Someone Else's Conflict (20 page)

‘That should have been it; we should have known, but we talked each other up. Even then, at first Ivan and I were disappointed; we thought it (whatever “it” was) would all be happening in Zagreb. But as it turned out, we were in the thick of things. The Krajina, the area the Serbs were claiming as an independent region, was only a few miles east of us. There was trouble; even then people who'd lived side by side, been friends for years, began to suspect and even hate one another.

‘People, Croats, were forced from their homes in the Krajina region and Serb families were driven out of Zadar. Zora used to get mad at us: “Look, people are leaving and you two idiots decide to
come
.” But we knew she was pleased we were there and, well, deep down I guess we thought it'd be no more than a bit of unrest before…before things settled down. At first the worst of the trouble – we watched it every night on the news – was happening far away, in the east, Vukovar. It didn't involve us. We were just there because we couldn't leave Zora alone in that house, in that volatile region. Weren't we? That was all. But of course we got involved.'

The flood of words dried up and the noise of the crowded pub swirled in to fill the silence. The air around him felt increasingly bright and strange and he closed his eyes to ward it off. He wondered how he'd got this far.

‘What happened then?'

‘The war happened,' he muttered.

‘But what—'

‘Enough!' He looked up and for a moment saw Ivan sitting across from him, all reproach and contempt. He rubbed his eyes and it was a young lad dying to hear about his father. ‘I'm sorry. Another time, all right?'

His voice didn't come out as conciliatory as he'd intended. Vinko stood abruptly.

‘I go outside for smoking.'

Jay took out his own tobacco and slowly began to fill his pipe, watching Vinko disappear into the pub's Saturday night crowd. Best give them both a few moments' breathing space. Perhaps now would be his opportunity to walk away. He shifted in his seat as if to rise, but sat back, shaking his head at his own cowardice. He let his mind wander for a while. Realising he was beginning to think through a haze of alcohol, he tried to count back how many they'd had, coming to the conclusion this was the fourth. Which meant it was probably the fifth. Too many, whichever way he counted. He attempted to convince himself his head was perfectly clear and his legs were steady as he picked up their half-empty glasses and elbowed his way towards the door.

Outside the air was fresh, but though he breathed deeply, greedily, he found the orange light of the city street and occasional swish of passing cars oppressive. A crowd of drunken lads approached; their incoherent shouts to a similar gang across the road made him tense up. They passed without even noticing him. There was no sign of Vinko. Jay was surprised at the strength of the momentary concern he felt for him. He saw a covered passageway set aside for smokers and went over to look up it. A slight figure was sitting alone by an upturned-barrel table at the far end and he wove his way between noisy groups of people towards him, relieved. As he approached Vinko was tucking something away in his pocket. He looked up guiltily as he registered Jay's presence. Jay glanced back over his shoulder, trying to remember whether he'd seen anyone Vinko could have been meeting.

‘I…I usually see my mates on a Saturday night.' Vinko glanced down at his pocket. ‘I was just texting to tell them I won't be there.' Jay nodded, relieved it had only been a phone he'd seen. ‘So they don't hang around waiting for no reason, you know?'

‘There's no need to spoil your Saturday night on my account. Go and join them if you want. I can sort myself out.'

Vinko shook his head and rolled a cigarette. There were no spare seats; Jay passed him his drink and took a draught of his own before leaning against the wall and lighting his pipe. When Vinko finally looked up, his expression was hostile.

‘You blame him, don't you?'

‘Blame who?'

‘My dad.'

‘I never said—'

‘You don't have to say. You hate the fact that you had anything to do with that war and you blame my dad that you were there.'

‘For fuck's sake, Vinko!' His voice echoed round the alleyway and he expected the other drinkers to fall silent, though in fact not a single person turned to look. ‘If I blame anyone, it's myself.'

‘So why won't you tell me more?'

‘It's not a question of blaming anyone.'

‘There's always blame.'

Jay stared hard at a crack in the render over Vinko's shoulder. He imagined the wall as a cliff face, the crack his escape route.

‘How did my dad die?'

The accusation had faded; it was as simple as it was possible for such a question to be.

‘I wasn't there by then. He was shot in action during Operation Storm.'

‘You weren't there.' Vinko was glaring, angry again. ‘Why weren't you there?'

He inhaled deeply. ‘I got injured,' he said slowly. ‘I came back here before the war ended.'

True. Except for the missing parts.

‘What happened?'

‘What I said.'

‘But—'

‘Please stop going on about it!' His voice was harsh, as defence turned to anger. Like it usually did. He wasn't being fair to Vinko but he didn't feel fair. Life wasn't fair. ‘I'll tell you when I'm ready. If I'm ever ready. Can't you understand? It's in the past. Our lives – mine and yours – have moved on. Understood?'

‘You—'

‘Understood?'

Vinko glowered at him.

‘I want to be your friend. Help you. Now. Nothing to do with then. Stop going on about the past, stop… Stop seeing me as anything other than a…a concerned mate, or I'm out. On the road. Off into the sunset. Leave you to as many shady deals as you want to get involved in!'

‘I told you I don't!'

‘I'm sorry, I…I shouldn't have said that.'

Vinko stared at his hands, one curled round his glass, the other drumming in front of him on the table. ‘I'm sorry, too.'

Jay suppressed an impulse to move over and put a fatherly arm round his shoulders. Vinko stubbed out his cigarette and drained his pint. Jay realised his own was empty.

‘Want another?'

‘Yes.' He glanced down the alley towards the street. ‘No, it's late. We ought to go back.'

Jay had no idea of the time, but it didn't feel late. Not for a Saturday night.

‘You sure?'

‘Did you mean it when you said you'd help me?'

