beers before answering her. That was a new development too, his teetotalism had been a contributing factor in their divorce. "You ever read much Dostoyevsky?" She shook her head. He knew full well that keeping up with material for work took up all her reading time. She hadn't had a chance to read fiction since back before college. "Well, let's just say I'm not going to lay down and take it when the dvoynik makes its move." "The dvoy what?" "It doesn't matter. Fuck. It was a mistake to let you in. You never did understand." "Oh don't start putting whatever trouble you're in on me. I came here to help you, to see if it was a legal problem. I still care enough to do that, you know." "Well it isn't, and you can't." "Fine, I'll go then. You should see someone, Rosh. A professional. I don't know what's up but this isn't right." "No." "You won't see someone?" "No, I mean you can't leave." He crossed the lounge in a couple of quick steps, pushed the door closed. His right hand was on the butt of his pistol. She set her beer down on the floor very slowly, kept her face blank. She'd faced intimidation before, some of the city's nastiest men staring down at her from the witness stand, she knew how to remain calm. "What are you doing, Rosh? Why don't we have a talk." "If we talk it just gets worse. The more I tell you, the more he might be able to find out from you." "You keep mentioning him Rosh, who is he?" She had her hands spread, palms visible. She kept her voice steady, soft, used his name to keep him grounded. "The dvoynik! My twin!" He didn't have siblings, she knew that. A decade of marriage and five years before that where she'd been friends with his family left her certain that she'd have known if he had a twin. "And what does this twin want, Rosh?" "Ruin. Destruction. My destruction. He resents me, resents the mistakes I made. He would have been a better person, a better husband, a better parent. Better." He was crying, she realised, tears silently rolling down his face as the words spilled out. "But I got to do it all instead, and I fucked it up, and he hates me for it. So he's going to destroy it all, to make me understand what I had and what i squandered." She took a slow step towards him, reached out one hand. "Well why don't we go talk to the police about this? If they had him the other day I'm sure they could-" "No," he cut her off, his face gone hard, "no, they can't help. He's better than me, understand? I can't stop him. All I can do... all I can do is rob him of the satisfaction. Leave him nothing to destroy." "Rosh, wait, no-" None of the neighbours called the police to report the two gunshots they'd heard. It wasn't that sort of neighbourhood.

Drawing prompt: A peg leg.