Walk in Silence

by J. G. Sinclair

  Walk in Silence

  J. G. SINCLAIR

  Table of Contents

  LandingPage

  Epigraph

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Also by J. G. Sinclair

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  For Shauna, Eva and Anna.

  To my dad –

  ‘Yer some man for one man, big-man,

  by the way, n’at, know.’

  All things by immortal power,

  Near or far,

  Hiddenly

  To each other linkèd are,

  That thou canst not stir a flower

  Without troubling of a star;

  Francis Thompson

  One

  ‘The birds are singing again, draw back the curtains.’

  ‘I think there’s still someone in there.’

  ‘They left over an hour ago.’

  ‘I just heard a voice.’

  ‘You didn’t hear anything. They’re gone. Draw back the curtains and let what’s left of the day in.’ Rozafa was in her late seventies. Her face – thin and dry – buckled inward along the line of a toothless mouth. Her hair – swept up in a loose bun – looked like a small stack of ashen hay sitting on top of her head. The old woman broke open the shotgun she was holding, pulled both cartridges from the barrels and placed them back in the box of shells resting on the arm of her chair. ‘I saw two ravens leave the trees out back,’ she continued, ‘carrying the souls of the dead away.’

  ‘There were six shots.’

  ‘Sure, but only two souls got taken. Birds fell silent at the first pull of the trigger and didn’t make a sound till all the shooting was done, did you notice that?’

  Rozafa’s daughter Lule stood near the window of the small cottage, head bowed, staring at the floor. ‘I wasn’t listening to the birds.’

  ‘They know things.’

  ‘Why’re you putting the shotgun away?’

  ‘The men are gone. Watched them climb into their car and head off down the hill. Four of them – not in any hurry, either. Big white car – threw up a cloud of dust.’

  ‘Watched from where?’

  ‘Side of the house.’

  ‘They might have seen you.’

  ‘They weren’t looking. You have the sickness in your mind where you think everyone’s watching you. If they were coming for you they’d have been in here by now and the birds would have another two souls to take with them.’

  Rozafa lifted a sheet of oiled linen draped over the back of the chair and carefully folded it over and around the shotgun. ‘When I’m finished we can walk down to the village and call the Policia.’

  ‘Stop talking crazy, we can’t let anyone know we were here when this happened. No one.’

  ‘We won’t call from here, we’ll phone from the village. Open the curtains.’

  ‘It’s already dark.’

  Rozafa threw her a look and waited.

  As Lule drew the drapes aside she noticed the remains of a spider’s web stretched across the corner of the window frame, its thin strands dusted with specks of dry, sandy soil – thrown skyward by the wheels of the departing car. She stopped and stared, wondering how – having lost everything – the spider would find the strength to start again.

  That was when she saw him, the young boy Ermir – from the house next door – staring at her through the dingy pane of glass, his face covered in blood.

  Two

  Keira Lynch pulled herself onto the edge of the swimming pool and drew a large bath towel over her shoulders. She’d lost count of how many lengths she’d swum, but she was out of breath so figured she’d either done more than usual or she wasn’t as fit as she’d thought. The view from the Hotel Shkop’s poolside deck stretched out across the deep blue Adriatic, revealing the curve of the earth. The early morning sun was showing just above the horizon, but she could already feel its warmth on her face.

  Keira had arrived in Durrës late the night before. Her room – a superior double with a balcony overlooking the sea – was fresh, modern and a third of the price of anything in mainland Europe. Except for the occasional glow emanating from ships passing far out to sea it had been too dark to see much beyond the lights of the poolside area below. The light breeze had carried with it an aroma of fried fish, garlic and spices. She could hear the waves lapping along the distant shoreline and a gabble of voices drifting up from a promenade that separated the hotel from the beach. After emptying the minibar of four cold beers and smoking a couple of roll-ups on the balcony, she’d gone back inside, lain down on the bed and tried to sleep. The New York Times listed Albania as one of the top four holiday destinations in the world but Keira wasn’t there on holiday.

  ‘Lady, your visitor has arrived. You would like him out here or are you come in?’

  An older guy wearing the Hotel Shkop’s light cream and brown staff uniform was standing over her, checking out the scars on her wrist and the small circular areas of raised tissue on her shoulder and side.

  The guy didn’t seem too fussed that she’d caught him staring.

  ‘They’re bullet wounds,’ said Keira.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Everyone in Albania has gun. We have lot of holes in us here. I have a cousin they call the Sieve.’

  ‘Where are yours?’

  ‘Not me. I’m not having any, but my son he was in the army, the stabilisation force in Bosnia. NATO. He got shot.’

  ‘Did he survive?’

  ‘Sure he’s okay. Got hit in the leg and gives him small limp. He’s in the Policia now. Was tired fighting everyone else’s battles. You married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If you want to meet him you let me know. He’s handsome boy.’

  ‘As good-looking as his dad?’

  The old guy smiled. ‘When they made me they used up all the handsome. My son only got what was left. You are pretty, like a true Zana. I think you’d get on. How long are you stay, I’ll bring you photograph.’

