by Thomas Ryan
Three rows of seating confronted Arben. He slumped into the nearest and rested his head against the window. As the streets went by he gazed at the locals going about their business. What was he to anyone in this city? He was just a shadowy figure who demanded less concern than a box of onions outside the minimarket.
Rap music blared out of the vehicle radio. Arben hated rap music. To see the two black Americans nodding to the beat added a ludicrous dimension to his Kafkaesque situation.
What would become of him in the detention centre?
15.
Arben had no idea the Prishtina Detention Centre was behind the Central Police Station, barely a hundred metres from its main entrance. Never having had to visit incarcerated family or friends here before, it astonished him that the entrance to the prison must be on the boulevard. It was just one of the many doors built into the facades of government buildings that stretched the length of the block. He had never seen the two-storey cell blocks. That did not surprise him. From the road they would be well hidden. However, like all Kosovons he had heard the stories. During the war, prisoners held in the detention centre had been tortured by the Serbs. Now here he was, about to experience the interior firsthand.
A day gone and he had barely moved a hundred metres.
The courtyard gates were opened by a section of Indian soldiers. After the van had driven through, they closed them again and gathered to peer through the window. Arben felt like a bear in a cage. He wondered if they were going to poke him with a stick. The American driver looked over his shoulder.
‘Okay, buddy. Time to get out.’
Two metres away, a metal door set into solid concrete swung open. The two Americans led Arben through it into the processing area of the detention centre. It was as busy as the foyer of a hotel. American and Italian police officers stood in the background, smoking cigarettes and chatting and apparently supervising the Kosovon prison guards as they carried out their duties.
One of the American cops passed across Arben’s documents to a guard then turned to leave.
‘You take care, buddy.’
Without responding, Arben accepted the cop’s smile and pat on his shoulder. But as the backs of both cops disappeared, the clunk of the metal door shutting behind them suggested the impenetrable solidness of a bank vault. Arben’s spirits plummeted.
He stood motionless, as mesmerised by his surroundings as a deer in a spotlight. A guard behind a three-metre-long desk waved him forward. There were questions. Sounds emanated out of Arben’s mouth in response, but the voice he didn’t recognise as his own. He prayed that at any moment he would wake and this would all have been a nasty dream.
An Italian officer approached to observe the proceedings. He gave Arben the once-over then returned to the conversation with his companions at the rear of the room. Arben considered pleading his innocence. He decided against it. The long day had tired him. He didn’t think he could take yet another rejection. He would gather some strength from the night and ask to see the director in the morning.
Paperwork finished, next came fingerprinting and a photograph. In a small room next to the holding cell he was subjected to a body search. He submitted in silence. When the processing had finished he was made to sign for a mattress and a plastic bag filled with blankets, toiletries and orange prison overalls. The plastic bag in one hand and the mattress under the other arm, Arben followed a guard down a curving corridor and up a winding metal staircase. At the top they had to wait for security gates to open. From there it was a short walk to cell thirteen.
The guard slipped a colour copy of the photograph taken downstairs into a Perspex holder on the wall next to the door. Arben found it hard to believe that the shaggy-haired unshaven bum in the photo could possibly be him. He barely glanced at the three other photographs on the wall. The cell door opened.
A shove in the back had Arben viewing his new cell from the inside. No particular thought had entered his head as to whether shared accommodation was a welcome state of affairs or not, until his gaze met those of his cellmates. Hands of cards before them, three men sitting around a moulded plastic table eyed their new companion. Arben’s stomach turned. He swallowed hard and tried not to think about the possibility of throwing up.
The room was about twenty square metres. Graffiti scrawled across pink walls reminded Arben of the inside of a men’s urinal. Two sets of bunks, four sets of drawers and the table and four chairs filled most of the available space. The sound of running water came from behind the one other door in the cell. A toilet, Arben guessed.
One of the men leaped from his chair and confronted the guard. ‘Why are you bringing this man here? We have no room.’ He glared at Arben. ‘Take him somewhere else.’
