by Adam Croft
Oddly, the news of her miscarriage wasn’t the biggest shock to him: it was the fact that she’d been pregnant at all. They hadn’t even been trying and the news that not only had they managed to create a child but it had then been taken away from them before they even knew about it was what hurt the most. He’d never get to enjoy any of the high points – taking the test, finding out the news, seeing the doctor, having the scans. All of that was lost before they even knew they’d had it.
Lisa’s cycle had been less than regular over the years – something which had been accentuated by the stress of her job – so she never had any real reason to suspect she might be pregnant. It wasn’t something they’d ever even thought about, and the discussion about children had never happened. Dan always got the impression that Lisa wasn’t interested, was too career driven, and if he was pushed to give an opinion either way, he’d probably have said he wasn’t particularly keen on the idea of kids anyway. There always seemed to be an unspoken agreement that kids just weren’t on the cards.
But the moment he took that phone call, that all changed.
Now the news hit him like a bullet, shattering all the hopes and dreams he never realised he’d had. And where had he been when Lisa was going through all this? Yet again he’d fucked up majorly without even realising he was doing it at the time.
The taxi driver was doing his best to get to the hospital quickly, which was a little easier than normal considering the time of night and the state he could see Dan was in. The whole journey seemed to take an age, blue motorway signs whizzing past in a blur, headlights searing through a film of tears as his whole mind turned numb. Eventually, they arrived, Dan thrusting his wallet at the taxi driver, who took out the money for the fare and returned the wallet to Dan, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder as he did so.
When he got into the hospital, Dan headed straight for reception, mumbling Lisa’s name at the girl behind the desk when he got there. The girl tapped a few buttons on her computer, then told him that he needed the third floor. On getting there, he didn’t need to ask again; the nurse on duty seemed to know who he was immediately, and took him to one side. Her words were a blur.
‘As you can imagine,’ she said, ‘this has been quite traumatic for your wife. She’s in quite a bit of shock.’
‘Yeah, me too,’ Dan replied.
‘At the moment we’re trying to stick to the cold, hard facts. That’s probably the best way to come to terms with what’s happened.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ Dan said. ‘We didn’t even . . . I didn’t even know she was pregnant.’
‘Neither did she, by all accounts. It was quite a shock for her. We do have our bereavement counselling service to offer to you, but I think at this stage it would be good to be with Lisa and to comfort her.’
The word hit him like a ton of bricks. Bereavement. That’s exactly what it was. A death. The death of his first, and possibly only, child. A birth and a death at once. A death without a birth. The death of a child he didn’t know he had. A child he didn’t have. Whichever way he looked at it, it was one huge mindfuck.
He followed the nurse through the corridor to the room at the end. As she pushed open the door gently, he could see Lisa lying in the bed, propped up with pillows under her back, her head leaning away from the doorway, looking out of the window into the blackness beyond.
‘Lisa,’ Dan said. The nurse stood respectfully at the door, not wanting to intrude. ‘Lisa, it’s me.’
Dan walked slowly over to the bed, hearing the door click closed behind him as the nurse made her way back down the corridor. Lisa kept looking out of the window, not even seeming to acknowledge his presence.
He sat down on the orange plastic chair next to the bed. It reminded him of the chairs they used to have in the classrooms at school. He placed a hand on top of hers and squeezed.
Slowly, Lisa turned her head to face him. The look on her face was one he’d never seen before. It was a look of pure emptiness. Her eyes said everything and nothing at the same time.
She spoke just one word. ‘Why?’
It was a question Dan had asked himself a thousand times since he received the phone call, but to which he still didn’t have an answer. He knew he would never have an answer.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, choking back the tears. ‘I should have been there.’
‘You were working,’ Lisa whispered, as if it were a world-known fact.
