by D K Bohlman
‘No. Biscuit?’
‘I’m fine thanks, just had something to eat.’ She smiled at Niamh, somewhat apologetically.
‘I’ll get some anyway, might change your mind later.’
Niamh went back to the kitchenette and started making rustling noises.
Jenna thought she might fancy a custard cream if that’s what she came back with. She took a sip of coffee and settled back into the sofa, readying her notebook and pen.
Whether it was some movement in her peripheral vision or a sixth sense awakened by Niamh’s abruptness, Jenna couldn’t be sure. But as she heard Niamh move close to her and say in a broken voice ‘Here you are, some Jammie Dodgers,’ she leant quickly forward and to the right, looking back over her left shoulder again. A plate of biscuits dropped past her, scattering its contents to the floor, as a knife blade slashed the air where Jenna’s neck had been a split second before.
Instinctively she grabbed at the arm carrying the knife. Lucky timing helped her lock a grip around Niamh’s wrist and yank it across her face. She had no idea what she was going to do next, as Niamh’s body started to recover from the shock of missing her target. Jenna opened her mouth and sank her teeth into the forearm in front of her. Hard.
The bite, and the effort of the lung-bursting scream that ensued, forced the knife to tumble to the rug. By now, though, Niamh was beating at Jenna’s head with her free fist, trying to get a handle on her hair. Jenna ducked a couple of times, managing to avoid the grasping fingers.
She fell forward onto the rug, half facing the fireplace. To the left side stood an ornamental fire-tending kit with a shovel and poker hung on it. It was low enough to swing her hand at and grasp the poker. She had hold of the wrong end but a good enough grip to roll upwards and bring the iron handle swinging around at Niamh. It struck the side of her face with a crack and a squelchy crunching sound.
Niamh yelled loudly and grabbed the side of her face, wincing as she touched it, tears welling up in her eyes.
Jenna looked at her eyes, saw indecision and despite Niamh’s grip on her hair, swung again. This time she hit the fingers protecting the obviously fractured cheek. That was enough for Niamh. She wailed like a banshee and rolled away from Jenna, stumbled to her feet and scrambled for the front door.
Jenna jumped up. As she got to the hallway, Niamh snatched a glance over her disappearing shoulder. ‘I’ll get you, bitch. I’m not done yet.’ She vanished through the door, leaving it swinging behind her. Jenna launched herself at it, pressing it closed and pulling the bolt across the top.
She leant her back against the door and slid to the floor, gasping, feeling a trickle of blood dribbling down her brow from a cut on her scalp.
She shook her head, heart pounding, trying to collect her thoughts. What the hell had she done to get that reaction? And why would Niamh want to attack her anyway? And where was Niamh going to go now, having attacked someone in her own flat?
In her own flat. That wasn’t right. Had she got the wrong address … no, of course not, that had come from Sarah’s mother. It didn’t make sense.
She was about to call Calum before deciding whether to ring the police when it dawned on her.
Maybe that wasn’t Niamh.
In which case, where the hell was she?
Jenna pushed herself up, looked around the hallway. Three more doors, presumably two bedrooms and a bathroom. They were all closed.
She tried the first. Opened the door slowly. White and blue tiles, a small bathroom with a shower. Empty.
The second was a bedroom. She looked through the crack between door and frame before stepping into it. A second-hand set of wooden drawers with a mirror and some makeup bottles on top. A few items of clothing on the bed. She spotted a small multi-photo frame by the side of the bed. It had pictures of a young woman, what looked like some friends and also one of an older couple. Parents, perhaps. The top edge of the frame was engraved with the words Niamh’s Closests. Nothing untoward at first sight.
The next room was much less normal.
A discovery
____________________________
Jenna looked at the body on the bed in front of her. A woman. A young woman. Probably Niamh. But she wasn’t taking anything for granted, after the attack on herself two minutes earlier.
