The Savages (4 page)

Oleg, known simply to his family as Grandpa, was exactly one year away from celebrating a century in this world. Like his son, Titus, he sported a bald dome and thick eyebrows. His long grey beard was the most striking aspect of a man who had shrunken and withered over the years. It made him appear immensely wise, like someone who had produced several tomes of epic Russian novels. It was a look that fell away when food became trapped in the strands, however. Then he would appear more like the kind of lost soul you might find shouting at bins in a back alley. Since the last of his teeth had lost their moorings, Grandpa preferred his food in liquidised form. Whatever was on the menu, Angelica just passed it through the blender and he would literally lap it up. Like the rest of the family, Grandpa had enjoyed a stir fry made up of the leftovers from the day before. His bowl sat on a tray at the table under the skylight, along with the straw he had used to ingest it.

‘I can take that down for you,' said Sasha, who had noticed the bowl.

‘It can wait,' Grandpa told her. ‘You're welcome to stay here for a while. I heard all the shouting downstairs just now.'

Grandpa occupied the loft space in the family home. It had been converted into simple, clean and bright quarters by Titus when he came to live with them following the passing of his wife. Both Sasha and Ivan had grown up sharing the house with him. Not that he left his room very often. Still, his door was always open for anyone who wished to spend time with him. Sasha considered herself lucky. Oleg wasn't the kind of grandfather who would sit there with one hand cupped to his ear and mumble incomprehensibly. Above all, he liked to listen as much as talk, which is why Sasha had headed upstairs having fallen out with her father.

‘Why does he have to be so controlling?' she asked, taking the chair where Grandpa had just finished his stir fry smoothie. ‘Sometimes it feels as if he'd like me to be fitted with an off switch when I don't live up to his expectations.'

‘Is this about Jack?' he asked, and placed the tub beside the fish bowl. ‘I've heard all about him from Ivan.'

Sasha rolled her eyes.

‘So, you know he's a vegetarian.'

Grandpa shuffled across the room. He peered through the skylight. There were no windows in his attic space. Just several points that offered him a clear view of the heavens above, as well as pictures on the wall of family and places from his past.

‘There are worse things in this world,' he said. ‘And your father is only being protective.'

‘Has he always been like this?' asked Sasha, as Grandpa took a seat opposite her. He nodded and regarded his granddaughter.

‘Since he was a little boy. But you have to understand why family is so important to him. He knows his roots, Sasha. I come from nothing.
Nechevo
. When I arrived in this country with your grandmother, we had only the rags on our backs. We'd been through hell to get here. The experience changed us both as human beings, and left him with a very strong sense that to survive this life no matter what, you stick together. It's what we did,' he said to finish, and looked at the table. ‘During the Siege.'

Sasha had no need to press her grandfather for an explanation. It wasn't because she feared it would lead to an hour-long look back through several chapters of history. The first time he had accounted for his experience during World War Two, she and Ivan had sat throughout and barely breathed. Once he'd finished, it became clear to both grandchildren that what he had just shared could never be repeated outside the house. It was only later, during the course of the investigation, that Oleg's background became central to the Savage saga.

Without doubt, Grandpa's wartime experience went some way towards understanding what shaped them as a family. For Oleg Fedor Savadski endured unimaginable hardship and misery, alongside the citizens in Leningrad, when the city was surrounded and cut off from the world by enemy forces. For more than two years, including cruel, harsh and bitter winters, nobody could get out and nearly all supply routes were blocked. With no food available, the people suffered terribly. Up to one and a half million starved to death. Those who lived through it were forced to test the limits of resourcefulness. As the famine grew, people foraged for berries in parkland before going on to hunt birds and rats. Then, with the wildlife consumed, the desperate turned to boiling down belt straps into soup and licking the paste from the back of wallpaper. Oleg was among that number. Stationed in his home city, with a new bride to protect, he pledged to do whatever it took to endure the growing horror.

The city had come under an onslaught. Buildings lay in ruins and bodies sprawled in the streets. As the weeks turned to months, people grew familiar with death. It became a part of everyday life, and for some a means of survival.

