Only the Truth

by Adam Croft

  When I get back to my room, everything’s still silent. I’d be willing to bet that none of the occupants of any of these rooms have even moved since I left earlier, never mind got up.

  As I open the door, I stop and stare at the carrier bag I left on the side, with the holdall full of my belongings inside it. I can’t remember for the life of me how it looked when I left it earlier this morning, but I still can’t shake the overriding, all-engulfing feeling that it’s moved. It’s a feeling I can’t explain, but it’s strong.

  I step cautiously over to the bag, poke my head around to the opening and look inside. It’s just a holdall. Just my holdall. Not that I really expected anything else, but something still doesn’t feel right here. It feels like the walls have eyes.

  I gather I have nothing to lose, so I grab the carrier bag and head back out into the corridor. Instead of turning left towards the stairs, I head right. I remember seeing a fire door at the far end of the corridor not far from my room. I have a decent idea where this will lead.

  When I get to the door, I check it for electrical contacts. It doesn’t seem to be alarmed, so I push on the bar and shove the door open. There’s a brown metal staircase leading upwards against the wall, and a bucket with sand in it, a dozen or so cigarette butts sticking out of it. It seems a bit pointless in this place, seeing as everyone appears to just smoke inside anyway. I take the bucket and prop it up inside the door frame to stop the door from slamming behind me, and I make my way up the staircase, the carrier bag and my old holdall in one hand, the new rucksack in the other.

  When I get to the top of the steps, I find myself on the roof of the hostel. It looks like any other roof around here – a few air-conditioning units and water-storage tanks. It’s hard to tell where the roof of the hostel ends and the building next door starts, but that’s irrelevant right now. I’m up here for a reason, and I don’t intend to be long.

  I step towards the edge of the roof and look over across Bratislava. The view is pretty impressive, especially on a bright and sunny day like this. It seems a world away from Herne Bay and East Grinstead, from Claude’s farmhouse and the constant shoulder checks.

  The physical distance allows me to keep some emotional distance, too. I’ve never been the most emotional guy in the world, but even I’m struggling to cope with what’s happened recently. However, coping is exactly what the human body and mind is built to do. It’s a ready-built coping machine. I’m well aware that I’m probably in denial, but I really don’t care. All that matters is that I can avoid being caught by the police until I’ve worked out what’s going on. Or worse, being found by Lisa and Jess’s killer.

  That last possibility is one that only occasionally occurs to me. That someone wants to terrorise me.

  If that’s the case, how do I get out of this? Will I ever get out of it? Somehow I don’t think so. I’ll never be truly free, but I’m a lot freer here than I would be back home right now.

  Home.

  What is home, anyway? Surely it’s the place you feel safest, the place you want to be. England is neither of those things to me any more. I feel safer here than I have anywhere since Lisa was killed, save perhaps for the arms of Jess. But she’s not coming back. And neither is my desire to head back towards England. I know that now, but I’ve known it deep down for longer. And that’s why I came up onto the roof.

  I bend down and take the old holdall out of the carrier bag, unzipping it and taking out the contents. I then unzip the new rucksack, shove the carrier bag and the polystyrene foam inside the old one, and put my belongings into the new one.

  I keep one thing unpacked, though.

  I take the old rucksack over to a more open part of the roof and place it on the floor. Then I bend down on one knee, roll the side of my thumb quickly down the wheel of the lighter and wait for the large flame to settle. It’s barely visible in the bright light of the Bratislava skyline, but the air above it shimmers in a hot haze.

  Carefully, I lean further over and put the flame to the material of the rucksack. It takes a few seconds to catch, but when it does it’s beautiful. I stand up, take a few steps back and watch for a couple of moments. Once I’m satisfied, I pick up my new rucksack and walk back down the metal staircase, never looking back.

  43

  When I get back down to the reception area, there’s no-one around. That doesn’t particularly surprise me, but it does mean I don’t need to bother about explaining myself. I leave the key on the reception desk and step out onto the street.

