by Jane Brittan
‘It was taken from my house. It must have been. An upstairs window.’
I’m suddenly back there, that day, outside the house: the photograph in the dirt of me coming up the road from school. We had no photographs in the house, there was never a camera. And yet someone was recording my life, taking pictures I never knew about, never saw.
‘OK. So how does he have it?’
‘I don’t know. Unless … he’s been in touch with … unless …’
My mind starts to spin, black, anxious thoughts.
Peter’s watching me. ‘Kristina?’ he says.
‘She must know where he is,’ I say miserably. ‘She must have known all along.’
‘Hey, Sanda, look at what we have. We’ve found Joe. And we’ve made contact with your father. Are you going to email him, then?’
My fingers are cold on the keyboard: Hi. I’m Sanda.
And then, to Peter, ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Just tell him where you are. Tell him to come and find you.’
To be found. That’s what I want. That’s what I’ve always wanted. I finish the email and send it.
‘What now?’
‘Now we go to get Joe.’
Natalija gets home then and comes over to hug me. ‘He needed a blood transfusion. He’s hurt but stable, and he’s coming out of intensive care. You need to leave now.’
‘Andjela? Was there a girl with him? What about her?’
‘I asked but they didn’t know anything about a girl. I hope she’s OK.’ To Peter she says, ‘Yana says you can stay the night in her flat.’
I sit in silence thinking of Andjela alone in the forest, maybe hurt, certainly hungry.
I catch a look between them.
Peter goes to her and says, ‘You’ll be OK here?’
Natalija smiles at him – a loving smile, and I think of my parents – my fake parents. They never smiled at each other that way.
‘You can take my car.’
I sleep on the journey and wake with a headache and a dry mouth as we slow with the traffic into the country’s capital. It feels strange to be in a city again. Wet streets shine in the headlights, castle walls, old stone, church domes and glassy skyscrapers lean in on us.
Yana, I learn, is a doctor. Her flat is on the fourth floor of a high block.
She greets us at the door: a delicate, bright-eyed woman, with thick chestnut hair piled into a messy bun and glasses pinching at the end of her nose. The flat is small and cramped but comfortable and it smells of polish. It looks out onto a concrete square where there’s a giant statue of an elephant.
Peter hails a taxi and we go with Yana to the hospital.
When we get there, Yana takes charge. We’re directed up to the 5th floor and cover what seems like miles of squeaking linoleum along windowless corridors under the glare of strip lights. The reek of disinfectant is overpowering. At last, she points to distant double doors.
She says, ‘That’s it.’
I want to run, but I can’t. At that moment I think all I feel is fear – I’m actually frightened of seeing him again. After all I’ve put him through, will he really want to see me? I let Yana and Peter walk on ahead while I hang back. When we get to the ward, I know straight away something isn’t right. The doors seem to be locked and there’s a notice taped to the glass with ‘KONTAMINOVAN!’ written in pen.
Yana buzzes but no one comes. There’s paper covering the inside of the glass doors so we can’t see through.
She buzzes again.
After a while, there is muttering and whispering and then the click-clack of heels. The door opens, and a young nurse in scrubs is standing there. In the background, I see two men talking in whispers. Yana asks about Joe.
The nurse looks at us and shakes her head.
Yana says, ‘I need to speak to the doctor.’
In answer, the nurse shuts the door, but after a few moments, it’s opened by a man with tired eyes and a grey goatee. He’s wearing a grubby white coat over a dark suit. He stands back to let us in. I see at once that the ward is empty.
The conversation takes all of sixty seconds. Yana speaks in an urgent whisper and the doctor says very little. He looks at the floor, arms folded, and every so often, his eyelids lift, creasing the skin at his temples. The room is ice cold but I notice he’s sweating.
Then I see why. At a desk in the corner of the room, the young nurse is watching us closely and after a moment, she picks up the phone. There’s a faint click as she does so. At once the man straightens, offers a tentative hand to Yana and makes his excuses. He walks away smartly and his heels ring on the linoleum. The nurse watches him go, the receiver to her ear.
