THE HEART OF DANGER (9 page)

Continent. He did not apportion blame. It was the way of the

sisters

to squabble, bicker, hold their cards close. But lunch was good,

and

at a personal level he enjoyed the company of Georgie Simpson. A

bowl

of pasta, a bottle from the Friuli region, a plate of liver and

spinach, a second bottle called for, and the talk twisting to Croatia.

Safe ground because Georgie Simpson never set foot outside inner

London, and would have no secrets to guard. A belch from Arnold's

lunch guest. '.. . I'm like the rest of the great British herd, I'm

bored out of my mind with the place. Victoria won't even have it

on

the television now, switches it straight off. She did the jumble

bit

last year, getting parcels together, then she read that the stuff

she

collected was all sitting in a warehouse; she does parcels for Somalia

now. I mean, they're just animals, aren't they? They're animals,

all

of them, not a peck of difference between the lot of them. What gets

up my nose is that people here, in their ignorance, seem surprised

by

the bestiality of the place. I've had the place drilled into me from

birth, by my father. Back in the war, he was on gunboat escorts that

ran weapons down to the Dalmatian coast for the partisans, Tito's

crowd. Two or three times my father went ashore and had to go up

into

47

the mountains to meet the Serbs, and he saw a bit of what was done

to

them by the Croats .. . small wonder they're all A grade for cruelty.

Don't want to put you off your food, Arnold, but the Croats, the

fascists in their Ustase movement, used to gouge the eyes out of their

Serb friends' faces, sack them up and send them back to their hero

leader in Zagreb .. . My father says the Ustase could make the SS

blush. I mean, it wasn't just genocide, it was good fun thrown in.

My

father said that it wasn't just a matter of killing people, they

enjoyed it, most of all they enjoyed causing pain. Incredible

people,

barbarians. Should leave the blighters to it .. ." It might have

been

the wine, could have been the company, but Arnold offered a

confidence.

He spoke quietly, without restraint, of his neighbour and his

neighbour's second wife, and his neighbour's stepdaughter. '.. .

who

must have been a right bloody fool to have let herself get caught

up in

that lot. What I'd call a self-inflicted wound." "And a wound for everyone else," Arnold said. He waved to the waiter for more coffee, and the bill. "And, she, the mother, wants to know what happened?

If

you want my opinion, she should let it rest. It's like scratching

a

bite, yes? You end up with blood and pain. It's different values

there, their values and ours don't mix .. ." "Not the sort of woman to

let it rest. Sad, really, but she won't let it go until she's got

the

full picture .. . Actually, I put her in touch with a private detective

.. ." "What on earth for?" Arnold was brought the bill. He paid cash, and it would be a month before the money was reimbursed by

Accounts. "I thought that if she had something on paper, some

evidence,

then she might just be able to detach herself, disengage, rejoin the

living." "Where did it happen?" Accounts would not wear gratuities.

Arnold scooped the change from the saucer. "The daughter was killed near Glina, the territory is now occupied by the Serbs. I believe

it's

called Sector North .. ." Georgie Simpson laughed out loud, a real good belly laugh. "It'll be a pretty thin volume then, this joker's report .. . Nice meal, thanks, puts me on my mettle, where to go next

week .. . That would be a pretty bloody place to be sniffing." "It's 48

only a bromide job, of course; it's not sharp-end work .. ." They

had

their coats on, they were out on the pavement, their voices drifted.

"Come on, Arnold, what would you have ever known about sharp-end work

.. . ?" Arnold Browne sniggered. "Same as you, Georgie, damn all of

nothing ..." It was the late afternoon, and a thin sun was through the

cloud, and the garden grass was drying. The child played between

the

apple trees that spread above the vegetable patch. Marko had the

plastic pistol. It had not been out of his sight since his father

had

brought it to him, taken to school, laid on the pillow of his bed.

He

weaved among the old tree trunks and saw the old Ustase enemy, and

fired on them and killed them. It was the game he played every day,

with a wooden stick that made the shape of a rifle before his father

had brought him the plastic pistol from Belgrade, killing the Ustase

enemy. He played alone. In the village there was the scream of a

car

horn, sounded like an alarm, and Marko heard the shouts of men. He

played alone, because his friend, the one friend of his life, was

gone.

It was as if he no longer trusted that he could find a good friend

again. He was six years old, and his birthday would be the next week,

and although it was many months since his friend had gone he could

still remember, so clearly, the knowledge that his friend had

betrayed

him, his friend had been a part of the Ustase enemy. Where Marko

played, ducking, running, throwing himself down onto the grass to

find

shooting cover beside the apple trees, he could see across the field,

and across the narrow stream, and across more fields, to the village

where his friend had lived. He could see the house in the village

across the stream, and there was no roof on the house, and where the

side wall of the house had collapsed he could see the bright cream

and

red of the wallpaper of the room that had been his friend's. Most

days

in summer he had waded the ford in the stream or his friend had come

the same way to him, and most days in winter when the stream was high

he had gone across the plank bridge or his friend had come that way

to

him. And now he knew that his friend was an Ustase enemy, and he

knew

49

that the parents of his friend and all in the village across the stream

had planned to slit the throats of their Serb neighbours ... He knew

it

because he had been told it by his father. He had wondered, often,

if

his friend would have come in the night with all the other Ustase

enemies, and carried a knife, and cut his throat. It was too much

of a

betrayal for him to care to find another friend. Marko's game died.

