by Ols Schaber
‘Hello, I am looking for a Mr Petzalis?’ There was no point in wasting time with pleasantries.
‘You lost?’ Petzalis grunted back. He coughed and spat above Rebwar’s head into the hedge.
‘Are you Mr Petzalis?’
‘Who asking? You police?’ He leaned further out to have a better look at Rebwar, a large chain and medallion swung from his neck and tattoos moved on his beefy skin.
‘I’m working for Ioanna, Vasiles’s wife?’
‘Don’t know what you talk about.’
‘Vasiles Konstantine. He’s booked a shipment with you.’
‘You have wrong person.’ Petzalis started to roll up the window.
‘He has forgotten to give you his shipment.’ Rebwar brought out a brown envelope.
The driver opened the door and peered down at Rebwar. ‘What you say?’
‘I have money to give you.’ Rebwar held out an envelope.
‘You have missed. On way home. And how you find me? You no police? No want trouble.’ He looked around and continued talking as if Rebwar could understand Romanian.
Rebwar watched him gesticulate at him. ‘I need to put this in the back?’ Rebwar motioned his hands towards the rear of the truck. He had to somehow get into the trailer.
The driver looked around again as if he was expecting company. ‘You not from here?’
Rebwar tried to reassure him. ‘I live in London with my family.’
‘Where?’
‘North London. Chalk Farm. In a council flat.’
The driver scratched himself. ‘And you know Vasiles? You his friend?’
‘I know Ioanna, she is expecting a little baby girl.’ He put that in to soften the mood a bit and offered Petzalis a cigarette. Petzalis took one from his pack.
‘I don’t believe you. You call her – Ioanna. I want speak her. Understand?’
Rebwar took a moment to reach for his mobile. He wasn’t exactly working for Ioanna, of course, but she might play ball. He was also running out of options. Rebwar took out his phone. There was reception. He dialled her number. Petzalis climbed down from the cab. He was wearing a dirty grey tank top that was a little too tight. His blue tracksuit bottoms shimmered their polyester qualities. Rebwar half expected static to spark off it. The Adidas sandals showed his unkept broken toes.
‘Hi, Ioanna. Yeah, it’s Rebwar. Do you have a minute?’ Rebwar smiled at Petzalis. ‘Yes, it’s about Vasiles, I have found the shipment to Romania… Yes, yes, he sent one. Can I pass you to the truck driver?’ He handed the phone over to Petzalis and the conversation switched to Romanian. Its tone was deep and concerned. After some quick successive words Petzalis laughed. It was rough and gargled. The call carried on for a minute or so.
‘She is good country girl. I like her. Must meet her soon, I need another wife.’ He laughed again.
‘So I can put the envelope in the…?’ Rebwar pointed towards the trailer.
Petzalis stood there scratching his neck. Something was irritating him. He kept shifting his weight from one leg to the other. ‘Yes, it’s OK, let’s go.’ He led Rebwar onto the back of the trailer but as he got to the large doors he said, ‘Wait here, forgot light,’ and he went back to the cab. He returned with a flashlight, which he shone into Rebwar’s face. It blinded him a little. Petzalis pulled some levers, and the two large doors swung open. With his torch, he indicated for Rebwar to go in. Rebwar climbed up into the trailer. There were some boxes and disassembled furniture by the wooden bulkhead at the front of the trailer. The tarpaulin flapped and banged in the wind and it added to the already tense atmosphere. Petzalis climbed in after him and shone his torch at the pile of goods. Rebwar walked over to it. He felt a thud on his head and the wooden floorboards rushed towards him.
Rebwar’s eyes opened and he felt himself floating. He looked up. He was hanging from a metal bar. It was part of the structure that held the trailer’s tarpaulin in shape. The truck was on the move, and he swung around to its movements. His legs and hands were tied behind him. He knew that sailors and truckers knew their knots like a barista knew coffee. He wasn’t going to get out of this bind anytime soon.
