Only the Truth

by Adam Croft

  I barely recognise myself, so I’m pretty certain that no-one else is going to pick me out in the middle of an Austrian train station. The only way they’d manage that is if they already knew I was here. And unless they’d followed me from the campsite and from the petrol station, that just wouldn’t be possible. I’ve been careful; I know I have. Either way, the possibility is always there and I doubt that fear’s going to leave me until this whole episode is over.

  What I’m not worried about, though, is the passing policeman or observant member of the public spotting and recognising me. I’m hidden in plain sight, and I’m happy with that right now.

  Things could get a bit sticky if there are passport checks at any point. Technically, there shouldn’t be. Getting from Austria to Slovakia means staying within the Schengen Area, which means EU nationals can cross borders without passport checks or visas. I know there’s the possibility of spot checks on the train, though. All I can do is hope, because it’s a long walk to Bratislava.

  I exit the toilet and make my way back towards the cafe and the newsagent. In the newsagent, I buy myself a copy of Kronen Zeitung, a newspaper I presume to be Austrian. Probably the best way to blend in, I think. I grab a coffee from the self-service machine and take both to the till to pay.

  As I thumb through my money, I do my now well-established trick of looking at the price on the till as the cashier speaks to me, but nothing shows. I keep my calm and hand over a twenty-euro note. That should be plenty. The girl looks at me disapprovingly and counts out my change. With a quick ‘Danke schön’, I’m off and back on the main concourse, ready to bed down and try to look normal for the next couple of hours.

  36

  By the time my train finally flashes up on the board, I feel as though I should be fluent in German. I’ve read almost the entire paper back to back, and I didn’t understand a word.

  I make my way to the platform and board the train. I feel a bit of a wally walking on with a carrier bag when everyone else has suitcases or rucksacks, but my holdall is far too recognisable now to risk it being visible. I’ll buy a new one in Bratislava.

  The train is far smarter and more comfortable than the ones I’m used to back in England. I’ve found that whenever I’ve been abroad, though, which is quite bizarre seeing as our railways are mostly owned by foreign European governments anyway. Everywhere else I go, the level of comfort and style always seems to be much higher, except for the metro system in Brussels, which seems to be made entirely of orange plastic.

  Despite the fact it’s an overnight journey, this isn’t a sleeper train. That means it’s going to be a long five and a half hours trying to get to sleep in a chair while we bounce through Austria as I try not to get too paranoid about the people around me in the carriage. I’m not worried about passing strangers recognising me, but what if someone’s sat opposite me for a good few hours with a copy of the newspaper right in front of them?

  Fortunately, there’s nobody sat anywhere near me until we stop almost two hours later at Salzburg, at which point an elderly lady plonks herself down across the aisle from me, facing in my direction. She beams a big, friendly smile at me. I think for a moment, then return an upturned corner of my mouth – so different from my usual smile that’d be in all the pictures that I’m actually pretty impressed with myself.

  That’s the last time she even looks in my direction, as a couple of minutes later she seems to be fast asleep. At least, I hope she’s asleep. If she’s not, I’m convinced I’m some sort of walking death magnet.

  The effect of the train swaying gently on the tracks as it trundles through Austria is deeply relaxing, but it’s not enabling me to sleep. I can’t. Not while I’m out here in an open carriage, potentially exposed to all sorts of threats. Even the windows worry me. Despite the fact that we’re hurtling along at God knows what speed, there’s always a worry in my mind about the blackness outside. There’s nothing to be seen save for a few distant lights, and a part of my brain tries to convince me of all sorts of things that can see in, even though I can’t see out.

  It’s paranoia trying to creep in again.

  I won’t let it.

  Shortly before twelve thirty, we arrive at Vienna Central Station. I know it’s going to be tight to make the connecting train to Bratislava: it’s meant to leave at 00.50, and I don’t know which platform it’s from. As it’s an international train, it might be from a different building altogether.

