Jill looked around again, leaned forward. ‘Can I tell you something? I feel I can ’cos it’s, you know, you.’
Peta leaned in also. ‘Sure.’
‘I’ve got a date tomorrow night.’ She smiled as she said it.
‘With Ben?’
Jill shook her head. ‘Ben doesn’t know about it.’
‘Who with, then?’ As soon as Peta said the words she knew the answer. Jill confirmed it for her.
‘The Prof. He’s taking me to see Wilco.’
‘Oh. Right.’
Jill looked at Peta’s face, frowned. ‘What? You don’t think I should go? ’Cos he’s older than me? ’Cos I’ve already got a boyfriend? Well, sort of.’
‘No, no, it’s not that. Just … just a shock, that’s all. No, you go. Enjoy yourself. You’ll have a great time.’
Jill smiled, reassured, as if this was the answer she wanted to hear.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Anyway, there’s nothing serious in it. Just a laugh. I won’t get tied down; there’s too much I want to do with my life. Anyway, I knew I could tell you. Knew you’d understand.’
‘Right. But just be careful. That’s all.’
Jill grinned. ‘I will. Sis.’
Peta looked at her and, despite what she was thinking, smiled also. She couldn’t deny how good it felt when Jill called her that.
For just that moment, Peta felt like there was somewhere she belonged. That she was in control of her life once more. Perhaps that was all it had needed. Not alcohol, not more work. Something much more simple.
A friend.
Darkness fell hard, bringing with it the threat of encroaching winter.
Turnbull sat behind the steering wheel of the Vectra, rubbing his hands together. The remains of an Indian takeaway on the passenger seat next to him, an old two-litre Evian plastic bottle filled with piss between his legs, his vision still blurred and doubled from the alcohol. Everything seemed so far away; like he was staring out from the back of a dark, echoing cave.
The house was just as he had last seen it: run down, giving the slumming, middle-class students a vicariously thrilling glimpse of poverty.
Michael Nell was in there. Turnbull knew he was. He had watched him enter, with that new girlfriend of his. A light, faint and diffuse, was on in his bedroom.
And Ashley not even buried yet.
He yawned, stretched. The alcohol was still in his system, but the buzz was beginning to wear down. He dug into his pocket, brought out some pills liberated from a dealer he had given a warning to, chewed, dry-swallowed them. They should keep him going for a while.
He had told the teams to go home. Pulled rank, made it seem like a favour. They had taken some persuading, but had gone.
He had phoned home. God alone knew why he’d bothered to do that. Working all night, he told the wife. Overtime. May as well have been talking to himself for all the response he got. Not even arguing, just beyond caring. Fuck her. What did she know? That was that. Her loss. He sighed. He would sit here all night if necessary, as long as it took.
He watched. He waited.
And then Michael Nell emerged. Alone. Scratching his head, his back, like he had fleas.
Turnbull leaned forward, ready to switch on the engine, paused. Perhaps Nell was going somewhere on foot.
The off-licence. His dealer.
To beat up another prostitute. To find another victim.
Anger rose within him, anger fed by alcohol and speed. Bastard. He was off again, to hurt, to kill. And there was no one, nothing, to stop him.
‘But me,’ he said aloud.
Turnbull was breathing heavily. Shaking.
He got out of the car. Locked it. Stood in the street, took two deep breaths. Making up his mind.
He patted his jacket pocket, checked that the photo of Ashley was still over his heart.
Began to follow Michael Nell on foot.
22
Donovan parked the Mondeo in his usual place, locked the door.
Katya emerged from the passenger side. He looked at her. Outwardly she was looking fitter and healthier than any time since she had forcibly arrived at his house. But inwardly, in her eyes, glimpsed shadows and ghosts showed the damage that had been left. They would be hard to shift, Donovan thought. He knew that from experience.
Newcastle, on a mid-February morning, not yet eight o’clock. Commuter traffic was streaming into the city up St James Boulevard, pedestrians walking to work. The grey clouds overhead created more than an absence of light; they seemed the physical embodiment of reluctant resignation that Monday morning brought for most people.