  It already feels brighter and sunnier out here. It was pretty bright and sunny earlier, but now it feels as if a veil has lifted from in front of my face. I feel lighter, freer. This is the space I need to be in to be able to come to terms with what’s happened and to find out who killed Lisa and Jess – and why.

  As I make my way back to Marek’s bar, a realisation strikes me. It’s something I think I realised a while back, but perhaps not consciously. Ever since I left Herne Bay I’ve been telling myself that being on the run is a way to give myself the time and space to think and to work out what’s gone on. The fact of the matter is I don’t think I’ll ever be able to work out what’s gone on. Who could? I’m kidding myself if I think I’m going to do a better job of this than the police. But then that’s not the point, is it? Deep down, I know why I ran. And I know why I’ve continued to run. And I know why I’ve not made any serious, concerted effort to try and get to the bottom of what’s happened. It’s because I’m enjoying the adventure.

  It sounds bizarre, considering the circumstances. Of course I didn’t enjoy Lisa’s or Jess’s deaths. But that instinct to up and leave and start again is a very male thing. It’s all about the adventure. I feel safer here – I don’t really feel as though the police are on my tail. Nor the killer. But I also know I have to assume that they are or I’ll never be truly safe. I can’t get complacent.

  Telling Marek that my name was Bradley felt good. Really good. It was like inventing a whole persona. In that flash of two syllables, I could see my whole life story behind me. The childhood growing up in Australia, having barbecues on the beach, surfing with my friends. All a lie, but one I am more than happy to live. After all, I’ve lived plenty of lies that I’ve been less than happy to live.

  I’ve already pretended to be the faithful husband, the hard-working provider. I’ve been living the life of adventure the whole time, but never living it with truth. It’s always been hidden behind this false facade of a normal life. Now, though, this is my life, and I’d be untrue to myself if I were to pretend I wasn’t enjoying it.

  It’s a case of taking every day as it comes. Sooner or later, the police will have to realise that I wasn’t responsible for Lisa’s death. Nor Jess’s. I don’t know how they’re going to prove that, but they’re going to have a better chance than I am. Sure, they’re not going to be trying to prove it because my disappearance is going to make me their prime suspect anyway, but I have to cling on to that hope. It’s all I’ve got.

  The text message sent to Lisa’s phone is the big problem. The police would surely be able to tell that it wasn’t sent by my phone, but I can’t guarantee it wasn’t. After all, the phone was in my hotel room the whole time. If the killer was, too, then it’s entirely possible they sent the message from my phone. How, I don’t know. Would they be able to tie in the exact time the text was sent with CCTV images from the restaurant downstairs? If they could, they’d be able to see that I couldn’t possibly have sent the text. CCTV would perhaps show Lisa going up to my room and me arriving a few minutes later, but it wouldn’t confirm that she was dead before I got there. Whatever happened in that room will remain a mystery in that sense.

  Either way, the biggest problem I have is that this whole thing seems to have been very carefully planned. I know from watching enough crime dramas and reading books that the easiest killers to catch are the impulsive ones, the ones who react in the heat of the moment and try to cover their tracks afterwards. The ones who a
re never caught are the ones who plan well in advance and are always a number of steps ahead.

  There are estimates as to how many undiscovered murders happen every year. The number of people who are ‘off the grid’ is huge. Murders that never go reported. Bodies that are never found. People who won’t be missed if they disappear. I wonder if Jess will be one of those. Apart from Claude, who does she have? And I don’t know for sure that there’s any paper trail linking him to her, so he might never find out about her death. He needs to know. I owe him that much. I tell myself that when this has all blown over and it’s safe to do so, I’ll tell him. He deserves that. Jess deserves that. She doesn’t deserve to be another nameless murder victim, one of the forgotten.

  It’s amazing how a bit of distance and a change of scenery can change your perceptions. This has always been about justice. Ever since Lisa died. Until Bratislava, it was justice for me – vindication for what happened, clearing my name. Now this is about justice for Lisa and for Jess. For the two who died needlessly. For the two who died because of me.

  44

  Marek greets me with a warm smile and a bear hug when I get back to the bar, as if I’m a wanderer returning from a long voyage.

