by Adam Croft
I take the helmet and he extends his other hand to give me a set of keys. He turns and speaks to Marek in Slovak. I don’t understand a word of it. Marek replies and slaps the man on the back in a friendly, jovial way. The man nods at me and leaves.
‘Seems like a nice bloke,’ I say, hoping Marek won’t understand the subtle English sarcasm.
‘He say the gas is full. Every day, return the scooter here in passage behind bar. He will collect.’
‘Every day?’ I ask, not sure what this means. Does this mean I’ll be delivering parcels all day every day? Or that the scooter can’t be parked out here overnight?
‘Every day,’ Marek replies. I decide not to question it.
Marek lifts the seat of the scooter up to reveal a storage compartment no bigger than my rucksack. Inside is a map of Bratislava. He takes a few moments to mark out where we are, and where I need to go. It seems pretty simple to me. At the end of the passageway I need to turn left, and then right onto the main road. The street I want is about a mile down on the left-hand side.
‘What do I say when I get there?’ I ask.
‘Say? Say nothing. They are expecting you,’ he replies.
‘Right. Fair enough. And what about clothing? I can’t just ride this thing in jeans and a T-shirt.’
He laughs. That deep, guttural belly laugh again. ‘You have helmet! This is fine. Scooter go maybe forty, forty-five kilometres per hour. You will hurt more if you fall when you walk!’ He seems to find his joke far more hilarious than I do. I’ve not ridden anything with two wheels since I was about eighteen years old. I look more closely at the scooter, trying to work out where the accelerator and brake are, and how to indicate. I hear a door closing behind me, and I turn to find out Marek’s closed the fire door and gone back into the bar.
Cautiously, I climb onto the scooter, put the key into the ignition and turn it. The engine purrs and comes to life.
It feels good.
46
When they say you never forget how to ride a bike, it seems that extends to mopeds. It helps that the roads aren’t too busy and the scooter’s really easy to handle. I feel a little unsafe with only a T-shirt and jeans – despite the helmet – but it’s far too hot for full leathers, and I’d feel a bit of a tit wearing them on a moped that can barely hit thirty miles an hour.
The address I was given appears to be a cafe. There’s no number on the building, but counting down from a couple of doors up it seems to be the right place. I pull over to the side of the road, cut the engine and take off my helmet. I have a quick look at the map to see where I’ve got to go from here and I memorise the route.
Inside the cafe, it seems to be a popular place for locals to grab a bite to eat. There’s what I can only assume is a Slovakian soap opera on the TV, the sound louder than you’d expect. I’m not sure whether it’s so loud to accommodate the fact that the general clientele in here are probably hard of hearing, or whether it’s to ward off anyone who isn’t a local. It could be either; I certainly don’t feel particularly comfortable in here.
There’s a man of about forty stood behind the counter, preparing a cup of coffee. He turns to look at me as I approach him.
‘Courier?’ I say, holding up my helmet as if that will explain everything in international sign language. He nods and curls his finger to beckon me to follow him.
He takes me through a door into a back room, which looks to be some sort of storage area for food. There are cardboard boxes everywhere. The man moves one box aside and fishes a large padded envelope from behind it. He hands it to me. It weighs a good couple of kilos and has nothing written on the front of it at all. It’s a good job I checked the delivery location before I left. ‘For Mario,’ he says, just standing there.
I take that as my cue to leave, and go to move towards the door back into the cafe before I feel a hand on my shoulder, stopping me. I turn to face him and he gestures with his head to the fire door behind him. ‘This door,’ he says.
I nod and do as he says.
The door takes me out into an alleyway that runs down the side of the cafe. I look around, but the only people about are simply going about their daily business. I head back towards the street, open the under-seat storage compartment on the moped and tuck the padded envelope inside, before putting on my helmet and pulling away as quickly as I can. I’m not sure what that was all about, but I know I didn’t particularly like it.
I’m worried now about what’s in the padded envelope. It weighs a fair bit, but it could be anything. Drugs? A gun? Worse? I’m not sure what could possibly be worse than either of those, but I don’t want to think about it, either. I tell myself I’ll drop it off at its destination, go back to the bar, thank Marek very much for thinking of me and politely decline any future work.
The journey to the delivery point seems to take an age. I’m desperately willing the moped to go above jogging pace, but it’s not having any of it. I just want to get it done and over with, before I get any deeper into whatever the fuck this is all about. I’m in enough shit as it is without getting involved in drug dealing or gun running.
When I finally arrive at my destination, it looks as if it’s a barber’s shop. Either these businesses are just fronts for whatever’s in these packages, or there’s a very hungry Slovakian barber ordering lots of secret bacon sandwiches from the local cafe. I know what my money’s on.
Every part of me – every fibre of my being – wants to flee. I want to run, get as far away from here as possible. If I don’t deliver the package, I can’t be held liable. I could just leave the moped here with the keys in, and hope someone takes it. And then what? Go back to Marek and tell him I lost it? No. I have no choice but to go through with this now.
I walk up to the door of the barber’s shop and am pleased to see that there are two customers sat in chairs. That doesn’t mean the shop’s not a front, but it does mean I feel a little safer with members of the public around.
