Janus awoke to the ringing of his phone. It was seven thirty and this could only mean one thing, his father was ringing him for another job.
Without waiting to hear who was on the other end of the line he answered; “Hello, Dad.”
“Janus,” his Dad responded crossly, continuing in Polish, “I don't like you knowing who's phoning. Can't you act normally when you answer your phone?”
Resorting to his mother tongue was an extra signal to Janus that his Dad was more than just angry with him and on these occasions Janus always stuck to English.
“Dad, there's nothing unusual about people knowing who's on the other end of the line, especially when the only call those people get is at seven thirty on the dot.”
“That maybe so, Janus, but you know how much trouble you caused your mother and I…,” Andrzej Malik paused momentarily recalling his wife; what had happened all that time ago wasn't his son's fault. He tried to convince himself. “Anyway,” his father carried on feeling twinge of guilt, “there's a job to do and I need you to help me.”
“What is it this time?” Janus asked, attempting to stop his anger from surfacing. Janus knew he had to do the work, it was his only income and he had to maintain the independence he had gained since the break-up of his marriage. He really didn't relish the idea of living with his father again. Those long months he'd stayed with his father, after the split from his wife, had been, to say the least, uncomfortable.
It wasn't that they didn't get on; it was just that they were from different worlds. Janus had been in the UK for more than twenty years now and although his father had as well, his father still held on to the old world ideals even though it had been his father who had moved them from Poland to the UK in the first place.
“I just been assessing a job in Hartington Road, in Southend, for Mr Adams. It not quite a bathroom refit, but the plumbing needs to be looked, and there is some work to do in the outside.” Janus's dad was speaking in his pidgin English again, his misplaced anger having dissipated.
“Okay, Dad. When do I need to be there?”
“In about an hour. I pick you up in thirty minutes. That alright for you isn't it?”
“You know it is, Dad.” Janus gave up on the idea of making his own way there.
Andrzej Malik had called his son from the site, he always liked to start early and although, initially, the job hadn't seemed that difficult there was still a fair bit of work to do in the bathroom itself, but the hardest part was rectifying the external rendering. From what Andrzej could see, the whole upper half of the soil pipe needed replacing. It wasn't something you could do with just a ladder.
Andrzej made a call to his regular scaffolding contractor. “When can you get here?” he asked, hoping he would get a different answer to the one Regent Scaffolding had given him the other day.
“Well it's Wednesday today,” Regent Scaffolding's receptionist said, “and that means, according to the diary, we'll be able to put it up Friday afternoon.”
“That really the earliest you can do it?” Andrzej asked.
“Yes, Mr Malik. That is the earliest.”
“Well, you are lucky. My client is on holiday. All I need do is finish the work by Sunday, for when he is back. Friday afternoon it is.” Andrzej snapped his mobile phone closed, not pleased at all. This meant the job would have to last longer than necessary. Why having used the company all these years and the money he had put their way counted for nothing he couldn't understand.
If he had been this loyal to a business in Poland they would have always found a way to change things in his favour, but, however hard he tried, Regent Scaffolding stuck to their line.
Perhaps he ought to find some other company willing to work in a different way. Not this time though, changing now would only make things worse for his own diary.
Andrzej called his son again. “Change of plan, Janus. Can you be here Saturday morning? We be able to finish then the job.”
“Sorry Dad, can't do Saturday morning. I've got a convention to go to.”
“Convention?”
“Yes, Dad. A spiritualist meeting. I need to be there.”
“Spiritualist meeting?” Janus's dad was exasperated and back to speaking Polish again, the last thing he wanted his son to do was to reinforce his believe that there was something else, something after death. “Spiritualist meeting?” his father said again. “How many times have I told you, Janus, there is nothing more to life than death in the end. You're a fool.”
“Father, I want to find out about this stuff for myself and make up my own mind. Okay?” Janus was now speaking in the language of his birth.
“Have you forgotten the trouble?” Janus’s dad said, carrying on his point.
“No, Father, I haven't. And that's one of the reasons I need to know, I need to find out for sure.”
“It’s a waste of time. You're an idiot you know that?”
“I'm not talking to you any more about this, Father. You will never understand. You're just a blinkered old man.” Janus was getting riled, why did it always have to be this way?
“Blinkered old man, Janus? I know how much trouble that rubbish caused our country and you just want to perpetuate it.”
“Father, I'll be at the site by one this afternoon and that's that.” Janus slammed his phone down.
***
When they’d lived in Poland Janus’s mother, Zosia, a short, straight auburn haired, plump young woman, had been the village’s seer; a wise woman, as her name implied, and had distributed natural remedies and had given readings to anyone who had asked for her help.
Andrzej had been dismissive of his wife’s talents, even in those days, but had never resented them as he did now. Back then they’d brought in a little extra income, something they needed, and the family had survived.
Then the bad times had begun.
One of the young women in their village had been going through a particularly difficult
pregnancy and had come to the Malik’s house in tears; the young girl's body was swollen and she was suffering from pains in all her joints. She had begged Zosia for help, just something to ease the pain, or at least assist her in getting to sleep, if nothing else.
Zosia had collected some herbs from the small garden at the rear of their house and had boiled them up, eventually filtering out the residue. It was something that should have eased the poor girl's pain. The girl had accepted the tincture and left the house after handing Zosia the few coins she could spare.