A skull-grin from the guard and an insolent salute. The clang of the closing door echoed behind him.
‘Bastard. A curse on your family,’ the man yelled after him. Then he turned to Arben and pointed at a chair. ‘Sit.’
Arben fought for breath. The tightness in his chest felt like his ribs were caving in. He gripped hold of his mattress like a drowning man.
‘Sit,’ the man said again. He took the mattress from Arben and placed it against the wall. The plastic bag followed. ‘Sit.’ Less belligerent this time.
Arben sank onto one of the plastic chairs. He tried to smile but his face felt as responsive as a mask. His head dropped.
‘You want a coffee?’
Arben’s head rose. He encountered a grin.
‘I’m Imer. Don’t worry. I’m not trying to make you feel unwelcome. But as you can see we don’t have much room. When someone new comes we always complain. Maybe one day they’ll listen.’
Imer laughed. The others joined in.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Arben. Arben Shala.’
Imer reached across and took the court documents still clutched in Arben’s left hand. He read through, shaking his head at times. When he finished he dropped the papers onto the table for the others to read. The young man sitting next to Arben scanned the top page with a scowl. He passed it on, strode to one of the bottom bunks and threw himself onto it.
‘I’m Bedri,’ the third man said, and pointed to the man on the bunk. ‘That’s Sabri. Not so friendly. But don’t be afraid. Nothing will happen to you.’
Arben nodded, but not with a lot of conviction.
‘Sugar and milk?’
‘Er . . . Just sugar. Thank you.’
Imer took the bottom half of a plastic Coca-Cola bottle with string tied round the middle and disappeared into the toilet.
‘We have no kettle,’ Bedri said. ‘We must improvise.’
He did not elaborate and Arben could not begin to imagine what Imer might be doing to make water boil in a Coca-Cola bottle.
‘Where are you from?’ Bedri asked.
‘I grew up in a small village close to Gjakova. But now I live in New Zealand.’
Bedri’s eyes widened.
‘Really? I’ve seen that country. On television. A beautiful country. How long have you been there?’
‘A number of years. I have full citizenship.’
‘You’re a lucky man. I too would love to get out of Kosovo. Anywhere would be better than this shithole.’
Arben looked across at Sabri still lying on his bunk, tattooed arms folded across his chest. The young man worried him. He could not help but hope that in this particular Kosovon shithole where he found himself, a comraderie formed from shared adversity with Imer and Bedri might offer some small assurance of protection.
Imer emerged from the toilet, steam rising from the Coke bottle. He poured the hot water into three paper cups.
‘Would you like a cigarette, Arben?’ Bedri asked.
‘I don’t smoke.’
‘I don’t either. Nor Imer. Only Sabri. When he does, we make him sit on the top bunk w
ith the window open. Imer would beat him if he didn’t. Imer is the boss of the cell.’ Bedri laughed. ‘Obvious, you’d think, eh? But don’t worry. Imer’s a good man. He’s been here the longest. Three years.’
Three years? To Arben it seemed inconceivable that anyone could survive under such conditions for so long.
Imer placed the coffees on the table, then picked up Arben’s mattress and threw it onto a top bunk. Arben made to rise but Bedri stopped him.
‘Drink your coffee. Imer will do everything. Don’t worry. Let him. It gives him something to do. Besides, he has no money. The rest of us buy from the prison shop. Coffee, Coca-Cola, biscuits. And we share with him. In return Imer runs the cell. He makes the coffee and keeps everything clean. He’s the boss.’
Although Arben was contemplating that Imer might be more servant than boss, he nodded and sipped his coffee.
‘Why are you here?’ Bedri asked. ‘What did you do? It doesn’t say in the documents.’
‘They said I stole a mobile phone. I told the police I bought it from a shop in the mall. I even had a receipt for it. But they didn’t care. Now they say they’re investigating. But of course the man who sold me the phone has disappeared. I’ve not even been indicted yet, but here I am anyway.’
‘I’d say you’ve been set up,’ Imer called out. He pulled two blankets from the plastic bag and began to arrange them on Arben’s bunk. ‘It’s very common in Kosovo these days, you know?’