But not for Donovan and Katya. They stood there watching, letting life go on around them, belonging to something altogether different.
‘You ready?’ Donovan asked.
Katya took a deep breath, nodded.
‘Then let’s go.’
Donovan started walking, Katya next to him. He felt her hand in his, her arm around his own. He looked at her, startled.
‘Do you mind?’ she asked, eyes wide, looking up at him.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Good. I am just feeling …’ She sighed.
‘I know.’
They walked arm in arm up to the Albion offices.
On to meet her brother.
The previous two nights they had ended up in bed together. Again.
The sex had been good, less aggressive, fulfilling a need for intimacy in both of them, but Donovan was beginning to feel uneasy. Perhaps Jamal had been right, he thought. Perhaps he was doing Katya more harm than good.
She had offered and he had responded. Jamal had gone around to see his friend Jake. Before he had gone, though, he had wanted to talk to Donovan.
‘I can’t bear it in here now, man,’ he had said to Donovan when the two of them had been alone in Jamal’s room. ‘It’s like there’s somethin’ hangin’ there, you know what I mean?’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Donovan. ‘We had a good night last night, didn’t we? All three of us?’
Coming back from Newcastle on the Saturday night, Donovan had opened some wine and beer and Katya had insisted on treating him and Jamal to a fashion show. Jamal had laughed, joined in even, giving her suggestions of how to wear things, before he checked himself, realized what he was doing was uncool and found an excuse to retreat into his room. But Donovan had watched as Katya tried on different skirt, top and jeans combinations, flicking her hair around, taking a girlish and frivolous thrill in the whole thing that almost bordered on the childlike. Donovan couldn’t blame her. Fun was something that had long been denied her and was too important to go without for any length of time.
Jamal shrugged. Didn’t answer.
Donovan sat on the bed, looked at the boy. He was clearly unhappy.
‘Look, Jamal,’ Donovan began.
‘Don’t go givin’ me that needs thing again, man,’ Jamal said. ‘I know you both got needs. An’, yeah, maybe you should be takin’ carea them. But there’s a thin line, man.’
‘I know. And I’m not going to cross it.’
‘Make sure you don’t. Thassall I’m sayin’.’ Jamal looked jumpy, on edge. Like he had more to say but was unsure how to say it. ‘Well, it ain’t just that.’
Donovan frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’
Jamal looked around, checking to make sure he wasn’t being overheard. He leaned forward, kept his voice low. ‘I don’t trust her, man.’
‘What d’you mean, you don’t trust her?’
‘Katya. I don’t trust her. Somethin’ shifty. Not all right about her, y’get me?’
‘In what way?’
Jamal sat back, shaking his head. ‘I dunno, man, just is. Like, I catch her lookin’ at me sometimes. Or you. When she thinks we ain’t payin’ attention to her. An’ there’s a look on her face. Like somethin’ there. Somethin’ I don’t like.’
‘What?’
‘I dunno, man. You’re the guy who knows stuff.’
�
��She’s probably reliving all the stuff she’s been through, all the horror that’s happened to her. You know what it’s like. You think you’re doing fine, but when you least expect it something like that just creeps up on you. Changes your whole mood. That’s what she’s going through.’
Jamal nodded but remained looking unconvinced. ‘I’m just sayin’, Joe. Be careful is all.’
Donovan had told him he would be.
And later that Sunday evening, with Jamal at Jake’s house, Katya had asked to sleep with Donovan, to share his bed again. He had thought of Jamal’s words and looked at her. All he saw was a young, attractive woman, haunted and traumatized, trying to live a normal life again. And he liked her. Enjoyed her company. Enjoyed the sex they had together.
Jamal, he thought, was imagining things.
They had gone to bed. The sex, if anything, was even better this time.
Afterwards, they had lain there, neither speaking.
‘What was it like,’ said Donovan eventually, his voice small and light, ‘in Kosovo during the war?’
