Paula was still there a good ten minutes after Bill drove off. How can someone be lost while standing in the same position? she asked herself. What should she do? Who could she talk to? Thoughts whizzed through her mind like a crowd of angry wasps.
Should she have chased after Bill?
Did he know something about the shell companies after all? There was a definite reaction to her mention of Ballogie. And what on earth did he mean about the cards falling as they will?
There was something wrong there, but she recognised that as he spoke, her mind was drifting away from him, protecting her from him and his worries. She simply didn’t have the emotional energy to take on his concerns as well as her own.
A cry sounded from the small copse across the road from the church. A large brown bird – a buzzard? – lifted from a branch with a sweep of its powerful wings. Then two small black shapes shot after it. Then a third. Crows. The three birds were each about two-thirds of the size of the raptor, but they crowded it, harassed it far into the sky as if pushing it away from their nests. Two of them then dropped their speed and wheeled off in an arc, but the third, smaller crow continued to harry the buzzard, swooping in from the rear as if picking at the larger bird’s tail feathers.
Paula heard a shoe scuff at the pavement behind her.
‘Are you okay, Mrs Gadd?’ Father Declan leaned towards her, bending from the waist. ‘Would you care to come in for a little heat and a warm drink?’
‘Sorry, Father,’ she replied. Feeling a moment’s absurdity at giving this young man who could barely grow a beard such a title. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ She looked into his eyes and wondered about unloading on him. And just as quickly she dismissed the notion. The poor man wouldn’t be able to handle what she had to say. ‘Very kind of you to offer, all the same.’ She gave a little nod and walked off the path and towards her car. Aware that as she did, his eyes followed her, and she sensed how unsettled he was that he couldn’t help her.
Where was she going? she asked herself, as she drove along the Great Western Road. How had she even got here? She looked at the clock on the dashboard. That was half an hour she’d lost. Had she just been driving around? She must have just described a large circle. Hadn’t she passed this road end already?
She adjusted her course and at the next junction turned right into Hyndlands Road. Further along she remembered it had been the route she’d taken the day she’d been mugged. The day Anton saved her.
His café came into view. Beans and Bites. She indicated and pulled in further down the road, where she spotted a space. He’d been the one person who had been any help in this whole situation. Perhaps she should go into the café, buy a coffee and lay off all her worries on him.
The only person apart from Joe, of course. She should phone or text him. Make sure he was alright. Talking to Bill, hearing his revelation, had pushed her concerns about Joe out of her mind. She retrieved her phone from her bag, found his number and pressed call. It dialled out and went to voicemail, so she cut the connection and sent him a text instead. He rarely listened to his voicemails. Texting was always the best way to get Joe’s attention.
Here to talk if you need me. Let me know when you get home?
Then she pushed the door open and clambered out of the car. She crossed the road, but was so lost in thought she didn’t judge her progress properly. A horn blared. Tyres squealed on the tarmac. She looked up to see a hot-faced woman, mouth open as she flung a torrent of abuse at her through the windscreen.
Paula ducked her head and jogged the rest of the way to the pavement, throwing a wave of apology over her shoulder at the woman she had forced to brake.
The shop she remembered Anton going into had a simple sign – which looked temporary – over the top quarter of the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass window. A small wooden table that looked unable to withstand a stiff breeze, with two matching chairs sat outside.
Inside, the space was just as simple. A handful of tables and chairs dotted around the room, the wooden slats of the chairs protected with some cushions in primary colours. The counter was a wide glass chiller cabinet, filled with two rows of cakes and pastries. Behind it, against the wall sat a massive Gaggia coffee machine.
Paula assessed the cakes as she remembered Anton’s comments about having Polish specialties. There were croissants, apple Danish, cheesecake, a couple of tray-bakes and a large Victoria sponge. Nothing that looked particularly Polish, she thought.
Apart from an old man at one table, reading his newspaper, and a suited woman, a red coat draped over her chair, studying a mobile phone, the place was empty.
To the right of the counter there was a small doorway, presumably to the staff area. A hand pushed through a bead curtain, and then a small, chunky, bald man emerged. He was wearing a white long-sleeved shirt, a pair of black denims and a small black apron. It occurred to Paula that he looked more Indian than Polish.
‘Can I help you, doll?’ he asked, his accent pure Glasgow.
‘Is Anton about?’ she asked.
‘Anton?’ The waiter made a face. ‘There’s just me here, doll. My sister helps out now and again, but mostly…’ he pointed at his chest. ‘It’s just me.’
‘Anton, the owner? Big guy. Polish? He’s a builder too. His name’s…’
‘Aye. Anton. You said that already.’ He offered her a big smile to show he was only joking. ‘Ain’t nobody here but us chickens. Nae Anton the Pole. Just me. Amit, the wee Bengali guy from Shettleston.’
‘So, this…’ Mystified, Paula looked around. She stared out of the window down the street towards her car, as if the sight of it might add some concrete detail and place her firmly, for once, at the centre of her own life. ‘He came over here … saved me from … got me a…’ What the hell was going on? She felt dizzy.
‘Here, missus,’ Amit reached out, took Paula’s arm and led her to a seat. ‘You look like you’re about to take a funny turn. Can I get you a wee glass of water?’
As politely as she could, Paula shrugged off his concern.
‘Sorry, Amit. I’m not myself today. I’ve had some bad … And I thought this was where Anton worked. I’ll just get out of your hair…’ She looked at the shine on his scalp. ‘I better go.’
She walked out the door and along the street towards her car, her mind a whirl. It was on this street she’d been mugged. It was that café Anton claimed to own. She knew this city. She wasn’t about to get confused over a street so easily, regardless of how grief was addling her brain. That was definitely the place he claimed was his.
Anton Rusnak, she thought, who the hell are you?