  I make sure I’m first off the train, then I jog along the platform until I see the information boards showing the trains due to leave and arrive. I see 00.50 BRATISLAVA on the board. It’s platform 9, the adjacent platform, and my ticket tells me I need to be boarding at the carriages A–C end.

  The train’s already there, so I head for carriage C and show the ticket inspector my ticket. He waves me aboard and, thankfully, doesn’t ask me for my passport. All I’ve got is another hour and a half until I’m clear. If my luck continues to hold out like this, I’ll be alright. I’m certainly due a run of luck right about now, that’s for sure.

  As I wait for the train to depart, I allow my brain to start mulling over the possibilities. How could someone have tracked us to a campsite in Switzerland? We drove all the way to Claude’s and changed cars, and there’s no way in hell anyone followed us there, as he lives in the middle of nowhere. There’s no way they’d be able to get anywhere near us without us seeing. Then we headed to Switzerland in an unknown car. If someone had followed us on that whole journey, we would have noticed. We were so careful.

  So what was it? A tip-off? If so, from who? And how would they have been able to tip off the killer? If someone spotted us, recognised us and reported us, they’d call the police. And the police wouldn’t turn up and murder Jess; they’d arrest us.

  All I can assume is that somehow someone is following me. Not one person, I’m sure of it. More. It’s the only way they’d be able to do it without being seen. It still doesn’t explain how they twigged about the switch at Claude’s place, but I’m sure I’ll figure that out, too. Unless . . . unless Claude was in on it. It makes no sense, though, especially as Jess trusted him so much. She might have been a perfect enigma, but she was a good judge of character. I knew that much. She spoke about Claude with such passion, almost like a mother protecting a child. If I trust Jess’s judgement, I have to trust that Claude couldn’t have been involved. That leaves me with some more thinking to do, then.

  It also leaves me with the enormous worry as to why a whole group of organised criminals would be out to get me. Willing to kill Lisa. Willing to kill Jess. Willing to chase me halfway across Europe to see me terrorised and possibly even dead.

  As the train starts to pull away from the station, I know that’s a question I must answer, and answer soon.

  37

  The train stops every few minutes. Far from being a direct service, I don’t think we’ve gone more than five minutes without a stop. It’s agonising, knowing we must be so close to Bratislava yet unable to get there any quicker. It’s even more irritating that no-one seems to get on or off the train at any of these stations. There are nineteen people in this carriage – I’ve counted them – but not one of them has got on or off since Vienna.

  As the train pulls away from Gattendorf station (the fourteenth one we’ve stopped at in the past fifty minutes – I’ve been counting), I decide I need a change of scenery to stop me going insane. I pick up my bag and head for the toilet.

  I don’t need to go – I just want to be able to sit somewhere, quietly, without stressing myself out. Some solitude, perhaps. The frequency of the stops isn’t helping my paranoia at all; I’m convincing myself that the next time the train stops, those doors are going to open and a police officer’s going to step on. Not that hiding in the toilet will make much difference, but at least I’ll feel safer, calmer.

  My heart rate starts to drop from the second I slide the lock across on the inside of the toilet door. It has an instant calming effect, and I’
m thankful for small mercies. I run the cold tap and pool some water in my hands before splashing it onto my face. I do this a few times, enjoying the feel of the ice-cold water on my skin. The tap’s noisy, though, and I realise there’s no way I’ll be able to hear the station announcements from here with it running, so I turn it back off and sit with my head bowed over the sink, cold water dripping into the basin from my nose and chin.

  I’m aware of the swooshing sound of the intercarriage doors opening at the far end of the carriage, and the voice of a man calling out. He says a few words, in a variety of foreign languages. French, German and something else I don’t recognise. But there are four words I definitely do recognise, because they’re English.

  ‘Tickets and passports, please!’

  It takes me a couple of seconds to realise I’m doing it, but I’m holding my breath. I can hear his voice getting closer and closer every time he calls out. Something that sounds like German. Then the language I don’t recognise but presume to be Slovak. Then French. Then those unmistakable words yet again.

