I went to bed shortly after that incident yesterday. I felt as if the whole of my lifeblood had been sucked out of me, leaving me devoid of energy. I just wanted to curl up, so I did.
Marek woke me shortly after three o’clock in the afternoon to tell me that everything had been sorted and accounted for. I didn’t know what he meant, and I couldn’t understand why he was being so understanding. Whatever is in these parcels, they’re worth enough to pay some serious cash to the courier, so I can’t imagine some random British foreigner popping up and suddenly losing one is going to be absolutely fine with them. I get the feeling they’re protecting me somehow, for some reason. That thought worries me. Call me paranoid, but Marek and Andrej have absolutely no reason to protect me. They don’t know me. The only favour I’ve done them is making these deliveries for them, and I can’t even manage to do those properly. It only leads me to believe that they have bigger plans for me.
You see it all the time in the movies. The hapless runner who keeps fucking up yet keeps getting taken under the wing of the gangland boss, who sees a very useful and very lucrative sign of potential somewhere in him. And he hones that potential, draws it out until he’s got the perfect tool for the big heist he’s been planning for years. I know my imagination is probably running away with me, but I can’t think of any other reason why these two haven’t at least thrown me out on the streets just yet.
Other than Marek waking me yesterday afternoon, I slept more or less straight through until this morning. I knew I’d been sleep-deprived recently, but even I didn’t think it was possible for a human being to sleep for eighteen hours straight. I’m not sure I feel better for it, either. My head feels groggy and stuffed.
I get changed and head downstairs to the bar, unsure as to what I might find. Will Andrej be there, having waited for me to get up so he can speak to me about what happened yesterday? I hope not. Even though Marek said he’d square everything, I’m still slightly afraid of Andrej. And Marek, too, if I’m honest. But I’m completely tied in with them now. They know too much about me for me to do anything but stick it out. And, anyway, what’s the alternative? Go back to England and face a trial for murder? No thanks.
The bar’s quiet, empty. I’m sure it’s usually open at this time, but the front door and the storm porch door are both shut – something I’ve not seen since I arrived here, and particularly not on a nice sunny day like today.
I go over to the door to give it a shove, see if it’s locked, and it’s then that I notice the envelope on the floor. It’s addressed to Daniel. A few thoughts rush straight into my head. Is this a note from Marek? Perhaps he’s just letting me know that he’s had to nip out for a bit and he’ll be back soon. If that’s the case, why not leave a note on the bar or somewhere I’d be more likely to see it? He could’ve slipped it under my door upstairs, for instance. No, this looks as though it’s been posted through the letterbox and landed inside. Why would Marek post a note through his own front door? Besides which, he never calls me Daniel. He always calls me Bradley, playing along with the charade in order to help protect my real identity.
Confused, I tear open the envelope and take out the paper from inside. It’s a sheet of A5 writing paper, written on with a thick black marker. My heart lurches in my chest as I read the words in front of me:
You can run but you cannot hide. Mistakes must be paid for.
That’s all it says. I try the front door, but it won’t budge. I jog over to the back door, which leads out into the alleyway and the motor scooter, but that’s locked tight, too. There’s nowhere I can go.
I feel my whole world closing in around me. I don’t know who’s sent this note, but there are very few possibilities. Who knows my real name and the fact that I’m in Bratislava? By my reckoning, only Marek and Andrej. So why did Marek tell me everything was going to be alright if they were then going to threaten me like this? No. It doesn’t feel right. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I could tell from looking into Marek’s eyes yesterday that there wasn’t malice in them. Not malice directed at me, anyway. There was a strange sort of acceptance, as if this was a problem they were going to have to sort out, but sort out on behalf of me rather than punishing me for it.
But then that means this whole note makes no sense whatsoever. I feel as though eyes are on me, as though I’m being watched from all angles. It’s a horrible sensation, and it’s one I want to get rid of as quickly as possible. I fold the note and shove it back in the envelope before putting it in my pocket. I’m usually a fairly good judge of character and tend to be able to rely on my hunches, and my hunch is that Marek has popped out, locked the bar as I was asleep upstairs, and that this note is from someone completely different. There’s menace in the words, almost as though the note itself holds the spirit and aura of the person who wrote it. And I’m now fairly sure that the person who wrote it is the same person who killed Lisa and Jess. And now they’re here to kill me, too.
57
I went straight upstairs after receiving the note, and locked myself in my room. It’s about the only place I can feel anything remotely related to safe. I locked the door and closed the curtains before hiding under the duvet. Out of sight, out of mind. I just want to curl up in a ball and die, letting all of this go. I want the whole thing to end and go back to how it was.
And that’s what hurts most: the realisation that things will never go back to how they were. They can’t. Lisa will always be dead. Jess will always be dead. And I will always be suspected – somewhere, by some people – of being a murderer. Things will never be the same. The best I can hope for is to clear my name and not have to live the rest of my life on the run. And, right now, that would be an enormous victory. But it’s one I can feel falling away from me more and more quickly every day, slipping through my fingers like oil. All I need is a break. A chance to be able to prove the truth. But before that, I know I need to discover the truth. And that’s where I’m going to struggle.
After about half an hour, I hear the door unlocking downstairs. I take a deep breath and head down, where I find Marek and Andrej taking off their jackets.
‘Ah, Bradley. Good morning,’ Marek says, in his usual jovial manner. I nod at them both, my eyes looking at Andrej, trying to judge his mood. I can only imagine Marek will have filled him in on the botched delivery yesterday, and I want to get an idea of just how angry he is. I can’t tell a thing, though. Andrej’s face remains as stoic and impassive as it always does. He has the perfect poker face and never gives anything away.
‘Marek, do you know anything about a note?’ I ask, getting straight to the point.
‘Note?’ he replies, as I spot the faintest raising of an eyebrow.