‘I know.’ How could he tell her that while his wife was having a miscarriage, while she was losing the baby she didn’t even know she was carrying, he was in bed with a redhead he’d met at the wrap party earlier that evening? He doubted if that was something he’d ever be able to tell her, ever be able to come to terms with himself. In that instant, he knew simultaneously that not only would he never forgive himself, but that his almost destructive hatred for himself meant he couldn’t guarantee he’d never do it again, either. As far as he was concerned, this reinforced something he already knew: he was a serial fucker-upper.
50
I really don’t want to know too much. They say knowledge is power, but I’ve got a funny feeling that the less I know about Andrej and Marek, the safer I’m going to be.
Fortunately for me, they seem to believe my story. I told them everything about what happened in the hotel in Herne Bay. I told them about finding Lisa’s body in the bathtub, about leaving with Jess and going to France and Switzerland. I told them about Claude and his farmhouse. I couldn’t tell them anything much more than that, though. I never knew Claude’s surname and I couldn’t locate the farmhouse or the Swiss campsite right now if my life depended on it. Not from a map, anyway. The whole of Europe between East Grinstead and Bratislava is just one huge blur in my mind.
What shocks and surprises me is how casually they accept what I’m telling them. I think they can see that I’m telling them the truth, but surely any sane person in their right mind would at least raise their eyebrows if I told them what I’d been through over the past few days. Not Andrej and Marek, though. To me, that says far more about them and their lives than anything else.
They say they can help me. I don’t know how, but I reckon they will. All I know is that they are potentially dangerous people. People who are wrapped up in what I can only presume is some sort of drug-dealing or smuggling operation. After I told them my story, Andrej asked me if there was anything I wanted to know about him. I shook my head and said there wasn’t. Of course there was. There were a hundred and one things I wanted to ask him, but I daren’t. Sometimes I think you’re better off not knowing.
The fact of the matter is that, whoever these people are, they’ve probably got a far better chance of finding out who did this than I have. My only other two options are to go to the police and explain everything, which isn’t an option as I have absolutely no confidence in the police, or try to take on the investigation myself, which is completely laughable considering my fugitive state.
They wanted to know absolutely everything about me. Things I’ve never told anyone. Even when I told Jess my life story I left some fairly important details out. I’m not sure why. A big part of me didn’t want to rake over old ground, but I was also torn between my certainty that no-one from that far back would come back to haunt me, and that if they did I didn’t want to know about it. I didn’t want to face the facts and deal with what was going on. Story of my life.
I never even told Lisa absolutely everything about my childhood. A lot of stuff at the boys’ home even I’ve probably forgotten or blocked out, but most of it was completely irrelevant. She didn’t need to know about Mr Duggan, for example. No-one needed to know about that piece of shit. But I knew I had to tell Andrej and Marek everything. Every last detail. As great as Lisa was, she wouldn’t have been able to do anything to help me. Jess could’ve, but I left it too late. Now these two Slovakian strangers are my only hope.
I try to forget about the whole blackmail thing, because I know they’re right. Th
ey still haven’t told me much about themselves and their set-up, but from the questions they’re asking and the detail they want to know, I can only assume their influence stretches much further than Bratislava. For all I know, they could be part of some bigger network. I’m not sure whether that would be a good thing or not. It would certainly give me a much better chance of finding out what happened and who’s after me, but it also scares me to think that I could potentially be involved with people like this.
This doesn’t happen to normal, ordinary people. None of this does. But my life has never been normal and ordinary, and it definitely hasn’t since I came back up to my hotel room in Herne Bay. Everything changed from that point on, and I know it won’t ever go back to normal.
It makes me wonder what the point is. The easiest option – some might say the sensible option – would be to forget the whole thing, give up and end it. When I climbed up onto the roof of the hostel, burning the bag was only one of my intentions. As I stood on the edge of the building and looked out across Bratislava, I was acutely aware that I could take one step – just one step – and all of this would be over. But I didn’t.
