Only the Truth

by Adam Croft

  You see it all the time in the movies. The hapless runner who keeps fucking up yet keeps getting taken under the wing of the gangland boss, who sees a very useful and very lucrative sign of potential somewhere in him. And he hones that potential, draws it out until he’s got the perfect tool for the big heist he’s been planning for years. I know my imagination is probably running away with me, but I can’t think of any other reason why these two haven’t at least thrown me out on the streets just yet.

  Other than Marek waking me yesterday afternoon, I slept more or less straight through until this morning. I knew I’d been sleep-deprived recently, but even I didn’t think it was possible for a human being to sleep for eighteen hours straight. I’m not sure I feel better for it, either. My head feels groggy and stuffed.

  I get changed and head downstairs to the bar, unsure as to what I might find. Will Andrej be there, having waited for me to get up so he can speak to me about what happened yesterday? I hope not. Even though Marek said he’d square everything, I’m still slightly afraid of Andrej. And Marek, too, if I’m honest. But I’m completely tied in with them now. They know too much about me for me to do anything but stick it out. And, anyway, what’s the alternative? Go back to England and face a trial for murder? No thanks.

  The bar’s quiet, empty. I’m sure it’s usually open at this time, but the front door and the storm porch door are both shut – something I’ve not seen since I arrived here, and particularly not on a nice sunny day like today.

  I go over to the door to give it a shove, see if it’s locked, and it’s then that I notice the envelope on the floor. It’s addressed to Daniel. A few thoughts rush straight into my head. Is this a note from Marek? Perhaps he’s just letting me know that he’s had to nip out for a bit and he’ll be back soon. If that’s the case, why not leave a note on the bar or somewhere I’d be more likely to see it? He could’ve slipped it under my door upstairs, for instance. No, this looks as though it’s been posted through the letterbox and landed inside. Why would Marek post a note through his own front door? Besides which, he never calls me Daniel. He always calls me Bradley, playing along with the charade in order to help protect my real identity.

  Confused, I tear open the envelope and take out the paper from inside. It’s a sheet of A5 writing paper, written on with a thick black marker. My heart lurches in my chest as I read the words in front of me:

  You can run but you cannot hide. Mistakes must be paid for.

  That’s all it says. I try the front door, but it won’t budge. I jog over to the back door, which leads out into the alleyway and the motor scooter, but that’s locked tight, too. There’s nowhere I can go.

  I feel my whole world closing in around me. I don’t know who’s sent this note, but there are very few possibilities. Who knows my real name and the fact that I’m in Bratislava? By my reckoning, only Marek and Andrej. So why did Marek tell me everything was going to be alright if they were then going to threaten me like this? No. It doesn’t feel right. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I could tell from looking into Marek’s eyes yesterday that there wasn’t malice in them. Not malice directed at me, anyway. There was a strange sort of acceptance, as if this was a problem they were going to have to sort out, but sort out on behalf of me rather than punishing me for it.

  But then that means this whole note makes no sense whatsoever. I feel as though eyes are on me, as though I’m being watched from all angles. It’s a horrible sensation, and it’s one I want to get rid of as quickly as possible. I fold the note and shove it back in the envelope before putting it in my pocket. I’m usually a fairly good judge of character and tend to be able to rely on my hunches, and my hunch is that Marek has popped out, locked the bar as I was asleep upstairs, and that this note is from someone completely different. There’s menace in the words, almost as though the note itself holds the spirit and aura of the person who wrote it. And I’m now fairly sure that the person who wrote it is the same person who killed Lisa and Jess. And now they’re here to kill me, too.

  57

  I went straight upstairs after receiving the note, and locked myself in my room. It’s about the only place I can feel anything remotely related to safe. I locked the door and closed the curtains before hiding under the duvet. Out of sight, out of mind. I just want to curl up in a ball and die, letting all of this go. I want the whole thing to end and go back to how it was.