‘Of course.'

‘Then perhaps it's better to talk at home, Šojka.'

‘Jay. We'll get on a whole lot better if you start using my proper name.'

He grinned and was relieved when Vinko smiled back, much of his anger and disappointment dissipated.

On the way Vinko called at a mini-market to buy tobacco. As he came out, hunched against the drizzle, Jay looked at the bulge in his pocket.

‘What's that?'

‘Whisky. Only a half-bottle. I thought—'

‘Half bottle or not, how can you afford that, on top of fags and all we've just spent? You told me what you earned hardly covered rent and food.'

‘You told
me
not to ask questions.'

He began to walk away. Jay stopped him.

‘Not while you're with me, you don't,' he said. ‘You want your life to be worth something, remember? Value yourself.'

He handed him a ten-pound note and sent him back in, watching through the window to make sure he paid this time.

They filled the neat, strangely homely room with smoke and the whisky bottle fuelled their plans. Any doubts Jay still had were dispelled as he rose from arranging a makeshift bed of blanket and cushions on the floor and saw Vinko watching him.

‘I'm sorry, Jay. For earlier. I'm glad you're here.'

Vinko put a tentative hand on his shoulder then clung to him as if he were Ivan himself come back to life.

He lay staring at the orange glow penetrating the thin curtains that billowed against the open window. The waves of light made the pictures on the walls appear even more surreal. He tried to shut out Vinko's stifled sobs. Twice he had asked if he was all right.

‘I am OK. Thank you, Jay. I sleep now.'

He wondered what caused Vinko's tears. Was it the reminder of the father he'd never known? Eventually the lad fell silent, the deepening and slowing of his breathing revealing that he had found sleep at last. Jay felt guilty at not telling him more. But he'd never been able to talk about it. Never. He hadn't even been able to say much to Polly. His heart tightened as he thought of her. He wished he was back at Stoneleigh and could talk to her now. No – perhaps it was a good thing he missed that bus; perhaps he needed time away. It wouldn't do to get too involved. And he never talked to anyone; not in that way. There was never anyone to talk to. Which was good – with two people in as many weeks now he'd proved he wasn't up to the job of talking. A man of action, then. He wasn't too good at that either. There he was, about to leave Polly's barn unfinished – only for a couple of days, and he'd do his best to let her know, but even so – and who knew how far he'd get with sorting Vinko out. But he was determined to try.

Vinko had almost pleaded with him to set off on their planned trip first thing the next morning, and despite Jay's protests that now wasn't a particularly good time for him, something – guilt, or a sense of responsibility – had made him agree. He tried not to ask himself why, but the question crept in regardless. Of course it wasn't purely altruism. If at all. Helping Vinko was about his own freedom. He'd thought he was free after giving Zora's inheritance back, but now he knew he had not been. His peace of mind, his life, couldn't be bought back that cheaply. Perhaps he still wouldn't be free after seeing Vinko right. But he had to hope, or he might as well give up now. The alcohol blurred his thoughts and he turned over and tried to sleep.

A beeping announced the appearance of a glow in a corner of the room. He knew he shouldn't, but fighting off guilt was something he'd got good at. He only stared at the screen of Vinko's phone for a second before checking the inbox. There were two new texts waiting, both from sender MN. Knowing he'd be found out, already preparing his excuses – ‘I'm new to this mobile business, thought it was mine' – he looked.

What's your problem? Get in touch
said the latest arrival in Croatian.

The previous one was also unopened but received earlier in the evening, at around the time he'd found Vinko outside the pub.

Good work. Where is he now?

Glad he'd interrupted him, Jay hoped they'd be able to talk about whatever it was Vinko seemed to have got mixed up in. It could wait until morning – the peaceful breathing from the narrow bed was not something to be disturbed. The phone revealed nothing else; as far as he could discover with his limited knowledge, the other folders – Outbox, Sent – were empty. Vinko was obviously a good housekeeper. He wished he knew how to mark the incoming messages unread. Vinko would probably be annoyed, and justifiably so; disturbing their fragile peace with an argument first thing in the morning was not something he relished. He quickly deleted the messages into oblivion, put the phone back in its corner and went back to his attempt to lull himself to sleep to the steady waves of the lad's peaceful breathing.

He opens his eyes again as he senses a familiar presence. The boy is sitting on the end of Vinko's bed looking down at him.

‘You've found me here too, have you?'

The boy says nothing, merely turns his head to look at Ivan's son. Vinko turns over noisily in his sleep.

‘Leave his dreams alone,' Jay says under his breath. ‘He had nothing to do with any of it, you hear?'

The boy turns his attention back to Jay.

The truck driver stops and leaves him to walk the last couple of miles to the place he has come to think of as home. He wonders if he will ever feel that as well as thinking it, and is shocked by the realisation that he doesn't already. The truck rattles away down the damaged road and it feels good to be free of the merciless jolting. The engine noise fades and he becomes momentarily aware of the sporadic sound of distant shelling in the hills behind them, before shutting it out like an ordinary town dweller ignores the constant hum of traffic. It is hard to imagine there is anything left worth attacking and he wonders when they will come this way, hungrily looking for more. Zora is confident the house is safe now, and the extended family of refugees seem to share her optimism – they have stayed, after all – but he is not too sure he does.

He no longer thinks too hard. Since his injury and fevered weeks of recovery he has felt different. Though the wound was not directly life-threatening, the infection was serious and left him feeling as if he did die and someone else is now acting through him, as unreal as the stories Zora would tell him and he would then continue in his head to while away the agonising hours of his lucid periods. His feelings and reactions, including the sense of comradeship and family, are more intense, but he is sometimes conscious of being on the outside, aware of himself experiencing them.