The only problem is, by working for Andrej and Marek I’m undoubtedly far more likely to open myself up to the police. I still don’t know what is in these deliveries – and I don’t want to know – but I’m fairly sure it’s not icing sugar. At the same time, though, I get the sense that these sorts of people are above the law, smarter than the police, able to actually help me. These aren’t small-time petty criminals. You can tell when somebody really means business.
I’m far from being a goody two shoes, but I’ve got to be honest and admit that these people scare me. Sure, I’ve done bad things in my life. I’ve broken laws; I’ve upset people. But that’s a whole different level from the sorts of things I’m sure Andrej and Marek do. But then again, what compares to being suspected of two murders and hunted down across Europe? I fail to see how whatever they’re asking me to deliver can put me in much more shit than I’m already in at the moment.
Besides which, I don’t know who else I can trust right now. There is no-one. When you’re in a foreign country and you can’t even go to the police, what options do you have? Who else can you trust? I really shouldn’t be able to trust Andrej and Marek, either, but what reason do I have not to? After all, it was me who chose to come to Bratislava, me who chose to walk in that direction and me who chose to go into that bar. Andrej and Marek might not exactly be Mother Teresa and Princess Di, but I can also be pretty certain that they’re not against me in this.
To people like them, business is business. It’s purely a trading relationship of two very different sets of needs. I can help them, and they can help me. I’ll help them out by doing their deliveries and they’ll help me out by finding out who killed Lisa and Jess and who’s trying to frame me. I don’t know how they’re going to do it, and to be honest I really don’t care. I just want the truth. Everything else is irrelevant right now.
It seems like forever since I found Lisa’s body in the hotel in Herne Bay. It feels almost like another lifetime. In such a short space of time, I’ve gone from being at work and having fun to walking through the streets of Slovakia trying to decide whether to become a drug runner for an Eastern European gang or try to get off two murder charges on my own. The dark humour isn’t lost on me at all. The whole situation seems utterly ridiculous, as if I’m going to wake up and realise it was all a dream. A nightmare. But, deep down, I know that’s not going to happen. I know that there’s no getting away.
There’s only so far one man can run. The world simply isn’t big enough to keep running. I can’t keep looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life, never knowing who I can trust and who I can’t. I keep catching my reflection in shop windows and seeing how haggard and tired I look. I’ve aged years in a matter of days. What will I look like in a week’s time? A month’s time? Will I still be alive? All I know in this moment is that I can’t do this alone. I need help.
I suddenly start to feel incredibly nauseous, and I dart off the street and into an alleyway, bracing myself between two huge bins as I retch and vomit onto the dirt-covered asphalt. The smell from the bins makes the feeling worse, but its effect on me is also a huge relief. It feels almost like I’m purging the bad feelings from within, spilling them out into the alleyway and ridding myself of the negativity.
And in this moment, my mindset changes. I realise I’m long past the point of no return and that I have no other option. I have the slightest possibility of an escape route – something I thought I’d had ever since I left Herne Bay, but which I now realise was always a false illusion. This is no longer about feeling sorry for myself. From now on, this is about the fight.
I stand up straight, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and head back in the direction of Marek’s bar.
49
The journey to the hospital was a blur. Driving wasn’t an option – he’d had too much to drink the evening before. The taxi to the East Surrey Hospital was going to cost an arm and a leg, but that didn’t matter. Money was just money. What concerned Dan right now was that he needed to get to Lisa’s side.
Oddly, the news of her miscarriage wasn’t the biggest shock to him: it was the fact that she’d been pregnant at all. They hadn’t even been trying and the news that not only had they managed to create a child but it had then been taken away from them before they even knew about it was what hurt the most. He’d never get to enjoy any of the high points – taking the test, finding out the news, seeing the doctor, having the scans. All of that was lost before they even knew they’d had it.
Lisa’s cycle had been less than regular over the years – something which had been accentuated by the stress of her job – so she never had any real reason to suspect she might be pregnant. It wasn’t something they’d ever even thought about, and the discussion about children had never happened. Dan always got the impression that Lisa wasn’t interested, was too career driven, and if he was pushed to give an opinion either way, he’d probably have said he wasn’t particularly keen on the idea of kids anyway. There always seemed to be an unspoken agreement that kids just weren’t on the cards.
But the moment he took that phone call, that all changed.
Now the news hit him like a bullet, shattering all the hopes and dreams he never realised he’d had. And where had he been when Lisa was going through all this? Yet again he’d fucked up majorly without even realising he was doing it at the time.
The taxi driver was doing his best to get to the hospital quickly, which was a little easier than normal considering the time of night and the state he could see Dan was in. The whole journey seemed to take an age, blue motorway signs whizzing past in a blur, headlights searing through a film of tears as his whole mind turned numb. Eventually, they arrived, Dan thrusting his wallet at the taxi driver, who took out the money for the fare and returned the wallet to Dan, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder as he did so.
When he got into the hospital, Dan headed straight for reception, mumbling Lisa’s name at the girl behind the desk when he got there. The girl tapped a few buttons on her computer, then told him that he needed the third floor. On getting there, he didn’t need to ask again; the nurse on duty seemed to know who he was immediately, and took him to one side. Her words were a blur.
‘As you can imagine,’ she said, ‘this has been quite traumatic for your wife. She’s in quite a bit of shock.’
‘Yeah, me too,’ Dan replied.
‘At the moment we’re trying to stick to the cold, hard facts. That’s probably the best way to come to terms with what’s happened.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ Dan said. ‘We didn’t even . . . I didn’t even know she was pregnant.’
‘Neither did she, by all accounts. It was quite a shock for her. We do have our bereavement counselling service to offer to you, but I think at this stage it would be good to be with Lisa and to comfort her.’