Escape to Perdition--a gripping thriller!

by James Silvester

  He walked through the lounge and into the small kitchen, where a wooden table and two chairs had been set up; a faded tablecloth hastily thrown over it. Peter had cursed himself for the incident a few hours earlier which was now being displayed as the final item on news reports across both countries, leading him to turn his phone off to avoid the inevitable furious rebuke from Deprez. It had not been a big slip, and would probably not have resulted in any harm to Mirushka, but instead of taking the chance, Peter had opted to play the hero, with the consequence of having his face plastered across the media for the whole region to see. And when Mirushka had publically rewarded her ‘hero’ with an invitation to dinner, he had at least managed to whisper his insistence that it be in private. Though she had agreed, he was more than a little surprised to find himself swept up in the car on the two hour trip away from the snow to Bojnice, while the remainder of the entourage enjoyed the luxury of the Tatra resort.

  Sitting down, Peter looked up at Mirushka who stood at the stove, her back to him, toiling over a big pan of what smelled like cabbage soup.

  Hearing the scrape of his chair, Mirushka ladled big portions of the soup into bowls and placed them on the table. “It’s all very well dining in luxury with corrupt politicians and perverted diplomats more interested in what’s in my bra than the menu,” Mirushka sat down opposite Peter at the small rickety table, “but sometimes a girl likes to cook in her own kitchen, away from prying eyes.”

  Peter felt a pang of admonishment having enjoyed her form while the soup was cooking but judged by the mischievous smile on Mirushka’s face that she was teasing him. He grinned his own impish grin, thanked her for the soup and took a big spoonful. Having lived in this part of the world for so long, Peter was an aficionado and huge fan of the region’s cuisine and he smacked his lips as the hot, sour liquid went down.

  He looked up at the tired beauty of the woman sharing her meal with him. The make up was gone, her hair dishevelled and her face tired. The bags under her eyes betrayed her exhaustion and seeing Peter’s gaze she hung her head slightly, allowing her hair to mask her face. Peter still stared, admitting to himself that this was the most naturally beautiful woman he had ever known, and it struck him just how difficult political life must have been for her.

  Men like Herbert and Karol Černý were gentlemen of the old school, far above the tactics of others who would regularly barter career advancement for a little ‘close personal attention’. Peter finished chewing the chorizo in his mouth and swallowed. “It must have been difficult to get where you are now,” Peter voiced his thoughts matter-of-factly, “I expect there were a number of men jealous of you.”

  Mirushka swallowed a spoonful of her own soup and shrugged slightly. “I am not an apologist for laziness Peter nor do I blame all the evils in the world on white, middle class males, but it is true that being a woman in politics is hard.” She reached for the bottle of slivovice on the table and poured measures into the two glasses that had been waiting next to it; brushing her hair back from her face she offered one to Peter. “If you are plain and unattractive you are ignored, and if you are pretty people assume you are stupid and treat you like a model. They may just as well strip us naked and write ‘Vote For Me’ on our breasts.” She downed her shot and took a quick swallow of water to chase it. “And then there is always someone who thinks you will take him to Heaven in exchange for the key to the executive bathroom; if you say no pretty soon the newspapers are saying that you are a lesbian.”

  “That shouldn’t matter in this day and age.”

  “Unfortunately not everybody is so enlightened.”

  “Has that ever happened to you?”

  “Of course, back in the early days. I was an easy target. I have never married so it is easy enough for a journalist to insinuate things and make their little comments. But so what? I would rather be screwed by the press than by those pathetic little men.” Her last words were spoken in a quiet, bitter voice and Peter downed his own drink and picked up the bottle to refill their glasses. Mirushka took another spoonful of the soup and carried on, “But it was different with Herbert. Herbert was very, very kind.”

  “I’d never doubt that for a minute.” Peter responded. Mirushka put down her spoon and elaborated needlessly on the late man’s many qualities.

  “He was a strong leader,” she expressed, wanting to be sure that point was understood, “there was no favouritism with him, he only wanted the best for his country and the people who worked for him…” She tailed off, a tear forming in her eye which she fought to repress. Her reaction tugged at Peter’s barely controlled guilt and he quickly changed the subject.

  “What about Černý?” he asked. Mirushka took a deep breath and gave a tired laugh.

  “Ah, Karol, my dear Karol…” she shook her head smiling. “He is a good man Peter, a national hero. No-one could have asked more of him during the Spring, Herbert often spoke of his bravery. And during the Revolution it was his eloquence that helped Havel rouse our people.”

  “But?” Peter pressed, sensing she was holding back.

  “But…he is a little old fashioned,” she answered diplomatically, “he expected the Party to make him the senior partner in the leadership and the press calling him ‘the little girl’s lap dog’ has hurt his pride quite badly. He’s probably justified too, I know I would feel angry in his shoes.”

  With that she picked up her spoon again and continued eating her soup. Peter, without taking his eyes off her, tried to think of a way to assuage the guilt she felt over Černý’s treatment.

  “You deserve to be leader,” was all he could muster to which Mirushka gave a short, sardonic laugh.

