I take five euros out of my pocket and hand it to her when she comes back with the cup, pointing to the charity collection tub next to the till to indicate that she can put my change in there. I figure I can at least do one bit of good today. Again, she says nothing, and the expression on her face doesn’t change.
It doesn’t take me long at all to drink my coffee, the scalding hot liquid making the tip of my tongue numb and sore. I always drink too quickly when I’m nervous – it’s why I always used to fuck up first dates by getting plastered inside an hour and making a complete tit of myself. Fortunately for me, this is just coffee, and the worst that I’m going to get is a burnt tongue and a major caffeine rush. There’s a small packet of biscuits on the saucer, so I pocket them and decide to have them later.
Once I’ve finished, I leave the coffee shop and walk casually back in the direction of the moped. I figure that most of the people who were in the vicinity last time I rode through will now have dispersed in their various directions, so I decide now’s the time to head back to the corner shop and attempt to make the delivery.
When I get back to the moped, I take the packet of biscuits out of my pocket and lift the seat to put them inside.
I freeze.
The parcel’s gone.
55
If I thought I’d panicked earlier when I heard the sirens, that’s nothing compared to what I’m feeling now. I look all around me, trying to see if there’s anyone around – the person who stole the parcel, someone who might have seen who did or someone who might have seen me come back to the moped. There’s nothing. Plenty going on outside the loading area and the network of alleyways that come off of it, but nobody in the immediate vicinity.
I lean over and rest my hands on my knees, trying to steady my breathing. I don’t know for sure what was in that parcel, but I’ve got a pretty good idea it was either a huge amount of drugs or an even huger amount of money. And bearing in mind the people I’m dealing with here, losing either of those things is far from ideal.
I look inside the compartment again, sure I must have missed something. I run my hands around the edge, just in case there’s another compartment I’ve forgotten about. I check inside my helmet and I search the ground in case I somehow managed to drop it, even though I know deep down I did nothing of the sort.
My first instinct is to run. It always is. Story of my life. I can’t do that, though. Everything I have is back in my room at the bar – my clothes, most of my money, my passport. Plus I’ve got the added problem that Marek and Andrej know all about me. They know who I am, where I come from and almost everything that’s led up to this point. Even if they didn’t know who I was, even if they still believed I was an Australian called Bradley, running away from these people still isn’t something I’d risk, so what hope do I have now?
I stand there, still, silent, for what must be a good few minutes. The whole world seems to have closed in around me. Since I opened that compartment I’ve not heard a sound, had no concept of passing time. It’s as though everything has just stopped and nothing has meaning any more, as though my brain has completely accepted its fate.
I haven’t accepted anything, though. I’m not someone who ever likes to give up. Again, it’s injustice. I didn’t ask for the parcel to be stolen, for the police to rock up when I was about to do the drop-off, to get involved with Marek and Andrej, to find that bar on that day. I didn’t ask for any of it.
The next thing I know, I’m crouching down on the ground, my arms clamped over my knees, my face buried in my arms, the sobs and wails overtaking me. I can feel my whole body bouncing as my chest heaves between breaths, releasing all of the tension and the sense of impending doom from inside me.
I need to go back to Marek.
Riding the moped feels wrong now, and the bar isn’t far away from here, so I decide to push it back. The side of the footplate bashes against the side of my shins almost continuously the whole way back, but I can barely feel it. My whole body feels overcome with a numb acceptance. I know what this stage means. It means I’ve given up. It means I’m no longer able to fight, no longer able to find ways to deal with all of the shit that’s being thrown at me. This is the end of the road. This is where I lose.
When I get back to the bar, Marek can tell immediately that I’m not coming with good news. Whether he already knows what’s happened or not I don’t know, but I imagine he can tell just from looking at me. I’d hazard a guess that I don’t look wonderfully happy right now. He doesn’t say a word, though, and just stands, watching me, waiting for me to speak. We hold eye contact. He doesn’t look angry, more a calm sort of inquisitive.
‘I fucked up,’ I say, looking at him. ‘The delivery. I did the pick-up, then I went to do the drop-off but the police came, so I sped off and parked up in an alleyway until things calmed down. I couldn’t risk going back out on the scooter again just yet, so I walked back towards the shop to make sure everything was clear, and when I got back to the scooter the package was gone. I don’t know how – I was only gone a few seconds. I don’t know what to do.’
Marek says nothing for a good twenty seconds or so, his face unchanging the whole time. ‘You left the package?’ he says, finally.
I drop my head towards the floor and nod. ‘Yeah. I know, it was stupid, but what other choice did I have? I couldn’t exactly go walking towards the police cars with a parcel of . . . whatever that is . . . under my arm, can I?’ I say, looking back at him and pleading.
‘A parcel of what?’ Marek asks.
‘Well, you know. Whatever’s in it.’
‘Why would you not want to walk near police with this parcel? What do you think is in it?’
I swallow. ‘Drugs.’
Marek pauses for a moment, and then lets out an enormous belly laugh, which bounces off the walls and reverberates around the bar like a gunshot. ‘My friend,’ he says eventually, ‘you have a lot to learn.’ I have no idea what he’s talking about.
‘What shall I tell Andrej?’ I say.
Marek’s face darkens immediately. ‘You say nothing. I will speak to Andrej. Do you understand?’
‘Yeah, I understand.’
‘You do not tell him.’
‘No, I won’t,’ I say. ‘I won’t tell him.’ This all seems very strange. Why are they not cutting my fingers off with a meat cleaver? I’m now less sure than I’ve ever been as to what this is all about, and I’m not sure I want to know. I’m just grateful for the help, no matter how odd their take on help is.
Marek looks at me for a moment, nods a few times and steps outside to make a phone call. I suddenly feel very, very alone and very, very vulnerable.
56