Blood From A Shadow (2012)

by Gerard Cappa

“No”, I said. Turned the cellphone off.

  She kept measuring my eyes after the light died and we were shadows again. I didn’t meet her stare, just kept watch on the club exit.

  A door opened, thumping beats and light escaped, laughter and voices splintered towards us. Two fat middle-aged men, two young blond women, teetered towards the apartments.

  “These are Russian whores, do not know the men, they not look like Mafya,” she said.

  Didar knew about men. These two were English, very loud and very drunk, looked like they were merrily AWOL from their trade mission, free to fool themselves.

  “These Gavur men,” she shook her head, “no money left to pay in morning. Mafya will eat them.”

  I watched the first girl press a buzzer on the security gate, it opened without interrogation from the control point, probably back in the busy club. Same again at the door to the apartment block, the greedy men hurrying the girls along. A light over the doorway activated when the door opened. No doubt a CCTV recording the night’s procession. I would get in easily, no one would expect that security here would be tested, no one would dare displease the Mafya.

  Five minutes later the volume exploded as the back door from the club opened again. No voices this time. I pulled Didar further back into the darkness, a man and woman merged as a single form, entwined, walking slowly to the security gate, it pinged open before he pushed the button. I strained to see them. A blond woman, tall even without her heels. A dark man, middle-aged but athletic. He held open the apartment door, the outside light snapped alive.

  Conroy and Kaffa.

  “Fuck!” I half whispered.

  “This not Russian whore,” Didar said, “This is your woman, this American lady?”

  I didn’t answer, just tightened my grip on her wrist, needed space to think this through.

  Conroy and Kaffa, and not just on duty either, wrapped around each other, oozing their way into this place. Did Conroy know what she was doing, where she was?

  “Gavur, this one is your woman, I know this thing. Why you tell so many lies, you think I am stupid?”

  I didn’t answer, felt the sensation return, pushed it away with the breathing exercises, steady, don’t fall back now.

  The club door opened, another party coming out, four women, four men. I let them pass, then linked arms with Didar and followed, ten feet behind. The light in a top floor apartment flashed above me, Conroy on the balcony, leaning against the railings, smoking, looking across the Bosphorus. The party opened the security gate, I caught it before it clanged closed. A girl held the door to the apartment for us, looked at Didar, started to say something, but was pulled away by an eager man. I let them take the escalator, stood Didar in a dark recess leading to a storeroom, and started up the stairs.

  I turned the light off in the corridor, and placed my ear against the door. Music, and quiet laughter. I knocked the door firmly with the butt of the pistol. The music stopped, feet eclipsed the light leaking under the door. Rapped again. There was a security spyhole in the door, I pressed against the wall, they couldn’t see me. The door handle started to turn, Conroy said “Yes?” to the blackness, I kicked the door handle hard and she stumbled back, fell to one knee, groped for balance. Kaffa was reclined on the bed, fizzing Champagne in hand, but reacted without hesitation, jumped to his feet, spilled the drink over Conroy’s jacket and skirt, draped over the bedside chair.

  “Maknazpy, what the fuck do you think you are doing!” Conroy shouted, rising to her feet again, reaching for her purse. Two steps forward and I kicked the purse out of her hand, the contents spread over the floor, I pulled the Rami at Kaffa’s torso. He was cool, dismissive even.

  “Con, my friend, you disappoint me. I thought we understood each other, we would co-operate,” he said.

  “Looks like you and Conroy are doing plenty co-operation, Mehmet. What’s she doing, giving you some of her special therapy? I wouldn’t recommend it, look what happened to me!” I said.

  “I think we all know you had your issues before you ever joined the army,” Conroy said. “I tried to help you, I still am trying, but you sure as hell don’t make it easy. Do you realise what you have done, Con, do you realise the consequences?”

  Mehmet slowly buttoned his shirt, fixed his cuff links, checked himself in the mirror behind me.

  “Well, first of all I’m going to find McErlane’s killers for payback. Then I’m going to complete my mission. Before that, you two are going to tell me what is going on here. Like, why are you in Istanbul, Flo? If it’s just pleasure, then fine, no problem. But I doubt it. How come I wasn’t told you would be here?”