A

car screamed down the lane towards their house. The car braked and

scattered mud in front of the house, and his father was jumping from

the car while it still moved and was running towards the big door.

The

dog was barking and running after his father and into the house.

Marko

came from the orchard, hurrying. He whistled for the dog to come

to

him. The dog had no name now, but it came to the whistle. There

were

five men in the car and they were crashing magazines into their

weapons. The dog was his. He had saved the life of his dog. The

dog

had belonged to the family of his friend who was now an Ustase enemy.

It had been before the battle for the village across the stream that

his friend had gone with his family, all packed with cases and bedding

into the Yugo car. He had watched it from behind the apple trees.

He

had been behind the apple trees because for a week the snipers had

fired across the narrow stream, and his mother would have beaten him

if

she had known he was at the back of the house. They had left the

dog.

He had seen how the dog had run after the weighed-down Yugo car, and

he

had heard his friend's father curse the dog for running beside the

wheels, and the dog had run after the car until they were gone from

his

sight. It had been a week after the battle that he had heard the

dog

barking in the night from beside his friend's house, and his father

had

said that he would go shoot the dog in the morning, and he had cried

for the dog in a way that he had not cried for his friend .. . His

father had crossed the stream and brought the dog home, and his father

had said that there was no point in giving the dog a new name because

50

it would not respond, and they could not use the old name of the dog

because it was an Ustase name. He had hold of the dog's collar when

his father exploded from the big door of the house. His father

carried

his army pack and a small radio and his rifle. There was the roar

of

the car leaving. Marko ran to the gate onto the lane. Up the lane, in

the square of the village, he saw more cars gathered, and he heard

more

shouting. His mother had hold of his shoulder. He should be inside the house. He should not be out of the house. His mother told him

that his father had gone to lead the search for Ustase spies, who

had

crossed over the Kupa river, who were in the forest and the hills

above

Rosenovici village. All the rest of the afternoon Marko stood at

the

window of his bedroom and he gazed across the narrow stream into the

curtain of trees that covered the hillside. She paid the taxi off

fast, thrust the note at the driver and did not wait for the change.

The drizzle was back, and the wet clung to Charles's shoulder.

Typical

of him to wait on the pavement for her. She reeled off her excuses,

the weather, late train, no taxis .. . She saw his expression, set

hard

and annoyed. "Sorry, sorry .. ." He marched up the wide office steps.

"I saw your Mister Penn. I told him his figures were ludicrous ..

."

"And .. . ?" '.. . I told him they were extortionate." "And ..

. ?"

"He said that was his rate." "And .. . ?" "He said that if I didn't like it, I could shove it up my .. ." "And .. . ?" "He was pretty damn lucky to catch me happy. He won." Charles Braddock grinned,

sourly. "He said that he would be leaving for Zagreb in the morning.

But don't think you'll be getting anything more than a load of paper

... He was pretty damn lucky." She kissed her husband's cheek.

"Thank

you. I rather liked him. What I liked about him was that he told

me

to mind my own business. Doesn't grovel too much, not to you, not

to

me .. ." "Come on." They were going to the lift. The commissionaire had the doors open for them, wore his medals proudly, and ducked his

head in respect to them. Penn had told her husband that if he didn't

51

like the terms he could shove the assignment, and he had told her

to

mind her own business .. . quite amusing. The lift doors closed.

Mary

said, "My guess is he's been badly used. He's rather sweet but so

naive .. ." "If we could, please, just enjoy a normal evening .. ."

It

was the usual type of gathering for which Mary Braddock hiked to

London, her husband's senior colleagues and the design team and the

clients. She thought that her Mister Penn would not have stood a

cat

in hell's chance, would have been kicked away down the lift shaft

if it

hadn't been that the clients had put ink on the contracts that very

day. She wafted through the salon, she meandered into and out of

conversations. Her mind was away, away with the man who would be

travelling to Zagreb, away with her daughter who was dead, buried,

gone

... A thin little weed of a man approached, her husband's financial

controller, and he had caught her. "Sincerest condolences, dear

Mary,

such a dreadful time for you .. ." Sincerity, he wouldn't know what the word meant. "Heartfelt apologies, Mary, that I couldn't make the funeral, just not enough hours in the day .. ." No, he wouldn't have taken time off for a funeral from the small type of a contract.

"Still, she was so difficult, wasn't she? We have to hope, at last, that she lies in peace. Your Dorothy, she was such a trial to you."

She did it expertly, and fast. She tipped her Cointreau and ice

against the left side of his pale-grey suit jacket. She thought it

would be a lasting stain, hoped it would defeat the dry cleaner. The

amber ran on the grey. "Dorrie, she was mine, damn you, she was mine

..." She was sitting in the chair by the door and watching him. She didn't help him to pack. "How long are you going to be there?" His suitcase was on the bed. His clothes were stacked close to the case

and he tried to make a mental note of what he would need. "Where

are

you going to be staying?" She had the baby, Tom, on her shoulder and she gripped him tight. Her statements came like machine-gun

bullets,

hurting him, wounding. "What's the point of it all?" His shoes went into the bottom of the case with his bag for washing kit and toothpaste

and razors, and a guidebook of former Yugoslavia, and around their