  ‘You came back!’ he says, beaming. ‘Welcome to your new home.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply, pulling the rucksack off my shoulders. ‘Can I put my stuff upstairs?’

  Marek smiles even wider and steps aside, ushering me behind the bar and up the stairs to my room.

  When we get there, I’m pleasantly surprised. I was expecting something similar to the dreadful room at the hostel, but it’s actually pretty good. It’s less of a room and more of a luxury flat. It’s tastefully decorated, seems to have mostly new appliances and furniture and has a great view out across the streets of Bratislava.

  ‘This is lovely, Marek,’ I say, looking around. ‘Really nice.’

  ‘I’m glad you like. Now, my brother has job for you. Delivery. You earn some money, yes?’

  I’m amazed at just how trusting and welcoming this guy is. ‘Uh, sure. But I don’t know Bratislava very well. It might take me a while before I can get started.’

  Marek waves his arms in front of his face as if he’s wading through a swarm of mosquitoes. ‘Is easy, is easy. I have map. Listen, is good money. For delivery of parcel, Andrej will pay thirty euro.’

  ‘Thirty euros? What, a day?’ It can’t be thirty euros a week, surely, I think.

  ‘No, no. Thirty euro every parcel.’

  I feel my jaw drop. ‘Thirty euros per parcel? And how many parcels are there?’

  Marek shrugs. ‘This depends. It changes. Sometimes many, sometimes not many. Depends if busy.’

  I guess Bratislava is like any capital city around the world. Getting parcels from A to B is actually pretty difficult in a city centre. I know for a fact that a same-day motorcycle courier delivery in the centre of London can easily cost twenty quid for a small parcel. If we’re talking valuable items and a city that’s even harder to get around in a car or van, the motorcycle courier business could be pretty lucrative. Thirty euros isn’t much over twenty pounds.

  ‘That’s good pay,’ I say, but I can’t help myself from asking the obvious question. ‘Why does he need a same-day courier, though, if he’s a builder? What do builders need to send by courier?’

  Marek looks at me blankly for a split second before smiling and half laughing. ‘Andrej has many businesses. He is also in jewellery trade and import of luxury goods. This part of business, I am manager. This bar, we own together.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  So Andrej is Bratislava’s serial entrepreneur. Not a bad person to get involved with, perhaps. At the very least, it should keep me under the radar and it’ll earn me some much-needed money while I’m at it. Bratislava feels safe for now, but I’m well aware that I need to be able to up sticks and go at any time I need to. I have to accept that this is my life as of that moment I left the hotel in Herne Bay.

  I’m tempted, sorely tempted, to go out and buy an English newspaper or try to find some coverage of Lisa’s murder on TV or the internet, but I manage to convince myself that this would be a very bad idea. I know for a fact that the police use the press to try and flush out killers, as the vast majority of them will keep a keen eye on the press to see what the police have managed to work out. I’m not a killer, though, and I need to try and distance myself emotionally from what’s happened. I couldn’t bear to see Lisa’s face in the newspaper, nor Jess’s if they’ve managed to identify her, and it would do me no good whatsoever to pay attention to any of the coverage.

  I like the way I’m starting to think. Deep down, I’m well aware that this is a coping mechanism. It’s exactly what I noticed in Jess right back when we first left the hotel in Herne Bay. While I spent a while in a state of utter confusion and desolation, Jess jumped straight to this stage – the coping strategy. She must have been through some shit in her short life to have had her brain switch straight to coping mode, almost instantaneously and seamlessly. She was clearly someone who lived with a lot of emotional pain and scarring. I guess I’m somewhat thankful that she no longer has to live with that, but it was obvious that she was a fighter. She was a coper. And now I owe it to her to fight and to cope.

  Marek gestures towards my rucksack. ‘You take out your things. Be at home. After, you come down to bar and have drink, yes?’

  He seems to flit between having a very good grasp of the English language and then speaking in the oddest broken grammar. I nod and smile.

