At five forty-five p.m., a quarter of an hour before the time he’d arranged to meet Diana at her home, Goran was sitting at a window seat in the bistro across the road and watching a delivery van park on the opposite side of the street. The parking space was too small, and the vehicle pulled backwards and forwards countless times before finally coming to a halt. The rear wheel was half-resting on the kerb and the rear doors were so close to the car behind that they’d be hard to open.
Goran finished his drink in one swig and noticed that the van driver and his passenger hadn’t got out; instead they were keeping their eyes firmly trained on Diana’s front door. Goran wiped the palms of his hands on his trousers.
‘You OK there?’ The espresso machine was hissing, and the guy behind the counter was clearing away the dishes. ‘Or would you like another one?’
Goran nodded. ‘And a glass of water.’ He reached for the box containing the napkins.
He’d stopped counting the people who were after him, and certainly couldn’t tell them apart. They only had one thing in common: sooner or later they disappeared into thin air – like the guy in the hoodie. He’d been the latest one, following him from Victory Square to Belgrade Street. He’d also got onto the number 6 tram that Goran had taken in the direction of Palilula, but had then vanished somewhere between Vasa Street and St Stephan Street. Paranoia, that’s what it was called. Goran had been suffering from it ever since they’d lain in wait for him in Talinovac, at the scene of the crime, in his parents’ house – and ever since he had realised the nature of the task that his father had left him with.
The bartender put down the glasses in front of him. Goran drank the water and nipped at the whisky. The situation was tricky and the material potentially explosive. He had to do something. He had made his parents believe in castles in the air, had awakened hopes they had long buried and had sold their dream for a few lousy bills. He didn’t know how yet, but he had to make sure somehow that the truth came out. He had to discuss matters with Diana, get the whole thing sorted and then maybe start his life again. Reset the clock. And he was adamant he shouldn’t trust anyone, especially not guys like Nat. Everything had started to go awry when that guy showed up – with his fancy gloves, a dress handkerchief and an offer that had knocked him over back then and which he would never forget: ‘We’re looking for someone like you.’ No one had ever said anything like that to him before. He was a bouncer and a failed footballer, with an aura of provincial Belgrade clinging to him that was just as enduring as Nat’s permanent cloud of Italian aftershave.
Goran drank his scotch and pressed his thumb and index finger against the bridge of his nose. His eyes were burning. It was OK. It had been a fantastic time back then: fast-track training as a bodyguard, a permanent job at a major security firm, a suit, Ray-Bans and a headset – the whole shebang. He imagined he’d gone up in the world, and could get any girl he wanted. And it had almost been the case. Maybe he’d overdone it for a while; maybe that had been the cause of the misunderstanding between Diana and him. Then again, what did he know? He wasn’t a psychologist. Diana was the woman of his life, and nothing would ever change that. He wanted to move in with her, open his own club, bring in the best DJs, only the very best, and people like Nat would be permanently barred.
He was just on the point of signalling to the barman when he saw the door of the house opposite swing shut. He looked at his watch. Ten past six. He cursed, pushed back his chair and grabbed his parka.
Two minutes later, he was on the other side of the street, hammering on the door.
‘Diana!’ he yelled.
He waited, and then rang the bell. The van was still parked in the same spot. He looked down the street in both directions, but the men were nowhere to be seen. With his hands in his pockets, appearing totally calm, he ambled down towards the next corner, turned into a side street and then immediately went left into the first passageway. From a distance he saw them approaching across the courtyard, the two guys. The men were talking to one another in short, clipped sentences, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. One of them, who was about the same age as him, with acne scars and fashionable glasses, was carrying a sports bag, while the other had a ridiculous jute tote bag.
Goran stood aside to let the men pass, and saw how the one with the glasses cast a glance in his direction before placing his hand on the shoulder of his companion.
Goran entered the courtyard and looked up at the flat. He couldn’t quite make out whether the little light in Diana’s room was on. Maybe it was just a reflection in the window.
