The Night Before
October 31st
Petr all but kicked the door open, something long and loose slung across his shoulder
“Hot water, Nell! Put a kettle on.”
He hurled his package onto the sofa. A scrawny, long-haired teenage boy with blood pouring from his forehead.
“What? Who?”
“My nephew, Jiří. My brother’s son.”
The flame popped under the kettle. She ran to the bathroom for a clean flannel.
“How did this happen?”
The boy’s eyes flickered open.
“How do all these things happen? Coppers.”
He swung his legs off the sofa, one hand still pressing the flannel to his head.
Nell took the flannel from him, wiped at the cut to see if it needed stitching. It didn’t.
“You were lucky.”
“Lucky I was there,” said Petr.
“Do I seem ungrateful?”
“Jiří, you’ve never been grateful for a fucking thing in your whole life.”
“Petr!”
As if she had cued him, Petr got up and left the room. She had learnt that his most frequent reaction to any confrontation was absence. She did not judge him, telling herself she had not been through what he had been through.
The kettle whistled.
“I’m going to clean the wound.”
“Go ahead. I’m Jiří, by the way.”
“And I am Nell.”
“German?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Just guessing. You and my uncle are …?”
“Yes. We are.”
“Congratulations.”
“Meaning?”
“I have better luck with women than he does.”
“Keep still.”
“Ouch!”
“I said keep still. And try to be less arrogant. Your ego is just feeding the pain.”
This seemed to work. The boy shut up and let her bathe the cut. When she’d finished she found the first-aid box and taped a thick dressing across his forehead. He was good-looking, but nothing like Petr. He was no more than five foot six, less than sixty kilos, blond and bony. Perhaps he took after his mother. “Tea? Something hot?”
“No. Thank you. If the streets are clear I should go home.”
“Where do you live?”
“Bartolomějská. Old Town. With my mother, Magda.”
“Not that far then?”
“No.”
“You could stay. It might be best.”
“He wouldn’t thank you for that.”