  And that’s what hurts most: the realisation that things will never go back to how they were. They can’t. Lisa will always be dead. Jess will always be dead. And I will always be suspected – somewhere, by some people – of being a murderer. Things will never be the same. The best I can hope for is to clear my name and not have to live the rest of my life on the run. And, right now, that would be an enormous victory. But it’s one I can feel falling away from me more and more quickly every day, slipping through my fingers like oil. All I need is a break. A chance to be able to prove the truth. But before that, I know I need to discover the truth. And that’s where I’m going to struggle.

  After about half an hour, I hear the door unlocking downstairs. I take a deep breath and head down, where I find Marek and Andrej taking off their jackets.

  ‘Ah, Bradley. Good morning,’ Marek says, in his usual jovial manner. I nod at them both, my eyes looking at Andrej, trying to judge his mood. I can only imagine Marek will have filled him in on the botched delivery yesterday, and I want to get an idea of just how angry he is. I can’t tell a thing, though. Andrej’s face remains as stoic and impassive as it always does. He has the perfect poker face and never gives anything away.

  ‘Marek, do you know anything about a note?’ I ask, getting straight to the point.

  ‘Note?’ he replies, as I spot the faintest raising of an eyebrow.

  ‘Yeah. About half an hour ago I came downstairs and the bar was locked up—’

  ‘Yes, we had to go out,’ Marek says, interrupting me. ‘I did not wish to wake you.’ He says this almost as if it was a matter of duty rather than just being nice.

  ‘No, that’s fine. But when I came down I found a note by the door. I think it’d been posted through the letterbox. It was addressed to “Daniel”.’

  Marek stops what he’s doing, and I see Andrej’s eyes light up momentarily – a momentary slip of the guard – before he retains his usual stoic look. They both look at each other briefly, not speaking a word but at the same time saying a thousand.

  ‘This note,’ Marek says. ‘What did it say?’

  I take the note out of my pocket and hand it to him. He takes it out of the envelope, spends a few seconds reading it and then hands it to Andrej.

  They exchange a few words in Slovak, then Andrej speaks.

  ‘Do you have any idea who sent this?’

  ‘No, not a clue. No-one who knows my real name even knows I’m here. Except . . .’ Marek’s eyes meet mine. I can see they’ve already both taken the same leap of logic as I have. ‘Not that I’m saying anything like that, of course,’ I explain, back-pedalling. ‘Just that someone’s obviously either followed me here somehow or someone here has found out my real name.’

  ‘We did not speak to anyone,’ Andrej says. ‘Not about who you really are. Not to anybody we cannot trust with our lives.’ I’m not quite sure what he means by this, or how he knows he can trust anyone, or who he’s told, but I’m in no position to question him right now. I’m just hoping they haven’t told anyone who doesn’t strictly need to know, because knowing who I can trust is my biggest problem right now. For a brief moment, I wish I hadn’t told them anything. I wish I’d denied everything, claimed the passport was false. But then how would I have denied the news reports and press coverage?

  Andrej exchanges a glance with Marek. ‘We will deal with this.’

  I stand for a moment, unsure what to say. ‘What do you mean, you’ll deal with it? How?’ I fail to see how they’d be able to do anything, not to mention why I should trust them. Unless, of course, it’s because they know
something that I don’t. That’s a thought that both scares me and reassures me at the same time.

  ‘Do not worry,’ he replies. ‘If somebody wanted to hurt you, they would not do it by writing a letter.’

  I can’t believe how casual he’s being about this. Then again, it’s not his life and his existence on the line. ‘It’s a warning,’ I say. ‘It clearly says so in the note.’

  ‘People who mean business do not send warnings. They do not mess about with words and letters. Do not worry,’ he repeats.

  He sounds convincing, and he’s doing his best to put me at ease, but I would be foolish if I said I wasn’t still panicking. Andrej knows far more about the sorts of people who send threats than I do.

