Hold Still – Tim Adler #3: A Psychological Thriller

by Tim Adler

  Kate watched her husband intervene, separating the arguing men. His cousin refused to give the camera over. She watched Paul reach for his wallet and coolly hand over a wad of notes. He caught Kate's eye and shrugged as if to say, "What else could I do?" Kate wondered what all the commotion had been about. What was so important about a small family funeral that it shouldn't be photographed?

  Chapter Two

  Xhengo knew the moment he opened his eyes that morning that they meant to kill him. That was why he had to get off this wretched coast. Surely there was one boat that could take him across the sea to Bari. But all the dinghies were wrapped up for winter, and the only sound was the gentle wind chimes from their rigging. Xhengo picked up speed, looking for any sign of life in this closed-up, out-of-season place, but there wasn't any. Even the brown-tipped palm trees sagging in the wind were dying. Everything here was dead.

  You don't just kill people in broad daylight, he reasoned. If only he could find somebody to be with, they would protect him. He thought about the bosomy softness of the blonde with dyed hair last night, and how he had fallen cringing into her arms. But she was the one who had betrayed him. If only he hadn't got drunk and shot his mouth off. The girl had sat there listening, nodding while he told her that Zogaj and his gang didn't scare him anymore – Xhengo was the big shot now, with friends in high places. They needed him more than he needed them, he said. Some big shot you are now, he thought. You sonofabitch, you drank all the money. The blonde had told him she needed the toilet, and he drained another brandy and coke while she was away. In one of Zogaj's own places. What a joke. A clean towel and a bar of soap and half an hour with the piggish blonde upstairs. She must have called them while he sat there bragging on the bar stool.

  They came for him early that morning.

  Xhengo was lying in bed gazing at the weird Tyrolean-forest photographic mural that took up one wall, feeling as if somebody had shat in his head. More knocking on the door. "Two men wanting to see you," the landlady said. If I just stay in this room they can't hurt me, he thought. His eyes felt wet with tears, and he did not want to face today. "Just a minute," he said, swinging his legs off the bed. The floorboard creaked as the landlady moved off downstairs.

  So they were here already.

  He caught sight of himself in the mirror, a frightened-looking man with watery blue eyes. A tortoise in a wig was what his ex-wife had called him. Carefully he opened the bedroom door, taking care to sidestep the giveaway floorboard, and peered over the banisters. He recognised the top of Sammy's head. The other man was a big stocky fella with a monobrow, who looked as if he never quite understood the question. For a moment Xhengo thought about going downstairs with his arms spread, pretending it had all been a big joke. Right then, Sammy's head whipped round and he gazed up at Xhengo, hate radiating from him, and Xhengo felt like a mongoose being hypnotised by a snake. "Come on upstairs, boys," Xhengo found himself saying.

  The heavy stood blocking the doorway like a solid piece of furniture. Sammy, the runt in the leather jacket who looked as if he would enjoy pulling legs off insects, stood in front of his large comrade.

  "Hello, Fation," he said. "We hear you've got some new friends."

  "What's this all about?"

  "Last night, in the bar. You said you'd been talking to the police."

  "You know me. I was just talking shit."

  "That's not what I heard."

  "I was just fucking with you. Look, boys, I've got no beef with you. I want to be your friend."

  Sammy sniggered as if he'd just got the punchline of a dirty joke. He turned to the other guy. "He says he wants to be our friend."

  Looking round, the wardrobe remarked, "This place is like living in a cuckoo clock."

  "You want us to be your friends, the police are your friends, I can't keep up," Sammy said flatly.

  "Look, boys, you don't want me. I want to get out, start a new life. I don't know anything."

  "Nobody ever leaves, you know that."

  Xhengo smiled queasily. "Is that a threat?"

  "I don't make threats. I make promises."

  Xhengo found it difficult to swallow, and the wallpaper seemed to be sagging in bilious hangover green. They all knew the real reason they were here, so why not get on with it? "What is it you want from me?"

  "We want you to come for a little ride. Zogaj wants to see you."

  "I heard Zogaj was dead."

  "You heard wrong."