  ‘I’m fine thanks. I’m only here for a few days. What’s a Zana?’

  ‘It is the Mountain Fairy. But you don’t come across that many with bullet wounds. You don’t look like the type of woman who gets herself shot, what is happened?’

  ‘Does anyone look like the type to get themselves shot?’

  ‘Sure. I know plenty that would be better off with a bullet in the head. One day you will tell me the story, yes? Maybe you’re the crazy woman. Is that why people shoot you?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘My name is Xhon. Is pronounced like your John but spelt with an X. Every time you say it, it comes with a kiss.’

  He’d obviously used the line plenty times before, but Keira smiled like it was still fresh.

  ‘What would you like I say to your guest, Zana?’

  ‘I’ll come inside.’


  She pointed at her clothes on a nearby lounger. ‘I’ll dress and come inside, yes?’

  John-with-a-kiss shook his head like he didn’t understand, smiled and left.

  *

  Keira appeared at the far end of the hotel lobby wearing faded, skinny jeans cut just above the ankles, a loose crocheted, cream top and a pair of scuffed Gommino loafers in black patent. She felt good after her swim.

  Daud Pasha was smaller than Keira had imagined. She’d only heard his voice over the phone, but had it in her head that he was a big guy. His tawny Mediterranean skin, shaded by a few days growth of dark stubble, did nothing to soften the angular features of his face and shallow, lazy eyes. When he stood to greet her he brought with him an unpleasant waft of stale tobacco and sweat. The suit draped over his bony shoulders looked like it didn’t belong to him.

  Keira extended her hand to greet him. ‘Mister Pasha? Unë quhem Keira.’

  ‘D’you speak Albanian?’

  ‘Just a few guidebook phrases. “My name is,” and “Can I have another beer?” What else d’you need?’

  ‘You are not . . . how in my head I see you. Much prettier . . . and in great shape.’

  ‘You’re not what I imagined either,’ replied Keira, ‘If you want to sue your tailor I know some people could help you out.’

  ‘You don’t like my suit?’

  ‘I didn’t say I didn’t like it. I’m saying it could probably fit you better. Did you borrow it from your big brother especially for today’s meeting?’

  ‘Why are you mentioning my suit?’

  ‘The same reason you’re mentioning my appearance.’

  Daud Pasha gave her a thin smile and changed the subject. ‘You want breakfast?’

  ‘I’ve already eaten,’ replied Keira, ‘But if you want something I’m happy to take a seat.’

  ‘No, I’m thinking we go. It is a long drive.’

  ‘I have a hire car. I thought I could follow you.’

  ‘It is better we go together. The driving in Albania is a little crazy. Also we can talk on the way.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘We discuss on phone the money. You can bring this with you?’

  ‘In my country you don’t usually pay until the job is done.’

  Daud Pasha’s shoulders drooped and he clicked his teeth like some cheap villain in a cowboy movie. He looked around, slowly surveying the scene, then delivered his bit-part line. ‘We ain’t in your country.’

  Keira had sat in too many interview rooms with guys far tougher than Daud Pasha to react with anything other than complacency. ‘You’ve adopted other countries’ customs like saying “ain’t” instead of “are not”. You sure you don’t want to give the “I’ll pay you when the job’s done” custom a try too?’

  ‘Lady, I’m not go anywhere without first I have some money. Is like a deposit. If you are not happy, at the end then I give you it back. I explain already, this is the finder’s fee.’

  ‘What if you’ve found the wrong boy?’

  ‘Is not the wrong boy. You will see this.’

  ‘I can give you half of it now and the rest when we get back. Is that okay?’

  Daud Pasha stared at the floor, shrugged and said, ‘Maybe . . . I think this is okay,’ in a way that suggested it wasn’t. ‘When we confirm it’s the boy you will give me the rest, yes?’

  ‘If we’re certain it’s the right boy.’

  ‘I’m not ask you to come all this way if there is mistake.’

  Pasha stayed where he was, waiting for her to hand over half the money before he’d lift his skinny frame up out of the chair.

  Keira took a folded envelope full of euros from her pocket and passed it to him. She’d been expecting to pay something today, but not just moments after they’d met. Pasha took the folded bills from the envelope and started to count. When he’d finished he made another clicking noise with his tongue – like it would have to do – then placed the cash in an inside jacket pocket.

  As she followed him through the hotel’s deserted lobby towards the exit, Keira had already made her mind up she didn’t like him.

  Across the street from the hotel sat a Mercedes 420se W126 in black with an overweight guy in the driver seat, window down, drawing on a cigarette. As Daud and Keira climbed into the back he pinched the lit end between his stubby fingers before pocketing what was left and starting the engine.

  ‘This is Fat-Joe Jesus. His name is Fatjo. In Albanian, this means “our fortune”, like, “our good luck”, but he has no luck at all so we say, Fatjo i cili nuk është me fat.’