  ‘So, what, you just want me to ignore it? I’m not being funny, but someone’s already killed my wife and chased me halfway across Europe. How am I meant to feel safe when they know I’m here?’ I purposely don’t mention Jess.

  ‘Bradley, trust us,’ Andrej says, placing his hand on my shoulder. He gives me the impression of being more than one step ahead. I nod. ‘Now, we have some deliveries for you. To make up for the incident yesterday.’

  I can’t argue with that. But it still doesn’t shake the feeling that my journey could very soon be at its end and that it won’t be long before I’m face to face with the person who killed Lisa and Jess, and who’s going to try to kill me. ‘Sure. That’s fine,’ I say. ‘But there’s something I want you to do for me first.’

  58

  It was an odd request, particularly as I didn’t want to tell them why I’d requested it, but fortunately for me Andrej acquiesced. Less than half an hour later, he was back at the bar, handing me a brand-new dictaphone.

  Ever since this whole journey started, all I’ve wanted is the truth. All I’ve wanted is to know who killed Lisa and Jess, and why. I want to know why this mystery person has such an enormous grudge against me that they’re willing to murder two people and completely ruin my life just to get to me. They’re the sorts of answers I can’t go without.

  Not only do I not know this truth, but no-one else does, either, except the killer. I can’t guarantee – not by a long shot – that I’m going to come out of this alive, so I need to know that my version of the truth is going to go out. I need to know that my story will be told, because I certainly can’t guarantee that it’ll ever be told by me.

  The dictaphone’s a fancy sort, with a dual-recording mode. In short, it means the device will record both onto the device itself as well as onto a removable memory card. Once I’ve recorded my message, I’m going to leave the memory card with Marek and Andrej, keeping the dictaphone itself with me. Should anything happen to me, my hope is that someone will find the dictaphone. If it’s the killer who finds it, at least I know that Marek and Andrej will have a copy. It feels bizarre trusting them with something so important, seeing as I barely know them, but who else do I have? There isn’t anyone.

  Having set the dictaphone up and inserted two batteries and the memory card, I set it to record. I haven’t really planned what I’m going to say, but I think this is something that’s best if it comes from the heart.

  ‘I don’t know who’s going to find this,’ I say, ‘but my name is Daniel Cooper. There will be a lot being said about me, and it’s important that the truth is told. Firstly, I did not kill my wife, Lisa Cooper. At the time she died, I was downstairs in the restaurant at the hotel. I wasn’t even aware that my wife was at the hotel. When I came back up to my room, I found her body in my bathtub, but with no signs of forced entry to the room. This was the first time I’d seen my wife since I left our house the week before. When I saw the mobile phone in her hand, I looked at the screen and saw that there was a text message that appeared to come from me. I didn’t send it. I’d never seen that message before, and there was no trace of it on my phone. At that point, I panicked. I freaked out. Finding your wife dead is one thing, but realising someone has tried to frame you for her murder is something completely different. I just wanted to get as far away from the situation as possible.

  ‘I don’t like confrontation, and I don’t like injustice. But at the same time, I don’t know how to handle either when they’re thrust upon me. There was an incident in my past. The authorities will probably have found it on record by now. I don’t know. I might be digging myself into a bigger hole by telling you about it. When I was young, I was in a children’s home. A boys’ home. It was run by nuns. There was a man who used to come to visit. He put a lot of money into the home, kept it running and all of the nuns thought he was practically a saint. Well, most of them. This man used to have . . . favourites. Out of the boys, I mean. One night, after he’d done it again, I lost my rag. My temper went and I flew into a rage. I battered the bloke black and blue. You’ve got to understand that wasn’t because I’m a violent person. It’s not. I’m not. It’s because I don’t know how to handle things. And that’s why I ran from the hotel when I found my wife’s body and realised I’d been set up. Because I couldn’t handle the injustice.