He hadn’t thought this through. His impulse had got the better of him. It had been a mistake to go and interrogate the truck driver without a plan. He felt stupid. Underneath him were some cardboard boxes and pieces of furniture. Maybe there was a body in those boxes. The truck shuddered over a pothole and he was swung like a carcass. The knots tightened around his legs and hands and cut into the skin. The metal gave in. He dropped a bit closer to the wooden floor. The trailer jolted again and he fell onto the cardboard box, which gave way to the sound of crunching glass. The stinging smell of kerosene filled his nostrils. Liquid flowed out from the box and was being pushed to the back by the motion of the truck. He knew it was only a matter of time before it caught fire. It only had to drip onto some hot metal component and the whole trailer would go up in a fireball.
His fingers frantically searched the wooden boards for something sharp to cut through the rope. The sharp glass pieces were slippery with the spilt paraffin. They kept escaping his grasp. The fuel stung his open cuts like a hive of angry bees. There was no time for pain. He managed finally to grab a decent-sized piece of glass to cut the thick rough rope. It was going to be slow work. An intact glass oil lamp rolled out of the broken box, like a loose cannonball; he watched it make its way to the back.
He heard the pop of glass breaking. A few seconds later, a deep yellow whoosh of light appeared on the floor of the trailer. A gust of warm air pushed him back, his hand cut harder and harder into the thick rope. It was only a matter of breaths till the fire would engulf the trailer. Everything was soaking with the flammable liquid. Flames licked up outside the tarpaulin and brought out its bright blue colour. The truck swerved and the trailer followed the violent movement, anything that wasn’t stuck down flew up. The sloshing liquid caught fire and, like spilling water, it flowed towards him. Finally, the knot gave way and the rope loosened. Like an uncoiled spring, he jumped onto one of the supporting bars on the side of the trailer. It jerked sideways, and the melting tarpaulin ripped. The truck had jack-knifed. The violent force of the crash threw him away from the burning trailer. He was flying into the dark.
He felt his back hit soft wet ground and he rolled into a ball, trying to protect himself from flying debris. It was like a surreal film. He could only see bright yellow, red, black blurry shapes, no sound. A searing wave of heat hit his face. He turned away and stumbled backwards, removing the mud from his face. He checked himself quickly for any injuries.
The truck had veered off into a single-lane track. It was on fire and the fire was growing in intensity. Pieces cracked, fizzed and popped. He hadn’t seen such destruction since he was in the war. For a moment he was back in the desert staring at burned-out tanks and charred bodies. It was the smell that was the worst, burned flesh, something you could never forget. Cautiously he went towards the truck. He found Petzalis; his body was limp and hanging out of the front windscreen. He ran up to it. The idiot hadn’t been wearing a seat belt. His face was all mangled up, blood dripping everywhere. The cab was on its side. He could just about reach Petzalis’s neck and arms. He felt for a pulse. There was nothing. In the distance, blue flashing lights were coming. They appeared through some hedges and trees. Behind him was a forest, it was getting too hot, and he had to leave the scene. He hobbled into the dark wood, his body starting to feel the pain of the accident. His tooth still ached and somehow hurt the most. He had to keep moving.
Thirteen
Geraldine was lounging in the winter sun on one of the wooden benches in Soho Square. She had been summoned by her superior in the organisation. He wanted a status report. She had made Squirrel come to her turf. Her code name was Field Mouse. She knew he hated this area and what it stood for: a little park with a mock Tudor building in the middle; a shelter for litter, pigeons, down and outs, trendy media types and local LGBT. A thin ray of sunshin
e bled onto the worn grass where two girls sat kissing. Geraldine’s mind wandered off to her new friend, Zara.
‘Enjoy today, as a storm is coming from the Atlantic.’
She jumped at the sight of the Squirrel and held her thumping chest. His gaunt face waited for an answer. She searched for the code word. His dark sunken eyes waited for the inevitable disappointment. She giggled nervously and guessed. ‘Did you see a shepherd’s delight?’