She stepped forward cautiously. A little blood was glistening on the side of the face, which was facing away from her. Jenna walked around the bed to get a better look. Definitely younger than the person who’d attacked her, more like the age she’d expected. Eyes shut, but her chest was moving to a slow rhythm. Her mouth was taped and probably stuffed with something. Her wrists and ankles were bound with the cheap plastic tape too.
Jenna put her arm out and rocked the body gently by the shoulder. A muted moan. Then a slight flicker of the eyes, a slither of eyeball shuttering in and out of view.
‘Hey. Are you OK? Who are you?’ She peeled the tape away and pulled a rolled-up sock out of the woman’s mouth.
No answer. She repeated the question a few times before finally, the girl opened her eyes for more than a split second. She jerked her head back violently from Jenna’s direction.
‘What the fuck. Who are you?’
The girl pressed herself back against the bed, cowering.
‘Are you Jenna?’ Scared of the answer.
‘Yeah, yeah I am … it’s OK, are you Niamh?’
The girl nodded. She started to cry.
‘Someone was just here, they attacked me!’
Jenna sighed. ‘Me too, it must have been the same woman. What happened?’
Jenna pulled a tissue out of her pocket and handed it to Niamh. She took it hesitantly and proceeded to mop her eyes with it.
‘Well, it happened fast. She called up to the flat, said she was you. I buzzed her in and when I opened the door I thought she looked older than I expected, but she just hit me in the face … it happened so fast. Then she pushed something into my face after I fell down. It smelt like petrol or something and I passed out.’
‘Did she say anything?’
‘Not after I opened the door, no. Next thing I know is you’re waking me up. Who is she? And why is this happening to me? I, well, I want to see your ID please.’
Jenna thought quickly.
‘Don’t have a specific PI ID but I have a driving licence so you can tell it’s me from the photo.’ She dug in her bag and flashed it towards the bed.
Niamh peered at it and then Jenna. The blood on Jenna’s face at least looked like some kind of proof she may have been a victim too.
‘Seems OK, I suppose. But what was she doing here?’
Jenna threw her arms outward. ‘I don’t know. I’ve really no idea. Look, let’s get you a cup of tea. Let’s get us both a cup of tea. Then I‘m going to ring my boss and then the police.’
‘I don’t know. I think I want to ring the police myself. Now.’ She looked at Jenna, watching her reaction. Jenna understood and relented, not wanting to cause her any alarm.
‘OK. But I’m calling Calum now.’
She picked up her mobile and dialled his number. Niamh lay still and watched her for the moment.
‘Hey, Jen. Quick report back?’
‘Bit more than that. I’ve been attacked in Sarah’s flat. No idea who it was. I’m alright. But she got to her flatmate Niamh first. She’s OK too, just a bit shaken. So what’s this all about Calum, is there part of the story you’re not telling me?’
‘Jesus Jen, no way. If I thought there was a problem I would never have put you in that position. You should know that. You really should.’
She heard the heartfelt tone in his voice, knew he was being honest. Not that she ever really doubted him.
‘OK. So I’ll call the police.’
‘Sure. Want me to come over?’
‘No, no need. It’s getting late and it’s a long drive. I’ll be fine. I’ll handle it and call you later OK? Might be in the morning depending what time the police finish with
us.’
‘Just call me, Jen, if you need anything, OK? Shall I tell Gregor?’
‘Nope. No need. Talk to you later. Bye.’
As she clicked off the call, Niamh propped herself up on one arm. ‘OK, can you call the police then please?’
Jenna smiled. ‘Sure.’
She dialled 999 and resigned herself to a long evening. As she sat and waited, she asked herself a question. Niamh had said the woman had pretended to be Jenna. So how the hell did she know Jenna’s plans? And react so quickly to them?
An offer of help
____________________________
Sarah arrived a little early at the library on the second morning. She decided to skip coffee after a large breakfast in the hotel and went straight up the lift to where they’d been working the day before.
