That walking’s not something that’s going to stop any time soon, though, and I find myself criss-crossing the streets of Bratislava, trying to determine where I might be able to find a place to sleep. Thankfully, Slovakia’s in the eurozone so I can spend the currency I’ve already got on me. If I can find somewhere. In this part of Bratislava, it seems, absolutely everything is shut down for the night. Even the Tesco Express had ‘6–22h’ on a big sign outside it.
I spot signs for the Danube and what I think refers to the city centre, and I follow them. It’s nearly an hour before I’ve worked my way through the streets and crossed the river onto the other side of Bratislava, which is definitely very much still alive. I can hear music from nightclubs and bars, even past three in the morning, and I remember a friend of mine telling me that was the European way: many people don’t even go out before midnight. Right now, though, I’m ready to sleep almost absolutely anywhere.
It’s only a few more minutes before I spot a sign outside a building. It’s called Hostel Maria. It doesn’t look like the smartest place in the world, but right now I really don’t care. I just want somewhere to lay my head for the night. The tatty poster in the window advertises board at twenty euros a night. That seems pretty cheap to me, even for a place like this, and I wonder how long that poster’s been in the window. I just don’t care, though. They could charge me two hundred euros and I’d pay it. I wouldn’t have a whole lot left, but I’d pay it.
That’s when I start to think of something else I’ve been repressing for a long time: I’m going to have to get some money from somewhere. I’ll deal with that in the morning, though. For now, I need to sleep.
I walk up the steps and push open the door of Hostel Maria. The first thing I hear is women laughing. There’s a guy with a receding hairline, a large moustache and an even larger beer belly sitting behind a grotty desk, smoking a cigarette. He eyes me with suspicion.
‘Room?’ he barks. My first worry is that he can work out so quickly that I’m English.
‘Please,’ I reply, my voice hoarse. I realise it’s the first time I’ve spoken to anyone in hours.
‘Twenty euro,’ he says, holding out his hand. I put my hand in my pocket and take out a few notes. I hand him a twenty-euro one.
‘Private room, forty euro,’ he adds, not taking his eyes off of the rest of the cash in my hand.
I think for a moment, then nod and hand him an extra twenty euros. He spins around on his chair, takes a key from a hook and hands it to me. ‘Room twelve. Up stairs, then right. At end.’
I nod and pick up my bag before heading up the stairs and along the corridor.
This place is revolting. The wallpaper’s peeling off the walls, there are stains of grease, dirt and God knows what else on the floors and ceilings and the whole place smells like smoke and something else I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s not a place I’d ever want to be in my life, but right now I’m pretty desperate.
The open dormitory is at the other end of the corridor, to the left as I get to the top of the stairs, but I can still hear the laughter and noise coming from it. As I see room 12 in front of me, I wish it was just laughter I could hear. In a room somewhere on this corridor – I don’t know which, but it’s very close – a couple are having sex. Very noisy sex. I put the key in the lock and make a point of trying to make as much noise getting in the room as possible, but it’s no use. There’s no way in hell they’re going to be able to hear me. They sound like they’re having far too much fun.
I slam the door behind me. I know it’s not going to stop them, but I feel like I need to make a point.
I go to put my bag down on the floor and decide against it. The carpet is filthy and sticky. Instead, I opt to put it on the table next to the bed. At least that’s just dusty. I take off my clothes and put them on top of the bag, then climb into bed. The light’s off, but it doesn’t make any difference as there’s a huge great streetlight outside my window, the light streaming into the room. The curtain’s half the size of the window, too, so that doesn’t help. All I can be thankful for is that the net curtains behind it are so covered in dirt and grime that it’s probably keeping at least some of the light out.
The noise of the couple having sex is still going on. I go to put the pillow over my head, but before I do I notice a horribly suspicious-looking stain on it. I pick up the pillow and throw it at the door, before turning onto my side and clamping my hands over my ears. Home sweet home.
39
When I wake up, everything is deathly silent, aside from the faint murmur of road noise from outside. I roll over and look at the small alarm clock beside me, my neck and shoulders stiff and painful. The clock tells me it’s 9.41 a.m. I presume that’s right, but I wouldn’t know. If the quality of the clock is the same as the quality of anything else in this place, it could be three in the afternoon for all I know.
My first thought is that I’m amazed I managed to sleep so long. I’m not usually one for waking up late as it is, and in my current situation I’m not exactly finding it easy to relax. It’s clear to see, though, that something has allowed my brain to subconsciously loosen up and de-stress slightly. It’s probably the realisation that I’m fairly unlikely to be found here, because even I don’t know where I am.
I’ll have been caught on CCTV probably hundreds of times between Innsbruck and Bratislava. That doesn’t bother me too much, though, as I don’t look like me. Or, rather, I don’t look like the me that people will be looking for. They’ll be looking for a guy with scruffy hair over his ears and a beard. Claude’s car will be on CCTV, too, but I don’t know that they’re necessarily looking for that. Not the police, anyway. I know the killer knows, because he tracked us down to the campsite and killed Jess, but I’m very confident he didn’t follow me to Innsbruck.
I try to get it straight in my head: the killer knows the car I was using, but doesn’t know I took it to Innsbruck. The police will find the car in Innsbruck but won’t know it was the one I was using. Presumably they’ll track down Claude as the owner, and he’ll tell them it must have been stolen from his barn. Then I just have to hope there’s no sort of paper trail linking him to Jess, or the chase will well and truly be on.
In short, I don’t see a way that I could be traced here, to Bratislava. That doesn’t mean I can put my head up above the parapet, though. I’m going to have to be incredibly careful until this whole thing is sorted.