At first, the surviving citizens of Leningrad believed that street dogs must be coming out at night to strip some corpses of organs and flesh. An alternative explanation was unthinkable, despite the fact that such dogs had already become food for the table. When word began to spread that gangs were roaming the city, picking off victims to ease their appalling hunger, fear and panic set in. At such an inhumane time, could some desperate souls really be driven to turn on each other? Towards the end of the Siege, the police even set up a special unit to investigate the claims. Oleg was among a small band of soldiers appointed as an army escort to accompany the unit. Unlike so many others, he was in relatively good shape and strong enough to help ensure their safety across the more forbidding quarters of the stricken city. According to reports, just as the investigation began to find substance to the awful rumours, so news filtered through that most had lost all hope of hearing. Thanks to advances by the Allies, the enemy had been forced to pull back from their positions. At last, a blockade that had lasted almost nine hundred days, and turned the city into a living hell, was over. Exhausted but overjoyed, the citizens were free to leave. Oleg and his wife were among that number. In fact, they chose to get out at the earliest opportunity, before the police unit's investigation was complete, and even departed the country just as soon as the war came to an end.

Some years after they arrived in England, with Oleg working quietly as a porter at Smithfield Meat Market, a son was born to the couple. By then, Oleg had changed the family surname to Savage. It sounded more comfortable to an English-speaking ear, and created some distance from their former life. Still, Oleg never forgot his origins. In particular, he and his wife continued to pursue the taste they had acquired during the Siege, and even passed it on to their young son. The food was carefully sourced, of course, and then effectively spirited away to be prepared for the table. With access to herbs, spices and other ingredients, and in the privacy of their kitchen, the couple embarked upon a culinary adventure like no other. They were careful not to overindulge, of course, by turning it into a rare and occasional treat. As a growing boy, it was something Titus came to relish. No other meal came close to stirring such a deep-seated craving in him.
Like his parents, the lad found that every mouthful left him feeling blissfully alive. By the time Oleg decided to reveal the main ingredient, there was no going back for his son.

‘It feeds the heart and soul,' was how Titus would go on to sell it to Angelica. This was two decades later, shortly before their engagement, after the couple had spent many date nights at his flat simply eating in. ‘You feel it in your bones and in your blood,' he went on, before tapping the side of his head. ‘Most of all, you feel it in your mind. Am I right?'

Angelica had also reacted with some questions, of course, once she'd come round from her faint and stopped screaming. Yes, it was a shock for her to learn what he had been serving her all this time. It was only human nature, after all. By then, however, Angelica had come to crave the sense of sheer satisfaction delivered by such a feast. Bonded by a shared secret, and deeply in love with this food pioneer, it seemed there was only one thing she could say when Titus dropped down on one knee and asked for her hand in marriage. From that moment on, as the couple set out to build a family, it was clear to Titus that the Savages were a breed apart when it came to good taste. No matter what challenges they faced, he swore to his new bride and then later to Sasha and Ivan, that's exactly how it would stay.

‘But Daddy, eating people is wrong.'

It was Sasha who had spoken up. Barely five years old at the time, she sat at the table with her feet swinging under the chair while her father explained where they had obtained the meat on their plates.

‘Honey,' he had said with a sigh. ‘People are in plentiful supply. Most free range for much of their lives, and enjoy a happy existence. We don't just eat
anyone
!'

Unlike his sister, Ivan responded to the revelation by asking for second helpings. He seemed completely unconcerned, which Titus put down to his tender age. The boy had only just turned three at the time, after all. As for Sasha, once she'd got down from the table she simply headed off to play with her doll's house. Titus wasn't worried, despite her protest. He knew from experience that once someone had tasted the ultimate in flesh, it became a part of who they were.

‘So,' said Sasha, in a bid to rouse her grandfather from his thoughts. ‘What am I going to do about Dad? I'm dating someone who chooses not to eat dead animal products. That doesn't put him in the same category as a drug addict.'

Oleg blinked as if in surprise at her presence in the room, and then squeezed his beard with one hand.

‘Oh, my son is all bark and no bite,' he assured her. ‘I'm sure if he meets this young man then his fears will ease. Why not invite him round?'

