Someone Else's Conflict (25 page)

Her voice had more of an edge than she'd intended. He stood, frowning, the early flames of the fire ticking behind him as it caught.

‘You didn't really think I'd just upped and disappeared, did you?'

‘I didn't know what to think.'

He glanced towards the stairs, his expression brightening. ‘You had my bag as hostage.'

‘How did I know you'd consider the ransom worth paying?'

‘Surely you know me better than to believe I'd—'

‘Jay, there are times I feel like I don't know you at all.'

She looked at him, studying the familiar lines round his eyes, the dark, hint-of-silver curls framing a face that held the same mix as ever of mischief and past cares. She tried to see if the cares were showing through more than the last time she'd seen him, but in truth he didn't seem any different.

‘I admit you don't know everything
about
me—'

‘I hardly know anything!'

‘But you know who I am.' He tapped his breast, suddenly serious. ‘In here. Whatever I tell you, please try and think of the me you allowed into your life the last couple of weeks.'

His hands were on her shoulders and there was a plea in his eyes that suggested any hopes of trivial explanations and everything being all right were futile.

‘That's who I
want
to believe in,' she said.

‘But you don't.'

‘I didn't say that.'

‘Polly, what's changed?'

‘Oh, come on, Jay. Let's start with you disappearing without warning. With a mysterious “friend's son” I've been hearing things about.'

‘What things? What do you mean?'

‘“I'll explain,” to quote a man I know. Come on, let's eat.'

They went through to the kitchen and busied themselves serving the dinner, even chinking wine glasses before they ate. She felt as if they were both trying to preserve a fragile sense of normality, this scene of sharing a meal together, as they had when things had been new, slightly strange, but straightforward. As always between them, the silence seemed companionable. She made herself break it.

‘I think we've both got some explaining to do.'

He nodded. ‘What is it you've heard? About Vinko?'

‘I had a visit from the police this morning.'

‘The police?'

She took a deep breath. ‘Jay, have you heard of a couple called Boris and Anja, um, Pranitch, I think it was?'

‘Pranjić?' He stopped, his fork halfway to his mouth. ‘Yes. Yes, I know them. You remember I told you once about my old friend Ivan? That's his mum and dad. Vinko, who I've been with these last few days – that's his son. Their grandson.'

She stared at the candle flame as if trying to draw strength from it. ‘How well did you know them?'

‘Not very. I hadn't seen them for over twenty years till last year. Hang on, what do you mean, “did”?'

‘I'm afraid I've got some bad news for you, Jay. They…they're dead. There was a break-in. Murdered…bodged burglary, probably. The police aren't sure yet. I'm sorry.'

She wished she'd found a better way of saying it. Obviously moved, he swore quietly, stared at the table in front of him, then ate a forkful of stew as if he needed something to do. After a long, heavy pause he looked across at her. ‘Sorry. It's just so difficult to believe. What else did they say? What brought them to you?'

She told him about the visit. After a brief, incredulous laugh when she mentioned Vinko saying he lived in Holdwick, his expression got gradually colder and harder. As she came to an end, he turned on her.

‘You ratted on him? For nicking a few
pence
? You didn't even know it was him! What did you go accusing him to the police for?'

She returned his angry stare.

‘I wasn't accusing,' she said, indignant. ‘I reported the theft; that's natural isn't it? I… I didn't think it would come to anything.'

‘Didn't think! You even accused me, didn't you?'

‘Calm down. No, of course I didn't. The opposite. I told them—'

‘I mean when we first met.'

‘I didn't know you then.'

‘You said earlier you don't know me now!'

‘I'm sorry.'

His head was down and he was eating as if it were the last meal he was ever going to get. His behaviour hurt her and she could only hope it was fuelled by shock at the news.

‘But,' she continued, ‘but you're implying that it
was
him. And you know him. So I wasn't far wrong, was I?' He looked up at her, his face unreadable. ‘He stole from me, Jay. What was I supposed to do? Find him, take him aside and listen to his bloody life story?'

He almost smiled, then sighed, relaxing slightly.

‘I'm sorry,' she said again. ‘If I'd known, I—'

‘No, I'm the one should apologise.' He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I'm sorry I took it out on you, Pol. Forgive me. It's a lot to take in. Anja. Boris. Dead. But I'm an idiot – I've been dying to see you. Whatever's happened – particularly given what's happened – the last thing I want is to argue.' She nodded, fighting back sudden tears. ‘Listen, I only met him last Saturday. We've never “worked” together. I wouldn't do anything like that; you must know—'

‘You seem to think I know a lot,' she said, and their eyes met, discharging the tension.

‘So… I guess it's about time I told you who he is and where he fits into my life.' She nodded again.

‘It's a long story.' He put his knife and fork down neatly on his empty plate and reached over to clear hers away.

‘Leave the plates. No procrastinating.'

She gestured through to the living room. As they rose from the table he hugged her; she sensed a strange mix of reassurance and fear. He went to sit in his fireside chair and started to fill his pipe.

‘I'm worried about him,' he announced. ‘Even more so now.'

‘Stop rambling. Tell me straight. So he's your mate Ivan's son. Why can't he be doing all this worrying?'

‘Ivan? He died, must be eighteen years ago. Before Vinko was even born. That's just it, see. He's on his own, Vinko.
Completely
on his own given what I've just heard. Except— Sorry, right…' He looked at her apologetically. ‘This is difficult.'

‘Go on.'

Jay nodded and cleared his throat as if about to make a speech. She wondered if she should offer to get them a drink.