Arben breathed into his coffee. Pleasant aroma. Who’d have thought?
‘All I want is for it to go away. But I don’t know who’s behind it, so I don’t know how to stop it.’
Bedri and Imer burst out laughing. Arben raised eyebrows at them.
‘Don’t be offended,’ Bedri said. ‘We’re not laughing at you. You’ve been in the West too long. Everyone in Kosovo’s corrupt – the judges, the prosecutors, the police. Everyone. To buy your freedom you’ll have to pay them all. They’ll want a lot of money. Who’s your lawyer?’
‘Tomi Mema.’
Bedri and Imer exchanged glances and nodded. ‘Tomi Mema is big time in Kosovo,’ said Imer. ‘He’s always on television. And he’s very expensive.’
‘I can’t argue with that.’
Arben heard the bitterness in his own voice.
‘Imer is right,’ Bedri said. ‘The judges are jealous of him. He makes too much money representing rich people. Are you rich?’
‘Hardly. I work for wages and live where I work.’
‘Then this might not be so good for you. Maybe they think that because you live in New Zealand you have plenty. Why didn’t you apply for bail?’
‘I was given bail. I tried to get into Macedonia the same night.’
Bedri let out a long low whistle. ‘Mema advised this?’
‘No. But when I was caught and taken back to the judge he put little effort in arguing to keep me out of this place.’
‘Hah. He makes more money the more trouble you get yourself into, my friend. Why did you choose him? Why not someone else?’
‘I’d spoken with him on another matter. When this trouble came along, Mema just turned up. I was desperate so I agreed to accept his help.’
Bedri and Imer exchanged another glance. Bedri’s brow creased in a frown.
‘Just turned up, did he? Well, my friend. Maybe the mobile phone is not your only problem. Maybe the bigger problem is Tomi Mema.’
It was on the tip of Arben’s tongue to say he already knew that the lawyer was in on the conspiracy against him. But the warning to him from that very same Tomi Mema about the dangers inherent in an open prison still rang in his ears. Had it also been a message for him to get wise and keep his mouth shut?
‘The American police said I should ask to see the prison director. That he would get someone from the UN to help me . . .’
Imer and Bedri began laughing. A sneer came from Sabri on his bunk. Bedri centred his sights on Arben.
‘My friend. To see the director you’ll first need to apply for a request form. Maybe after a week you’ll get one. More likely two. If you make a mistake on it, even a tiny one, you must apply for another request form. Another week. Maybe two. When it’s ready you must turn it in to the guards to give to the director. They’ll want money. And even if they do give it to him, it can take up to a month before you’re called. And that’s just to start.’
Arben’s shoulders slumped. Bedri gave his arm a tap.
‘Learn to eat shit, my friend. Get Tomi Mema in here to see you. Only a lawyer can help.’
‘How do I get word to him?’
‘No problem. For the lawyers, the guards carry the message straight away. The lawyers pay them. Now, my friend, you must be tired. Soon they will turn off the lights. Maybe you wish to use the toilet and wash a little?’
‘Yes. I’d like to brush my teeth and wash my face. I would also like a shave and a shower.’
‘We shower in the morning. We are lucky in Kosovo. The UN manages the prisons so they are just like in the West. We have hot showers, heating and good food.’ Bedri seemed almost proud. ‘Anything you need.’
Arben took his plastic bag into the toilet. The area was compact, but it was clean and had a basin. A small square of polished metal had been stuck to the wall for use as a mirror.
When he climbed onto the top bunk, Arben found he was too exhausted even to think. As soon as his eyes closed he was asleep.
16.
Jeff had a lot to think about: the meeting with Morgan Delaney and the phone calls he’d placed following that. But he needed to catch up on sleep. It was destined not to happen. After tossing and turning for nearly an hour, he gave up, showered, threw on a pair of jeans and a heavy sweater and headed for the Kukri bar.