Sasha sighed to herself.

‘Why does everyone in this family want to meet Jack?' she asked.

‘Because everyone cares for you,' he said. ‘We Savages look out for each other. If we didn't, God alone knows what would happen to us.'

The signature at the foot of the letter was convincing. Ivan had been practising for some time. So, when the boy handed the letter across to Mrs Risbie, the school counsellor, he was confident she would believe the session that was about to take place had parental consent. In Ivan's view, it was in both their interests that his father wasn't involved.

‘How are you feeling today?' she asked.

They were sitting across from one another on cheap and worn sofas. Mrs Risbie wore her fringe like a badly closed pair of curtains. She curled one side behind her ear, which proved unsuccessful when she reached for a cup of tea on the low table between them. Ivan ignored the glass of weak squash that she had made for him.

‘I feel fine,' he replied with a shrug. ‘What do you want to talk about?'

As a psychologist working part time in a school environment, Mrs Risbie did her level best to make her room look as informal as possible. She made no notes, preferring to maintain eye contact with anyone who came to see her.

‘Actually, I thought we'd start with an exercise,' she said. ‘Would you like to do an exercise, Ivan?'

‘Do
you
want to do an exercise?' he asked.

‘I'd like that.' Mrs Risbie had already stashed the pack of square picture cards down the side of the sofa in readiness for the moment. She plucked out the pack and quickly thumbed through to find one to begin. ‘It's very simple,' she said, and selected a card to show the boy. ‘Each picture features the face of a child. I want you to look at them in turn and tell me what her expression says about how she's feeling.'

‘Is that it?' asked Ivan, who was already beginning to sound bored. ‘Well, seeing that she's smiling in that one I'd say she's happy.'

‘Very good.' Mrs Risbie brought the next card to the front.

‘Perplexed,' he said after a moment.

‘Excellent!'

Ivan studied the next card, and then sat back in his seat. ‘Thoughtful. Reflective, perhaps?'

Mrs Risbie smiled and nodded. The kid didn't seem to have an issue relating to other people. Given his vocabulary, it was simply revealing a higher than average intelligence.

‘How about this one?' she asked, and flipped around the picture of the girl with the sad face. It showed her looking down, with tear-stained cheeks and her lower lip jutting.

Ivan sat forward again. He studied the picture for a while, tipping his head one way and then the other.

‘It's a tough one,' he said, before looking back at Mrs Risbie again. ‘She looks like someone who can't take a joke.'

‘Right.' At times like this, Mrs Risbie wished she could put the pupil on pause while she rushed to write down some observations. Instead, she nodded sagely and placed the cards flat on the table. ‘Ivan, has there ever been a time when you've felt sad?'

The boy sat on his hands while he thought about this. He looked to the floor, pressing his lips together. Mrs Risbie couldn't help noticing how focused he seemed. Just waiting for him to answer left her feeling tense.

‘When people don't understand me,' he said eventually, and looked directly into her eyes. ‘That's when I feel angry … sorry, I mean sad.'

‘I see.' Mrs Risbie shifted in position. Ivan wasn't unpleasant company. He was polite. He listened. He considered every question. Even so, there was something about him she found unsettling, though she reminded herself not to entertain such unprofessional thoughts.

‘How is home life?' she asked next, hoping to build a bigger picture. ‘Tell me about your family.'

This time, Ivan didn't hesitate in his answer. Much to the surprise of Mrs Risbie, he sat back in his seat and provided a full and detailed description of a seemingly content, stable and supportive domestic environment. By the time he had finished, stopped by the lunch-break bell, she had drawn her own conclusions. Often kids from damaged backgrounds felt the need to protect their parents by making out that everything was fine. Ivan didn't seem to fit into this category. It really hadn't sounded forced or tailored, as if he had just told her what she wanted to hear. Nor were there any holes or inconsistencies in the picture he had painted. Instead, the boy had spoken in detail about each family member with heartfelt love and admiration. That had extended to Ivan's grandfather and siblings, and though it was clear that he and Sasha liked to wind each other up, it was her considered opinion that he came from a very close unit indeed.