“The tide gushes in and Thames rises with the speed of a time lapse film. George stares into the murky river and wonders how long it would take for him to drown. He has no problem jumping in. He wants to. Just like that, jumping off the treadmill of toil and torture that is his life. It will take at least a few minutes to die once he is underwater. He knows from somewhere, probably from some exceptionally sympathetic forensic expert in one of the CSI series, that drowning is an excruciatingly painful death. But a friend of his who nearly drowned as a child told him that drowning was not painful. It was peaceful, like going to sleep. But then again he did not actually drown. George continues with the CSI version in his head. Water bursting into lungs. Agony. Suffocation.
   Police speedboat flies past. Two lines of waves behind it form a bottomless triangle. George pictures himself diving in front of the boat nose. At least that would be quick. He visualises being shredded by the engine and winces.”

George has nothing to live for. It’s been all work, work, work. But what for? His sons are a disappointment, all take and no give. And now his wife of twenty nine years has left him. He can’t face going home to an empty house. His life is pointless and there is no more reason to do anything. Suicide seems the only way out. But maybe there is another way to end his pain. 

Sergei looks through the window. His parents smile and wave to him from the platform. His sister is too young to join in their goodbyes, her open mouthed gaze is fixed on something high up as she wobbles unsteadily on her feet. Mum lends her a helping hand, making a puppet wave, and Dad points in Sergei’s direction. The train slowly pulls away; his family rolls backwards and disappears with the murky grandeur of the station.
   Sergei’s grown up cousin takes out a few small bags from their luggage and chats to the elderly couple who share their cabin. Sergei is proud of his cousin. Everything about her is perfect. Even her name - Natasha. She is wearing a pretty denim dress with a brown belt, big platform shoes and bright red lipstick. Her blond curls are flicked around her face. When Sergei grows up he wants to have a girlfriend just like her. Natasha tells him if he is good he can have the top bunk bed.
   The train picks up speed as it races out of Moscow. The air outside is itchy with pollen, and someone shuts the window. Low clouds paint grey strokes over efficient rectangles of the city, dusting it with gloom. Even newborn leaves on the trees look dull. The rain begins to throw small teardrops at the window glass.
   A fleshy woman in blue uniform brings tea. Natasha and the old woman cover the table with newspapers and spread out boiled eggs, sausages, cheese, rye bread, potatoes. The tea sways in rhythm with the train and the metal spoon chimes against the glass in an ornamental metal holder as Sergei stirs in two white cubes of sugar. The old man asks him about school and Sergei says he is good at history and geography. At the old man’s request he recites the capitals of each of the soviet republics. The grown ups play cards.
   Sergei feels sleepy and climbs up, anxious not to fall off his bed. But the train sings chou-chou chou-chou and he falls asleep.
   When he wakes up, he does not recognize where he is. It is dark. Someone is snoring loudly. Sergei remembers that he is on the train, but it has stopped. A ray of yellow light sneaks in through the gap in the heavy drape. He peeks through it from the handy position of the top bed. A thin uniformed man on an empty platform blows his whistle and the train begins to move again.
   Sergei is wide awake when a cockerel somewhere nearby salutes early morning as the train leaves a sleepy village cloaked in twilight and apple blossom. A few hours later they make another stop. Women in flowery head scarves fill the platform. They sell fruits and pastry to the passengers.
   The train snakes its long green tail through poppy covered fields heated by the sun. They are in another world and the city is a distant memory. Natasha points and explains about the temples as they pass a mountain range. It looks like someone drew columns and arches on the flat surface of the rocks.
   They enter Crimea through a narrow strip of land with sea on both sides. One and a half thousand kilometers and a day evaporate. They are there. The eyes of Sergei’s auntie twinkle with laughter from her tanned face. His uncle takes the bags and limps leading them to the car.
   A wave of sudden joy overwhelms Sergei. He is already dreaming about going to the old port with Natasha to see big ships dock, running barefoot on the sand, his auntie’s chebureki meat pastry, butterfly hunting with his uncle and catching up with old friends. He wonders if the new neighbours’ niece will come again this year. He calculates that there are exactly ninety three days until he has to go back to school, and although he tries hard he cannot imagine such a long stretch of time ever coming to pass. The summer is endless.

“Margo opened her eyes and lay motionless listening for a few minutes. There was a thump in the living room. She jumped out of bed. Her hands frantically grabbed around for something to put on. She felt the silk of her robe, threw it on and tip toed out of the room.
   She crept through the hall and stopped at the entrance to the living room. Everything seemed normal. Margo held her breath and looked around cautiously. Moonlight flooded the room. The wind played with the curtains and rattled the frames of the open sash windows. She breathed out and went to close the windows. Suddenly someone jumped out from behind her.
   Her scream shattered the still of night.”

Margo is doing well. She has a good job. She knows the latest make-up trends and can afford to splurge the money on clothes and take-aways. But no amount of make-up is going to hide her frizzy hair and under eye shadows. She is tired. Too tired to look after herself. Too tired for a relationship. The only thing she is really looking forward to is a nice glass (or bottle) of Pinot Noir. She is sure she’s got that bottle in her cupboard. Somewhere…