by Adam Croft
I slam the door behind me. I know it’s not going to stop them, but I feel like I need to make a point.
I go to put my bag down on the floor and decide against it. The carpet is filthy and sticky. Instead, I opt to put it on the table next to the bed. At least that’s just dusty. I take off my clothes and put them on top of the bag, then climb into bed. The light’s off, but it doesn’t make any difference as there’s a huge great streetlight outside my window, the light streaming into the room. The curtain’s half the size of the window, too, so that doesn’t help. All I can be thankful for is that the net curtains behind it are so covered in dirt and grime that it’s probably keeping at least some of the light out.
The noise of the couple having sex is still going on. I go to put the pillow over my head, but before I do I notice a horribly suspicious-looking stain on it. I pick up the pillow and throw it at the door, before turning onto my side and clamping my hands over my ears. Home sweet home.
39
When I wake up, everything is deathly silent, aside from the faint murmur of road noise from outside. I roll over and look at the small alarm clock beside me, my neck and shoulders stiff and painful. The clock tells me it’s 9.41 a.m. I presume that’s right, but I wouldn’t know. If the quality of the clock is the same as the quality of anything else in this place, it could be three in the afternoon for all I know.
My first thought is that I’m amazed I managed to sleep so long. I’m not usually one for waking up late as it is, and in my current situation I’m not exactly finding it easy to relax. It’s clear to see, though, that something has allowed my brain to subconsciously loosen up and de-stress slightly. It’s probably the realisation that I’m fairly unlikely to be found here, because even I don’t know where I am.
I’ll have been caught on CCTV probably hundreds of times between Innsbruck and Bratislava. That doesn’t bother me too much, though, as I don’t look like me. Or, rather, I don’t look like the me that people will be looking for. They’ll be looking for a guy with scruffy hair over his ears and a beard. Claude’s car will be on CCTV, too, but I don’t know that they’re necessarily looking for that. Not the police, anyway. I know the killer knows, because he tracked us down to the campsite and killed Jess, but I’m very confident he didn’t follow me to Innsbruck.
I try to get it straight in my head: the killer knows the car I was using, but doesn’t know I took it to Innsbruck. The police will find the car in Innsbruck but won’t know it was the one I was using. Presumably they’ll track down Claude as the owner, and he’ll tell them it must have been stolen from his barn. Then I just have to hope there’s no sort of paper trail linking him to Jess, or the chase will well and truly be on.
In short, I don’t see a way that I could be traced here, to Bratislava. That doesn’t mean I can put my head up above the parapet, though. I’m going to have to be incredibly careful until this whole thing is sorted.
And that’s where I get the huge bolt of adrenaline in my chest and the lump in my throat. Because that’s what it all comes back to: I have to get this thing sorted.
That’s the most difficult part of all. How the hell am I meant to try and work out who killed Lisa and Jess – and why – when I’m too busy worrying about being caught or killed myself? I need help. I know that much. But there’s no-one to help me. I can’t make contact with anyone back home – that’d be far too risky. Not that I’ve got anyone I can really trust and rely on. It’s not until this whole thing happened that I realised how alone I’ve been all along. I only ever really had Lisa. Not that I ever treated her particularly well. And then there was Jess. God, yes, I relied on her. I just trusted every word she said, everything she did, even though I barely knew her. And, to be honest, she’s probably saved my life. Now I need to make this work for her, and for Lisa, who died needlessly in the room where I betrayed her.
I look across at the large carrier bag I’ve been carrying halfway across Europe, with my holdall tucked inside it. Another anchor in the past. I know that I need to get myself a new bag. One that no-one will be looking out for. One that I can call my own. One that’s untainted.
I don’t even bother to try to find the bathroom in this place. Even if I did, I’m pretty sure the mouldy soap and brown water would make me even dirtier than I am now. As I get towards the door, I glance back at the bag on the side. Should I take it with me? No, that might be too risky. Leaving it here isn’t without its risks, either, but there’s nothing incriminating in the bag. I’ve got my wallet and most of the money on me. There’s only really clothes, some toiletries and general knick-knacks in the bag. Nothing that can identify me, anyway.
