Someone Else's Conflict (39 page)

He raised his eyes slowly.

‘Try telling yourself the same thing.'

‘But I've been such an idiot! If I'd listened to you, if we'd gone to the police when you said… Are
you
in trouble?'

‘Nothing serious.' Conspiracy to pervert the course of justice in Boris and Anja's murder case. She'd been angry and frustrated with him, of course she had. She'd revealed details of his life, and regretted it. When she'd told them how he'd known Lek years ago and knew what the man was capable of, she'd meant to make it obvious he'd acted in self-defence. But apparently, knowing what the man was capable of gave Jay the perfect motive for wanting to kill him. She'd said little more, and looking at him now, his expression almost as haunted as when he'd told her about Paševina and all that led up to it, she was glad. ‘They haven't charged you yet?'

He shook his head with a sigh. ‘I think they'll accept that Lek's death was self-defence on both my part and Vinko's. We shouldn't have been there, we were both carrying offensive weapons, but… I don't need to tell you.' He drew away from her and leaned on the table, his head in his hands. ‘It was only this morning they finally dropped the talk of…of Anja and Boris's murder. Direct involvement, anyway. Mihal Novak came round overnight, apparently, and confessed. Of course it was he and Lek who broke in, intending to do no more than threaten them, so he claims. They must have got frustrated that Vinko wasn't doing more, about getting information from his grandparents or finding me. It seems Boris had a gun under the bed and Mihal panicked. I don't know whether Lek shot Anja to get rid of a witness or some warped revenge because she was Zora's sister. Neither would surprise me. But at least Mihal had the decency to confirm that Vinko knew nothing about it at the time. And I certainly didn't.'

Marilyn shuddered. ‘It took his confession? They didn't believe
you
?'

‘Probably just wanted to make me sweat. I'm the sort of guy they'll want to pin as much as possible on.' He looked round at her. ‘I'm so sorry for putting you through all this, Polly.'

‘It's not your fault.'

‘How can you say that? I've let you down and I'm sorry.'

She tried to take his hand. He pulled away, sat up straight.

‘Please. Don't get any more attached than you already are. I don't deserve you. And you certainly don't deserve me. In the opposite sense.'

‘I don't blame you for anything.'

He looked at her steadily. ‘Don't you see how selfish I've been?'

‘I know what you've been through.'

‘There you are. Me.'

‘You were trying to protect Vinko. And there was Lucy and—'

‘And a chance literally to lay my ghosts to rest. Sod how it affects anyone else.' He shook his head. ‘I find someone who matters to me –
two
people who matter to me – and it's still all about myself. The boy from Paševina was there – he hasn't been near me since with his horrors and his nightmares. Even during a sleepless night in this place. Perhaps I've done something right at last.' He ran a hand through his hair. ‘But there we were with Vinko about to get his brains blown out and a little part of me could actually feel
pleased
to hear Lek claim I turned Ivan against him. See? Me, me, me.'

He stood up and turned away.

‘I can live with that if you can.'

He turned back to her. ‘Please, don't make any daft promises. Give yourself time to think. I'm not worth it.'

‘You said it yourself, Jay. Don't let him win.'

‘This isn't a fairy story, Polly.' He laughed. ‘I know, you're thinking “You're a fine one to talk about fairy stories, Jay Spinney.” It's true, I am. And that's why I don't trust happy endings.'

‘It won't work,' she said.

‘What?'

‘Stop trying to make it easy for me.' He raised an eyebrow. ‘Easy to walk away.'

‘You think that's what I want?'

She shook her head. ‘No. But you've been saying it all along. “Just say the word and I'll disappear and leave you in peace.” Well, I won't make it that easy for you to run away again.'

He tried to smile, then shook his head. ‘How long have we known each other? I've messed up your life enough even in that brief time.'

‘You'd do just that if you rejected me now. Come back here.'

She motioned to the plastic chair. He stayed where he was.

‘Be realistic,' he said.

‘I am. Listen. We're trying to get you out of here. I've already given them my address as yours. Vesna would be prepared to put up bail money if it were needed.'

‘Thank you. It means a lot. But there's no chance of bail.'

‘You don't know that. I could be driving you home in a couple of days. Or sooner. They haven't charged you yet. But whatever happens, I'll be here.'

His expression made her feel as if her words were nothing but irrational childish optimism.

‘Sit down, Jay.'

He perched uneasily on the hard plastic chair, looking fearful and vulnerable. She touched his arm and his sudden smile filled her with relief.

‘You must be mad,' he said as he took her hand. ‘But whatever you decide, haven't you got work to be doing? Go on, prove I'm not messing up your life.'

‘In good time. I can hardly go back to Matt's at the moment, can I?'

‘Then it's up to me to get out of here and help you sort that building out, right?'

As they held each other, she wondered momentarily why she'd been so quick to dismiss his suggestion of walking away. There was no question. She was inextricably involved in his story now, and he'd claimed his part in hers.

Chapter 32

Jay becomes aware of someone in the grey cell, looks up and sees the boy standing watching him. A wave of anger, betrayal, hurt rushes through him and he simply looks back, knowing shouting will do no good. He takes the stupid flimsy slippers he's been issued with and throws them in anger. The boy doesn't flinch. Jay thinks of Polly, hoping that by strength of will he can make the boy go. It doesn't work. His anger subsides, to be replaced by an overwhelming sadness and defeat.

‘I should have known,' he says. ‘You told me before that you don't keep your promises. I should have listened.'

