He scanned the porch for a note, in vain. He sat in the car to wait, brooding, as the buffeting wind threw occasional showers at the windows. The weather meant the darkness had come early, the heavy blanket darkness of a clouded sky. She wouldn’t come in this; he must have been right, she didn’t trust him and was staying away. Whatever she thought of him, he was increasingly worried about her and felt a growing need to find his way in and get to the phone.
There was a torch in the glove box and he used it to do a circuit of the house in the rain, looking for open windows. When he tried the front door onto the garden, the grand-looking stone-porched entrance she hardly ever used, it opened so readily he almost fell in behind it. Of course! This was the door through which she’d taken her stuff out to the bonfire. He smiled at his own stupidity for not thinking of it sooner, and hers for leaving it unlocked.
He removed his boots and dripping coat and took them through to the kitchen to dry by the Rayburn. There was no note on the kitchen table either; he’d resigned himself to that before his eyes confirmed it. It felt strange to be here on his own, everything he looked at reminding him of Polly. She’d said more than once he should consider himself at home here, but he felt like a trespasser. He wondered what she’d say if she arrived back and found him here.
The kitchen was warm from the Rayburn and he pulled the blind down to keep out the weather and the outside world before picking up the phone. He found the Barton Mill number in the memory and stared at it for a few moments, steeling himself to ring them. He glanced through to the living room and sensed a familiar presence. He felt not so much fear as a weary resignation. It was no surprise that the boy was with him tonight, and he almost had to stop himself from greeting his persecutor out loud. He managed to ignore him and dialled the number. Waiting for them to reply, he longed for Polly to come back and interrupt him.
A friendly-sounding woman called Lucy answered and, after he’d apologised for bothering her, told him no, she hadn’t seen Marilyn that afternoon but Matt had. She offered to go down to the workshop and see if there was a message, ignoring an irritable voice asking her who was on the line. It seemed like an age, the sound of her footsteps on the stairs echoing spookily down the phone, before she breathlessly gave him the name and number of the Mason’s Arms. As he jotted it down he heard a male voice muttering ‘What did you tell him that for?’ and the scuffling of the phone being taken from her.
‘Matt here. Don’t you think you’ve caused enough hassle?’
‘Hassle?’ He felt cold despite the warmth from the Rayburn. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Isn’t it about time you came clean on that? Nothing, yet, but no thanks to you. Why don’t you just fuck off and leave her in peace? She’s never been in trouble in her life and—’
‘I don’t have to listen to this.’
‘I’m afraid you do. I’m on your case. Just think on.’
‘Thanks for the advice. Nice talking to you.’
He cut off the call and stared at the wooden table top, fighting down his anger. The sound of Matt’s voice reminded him of the only other conversation he’d had with the man, when he’d passed on his number. Jay found himself smiling as he realised there was someone else who could have given his number to the police. Relief at this combined with the discovery that Polly was safe at her friend’s flooded through him. ‘I’m on your case.’ He could almost laugh. He rang the pub and eventually got to speak to her.
‘Jay! I’ve been trying to get you. Why didn’t you answer?’
‘I lost my phone.’
‘Lost it?’
‘Long story.’
‘Aren’t they always?’ She giggled and he could tell she’d had a drink. There were voices in the background. ‘You got my message? Where are you now?’
‘No to the first – I was a bit late back and they’d locked up at the craft centre. So I’m at home. Your place.’
‘Why don’t you come over? Sue’s dying to meet you.’
‘You wouldn’t want me to. I’m not feeling sociable right now. How come you’re there anyway?’
‘I’m sorry, Jay.’ Her voice sobered. ‘I know I said I’d wait, but I just couldn’t handle it, and— Matt came just after you left because the police had been to see him – don’t worry, nothing serious, only door-to-door enquiries… But it’s difficult enough as it is, and he just pushes my buttons. You know what he can be like – well, you don’t, but—’
‘I do. I’ve just spoken to him.’
‘What? Why on earth…?’
‘I was worried about you, so I phoned the Mill to see if they knew anything. That was how I got this number. Sorry, but I couldn’t think what else to do.’
‘What do you mean, worried?’ He was glad to hear her moving to somewhere quiet. ‘Was it something Vesna told you?’
‘Partly.’
As he told her about Vinko’s call he found it impossible to ignore the boy who was now sitting across from him at the kitchen table.
‘That’s awful,’ she said. ‘Did you have any idea he’d turn like that?’
‘No, I…it came as a shock. And then, among other things, Vesna confirmed her ex could easily be Vinko’s Novak.’
He forced himself to tell her the rest.
‘So you’re going to see him tomorrow? You must be out of your mind.’
He glanced over at the boy. If only she knew.
‘I’ve got to. It might be the only way of finding out what’s going on and…and if Vesna’s right about that message of his – and I don’t know if I believe her or just want to – Vinko might need my help.’
‘Jay, this is serious. I really think you should tell the police.’
