Escape to Perdition--a gripping thriller!

by James Silvester

  “Well, if I’m going to drink champagne with you,” he said, “it isn’t going to be the piss we stock here. Come on upstairs to the office with me.”

  Giving Michael a hearty slap on the back, he escorted his friend through the enclosed beer garden and up the narrow stone steps behind the wooden door. Above the restaurant were a collection of rooms that came with the lease but which were rarely, if ever, used. When Rasti could be bothered he rented a couple out to visiting business people but for the most part they remained empty, except when used to accommodate a drunken Peter, which had happened more often of late. One room though, which Peter had never been inside, housed Rasti’s office and the Manchester man felt a childlike pang of curiosity as Rasti opened the door.

  The room was surprisingly spacious, piled high with folders and poorly stacked papers. In the far corner stood two large chillers filled with row upon row of green bottles, resplendent with foil tops and each with its own label carefully facing up.

  “Nice gaff.” Peter was genuinely impressed.

  “What’s the occasion?” Rasti stood between the two chillers, awaiting Peter’s answer, “good news or drowning sorrows?”

  “If I was drowning my sorrows I’d have stayed downstairs with your usual piss,” Peter grinned in response.

  “Good fridge it is then.” Rasti slid over to the fridge on his right, swinging it open and stooping to run his eye over the labels.

  “You have a good fridge and a bad fridge?”

  “One for good champagne and one for bad; I need something to toast bad news with.”

  “You toast bad news?” Peter grinned quizzically at his friend’s revelation.

  “I’m a good Catholic,” came the response, “I rejoice in The Lord for everything, but I’m not going to celebrate a tax bill with the Dom Perignon ’96. There’s a particularly foul bottle around here somewhere in case they ever tell me I’m dying.”

  “How come we’ve never done this before?”

  Rasti shrugged. “Because we’re always downstairs with the bands.”

  The big Czech pulled two dark green bottles from the rack, letting the door swing shut and returning to sit opposite Peter at the large, paper strewn desk, clunking a bottle in front of each of them and pulling the foil from the top of his own.

  Peter raised an appreciative eyebrow at the label and likewise began to peel his way to the wire cage housing the cork.

  “Glasses?”

  The chef puffed out his cheeks, the thought seemingly occurring to him for the first time. Looking around for whatever was within reach, he pulled two mugs down from the shelf adjacent to the desk. Quickly examining them he opted for the one with the naked lady handle and tossed the other to Peter.

  “You’d better have that one.”

  “Oh cheers mate,” Peter replied a little sarcastically, as he peered inside to find a small but determined ceramic phallus fixed to the inner base.

  “I’m not sure Madame Bollinger would approve.”

  Rasti shrugged again. “If she shows up she can have my cup. She’s probably too posh for this place anyway.”

  “And you carry off your commonness like a champion.” Peter grinned, extending his now full vulgar cup towards his comrade.

  “Second only to you my friend.” Rasti returned the grin and clinked his own crude mug against Peter’s in the most mildly offensive toast either man could remember.

  “To..?” Rasti quizzed.

  Peter pondered for a moment. “To the temporary and ideally permanent suspension of superfluous and wholly unnecessary caveats of already laborious big wig orchestrated bullshit projects.”

  Rasti blinked. “And all who sail in her.” He said.

  Draining and refilling the cups, Rasti held his aloft again. “And to the imminent birth of a new Czechoslovakia.”

  Peter drank to his friend’s sentiment, suppressing the twinge of guilt it awoke in him.

  “Bloody hell, not you too.”

  “Why not?”

  “No reason, you’ve just never struck me as being particularly political, that’s all.”

  Rasti shook his head. “I’m not, but this election isn’t about politics, it’s about choice, about the future of the country. Or countries…”

  The topic sat uncomfortably with Peter and he reached into his pocket, nervously toying his keys.

  “What does it matter, really? Czechoslovakia was always an artificial state, who cares where someone draws the boundaries this time?”

  “Because this time it’s us who decides where they are drawn!” Rasti looked as enthusiastic as Peter had ever seen him. “This is the first time someone hasn’t just come along and told us what would happen. Nazis, Communists and even the men supposed to be our leaders, just so they could be kings of their own little castles. This time the people have a choice and that’s really all I want.”

