Juraj stood and turned to Jozef as he exited the room. ‘Consider yourself lucky there is one demon worse than you here for me to exorcise, otherwise, it would be you who felt my anger and loss right now, every last ounce of hurt and horror.’ The manager did not respond, he simply bowed his head low in shame, the weight of guilt too heavy for one man alone to bear.
Storming through the hotel, Juraj bounded his way up the grand stairway, making long strides with furious intent laden deep within his eyes. Fists clenched, he made his way about the place, climbing higher until he reached the roof. Bursting through the door, he found his target, hunched over eating bread whilst looking out across the terraces and rooftops of the city below.
‘You,’ Juraj started, his teeth bared, approaching with his finger pointed, damnation and hell-bent on attack. ‘It was you.’ The porter looked up at Juraj in pity, the kind a parent would have of a child who could not quite grasp the puzzle just yet.
‘Juraj,’ he began, ‘I am as much a victim here as you,’ he gritted his teeth, his eyes darting back and forth quickly, aimlessly. The anger boiled within Juraj, enraged and incensed. Even when confronted and caught, the vicious killer still was icy cold, slimy, and unearthly. What kind of person was he?
‘You’ve taken everything from me!’ shouted Juraj, his voice bellowing and booming across the distance into the city. ‘I loved my brother and you took him from me!’
The red and orange buildings of Prague glorified magnificently across the skyline, the tall towers proud and glinting in the sun. The porter curled up and started to laugh maniacally as if to insult Juraj further and antagonize him. Does he wish to be thrown from the rooftop?
‘Love?’ he questioned, a bitter grimace and amazement within his tone.
The audacity sickened Juraj to his core.
‘Peter did not love you,’ he spat. ‘Peter was going to betray you!’ The air was crisp and cool, the sounds of the musing and passings of pedestrians and horses knocked below, the tapping and gentle hum of the city. Oh, how good it would be to throw this man down there and disturb the tranquillity and balance, Juraj thought to himself, enamoured with bitterness for this man’s inept insults.
Furious and vengeful, bent on inflicting the pain that had been undone onto him, he rivalled with a bitter retort.
‘Vladislav is now dead, too. I watched him die, the fear in his eyes as he pulled his own trigger.’
The porter stared at him blankly, waiting for more, yet Juraj spoke none. He searched for the torment and suffering to overwhelm his antagoniser, yet none passed his face, he only sat, waiting, undisturbed.
‘Say something, you beast!’ cried Juraj, desperate now for him to feel the anguish and misery as he did.
‘What would you have me say?’ the ported responded. ‘I know not of this man,’ he spoke, eyebrow raised, lips taut. His face sharp and pale—no emotion had struck him.
‘You are a liar,’ Juraj professed. ‘I know he was your brother!’
‘Ha! You have been fooled. I have no brother. I am very alone and I always have been.’
‘What do you mean? Vladislav swore to protect the one he loved most, and I am sure of it that you are the one who took the brooch from Edgar’s pocket that day we were here.’ Juraj’s world began to spin. He felt dizzy and unwell, the blood leaving his face, pale-white and stark. What was unfolding before him, the weight and extremity of it all were almost unbearable.
‘Please, Mr Teralov—sit.’
Juraj did so, placing his hands down, suspicious and furious, weak but alert. The confusion was overwhelming, the contrast unbearable. ‘As I had been trying to tell you, I too am a victim of the terrible crime, the murder of your brother, Peter. I did take the brooch, this much is true, but it was not of my own disposition or will. You see, I too have been threatened and caught up in this web of deceit and death.’ He took a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it gently. Without speaking, he passed it to Juraj, who took it and read the contents as so:
In time, a detective will come by the hotel where you work. He will be a Soviet. On his possession will be a brooch, bronze in colour. Take it, keep it for now. But do so quietly.
No doubt you have heard of the death of Peter Teralov by now?
This was my doing, Martin. Do as I instruct, or you too will be next. Remember, I know you. I know where to find you. Go to the police? You die. Tell your boss, Jozef? You die.
And one last thing—find a way to have the detective sent on to The Old Town Hotel in Bratislava. I don’t care how you do it. Be persuasive. Or guess what happens if you fail.
You can expect further instruction from me soon. There are other tasks I will demand of you. I am watching you.
Juraj gulped, his face a mixture of confusion and sorrow. The writing was familiar to him and it was not the same of which he received—this was very different. Well-constructed, dutiful. This resembled the note Milos had received, almost perfectly so.
Juraj looked at the porter and now he did not see a cold, heartless killer. He saw a man—broken, scared, and afraid for his own life.
‘I’m—I do not know what to say,’ Juraj shook, his voice quivering and brittle.
The porter gave him a sympathetic