  They drove through the suburbs of Tirana in their 4x4 Land Cruiser. Deeply hungover, Xhengo sat in the back seat, sweating and remorseful, convinced they would shoot him in the back of the head and dump him in an oil drum, or crucify him in an abattoir and use a cattle prod. They had done worse. Hell, he had even seen what they could do.

  The room they led him into was in complete darkness except for a desk lamp. The curtains were drawn. Sammy pushed Xhengo down into a hard chair facing a desk, where he sensed somebody was waiting. The lamp was turned towards him so he couldn't see the person's face. The room smelt musty, as if the windows hadn't been opened for a long time.

  "Hello, Fation," a voice said. A woman's voice.

  He put his hand up to his face, trying to see who was there. "I came to see Zogaj."

  "Is there anything you need? Are you thirsty? Hungry?"

  He ran his tongue over his lips. They felt cracked. "I could use a glass of water."

  "We hear you've been talking to people." Her voice was soothing and reasonable.

  "I told Sammy. The police called me in for questioning. They offered me a deal, said they'd pay me for information."

  "Become an informant, you mean."

  "I suppose so. Yes."

  "And why would you want to do that?"

  "You don't pay me enough. For what I do for you, I mean. If they caught me I could go to jail. It's not enough money."

  "There's never enough money."

  Xhengo squirmed in his seat. If only he didn't have this pounding headache. "The joke was on them. I took their money."

  "What did you tell them?"

  "Nothing much. A few names. They said they knew them already."

  "You crossed a line."

  Sammy nudged Xhengo's shoulder and handed him a tumbler. The water tasted funny, a little brackish, but he drained it anyway.

  "Thank you," he gasped, wiping his mouth.

  "We don't like people we can't count on."

  "I'm not well. I want to get out. You don't need me anymore."

  "Oh, but we do."

  "Why me? You'll find someone else."

  To his amazement and surprise, Sammy and the other man dropped him back home. All Xhengo could think about was getting out; he didn't want to have anything more to do with Zogaj and his whole stinking crew. Where was that detective when he needed protection? The stinking head's phone went through to voicemail every time Xhengo called. "Sure we'll protect you, give you a new identity," the detective had said as Xhengo drew a map of the organisation on the police station whiteboard. A new life. Dabbling his feet in the shore of the Ionian, some olive trees, a few goats. Yes, that was it. He was just a white-goods salesman, for goodness' sake.

  "Be seeing you," was the last thing Sammy had said as he turned on the steps. That was when Xhengo knew they were going to kill him.

  Two hours later and here he was, looking for a boat to get him away from the coast. Zogaj had eyes everywhere in the airport and docks. Xhengo was a dead man, he knew that now.

  The quay stretched out before him in the desolate seaside resort, the boats shrouded for winter. A deserted fairground was on his right, with a tarpaulined waltzer and a closed switchback ride with badly airbrushed portraits of the stars (Was that really Michael Jackson, he wondered). Ever since that interview, Xhengo had felt that something bad was happening out of the corner of his eye, just where he couldn't see it. He didn't feel well. You're just being paranoid, he thought, you've got to get a grip. A building was open ahead, thank God, an amusement ar
cade with a string of light bulbs swagged along the guttering.

  That was when he heard them.

  "Frey-end," Sammy called mockingly. "Frey-end." The wind swallowed up their words.

  "Leave me alone," Xhengo shouted back. "I've done nothing to you. Why can't you just leave me alone?"

  Sammy said something, and he and the other man started to laugh.

  A lumpy, bored-looking girl was sitting behind the booth in the arcade. Fruit machines whistled with cascading bloops and tinny explosions around them.

  "Please. You must help me. I'm being followed."

  The girl shrugged and turned back to her magazine.

  "You must help me. Call the police," Xhengo persisted.

  "I can give you change for the phone if you want."

  He placed his hand on the Perspex window separating them. To his surprise, the plastic seemed to bend as he pressed his fingers into it. What was happening to him? "I don't want to play any games," Xhengo pleaded.

  "So you can use the phone."

  "Where is the nearest phone?"

  "Dunno."

