Mitsubishi, he would have had the weapon in his hand. The lights had stopped moving, and the interior lit as the door was opened. Cann came forward and stood in black silhouette in front of the lights The little bastard faced him. Mister blinked as he came closer to the lights. If he had had the weapon in his hand he would have used it. There was hate in his heart Men he had not hated were entombed in concrete foundations, were buried in Epping, were weighted on the sea bed, or walked on sticks. Cann stood ahead of the lights, his body diminished by their size
'Got a problem, Mister?'
He couldn't see the mouth, but light caught the rims of the big spectacles.
'What's a nice girl like that doing with a piece of shit like you?'
He walked through the question. Mister faced his persecutor. He towered over the shadowy shape in front of him. The lights blazed in his face, made tears in his eyes.
'Not going to have a weep on me, are you, Mister?'
Mister lashed out. Right fist, low, short arm punch.
The fist buried itself in the slight stomach. The body jack-knifed, would have fallen if the fist hadn't caugt the coat collar. He dragged Cann round the side of the blue van, to the back of it. He threw Cann against the doors, then punched him again, first the solar plexus, and as the head dropped, the upper-cut to the jaw. Cann went down. Mister kicked him. Kept kicking him. Nearly fell on the ice. Should have had heavier shoes, should have had the boots the Cards wore when they went out for a kicking, with lead or iron caps. He reached down, found the coat, pulled the body up. No resistance. Arms trying to protect the upper body, hands over the face. He punched until his hands hurt, put Cann down, then kicked until his toes hurt in his handmade shoes. It was hard for Mister to see the small figure on the road behind the van.
He walked away.
The voice was small behind him. 'That was a mistake, Mister, a mistake.'
Mister went back to the van. She said, laughing, that it was a long pee stop. His knuckles bled and he hid them from her.
Joey reached his room. He knew she was back. Ante was in the lobby and Muhsin lounged on the landing near her door. He'd been off the road twice, but he'd been lucky: a tractor had pushed him back from the drift once and a pick-up had towed him clear the second time. He'd gone twice into the snow because his spectacles' arms were broken and when the frame had fallen from his nose he'd swerved. There wasn't a part of his body that wasn't in pain.
He went into the bathroom. He held the spectacles, and his hand shook. The mirror showed him his face
– blood, scratches, rising wels. He managed his coat, shirt and vest, but the pain in his stomach wouldn't allow him to bend and unfasten the laces of his trainers, He pushed his trousers down, and his underpants, to his ankles. He stood in the shower, clinging lo the chrome support. Without it he would have collapsed The water ran over him and drenched his trousers, pants, socks and puddled in his trainers.
He heard the room door open.
'You're back?'
'Yes.'
'A good day?'
'A useful day,' Joey croaked.
'I needed a new pair of knickers and clean tights.'
'Good'
There must have been a sob in his voice. He held tight to the support She was in the bathroom doorway. The curtain wasn't drawn. She was looking at him. The water ran in rivers across his spectacles.
'What happened to you?'
Through the lenses her face was blurred. He didn't know whether she cared, or not. He grimaced, but that hurt his mouth, his jawbone, his cheeks and his brain.
'I walked into a door.'
'Did the door have boots and fists, or just boots?'
'If the door had had a gun I think it might have been rather more serious.'
She came into the bathroom and knelt beside the shower. The waler splashed from his body onto her.
'Packer?'
He nodded.
She untied his trainer laces and pulled them off his feet, then the sodden socks, then his underpants and his trousers, and threw each of them into the bath, the water had plastered her careful hair and had made streams of her more careful makeup. She sat on the bath edge, pulled a towel off the rack and rubbed her hair and face.
'You're not the world's most beautiful sight – is there blood in your urine?'
'Don't know.'
'Are you going to live?'
' I hope so.'
'There's a Russian coming.'
'Coming where?'
'Coming for a meeting, for tomorrow's meeting.'
'Where's it to be?'
' I don't have the location… Clean tights don't matter, not like knickers. I've got to get back. Do you want a doctor?'
'Tomorrow, then, I follow where he leads. My bloody bumper against his exhaust – no, no doctor.'
'We go mob-handed, Joey. I'll not take argument on it.' She said it as if she were his mother, his aunt, or his teacher.
'It's my show.'
'We go in numbers – it's not about whose show it is.'
'Yes, ma'am, three bags bloody full, ma'am.'
'Mob-handed, hardware, protection – safe. I wouldn't want to look like you look… Just so you know – the woman, she's Monika Holberg. She's a Norwegian tree-hugger. She does good deeds for unfortunates, out of UNHCR. You'll find her in Novo Sarajevo, third floor, apartment H, Fojnicka 27. Be a shame, wouldn't it, Joey, if she didn't know what Mister was, what he did? Wouldn't be a shame if, when she's learned it, she kept her legs together and Mister didn't get his over You up for that?'
'Could be.'
'You want me lo dry you?'
'I'll manage.'
She closed the door after her.
Joey staggered to the bed. He was dripping wet. He collapsed onto it. He might have passed out but for the pain and the memory. He was back on the ground, squirming on the ice the Tarmac to make himself smaller, as the lists and boots rained in on him. That was a mistake, Misler, a mistake. The hammering, in his body and his head, was on the door.
He shouted, 'Yes?'
'Are you Cann. Customs and Excise?'
He crawled off the bed, leaned on the wall and then the wardrobe to steady himself, held the towel across his privates and opened the door. The man wore a grey suit, was five or so years older than Cann, had a good shirt and a nice tie. He looked at Cann with contempt, a replica of the sons of the landowner his father managed for superiority buried under a caked veneer of politeness.
'Sorry to disturb you, Mr Cann – by God, you've been in the wars. Don't tell me, let me guess, tripped down some steps, did you? I'm Hearn, from the embassy. I've been asked to pass to you a message that came to us via the Ministry of Justice. I do apologize for the inconvenience of calling on you so late, but we thought it the sort of matter that should not have been passed, for fear of misunderstandings, by telephone.
You had written authorization from Judge Zenjil Delic for 'intrusive surveillance' of the UK national Albert William Packer during that gentleman's visit to Sarajevo. You can go home now, Mr Cann, which might save you another accident. Judge Delic informs us, through the Ministry of Justice, that he has with drawn such authorization. He's cancelled it. There's no mistake. I have it in writing, couriered to the embassy, over his