The place was as busy as it had been the previous night. Big John proved to be the consummate publican. Through the crowd and bustling waiters he’d spotted Jeff’s arrival. A handle of beer had landed on the bar for him before he even reached it.
Jeff spotted Barry occupying the same spot as last evening. There was no sign of the drunken Gary or his other drinking partner, Bruce. Beer in hand, Jeff moved in Barry’s direction. But stalled. Barry was engaged in conversation with two women. One was Morgan Delaney, less formal in skirt and black polo-neck sweater, hair falling loose just above the shoulders. Tough soldier as he was, Jeff always suffered a degree of awkwardness in mixed company. As he debated with himself whether or not to proceed, Barry caught his eye.
‘Hey, Jeff. Come and join us.’
Jeff jostled his way through a group of Austrian uniforms and placed his beer on the counter. For some reason he made a point of not looking Morgan Delaney in the eye.
‘Jeff. Meet Bethany Bridge.’ Barry indicated the woman leaning into his side. ‘She’s a Kiwi just like you, mate. You’ll know that as soon as she opens her mouth.’
Bethany jabbed Barry’s arm and smiled. ‘Hi, Jeff.’
‘Hi.’
‘And this is Morgan Delaney. She’s a Yank and you’ll definitely know that when she opens her mouth.’
A pair of green eyes greeted Jeff’s. ‘Now, how about that? Mr Bradley and I have already met.’
‘So we have, Ms Delaney. Hello again.’
A loud guffaw from Barry’s direction. ‘Hey. Drop that Mr Bradley, Ms Delaney shit you two. This isn’t a bloody cocktail party. Kosovo’s a small world, Jeff. You stay here long enough and you’ll meet everyone. They all come to the Kukri.’
Jeff doubted one of them would have been Arben. Not this sort of place. He flashed a grin around the group. ‘Can I buy everyone a drink?’
Barry emptied his handle and banged it on the counter. ‘Damn right you can.’
Jeff caught the bartender’s attention and signalled for another round of drinks. When he turned back, Barry and Bethany were speaking to someone standing beh
ind them. He passed Morgan a glass of wine. ‘Ms Delaney . . .’
‘Morgan, please.’
‘Morgan. After I left your office I went back to the hotel and phoned Arben Shala’s lawyer. I’ve arranged to meet with the Xhiha brothers in his office tomorrow. I think they know more about Arben than they’re letting on. If I push on the ownership issue, maybe I’ll get confirmation one way or the other. If it’s okay with you, I’ll swing by your office in the morning and get a photocopy of Arben’s ownership document. There isn’t any confidentiality issue, is there?’
‘If we were in the States I’d be sued. In Kosovo? Who cares? What time’s your meeting?’
‘Around eleven.’
‘Drop by at ten thirty. Would you like me to come with you? I have background that you don’t. I might come up with a question or two you might not think to ask.’
The offer took Jeff by surprise. ‘I can’t say no to that. Thank you. That’s very generous.’
‘Arben Shala is still a client. My organisation has an ongoing interest in him. Besides, someone with USAID connections might make them nervous. The body language could prove very interesting.’
Jeff nodded. ‘Good idea, but I’ll leave that for you to interpret. I don’t do body language.’
‘Really? You’re not a man who notices bodies?’ An involuntary exhalation of breath and Jeff found himself wiping froth from his nose. Morgan’s face looked like she may have been suppressing a desire to laugh. She cleared her throat.
‘Anyway, I must say Mr Shala’s lucky to have found such an honest man.’
‘Oh yes?’
She shrugged. ‘Think about it, Jeff. If all you wanted was a vineyard, it would be quicker and easier to slip a few officials the required bribe, pay off the Xhiha brothers, and it could be yours. All legally registered. If Mr Shala was wealthy enough to challenge you, you might have a problem. But I get the impression he isn’t. You probably know that.’ A pause, then a steady look. ‘So, my question is this. Why bother going to all this trouble if Mr Shala is just an acquaintance?’
How to answer that? Jeff took another sip of his beer while he thought. Barry saved the moment for him.