One of the barbers seems to know exactly what I’m there for, and he beckons me over to a desk at the back of the shop. He takes the parcel from me and places it inside a drawer, before patting me on the back and indicating that I should go. As if it’s the most normal thing in the world. To them, perhaps it is, but this world is completely alien to me.
I leave the shop – by the front door this time – and don’t even stop to look over my shoulder. Then I’m back on the moped and heading back for Marek’s bar as fast as I can, which isn’t very fast at all.
47
When I get back to the bar, I park the moped in the alleyway and go inside to find Marek. He’s sat at the bar, as he usually is, waiting for some customers who probably don’t exist.
‘Ah, Bradley! How was first job?’ he says, giving me that big beaming smile once again.
‘Well, I did it,’ I say, taking off my helmet and putting it down on the bar. ‘But I want to know what this is all about. Picking up a parcel from a cafe and delivering it to a barber’s shop?’
Marek waves a hand at me. ‘Is just business. Do not worry.’
‘I do worry, though,’ I say. ‘Because if this is to do with drugs or weapons, I’m not interested, alright? Thank you very much for thinking of me and giving me the opportunity, but I really don’t want to get involved.’ The last thing I want to do is get mixed up in any sort of criminal activity. I’m here to try and clear my name, not muddy it.
Marek looks down at the floor and walks over to me, stopping when he gets to me and putting his hands on my shoulders. ‘Bradley, this is good work. Good money.’ He dips his hand into his back pocket and pulls out a wad of cash – far more than thirty euros. ‘This is for you. Payment.’
‘What for?’ I ask, knowing exactly what it’s for.
‘For hard work and loyalty.’
‘Loyalty?’ I say, trying not to break out into a laugh. ‘We only met this morning. I’ve done one delivery.’
‘One very valuable delivery,’ he replies, staring into my eyes. �
�One big test.’
I’m at a loss for what to say. ‘A test? Sorry, I really don’t know what this is all about. I think it’s probably just best if I go, alright?’
Marek says nothing. I head upstairs, taking the stairs two at a time, and shove everything into my rucksack. I just want to get out of here as quickly as possible.
When I’m done, I head back down the stairs and find Marek stood at the bar with another man who I’ve not seen before.
‘Ah, Bradley. This is my brother, Andrej.’
I certainly wasn’t expecting that. I’d always been under the assumption that I’d be dealing directly with Marek, and now this mythical business don of Bratislava is standing right in front of me. Andrej cocks his head slightly to one side and smiles at me. I can only presume he can see the look of shock that I can feel on my face.
‘Andrej is telling me how happy he is at your hard work,’ Marek says.
‘Very happy,’ Andrej adds, his voice much deeper and more resonant than Marek’s.
‘I’m glad,’ I say, trying to be as pleasant as possible but still making it perfectly clear that I want nothing to do with this. ‘But I’m afraid I can’t do any more deliveries. I’m only in the area for a little while. Thank you, but I have to go. Here’s the money for the room,’ I say, handing the wad of notes back to Marek, who looks at Andrej and says nothing.
‘Go?’ Andrej says. ‘But you have only just arrived. You have a job. We have given you work, money and generosity.’
‘Yeah, and I really appreciate it, but I need to go. You can have the money back.’
‘Back? No. There is no going back, Daniel.’ I freeze. Andrej’s eyes suddenly look very different. I can’t think of a word to say, but fortunately I don’t need to, because Andrej speaks again. ‘You left your bag in your room. Your passport was inside.’
I can feel my jaw hanging open, my heart hammering in my chest.
‘You went in my room? In my bag?’
‘It is important that we know who we work with,’ Andrej says, as if this is the most normal situation in the world. ‘We cannot work with liars and frauds.’
Oh, well at least you’ve got some form of morality to your business is what I want to say, but I end up saying: ‘In that case, you don’t have to. I’m leaving.’
I keep my eyes fixed to the ground and walk towards the door, stopping dead when I hear Andrej’s voice behind me.
‘The police in England are offering a very big reward for finding you.’
How the fuck have they got into my room, got my passport, identified me and found out about that in the space of half an hour? And why the fuck did I leave my passport there in the first place? I should’ve burned it along with the old rucksack. Scrap that – I should have left it in France somewhere. Not long after we’d left Claude’s place, that passport was completely worthless. I’d have been better off being caught without a passport at all than with that one. If I’d just ditched it earlier, I wouldn’t be in this situation now.
‘Drug dealing and blackmail?’ I say, without turning round.
‘At least we have not murdered you,’ Andrej replies. I’m not sure whether that’s a threat aimed at my life or a reference to him being able to take the moral high ground over the Lisa situation.
I turn and address Marek. ‘What’s this all about, Marek? Why are you doing this to me?’
Marek says nothing.
‘We are very generous to you,’ Andrej says. ‘You have a room. A safe place. Also, you have a job. And with very good money.’ Andrej’s English is far better than Marek’s, and he has that intimidating air of someone far more educated and refined.