He passed the bicycle stand and the wheelie bins, and pushed open the back door. The only sounds to be heard were his own footsteps and the creaking floorboards. He didn’t turn on the light. He knew every nook and cranny, every ripped lino tile, the broken window, the pigeon shit and the shards of glass on the ground. On the second floor, he knocked and listened.
Nobody was there, not even the tenant. But she had installed a new lock, one of those cylinder types, made in Germany. An ingenious mechanism, a sensible precaution – but the discovery hit him like a bolt from the blue. It was official, then: he had been locked out, was surplus to requirements and had been told in no uncertain terms to get lost. In a fit of fury, he slammed the flat of his hand against the door; as he did so, he noticed that someone had entered the stairwell down below. It wasn’t Diana – he could tell from the sound of the footsteps.
Goran pressed himself against the wall and slipped up the next flight of stairs as quietly as possible. Suddenly he sensed a movement behind him, felt a draught of air, thought he glimpsed a shadow. Goran reacted without thinking.
Ramming his elbow into the stranger’s stomach, he pushed him up against the wall, twisted his arm up his back and shouted, ‘What do you want?’
The man winced; from downstairs somebody called up, ‘Is everything all right up there?’
Goran looked in growing amazement at the man he was holding in a headlock, taking in the tousled hair, the bloody scratch on his cheek and the neatly trimmed beard. ‘Everything’s fine,’ he called down.
Marco was wheezing. ‘Have you totally lost your mind?’
‘I could ask you the same question, couldn’t I? Oh man!’ Goran punched Marco’s shoulder. ‘What are you doing sneaking around here in the dark?’
‘I didn’t recognise you with that crew cut and the parka.’ Marco was almost crying. ‘I thought it was some kind of dosser outside Diana’s door.’
‘Where is she?’ Narrowing his eyes, Goran looked hard at Marco. ‘She planned on coming, didn’t she? She promised. Is she afraid? Did she have the new lock put in because she’s scared?’
‘Something came up.’ Marco massaged his bruised shoulder. ‘She needed some time out.’
‘Time out? Bullshit! Did you put her up to this?’
‘I’m just the messenger boy. If you want to say something, or give her something…’
Goran stepped up close to Marco. ‘Diana doesn’t know anything about our meeting, does she? You didn’t tell her about my call. Look at me when I’m talking to you!’
Marco shrank back. ‘I dunno what you’re talking about.’
‘Just tell me.’ Goran stared at Marco; it was all he could do to stop himself grabbing him by the throat. ‘How did they know I was in Talinovac? Did you wring it out of Diana and then pass the message on to your Albanian buddies down there?’
‘Albanian buddies? What buddies?’ Marco stuttered. ‘Look, I’m really sorry about what happened to your parents.’
‘Who have you ganged up with? Tell me!’
‘God’s truth, Goran, I’ve got nothing to do with that.’
Goran saw the beads of sweat that had formed on Marco’s forehead, his plucked eyebrows and his prominent Adam’s apple, which bobbed up and down when he swallowed. The guy really was clueless. Marco was an idiot, just a poor little queer.
Without another word, Goran set off downstairs, step by step, passing the broken window and stepping on the glass. He had to stop seeing ghosts everywhere. He had to act, even without Diana’s counsel, and fulfil his father’s last wishes. This time it was vital he didn’t mess up. He couldn’t disappoint his father.
‘Didn’t you have something to give Diana?’ Marco called after him. ‘To leave something with her?’
On the ground floor, Goran stopped in front of the letter boxes, pulled the envelope out of his inside pocket and posted his father’s last will and testament through the slot. He was a weakling, a loser, incapable of accomplishing anything, and a coward to boot. The eternal refugee from Kosovo.
He stepped out into the street, saw the van and the guy with the hoodie. He passed him, but didn’t turn around, despite having the feeling that he was being followed. Paranoia, that’s what you call it.