The boy shakes his head, smiling, and beckons for Jay to follow. His smile fades, but for that brief moment it had seemed warm, almost genuine. He has never smiled before. Jay is unsettled.

As he walks down the rutted lane to Paševina, his anger returns. This is so unfair. He should refuse to go, but he can't. He has tried to resist before. No effort of will can keep him away. It is rare that he is aware of reality this far along the road, but it makes no difference to the fear. The deep dread feels the same as always. He comes to the first outlying house and refuses to look. His eyes firmly on the dusty surface of the road a few paces ahead, he keeps walking. This is a mistake. He glances back. The walls are still pockmarked with the scars of war and in need of paint, but the roof is whole. The blazing sun reflects off glass in the windows and the garden looks tended. It jars. He is on guard, stares at the road ahead then suddenly turns back, as if he can trick the house into its accustomed dereliction. It remains stubbornly inhabited. He tries to smother the optimism. This is a trick.

As he enters the village, the first thing he notices is people. No one is immediately visible out on the street, but he senses everyday activity. The houses and buildings here, too, are coming back to life. There are plenty of gaps where the damage was too great or the owners have not returned, and side alleys are still rubble-strewn and broken, but there is an undeniable sense of hope. He passes the building where Å ojka once watched the boy die. He stops and looks round. This is where the boy usually vanishes, leaving him alone with his fears. He walks away more slowly this time, turning to smile at Jay again, a smile that lights up his face. He walks calmly into a nearby house.

Jay has no desire to follow him into a stranger's home, nor has he been invited, so he walks on to the square, where a small group sits talking over coffees outside a café. He sees a man about his own age walking purposefully by. Two young women with babies, talking. The buildings, the tables and chairs in front of the café, even the monument on the square, are real, undamaged. He wonders at the normality of the scene as he waits for the people to stop and stare. One or two of them watch him, but there is no menace, merely the curiosity of ordinary people wondering what a stranger is doing in their village. They do not form a hostile crowd, do not surge towards him to take their revenge.

Not yet. He wants to smile at what he sees. He wants to feel happiness that things are finally as they should be. But he can't trust it. He quickens his pace, eager to leave them to the business of getting on with their lives before he can make a wrong move to spoil it. He hurries away from the square, down a different road from the one he came down, but it's all right, he knows his way around. His spine tingles with the feeling of being watched, the anticipation of worse.

As he walks he sees now what he wasn't ready to notice as he approached – the fields are also being coaxed back to life. A crop is being harvested. The sound of sheep bells reaches him on the wind. A couple of farm workers pause to look at him, then go back to their work. The road winds through the scrubby, undulating landscape until the village is out of sight. He thinks he recognises the woods ahead where they were ambushed, and realises he has taken the wrong road. His scar itches with the faint memory of pain. But when he tries to turn it is like swimming against a strong current. He yields and continues walking. In any case, he can't face the thought of seeing the people in the fields again. They have their hardships, far too many, but they are working together. He knows the people on the square have suffered, but those who have returned – and he still feels his share of the guilt for those who have not – are rebuilding their community. He pauses as if to adjust a heavy load on his shoulders, and continues down the road. Alone.

It is around here that he always sees Zora. This time there is no sign of her and he is disappointed – he had been looking forward to telling her he's free now. But he's here, so how can he be free? Up ahead he sees a woman talking to a man and his heart jumps.

Polly shouldn't be here. He doesn't want to bring her here, doesn't want her to have to see any of this. But wasn't it wrong to keep it from her? He loves her and can't help smiling as he approaches. Ivan has a bottle and three small glasses. He pours, they raise them, and down the rakija in one. Ivan claps him on the shoulder and thanks him, though he doesn't say what for, and walks away, leaving him alone with Polly. She takes him by the hand and leads him to a patch of shade beneath a tree. They sit in silence for a few moments watching the hot sun mottled by the swaying leaves, then she says, ‘You will come home, won't you? However long it takes. I'll be there, waiting for you.'

He wants to say, I will, of course I will, but the words don't come out. It doesn't matter; they are comfortable in each other's silence. He leans his head on her shoulder and dozes in the warm shade. When he opens his eyes she is no longer there. He knows which way she has gone and starts to follow, preparing to face whatever is lurking in the trees. As he becomes aware of the sounds of war, the smell of diesel and gunfire, he remembers something he once said: you don't stop feeling fear; you simply get used to it. And he walks towards it. That's the way forward and he won't go back to the village.

This time it is different. He knows she will be waiting. He remembers her face as she told him that, back in the dismal interview room, and he knows she meant it. He winces as he recalls telling her not to make silly promises – he fears it will take a long time and he needs her to help him face it. He breaks into a run, bracing himself against the terror that crouches, ready to pounce, in the trees. His tension begins to lessen as he realises the woods are quiet, the only sounds the cicadas and the rustling of a light breeze in the leaves, the only smell the herby scent of grass beneath his feet.

But he carries on running because he has to get home.

Alison Layland
is a writer and translator. Raised in Newark and Bradford, she
lives in mid-Wales with her husband and two teenage children. She studied Anglo-Saxon, Norse and Celtic at Cambridge University, and after a brief spell as a taxi driver worked for several years as a chartered surveyor before returning to her first love – languages. She was Welsh Learner of the Year in 1999, and in 2001 won first place at the National Eisteddfod with a short story written in Welsh. She translates for various publishers and agencies from German, French and Welsh – works of creative fiction and specialist information texts – and has been teaching herself Croatian while writing her first novel,
Someone Else's Conflict
.

For further news and information see www.alayland.uk

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