  He sat back and refilled his mug once more.

  “Anyway,” he said, “from now on, this is a politics free zone.”

  “You’re right!” Beamed Peter, slapping the desk, happy that the conversation was over. “Time for some music!”

  “You want to go back down?” Rasti asked.

  “No way! I mean the guys are brilliant, but I need something different tonight, something to move to.”

  Peter was wired, rising from his chair and pacing the room and turning to his friend. “You’ve still got my tables haven’t you?”

  Rasti nodded. It had been some time ago that Rasti had borrowed Peter’s turntables to host a DJ night at the restaurant and since then they had gathered dust up here, along with several boxes of records loaned from Peter’s extensive collection.

  Rasti gestured to the cupboard which housed the artefacts and Peter grinned like a child at Christmas, quickly and expertly setting them up.

  “You’re in for a treat now mate!” he laughed. “And I want to see you dance!”

  Rasti took in the peculiar sight with interest and shook his head. “Believe me Peter, no-one wants to see that.”

  “Course they do! Crack open another bottle and get up on the floor.”

  Whether due to Mirushka’s unexpected reprieve or the offensive mugs of expensive champagne, or a combination of both, Peter felt as light headed and light hearted as he could remember and he was determined to enjoy it, cramming in as much fun as possible while he could.

  He peeled a precious vinyl gem from its sleeve and ran his thumb over the circular edge like it was a blade waiting to cut through his misery. He placed it delicately on the turntable and lifted the needle.

  A blast of hot electric organ exploded from the speakers, accompanied by a piercing horn section and a twang of understated guitar, delighting Peter and shocking Rasti upright. Peter stepped away from the tables into the middle of the room and span around, rocking his shoulders and twisting his legs into an echo of the dances he used to do, like a neglected engine, slowly creeping to life after the proper injection of oil.

  “How can you sit still to this?!” he bellowed at his friend.

  “Because I might look like you.” Came the reply.

  “Only if you’re lucky.”

  Giving in, Rasti got up and pulled another two bottles from his ‘good fridge’, as Peter twisted and turned, and joined him in the middle on the floor.

  “Well,” the big Czech started, “you asked for it.”

  And they danced. Uninhibited, unashamed, heaving with laughter as champagne bubbles forced their lips apart. They Whoop-ee’d and Wang Dang Doodle’d, they Waded and Testified, they Begged and Hushed and Dusted Brooms, as though the salvation of their very souls depended on the shuffling of their feet and the strutting of their stuff, to the vinyl Peter masterfully spun.

  He played until their dancing became a stagger and their shuffling became a hug, inspired as much by the need to stay upright as friendship, until the needle scratched on tunelessness, signalling the end of their interlude and pre-empting their collapse into their respective chairs.r />
  The laughter continued, driven now by exhaustion rather than the hilarity of earlier, and Peter’s mind began to wander once more, at least as far as his intoxication would allow.

  “It’s all about the choices.” Peter muttered to himself, but loud enough to stir Rasti, who promptly staggered up and towards the door.

  “It’s too late for a deep and meaningful,” he yawned, “I’m shagged and I need to make sure Michael’s locked up properly. Are you staying here tonight?”

  Peter nodded, “Room for a little ‘un with you?” he teased.

  “In your fucking dreams mate!” Came the response, punctuated by the slamming door.

  Peter knew he should get up and go to one of the spare rooms, to crash in an actual bed, but he simply couldn’t be bothered, preferring instead to stick his feet up on the desk and let his all too rare contentment keep him warm. Tapping his foot in time to the memory of the tunes he had played, Peter, for the first time in weeks, willingly closed his eyes to the oncoming rest, satisfied that it held no horrors for him tonight. And as he slipped drunkenly into sleep, his freshly unconscious mind neither cared about, nor even registered, the softly buzzing telephone in his jeans pocket.