  They looked at each other, Kaffa moved across the room so that I was in between them. I backed towards the corner, keeping them in line. Conroy stepped onto the balcony, took her cigarettes and lighter from the table, Kaffa lit her cigarette.

  “We all have our jobs to do, Sergeant Maknazpy,” she said. “There’s a bigger picture you don’t need to know about right now. Don’t assume that everything revolves around you, that’s not how things work in the real world, Ok? You really need to work on that Con, it isn’t all about you.”

  She started to get dressed, Kaffa lifted his cellphone from the bedside table.

  “I am offended, my friend,” Kaffa said. “I thought you had some respect for me, but as soon as I leave you, you launch into Aksaray like a one man death squad. This is not Iraq, Con, you cannot treat my country like this. I am afraid you leave me no option but to have you arrested on suspicion of the murder of these Turkish citizens.”

  “Put the cellphone down, Mehmet, you aren’t speaking to anyone until you speak to me, ok?” I said.

  Conroy stooped and lifted her iPhone, started to record.

  “Put that down, Florencita, or I’ll blow it to fuck!” I said.

  Kaffa tapped the keypad.

  “Mehmet, I mean it! Put the fucking phone down! I’ll shoot if I have to, believe me, for fuck’s sake!” I shouted.

  “I do believe you, my friend. But I must do my duty, you know that. If you wish to kill me, then at least I will die upholding the law and honor of Turkey. You understand that, surely?” he murmured.

  “Con, drop the gun, it’s over!” Conroy shouted. “You murdered two men in cold blood today, for Christ’s sake! You can’t expect to get away with that here. Mehmet will do what he can for you. I’ll help you, but you took it too far, Con, you should never have been sent here, you are unstable, I told them that!”

  Kaffa issued his orders quietly, his tranquil face showed no fear. The four cops in the cars outside would be up here in minutes. I was at the same point as the Big Para had been in Belfast, fight or retreat.

  I pushed Conroy into Kaffa and slammed the door behind me, made the stairwell and jumped down, three steps at a time. I had to get Didar out of there before the cops reached the security gate, then I would have a good chance. I reached the last turn in the stairwell, Didar heard me and came out of the darkness, then BOOM! A gunshot from above amplified in the stairwell. I ducked, thought Kaffa was behind me, then two more in quick succession, BOOM! BOOM! But they came from up above. Didar came up the steps to pull me away, then another single shot, BOOM!

  I jumped to the front door, pushed the manual lock, so the door couldn’t be opened from the club. I grabbed Didar by the wrist and started up the stairwell again. The two fat Englishmen peeped out from the door of their apartment on the top floor, as I dragged Didar past. Everyone else kept their doors closed.

  The door to Conroy’s room was open, I went in with the pistol in the firing position. The unmistakable smell of gunfire and flesh scorched by bullets. Kaffa lay face down beside the bed, a pool of blood still gurgling across the luxury carpet. The back of his head was red slush, two more bullets in his back. No sign of Conroy, not behind the bed, not in the bathroom, not on the balcony or down below. No clothes or purse, nothing to say she had ever been there, except her cigarette lighter in Kaffa’s dead hand.

 
; Didar was shaking, couldn’t speak, couldn’t not look. I grabbed her again and dragged her away, stumbled out, had to get away. Back in the corridor, there was a door at the far end with a green fluorescent sign, “acil cikis”. She was crying now, almost unable to stand, but I trailed her along, hit the door and out to a fire escape, traced down the exterior wall. We rattled down the metal steps, no time to tip-toe, hoped Kaffa’s cops weren’t waiting below. No sign of Conroy down there, everything black. Near the bottom, could see the security wall enclosed the back of the block, but a heavy bin was wedged in one corner. Got down there, pushed lifted Didar on to the bin, jumped beside her, vaulted on to the wall and pulled her after me. The drop was about eight or nine feet, lowered her most of the way by her wrists, then jumped down myself.