  Marek goes back down to the bar and I unpack my bag. I’m going to need some new clothes – that much is obvious. I don’t have much with me anyway, and I feel uncomfortable wearing my clothes from back in England. I count out my money and try to work out how long it’s going to last me. I figure if Marek can wait until the end of the week for his rent money, I could get some new clothes over the next couple of days. I could eat and drink downstairs in the bar to save some money – I’m sure Marek wouldn’t charge me full price – and the money I’ll get from delivering parcels for his brother’s business should more than cover the shortfall. One delivery a day will cover my rent easily if I work weekends, and if he’s one of the biggest entrepreneurs in Bratislava I’m pretty sure there’ll be more work than that.

  I take a fresh T-shirt and a pair of jeans out of my rucksack and change my clothes for only the second time since leaving Claude’s farmhouse. That might actually be quite normal. I don’t know. I’m losing track of the days. But then again it doesn’t matter to me whether it’s a Tuesday, Sunday or a Friday. The days all blend into one now. I’m a free spirit.

  45

  I decide not to hit any more alcohol just yet. Marek mentioned something about a delivery, and I’ve already had one beer. I don’t know what the drink-drive limit is in Slovakia, but I should imagine it’s lower than in the UK. Most places are stricter than in the UK, and back home a pint and a bit will put you over the limit. I stick to orange juice.

  Within about five minutes of being back down at the bar, the conversation returns to the job.

  ‘So, you interested in delivery work?’ Marek finally says, having skirted around all sorts of topics until then: the weather, Australian culture, the women of Bratislava.

  ‘Yeah, I reckon so. If you can put up with me not knowing where I’m going for a while. Oh, and I don’t know how the driving licence rules work. I don’t have an EU licence,’ I say. I do, of course, but Marek’s still under the impression that I’m Australian.

  ‘No problem,’ he says, waving his hand in front of his face. ‘No problem. Is only small scooter.’ I’m not entirely sure what this means – does he mean I don’t need a licence for a small scooter or is he saying I shouldn’t bother getting one? I’m not sure whether he’s asking me to break the law or telling me I don’t need to worry about it. ‘Local delivery. No problem,’ he adds. I’m still none the wiser.

  The problem is, I need the money. I don’t have a
nother option. Bar work is no good as I don’t speak Slovak and it’ll open me up to far too many people. The likelihood of being spotted eventually is far too high. Besides which, the money wouldn’t be enough. I need to earn enough that I can up sticks and leave whenever I have to. A cash-in-hand parcel delivery job would be ideal.

  Before I realise what I’m doing, I’m nodding.

  ‘Yeah, alright then. Let’s give it a go.’

  Marek raises an index finger, pulls his mobile phone out of his pocket and dials a number. After a few seconds, I hear the indecipherable voice of a man at the other end of the phone. Marek starts speaking in Slovak. As he does so, he jots something down on a small notepad that he’s grabbed from behind the bar. The conversation over, he hangs up the phone, puts it back in his pocket and smiles at me.

  ‘Okay, your first job.’

  ‘That was quick,’ I say.

  ‘Is always work for you,’ Marek replies. ‘Andrej is busy man. Okay, so here is where you collect, yes?’ he says, jabbing his finger at an address on the notepad. It means absolutely nothing to me, but I nod and make murmurs of agreement. ‘And here is where you take to. Is not far.’

  ‘Right. And where do I pick up the scooter from?’ I ask.

  ‘He bring here. Five minutes.’ He says this as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. Maybe that’s how things are done here. I don’t know.

  Marek pours me another orange juice, and we sit in silence until there’s a knock at the double fire doors at the back of the pub. Marek walks casually over to them, pushes the bar and opens the right-hand door. He turns and waves me over.

  The man at the door is huge. Got to be well over six and a half feet tall. I chuckle as I imagine him riding the moped over here, all hunched over like a circus clown on one of those tiny motorbikes. He hands a helmet to me, his eyes never leaving mine as he does so. There’s a white scar running from his forehead, right down across his eye and onto his cheek. It doesn’t look recent, but it looks like it’s done some damage. If I had to describe his appearance in two stereotypical words, it’d be ‘Eastern European’.