Someone Else's Conflict (16 page)

‘Are you referring to any cause in particular?'

He smiled and looked away again, shaking his head slightly.

‘I'm generalising as much as any extreme nationalist, aren't I? Just being naïve and idealistic. Too much time spent on my own.'

He put an arm round her shoulder and drew her close.

‘I can't explain. Some stories have answers. Others… others are just there to think about.'

The truck screeches to a sudden halt and he is aware of the crackle and roar of gunfire ahead. He steadies himself and releases his grip on the side of the flatbed. Lifting his rifle he glances warily into the trees, looks ahead to the abandoned house beyond where the other lorry is stopped. As he looks wildly around, he hears the word ‘ambush' several times.
Zasjeda
. He is amazed by the kind of vocabulary he has learned in their language, then by how he can think such a banal thought at a time like this.

‘Keep down!'

He ducks his head below the side, putting out a hand to steady himself as the truck is thrown into reverse. There is angry shouting and it stops. The other truck is stuck somehow and they cannot abandon their comrades. A storm of noise and the whining hiss of bullets surrounds him. The focus of the attack is on the truck in front, but it is terrifying enough from where they are. He is fairly certain they have not yet reached their destination. He is not even sure which side of the self-declared border they are on, though they have stormed their way through a number of roadblocks. But whoever is in that cover, they are hostile, and this, this is not training, it is real.

He sees a figure weaving towards them through the trees, then fall as he is shot down. Ivan raises a triumphant fist and Lek claps him on the shoulder like a proud father. It is moments like this that Å ojka feels like the foreigner he is. Lek sees him watching, glares at him with his usual contempt. He returns the older man's stare unflinching before turning away and firing at a movement in the trees. This is not what he came to live here for, but doubtless none of them actually wants it like this. He will do his share.

The attack becomes more intermittent until the air is blissfully silent. No one trusts their enemy to have gone, but when the truck manoeuvres to turn round, Lek leans forward to the cab and shouts angrily at the driver to stay where they are. The vehicle ahead remains motionless, smoke drifting up from the engine. They roll nervously towards it. Several of the men are injured. Amazingly, no one in his own party is seriously hurt. They hurry to fetch the wounded, in a frenzy of activity so they can get away before the enemy return. He helps lift, support, carry, sickened by the blood, torn flesh and the sounds of agony. One of them does not move at all.

They set off on the overcrowded truck, pressed together like the crowds at the matches his father used to take him to when he was a boy. It is less claustrophobic at the back, but the raised tailgate presses painfully into his side and he hopes it is securely latched. He feels exposed. The moans of the wounded are almost worse than the sounds of battle, making him feel guilty for even noticing his discomfort. He wonders how the injured men will manage on the crowded truck during the half-hour journey back, and allows himself to admit relief that he is separated from the huddle of those tending them and won't have to face putting his first-aid training into practice. He concentrates on keeping watch from the back of the truck. Ivan is doing the same from the side, and gives him the thumbs-up sign. His friend's grin seems incongruous but he echoes the gesture.

A burst of acceleration shoves him against the unforgiving tailgate and he hears the chatter of gunfire above his own cursing. He looks up and on the scrubby hillside sees a small makeshift emplacement. Only two of them. He gets them in his sights as well as he can. Despite the bouncing of the truck he has the sensation of seeing them unnaturally clearly. There are more than two now. The nearest is aiming straight back at him. He tries to compensate for the movement of the truck; it is impossible but he fires anyway, telling himself that it's them or him. In a moment of panicked confusion the kickback seems ridiculously exaggerated. This notion is shoved aside by the awareness of an overwhelming pain in his side. He is no longer bracing himself against the tailgate but borne up by the men next to him. Momentarily immobilised, he thinks please don't let me fall out before succumbing and finding himself on the bed of the truck peering, bewildered, at the jumble of legs around him.

His body has curled around the pain and he is vaguely aware of being moved. His overwhelming feeling is shame that he has been taken in his first real sortie. As the commotion – he is not sure if it is the world or inside his own head – dies down, he hears the whimpering of a wounded man. He rolls his head and sees a man cowering, his face unrecognisable beneath blood from a head wound. Overcome by a surge of pain, Šojka shouts out, then tries to suppress it, tries to appear stoical as he realises they are examining and binding the wound in his side. Someone passes him a water bottle. He reaches clumsily but can't grasp it; Ivan holds it to his lips. It hurts to drink but he gulps greedily. He pushes the bottle towards the man at his side, but it is snatched away.

‘One of them. We need to conserve it. We can deal with him when we get back.' Ivan looks almost apologetic. ‘But you; are you—'

‘We can't just leave him to suffer,' he tries to say.

‘Our men are suffering.' Ivan waves a hand over their own wounded men. ‘You are.'

His friend shrugs and he can't argue as all his energy is consumed by the pain. Ivan tells him his wound isn't so bad, he'll survive, and it seems as if his friend believes it, that he's not just muttering empty reassurance. But he knows what it is like to wish you were dead, as half an hour more of this nightmare journey stretches before him and every second is intolerable. He notices the way some of the others are looking at the prisoner and thinks he, too, would be better off dead. Ivan holds a different bottle to his lips. He thinks even the rakija can't touch this, but gulps greedily. He imagines it leaking out of the wound and wishes he could stop his mind from working.

Ivan grins and asks couldn't he have thought of an easier way to get out of the fighting. The last thing he remembers is trying to make himself smile back.

Chapter 14

Holdwick marketplace was fairly quiet as yet, but it was still relatively early. Jay brought his first story to a close and paused to savour the moment. The pleasure he got from recognising a couple of the faces and knowing they had stopped to listen again outweighed any of his lingering doubts. A movement caught his eye.