He felt Katya’s body go rigid beside him, then relax slightly as a sigh escaped her.
‘A war,’ she said. ‘There are no good wars. My family were from Albania. Lived in Kosovo for generations. Serbs and Albanians together. But not get on. We were treated like Jews in Germany before the Second World War. Tried to kill us in little ways.’
‘Are you Muslim?’ asked Donovan.
Katya shook her head. ‘No. My family, some used to be. But they don’t see difference. Our government collapsed. Kosovan Liberation Army happened. Fighting for us. All of us, they said. Serbs sent in police, army.’ She turned over, her face hidden in shadow. ‘This was a call.’
‘To do what?’
‘To kill. To cleanse us from the land. Ethnically.’
‘Why?’
Another sigh. ‘Because they could. They were given permission. My family lived in a village called Racak. You will not know it.’
‘I do.’ He tried to remember why he knew it, since his paper had comprehensively covered the conflict at the time. ‘Racak … wasn’t there a massacre there?’
‘Miloševi sent in Serb police and Yugoslav army. Nearly fifty people killed.’ Her voice was cracking with emotion. ‘Oh, they said they were killed in fighting. But not true. Not true. That is how my brother and I lost our family …’
Her voice trailed away, her eyes on something beyond the confines of the room. ‘His face … I can still see his face …’
Donovan didn’t know what to do. He held her tighter. She let him.
‘All I wanted was go to Priština university, study European literature. Get good job. Have happy life. But now my family gone. My home gone. My brother and I, to have any kind of life, have to leave country, start somewhere else.’
‘So how did you end up here?’
‘We not allowed in anywhere. They say our lives not in danger. We pay gangsters with last of our money to smuggle us in. You cannot imagine what is like in container. On lorry, then ship. Hidden in back behind secret door, thirty of us, all breathing same stinking air through same tube, shitting and pissing in same bucket. Trying not to breathe whenever we stopped moving in case they heard us.’
Donovan pulled her closer to him.
‘And then we get here, the lies we are told. They said we owe them. In money, in everything. They took our passports. What we are forced to do …’
He felt her body become rigid again. She was trying not to cry. He held her all the more tightly.
‘You’re safe now,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘I am safe.’
They lay like that, unmoving, for a long time. Donovan heard Jamal come in, get ready for bed. He thought Katya had fallen asleep. But she hadn’t.
‘Fuck me again,’ she said, her voice jagged in the darkness. ‘Fuck me again, Joe.’
‘Katya,’ said Donovan, ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Why not?’ She was faced into him, her hands running all over his body.
‘After what you’ve just told me, after everything you’ve been through … I wouldn’t be helping you. I would be just like them.’
She ran her hand down between his legs, felt his erection. She smiled. He saw the edges of her mouth curl up, her teeth glint against the darkness. ‘This says you want to.’ Her hand moving up and down. ‘I say I want you to.’
She kept going. Soon, he was beyond saying no to her. He gave in.
Later, while she slept, he lay awake.
Trying to work out what he was doing. And why.
He closed his eyes. Waited for sleep to claim him.
Waited a long time.
Donovan and Katya rounded the corner, started up Westgate Road. Amar stood on the other side, leaning against a wall, reading a tabloid and glancing at his watch, looking like his lift to work was late. He saw them, gave an imperceptible nod: it was safe to approach. They kept walking, approached the turn-off to Summerhill Terrace. Jamal, standing on the corner, talking to an imaginary friend on his mobile, gave a similar nod to Amar’s. Donovan and Katya walked all the way to the offices, went inside.
The meeting had been arranged the previous week at Katya’s request. The logistics were complex but not insurmountable. Katya’s brother had to be brought from his safe house. Donovan didn’t know where it was; he hadn’t been told. They had to ensure he wasn’t being watched or followed. Katya would then have to be brought in from Northumberland. Again, the same precautions applied. They had needed the meeting to take place in an environment they could control. The Albion offices were the obvious choice.
