Earlier this evening I was sitting by myself on an upturned packing chest, waiting for Santo. He’d gone to the kitchen area to collect our food. Nikola, the lawyer, wandered up. He nodded. He had a smirk on his face. ‘I shot a guy this afternoon.’
I didn’t say anything, wondering where this was going.
‘He was smoking a cigarette on the Skenderija bridge. I think he wanted to be shot. He was begging for it – like a woman. It happens sometimes.’ He was grinning, not in a friendly way. ‘Some weak-kneed amateur was shooting around him. Didn’t have the balls, I guess. I have no time for that. People like that shouldn’t be here.’
At that moment Santo returned, and the lawyer turned and walked off. I cursed the fact it had been Nikola who’d been my neighbour, the sniper in the adjoining block. He obviously knew I’d failed. I decided to tell Santo, but made it sound like I’d been playing with the victim, and the only reason I hadn’t shot him – although I had intended to – was because I’d been enjoying myself too much. I didn’t mention Nikola. I simply wanted to cover myself.
Santo asks me at the end of each day if I’ve had ‘any luck.’ I can feel the pressure building. I’m going to have to do something soon.