Yana pushes us out fast. ‘I don’t trust them,’ she says. ‘We need to hurry.’
‘Where’s Joe? Is he OK?’
‘They said … they said when he came round he seemed disturbed, violent. They had to sedate him. He’s been moved.’
‘Moved?’
She flashes a look at Peter. ‘He’s in a secure hospital now.’
‘You mean like a prison?’ I say.
‘I mean like a hospital for –’ she begins.
Peter says, ‘It’s a … it’s a kind of asylum.’
I think of Senka and what Natalija said about what might have happened to her. I stare at my shoes: the laces are looped over either side, coarse and fraying and speckled with rain. I’m breathing.
Peter goes on: ‘We’ll get him out. Yana’s a match for any old scorpion.’
He doesn’t sound convinced. The clock on the wall says quarter to midnight.
‘We can’t do more tonight,’ he says. ‘We’ll go there in the morning.’
Late into the night as I doze on Yana’s sofa, they sit and drink and smoke, and talk about how to get into, and out of the asylum. It’s dawn when Peter’s phone rings. He takes it in the other room and comes back after two minutes, smiling.
‘Well. Whaddya know?’
‘What?’
‘That was Natalija.’
‘And?’
‘She’s had a visitor.’
My heart leaps and he nods. ‘Mr Hadžić. He came looking for you.’
‘Oh! Where is he now?’
‘Hotel.’
‘And he’s coming back?’
‘Of course he’s coming back. If all goes well with Joe, we’ll be back this evening.’
I see Yana give him a pointed glance that I know I’m not supposed to see. I know it’s to do with Joe. She puts out her cigarette and goes into the kitchen.
The asylum doesn’t look as I imagined it would. It looks like a kind of cottage hospital, with ivy on the walls and a few expensive cars parked at angles in the drive. Peter and I wait in the car while Yana goes in.
She returns about five minutes later and pokes her head in through the window. ‘OK. He’s in there. We don’t have long.’
Peter looks behind her. ‘That was quick. How do you know?’
‘Because they said he wasn’t. I’d hardly said good morning before they said he wasn’t there and I knew they were lying. That nurse must have called them, warned them. And … they know I know.’
She shoots a look at Peter. He says, ‘I should have gone.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Too risky for you – as a doctor and –’
‘I’m a person first.’
‘Yeah, but –’
I open the door. ‘I’m going to get him!’ I say.
Yana pushes me back and slams the door. Her face is white and her eyes glitter.
‘Not you! Get back in the car! You go, and you’ll end up in there too! And you’ll both end up dead! Have you understood anything you’ve been told about these people? Stay out of sight and let us handle this!’ She softens her voice and adds, ‘Please?’
I do as I’m told. I wait, crouched under a scratchy rug, for what seems like hours listening to the sound of my own breathing, until I hear them coming. I throw the rug off and sit
up. I see Yana first, marching purposefully towards the car. After her comes Peter, backing down the steps, talking to a white-coated woman in rapid Serbian. He’s half carrying, half supporting what looks at first like a heavy roll of carpet. It’s Joe. He’s dressed in nothing but a hospital gown and is wrapped in a thick blanket. His legs don’t seem to work and his eyes roll white in his head.
Peter manoeuvres him against the car, and I open the door and shuffle across to make room. Yana already has the engine running as we pull Joe’s limp form inside. As she reverses the car, the woman comes running down the steps holding a phone. She runs at the car as if to try and stop us. Too late. Yana yanks the wheel, swerves around her and bombs through the open gates onto the road. As we pass the woman on the drive, she looks straight at me.
Yana revs the engine and we race back to the flat through the morning traffic. Next to me, Joe is mumbling incoherently, his head lolling against the seat. His face is scratched and bruised.
‘What’s the matter with him?’ I say. ‘What have they done? Is this the accident?’
Yana looks back over her shoulder as we slow in the traffic. ‘It’s probably Thorazine – it’s a heavy sedative. It’ll wear off in a few hours I hope. Natalija can check him out properly when you get back.’
