Reckoning Point, стр. 31
The vendor’s were young men, younger than him and English. They looked him up and down when he approached and asked them what they were selling. They seemed paranoid but at the same time unwilling to let go of a potential sale. They asked him to show them his money, which he did, and they asked him where he lived, and he told them. Now, that seems like a foolish thing to have done, but Lev was edgy and needy. The youths conferred, moving off to whisper furiously together, before returning to where he stood, tired and weary, and eventually they agreed that he could purchase from them. By the time he returned to the apartment with some good crystal and a nice, fat, ready-made blunt, he was almost too tired to imbibe his little haul and he recalled with fondness how much easier everything seemed to be back in Chernobyl.
He thinks about Cilla, rubs his head and lets out a little noise that could be anguish. He’s not sure how he feels, and he doesn’t know how the police came to be at his door. Someone pointed them in his direction, but who? He hardly knows anybody here in Scheveningen. There’s Joy, of course, the overly friendly neighbour who he has so far been successful in avoiding. And Roland, another man on his block, someone who appears slow and unyielding, but also somebody who’s past can’t be ignored. After all, Roland done time for the part he played in the murders that occurred right here in this very apartment. How innocent is he, despite his childlike demeanour?
Lev struggles up from the couch and makes his way into the bathroom. Instead of using the facilities however, he stares at the wall. The smooth plaster shows no sign of what happened here fifteen years ago. He looks longingly at the ash from the meth he smoked and wishes he had got more. Belatedly he remembers the blunt, the large, weed filled cigar he bought and he darts into the living room to pick it up, lights it, inhales and wanders back into the bathroom.
Combined with the methamphetamine the blunt hits the spot and he sits down heavily on the closed toilet lid.
His thoughts grow muddy as he wonders what happened here, all those years ago? Did it actually happen, or is it a foresight on Lev’s behalf? He rests his head on his chest, the half-smoked stogie hanging limp in his hand.
When he wakes the room is completely shrouded in darkness. The cigar has gone out and he fumbles for his lighter, sparking it up, inhaling deeply again. He sits for a long time, the only light the red glowing top of the blunt. Half formed thoughts creep around his mind and in the darkness he fancies he can see the splintered wood of the panelled walls and the blood spatter pattern on the linoleum that covers the floor.
He snoozes but only for minutes at a time and then the fog lifts to reveal what seems to Lev to be a very real clarity. He knows that they are coming for him. And later, probably when he doesn’t pay his rent he will be discovered. His body will be burnt and there will once more be bullet holes in the wall. His essence will be elsewhere, someone hanging out with David, Vinnie and Miles. They will be four faceless, soulless entities, forever travelling the circles of hell.
A whimper escapes Lev, a strangled cry that turns into a hoarse roar and he chews anxiously on the stump of the cigar. Maybe he should leave here and return to his forest. At least then he’ll be left alone.
Then he remembers Fat Arnja and it strikes him that he can’t go back there, either. His mind wanders, he recalls the girl, the youth that Niko had in his caravan, the one with the creamy milk chocolate skin and the eyes that made him think of Afia. She’ll be six feet under now and Afia won’t be far behind her, in fact, Lev is surprised that Afia has lasted until now, given the life that she chose. And she managed to keep herself together far better than other addicts he had known. Sometimes she’d be off the brown stuff for months at a time, but it was always there, or rather Niko was always there to provide what she needed to make her meek and mild again. It doesn’t occur to him that it’s a waste of a life because back home, the way things were, that was life.
The way things were.
29
ROLAND
11th March 2000
I moved out of home and in with Mark Braith. This didn't happen on one particular day, rather, it was just decided one day that I spent more time there than I did at my mother’s. For the first time ever I didn’t tell my mother where I was going, but I called her every few days to let her know I was okay. She would cry down the telephone line, pleading with me to come home. I listened patiently, but always hung up when she began to shout at me.
It was an odd set up; we were not friends, Mark and I. I don't think he had friends. He had acquaintances and subordinates. Ha, I bet those are two words you didn't think I knew, right? That's the trouble, people think I'm as dumb on the inside as I look, but I'm