I decide it’s best to leave the bag here for now, to allow me to blend in better on the streets if nothing else, and I unlock the door.
The corridor outside my room is an eerie sort of quiet, not a peaceful one. The kind of quiet nobody likes. Then again, I doubt that this place could ever seem peaceful. I think ‘eerie’ is probably as good as it gets. I should imagine that the people staying here will be fast asleep by now. If they’ve been out clubbing into the early hours their heads will probably be a bit sore. Judging by the sounds coming from the neighbouring room when I got here last night, that’s not the only thing that’ll be sore.
It would be fair to say that this place looks even worse in the daylight – what daylight there is in this dark, oppressive corridor – and I’ll be glad when I can find somewhere to stay more long-term. The problem there, though, is money. The money I’ve got is quickly running out and I’ve no way of being able to get more right now. I can’t just go sticking my card into an ATM, as that’ll link me straight to Bratislava. No, I need cash. Cold, hard cash. And I need to find it in a country I don’t know, using a language I don’t speak.
A rather depressing and sobering thought occurs to me: Jess would know what to do.
40
The streets of Bratislava look quite pleasant in the morning sun. I spend about half an hour walking in what I believe to be the general direction of the city centre. I’m careful to walk in a straight line where possible, though, and I’ve memorised the name of the street the hostel is on in case I get lost: Palisády, near the junction with Zochova and Bradlianska. I’ve devised a little song to help me remember it, as well as the image of the hostel being my safe place, a fort with iron fencing – or a palisade – around it. Just to keep things extra safe, I visualise Bradley Walsh, the British quiz show host, standing guard out front. Palisády. Bradlianska. It’s crude, but it’ll do. At least I’ll be able to get back home.
Jesus. Home. You know things have gone downhill when you start to call that shithole home. Without any form of income, though, it’s the way it’s going to have to be. At forty euros a night, even keeping that grotty roof above my head won’t last long.
I try to think of what I could do to earn some money. The problem is, I know nothing except the industry I’ve spent my life in. I don’t speak a word of Slovak, either, so I fail to see how I could get any sort of job. Is English widely spoken in Bratislava? I don’t know. Getting a job working in a bar in Amsterdam, for example, would be fine if you don’t speak Dutch. No-one in Amsterdam speaks Dutch anyway. But this is Slovakia.
Before long, I find a sports shop near the hospital. I go in and buy myself a new bag – one that won’t look out of place and doesn’t tie me into my past. It’s psychological as much as anything. The rucksack sets me back a whopping sixty euros. A bargain compared to being caught at this stage, but still a big chunk out of my quickly depleting stock of cash.
A few feet away from the sports shop, I feel myself starting to break down. The whole thing’s become too much for me. I feel my breathing start to increase and get shallower, my heart rate builds and my head fills with an electric buzzing.
No. I can’t let this happen. I can’t let it get on top of me. I have to keep fighting, keep moving, keep on top of things. If I start thinking, start realising, that’ll be the beginning of the end. I n
eed to distract myself. I need some normality.
I spot a bar across the road, the door open and inviting – even at this time of the morning. I can’t see inside – it looks dark compared to the bright sunshine out here, but I head inside and shut myself off from the world outside.
It doesn’t take me long to decide whether I want alcohol or not. It’s not like it really matters any more. I can’t go getting blotto and letting my defences down, but I think it’s pretty fair to say I need a drink right now. I order a beer, by pointing at it, shying away from the temptation of whisky or whatever the local moonshine might be. The bartender surprises me by speaking to me in English.
‘One euro, please.’
The only thing that surprises me more than him somehow knowing I’m English (how do we Brits always manage to give off that unspeakable air of Britishness?) is the price of the beer.
‘One? Blimey,’ I say, handing over a one-euro coin. ‘I could get used to this.’