Sat at the desk next to the shelves where she intended to work, was a tall, grey-haired woman leafing through a text, with a small pile of tomes next to her.
She looked up, as Sarah set down her bag next to the desk and took a seat near her.
‘Good morning,’ the woman said.
Sarah smiled back. ‘Jo reggelt.’ Just about the only Hungarian phrase she didn't have to think about before opening her mouth.
‘I’d wanted to catch you. I’m Beata Sandor, the head librarian here. I noticed yesterday you were reading a lot around the Arrow Cross history. I wondered if there was anything I could do to help you. Are you an academic?’
‘Oh yes. I am. Sarah McTeer. I’m doing a Master’s degree in Scotland. Inverness. I’m researching Arrow Cross. My colleague from the university here in Budapest is helping me. Well, that’s very kind of you to offer. We’re still reading around the first layer of references but if I need anything I’ll ask you, for sure.’
‘Ah, Scottish. I had thought you were American. No problem. Will you be in Hungary for long?’
‘I expect a week or so for this trip. Not sure after that, it depends on where the research takes me, I suppose. It’s my first time here in Hungary, so I’m hoping to look around a bit too, you know.’
Beata pushed her glasses slightly back up her nose and sniffed.
‘Ah, that’s nice, we have a beautiful country here. I hope you enjoy your stay. Anyway, here are a few texts I have looked out for you. They all have some references to Arrow Cross. Whether they are useful, well that depends on the angle of your research.’
It was a question rather than a statement.
Sarah filled her in on the detail of her research topic. Beata nodded. ‘I’m sure there’s some material in here that will help with that.’
She closed the book she had open, placed it on top of the pile next to her on the table and slid them all towards Sarah.
‘Fantastic. I’ll have a look through them.’
‘Most are in Hungarian. Can you read our language?’
‘Heh, well no, but my colleague is Hungarian and she does the research on those texts.’
Beata nodded again and slipped her hand into the brown woollen jacket she was wearing.
‘Of course. Here’s my card. Let me know if I can help you any further. It’s no trouble. We especially like to help our foreign guests.’
Sarah took the business card. “Beata Sandor. Head Librarian. Ervin Szabo Library. Budapest.” Together with two phone numbers.
‘Call me anytime. I’m always working. Books are my life really.’
Sarah instantly believed her and beamed her a grateful smile.
Beata rose from the table and walked away, towards the door. At the same time, Eszter appeared at the door and crossed Beata’s path as she walked to meet Sarah. Beata cast her a short, sharp sideways glance before disappearing from view.
‘Hi, Eszter. Guess what? That was the head librarian. She offered to help with anything we need. How nice is that?’
Eszter sat down and smiled. ‘Very! I thought I recognised her from my visits here. Mind you, I’ve never had any help like that in all the years I’ve been coming. You’re lucky!’
‘Oops, sorry! She said she liked to help foreigners. That’s kind anyway, eh?’
Eszter flashed a sardonic smile across the table.
‘Of course, of course. So what has she given you?’
Sarah explained as the two of them settled down into looking through Beata’s selections and picking up on their work from yesterday. Soon, they were buried in it and time sped away from them.
*
Sitting back in the cafe at the end of the day, Sarah stretched her arms outward, yawning, ready for some fresh air. She summarised their progress.
In short, a lot had been read, lots of references taken for future use. Eszter had a list of specific Hungarian text sections which Sarah had wanted translating and some for which she had just given Eszter questions to answer.
Sarah now had a collection of names she felt worth searching for, on the off chance they were still alive. It was likely most weren’t, given their ages when they were active in Arrow Cross. But some first-hand interviewing would be a real bonus, so worth a shot. She could spend some time on that, while Eszter did work on the Hungarian texts.
She looked in the phone directories and eventually found just three names from her list of more than forty. It was possible that there may be some ex-directory, of course, but she’d start with these three.
A thought occurred to her.