I’ve always been a fighter. I’ve never felt it right to give up in the face of injustice. I’d rather die fighting than give up. It’s one of the reasons I reacted the way I did when I found out about Mr Duggan’s death. That was sheer injustice at its highest level – a man who got to live his life the way he wanted without retribution, save for one night many years ago. And when it’s an injustice I can’t do anything about – like Mr Duggan getting off scot-free – it hurts a thousand times more.
Andrej goes off to make a few phone calls, and Marek offers me a drink. I tell him I’ll have whisky. I figure they can at least let me have the rest of the day off from driving after pouring out my life history in front of them. A few minutes later, Andrej comes back.
‘We have a job for you,’ he says. I lift up my whisky glass in response, as if to show him I’m not going to be able to do anything right now. ‘Tomorrow morning,’ he replies.
51
It’s all hazy at first. I’m flicking channels on the TV, and there’s a couple I can’t get. Channels 4 and 5, yet again. I blink, and the TV remote becomes my mobile phone. I’ve just finished sending a message, so I lock the screen and put the phone on my bedside table. It’s dark, but I can still see perfectly. I can see everything. All of my senses are alive.
I can hear the footsteps treading softly on the carpet in the corridor outside, gradually getting louder until the adrenaline coursing through me turns the sound into a deafening roar which ends with a second’s peaceful silence before the gentle knock on the door. I casually walk over to the door and open it, beckoning her inside. Her hair flows behind her as she walks, her whole appearance almost ethereal, a light, bright glow around her, shining like an aura.
‘You said you wanted to see me?’ she says, her pale skin glistening white, almost translucent. She’s even more beautiful than I remember, and I have a distinct awareness of remembering her far too fondly, almost like looking deep into the past with rose-tinted glasses.
‘Yes, come through,’ I reply, beckoning her through the small side door to my left. The light is glowing inside, the whole room basking in the whitest white. ‘Lie down,’ I say. She smiles at me and steps over the side of the bath, swinging her other leg in behind her, before sitting down and resting her head back. It makes a small, gentle sound as her head makes contact with the cold, hard surface of the bath. I can see her muscles visibly relaxing in front of me. She looks happy, content.
‘I understand,’ she says, looking at me, her eyes conveying a lifetime of emotion. ‘I understand.’
In that moment, I know things are changing. It’s a moment of sheer beauty, of complete mutual human recognition. We both know, we both understand, and not a word needs to be said. It’s serene. It’s beautiful. It’s what philosophers refer to as ‘the numinous’. If I could savour the moment forever, I would – we both would – but we know it’s not to be. We know what comes next.
The theme tune to Countdown is playing from the TV back inside the bedroom. I lean across the edge of the bath and put my hands around her throat, squeezing harder as she begins to gurgle. The music gets louder, my hands getting tighter around her throat. The blood tries to escape from her head, but it can’t. She goes from pale white to pink, through red and on to deep purple, her lips turning blue. The Countdown music rolls into the final five-second sting as she begins to shake violently, her central nervous system putting up one last, final struggle for life as all signs of existence start to fade from her eyes. The final bong sounds from the TV at the same time as her body stops jerking, a beautiful, peaceful silence filling the room.
I rest her back against the porcelain, gently, taking care not to hurt her. I stand up, pull the shower curtain across and wash my hands before drying them on the towel. I glance into the mirror and check that my shirt is sitting comfortably and then I leave the room, my stomach starting to growl and rumble.
52
The next morning, my head is pounding. I don’t recall drinking all that much, but it feels like I’ve got the hangover from hell. Logically, I know it’s likely to be a combination of a bit of alcohol plus a fair amount of tiredness and a smattering of stress. I’m not quite sure what else I expected at the moment, but I don’t feel in any state to go doing deliveries. Andrej and Marek have already been making phone calls, though, mostly in Slovak but with familiar words being interspersed through the conversations. Daniel Cooper. Lisa Cooper. Jessica Walsh. Herne Bay. Claude. France. Innsbruck.
