And that’s where I get the huge bolt of adrenaline in my chest and the lump in my throat. Because that’s what it all comes back to: I have to get this thing sorted.
That’s the most difficult part of all. How the hell am I meant to try and work out who killed Lisa and Jess – and why – when I’m too busy worrying about being caught or killed myself? I need help. I know that much. But there’s no-one to help me. I can’t make contact with anyone back home – that’d be far too risky. Not that I’ve got anyone I can really trust and rely on. It’s not until this whole thing happened that I realised how alone I’ve been all along. I only ever really had Lisa. Not that I ever treated her particularly well. And then there was Jess. God, yes, I relied on her. I just trusted every word she said, everything she did, even though I barely knew her. And, to be honest, she’s probably saved my life. Now I need to make this work for her, and for Lisa, who died needlessly in the room where I betrayed her.
I look across at the large carrier bag I’ve been carrying halfway across Europe, with my holdall tucked inside it. Another anchor in the past. I know that I need to get myself a new bag. One that no-one will be looking out for. One that I can call my own. One that’s untainted.
I don’t even bother to try to find the bathroom in this place. Even if I did, I’m pretty sure the mouldy soap and brown water would make me even dirtier than I am now. As I get towards the door, I glance back at the bag on the side. Should I take it with me? No, that might be too risky. Leaving it here isn’t without its risks, either, but there’s nothing incriminating in the bag. I’ve got my wallet and most of the money on me. There’s only really clothes, some toiletries and general knick-knacks in the bag. Nothing that can identify me, anyway.
I decide it’s best to leave the bag here for now, to allow me to blend in better on the streets if nothing else, and I unlock the door.
The corridor outside my room is an eerie sort of quiet, not a peaceful one. The kind of quiet nobody likes. Then again, I doubt that this place could ever seem peaceful. I think ‘eerie’ is probably as good as it gets. I should imagine that the people staying here will be fast asleep by now. If they’ve been out clubbing into the early hours their heads will probably be a bit sore. Judging by the sounds coming from the neighbouring room when I got here last night, that’s not the only thing that’ll be sore.
It would be fair to say that this place looks even worse in the daylight – what daylight there is in this dark, oppressive corridor – and I’ll be glad when I can find somewhere to stay more long-term. The problem there, though, is money. The money I’ve got is quickly running out and I’ve no way of being able to get more right now. I can’t just go sticking my card into an ATM, as that’ll link me straight to Bratislava. No, I need cash. Cold, hard cash. And I need to find it in a country I don’t know, using a language I don’t speak.
A rather depressing and sobering thought occurs to me: Jess would know what to do.
40
The streets of Bratislava look quite pleasant in the morning sun. I spend about half an hour walking in what I believe to be the general direction of the city centre. I’m careful to walk in a straight line where possible, though, and I’ve memorised the name of the street the hostel is on in case I get lost: Palisády, near the junction with Zochova and Bradlianska. I’ve devised a little song to help me remember it, as well as the image of the hostel being my safe place, a fort with iron fencing – or a palisade – around it. Just to keep things extra safe, I visualise Bradley Walsh, the British quiz show host, standing guard out front. Palisády. Bradlianska. It’s crude, but it’ll do. At least I’ll be able to get back home.
Jesus. Home. You know things have gone downhill when you start to call that shithole home. Without any form of income, though, it’s the way it’s going to have to be. At forty euros a night, even keeping that grotty roof above my head won’t last long.
I try to think of what I could do to earn some money. The problem is, I know nothing except the industry I’ve spent my life in. I don’t speak a word of Slovak, either, so I fail to see how I could get any sort of job. Is English widely spoken in Bratislava? I don’t know. Getting a job working in a bar in Amsterdam, for example, would be fine if you don’t speak Dutch. No-one in Amsterdam speaks Dutch anyway. But this is Slovakia.
Before long, I find a sports shop near the hospital. I go in and buy myself a new bag – one that won’t look out of place and doesn’t tie me into my past. It’s psychological as much as anything. The rucksack sets me back a whopping sixty euros. A bargain compared to being caught at this stage, but still a big chunk out of my quickly depleting stock of cash.
A few feet away from the sports shop, I feel myself starting to break down. The whole thing’s become too much for me. I feel my breathing start to increase and get shallower, my heart rate builds and my head fills with an electric buzzing.
No. I can’t let this happen. I can’t let it get on top of me. I have to keep fighting, keep moving, keep on top of things. If I start thinking, start realising, that’ll be the beginning of the end. I need to distract myself. I need some normality.
I spot a bar across the road, the door open and inviting – even at this time of the morning. I can’t see inside – it looks dark compared to the bright sunshine out here, but I head inside and shut myself off from the world outside.
It doesn’t take me long to decide whether I want alcohol or not. It’s not like it really matters any more. I can’t go getting blotto and letting my defences down, but I think it’s pretty fair to say I need a drink right now. I order a beer, by pointing at it, shying away from the temptation of whisky or whatever the local moonshine might be. The bartender surprises me by speaking to me in English.
‘One euro, please.’
The only thing that surprises me more than him somehow knowing I’m English (how do we Brits always manage to give off that unspeakable air of Britishness?) is the price of the beer.
‘One? Blimey,’ I say, handing over a one-euro coin. ‘I could get used to this.’
‘Cheaper than back home, no?’ the bartender replies.
‘Yeah, definitely.’
‘Let me guess,’ he says, popping a paper napkin under my beer glass. ‘Australian.’
I stop myself before I answer, changing my mind. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Australian.’
He smiles broadly. ‘Can always tell. Are you here for long?’
I allow myself a small chuckle. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know. I’m doing a bit of travelling, but I’m happy to stay put if I like the place and it feels good.’ Not so far from the truth, that.