by Adam Croft
Marek calls my name again. ‘Bradley?’ I realise I must have spaced out for a bit.
‘Yeah, sorry, Marek. Miles away. So. Tell me about this job.’
53
My head still feels fuzzy as I start up the moped, the vibrations from the engine seeming to rattle my skull as I pull away from the back door of the bar. I’ve got a drop-off and a collection this time. I have one parcel to collect from a house on the outskirts of the city, which needs taking to a corner shop. From there, I have to collect another parcel and take it back to the house. There’s a big pay packet for this one. I don’t know how much, but I get the feeling that Marek and Andrej will see me good.
The journey to the house takes me alongside the Danube, and then up a steep hill which brings the speed of the moped down to a shade over 10mph at full throttle. I’ve half a feeling it’d be quicker to get off and push. When I finally get to the house, the first thing that strikes me is how peaceful it is. It’s barely five minutes from the city centre, yet it seems much further. None of the noise of the city seems to travel up the hill.
The house is set back slightly from the road, raised a little, behind a large iron gate. I get off the moped and take off my helmet. There’s an intercom system next to the gate, which I presume I’m going to have to use. I hope whoever’s at the other end is expecting me and speaks English.
As I walk over and raise my arm to press the button, I hear a clunk and a click, and the gate whirrs as it begins to slide across, opening just enough to let me slip through before it closes behind me. I amble slowly up to the front door, the tall house looming over me.
When I get to the door, I look around for a doorbell, buzzer or knocker, but there’s nothing. Just as I’m about to knock on the door with my fist, I notice a small brown parcel tucked behind a statue of an angel or cherub of some sort. It reminds me of the statue in the middle of Piccadilly Circus.
I bend down and pick up the package. It’s been wrapped neatly in parcel paper and tied with string, yet it has no address or details on it. In the absence of any other information, and judging by the secretive nature of Marek and Andrej’s deals so far, I can only assume this is what I’m meant to be collecting. I step back from the front door and make sure I’m in view of the house, so they can see it’s this parcel I’m taking. That way, they’ll be able to stop me if I’ve got the wrong one.
A few steps before I get back to the gate, it slides open – again, just enough to let me through – before closing behind me. I raise a hand in thanks to whoever’s watching and operating the gate, before putting the parcel into the compartment under my seat and firing up the moped once again.
I take a quick look at the map that’s been folded up in my pocket, double-checking to make sure I know where I’m going. Like most routes around this city, it seems easy enough. As with most cities, Bratislava is built around a few main streets, with small side roads linking them. As long as you know the general direction you’re going in, you’re pretty well covered.
From here, I’m heading north-east. The roads around this area seem to be a bit windy, but I don’t envisage that’ll be a problem. I came in from the south, by the river, which was more straightforward, so this is going to take a little more concentration. I pull away from the house, stuttering uphill at a ridiculously slow pace, before I reach the crest and start to accelerate downhill and around the bend, following the meandering road before I turn off in the direction I need to go in.
It’s about ten minutes later that I realise I’m lost. The constant bends in the road have confused me as to which direction I’m pointing in. I was fairly sure I knew where I was, but if that was the case I should’ve met the main road a few minutes back. Right now, though, I’m on the side of a hill, and I can’t even see the main road.
I try to figure out which way is north. Without sight of the river or any recognisable landmarks, that’s nigh on impossible. The sun’s starting to peer around the edge of a cloud to my right. If I knew what time of day it was, I could work out which way I was heading by the position of the sun. It’s at times like this when I wish I had a watch. Mine, a Christmas present from Lisa, is still back at the hotel in Herne Bay, if not already bagged up and stored in an evidence cupboard somewhere. Since then, I’ve not really needed a watch. I’ve either been in a car with a clock, on a train with a clock, or floating around Europe without needing to give a damn what time it was. The thought tickles me somewhat.
I have a rough guess that it’s somewhere around ten in the morning. If this was England, at this time of year, the sun should be somewhere towards the south-east. That means I’m currently heading north-west, rather than north-east. The only problem is, this isn’t England and I’m not entirely sure the sun’s position would be the same. I’m quite a long way east. It’s all I’ve got to work with, though, so I head off again, trying to keep the sun on my right-hand side.
It’s over half an hour before I finally manage to get my bearings and start heading down the main road. What I’m most amazed at is that this little moped still doesn’t seem to need any fuel. You’d think that it’d be thirsty after struggling up those hills, but the needle’s only dropped slightly below the full mark. One of the benefits of having such a small engine and no weight to carry.
Once I’m back on the main road, I’m happier. I’m a lot further up than I need to be, but that’s fine – at least I have an idea of where I am. The traffic has started to build a little, but I’m making good progress – even if I am horrendously late.
When I finally get near the corner shop, I start to slow a little, looking at the numbers on the front of the buildings. I see the shop in the distance and I head for it. As I get closer, I can see a man standing outside the front of the shop, smoking a cigarette. He’s looking right at me.
I pull over to the side of the road, my eyes still fixed on him and his on me as I try to read his expression. I can imagine these are the sorts of people who don’t like being fucked about, and me being late with the delivery clearly hasn’t made him happy.