His black eyes looked down and he sighed. She felt like a failing schoolgirl. It was absurd, but she had to play the game. She could see by his greased-back hair, trench coat and attaché case that he revelled in every minute of it, like a fly feeding on a dog turd.
‘That was last week’s… Please, couldn’t you make more of an effort?’
Her eyes focused on the strand of loose hair that had parked itself on his clammy forehead. ‘Do you want the fucking report or what?’
He looked around at the crowd. ‘All right, all right… What is this place? You do this on purpose, don’t you?’
Geraldine watched him with glee as his visible discomfort made him fidget to find a comfortable position as if an ant had infiltrated his clothes. She knew nothing about him; that’s how they wanted it. Plan B only let you know what you needed to know. She had met him about twenty times and each time it was the same. She gave him some information, and he’d say a little back. But she could rub him the wrong way, and she enjoyed that as he couldn’t really do anything about it. She took out a brown envelope from her bomber jacket and handed it over to him.
‘Whoa there! Not very subtle, are you? Could you have made it a little less conspicuous?’
‘You’re not exactly blending in.’ She took out a pack of cigarettes and the Squirrel looked at her like she had taken out an embarrassing sex toy.
‘Whoa, whoa! Can’t smoke on duty.’
‘You crack me up. It’s not fucking Kindergarten Cop.’
He opened the file and scanned it. People around them were getting on with their daily lives.
‘Did you write it up?’
‘Yeah, why?’
‘Well, I kind of expect to read what your contact Robin is seeing.’
‘You mean Rebwar? Can you read Iranian?’ She took a drag on her cigarette, waiting for another annoying comment from him.
He shook his head in disapproval.
‘I can,’ said a man in a ripped hoodie. His dirty hand was stretched out. ‘For a tenner.’ His mouth had only a few teeth hanging on to his swollen gums.
‘Piss off and go and get an f’ing job!’ Squirrel said.
Geraldine gave him a quid. ‘Thanks, Tom. It’s all the change I’ve got. Sorry. Next time.’
Tom grumbled and went to his next customer.
‘Stinks! You could feed some pigeons instead.’ Squirrel waited until till the man had shuffled away and leaned towards Geraldine like a pissed-off school teacher. ‘It’s all laid out wrong.’ His crooked finger pointed at her report.
‘You rushed me. So what’s the news?’
‘The foot’s DNA matches Vasiles Konstantine’s clothes. I’d say he’s been murdered. We need to bring them in. From what’s in here, we are dealing with some kind of twisted love triangle.’
She stubbed her cigarette on the bench. ‘But what I don’t get is how they cut that foot so cleanly. It’s clinical. And where’s rest of him?’
‘It’s not your job to think – and no discussing the case in a non-secure area. Bring them to the hospital.’
‘Well, I think I need that snog and pint or is it the other way around?’
He unlocked his attaché case and slipped the report in it. ‘Next time I’ll set the meeting place.’
‘What’s your favourite flavour? Mine’s chocolate with strawberries. Have you tried to snog a bloke?’
‘You’re on ice. The meeting is finished.’
She leaned back into the bench, hung her arms on the wooden back, and smiled at him. He walked away.
Fourteen
Rebwar slowed down along Long Acre in Covent Garden. He was looking for a shop called TK Maxx. His next passenger was waiting there and, from the profile, it was a young girl called Maxime Page with a star rating of 3.7, which was not great but there was a surge on. And everybody chased the surge. He switched on his hazard lights and it wasn’t long before a small blonde girl approached the car. Her long straight hair swung back and forth as she tried to carry her shopping. Each thin arm was laden with it.
He stepped out to help her. On seeing his face her smile disappeared.
‘Uber.’
‘Uh, yes, I ordered one.’ She kept staring at him like he had something on his face.
Rebwar wiped his face just in case and went to open the boot. He took her bags and laid them inside. She was still standing there looking around her. Rebwar opened the car door for her and she stepped in. Rebwar clicked his seat belt on and looked at Maxime tapping on her phone.