They’ve both been very reassuring. Then again, they would be, wouldn’t they? They want me to be the fall guy for their dodgy dealings. I tell myself not to take it personally, that they’re my only hope. For them, this is pure business, I suppose. A large part of me is also hoping they’re the sort of people who deal with so many crooks and villains that they’ll be able to tell just by looking at me that I’m an honest sort of guy. Well, about as honest as I can be, anyway.
I get up, get dressed and make my way downstairs to the bar. When I get there, Marek is mopping the floor. The whole place smells of disinfectant with a faint undercurrent of stale lager. He looks at me, fires off a smile and goes back to mopping.
‘Morning,’ I say, trying to initiate some conversation.
‘Good morning,’ he says eventually, not looking up from the floor, his mop gliding across it with a light swish-swoosh in between dips into the bucket.
‘Any news?’
Marek shakes his head almost immediately. ‘No news. When we have news, we will tell.’ I say nothing. ‘Here,’ he says, jiggling a small wicker basket on the bar. ‘Eat.’
I look into the basket. It appears to be full of what looks like black bread or some sort of cake.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘Breakfast,’ Marek replies, beaming.
Not wanting to offend anyone, and starting to feel pretty hungry, I take a slice of the bread and start to eat. It’s sweet, almost like cake, and very malty. It’s not what I’d tend to associate with breakfast, but right now I’ll eat anything. I somehow doubt there’s going to be a local greasy spoon serving a full English fry-up.
‘Did Andrej tell you any more about the job he wants me to do today?’ I ask.
Marek says nothing in response, instead spending a few more seconds mopping right up into the corner of the bar before he straightens up, plops the mop back in the bucket, dries his hands on his shirt and comes over to me.
‘Bradley, you must not worry,’ he says, placing his hands on my shoulders. His use of my pseudonym has the intended effect: it shows me that he’s on my side, willing to play the game. ‘The people you will see, our customers, they will not be trouble. My brother, Andrej, he is very well known here in Bratislava. Nobody will fuck with you.’ Marek’s usage of English swear words, oddly, makes me feel far more relaxed.
‘I know. I trust you, Marek
. I trust you both. But at the same time, whoever’s trying to ruin my life has already killed my wife and chased me halfway across Europe to try to get to me. Saying “Don’t worry” doesn’t quite cut it.’ I still haven’t told him about what happened to Jess at the campsite. It doesn’t seem important, somehow. She’s dead, caught up in the crossfire. Part of me doesn’t want Marek and Andrej to think that they’re going to be next – that I’m some sort of jinx or liability.
At this stage, I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know how long I’m going to be here, what Marek and Andrej are doing or whether it’ll work. Besides which, everyone who I thought would be able to help me is either dead or after me.
The worst thing is not knowing who’s responsible. Knowing that the person could be around the next corner, or hiding in plain sight. I’ve got to admit, a part of me is even starting to doubt myself. Last night’s dream seems to have blurred the lines between imagination and reality. Deep down, I know it’s just my brain playing tricks on me, the paranoia seeping through. But that still doesn’t change the fact that I saw it in my own mind’s eye. I saw me killing Lisa. I know it can’t be true, but I can’t shake the horrible realisation that I don’t actually remember going down to the restaurant that afternoon. I remember being in my room, and I remember being in the restaurant. Everything that happened afterwards is incredibly vivid, but before that it’s all a bit of a blur. It doesn’t explain how the hell Lisa would’ve got to the hotel – or how I knew she was coming – but it’s still enough to give me cause for concern.
And then there’s Jess. I remember being in the caravan with her, and I remember walking into town. The bit in the middle, though, is hazy. I don’t remember anything between deciding to go into town, and actually going into town. I’ve got a lot of blank spots, but that’s easily explained by tiredness and stress, I tell myself. I mean, seriously, look at what I’ve been through over the past few days. It’s enough to give anyone some memory blanks. I’m amazed I’m still standing. I tell myself that I can’t let my brain do this; I can’t convince myself that I’m responsible for what’s happened. If I do that, there’s no going back. I need to stand tall and face the situation. Only then will I discover the truth.