  We followed the perimeter wall until it met the fence from the next building, I crept forward so I could see the front of the apartment block. Three cops were stuck at the security gate, another one was hammering and shouting at the closed back door of the club. I retraced my steps, collected Didar, then followed the fence until we were behind the Manhattan Carpet Shop. We climbed over and were in the car before Kaffa was found. I turned the car, very slowly, and rolled back onto Ciragan Cadessi, then drove steadily back down past the Bosphorus Bridge. I had nowhere else to go now except Tarlabasai. Get there first, Didar could hide me, then I could start to work out my next move. She was still in shock, but she was tough, would soon recover. As soon as I heard or saw sirens in the distance, I would turn off the main road and snake my way back through the neighborhoods that threaded this part of Istanbul together.

  She didn’t deserve it, but first on my list was to rescue Conroy, if she was still alive. There was no sign that she had been hit, but there had been four shots, Kaffa only caught three. I hoped she was out here somewhere, if so, I would find her. For now, all I had was her cigarette lighter. I rotated it in my left hand, feeling it, sensing that her hands had felt it, that she had left something of herself on it, this polished silver lighter, with “Berlin 1989” engraved above a broken wall.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I kept heading east until Didar got her bearings, once we hit Taksim Square, she knew where we were. We ditched Dimitri’s car back outside his Sarisin Kizi Bar, Didar dropped the keys through the box. After that we were on the backstreets again, no police here, sometimes no working streetlights, just condensed shapes and outlines that merged and repelled, re-emerging when our tattoo’d steps faded to a ruffle.

  We surfaced into a ghost street, derelict houses behind chainlink fences, rows of yellow concrete barriers along the sidewalk, this area was in quarantine.

  “The city makes new buildings here. The people must go,” she said.

  Down another alleyway, no lights, and she pulled me into a hallway, damp and musty, before taking the stairs. Up four floors, water dripping and running, paint flaking, scaled claws scurrying. Then the last door, inside, and a feeble electric bulb flickered shadows around the room. Cold, and miserable, a table and two wooden chairs, a stove and a sink. Along the wall a heap of blankets covered a sofabed.

  Didar moved me towards the light and leant over the sofabed, shook the heap and spoke softly to her mother, as she roused from her slumber.

  The mother was probably about the same vintage as Sarah McErlane, but her defeated life was inscribed in her face, a premature epitaph. At a stretch, I could imagine that she must have enjoyed the same striking beauty and fire as Didar in her first bloom, but this had become corroded, withered in this hothouse half-life. Didar would waste to this too, when her spirit was eventually crushed, if she did not escape soon.

  The woman slept with her clothes on, and was on her feet to make the hot, sweet tea for her daughter and her client as usual. They chattered in their own language about me in clipped, high pitched phrases, before the mother set down her cups and strained to read me in the thin light. She didn’t like what she saw, erupted in agitated shrieks and cries, shook her head and covered her eyes. Didar shouted at her, then shoved her into the only bedroom, and shouted some more behind the closed door. Didar came out but the mother stayed in there, still murmuring and mumbling. I thought I heard the click of beads, as if Artie was holed up in there, and she performed a similar rhythmic chant to his.

  “My mother say you carry ghosts with you, bad spirits. She afraid these spirits trap me also,” she giggled in her attractive way. “I am sorry, Gavur, she is foolish old woman. Do not be angry with her.”

  Maybe not so foolish. Plenty of people were out to trap me, and as long as Didar stuck around, she would be in their sights too. But I wasn’t going to lose any sleep over all that ghost and bad spirit shit, that was Artie’s department, or Conroy’s. No, my dangers were real and mortal, that would be enough to handle right now.

  Didar quickly got the stove firing, and pulled food out of a cupboard, it was cold enough in here, it probably didn’t matter that they didn’t have a refrigerator.

  “Tashreeb, you will like. Good for you, better than shit Gavur food,” she said.

  She left the food to heat and went into the bedroom, the mother launched another attack of woe and despair, Didar shouted some more at her, and then came back out. She had dumped her working clothes and now wore a woollen sweater and old jog pants, trainers replaced the heels. Her hair was tied back and she had removed her make-up, only renewed her lipstick. But just the same plastic raincoat. She filled a flask with their sweet tea, her mother’s hand slipped a bottle into Didar’s bag.