The following morning the whole Malik household was awoken by a crashing at their front door; curses being screamed at Zosia.
Andrzej Malik had gone to see what the problem was and as soon as he’d opened their front door the girl's father had smashed him across the head with a shepherd’s crook.
The father of the young girl screamed out his accusations, beating Andrzej around the head with such a force it rendered Andrzej unconscious.
The viciousness of the attack had been borne out of the father’s love for his now dead daughter.
A crowd of villagers had then barged past Janus’s father's prone body into the house. Janus, at the time, had been playing in his room but hearing the noises from downstairs and the vicious angry shouts, the little boy, scared for his life, had hidden beneath his bed shaking, covering his ears and squeezing his eyes tight shut, not understanding.
After what had seemed an eternity the commotion in the rooms below died away.
Janus then ran down the stairs only to see his father lifting himself painfully from the floor of their home. His father’s face was smothered in blood, purple welts appearing as the young Janus watched him struggle to his feet; the swellings continuing to grow until his father’s left eye had become completely shut.
Finally managing to stand, Andrzej placed one palm on the wall to hold himself steady whilst he waited for the stars and blackness in his vision to diminish. As the realisation of what had just happened crystallised in his mind he made an unsteady run to his wife's bedroom, dreading what he would find. Bursting into the room, his whole body sagged at the scene.
His wife was barely alive. Her face had been battered; one of her arms was bent at an odd angle with a new elbow halfway along her right forearm. Her night clothes had been ripped from her body and stick-shadow bruises were beginning to appear across her abdomen. All the furniture in the room had been thrown over, drawers lying around smashed into match wood, everything broken. The room had been ransacked just as Zosia had been.
***
After that day they could no longer live in their home, they had to leave, and once Andrzej Malik had sold the small farmstead, for a fraction of what it was worth, he had moved his family away, taking them from the horror they'd experienced.
And no one would ever know that the farmer’s young daughter had died from
toxaemia, due to eclampsia, and not the tincture Zosia had made for her; for her comfort.
They moved from village to village, Andrzej hoping they would be able to settle, but every time he thought he had found a place to stay, more trouble ensued.
It was as if they’d been perpetually tainted by the awful events of their home village. Andrzej began to wonder why he had let his wife carry on with her trade after they’d been married.
But these troubled times were nothing to do with Zosia. The perpetual guilt she felt for the death of the young girl had driven her further and further inside herself as she attempted to blot the world and the memory out. She no longer practiced her healing arts; Zosia had stopped doing anything.
Although Andrzej didn't want to believe it, it was becoming clear that the problem was his son, Janus.
Each time Andrzej had found a new town or village requiring someone to work as a farm hand or some kind of labourer; he had always been welcomed into the job and usually offered a room or two to stay in until he had sorted out his own accommodation. But within a few weeks of Janus being placed in the local school, things, without fail, started turning sour for the Malik family.
It was never long before the children of their new village turned against Janus; some becoming afraid; and others starting to bully him, calling him a freak.
Janus didn't understand, sometimes he would pick up a football, sometimes he would be playing tag and always, in the end, he would start telling his peers of things he couldn't possibly know, things he
really
shouldn't know.
And as the parents of these children started to hear about the ‘ramblings’ of this freak child, the Malik family became unwelcome.
Janus's father eventually gave up on the idea of working on the land and decided to move his family to a city, somewhere where they could become anonymous, just part of the crowd. Finally the family settled in Plock and Andrzej Malik stumbled into a job as a plumber's mate.
Life was very hard and Andrzej's wife had become a virtual recluse. Janus still had problems settling in school, though there was less heed paid to the strange stories he would come up with.
They managed to survive in Plock for two years. Andrzej was naturally good with his hands and became a skilled plumber in his own right, picking up skills in the building trade along the way.
Then their new life was shattered once again.
Andrzej had only a morning's worth of work to do. He had kissed his wife on the cheek as usual and took Janus to his school on the way to his work.
His wife had smiled wanly in the way she always did now, not saying a word. Andrzej left their home with his son.
Although Janus's mother had recovered from her injuries she had never been the same, she was withdrawn from the world, a shadow of who she should have been.
But on the day Andrzej had left, just to do a morning's work, things were different somehow.
Soon after the front door to their broken-down apartment had clicked shut a spark glimmered, behind Zosia's lifeless eyes, for the first time in three years.
She had come to an understanding, something that would, in time, help her husband and eventually her son, prosper.
***
Andrzej finished the work he had to do and packed up his tools. He was glad to have half a day free and was looking forward to getting home early so that he could be with his wife, and for much longer than the few hours his job would normally afford him.
He called to his boss; “See you tomorrow in Radziwie.” He didn't know he would never see his boss again.
After travelling the short distance from the offices where he’d been working, to the apartment block that housed his flat, Andrzej pushed open the flaking painted door and entered. He climbed the old wooden staircase the two flights to his apartment and put his key into its lock, smiling as he twisted it, glad to have some time with his wife without his son’s needs to consider for an hour or so.
He pushed the door open and was about to step through when it stopped abruptly, only a few inches into its swing; something was blocking it.
Andrzej shoved harder and the door opened enough for him to squeeze through. He put his toolbox down next to the telephone table and turned around to investigate the reason for the door's resistance.