  CHAPTER 8

  HE AWOKE WITH A GASP, jarring forward so hard he nearly fell from the chair, the sudden movement cricking his neck from its uncomfortable position and forcing his body from the twisted pose it had stiffened into overnight. Peter’s sleep had not been the revitalising sanctuary his intoxication had led him to expect, and he sat still for a moment, shaking the nightmares from his delicate head. His mouth dry, he sat up looking for anything to dampen it, finding half an obscene cup of flat champagne which made him grimace as he drank it. The liquid disappeared like a thimble of water into cracked earth and his mouth felt none the better for it, only more sour and matching his mood.

  The by now semi-regular routine of shower, fresh suit and fresher coffee followed, all courtesy of the absent and apparently unaffected Rasti, before he dashed out at a run to reach Party HQ and the returned Mirushka.

  Peter’s giddy anticipation of seeing her again was tempered by her granite expression as he walked into the room and the coolness in her voice as she instructed him to accompany her and the nervous young aide, Adrianna, down to the waiting car once again.

  “Where are we off to?”

  “High Tatra.”

  “Slovakia? You’ve just come from there! I thought you had engagements in Prague today?” Peter was still breathless from his run and struggled to keep pace with the two women.

  “And I’ve had them,” she shouted over her shoulder, “the Radio interview and Thought for the Day at 6:00am, the choreographed commute with the people at 7:00am and the joint appearance with Karol for Breakfast TV at 8:00am. Now I have to be in Tatra for the afternoon tea with Party donors; they won’t accept being pushed back again.”

  “The schedule was agreed months back, but we didn’t know you’d be Prime Minister then.” The young aide sensed a rebuke from her boss, who smiled reassuringly back at her.

  “It’s no problem,” Mirushka soothed. “What good is election season if it can’t keep me busy?”

  The three reached the car, the driver, Ivan, waiting patiently as ever by the open door. Once inside, Mirushka collapsed into her seat and let out an exaggerated sigh, before looking over to Peter and finally giving him the smile he had craved.

  “I’m sorry to surprise you,” she said softly, “but I have a feeling I will need you with me today.”

  “My pleasure,” he grinned back. “Happy to help.”

  The car set off, picking up speed as two police motorbikes pulled out alongside it as escort and Mirushka’s demeanour became once more rigidly professional, gesturing to her aide.

  “Adrianna.”

  The young woman handed her a raft of day old newspapers.

  “Just look at them!” She threw the folded sheets over to Peter who didn’t need to look to know what she was referring to. The same picture had adorned the front cover of every paper in the country the previous day: a grinning Karol Černý sat a few seats away from a grimacing Svobodova as the Czech Republic’s winning goal thundered into the net. Each headline offering some pithy, witty joke about the ‘end of harmony’ or ‘trouble in paradise’.

  Peter was unmoved. “They’re just having a laugh with you,” He attempted, “Elections are open season on politicians, you know that, and you’ve never struck me as someone too concerned with what the papers had to say.”

  Mirushka was unconvinced. “It’s not just the papers Peter, it’s the polls.”

  “Well we’re all worried about the Poles.”

  Peter’s joke was met with a look of mild disappointment. He shrugged it off. “Look, the response is obvious isn’t it? You just tell whoever asks that you look forward to the next round of internationals containing the new Czechoslovak Side; what a team that’ll be.”

  Mirushka nodded sagely. “That’s why your Institute speaks so highly of you Peter. Now, both of you, if you don’t mind I’m going to grab a couple of hours sleep.” She settled back and closed her eyes. “This car is about the only place I can call home these days,” she yawned, “but at least I have somewhere away from the world to mull over strategies and policies and rogue polls…”

  Mirushka fell silent while young Adrianna pressed herself into the other corner and busied herself with papers, files and reports.

  Sat opposite the two of them, Peter said nothing, his smile having receded back into his lined face. ‘Your Institute’, Mirushka had said, ‘rogue polls’. Her words, and the realisation that he had not looked at his phone since the previous night, compelled him to draw it from his pocket, dread thumping through his chest with each beat of his heart, pounding louder as he stared at the message that lay in wait for him.

  ‘Rogue polls,’ it read, ‘reunification still likely. Suggested you continue with project as planned and avoid unnecessary delay to ensure successful completion of overall strategy.’