As I’m about to turn off the ignition and put on my best apologising face, I hear sirens. I stop for a moment, breaking eye contact with the man and cocking my head to try and gauge the direction they’re coming from. I can’t be certain, but what I can tell is that they’re getting closer. And quickly.
I take a look back at the man. He’s heard them, too.
54
My heart’s thudding in my chest as I will the little moped to go faster. I speed off down the main road in the direction I was already facing, then swing right into a side road. The moped’s never felt slower than it does now.
I can’t hear the sirens any more, but that’s only because of the noise of the moped at full throttle and the pulsing of the blood in my ears. When I get to the end of the side road, I meet another main road. I don’t even stop to look, just bolt straight out across two lanes of traffic whilst veering to my left, car horns honking at me as I narrowly miss the front bonnet of a taxi.
I’ve got no time to stop and apologise, and I keep the throttle on maximum power as I lean forward, trying to will the machine to eke just an extra mile an hour out of its little engine. I make up another three hundred yards or so before I turn right again, onto another side street. At the end of this street I turn left again, onto another road.
As I round the corner, my tyres screeching as I try to get onto the right side of the road without letting go of the throttle, I see the face of a small boy looking at me as he and his mother step out to use the zebra crossing. I do all I can think to do, which is to shout ‘MOVE!’ just at the same moment the mother yanks her son back with one hand, her existing momentum leaving her other arm – laden with shopping bags – flying forward. I clip the bags and my scooter gives a worrying wobble, but my own momentum keeps me going in a more or less straight line. I glance into my wing mirror and see the debris strewn around the road, the woman’s groceries bouncing and scattering across the tarmac.
/> The traffic is starting to thin a little, so I nip left across the light oncoming traffic and into an alleyway beside a hairdresser’s salon. I slow, swerving around a couple of huge bins, before getting to the loading bay behind a few shops. I stop the moped, turn off the ignition, take off my helmet and sit for a moment. The sound of the sirens is gone.
I breathe a small sigh of relief, but I know I can’t go anywhere just yet. I’ve attracted enough attention with my dreadful escape attempt just now, and I don’t particularly want to be driving the moped around for a little bit. Not until I’ve had a walkabout to make sure the coast is clear. I know the police probably weren’t after me, and that their presence probably had nothing to do with the corner shop, but I really didn’t want to be anywhere near a police car. And, let’s face it, I panicked.
I put my helmet down beside the moped and glance back at it. It seems stupid leaving the parcel here, in the compartment under the seat, but I definitely can’t risk walking around the streets of Bratislava with it under my arm. I follow another alleyway to walk back in the direction of the corner shop, trying to look as casual as I can. Surprisingly, it’s almost as if nothing ever happened. I’m now one street across from the woman who’s no doubt picking up her groceries off the asphalt, and I’ve certainly got no intention of heading back in that particular direction again.
I cross the road, being careful to look this time, as I reckon I’ve probably exhausted my supply of good luck in that respect, and turn left, passing people going about their everyday business, walking in and out of shops, talking on their mobile phones, laughing and joking. As I pass a coffee shop, I decide to pop in. Everything seems normal, but it probably wouldn’t hurt me to lie low for a bit, let the fuss die down – if there is any fuss.
The woman serving behind the counter in the coffee shop gives me what I can only describe as a weird look. I’m starting to think that this is just how people in Slovakia look at everyone, and that I’m probably being paranoid. ‘Americano,’ I say, pointing to the list of coffees above her head, as if she’s not going to know what I mean. She says nothing, and simply turns towards the huge silver coffee machine to start preparing my drink.
I take five euros out of my pocket and hand it to her when she comes back with the cup, pointing to the charity collection tub next to the till to indicate that she can put my change in there. I figure I can at least do one bit of good today. Again, she says nothing, and the expression on her face doesn’t change.
It doesn’t take me long at all to drink my coffee, the scalding hot liquid making the tip of my tongue numb and sore. I always drink too quickly when I’m nervous – it’s why I always used to fuck up first dates by getting plastered inside an hour and making a complete tit of myself. Fortunately for me, this is just coffee, and the worst that I’m going to get is a burnt tongue and a major caffeine rush. There’s a small packet of biscuits on the saucer, so I pocket them and decide to have them later.
Once I’ve finished, I leave the coffee shop and walk casually back in the direction of the moped. I figure that most of the people who were in the vicinity last time I rode through will now have dispersed in their various directions, so I decide now’s the time to head back to the corner shop and attempt to make the delivery.
When I get back to the moped, I take the packet of biscuits out of my pocket and lift the seat to put them inside.
I freeze.
The parcel’s gone.
55
If I thought I’d panicked earlier when I heard the sirens, that’s nothing compared to what I’m feeling now. I look all around me, trying to see if there’s anyone around – the person who stole the parcel, someone who might have seen who did or someone who might have seen me come back to the moped. There’s nothing. Plenty going on outside the loading area and the network of alleyways that come off of it, but nobody in the immediate vicinity.