‘South-wark Park Road in Bermondsey? Is that where we are going?’ Rebwar said.
‘This car stinks of cigarette and you say it Suth-urk, yeah? Where are you from?’
‘Iran.’
‘What the fuck? You’re not born here? You’re like from one of those countries.’
‘Those countries? Arab country?’
She stared at him like he had done something wrong. ‘You’re fucking kidding me right? You’re – you’re not going to blow me up or sell me. You are my taxi, right?’ Her breathing became shorter and faster.
‘I work for Uber. Are you not feeling OK?’
She opened the door and stepped out. Before Rebwar could help she had already taken her shopping from the boot and was running down the street. He stepped back in, cancelled the trip and thought back to his first days driving his cab.
It was December 2015 and Rebwar had tapped the phone’s cracked screen to confirm his arrival at the destination. The pickup had been on the corner of Portobello Road and Westbourne Park Road, where three coffee shops stared at each other.
He had yawned at the thought of an espresso. The clock on the dash read 11:15 am. He hadn’t had a break since he’d started his shift, which was over four hours before on his first week as an Uber driver and he had made good use of his dictionary. Before that week he’d never touched a smartphone, even the name made him suspicious. The call centre had a nickname for him: Slugwar. He’d heard it when one of the operators had transferred his call. Today, he was hoping not to have to call them.
Rebwar had noticed a man and a woman staring at his car. He was still getting used to people paying him attention. Usually it was the other way round. The woman’s long dark brown hair had blown around her long thin face although her large nose stood out. The man had worn a black knee-length trench coat and held a leather briefcase. He was a bit taller, with silver glasses and a dark receding hairline. They had crossed the street towards his car.
The woman had spoken first. ‘Paddington station, please.’ They had then both stepped into the car.
‘As I was saying, we need to find that source. We need that contact.’
‘Having a good day?’ Rebwar had asked, watching them through the rear-view mirror.
‘Yes, Rebwar, we are,’ said the woman. ‘That is your name?’
Rebwar had looked at them for an awkward moment, then realised that his name was on their mobile app. He smiled. ‘Yes, this is my first week.’ He drove off into the traffic letting his sat nav guide him.
‘Oh, did you listen to Cameron’s speech?’ asked the man.
‘Oh God no, don’t tell me. Hate to know what that toff came up with?’
The man smiled and left her hanging.
‘Go on then, spit it out.’
‘He’s going to call a referendum on the EU, “making a simple choice and confronting the issue,” he said.’
‘What? So he took the bait… I mean our recommendations. I take it back. He really is an idiot.’ The woman shook her head in disbelief.
> Rebwar watched the man clench his fist and smile. ‘You guys work for the government?’
‘Consultants. We ask questions. Rebwar, where are you from?’
‘Iran. Just started working here. Nice country you have. Friendly.’
For a moment he wanted to ask more questions about their jobs. But he had strict guidelines on what he was and wasn’t allowed to talk about to his customers. Politics was one of them.
‘Can you pull up just by that corner? No need to go into the station.’
Rebwar stopped the car opposite a huge Crossrail construction site. Blue wooden panels lined the street. A black cab honked and the driver shouted something at him, his hands gesturing an additional message.
‘It’s Platform 2. Hopefully it’s not delayed like last time. Thank you, Rebwar.’ Both of them left the car.
‘You are welcome. Have a good day.’ Rebwar looked for his reading glasses. Then it took a few moments to remember the right sequence of buttons to press to end the ride and charge them. He had to convince himself that this virtual money was somehow real. Every day he would go to a cash point and take out some money, just to feel it and convince himself it was real.
He rewarded himself with a cigarette. He opened the window, the back one slid down and he looked behind. He noticed a briefcase on the seat; the man had forgotten it. He dialled their contact number but the line was dead. He switched the hazard lights on and went after them. He remembered her mentioning Platform 2 and headed into the station. The case felt heavy. There was something solid knocking inside it. The closer he got to the entrance the busier it became. He scanned the crowds for silver glasses, or a black raincoat.