  Sammy and his muscle were threading their way through the arcade games and slot machines. Getting nearer. "Please," Xhengo begged.

  "Fation, there you are," Sammy said, slapping him on the back. His accomplice slipped his arm through Xhengo's, ready to lead him away. Sammy grinned and waggled his fingers, making the had-too-much-to-drink sign to the cashier. Something weird was definitely happening to him, Xhengo thought. The colours and noise had become intense, as if somebody had turned up the volume, and the greasy fried-food smell was unbearable. He had to get away before he was sick. Xhengo wrested his arm free and lurched outside, clattering down the metal steps.

  Both men followed, the big one and the short one, like a nightmare comedy act. They were relentless. His calves felt like they were bleeding as he staggered along the promenade. He had to get away. Why wasn't anybody helping? Couldn't they see what was happening? The fairground organ music swirled around him, up into the sky. It was becoming harder to run. Xhengo tittered. The whole ridiculousness of the situation struck him for the first time; I mean what did any of it matter when he could simply fly away to safety? I really can fly, he thought.

  The pedestrian walkway ended here, and the track narrowed to a rocky causeway. Up ahead, a castle seemed to be rippling in a heat haze. The rocky track was becoming gluey and unstable, and he had an irresistible urge to laugh his head off. Sammy and the other man were gaining and Xhengo looked down at his feet, where the stones seemed to be breathing. Somewhere far off in a corner of his mind, he knew the men had spiked his drink. Fascinated, despite himself, he dropped to his knees to study the rocks more deeply. The pebbles had whorls in them that seemed terribly important, that contained a tantalising secret just out of reach, a message that would unlock everything. Xhengo looked up. There, straight ahead, was the blessed sight of a waiting police car. Thank God he was safe. Except that now he couldn't walk. He sat on his haunches rocking with laughter as the gangsters caught up with him. Everything was so killingly funny. He was laughing so hard he thought he was going to vomit. Fairground organ music swirled around him. All he wanted to do was dabble his feet in the water. You don't just kill people in broad daylight, he told himself. Boots crunched right up beside him and Sammy looked down, blocking the tepid winter sun. "Funny guy, it's time to go home," the little man said.

  Chapter Three

  Now that the funeral was over, Kate hoped her husband could relax. She reminded him that he'd promised to show her around the city again. Paul said he would try and make time, work permitting, barely looking up from his mobile phone. Kate felt resentful at always having to compete with the wretched thing.

  Their taxi was following the line of cars back to Tirana, and she reached for his hand again.

  "Paul," she said. "You know you can talk to me about anything, don't you?"

  "Yes, I know that."

  "I mean, if anything was wrong you would tell me, wouldn't you?"

  "Oh, for God's sake," said Paul, snatching his hand back. "I keep telling you, there's nothing wrong."

  Stung, Kate persisted. "Look, I know you're worried about the business, but you've got to keep the faith. We're in a recession. Everybody's in the same boat. I could go back to work full-time if you want me to. John Lewis is looking for people."

  "Please. Just drop it. It's not just the business, it's everything to do with my uncle. It's all on my shoulders. There's going to be a lot of sorting out to do over the next few days."

  The rest of the journey was spent in resentful silence. Rain drummed on the taxi roof and Kate listened to the thock of the windscreen wipers, feeling hurt and confused. Why was this all on Paul's shoulders? What about his large family? Couldn't they take some of the responsibility?

  Eventually they pulled up outside the block of flats Paul had grown up in. It was a ratty, bombed-out Communist-era block that looked either half-built or abandoned. Washing draped over balconies. A tangle of sagging wires. Paul ran round and opened the car door for Kate. The rain had become torrential, turning the gulch that ran through the middle of the potholed street into a stream. Kate's tights got soaked as she ran towards the entrance.

  Inside was even worse. The staircase had a raw, unfinished look, as if hand-to-hand fighting had only just ended. Broken tiles. Rough, slapped-together concrete. So this was where her husband had spent his childhood; clearly Paul's father had not left the family much money. She felt truly sorry for him, only now understanding how poverty-stricken he had been.