I lean over and rest my hands on my knees, trying to steady my breathing. I don’t know for sure what was in that parcel, but I’ve got a pretty good idea it was either a huge amount of drugs or an even huger amount of money. And bearing in mind the people I’m dealing with here, losing either of those things is far from ideal.
I look inside the compartment again, sure I must have missed something. I run my hands around the edge, just in case there’s another compartment I’ve forgotten about. I check inside my helmet and I search the ground in case I somehow managed to drop it, even though I know deep down I did nothing of the sort.
My first instinct is to run. It always is. Story of my life. I can’t do that, though. Everything I have is back in my room at the bar – my clothes, most of my money, my passport. Plus I’ve got the added problem that Marek and Andrej know all about me. They know who I am, where I come from and almost everything that’s led up to this point. Even if they didn’t know who I was, even if they still believed I was an Australian called Bradley, running away from these people still isn’t something I’d risk, so what hope do I have now?
I stand there, still, silent, for what must be a good few minutes. The whole world seems to have closed in around me. Since I opened that compartment I’ve not heard a sound, had no concept of passing time. It’s as though everything has just stopped and nothing has meaning any more, as though my brain has completely accepted its fate.
I haven’t accepted anything, though. I’m not someone who ever likes to give up. Again, it’s injustice. I didn’t ask for the parcel to be stolen, for the police to rock up when I was about to do the drop-off, to get involved with Marek and Andrej, to find that bar on that day. I didn’t ask for any of it.
The next thing I know, I’m crouching down on the ground, my arms clamped over my knees, my face buried in my arms, the sobs and wails overtaking me. I can feel my whole body bouncing as my chest heaves between breaths, releasing all of the tension and the sense of impending doom from inside me.
I need to go back to Marek.
Riding the moped feels wrong now, and the bar isn’t far away from here, so I decide to push it back. The side of the footplate bashes against the side of my shins almost continuously the whole way back, but I can barely feel it. My whole body feels overcome with a numb acceptance. I know what this stage means. It means I’ve given up. It means I’m no longer able to fight, no longer able to find ways to deal with all of the shit that’s being thrown at me. This is the end of the road. This is where I lose.
When I get back to the bar, Marek can tell immediately that I’m not coming with good news. Whether he already knows what’s happened or not I don’t know, but I imagine he can tell just from looking at me. I’d hazard a guess that I don’t look wonderfully happy right now. He doesn’t say a word, though, and just stands, watching me, waiting for me to speak. We hold eye contact. He doesn’t look angry, more a calm sort of inquisitive.
‘I fucked up,’ I say, looking at him. ‘The delivery. I did the pick-up, then I went to do the drop-off but the police came, so I sped off and parked up in an alleyway until things calmed down. I couldn’t risk going back out on the scooter again just yet, so I walked back towards the shop to make sure everything was clear, and when I got back to the scooter the package was gone. I don’t know how – I was only gone a few seconds. I don’t know what to do.’
Marek says nothing for a good twenty seconds or so, his face unchanging the whole time. ‘You left the package?’ he says, finally.
I drop my head towards the floor and nod. ‘Yeah. I know, it was stupid, but what other choice did I have? I couldn’t exactly go walking towards the police cars with a parcel of . . . whatever that is . . . under my arm, can I?’ I say, looking back at him and pleading.
‘A parcel of what?’ Marek asks.
‘Well, you know. Whatever’s in it.’
‘Why would you not want to walk near police with this parcel? What do you think is in it?’
I swallow. ‘Drugs.’
Marek pauses for a moment, and then lets out an enormous belly laugh, which bounces off
the walls and reverberates around the bar like a gunshot. ‘My friend,’ he says eventually, ‘you have a lot to learn.’ I have no idea what he’s talking about.
‘What shall I tell Andrej?’ I say.
Marek’s face darkens immediately. ‘You say nothing. I will speak to Andrej. Do you understand?’
‘Yeah, I understand.’
‘You do not tell him.’
‘No, I won’t,’ I say. ‘I won’t tell him.’ This all seems very strange. Why are they not cutting my fingers off with a meat cleaver? I’m now less sure than I’ve ever been as to what this is all about, and I’m not sure I want to know. I’m just grateful for the help, no matter how odd their take on help is.
Marek looks at me for a moment, nods a few times and steps outside to make a phone call. I suddenly feel very, very alone and very, very vulnerable.
56
I went to bed shortly after that incident yesterday. I felt as if the whole of my lifeblood had been sucked out of me, leaving me devoid of energy. I just wanted to curl up, so I did.
Marek woke me shortly after three o’clock in the afternoon to tell me that everything had been sorted and accounted for. I didn’t know what he meant, and I couldn’t understand why he was being so understanding. Whatever is in these parcels, they’re worth enough to pay some serious cash to the courier, so I can’t imagine some random British foreigner popping up and suddenly losing one is going to be absolutely fine with them. I get the feeling they’re protecting me somehow, for some reason. That thought worries me. Call me paranoid, but Marek and Andrej have absolutely no reason to protect me. They don’t know me. The only favour I’ve done them is making these deliveries for them, and I can’t even manage to do those properly. It only leads me to believe that they have bigger plans for me.