‘What d'yer think yer doin?' A burly, leather-jacketed man with a guitar case strode up, gesturing over his shoulder for Jay to move. ‘This is my usual place.'

‘Is it?' he replied calmly. ‘I didn't realise. Seeing as you weren't here yesterday. Or last week.' He glanced over to the stall. ‘Seeing as Mike asked me to come back.'

‘Acts like he owns the place but he's got nowt to do wi' it.' The man stepped nearer, a head taller than Jay, who stood unmoving.

‘Asked you to move on before now, has he?'

‘Now look 'ere.' The busker jabbed the air with his guitar case like a weapon, alcohol-laden breath steaming in front of him. His aggression told Jay he'd guessed correctly. ‘You're doin nobbut yakkin anyway. People want proper music. Songs they know, like.'

Jay nodded, imagining the jaded repertoire. ‘Perhaps we could work together,' he said, safe in the knowledge his offer would never be accepted. ‘Some kind of accompaniment. It'd be good to work with a guitarist.'

‘I don't work wi' your sort.' He moved a menacing step closer. ‘Now fuck off.'

Jay saw the shove coming and fended it off. In a single, smooth action he had the guitar case on the floor and had gripped both the man's wrists hard. He stared unflinching into his adversary's eyes. ‘We can settle this however you like,' he said quietly, ‘but I don't think a scrap's good for anyone's business, do you?' He glanced over and saw Mike serving a customer. ‘Me, I'd be happy to move on if it came to it. But I get the impression you want to come back here again – so you don't want to cause trouble, right?' He felt an almost imperceptible tension and tightened his grip even more. The slight relaxation as the man yielded broke the moment and Jay smiled. ‘So if you'll excuse me, I've got some yakking to do.'

The busker bent to pick up his guitar case. ‘Fuckin nutter,' he muttered as he strode off. Jay took a deep breath, picked up his flute and quickly began a lively tune to recapture his audience's attention and distract his own.

A short while later Mike brought him a coffee. ‘Sorry about that, mate. Bit of a rush on there. I was going to come over as soon as I'd done, give you a bit of support, like. Can't be doing with him – he stinks and his playing's crap.' They exchanged a knowing smile. ‘He can be a nasty piece of work, can Ferris, though – we're lucky he decided not to push it today.'

Jay nodded, sipping at his coffee in an attempt to dissolve the lingering tension inside, choosing not to remark that luck hadn't come into it.

‘If there's any more trouble I'll stand by you, don't you worry,' the market trader continued. ‘I like what you do. You bring a breath of fresh air to the place.'

He returned to the stall as Jay turned back to his listeners. He prepared himself to wander the winding paths his stories and music led him down, to let them carry him a safe distance from the encounter, the memory of the previous night's conversation and the persistent whisper of
hypocrite
in his head.

A sizeable audience had gathered when he caught another glimpse of leather jacket among them. His heart sank, though he didn't falter. He glanced down at his hat. Quite a collection already, and Mike's stall was nicely busy. This time he'd walk away. When he looked up again the people had shifted and he realised this was not the same leather jacket – equally worn and tatty, but the wearer was smaller and slighter. Jay's relief was jolted by another rush of adrenalin as he registered that it was the youth who had caught his attention the previous week. And what of it? A number of his listeners had returned; why should this lad be any different? Trying to pretend he hadn't noticed the young man mouthing the words to the tune he'd just played, he made himself tell a long, involved story as if nothing had happened – nothing
had
happened, after all – a story with a lot of laughs, a lot of action and a happy ending. By the time he'd finished there was no sign of the lad.

Jay gathered up his hat and told his audience he'd probably be back after lunch, though he knew most of them wouldn't, and went over to tell Mike the same, before setting off towards the baker's to buy a sandwich. As he passed a shop window full of phones he thought absently that they even had a shop dedicated to the gadgets in a place like this. At least it was an independent – he'd seen it before but until then assumed that Dog & Bone was a pet shop. It gave him an idea and he stopped walking. If he was starting to get his life sorted… Her phone was off. But that wouldn't be forever. He was inside the shop before he could talk himself out of it.

He bought the cheapest model they had and a pay-as-you-go sim card for the provider the young assistant told him gave the best coverage in the area. She offered to set it up for him. As she showed him how to use the basic functions, he felt slightly ridiculous about being so out of touch. The feeling annoyed him; until then he'd always had a proud disdain for the ubiquitous gadgets. Apart from his sporadic visits to libraries to check for e-mails from his sister and search for news on the Internet, there'd been no one he needed or wanted to keep in touch with.

He left the shop trying to memorise his new number, and finally headed for the baker's.

‘Excuse me.'

Jay paused and looked round, somehow not surprised to see the dark-haired youth in the scuffed leather jacket.

‘I…I like your stories. And the music.'

‘Thank you.' He smiled warily. ‘I noticed you listening.'

‘I know some from the tunes. I have surprise hearing them here.' He was looking at Jay intently. ‘You…you are Šojka?'

The question sounded more inevitable than surprising.

‘Once upon a time,' he said. Šojka was another place, another age. ‘Jay Spinney, pleased to meet you.'

He swallowed as he held out his hand. The youth shook it.

‘Vinko Pranjić.' His eyes were shining and his grip on Jay's hand was tight.

‘
Drago mi je
,' Jay replied automatically, triggering an excited torrent from Vinko. He caught a few snatches, including the word for ‘father' – so his notion of a resemblance to Ivan the previous week had been correct – before losing track completely. ‘Whoa, Vinko, slow down. It's been a long time since I heard or spoke your language. I'm afraid you've left me behind.'

‘But you are Šojka.' Half statement, half question, to match the mix of pleasure and sudden disappointment in Vinko's expression.

‘
Stranac.
The foreigner.'

‘The foreigner who was one of us.'