  “We go from here now. I know other house. Punka not know this house, can not tell police,” she said.

  At least she called him by his name, not “this Gypsy”. We left her mother’s wailing and were back on the streets, this section had no streetlights, which was good, she took me by the hand and we sped through the darkness as if she had cat’s eyes. Then she stopped in the blackness.

  “When I get my money, Gavur? If Mafya or police kill you, then I not get money. And they kill me too. This is very bad business for me, 6,000 not enough now. You give me 10,000, ok? How I get this from you now, before you die or run away?” she said.

  “You just have to trust me, Didar, help me finish this and you will be paid. But no more lies, ok? Like, I didn’t see any sign of a father or six brothers and sisters in your apartment, did I? No more lies, you’ll be paid, I’ll get you ten and we will both stay alive.”

  We stood there in the black silence for a time, I knew she was figuring out what to do with me. Could she cut her own deal with the police, the Mafya? Sell me out? I guessed her whole life had been based on calculations, but she never had the luxury of choosing. Not a real choice, where she could decide to do what was best for her, the sort of choice most American men thought they could take for granted. No, I knew that men had always made her choices for her, men in the street, men in the Mafya, men in the police. She might calculate what slight advantage each could give her, but the big choices were never hers. Now I stood in front of her in the dark, a Gavur, an American man, and she had the choice to either shelter or sell me, and all I could pitch was that she should trust me, but I knew trust in a man had never been repaid in her credit ledger. I had already seen her get a kick out of power, in Aksaray, her revenge on men who pimped her life, but what would she do now? Maybe the police and Mafya would let her live, but at least I gave her some chance of getting a life out of here, if she survived. That’s what I banked on, that she would gauge what she had to lose in this sadistic shithole against what she could gain in a new life, with 10,000 Turkish Lira in her pocketbook, maybe in her TV dreamworld of America. And she knew the Gavur man standing in front of her right now would break her fragile neck if she didn’t appease him, if he decided to cut his losses, that maybe nudged her along too.

  She called it, took my hand and plunged in a different direction. Through another maze of steps and alleyways, through a hole in a wire fence and then in another door. This house was derelict, primed for demolition, she pulled
out a torch, guided me up to the top floor, and into a small room. A bed, a table, and an oil lamp. This must have been one of her work stations, the police wouldn’t find me here.

  The place was freezing, we breathed our words out in clouds, she lit the oil lamp, set the taashreb on plastic plates, poured the sweet tea into polystyrene cups. The tashreeb was layers of their flat bread in a hot sauce, chillis, peppers, onions, other shit I didn’t recognise. It was hot, and I would have finished it all except she scolded me, keep some for breakfast, she said, all Gavur men are greedy. The tea was hot too, very strong and very sweet, not like the English tea we drink at home. I held the plastic cup in both hands to warm them, she dipped at hers like a little black bird, pulled her legs up on the bed under her sculpted ass, pulled the filthy bed cover around our shoulders.

  “What we do now, Gavur? I not want business tonight, ok?” she said.

  She was already counting the 10,000 lira, an extra fifty wasn’t worth her trouble now. It was too cold anyway, dirty and dank in here, made me wonder what sort of men she endured for a few lira’s living.

  “Just get some rest, Didar, I’ll contact someone tomorrow, get started again. I’ll get you out of here, get you paid, then I’ll finish what I came for,” I said.

  “Who is this ‘someone’? Hmm, yes, I think it is this Rose. Your woman in America. Does she know about the blond one? I think she be happy you lost the blond one, no?”

  She knew all about men, had heard the same old shit in twenty different languages. She was laughing at me again.

  “You will take me to Punka’s family too, Didar. I will pay the money I owe him to his wife,” I said.

  She stopped laughing, pulled the bedcover off me and wrapped it around herself, like a sulky teenager. Sometimes I knew all about women, too.

  I finished the tea and picked the bottle out of her bag. It was some sort of aniseed liquor, strong as hell, her mother’s witch’s brew. I offered her the bottle, she just shrugged the bedcover tighter, didn’t drink that “stinking shit”. It wasn’t so bad, after a cupful my lips started to go numb and I forgot about the cold.