  The couple trudged up five flights of stairs to where Paul's aunt and his mother were receiving guests. The two women sat in overstuffed leather armchairs while people leaned down and whispered. Not speaking Albanian, Kate felt left out. Her attention wandered to a painting on the wall above the sofa; it showed a young man dressed in partisan uniform with mountains behind him. Half-turned away, he had a wistful quality, as if he was already saying goodbye. But what really struck her was his haunted expression. He and Paul had the same eyes.

  "He doesn't look long for this world, does he?" said Paul, handing her a drink.

  "Who was he?"

  "My grandfather, who died fighting the Nazis. He was shot in the mountains trying to stop the Germans invading Tirana. He never liked Hoxha, apparently. Said he was a tyrant. Turned out he was right."

  Enver Hoxha was the dictator who had made Albania one of the most paranoid countries on Earth. The countryside was pustulated with thousands of cement bunkers, waiting for an invasion that never came. You saw them on the hillsides outside the city.

  Paul got back on his mobile phone the moment they returned to their hotel. It was already dark outside. Kate left him downstairs, pacing and gesticulating. Honestly, he was never off the thing; it was like the third person in their marriage. Kate went upstairs and took off her hat, placing it on the bed. She hated arguing. A marriage going well is the closest any of us know of ecstasy, she thought. A relationship that had soured was a living hell, a burning bed.

  She took her iPhone from the dressing table, opened the French windows and stepped outside. It was evening now and blustery, although the rain had stopped. She snapped away at the buildings and at the people in the café across the square. Some hardy folk were sitting outside. A waiter threaded about, rearranging chairs and wiping a table. Suddenly there was a boom overhead and Kate looked up to see phosphorescent firework trails crackling and fizzing into nothingness. This was the White Night Paul had told her about, when Albanians celebrated victory over the Nazis. There was another explosion, this time a pulsing red-and-blue jellyfish.

  She heard Paul come into the room and braced herself for another argument. Kate tried to remember the last time they had been happy. She turned to face him.

  "Fireworks. Look," he said.

  He stood by the bed with remorse on his face. "Kate, I'm sorry. I'm sorry about arguing in the car. You were right. Everybody wants a part of me. I feel
like one of those rubber dolls with stretchy arms, and my arms are being stretched tighter and tighter."

  Those were the soft words she needed to hear. She took his hands. "It's okay. You don't need to fight me. I'm in your corner."

  "I don't know what I'd do without you. You know that."

  They kissed tentatively and then again, this time deeper. Paul's tongue opened her mouth and his hands dropped to her breasts. He pulled her close, and she could tell how hungry he was. Part of her resisted, still angry with him, while another part wanted the healing to begin. They hadn't had sex for weeks. Paul had been impotent the last time they'd tried, blaming work stress. His hands cupped her buttocks and she felt his erection through his trousers. She was getting wet. He roughly hitched up her dress and slid his finger into her knickers, touching her clitoris. She wanted him badly now. "Come over here," he said thickly, leading her by the hand to the bed.

  Afterward, Kate felt sated and happy, as if the world had clicked back into place. A peaceful kind of sleepiness came over her. Paul lay flat on top of her, and she could feel his sticky erection shrink up. Her stomach was damp with sweat and she felt his cum leaking out of her, but she didn't want to move just yet. Instead, she gazed at her husband, whose eyes were closed. He had a lean face and his expression was often amused and a little wry. When they first met at her degree show, she had wondered if he was gay. "Fey" was the word the Scots used. He had worn his hair in a pony-tail then. His face was rounder now, and he had put on a little weight each year of their marriage. She still thought he was beautiful, though. In her mind's eye he would always be twenty-three, like one of those Bonnard paintings where the artist depicted his wife as a young woman, even when she was elderly. Her mind wandered to what their first child would be like. Her girlfriends had started having babies, and she felt jealous every time somebody updated her Facebook status with a new arrival. Her doctor had told her she could postpone having a baby until she was in her forties, but she was starting to wonder if it was true. She had stopped using the pill without telling Paul, afraid that her fertility was ebbing. Would this be the moment it happened?