‘I did not kill Lisa,’ I say, looking Andrej in the eye in the hope that he’ll be able to see the truth. ‘Someone has set me up and made it look like it was me.’ I choose not to mention Jess. ‘I’m not a bad person, alright? I don’t break the law. I’m not a murderer, and I’m certainly not a drug runner.’
‘So why are you here?’ Andrej asks. ‘Why did you run from England and come to Slovakia?’
I look away and shake my head. ‘I don’t know.’ The truth is far too complicated to go into right now. I wouldn’t even know where to start. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘Who killed your wife?’ Andrej asks.
‘I don’t know. I really don’t. I wish I did.’ I look him in the eye again as I speak. He says nothing for a good twenty seconds but continues to look at me. I hold eye contact.
When he eventually speaks, they’re not the words I was expecting to hear.
‘We can help you.’
48
My legs ache, the lactic acid in my muscles making them feel like they’re on fire.
I had to get out of there. I had no other option. The whole room suddenly felt stuffy and claustrophobic, like it was closing in on me. I barely even heard the last few words they said, as it all became far too much for me.
Now I’m walking randomly but purposefully around the streets of Bratislava. I don’t know where I’m going and I don’t know why. All I know is that I need to get some air, get some space, get some distance. I’ve barely been here a few hours and already Andrej and Marek have discovered who I am. What hope do I have against the combined police forces of Europe? Not much, by my reckoning.
Even though I disappeared pretty sharpish, I know exactly what’s going to happen from here. And I know Andrej and Marek do, too, which is why they didn’t try to stop me leaving. Those words. We can help you. All I want, all I need and desperately desire, is for someone to help me. To have someone on my side, someone who can find out who’s doing this and why, whilst keeping the police well away from me. I don’t even trust the British police after my experience of their corruption back at Pendleton House, so I’ve got very low hopes for the Slovakian police force.
The only problem is, by working for Andrej and Marek I’m undoubtedly far more likely to open myself up to the police. I still don’t know what is in these deliveries – and I don’t want to know – but I’m fairly sure it’s not icing sugar. At the same time, though, I get the sense that these sorts of people are above the law, smarter than the police, able to actually help me. These aren’t small-time petty criminals. You can tell when somebody really means business.
I’m far from being a goody two shoes, but I’ve got to be honest and admit that these people scare me. Sure, I’ve done bad things in my life. I’ve broken laws; I’ve upset people. But that’s a whole different level from the sorts of things I’m sure Andrej and Marek do. But then again, what compares to being suspected of two murders and hunted down across Europe? I fail to see how whatever they’re asking me to deliver can put me in much more shit than I’m already in at the moment.
Besides which, I don’t know who else I can trust right now. There is no-one. When you’re in a foreign country and you can’t even go to the police, what options do you have? Who else can you trust? I really shouldn’t be able to trust Andrej and Marek, either, but what reason do I have not to? After all, it was me who chose to come to Bratislava, me who chose to walk in that direction and me who chose to go into that bar. Andrej and Marek might not exactly be Mother Teresa and Princess Di, but I can also be pretty certain that they’re not against me in this.
To people like them, business is business. It’s purely a trading relationship of two very different sets of needs. I can help them, and they can help me. I’ll help them out by doing their deliveries and they’ll help me out by finding out who killed Lisa and Jess and who’s trying to frame me. I don’t know how they’re going to do it, and to be honest I really don’t care. I just want the truth. Everything else is irrelevant right now.
It seems like forever since I found Lisa’s body in the hotel in Herne Bay. It feels almost like another lifetime. In such a short space of time, I’ve gone from being at work and having fun to walking through the streets of Slovakia trying to decide whether to become a drug runner for an Eastern European gang or try to get off two murder charg
es on my own. The dark humour isn’t lost on me at all. The whole situation seems utterly ridiculous, as if I’m going to wake up and realise it was all a dream. A nightmare. But, deep down, I know that’s not going to happen. I know that there’s no getting away.
There’s only so far one man can run. The world simply isn’t big enough to keep running. I can’t keep looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life, never knowing who I can trust and who I can’t. I keep catching my reflection in shop windows and seeing how haggard and tired I look. I’ve aged years in a matter of days. What will I look like in a week’s time? A month’s time? Will I still be alive? All I know in this moment is that I can’t do this alone. I need help.
I suddenly start to feel incredibly nauseous, and I dart off the street and into an alleyway, bracing myself between two huge bins as I retch and vomit onto the dirt-covered asphalt. The smell from the bins makes the feeling worse, but its effect on me is also a huge relief. It feels almost like I’m purging the bad feelings from within, spilling them out into the alleyway and ridding myself of the negativity.
And in this moment, my mindset changes. I realise I’m long past the point of no return and that I have no other option. I have the slightest possibility of an escape route – something I thought I’d had ever since I left Herne Bay, but which I now realise was always a false illusion. This is no longer about feeling sorry for myself. From now on, this is about the fight.
I stand up straight, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and head back in the direction of Marek’s bar.
49
The journey to the hospital was a blur. Driving wasn’t an option – he’d had too much to drink the evening before. The taxi to the East Surrey Hospital was going to cost an arm and a leg, but that didn’t matter. Money was just money. What concerned Dan right now was that he needed to get to Lisa’s side.
