E.V. Seymour - The Last Exile

Two hours later, they were all drunk and the best of mates. Goran and Janko were originally from Split. Both had come to the UK at the start of the hostilities in Kosovo in 1999. Lying about their ages, they’d worked as bartenders for a couple of years before getting into a more lucrative line of business. As Tallis had guessed, they were runners for someone else. In return, Tallis told them that he’d been involved in a drug smuggling operation in the South-West. At this, Goran’s flat, almost Slav features twitched into life. “All you need is a fishing boat, a dinghy and some lobster pots.” Tallis laughed. He wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t know what he was saying. “There are many small beaches, all of them accessible.”

“What about Customs?” Janko said.

“Non-existent.” Tallis grinned. “They used to run small inshore boats but they got sold off. Officers now spend most of their time patrolling Dover, the major airports, this neck of the woods.”

“So you think it would be a good way in?”

“Oh, sure.”

“And you have contacts?” Tallis decided that Janko was the smart one.

“Yes.”

“Then what are you doing here?” A cunning light in Goran’s eyes suggested that the brandy had not even begun to seep into his brain.

“Lying low.”

“From what?”

“A guy I pissed off.”

“How?”

“I wanted a slice of his action. It’s being sorted.” He’s being sorted was the implication.

Janko seemed to accept the story. Goran didn’t. “Why do you choose to do business with us?”

“I told you.”

“Why us ?” Goran persisted, evil-eyed.

“Hey,” Janko said. “This is our friend, our brother.”

“More drinks,” Tallis said, standing up, feeling the heat.

“Sit down,” Goran snarled.

“Fuck you.”

The air was electric. Tallis had visions of thrown fists, thrown chairs.

Janko stepped in. “Guys, guys, calm down. We are as one. Our enemies are the same.” He meant the Serbs, Tallis thought. “Go get the drinks, Marco.”

Tallis felt more rattled than he should have done as he pushed his way to the bar. He took a few deep breaths. Told himself not to be so bloody unprofessional.

On his return, Goran had softened. “This operation in Devon, it’s easy to import the goods?”

“Dead easy.”

“We know someone,” Goran said, trading a look with Janko, “someone we work with. He might be interested.”

“Yeah, who?”

“Our boss,” Janko chipped in. “We need to run it past him. We’ll let you know what he thinks.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Zivjeli!” Goran said, raising his glass. “As a sign of good faith, Janko has a tester for you. You like it, we can discuss more.”

Without a word, Janko stood up. Tallis knew the routine. They both headed for the toilets. Janko discreetly passed him a wrap, which Tallis pushed into his trouser pocket. Job done, they went back to Goran. “You like girls?” he said.

Tallis grinned in what he hoped was a convincing manner. These guys were into machismo. To state otherwise would have displeased them.

“We fix you up,” Goran said, knocking back the rest of his brandy. “Come.”

Tallis stood up and followed him. He didn’t feel he had much choice.

They travelled in a bottom range Mercedes-Benz E-Class, still an impressive ride. Janko drove and broke into raucous song. Goran turned round, laughing. Tallis joined in, more as a cover than amusement. He was watching where they were taking him. They were headed for Hammersmith. Tallis thought they’d go over the flyover and join the Great West Road. Instead, they dropped down underneath it.

Traffic seemed heavy for a Sunday. The sky was losing some of its light, the day its energy. The brandy was starting to kick in just behind Tallis’s eyes. He closed them for what seemed a fraction of time. When he opened them they were outside a chip shop. Great, he thought. It would soak up some of the alcohol. The boys had other ideas.

Exchanging greetings with two men behind the counter, Janko and Goran led the way. Tallis followed them through a scullery and into a small, enclosed, paved yard. Encased in glass, fruitless vines hung from the roof, it smelt like a greenhouse. Instead of tomatoes growing, big hessian sacks of potatoes lined the walls. The yard formed a bridge between the chip shop and another building in which there was a closed door with an entry phone next to it. Goran pressed a button and spoke his name. There was a click and the door sprang open, leading into a narrow hall with a flight of stairs leading steeply up to a short landing. Carpeted in worn deep purple, the stairs had seen some action. They went up another flight, and through another door which opened out onto a dimly lit bar with barstools in faded leather. Tallis took it in at a glance—furnishings dark and indecipherable, three sofas, one of which looked badly sprung, door off to the right, one man, nervous looking. And no surprise, Tallis thought as a fat woman emerged from behind the counter. Well, not fat exactly. Not even overweight—more a human hulk with a pockmarked jaw and teeth like an Orc.

“This is Duka,” Goran said, grinning like a demented hyena.

Tallis looked at Goran, looked at the woman, stunned, thinking, Please, God, no.

“Duka looks after the girls,” Janko explained, with a laugh.

“Oh, right,” Tallis said, grinning now, sharing the joke.

“You want girl?” Duka probed a tooth with a dirty nail.

“Give him the new one,” Goran said. “On the house,” he added, a sly expression in his eyes. Tallis wondered what was expected in return for the favour.

Duka waddled along the length of the bar and out of sight, flesh sliding over flesh. Tallis heard a grunt, a curse then a jangling sound of metal. When Duka returned, she was sweating like an elephant on heat. “Eleven,” Duka said, belligerently handing him a key.

“Through the door,” Janko explained. As Tallis pushed it open, he heard Goran order more brandy.

He stepped into a dingy corridor, doors off, not unlike a cheap hotel. He could hear nothing other than his own feet creaking on the thinly carpeted floor. Either business was lax or, as he suspected, the rooms were soundproofed. Number eleven was at the very end. He waited outside, collecting his thoughts, then slipped the key in the lock, turned it, tapped on the wood with his free hand as he entered, the sound hollow in the surrounding silence.

Inside smelt of cheap perfume and damp. A double bed dressed in black satin sheets, more funeral pyre than love nest, rested in the middle of a room that took seediness to another level. There was a cracked sink in the corner with a bottle of baby oil resting on the ledge. The window, from which hung faded brown polyester curtains, had bars. To the right of the window was a single wooden school chair on which a girl was seated. Dark-haired, pallid, she gazed straight ahead with big eyes, seeing but not seeing. Tallis recognised the expression. He’d witnessed it before in the eyes of war-hardened civilians who had lost everyone and everything. The girl, no more than Felka’s age, wore a black bra and panties. Her feet, resting square on the floor, were bare, nails polished but chipped. She possessed a full figure, the skin close knit and youthful. Her right arm was crossed over her left breast as if to protect herself, the fingers of her hand resting on the shoulder strap. She had a large, recent bruise on her thigh. She was breathing fast.

He approached her softly. She turned to him with large eyes and pushed the strap off her shoulder, allowing him a tantalising glimpse of her nakedness.

“No,” he said, looking around him for something to cover her with. Seeing nothing, he took off his jacket, put it round her shoulders. For the first time, she lifted her eyes and looked at him, whispering something he couldn’t make out.