Reckoning Point, стр. 17
He cracks open two cans of Baveria and passes one to his guest, who looks in turn both anxious and thrilled to be here.
While Roland drinks his beer down, Lev studies him, thinking of what he had read about this man in the library archives. Van Brom had come from a single parent family. His mother had smothered him with love after Roland was bullied from a young age. Then he’d begun hanging around with the Monaghan brothers and somehow had latched onto Mark Braith, a local hard nut who was rumoured had killed his mother’s boyfriend after the violent deaths of practically all the male members of his immediate family. From the reports that had been made over a decade before, it was clear to Lev that Braith was the dominant, and the younger, naive and slightly simple Roland, was too scared of Braith to do anything other than what he was told. And how is Roland taking it, being back here, in this very room where his other friends were slaughtered? Lev tilts his head and studies Roland. Roland, in turn, darts his eyes around the room, his gaze lingering on points, perhaps replaying history, perhaps remembering.
“It must be a little strange being here,” comments Lev, handing Roland another beer from the cooler.
“Yeah, my friends lived here,” replies Roland and when he tips back his can to drain it, Lev notices the tears that shine in his eyes.
“Gabi,” says Roland suddenly, and the sudden change of subject and the unlikely name that comes from Roland’s lips startles Lev.
“W-what?”
Roland strokes the front of the newspaper from where Gabi’s tanned, pretty face looks out at them. “She was my friend. But she’s gone now, too.”
Lev rubs his hands on the arms of his chair, aware that his palms are moist.
“Did you see Gabi often?”
Roland shrugs, leaving his shoulders up around his face for a little too long. “Not really, I’m not really allowed to see the girls down there, but sometimes they’re nice to me.”
Lev wonders who tells Roland that he’s not allowed to visit with prostitutes, his mother or carer? Or is it part of his parole release? He knows that Roland got less than ten years for his part in the massacre that took place here; after all, it was clear to anyone that Braith was the mastermind and Roland nothing more than a puppet on a string.
“Did you see Gabi the night she was killed?” It’s a stab in the dark, but if anyone comes looking for Lev, he wants to be able to point the finger elsewhere and Roland, it would seem, is an excellent decoy.
“Don’t know, maybe.” Roland is shy, smiling a little now.
It’s unnerving but Lev lets him finish his second beer in silence and as he crumples the can in his large, bear-like paws, the young man stands up.
“Where do you live, Roland?”
“Along this floor at the very end, number ten-four-two,” recites Roland. “Will you knock on my door one day? I don’t get many visitors.”
“Yeah,” Lev claps Roland on the shoulder as he shows him out. “I’ll see you soon, buddy.”
Once Roland has ambled off down the walkway Lev goes inside and returns to his chair and his beer. Roland, with all his mental inadequacy and obvious loyalty, could be someone to keep onside. He could turn out to be someone very useful to know.
Very useful indeed.
16
ROLAND
30th January 2000
I felt guilty; I hadn’t seen much of my Irish friends through the month of January. They were okay, they were not short of mates, but my new wonderful life was down to them and I’d abandoned them. And my life, for the first time ever, had suddenly become wonderful. My initial impression on Mark had been wrong. He wasn’t evil, he was magical. He was boss. But I still missed my friends, and as I had a free morning - I wasn’t needed by Mark Braith until after lunch - I rose early, dressed hurriedly, and made my way across to Zevenhuizen. The building where Miles worked came into view as I strode down the road and I hurried along, my head freezing as I’d forgotten my hat.
As I passed the nice, homely looking lawn out front, the noises started and I clamped my hands over my ears and broke into a run. I always hated the sounds that accompanied this place. As I made my way towards the pink building I looked neither left nor right. To my relief, Miles was outside the entrance, having a cigarette, sucking at it cautiously, trying to avoid getting his bloodstained gloves on the butt of the fag.
“Rolley,” he called as he saw me approaching. “Long time no see.”
I stared into his face, tried not to look at his gloves or the red spattered mess down the front of his plastic apron.
“You come to pick up some dinner for your ma?” he asked.
I replied, no, but then he laughed and I realised he was joking. I never felt foolish when I didn’t get Mile’s jokes; he never seemed to laugh at me like everyone else did.
“Come on, let’s get a brew,” he said, and threw his cigarette down the bloodstained drain.
I followed him into the staff area and while we walked I chanced a look around. Employees walked around, greeting Miles with a wave or a cheery greeting. They seemed oblivious to the death that occurred around them. Maybe they were used to it. Maybe after you worked here long enough it became essentially what it was; a job.
“Do you not feel sad working here?” I asked Miles as he