‘Cheaper than back home, no?’ the bartender replies.
‘Yeah, definitely.’
‘Let me guess,’ he says, popping a paper napkin under my beer glass. ‘Australian.’
I stop myself before I answer, changing my mind. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Australian.’
He smiles broadly. ‘Can always tell. Are you here for long?’
I allow myself a small chuckle. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know. I’m doing a bit of travelling, but I’m happy to stay put if I like the place and it feels good.’ Not so far from the truth, that.
We chat for a little longer, mostly idle pleasantries. He can tell I’m a stranger in a strange land, and he seems keen to ensure that I feel at home here. It’s something you get in a lot of places – locals determined to want you to love their city.
‘You have accommodation?’ he says, pointing to my rucksack. He must presume I’ve got all my gear in here – it’s actually packed out with polystyrene and plastic wrapping to make it look good on display in the shop, but he doesn’t need to know that.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I mean, I stayed in a hostel last night but I don’t have anything permanent. And I don’t have enough money for anything permanent.’
The bartender holds eye contact with me and nods, expressionless. ‘You looking for work?’
I raise my eyebrows and drop them again. ‘Possibly,’ I say, taking a sip of my beer. It’s ice cold and feels fantastic. ‘Although it’s going to be difficult.’
‘You can be in Europe ninety days in six months without visa,’ he says. ‘My brother, he has a building company. An Australian guy worked for him for a few weeks.’
‘Oh right.’
‘From . . . Melbourne,’ he says, suddenly remembering the name. ‘You know it?’
‘A bit,’ I reply. ‘Not far from me.’
He smiles. ‘Where you come from before Slovakia?’
‘Italy,’ I say. ‘That’s where I flew into. Then I went to Slovenia and Hungary before here.’ I thank my lucky stars that my European geography is pretty sound. He seems convinced.
‘All in Schengen Area. So nobody knows you are in Slovakia, no?’
I swallow heavily. ‘No.’
‘Okay, so rule is ninety days in six months in Schengen, yes? So you can be ninety days in EU, then ninety days in Romania. Same rule, but not Schengen. Many people do this.’
‘Oh right,’ I say, not wanting to tell him that it’s completely irrelevant as I’m an EU citizen and can stay here as long as I like. ‘That’s handy.’
‘But if you have job, you can stay for long, long time.’
‘I couldn’t even stay for ninety days without a job,’ I tell him.
‘How much you pay for hostel?’
I see no harm in telling him. ‘Forty euros a night.’
‘Two hundred eighty euros a week,’ he says, doing the maths immediately. ‘Very expensive.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I have room here,’ he says, still not taking his eyes off of me. ‘One hundred eighty euros a week. Also, I can help with job.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘That’s very kind. I might take you up on the room, but I’ve never worked behind a bar before so I’m not sure if—’
The man laughs. It’s a deep, guttural belly laugh. ‘No, is not bar work. Bar is not busy enough for extra work. My brother, he have some work. Is good pay.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have any experience in building, either. I don’t think I’d be much help to him.’
‘It is a different work,’ he says, taking my beer and topping it up for me. ‘Delivery.’
‘Delivery?’ I ask. ‘For a builder?’
He smiles. ‘My brother, Andrej, he has many businesses. He is very well known here in Bratislava. With many customers, he need many deliveries. You can ride motor scooter?’
It’s not a question I’ve been asked before. ‘Uh, I guess.’ I mean, how hard can it be?
‘Okay. Room here is cheaper anyway, yes? I must tidy, but you come here after lunch and you can have room. Save lots of money.’
I smile at him, thankful for his generosity. I’d always been led to believe that people in Eastern Europe were far more generous and kind than we are in the West, but I hadn’t realised quite how true that was until now.
‘I will. Thank you.’
The man holds out his hand. ‘I am Marek.’