‘Please don’t. I’ve made my mind up and I’m too knackered to argue about it. Look, you enjoy your evening. I know this isn’t easy for you either, I really do. I’m sure it’s doing you good to get away. Shall I come and pick you up later? I haven’t a clue where it is, but I’ll find it.’
‘You could…’ She sounded apologetic.
‘Stay over if you want to. I don’t mind. We can talk in the morning. As long as I know you’re OK.’
‘I’ll be there early. Try and stop you doing anything stupid. I…I don’t want anything to happen to you.’
He glanced at the boy.
‘Thanks.’
‘Oh, Jay? I nearly forgot. It might be important – there was something else. When Matt was talking to the police they asked if he’d heard of someone; I wondered if you knew anything, whether it helped with this Novak business. What was it? Daniel Freeman.’
It was like a physical blow to hear her say the name out of the blue.
‘Why were they asking?’ It felt like trying to talk under water.
‘They didn’t say. In connection with the case.’
He stared as if hypnotised at his hand on the table.
‘Jay?’
‘Sorry. Um, yeah, I do. I know…I know of Dan.’
‘You do?’
‘I’ll tell you tomorrow. But it’s nothing to worry about. He’s…he’s no more connected to the case than I am.’
‘You sure? You sound a bit weird.’
‘No, I’m fine, honestly.’ He made a real effort. ‘Just knackered, that’s all. I’ll make sure I get some rest tonight so I’m up bright and early for you in the morning.’
‘That settles it. I’d love to see you, but there’s no way you should be driving over in that state. Can’t wait, though. I’m missing you already.’
‘Me too, Polly love, me too.’
She blew him a kiss down the phone and was gone. In her absence, or the absence of her voice, the wind at the window and the silence inside the house closed in on him. He thought he’d finally been straight with her, but there was always something else, wasn’t there? Her reaction made him realise how scared he was of tomorrow evening’s meeting. It would be so much easier if he could just go to the police. He looked across at the boy. Easier wasn’t always right. Right
wasn’t always easy.
The catflap clacked and he jumped. As Genghis wrapped himself round his legs and he stroked the cat absently, Matt’s words came back to him. Trite, maybe, but now I’m on your case was not something he could laugh at so easily. He needed time to think. What if there was a knock on the door now?
He hurried upstairs and packed his sleeping bag into his rucksack. He fed the cat, put on his half-dried boots and coat, switched out the lights and took a key from the rack on the wall. It was still windy but the rain had stopped and the sky was clear. Watched by the bright, unseeing eyes of the stars, he crossed the field behind the barn and found a flat place where the trees began, just over the wall. He could see enough to know he was out of sight, but could keep an eye on the house if he moved a little.
It was darker in the trees, but he knew the boy was watching him as he pitched his tent. He knew the boy would want to share it tonight. He tried to ignore him, at least for a while, by smoking his pipe outside the tent. He paced up and down along a sheep track to keep warm. Unable to think or feel clearly, he shivered as a gust swept down the valley. For a moment he gave himself up to the elements, alone beneath the big sky, the wind stealing his thoughts as fast as he could produce them. The glittering blanket of distant stars made him feel insignificant. He liked to feel insignificant sometimes – if he didn’t matter then neither did anything he’d done. If only he could stay out here, somewhere like this, forever. But whatever he did, he could never shake that nagging need to belong. The need that had caused him so much trouble. He could allow himself to belong here, surely?
It soon became too cold for common sense and he crawled into his sleeping bag beneath the canvas. Every mark was familiar to him, but that didn’t make it home. He got out his book and reading light. Only a gesture; he hadn’t a hope of concentrating. The boy was crouched just inside the tent flaps and it was going to be a long night.
He swallows again, coughs. He is tired of the taste of his own blood. It’s only when there’s something wrong you realise how strong is the reflex to swallow and how impossible it is to prevent it. With that thought he knows he won’t drift back into welcome oblivion this time. He explores with his tongue. The gum where his tooth was is already healing, jellylike. There is another loose molar, too, hanging by a grisly thread. He can’t leave it alone. It takes his mind off the other pains but the fresh taste of his own blood every time he moves his tongue irritates him more and more until he lifts the arm that he can move and with clumsy fingers grips and yanks. It doesn’t come as easily as he’d expected and he almost gives up. His breathing makes his bruised ribs hurt as he finally holds it up between his fingers. It’s hideous. He throws it across the room. He’s momentarily forgotten his weakness and it lands only a few inches away, taunting him with its red and white ugliness. He turns to the wall.
Lek is telling him about the new currency. We don’t have money now. Of course you don’t, Šojka replies, you always did want to do things differently. You are learning, says the older man. Very differently. Who needs gold when we have teeth? Molars are the main unit, each molar worth ten incisors. And the canines, the canines are special, they are worth ten molars. Šojka almost laughs, thinking I’d give my eye teeth to be somewhere else right now. And our currency is particularly valuable, the big man is saying, because each piece is unique. Oh no, we don’t mint them, we use the teeth of our enemies. They will come to understand one day how they helped to build a great nation. He gestures with a grimy hand over ranks of teeth set out on the table in front of him like a macabre mock-up of a battlefield.
