Anya Lipska - A Devil Under the Skin

The following day, Janusz found himself once again passing through the pillared portico of St Francis of Assisi Residential Home. He’d been hyper-vigilant during the journey from Highbury – but had seen no evidence of anyone tailing him. He’d even considered postponing today’s appointment to check Wojtek Raczynski’s passport, before deciding that it was better to stay busy, if only to try to keep his mind off the Kasia situation. What good would it do her, after all, if he let himself go to pieces?

Sunk in his thoughts, he suddenly found himself at the reception desk – and did a double-take. Instead of the creamy cheeks of the young Polish receptionist, the face that looked up at him from behind the computer monitor was as brown and corrugated as an Arabian wadi.

‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ said Stefan, peering over his reading specs. ‘Beata asked me to look at her computer. It’s got more viruses than a clap clinic waiting room.’

‘And you … can fix it?’ Janusz was having a job concealing his disbelief.

‘Heavens, no.’ He chuckled. ‘But I know people who work in IT who are up to speed on these things. I’m just emailing over some details.’ He tapped the keyboard. ‘There, I think that’s gone. Now, I’m guessing you’re here for Wojtek?’

Janusz found his own way to the conservatory, where Wojtek was waiting for him. He had resigned himself to another lengthy bulletin on the doings of his wayward grandchildren, but this time, the old fellow barely said a word, sitting quietly as Janusz copied his passport details into a notebook. The passport was the old pre-EU kind, its midnight blue cover bearing the cruel profile of the Polish eagle above outstretched wings.

‘Haven’t seen one of these in a while,’ said Janusz.

Wojtek shrugged, failing to take the conversational bait, and took a sip of his tea – no biscuits today – spilling a little down his chin.

Janusz sneaked a look at him out of the corner of his eye. The papers were full of scandals about the maltreatment of old people in residential homes – stories that filled him with a vision-darkening rage. What kind of skurwysyn would harm a helpless old person? St Francis’s seemed a happy enough place on the surface, but he knew that wherever the strong held sway over the weak, there was the ever-present risk of abuse. What was it somebody once said? Man makes evil like a bee makes honey.

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