Peter, who’s been very quiet, says softly, ‘I think we’re being followed.’
‘I know,’ she says.
I twist in my seat and see a large black estate car tailing us.
Yana says in alarm, ‘Get down Sanda! Stay out of sight!’ She weaves the car in and out of traffic and I’m thrown against Joe and then back against the window. ‘Shit, I can’t shake him!’
‘Stay calm,’ Peter says. ‘The boy –’
‘Peter! He has a gun! Jesus!’
‘Turn there! There!’
There are shouts and the sound of horns from the street and I’m thinking what I’ve done to these people by coming into their lives, what danger they’ve put themselves in by helping me.
‘Missed it! Fuck!’
‘Next turn. There. Stay calm.’
‘I’m not calm, I’m fucking scared.’
We speed up. And I hear a sigh from Yana as she leaves the tail behind.
Peter puts a hand on her arm. ‘He’s gone. You did it.’
I find myself reaching for Joe’s hand and gripping it tightly. So tightly, my fingers lock and my palms sweat, and it’s only when we draw up outside the flat that I realise I’m still holding it.
‘You should go now,’ Yana says, looking back at Joe. ‘Not safe to stay here. Good luck, Sanda. He’s cold. Keep both blankets.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Thank you for everything.’
Driving back to the inn in Natalija’s car, listening to the rattle and scrape of Joe’s breathing, I think about what lies ahead for me. Not just now, but forever.
Natalija’s there when we arrive, her arms pressed against her sides, her face set and grim. She gasps as she sees Joe.
Peter carries him upstairs and lowers him onto a bed. Carefully, he peels back the blanket. Joe’s in a bad way. He’s barely conscious. His leg is bandaged but soaked with blood. What’s most worrying is that he doesn’t seem to recognise me. Peter finds a pair of his own pyjamas and we help Joe into them. They’re too big but at least he looks more human. We leave him to sleep while Peter and Natalija go out to get some food, and I’m left to myself.
I can’t help it, I go back into the room where he is, sit on a chair and watch him sleeping. His hair is beginning to grow. On his head, there’s a gaping cut that’s been crudely stitched.
He mutters in his sleep – nothing I can really understand – but once or twice I think I hear Andjela’s name. I lean in and pull up the sheet and can’t resist touching his cheek, the soft skin above his beard, and I kid myself that his eyelids pick up. I wish with all my heart that we were back in London, that none of this ever happened. I think maybe I could live with the secrets and the lies if I could have Joe.
18
Later, when Peter and Natalija get back, I’m waiting for them.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘for everything. For what you risked. You hardly know me …’ My eyes fill up with tears.
Natalija goes straight to me and holds me. ‘It’s OK.
It’s OK, Sanda. This is our life. These people are everywhere. They listen to us. They watch us. But they won’t stop us from helping our friends.’
I hug her back. When she pulls away, I see her wipe her eyes.
‘Come and eat,’ she says. ‘We have bread and meat. When Joe wakes up, I’m going to call the UK, try to speak to his mother.’
After we’ve eaten, the phone rings. Peter answers and talks in a hushed tone, all the while looking over at me.
He hangs up. ‘That was him, Branko. He’ll be here in a couple of hours.’
My mouth is suddenly dry and my tongue burrs. I want to cry but I can’t. I can’t keep still. But I can’t move. Every cell, every nerve in my body is straining and twitching. I go up to see Joe. I sit on the bed and as I do, his eyes open. A kind of grin spreads itself over his face.
‘Sand … my head …’
‘Joe, it’s so good to hear you … to see you. I’m just so happy you’re here … Natalija’s calling your mum … I … Oh God …’
He takes my hand and squeezes it.
‘Me too,’ he says and coughs, letting go of my hand. I help to prop him up on the pillow and I’m aware of his eyes on me.
‘Joe … Is Andjela … I mean … did she …?’
‘I don’t know. She was with me when I got knocked down. I was unconscious … she must have legged it.’