  ‘Tickets and passports, please!’

  He’s now right up near my end of the carriage. Probably only a few seat rows away from the toilet. I can hear his appreciative murmuring as my fellow passengers show him their tickets. I wonder if any of them will point out the fact that there’s a guy in the toilet? I really hope not.

  In England, ticket inspectors are pretty wise to the usual tricks: getting up and going to the toilet when the ticket inspector comes into your carriage, walking down the carriage and jumping off at the next stop before getting back on further up the train. They know all the methods. Right now, I’m just thankful that I got up and went to the toilet before he could even be seen.

  All I can do now is hope and pray that he walks straight past the toilet. I certainly can’t risk having to show this guy my passport. The game will be up. Here. On a train somewhere between Austria and Slovakia.

  My brain runs through a million thoughts in just a couple of seconds. Do we have an extradition treaty with Austria? What about Slovakia? Of course we do – we’re in the EU. Would I be put into a local jail or sent straight back to the UK? How would I get a lawyer? How on earth can I explain running away from the scenes of two murders? Will all this circumstantial evidence be enough to convict me? Who the hell’s doing this? Why? Why?

  They’re all thoughts I’ve had over and over since finding Lisa’s body, but now they’re all coming at once, firing themselves into my consciousness, screaming and rattling around inside my skull. I can hear the blood pulsing in my ears, my heart trying to jump out of my mouth. My legs and arms trembling, filled with adrenaline.

  What will I do if he knocks on the door? Do I ignore it? No. He’ll know I’m there. There’s a tiny window, but it’s got a grille over it and there’s no way I’d be able to squeeze out anyway.

  I could open the door and jump him. Kick his head in. Get off at the next station and run. Judging by the current pattern, we can’t be more than about thirty seconds from the next stop.

  No, I should just sit and wait it out. If I jump him, that’ll be game over. They’ll be out looking for me, and they’ll know exactly where I am. As things stand, no-one can be certain where I am. Even I’m not entirely sure.

  I think about the recent migrant crisis in this part of Europe. Surely they’ll be even more vigilant with checking passports now? Hiding out in the toilets has to be a pretty common way for people to try smuggling themselves over borders. So many of the borders have already closed thanks to political pressure, and the ones that are open are far more hawk-eyed when it comes to checking passports and identities. I manage to comfort myself by remembering that the migrants are heading west through Europe, into Austria and Switzerland – not the other way. Might that make this guy less worried about checking everyone if he’s got to be super vigilant when the train’s going in the other direction? I hope so.

  Only a few seconds have passed, and I can hear his voice right outside the toilet now. He’s on the back row of seats, not far from where I was sitting.

  ‘Tickets and passports, please!’

  It sounds almost as if he’s calling it through the door to me. I look wide-eyed at the door lock, expecting to see it wiggle but willing it not to move. My heart is in my mouth and I realise I’m holding my breath again. My eyes start to mist up.

  And then I hear the anti-climactic whooshing of the doors into the next carriage and the familiar but fading voice of the inspector.

  ‘Tickets and passports, please!’

  38

  The train pulls into Bratislava at almost exactly two o’clock in the morning. The station’s quite impressive, an odd mixture of old Eastern bloc and modern glass. My first thoughts on leaving the building are that I’m actually pretty disappointed. It looks just like any other town or city: bus stops, zebra crossings and what looks to be a shopping centre on the other side of the road, almost completely made from glass. I don’t recognise any of the brands, but I presume one of them to be a gym. Tatra Banka, presumably, is a bank. Other than that I haven’t a clue.

  I turn left and walk a little further down the road, crossing over onto the shopping centre side of the road. At the end of the building is a familiar sign that leaves me chuckling: Tesco Express. My light chuckle becomes a chortle, then a belly laugh as I sit down on the brown brick steps outside the Tesco Express and let it all out.

