Anya Lipska - Where the Devil Can’t Go

Janusz was sceptical. To him, psychology was a slippery pseudoscience, without any empirical foundation. But now and again he found himself wondering if Oskar’s theory mightn’t contain a grain of truth.

‘You like my new outfit?’ she asked suddenly, doing a little catwalk sashay.

That put him on the spot: when she had arrived he’d noticed she was wearing a dress rather than her usual tight black jeans and T-shirt. But the longish black shift was the sort of thing a woman with a lousy figure might go for. Why would a looker like Kasia hide her body under a sack?

She sensed the hesitation. ‘You don’t like it?’

‘It’s … stylish, darling,’ he managed, ‘but I think you’d look good in something a bit more … figure-hugging.’

She cut her eyes away from him. ‘You mean an exotic dancer should dress like a whore?’

Kurwa! This was dangerous ground – it wasn’t the first time Kasia had gone all touchy over her job. It mystified him – if she didn’t like stripping why did she do it? And if she did like it, why be so uptight?

‘Of course not, darling. Anyway, you would look ladylike whatever you wore.’

She smiled at that, mollified, then came closer, wrinkling her nose at the cigar smoke – ‘Smells like a bonfire,’ she complained – before putting a Marlboro Light between her lips and leaning down for a light.

He took the opportunity, instead, to pull her face down to his and kiss her, properly this time. When she offered no resistance, he tumbled her onto the sofa and continued the clinch, pushing the dress, rustling, up her stockinged legs, desire humming between them. They had loads of time to make love before the oven timer started pinging, he calculated, and her tightly closed eyes signalled a green light.

Then the phone rang.

He cursed inwardly and for a moment was tempted to let it go to voicemail, but Kasia extricated herself and he caught her watchful look. He didn’t want her to think he had anything to hide.

His abrupt ‘ Czesc?! ’ was met with silence. Then a female voice, uncertain, said ‘ Pan Kiszka? ’

It was the dark-haired girl from pani Tosik’s restaurant, the one he’d given his card to. She told him her name was Justyna, but didn’t volunteer a surname. He apologised for his boorish manners, keeping half an eye on Kasia, who had returned to the kitchen. He could see her stirring the beef stew, ignoring the conversation, but something about the angle of her head suggested she was getting every word.

The trouble was, the girl was adamant that she had to meet him tonight, and when he suggested postponing, sounded like she might hang up. He was half-inclined to tell her no, but an undercurrent of urgency in her voice stopped him. Anyway, if he was to replenish his depleted cash reserves he needed to find the missing girl fast.

Thirty seconds later, he was jotting down the name of a Polish club in Stratford where the girl wanted to meet.

Janusz retrieved his cigar from the ashtray and joined Kasia in the kitchen. With a stab at a nonchalant air, he said, ‘Listen, darling. Something’s come up – a job I’m doing for someone.’

‘A woman?’ she asked.

‘Well, yes, the client is a woman, but an old lady – a babcia .’

‘And the woman on the phone – she is an old lady, too?’ Her green eyes had narrowed, and she would no longer meet his gaze.

‘Well, yes, she is young, but she’s just a contact. The thing is she insists on seeing me tonight, for some reason.’

Without a word, Kasia started to collect her things, her movements uncharacteristically jerky.

All his hopes for the evening teetered on a cliff edge. ‘Listen, Kasia,’ he said, aware of a cajoling note in his voice he didn’t like, ‘I can get there and still be back by ten, maybe half past, we can have a late supper.’

‘So I sit here and watch Sky while you go out drinking with a woman?’ She pulled a mirthless smile. ‘All the lies I have to tell Steve, making excuses so I can stay all night, and now this.’

Janusz felt the anger bolt out of him like an unleashed dog.

‘I have a job to do, money to earn! You are not my wife to tell me whom I can and cannot see!’ His voice boomed around the flat.

‘You are right – it’s none of my business,’ she said, her voice tight. ‘How can I complain if you have other girlfriends? I am just some dziwka you are sleeping with who other men pay to see naked.’

He clutched his head, mute before this irrational torrent.

‘And no, I’m not your wife,’ she went on. ‘I’m someone else’s – and I shouldn’t be here.’

Softening his voice with an effort of will, he said, ‘Listen, Kasia. You are still young, you could leave Steve, start life over again,’ but he knew it was hopeless – this was old ground, the argument well worn.

She pulled on her coat. ‘You know I can’t, Janek,’ sounding weary now.

He caught her arm as she opened the flat door.

‘Don’t go off this way, kotku ,’ he said.

She smiled a sad smile at this big man calling her a little cat, touched her fingers to his lips, and left.

Thirty seconds later, the main door to the street boomed like a distant firing squad.

Janusz paced the flat, cursing; running the last hour’s dramat through his head on a continuous loop. Half an hour later he still couldn’t make any sense of it: what right did she have to be jealous when she was the one sleeping with another man? The fact that man was her husband didn’t make it any easier. No! Being able to picture that rat-faced Cockney screwing her made it a thousand times worse.

With an effort of will, he pushed Kasia to the back of his mind, threw himself onto the sofa and drank a glass of red wine in a single draught. He took the snap of Weronika, the one of her in the fur coat, out of his wallet. Something about this girl, her innocent beauty, and yes, okay, the way she reminded him of Iza, had got under his skin, made him preoccupied with finding her. Naprawde, it was even worse than that, he realised with an embarrassed grimace: he wanted to rescue her.

He went to turn off the oven, and after a moment’s hesitation, scraped the roast potatoes into the bin: once cooled you could never recapture their crust.

Leaving the block’s front door between the stone columns that flanked the entrance, Janusz noticed that a new ‘For Sale’ sign had sprouted overhead. Oskar said that if he sold up and bought a place further out he could pocket a couple of hundred grand, easy. But why would he want to live in some benighted suburb like Enfield?

When he left Highbury Mansions, it would be wearing an oak overcoat, as his father used to say – God rest his soul.

As usual, he took the shortest route to the tube, straight across the southern section of the darkened Fields, feeling the dew from the grass creeping into his shoes. Halfway across, without breaking his stride, he glanced backwards – there had been a spate of muggings here recently. All clear. But as his gaze swung forward again, he discovered that a big, heavyset man, almost as tall as him, had materialised on the pavement at the edge of the Fields, twenty-five, thirty metres ahead. He must have just stepped out of a parked car, but if so, why hadn’t Janusz heard the distinctive clunk of a car door? He kept his gaze locked on the bulky figure, clad in an expensive-looking parka jacket, strolling through the pools of orange thrown by the street lights, until finally, the guy disappeared out of sight behind the Leisure Centre.

Janusz couldn’t fathom what it was about the man that had caught his attention – he certainly didn’t look like a mugger. All he could say was there was something about him that looked indefinably out of place.