‘Vinko came up and introduced himself to me last Saturday,' he said, delaying the decision for her. ‘Said he'd seen me busking and recognised me from a photo his mother had. I believe him. I think. He needs my help to get back some money he's owed. And I've got to help him – for one thing because it's my fault he's owed it. Don't get me wrong, that's not why he came to me. I don't think he even knew till I told him.'

He glanced across as if checking she was still with him.

‘He… I just felt for him. I want to make things right. You'd understand if you met him. He's got his problems but I'm sure he's a good lad deep down. I went off with him and then…then I missed the last bus home. I hoped you'd understand that I couldn't phone you, although I… Listen, the reason we went off goes a lot further back. It's hard to know where to begin…'

He studied the worn fabric of his trousers, put his filled pipe down and placed the leather tobacco pouch on the arm of the chair, resting his hand on it and fiddling with the fastener. ‘So. Begin at the beginning.'

Much of what he told her, about his friend's Yugoslav family and the two of them going to Croatia, she'd heard in fragments of stories before. This time the fragments came together. And this time, she realised she was actually starting to believe him.

‘Listen, you remember the wealthy heiress I mentioned?' Marilyn nodded, though she certainly hadn't believed that one. ‘There was a bit of poetic licence and exaggeration, but that was Ivan's aunt Zora.'

Jay paused and Marilyn studied him in the soft firelight.

‘Really. The house in the country – that was hers. Dalmatia. It had been her family home. Her parents were killed in the second world war by the Ustaše – the fascists. You ever heard of Jasenovac?' Marilyn shook her head. ‘It was a concentration camp. Political prisoners like Zora and Anja's parents were supposed to fare better than the Serbs, Gypsies and Jews who were sent there to be killed but…they died anyway. Zora was a baby and Anja only a small child, and they'd been sent away to live with relatives for safety; they only learned what really happened as they grew up. Anja reacted like most people would, by staying out of trouble and eventually moving abroad, but Zora…it fired her up. Shortly before we went, she reclaimed her family's house and land, which had been confiscated but because of where it was had stood deserted for years. She had money, too. She kept it abroad, and added to it over the years. For when she needed it. When she could do something useful with it. Remember? Do you believe me now?'

He flashed her a smile, then looked away.

‘The other part was true, too. About her nasty-piece-of-work lover. Well, it wasn't as black-and-white as that, of course. Not at first. He was a big noise in the local territorial defence force; he'd got to a position of authority quite young and she respected him for that. Fair enough. But as the situation got worse it went to his head, like power does. His activities got increasingly irregular. But at first… There's no doubt he was charismatic and Zora was persuasive about being ready to defend her country's independence. All the more so after the Serbs declared their autonomous region and the violence started. And the refugees started coming, Croats from the Serb-held areas. She eventually had her house full of refugees from up country.

‘And before long Lek had us trained up and ready to fight. I still can't believe how we got swept into it. No, I shouldn't keep saying “we”. When I was telling Vinko he accused me of blaming his father. I don't – I've got no one to blame but myself. I mean, I believed in their cause, but war…?'

He fell silent, staring into the fire. She noticed he was biting his lower lip with a slight shake of his head, like he always did when she asked him something he wouldn't – or couldn't – talk about. Like the couple of times she'd ventured to ask him about his nightmares, or when he'd dismissed the scar on his belly as a routine operation that had gone wrong.

‘You fought with them?'

He nodded. ‘I fought,' he said slowly, ‘and killed. The Homeland War, they call it. I'd gone with Ivan, chosen to live there, even if only for a while.' The fire reflected tiny pinpricks of flame in his eyes. ‘The fight for their homeland, their independence, was mine, too.'

She wanted to ask more. But there was part of her didn't want to know. She couldn't help feeling that the Jay she felt close to had been snatched away from her. By whom, by what? His own past? Hadn't that always been there?
Think of the me you allowed into your life…

She said his name as if to anchor herself. He looked round at her.

‘I know, I know. It's hard. I've spent all these years trying to put it behind me. But…I started telling Vinko – it's about his dad, after all – though I only got so far.' He shook his head. ‘It's also about me and you. I realised I wasn't being fair. I…I feel a lot for you and… Well, it's wrong to let us get too close to one another if I'm not being honest with you. Though you don't know how difficult it is to make myself talk about it.'

‘I can imagine.'

He stood, moved to stand in front of the fire, looking at her. She felt the cold as he blocked out the heat.

‘Thanks for trying,' he said. He ran his hand through his hair again and left it there half-covering his face. She wanted to stand, too, to reach out and touch him, but something in his manner stopped her.

‘I'm getting round to Vinko, honestly, Polly.'

He broke the mood suddenly with a rueful smile, rubbing his arms through the sleeves of his jumper. ‘But…can we get a hot drink first?'

She nodded and he went through to the kitchen. As she listened to the homely sound of him filling the kettle and rattling crockery, she imagined the courage it must be taking him to tell her the truth – assuming this was the truth. She'd known he was haunted by something, reassured herself that whatever it was didn't matter because he'd put it behind him. But now it wasn't behind him; it was here, between them. He'd killed people and destroyed their homes in a war. She told herself lots of people did, and got on with their lives and loves afterwards.

She followed him into the kitchen. As they waited for the kettle to boil he came over to her and put a hand hesitantly on her arm. She touched his cheek, thinking how awkward they'd become with one another, and as if she'd given him some tacit consent he took her in his arms and held her in silence. She returned his embrace, overwhelmed by the depth of emotion she sensed in him but still knew so little about. There was still a vague possibility that all this was in his imagination, a story woven from the reminiscences of people he'd met on the streets. She no longer knew whether she wanted stories or the truth.