  As the car sped on, rushing through the peppering of new rain, Peter sank deeper into his seat, the elation of the previous evening now ripped from his body. He was once more the ageing murderer, staring across the car at his victim. And he felt sick to his very soul.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE NAUSEA WAS A PERMANENT FEATURE of the journey, bringing with it a return of the granite expression Peter had worn for much of the past few weeks, the perfect accompaniment to his silence. Svobodova had remained sleeping for virtually the entire journey, a small mercy for which Peter was not ungrateful, and when she had awoken, he feigned sleep himself to avoid conversation. There was to be no more foolishness on his part, no more sentimentality. Svobodova must die.

  When the car arrived at the Tatra mountains, Svobodova stepped from it, fresh and Prime Ministerial, having swapped her high heels for snow boots and her suit jacket for a long, winter coat. Peter travelled in her wake, a dark suited spectre of misfortune, a few short paces behind her as they travelled their choreographed path to the tourist centre. She caught his eye only once, as she stepped into the small cable car and gestured for Peter and Adrianna to take the one behind, an eyebrow furrowing for the briefest of seconds her only acknowledgement of Peter’s dark expression. Peter continued to stare through the glass at his target, reluctant to lose sight of her even for a moment in case his clarity was disturbed and he fell back into introspection; a luxury he could not afford until the job was over.

  Hanging back as he stepped from the carriage and the party moved into the luxurious dining area overlooking the mountainside, he observed her movements, her body language, recording each facet in his mind as she circulated the room before moving out onto the small private balcony for the obligatory ‘top of the world’ shots.

  The balcony was narrow and was fast becoming cramped as photographers and well wishers spilled onto it, pushing Svobodova back against the rail and causing her for the first time to look flustered and irritated b
y the cameras surrounding her. Two of her security detachment, led by a young, well-built Slovak with a goatee, began to push the guests back, while some photographers ducked and slid and pushed themselves forward, eager for one more shot of Eastern Europe’s Uncrowned Queen atop the snowy mountain with the sun setting majestically in the background. As they pressed forward, Svobodova stepped back, her boots betraying her as she slid backwards towards the gap in the rail and the perilous edge of the mountain. An arm shot through the crowded bodies, hooking her around the waist, halting her slide and pulling her up to her feet.

  Ensuring she was steady, Peter released his grip and smiled sheepishly as Mirushka beamed once more for the cameras, gesturing to Peter, who felt in that moment like sliding off the mountain himself.

  “My hero!” Mirushka joked to the laughter and applause of the relieved crowd.

  “Bollocks,” whispered Peter.

  Hours later and leaning on an altogether different balcony rail, Peter looked up at the fairy tail castle dominating the view, framed by the densely forested hillside. Even with dark clouds hanging over it and the rumble of thunder in the distance it was beautiful. On the other side of the hill, beyond Peter’s sight lay the resort that had been the catalyst of Herbert’s Slovak regeneration; fine hotels and the best restaurants cradling the rejuvenated spa that Herbert had loved so much. The whole complex housing the great and the good blended seamlessly with the stretch of traditional taverns, pensions and eateries that lined the road leading up to the castle; an exemplary and natural mix of the old and the new. Closer to Peter were oblong apartment blocks that typified the communist era; grey and soulless to the outside world but inside bustling with the neighbourliness and community spirit so absent in the enlightened west. The balcony Peter stood on belonged to one such apartment; the Svobodova family home, empty these days but previously the hub of Mirushka’s life. On the ground below stood a car full of security and Peter saw a black suited operative standing silently by the communal door. He knew that the young agent with the goatee, whose name, Peter had learned was Rado, would be standing outside the flat’s front door and he guessed that he wasn’t the only security presence inside the building. Peter took a deep lungful of the fresh, clean air and closed his eyes. Bojnice couldn’t have been less like Prague but it had a magic all of its own. His chest felt lighter than it had done in years and he spent a few seconds just standing there filling and emptying his lungs. His relaxation was interrupted by Mirushka’s voice coming from inside the flat calling him to the kitchen.