Probably the effect would only be temporary; after all, I didn't want to delve too deep into Mum's mind. But at least I could count on a couple of months of peace and quiet. And so could my dad; I'm my dad's daughter – I love him much more than I do my mum. It's only kids who can't tell you who they love more, their mum or their dad; adults have no problem answering the question . . .
When I was done, I removed the half-formed black vortex, and it drifted out through the walls, looking for someone else to attach itself to. I took a breath and cast a critical eye round the hall.
It hadn't been cleaned for a long time. The blue moss had crept back over everything again, and it was thickest of all round our door. That was only to be expected; with Mum's hysterical fits there was always something for it to feed on. When I was little I used to think the Light Ones planted the moss to annoy us. Then I was told that the blue moss is native to the Twilight, a parasite that lives on human emotions.
'Ice!' I commanded, flinging out my hand. The cold obediently gathered at my fingertips and ran across the walls like a stiff brush. Frozen needles of moss dropped to the floor, decaying instantly.
Take that!
That will teach you to go feeding on people's petty little thoughts!
That's real power, the power of an Other.
I emerged from the Twilight – in the human world less than two seconds had gone by – and straightened my hair. My forehead was damp, I had to take out my handkerchief and blot the sweat away. And of course, when I looked in my mirror I could see that my mascara was smudged.
I had no time to fuss over how I looked. I just threw on a light veil of attractiveness that would prevent any human being from noticing the faults in my make-up. We call them 'paranjahs', and everybody likes to tease Others who wear them, but we all do anyway. When we're short of time or we need to be absolutely sure of making a good impression, or sometimes just for fun. There's a pretty young witch from Pskov who can't really do anything right except throw on a paranjah, and she's been working as a model for three years. She makes her living from it. The only trouble is that the spell doesn't work in photographs or on video, so she has to keep turning down all the offers she gets to work in advertising . . .
Everything was against me today. The lift didn't come for ages, and the other one's been out of order for a long time now; and on my way out of the lobby I ran into Vitalik, the young guy who lives above us. When he saw me in my paranjah, he just froze with a stupid smile on his face. He's been in love with me since he was thirteen – stupidly, hopelessly, silently in love. To be honest, it's all because of my sloppy work. I was learning the love spell and decided to practise on our neighbours' little boy, since he took every chance he could get to ogle me while I was sitting on the balcony, sunbathing in my bikini. Well ... I practised. And I missed out the limiting factors. So he fell in love for ever. When he doesn't see me for a long time, it all seems to pass off, but it only takes one sight of me, and it all starts up again. He'll never be happy in love.
'Vitalik, I'm in a hurry,' I said, smiling at him.
But he just stood there, blocking the doorway. Then he decided to pay me a compliment.
'Alisa, you look really beautiful today . . .'
'Thanks.' I gently moved him aside and felt him tremble when my hand touched his shoulder. He'll probably remember that touch for a week . . .
'I've passed my last exam, Alisa!' he said quickly, talking to my back. 'That's it, I'm a student now!'
I turned and took a closer look at him.
Was this boy who still used anti-pimple lotion getting crazy ideas into his head? Was he hoping that now he'd got into college and launched into 'adult life' he could have aspirations?
'Skiving out of the army?' I asked. 'Men today have no balls. They're all wimps. They don't want to do their time and get a bit of experience, and then go and study.'
His smile was slowly fading. It was a wonderful sight!
'Ciao, Vitalik,' I said and skipped out into the sweltering heat of summer. But my mood was a bit better now.
These little lovesick pups are always fun to watch. They're boring to flirt with and actually having sex with them is disgusting, but just watching them is pure pleasure. I ought to give him a kiss some time . . .
But anyway, a moment later I'd entirely forgotten my lovesick neighbour. I stuck out my hand. The first car drove straight past – the driver looked at me with greedy longing in his eyes, but his wife was sitting beside him. The next car stopped.
'I'm going into the centre,' I said, leaning down towards the window. 'Manege Square.'
'Get in,' said the driver, reaching across and opening the door. He was an educated-looking man with dark hair, about forty. 'How could I refuse such a good-looking girl a lift?'
I slipped into the front seat of the old Zhiguli 9 and turned the window all the way down. The breeze hit me in the face – that was some relief at least.
'You'd have got there quicker on the metro,' the driver warned me honestly.
'I don't like the metro.'
The driver nodded. I liked him – he wasn't staring too brazenly, even though I'd obviously overdone things with the paranjah, and the car was well cared for. And he had quite beautiful hands. They were strong, and their grip on the wheel was gentle but firm.
What a shame I was in a hurry.
'Are you late for work?' the driver asked. He spoke very politely, but in a manner that was somehow personal and intimate. Maybe I ought to give him my number? I'm a free girl now, I can do what I like.