  “Oh I don’t Peter, I really don’t,” she managed through a half full mouth. “Of all the things I deserve in life, to be leader of my country, to be his successor isn’t one of them.” Her voice was beginning to crack a little and Peter suddenly found he had lost his appetite. He had never been good at consoling women or understanding why compliments so often led to tears and he supposed it was useless to try and change that now. Instead he put down his spoon as quietly as possible and sat, awkwardly watching her, wondering what he should say or do next. Mirushka spared him that decision.

  “And what about you my big, strong hero?” She asked, the tear in her eye now returned with reinforcements, “What do you deserve in life?”

  The question threw Peter off balance. He knew precisely what he deserved in this world, and the next, but had no way of explaining that to the woman now weeping at the memory of his last victim. After a second or two’s composure he gave a small shrug.

  “Not my decision,” he answered, “I doubt I deserve very much of anything to be honest. We’ve all done bad things in our lives, handled things the wrong way; God knows I have. But maybe it’s not about the things we’ve done; maybe it’s about making the most of what we’ve got now. I hope so anyway. You might not think you deserve to be here Mirushka and maybe you don’t, I’m not going to try and change your mind. But you are here and maybe you should just accept that and do the best bloody job you can. You might not deserve it but this is where you are, and in my eyes you’re still the best person for the job.”

  Peter found himself pushing forward to lean close to Mirushka, his hand sub- consciously moving across the table toward her. She reached her own hand out to gently grasp it and lifted her cloudy eyes to his, her mischievousness showing behind them.

  “Miláčku.” She said.

  “What?” whispered Peter, his hand returning Mirushka’s intoxicating touch.

  “It means ‘Darling’,” she said, smiling at his puzzled face, “I wanted to call you my darling.”

  Peter knew exactly what he was doing. When he accepted Mirushka’s embrace, holding her head and returning her unrestrained kiss, he couldn’t be sure what was going through her mind. Infatuation? Misplaced gratitude? Perhaps an escape from the burden of expectation? But whatever it was, he knew for certain that his own thoughts were cl
ear and that he was doing this because he wanted to. As the pair fumbled in disorganised excitement, torn between passionate exploration and the careful undoing of buttons and zips, Peter knew precisely what to expect. Carrying her through the flat and into her bedroom, the guilt boiling in his gut failing to stop him in his tracks, Peter knew that her seeking an escape through him, would lead her to only one place, the place he willingly carried her to now; the inexorable road to hell.

  CHAPTER 10

  “I DIDN’T THINK YOU WORE LEATHER.” Rasti stood next to the seated and battered leather jacketed Peter who looked up and frowned.

  “I don’t generally hang around with arseholes either, but here I am.”

  The response was met with a huge laugh and the chef slammed two shot glasses and a bottle of familiar looking spirit on the table. Rasti stepped away to the bar for a moment and Peter took the opportunity to soak up the crackling twelve bar shuffle coming from the speakers. While each night at Smokin’ Hot was blessed with live acts, the restaurant honoured its ‘Blues Bar’ status by playing classic riffs and well blown harps from the tired old CD player behind the bar. The music relaxed him after the tedious six hour journey back to Prague, begun that morning when a rushed morning after conversation with Mirushka resulted in him being driven back for two days off while she remained for the day in Slovakia on government business, before heading back to join the campaign trail in Prague later.

  Even two days of semi-freedom were insufficient however to lift his spirits from the dung heap he found himself in. If befriending Herbert was a mistake then sleeping with Mirushka was a catastrophe, which would only ensure that Peter’s mission would become messier and his guilt more profound. He shuddered at the prospect and tried to force his mind elsewhere.

  Rasti returned, brow furrowed, scrutinising the front page of a much flicked through newspaper. Unfolding it in front of him, Peter found himself staring at his own face, cringing at the sentimental expression it wore while Mirushka’s visage beamed into it.

  “Hero of the hour….diligent aide….” Rasti muttered, clearly enjoying his friend’s squirming reaction. “You must be very proud.”

  “Piss off.”

  “I thought you worked for some EU thing, that ‘Institute’ you told me about? You never said you were a courtier to my uncrowned Queen.”

  “You never asked.”

  “True.” Rasti sat down opposite his friend, dropping the paper to the table and pulling a well-worn deck of cards from his pocket.

  “How can we play with just the two of us?”

  “We’ll manage; I want to get my money back for the champagne.”

  “She’s really something Rasti,” Peter half whispered knocking back a shot of Slivovice and clamping his gullet hard as it tried to reject the violently flavoured spirit.

  “I know she’s really something, “Rasti answered, completing his deal. “The woman of your dreams.” The Czech’s sarcasm radiated from him, extending even to the exaggerated manner in which he dealt the cards.

  Peter paused, his fingers touching the freshly dealt hand which lay face down on the varnished wooden table. “Why would you say that?”

  Rasti smiled and picked up his own cards. “Well she’d better be. Usually you only pull tourists you’ve picked up in here, or women you’ve met on the way home from here; you’re sex’s answer to a drive through takeaway. You light their cigarette with one hand and dial their taxi with the other. You can’t do that with this one…”

  Peter grinned like a schoolboy with a crush. Feeling a little sheepish he picked up and carefully examined his cards. “Aye, your right, she’s a wonder though that’s for sure.”