Šojka looks away from the rows of stained ivory, rolls over and opens his eyes. One opens. He touches the puffy flesh around the other with his good hand. He is fairly sure it’s only bruising, that the eye itself is sound. He can’t think too hard about that now; the wrong answer would be too much.
He wants water, even though he knows it will taste of blood. Will it be Zora who comes? He remembers her touch as he drifted in and out of consciousness, how he wanted to feel the comfort, but when it came turned away, wishing only that she’d leave him in peace.
When he finally hears footsteps, when the door finally opens, it is Ivan. Šojka wonders if he can face this, but it is too late to fake sleep. Ivan is smiling hesitantly, as if he’s embarrassed to smile when his friend is lying on a shabby mattress in the corner of a darkened room recovering from being beaten senseless. He goes over to the window and opens the sagging curtains.
Blinking in the welcome daylight, Šojka waits for Ivan to say something to stop him from thinking about Lek and teeth. Ivan helps him to sit up, gives him a drink of water and shows him a hip flask, his expression a question. Šojka nods and swishes the spirit around his mouth, remembering the floor of the truck and wondering how many more times will they play this one out? The rakija stings and like everything else it tastes of blood, but he feels better for it.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ivan says.
‘Don’t apologise. Not for this.’ He waves a hand vaguely over his battered body. ‘This was between me and Lek. You were nothing to do with that, at least.’ His words sound strange as his jaw is stiff and his tongue swollen with the taste of his own blood.
‘What, then?’ Ivan sounds wary.
‘I think you know.’ He gulps again at the rakija, finds strength. ‘That boy.’
‘In Paševina? Fuck, he was about to mow you down!’
‘No. He was about to drop the gun and let me lead him to safety. Till you ploughed in with all the shoot-first-ask-questions-later tactics you’ve learnt off Lek.’
‘“Thanks, mate, thanks for saving my life!”’ Ivan stands, almost knocking the old wooden chair over as he does so, and goes to the window. ‘You really think you’re better than us, don’t you?’
He shakes his head, even though Ivan has his back to him.
‘So why are you still here?’
‘I won’t be for long.’
Ivan turns. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘As soon as I’m well enough. I can’t do this anymore.’
His friend’s eyes are blazing. ‘Have you forgotten what they’re doing to us? Here? Vukovar? In Bosnia?’
‘Of course not. I know why…why everything! But who’s doing it? The ordinary villagers of Paševina?’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! The innocent ones were taken away to safety.’
‘Away from their homes. Everything they’ve known. And it will be safe, won’t it, where they’ve gone.’
‘Of course it will. We don’t—’
‘We don’t kill small boys for being in the wrong place.’
Ivan’s fists are clenching and unclenching by his sides. ‘I’ll enjoy watching the news. “Peace finally achieved! No more bloodshed after mysterious foreign agent Šojka politely asks Milošević to stop.” Get real!’
Their eyes meet and they almost laugh. But he shakes his head.
‘Since when has reality been measured by Lek?’
‘Do you think I like everything he does? Especially not now. You didn’t deserve this. But overall…’
‘Overall, bollocks. In his case “overall” means one Paševina after another.’
‘You mean it, don’t you? About leaving.’
He winces at the return of the bitterness to Ivan’s voice.
‘Ivan… You could come with me.’ His friend stares at him in disbelief. ‘This isn’t you. You’ve changed. Why don’t we both go home?’
‘Because this is my home now. I thought it was yours, too. But no. You’d desert us.’
‘It’s not deserting.’
‘What then?’
‘I…I look around and I think, what are we doing here? What have I got myself into?’
Ivan laughs harshly. ‘Ask Zora.’
It’s like a final, underhand blow to the gut. He is aware again of the blood in his mouth, clogging his throat.
‘Leave her out of it.’ The words sound petulant as soon as he says th
em. But he hasn’t the strength to try and explain. He can’t even explain to himself.
‘Isn’t that what you should have done?’ Ivan fires back.
His guilt turns to anger. ‘Now who’s being fucking self-righteous?’
Ivan glares at him. ‘Perhaps Lek was right. Perhaps he’s been right all along about you,’ he says quietly, turning back to the window, away from the tension. When he speaks again his voice is almost apologetic. ‘You’re not thinking straight. I’ll come back and see you again later. I—’
He strides out of the room. The dust motes dance in the wake of his friend’s departure, giving Šojka no clues. He still has no idea whether it is more cowardly to leave or to stay.
Dawn brought relief in the form of daylight and calmer air. The only sound was the birds singing and an occasional thrumming of the guy ropes in the breeze. Jay crawled out and looked towards the house. There was a slight covering of frost on the jeep. He realised how hungry he was – he’d had nothing since the scones at the tearoom the previous afternoon – and slipped back to the house to help himself to bread, cheese and cake. While waiting for the kettle to boil he went to the kitchen sink and washed away the blurriness of a disturbed night.
All the time he was aware of a presence, in the trees, even stronger in the house. As if the boy were claiming it, denying him the right to be there.
Someone Else's Conflict Page 23