He raises himself up on his elbow and looks at me. And in spite of what he’s been through, the fact that he’s thin and pale and broken, he’s beautiful. I breathe him in.
He says, ‘Thank you.’
‘What for?’
‘You came to get me. I … I didn’t think I’d ever get out of there. They knew who I was. They were asking about you. I think they were going to …’ He doesn’t finish but I know because I’d feared it too. ‘Those people … they’re ruthless.’
‘I know. I think my sister’s been taken somewhere like it. When my father gets here, I’m going back up into the mountains. I’m going to find them – Senka and Andjela. I’m not giving up.’
He smiles at me and touches my hand, just lightly. Fingertips.
‘I believe you.’ Then he says, ‘Your father?’
‘Yeah. He’s here. He’s been in touch. I’m going to meet him at last. He’s coming here any minute now.’
‘How do you know?’
‘How do I know what?’
‘Well, how do you know it’s your dad?’
‘Well … I found that letter … I showed you …’
‘Sanda!’ Peter’s calling from the living room.
‘Yeah … I know that … but how do you know …?’
I stand up. ‘Shit! Joe, I’ve got to go down. I’m so excited – scared too obviously – but I know it’s him. I just know it! It has to be. After all we’ve been through. My parents … Zbrisć … Oh Joe, it’s so good to have you back … I’ve been so worried … I mean, you’ve been … you were … And now I’m meeting … how do I look?’
In answer, he sits up, pulls me back down onto the bed and on top of him.
‘Joe, I’ll hurt you.’
‘You’re light as a feather.’
He puts an arm around me and brings me closer. My beanie falls over my eyes and I’m momentarily blinded. But just then everything stops because I feel his lips on my cheek, searching, loving, and then on my mouth. A lingering kiss as his dry lips open on mine and our tongues meet. I kiss him back and let myself fall into him.
After forever, he says, ‘You’re beautiful.’
And it’s there. That moment when the world stops, and I can hear Peter calling me but it’s like he’s at the end of a long railway tunnel and I don’t care.
&nb
sp; ‘Oh, Joe …’ I kiss him again, and he cups my face in his hands.
Another call from Peter: ‘Sanda! He’s coming!’
‘Sanda …’ says Joe
‘Yes?’
‘Be careful.’
I squeeze his hand and skip out of the door.
I am a leaf on water. I am drifting and floating and curling at the edges. I cannot believe how and why it’s all happened in the middle of everything else but it has and I’m inside it and he’s in me, and I know now that things will work out. They have to because I’m in love. For real. Peter is talking to me but I don’t hear him. I gaze out of the window as a car pulls up and a tall man in dark glasses and an overcoat gets out.
My father.
He walks towards the inn, all the while talking on his phone. He has a sweep of black hair and pale skin. As he reaches the door, he hangs up. He pauses a moment, tugs at his sleeves, holds his throat.
I watch him.
And him walking to the door and me waiting is a thousand years. I hear the door opening, muffled exchanges. Already I can smell him: lemons, tar, tobacco. The room fills up with him.
And I’m face to face with my father. I’m dumb.
Peter coughs and says, ‘Sanda, this is your father.’
He and Natalija step back. It’s like there’s a strange chalked circle around me. Branko steps into it. He hesitates for a fraction of a second. His eyes are black under heavy brows.
‘So this is my beautiful daughter? I have waited so long to see you.’ He puts out his hand. I take it and it closes on mine. Dry and cold. The fingers grip for a little longer than is comfortable.
‘Hello,’ I say shyly.
‘How are you?’ he says, smiling.
There’s nothing in the rule book about meeting a long-lost parent. I don’t know what to do, how to be. We stand like two wrestlers before a bout. We watch each other, and in my head, I peel under his skin, poke and pull at every hair, pinch at his cheeks.
Everyone is quiet. Then Peter says, ‘Please. Sit down. Would you like a coffee?’
‘No thank you.’
‘Sanda?’
I just shake my head. I feel that I should be crying or dancing, rushing forward to hug him. I fiddle with my beanie, take it off and then put it back on when I see him glance at my hair.