  Rasti lifted his eyes from the cards and smiled gently at his friend. Peter knew that despite Rasti’s wicked sense of humour and comic insults, his concern for Peter’s well being was genuine and palpable. He knew also that Rasti would be thinking that the drink and soft blues playing in the background had the power to sweep Peter into a depression he would be determined to prevent. Peter was grateful for the honest concern of a friend, even if the friend was ignorant as to the reasons behind Peter’s depression.

  Sure enough, Rasti attempted to probe the obvious distress that had showed on Peter’s face when he walked through the door.

  “So why did you walk in here looking like an undertaker with piles?”

  Peter shook his head in mock despair. “Do all Priests talk like you?”

  “Churches might be a bit fuller if they did, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Why do you think? She’s a world leader and I’m a…” He tailed off, not wanting or knowing how to end the sentence. “Anyway, work won’t be impressed with me.”

  “Ah, I see.” The big man threw a hundred koruna note to the table. “Office politics eh?”

  Peter frowned, “What would you know about office politics? You’re an ex-Priest and a half-arsed chef.”

  He threw down a hundred to match Rasti who looked at him with feigned offence.

  “I’ll have you know I’m an entirely arsed chef,” he said indignantly. “I just enjoy the company of my clientele out on the floor, that’s all. Spending time with you helps me realise how much I have to be grateful for. And anyway you’re not the only one who’s had a work place romance; I once had a fling with a nun.”

  Peter spat his spirit back into his glass. “A nun?! I thought you guys were supposed to be celibate!”

  Rasti looked defensive, “You try taking a vow of celibacy then going to work with virgins in sexy costumes and see how long you hold out. And anyway it wasn’t a big fling; we stayed friends… any raise?” Peter shook his head and Rasti picked up the deck in front of him. “How many?”

  “Three.” Rasti dealt them out and took one new card for himself. Peter checked again and grimaced as Rasti threw down a five hundred Koruna note. He covered and in reluctant deference to the game raised his friend another five hundred.

  “Anyway, I expect I’ll be firmly put in my place for getting too close,” Peter mused. “Work prefers me to keep my distance when I’m on assignment.”

  “You slept with her instead?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Was it worth it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Do you love her?”

  “What?”

  “Do you love her?” Rasti repeated his question and at once Peter saw his demeanour change to that of a hard line priest pushing to unearth the hidden sins of his flock. He groped for an answer. Did he love her? It had been so long since he had been in love he wasn’t even sure that he wanted to be again. Eventually he stumbled on an answer.

  “It’s impossible.”

  Rasti pressed on. “Impossible for you to feel love or impossible for you to be with her?”

  “Either, both..” Peter felt himself becoming flustered and felt a pang of shame at the responses he was giving. “Anyway, it’s not quite that simple mate.”

  The big Czech responded with a bellow of laughter. “Of course it is! If you love her, tell your ‘Institute’ that you are damn well going to be with her and they can stick their job up their arse if they don’t like it. You can get a job here if you need one; I could do with a new waiter.”

  Peter smiled and envied the simple outlook on life his friend could afford. It wasn’t that simple of course but Peter wished to God that it was.

  “Well, she’s probably not that into me anyway.”

  Another belly laugh. “The problem with you Peter is that you just don’t understand women.” Rasti matched Peter’s raise and sat pondering whether to raise further. “You have worse people skills than the Golem.”

  Peter was puzzled at the reference. “What’s he go to do with it?” he asked.

  “He’s over there now in the new synagogue. Undisturbed for centuries, a mindless lump of clay, but he knows more about women than you.”

  Peter thought this probably true and threw down a couple of notes to match his friend’s raise.
“Maybe we could go over there and ask him?” Peter pondered.

  Rasti frowned again, his eyes not leaving his cards. “Nah,” he said. “He’s Jewish, I’m a Catholic and you’re a lapsed Methodist, we probably wouldn’t get on.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” he asked, “I wasn’t going to ask him to sing Shine Jesus Shine.”

  “No,” said Rasti putting his cards face up on the table, “but the last time he met any gentiles they weren’t being particularly nice to his Jewish friends and I suspect he has a long memory. Plus I don’t want to have to fight a Golem while you mope around crying about girls. Cards.”

  Peter looked down to the table at the Full House staring back at him then back at the pair of Kings in his own hand. He dropped them to the table cursing his luck. “Bollocks!”

  Rasti scooped his winnings from the table. “Exactly,” he said, “the best hand I’ve had in weeks and it comes on a day when you’re being a little girl. I could’ve taken you to the cleaners if your mind had been on the game! You should never think about women during poker; I learned that at the seminary.”

  Peter’s eyebrows raised at the remark. “Are you sure you were a priest? What else did you get up to in between hustling cards and shagging nuns? Did you drown puppies in the vestry?”

  “I used to punch parishioners who thought they were too cool to fall in love. I’ve been meaning to get back in the habit.”