  Hearing his name, Fatjo caught Keira in the rear-view mirror and nodded before pushing the gearshift into drive and pulling away from the kerb.

  ‘It means “Fatjo who is not lucky”. So we call him just Fat-Joe Jesus.’

  ‘Must have taken a while to think that up. The Fat-Joe bit I get, but why “Jesus”?’

  Daud Pasha didn’t answer. He was staring out the window, not paying attention. ‘You have flown over from England?’

  ‘Scotland. I travelled from Glasgow.’

  ‘This is where you live?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Fat-Joe Jesus glanced over his shoulder and spoke for the first time. ‘Mogwai.’

  Keira nodded. ‘Yes, home of Mogwai.’

  ‘You like?’

  ‘I love.’

  ‘Favourite album?’

  ‘Young Team.’

  ‘Track?’

  ‘“Mogwai Fear Satan”.’

  ‘You have watched live in concert?’

  ‘A few times.’

  ‘Loud, huh?’ A small smile spread wide over Fat-Joe Jesus’s face, ‘You can still hear what I’m saying?’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that,’ replied Keira.

  Fat-Joe Jesus’s shoulders started shaking up and down. ‘“I didn’t catch that”, she says. Ha ha, you hear, Mister Pasha? She makes the joke,’ he said, shaking his head in approval. ‘You’re okay, lady.’

  Keira stared out of the window at the small-town bustle. The centre of Durrës was much more built up than she had imagined. Modern concrete apartment blocks rising seven or eight storeys high, sat at odds with some of the older colonial buildings, all of them covered in satellite dishes. Wide avenues full of cars gave way to smaller streets laced with telephone cables. The pavements were lined with market stalls selling everything from fruit and vegetables to rugs and electrical goods.

  The traffic ahead was being held up by an old man leading an ox tethered to a wooden cart along the centre lane of the busy road. An elderly woman wearing a rich blue headscarf sat slumped like a sack of black cloth near the edge of the pavement, weaving a basket of wicker as though she’d been sitting there since the Middle Ages.

  Everywhere Keira looked was a mess of colour and noise.

  Nearing the outskirts of the town, Fat-Joe cut a junction, narrowly avoiding a collision. Daud caught Keira’s reaction and said, ‘We have only had cars in Albania since nineteen ninety-two. Most people still think they are on a horse and cart.’

  ‘You’ve only had cars for twenty-odd years?’

  ‘Yes – cars, but not yet the roads. In most countries you get stopped by the police if you are swerving all over the road. Here the roads are so bad they pull you over if you are driving in a straight line. Only drunks drive in a straight line in Albania.’

  Daud Pasha left it for a few moments, then started again.

  ‘So what is it that is so special about the boy?’

  ‘There’s nothing special about the boy. It’s his circumstances that mark him out.’

  Daud waited for Keira to continue, but that was all she was giving him.

  ‘Okay, so why this kid?’

  ‘I owe his mother.’

  ‘But she’s dead, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘We going to be in the car for a while. I’m a good listener
.’

  ‘I’m not a good talker,’ replied Keira. ‘If I’m not staring out the windscreen with my hands on the steering wheel I get travel sick. Best I just concentrate on keeping my breakfast down.’

  Fat-Joe Jesus suddenly swerved to the left and brought the car skidding to a halt in front of the oncoming traffic. Keira had to brace herself to avoid falling on top of Daud, who had smacked his head against the side window.

  He leant forward, giving Fat-Joe a hard time, Fat-Joe waving his arms around and giving some of it back to Pasha.

  The street around them filled with the sound of horns blowing as cars tried to navigate their way round the stalled Mercedes.

  One car drew alongside; the driver, window down, was shouting at Fat-Joe.

  Keira saw Fat-Joe Jesus pull something from inside his jacket and point it out of the window.

  Just as quickly as the other driver had drawn to a halt, he screeched off down the road again.

  After two more failed attempts Fat-Joe managed to start the engine and swing the car back on to the right side of the road.

  Daud was glaring at him from the back seat. Eventually he turned to Keira with a forced smile. ‘Fat-Joe says we have swerved because the manhole cover was missing in the road. Says we’re lucky we are not driving in the goddamn sewer now. I tell the son of a bitch he’s falling asleep at the wheel.’

  Keira wasn’t listening. Her view had been partially obscured, but she was sure Fat-Joe Jesus had just pulled a gun on the other driver.

  Three

  Forty kilometres south of Durrës the black Mercedes took a slip road off the busy motorway and swung left onto Rruga Beklehem: a route that followed the course of the river Shkumbin towards the market town of Peqin. Fat-Joe steered the car left and started to climb a steep dirt track just wide enough to take the Merc.

  A screed bank fell away to the right, but as they climbed, the barren slopes soon gave way to thick vegetation.

  Eventually they came to a halt outside a solitary worker’s cottage nestled in the lee of the surrounding hillside. The cottage had a collection of grey, broken timbers leaning against the far gable: the remnants of a garage or outbuilding that had collapsed from old age.