‘Where is he?’ asked Katya once inside the door. She was trembling, hanging on to Donovan so hard he felt her nails digging in through his leather jacket.
‘Let’s go in here.’
He led her into the main reception area that they used for meetings and sat her down on one of the chocolate-coloured leather sofas. He walked to the windows, began closing the blinds.
‘He’ll be here in a minute. Try to relax.’
Katya attempted a smile. ‘Relax … What is that?’
Donovan returned the smile. ‘Something I’m sure you’ll get used to. Once this is all over, you’ve got the rest of your life to find out.’
She nodded, less than convinced.
They waited.
Not even a ticking clock to pass the time.
Then, nearly fifteen minutes later, there was a sound at the back door. Peta walked in first, two people behind her. Katya stood up. Behind Peta and before Sharkey was her brother, Dario Tokic.
She ran towards him, throwing her arms around his neck. He responded. They hugged, kissed. Held each other so tight it seemed they would burst the other.
Donovan, Peta and Sharkey looked at each other.
‘Let’s give them a few minutes alone,’ said Donovan.
They walked into the back office.
Donovan could feel Peta’s eyes on him. He tried not to look at her. He looked instead at Sharkey.
‘Any problems?’
Sharkey shook his head. ‘Couldn’t wait to see her. Spent ages getting himself ready.’
‘Must be the effect she has on men,’ said Peta.
Donovan still didn’t look at her.
‘All he’s talked about is his sister,’ said Sharkey, unaware of the atmosphere between the other two. ‘How much he misses her, wants to see her. Although since he’s been a virtual prisoner, getting out for any reason sounds good.’
The door opened. Amar and Jamal entered.
‘Any problems?’ Donovan asked them.
They both shook their heads. Donovan looked at Amar. He was no longer high. He seemed to have come down. Heavily.
‘You OK?’
‘Yeah.’ Amar nodded. ‘Back on the team.’
‘Good.’
Donovan smiled. Amar returned it. Donovan didn’t believe him but knew it wasn’t the time to say anything.
They sto
od there in silence, waiting. Eventually Sharkey spoke.
‘D’you think they’ve had long enough? Or should we all go out for breakfast?’
‘Come on, then.’ Donovan knocked on the door. Opened it. Entered.
Katya and Dario were sitting on one of the chocolate-brown leather sofas, holding hands, tears streaming down both their faces.
Donovan looked at them. Dario Tokic looked better than he had in his photo. Impassive, like he carried an inner strength. Dark-haired and still thin, but he had filled out, slept more regularly, bathed more often. His clothes looked new, his hair cut well. He was being looked after. But there was something there, something that betrayed him: his hands, nervous and fidgeting, a glance freeing the ghosts behind his eyes. His expression of inner strength looked as if it could be easily wiped away. Like Katya. Like thousands of others.
Katya looked up. Smiled at Donovan. ‘This is my brother.’ She looked around the room. ‘Thank you. Thank you for doing this …’ Another well of tears overflowed.
Donovan and his team waited until the two had calmed down, then sat next to them. Jamal and Amar had been elected to make coffees and teas. They left for the kitchen.
Sharkey spoke first, saying how pleased he was that they could be reunited; it was what made his work so rewarding. Donovan and Peta exchanged glances. Sharkey then went on to explain what would be happening next.
‘When you both leave here, you’ll be going back to your respective safe houses. We just wanted to get you together to demonstrate good faith. It shouldn’t be long now. There’s a legal team working on building the case against Marco Kovacs. The police have a man inside. Intelligence suggests there’s a new shipment coming in to Tyne Dock soon. Days rather than weeks. Then once Marco Kovacs is in custody we bring you in, you identify him for war crimes, he gets put away for life and we all live happily ever after.’
‘Where is he?’ asked Dario. His voice was dry, like old, trampled leaves left on a forest floor. ‘Kovacs? Where does he live?’
‘Northumberland,’ said Sharkey. ‘Well, just outside the city. Darras Hall.’
Bone Machine Page 18