I take his hand in mine and shake it. ‘Bradley,’ I say. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
41
One of the benefits of wrap parties was the free bar. Not only did it mean the hard work of filming had finished and it was time to hand over to the editors in their warm, cosy studios and suites, but it was an excuse to let their hair down and celebrate the fact that they’d done a bloody good job.
For Dan, the free bar was something he looked forward to through the closing days of filming, knowing that it’d be a perfect opportunity to get hammered without having to worry about the additional next-day headache of checking his credit card bill. What he liked most was that everyone was invited and everyone seemed to be on a level playing field, from the camera operators and the actors, to the costume department and the researchers, such as the particularly glamorous one he was talking to at the bar.
She wasn’t what Dan would call a classic beauty – she was curvier than his usual type, but certainly not fat. Her fiery red hair was what first enticed him to talk to her, combined with the charisma and air of sexuality that she seemed to exude. Many people in the TV world had that sort of way about them – particularly the ones who were keen to get out from behind the camera and one day end up in front of it.
‘He seemed to understand that, though,’ she said, having come to the end of her really not very interesting story about how she’d managed to apply for her job in the first place.
‘So what sort of stuff do you enjoy doing?’ Dan asked, trying to change the subject away from talking shop. Although lots of people were impressed by the perceived glamour of TV, to him it was just another job. A job that meant he got to see a lot of the country – and further afield – and which paid fairly well, but it was a job all the same.
‘Funnily enough, I’m in a field hockey team,’ she said, even though it wasn’t particularly funny in the slightest.
‘Are you? That’s really cool,’ Dan replied, not wanting to ask the difference between field hockey and normal hockey. ‘What position?’
‘Fullback, but just recently I’ve been playing as a sweeper because our regular one’s been injured.’
Dan nodded, trying to look interested, but instead only thinking that perhaps her curves weren’t curves, but the muscular build of a hockey – or field hockey – player. He’d never been with a muscular woman before. He wasn’t sure if he’d like it or not.
He could feel his mobile phone buzzing in his pocket. He didn’t know why he even bothered bringing it out with him – no-one ever called him unless it was the most inconvenient moment possible. Like now. He looked at the screen. It was
Lisa. He put the phone back in his trouser pocket.
‘Sorry about that. Don’t know why I even carry the bloody thing.’
‘Don’t you find it handy?’ the girl asked.
‘No, I find it a pain in the arse. So. Field hockey.’
Luckily for him, the redhead didn’t want to stay the night. He was never keen on waking up next to a woman – almost as if that made it worse. To Dan, having them leave that same night and then sleeping alone in his hotel room meant that he stayed just the right side of the moral line. It was a moral line that he often blurred, but it was still one he recognised.
He’d just been starting to nod off, the digital clock on the bedside table having ticked over to a few minutes past two in the morning, when he heard the incessant vibration of the mobile phone coming from the pocket of his trousers.
He jabbed the light on, blinked in the brightness and scrabbled on the floor to grab the phone from his pocket. It was Lisa again. He groaned, looking at the time on the bedside clock. Although it was far too late to be taking phone calls, he knew Lisa wouldn’t be calling at this time unless it was urgent.
As soon as the call connected, he could hear her desperate sobs, even before he’d managed to say hello.
‘Lisa? Lisa, what is it, sweetheart?’ he said, trying to keep his voice low so as not to wake up anybody in the adjoining rooms.
He heard Lisa fighting for the words, trying to find a way to say what she had to say.
‘Oh, Dan. I don’t know how to put this,’ she said, before breaking off and crying.
‘Say what? What’s wrong? What’s happened?’
Lisa sobbed again, a huge release of emotion. ‘I’ve had a miscarriage.’
42
I feel guilty for lying to Marek. For pretending to be someone I’m not. But then again that’s what I’ve spent my whole life doing. Why change now?
I manage to find my way back to the hostel, thankful that I’d walked pretty much in a straight line from here to town earlier today. At least staying above the bar will mean I’m more central and will be able to find my way back more easily. It seemed to be right in the thick of things.