  I feel like a lunatic. It’s two in the morning, there’s no-one around, and I’m sitting outside a Tesco Express in Slovakia, laughing and crying at the same time. The pure bizarreness of the situation makes me laugh even more. I don’t know how long I’m sat there, but by the time the feeling has subsided my stomach hurts like hell, as does my face and the two muscles that run from the base of my skull down the back of my neck.

  I look down at my bag and then up at my surroundings. And suddenly I realise this is all I’ve got in the world. This is now my home. I stand up, pick up my bag and start walking.

  The overriding thought in my mind is that I need to find somewhere to sleep. I had tried to get some rest on the train, but it was just impossible. My worries about someone jumping on at the next stop or suddenly recognising me were starting to take over. There was just no way I’d have been able to keep my eyes closed for more than about five seconds. I feel even more tired from the travelling and the almost constant adrenaline rushes, not to mention the amount of walking I’ve done over the past few days.

  That walking’s not something that’s going to stop any time soon, though, and I find myself criss-crossing the streets of Bratislava, trying to determine where I might be able to find a place to sleep. Thankfully, Slovakia’s in the eurozone so I can spend the currency I’ve already got on me. If I can find somewhere. In this part of Bratislava, it seems, absolutely everything is shut down for the night. Even the Tesco Express had ‘6–22h’ on a big sign outside it.

  I spot signs for the Danube and what I think refers to the city centre, and I follow them. It’s nearly an hour before I’ve worked my way through the streets and crossed the river onto the other side of Bratislava, which is definitely very much still alive. I can hear music from nightclubs and bars, even past three in the morning, and I remember a friend of mine telling me that was the European way: many people don’t even go out before midnight. Right now, though, I’m ready to sleep almost absolutely anywhere.

  It’s only a few more minutes before I spot a sign outside a building. It’s called Hostel Maria. It doesn’t look like the smartest place in the world, but right now I really don’t care. I just want somewhere to lay my head for the night. The tatty poster in the window advertises board at twenty euros a night. That seems pretty cheap to me, even for a place like this, and I wonder how long that poster’s been in the window. I just don’t care, though. They could charge me two hundred euros and I’d pay it. I wouldn’t have a whole lot left, but I’d pay it.

  That’s when I start to think of something else I’ve be
en repressing for a long time: I’m going to have to get some money from somewhere. I’ll deal with that in the morning, though. For now, I need to sleep.

  I walk up the steps and push open the door of Hostel Maria. The first thing I hear is women laughing. There’s a guy with a receding hairline, a large moustache and an even larger beer belly sitting behind a grotty desk, smoking a cigarette. He eyes me with suspicion.

  ‘Room?’ he barks. My first worry is that he can work out so quickly that I’m English.

  ‘Please,’ I reply, my voice hoarse. I realise it’s the first time I’ve spoken to anyone in hours.

  ‘Twenty euro,’ he says, holding out his hand. I put my hand in my pocket and take out a few notes. I hand him a twenty-euro one.

  ‘Private room, forty euro,’ he adds, not taking his eyes off of the rest of the cash in my hand.

  I think for a moment, then nod and hand him an extra twenty euros. He spins around on his chair, takes a key from a hook and hands it to me. ‘Room twelve. Up stairs, then right. At end.’

  I nod and pick up my bag before heading up the stairs and along the corridor.

  This place is revolting. The wallpaper’s peeling off the walls, there are stains of grease, dirt and God knows what else on the floors and ceilings and the whole place smells like smoke and something else I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s not a place I’d ever want to be in my life, but right now I’m pretty desperate.

  The open dormitory is at the other end of the corridor, to the left as I get to the top of the stairs, but I can still hear the laughter and noise coming from it. As I see room 12 in front of me, I wish it was just laughter I could hear. In a room somewhere on this corridor – I don’t know which, but it’s very close – a couple are having sex. Very noisy sex. I put the key in the lock and make a point of trying to make as much noise getting in the room as possible, but it’s no use. There’s no way in hell they’re going to be able to hear me. They sound like they’re having far too much fun.