‘Eszter. If I call these people I’d like to interview, due to their association with Arrow Cross … what kind of reaction am I likely to get, do you think? I’m guessing any kind of link with it is probably frowned upon? I mean, given their track record of brutality and so on? What do most Hungarians know or think about it? I’m just wondering if I do find someone, whether they are likely to refuse me an interview anyway … or is there an angle that might work best?’
Eszter leaned forward a little, so they were closer. She tightened her lips and pulled a half-smile. ‘Tricky. Many young Hungarians don't really know much about it. It’s not like it’s taught in schools, but the older generation does remember and yes it isn’t looked upon well, of course. I think it depends upon the individual.
By the way … there has been a lot of new right-wing sentiment here in the last decade. Like in much of the rest of Europe. There has been lots of talk in the papers and cafes about a new Arrow Cross taking root. Maybe it never actually died in fact, but went underground for years. There are always those who can’t give things up, aren’t there? Not sure if this will make your potential interviewees more or less willing to discuss it, though?’
‘Well, unless I’m going to pretend to be someone or something I’m not, I guess I’ll just have to ring cold anyway. At least I can say it’s for an academic paper, not the press. Maybe I just have to stress that. And keep my fingers crossed.’
‘I think so. When will you call them?’
‘Early tonight maybe. Before they go to bed since some are maybe going to be in their nineties.’
‘Good idea,’ Eszter said, ‘Actually, I had found two quite interesting articles from the press from the last ten years or so. The searches only went back that far, must have been about the time they started storing it digitally. But they were talking about one of those resurgent Arrow Cross movements I just mentioned, as part of a wider right-wing renaissance in Europe. Might be useful to add that to your list? Maybe there are some younger people with links to the original party or who knew the old members. Maybe you can find them more easily and maybe they might be more willing to talk since they haven’t been associated with any war atrocities?’
Sarah was interested. ‘Any names?’
‘Umm, well, now you say that I can't recall specifically whether there were or not. But one of them referenced a text, a more modern one. “Arrows From a Re-strung Bow” or something corny like that. I looked for it but couldn't see it on the shelves. Maybe it’s currently lent out. Anyway, the articles and texts are here. The articles are in English so you can start with those yourself.’
<
br /> She slid a piece of A4 paper across the desk, with the article names on it.
Sarah picked it up and stared at it intently.
‘Yep, great, I’ll look through these, see if I can get some names somehow. Thanks. I’ll head off now then, see you tomorrow, usual time?’
Dialling the dead?
____________________________
Sarah walked back to the hotel, dumped her bag on the hotel bed and got undressed. She stared at herself in the full-length mirror. Pretty good. Good enough for a steak dinner anyway. Then some calls and a run later. She thought back to the waterfront and her first night here. Maybe running in the gym then.
She ordered room service. Steak, medium-rare. Fries, salad. Some cheese. A large glass of wine for later.
Forty minutes. Perfect. Time for a nice long shower.
*
An hour later, she pushed the food tray back across the desk and made some room for her note-pad. She pulled out the phone numbers for the three names she’d found earlier. This was her list:
1. Peter Gera. Possibly the grandson of Josef Gera, Arrow Cross ideologist. Would be in his thirties now.
2. Marton Kovacs. A young group leader at the time of the party rule in 1944-45. Probably lucky not to have been arrested and tried. Early nineties if alive. A longshot.
3. Ivan Kasza. Son of a former junior minister. Late middle-aged.
She decided to start, in age order, youngest first, probably in the expectation the youngest one would be more likely to be alive to talk.
She picked up the list and dialled Peter Gera’s number. No answer. She decided not to leave a message.
Next was Kasza. Her anticipation made her jump when the phone was answered. It was a woman’s voice though, one which said her husband Ivan had died of a heart attack only two months ago. Fuelled by her poor grasp of Hungarian, and the lack of English understanding at the other end of the line, the conversation became extremely awkward. Sarah decided not to ask to talk further to his widow and made a stilted excuse about having to take another call urgently.