'Yes.'
'I wonder, what kind of jobs do such beautiful girls do?' It wasn't even an attempt to strike up an acquaintance or a compliment, it was genuine curiosity.
'I don't know about the others, but I work as a witch.'
He laughed.
'It's a job like any other . . .' I took out my cigarettes and my lighter. The driver gave me a fleeting glance of disapproval, so I didn't bother to ask. I just lit up.
'And what are a witch's duties?'
We turned off onto Rusakov Street and the driver accelerated. Maybe I was going to be on time after all?
'It varies,' I replied evasively. 'But basically we oppose the forces of Light.'
The driver seemed to have accepted the rules of the game, although it wasn't really a game at all.
'So you're on the side of the Shadow?'
'The Dark.'
'That's great. I know another witch, my mother-in-law,' the driver said with a laugh. 'But she's already retired, thank God. So why don't you like the forces of Light?'
I stealthily checked out his aura. No, everything was okay, he was a human being.
'They get in our way. Tell me, for instance – what's the most important thing in life for you?'
The driver thought for a second.
'Just life itself. And for nobody to stop me living it.'
'That's right,' I agreed. 'Everyone wants to be free, don't they?'
He nodded.
'Well, we witches fight for freedom too. For everyone's right to do what they want.'
'And what if someone wants to do evil?'
'That's his right.'
'But what if he infringes other people's rights in the process? Say I stab someone and infringe his rights?'
This was funny. We were straight into the classic dispute on the subject 'What is the Light and what is the Dark?' We Dark Ones and those who call themselves the Light Ones – we all brainwash our novices on this subject.
'If someone tries to infringe your rights, then simply stop them from doing it. You have that right.'
'I get it. The law of the jungle. Whoever's stronger is right.'
'Stronger, cleverer, more farsighted. And it's not the law of the jungle. It's just the law of life. Is it ever any different?'
The driver thought about it and shook his head.
'No, it isn't. So I have the right to turn off the road somewhere, throw myself on you and rape you?'
'But are you sure you're stronger than me?'
We'd just stopped at a red light and the driver looked at me closely. He shook his head.
'No . . . I'm not sure. But the reason I don't attack girls isn't because they might fight back!'
He was beginning to get a bit nervous. The conversation seemed like a joke, but he could sense that something wasn't right.
'It's also because they might put you in jail,' I said. 'And that's all.'
'No,' he said firmly.
'Yes,' I said with a smile. 'That's exactly the reason. You're a normal, healthy man, with all the right reactions. But there's a law, so you prefer not to attack girls, but date them first.'
'Witch . . .' the driver muttered with a crooked smile. He stepped hard on the accelerator.
'Witch,' I confirmed. 'Because I tell the truth and don't play the hypocrite. After all, everyone wants to be free to live his or her life. To do what they want. Not everything works out, after all, everyone has their own desires – but everyone has the same aspirations. And it's the clash of these that gives rise to freedom! A harmonious society in which everybody wants to have everything, although they have to come to terms with other people's desires.'
'But what about morality?'
'What morality?'
'Universal human morality.'
'What's that?'
There's nothing better than forcing someone into a dead-end and making him formulate his question properly. People don't usually think about the meaning of their words. It seems to them that words convey truth, that when someone hears the word 'red' he will think of a ripe raspberry, and not a pool of blood, that the word 'love' will bring to mind Shakespeare's sonnets and not the erotic films of Playboy. And they find themselves baffled when the word they've spoken doesn't evoke the right response.
'There are basic principles,' said the driver. 'Dogmas. Taboos. The . . . what do they call them . . . Commandments.'
'Well?' I said encouragingly.
'Thou shalt not steal.'
I laughed. And the driver smiled too.
'Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife.' His smile was really broad now.
'And do you manage it?'
'Sometimes.'
'And you even manage not to "covet"? You control your instincts that well?'
'Witch!' the driver said enthusiastically. 'All right, I repent, I repent . . .'
'Don't repent!' I interrupted. 'It's quite normal. It's freedom! Stealing . . . and coveting.'
'Thou shalt not kill!' the driver declared. 'Eh? What do you say to that? A universal commandment!'
'You might as well say "don't boil a young goat in its mother's milk". Do you watch TV and read the newspapers?' I asked.
'Sometimes. But I don't enjoy it.'
'Then why do you call "Thou shalt not kill" a commandment? Thou shalt not kill ... It was in the news this morning – down south they've taken another three people hostage and they're demanding a ransom. They've already cut a finger off each of them to show they're serious about their demands. And one of the hostages, by the way, is a three-year-old girl. They cut her finger off too.'
The driver's fingers tightened their grip on the wheel and he turned pale.