  ‘I didn’t run on my own. When I got downstairs, Jessica saw me. She worked at the hotel, on reception. We’d . . .’ I figure I might as well come out with it. It’s not as if Lisa’s ever going to know now. ‘We’d been having a bit of a fling while I was staying at the hotel. I don’t know why, but I agreed to let her come with me. I just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. She seemed to know what she was doing.

  ‘We drew cash out of our accounts and headed for Folkestone. We got on the Eurotunnel and went to France. We knew we needed to get as far away as possible, for two reasons. Firstly, to give ourselves some breathing space and time to work out what the hell we were going to do, and secondly to get away from the person who’d killed Lisa and would quite possibly try to kill me – if not make it their life’s mission to make my existence a living hell. Jess knew a place in France. I don’t remember the exact location, but it was a farmhouse near Locquignol. I reckon I could find it again if I was in the area, but right now that’s the best I can do. A friend of her family lived there. A guy called Claude. He gave us cash, as well as a car. We left my car in his barn. The next morning, we drove down to Switzerland and hired a caravan on a campsite. That’s when things started to get worse.

  ‘I went into town one morning to get some bits, and when I came back Jess was dead. Murdered. I thought we’d managed to outrun the killer, but I knew in that instant that he knew exactly where I was and that he was trying to close in on me. So I ran. Again. I drove to Innsbruck and abandoned Claude’s car in a petrol station. I went on foot to the main station and got on a train to Bratislava, which is where I’ve been ever since.

  ‘I rented a room above a bar, run by a guy called Marek. His brother, Andrej, somehow managed to collar me into delivering parcels for him. I didn’t know what the parcels were – I still don’t, actually – but by the time I’d done one it was too late to back out. They found out my real identity. I’d told them I was called Bradley. They said if I left they’d turn me in, but if I stayed and worked for them they’d help me. Then I got a note through the door one day addressed to “Daniel” which said . . . Well, it was a threat. Let’s just put it that way. That’s when I knew I couldn’t get away. From whoever is doing this. That’s when I knew that wherever I ran, he’d be there. And that’s why I’m recording this message. So that when I’m found – if I’m found – the truth is on record. My truth. Because only the truth matters. None of what anyone else is saying. I didn’t kill Lisa. I didn’t kill Jess. I’ve never killed anyone. This is the truth.’

  My head spins as I click the ‘Stop’ button, and I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders.

  I take the memory card out of the dictaphone and put the device in my pocket. As long as I’ve always got this on me and Marek and Andrej have the other copy, I’m about as safe as I possibly can be. Which isn’t very safe at all. I take the memory card downstairs and put it behind the bar, where Andrej said. T
hen I put on my jacket and step outside the back door, into the alleyway, and start up the moped. It’s time to regain some trust.

  59

  I don’t know if it’s just the paranoia kicking in again, but I feel like I’m being followed. There’s nothing tangible, nothing I can put my finger on, but it gives me a deep sense of unease. I don’t take the most direct route to my pick-up point – far from it. I head off in the general direction of where I need to go before veering off into a side road to my right, then turning right at the end again, heading back the way I’ve just come, on a parallel road. I glance in my mirrors every couple of seconds, taking note of the cars behind me, getting to know each of them intimately.

  None of them ever turn the same way as I do, but I still can’t shake that feeling of being followed. Knowing that it’s a paranoia coming from within me makes it even worse. I wouldn’t wish this feeling on my worst enemy. After more twisting and turning I decide that I’m never going to feel completely comfortable, so I head for the pick-up point.

  When I get there, I find out the shop I need to get to is in a pedestrianised area of the city. I can see it – it’s a jeweller’s – but there’s no way I’ll be able to drive to it, so I park the scooter up round the corner and do the rest of the journey on foot. It’s a pain in the arse, but my main worry is that I’m going to have to walk back through this pedestrianised area with the package under my arm. That doesn’t exactly feel safe to me.