Someone Else's Conflict (32 page)

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, Å ojka 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. Å ojka 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.

Å ojka 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. Å ojka 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, Å ojka 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. Å ojka 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 Å ojka politely asks MiloÅ¡ević 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 PaÅ¡evina 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 them. 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 Å ojka 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.

Go away, please, just leave me alone.

He was never sure whether he spoke out loud in those moments. He quickly made a sandwich, found a carrier and took his picnic and mug of coffee back out to the tent. He tried to concentrate on his breakfast, taking comfort from the food and the hot drink, to drive away the events of the previous night. He always thought of them as events, not dreams, not memories. Memories faded with time, didn't they? His tongue probed at the gap where the tooth had been. He still felt watched and wondered just what he had to do to free himself. He busied himself taking the tent down and packing up his bag. It was still early; he reckoned there was time for him to take everything back to the house. He was crossing the yard when he heard the phone ringing. Quickening his pace, he unlocked the door in time to hear a recording of Polly telling the caller she wasn't there.

Hi Marilyn, Lucy here. Can you ring me back as soon as you get chance, please?

Lucy. Barton Mill. He was relieved he hadn't reached it in time. A coward, perhaps, but relieved all the same. As he took his things up to the bedroom, he tried to calm himself. With Vesna's accusations of paranoia ringing in his mind he wondered if he shouldn't just light a fire and wait for Polly in comfort in the living room. But paranoid or not, she might not be the first to arrive. He rinsed the mug, saw to the cat and went back outside.

Walking briskly towards the patch where his tent had been, he caught a glimpse of a figure in the trees. The boy was still watching him and a smell of burning hung on the air. No effort of will could stop him looking back over his shoulder, half-expecting to see a column of smoke rising through the skeletal branches. He looked at his hands, glanced up again to where he'd seen the boy in the trees. Nothing but a movement of the leaves. As elusive as Vinko, he thought with a silent laugh, and realised the little bastard was even beginning to
look
like Vinko. A cold fear crept over him as he wondered how much of anything he'd done over the last few days was real. Had it all been an extended vision conjured up by some malicious part of his conscience, to show him what happened when you gave in, sought comfort in loving a woman?

He leaned against a tree, his breathing loud in his head, the bark rough beneath his fingers, and let reality settle back down around him like the airborne ash of a fire. The boy had gone. Of course – however much he wanted this to be a nightmare it didn't make it any less real. It was a lesson all right, but it was happening. It was almost enough to make him believe in a higher power, but that was just too scary to contemplate.

The sound of a car approaching up the track made him duck into the trees. It wasn't one he recognised. He couldn't make out much as he tried to stay concealed, but saw the driver was on his own. Looked a bit young for a detective, but why shouldn't he? Definitely too young for Novak. Most likely the police. Jay watched the car turn into the yard. Vindicated.
Looking for me?
Sorry, mate, I'm on your case.
He smiled to himself, drew his jacket tighter and waited. The visitor knocked on the door, then went back to the car. He waited for it to start up and leave, but the man seemed prepared to wait. Whoever it was, Jay suddenly wished he had a way of warning Polly.

He made his way quietly down towards the barn, hoping to get down the track unseen and intercept her before she arrived. As he crept along the back of the barn he had a brief moment of doubt, remembering yesterday and wondering if she'd come at all. The thought had hardly passed when he heard a car pull up, women's voices and a door banging. He saw the newly-arrived car turn in a gateway and leave. From the corner of the barn he tried to attract Polly's attention, but she was already walking briskly up the yard, her attitude one of anger or irritation rather than fear. Her visitor called out to her and he felt a mixture of relief and annoyance as he recognised the voice.

Chapter 27

Cautiously, Vinko entered the building, hoping he'd got the right place. It was good to be in out of the wind; he couldn't remember ever feeling so cold. He was glad he had his jacket back, but it wasn't much use over a damp T-shirt. He eased his hands deeper into his pockets. They hurt. He concentrated on his surroundings to take his mind off the pain. There were three doors on the ground floor, to his right, and a staircase going up to the left. He heard a car pull up in the car park outside and stepped to the shadows next to the main entrance, checking for the reassuring presence of his knife. A man walked in without noticing him and made straight for the third door on the right. Not that one, then. A look at the signs on the wall in front of him indicated there was a shop upstairs. That seemed best. Most likely to be the place where he'd find what he was after and more public, more anonymous, if it wasn't.