AllFreeNovel
Share Us
‘That must be hard.’
‘I test myself. Besart showed me how.’
Mention of his brother gets caught in his throat. I change the subject and begin telling him about Rookery Lodge, which has a games room and a community kitchen and a half basketball court. I don’t mention the metal fences, security cameras and locked doors.
‘Are you hungry? We could stop for a burger.’
His face lights up. ‘McDonald’s?’
‘Have you been to one before?’
‘Once. In Calais.’
‘I thought McDonald’s were everywhere.’
‘Not in Albania.’
We’re entering the outskirts of Lincoln, a cathedral city, an hour’s drive north-east of Nottingham. I pull into the parking area of the Carlton Centre, a shopping mall full of chain stores, off-licences and fast-food outlets. After finding a parking spot, I lead Arben through the heat to the restaurant. He takes his time ordering, scrolling through every choice on the screen before deciding. I tap my credit card to the reader. A few minutes later, we sit opposite each other at a table near the window. Arben crams fries into his mouth between sips of a chocolate thick shake. He saves his burger for last, peeling off the soggy green pickle with a look of disgust.
‘Do you have pickled cucumbers in Albania?’ I ask.
‘Yes. They taste like shit.’
I laugh and he doesn’t understand why that’s funny.
‘Did your brother ever mention someone called the Ferryman?’ I ask.
Arben’s eyes widen and I catch a flare of recognition before he lowers his head, taking another bite.
‘Is he French or some other nationality?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know this man.’
‘But you’ve heard his name?’
‘No.’
‘Concealing a crime or protecting a criminal is illegal,’ I say. ‘You have to cooperate with the authorities if you hope to stay in Britain.’
Arben pushes his half-eaten burger away as if he’s no longer hungry. His understanding of English seems to have deserted him and each question is met with a blank look or a shrug.
We leave soon afterwards, retracing our steps to the car. As I reach the driver’s door, I notice the rear, right-side tyre is flat. I crouch and examine it, thinking I must have picked up a nail.
A large four-wheel drive pulls up behind me. Dark coloured. Tinted windows. A window slides down. ‘Are you leaving?’ asks the driver.
‘No. Sorry. Flat tyre.’
He gets out. He’s about my age, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Gelled hair. Crooked teeth. A pinched-in face like a ferret.
‘Need a hand?’ he asks. ‘I got a heavy-duty jack in the back. It’ll lift this thing in no time.’
‘I’m OK,’ I say, unlatching the boot and checking the spare tyre. I’m leaning inside, undoing the clamp, when I notice a second person at Arben’s window, a man with tattooed arms and a hipster beard.
‘Hey!’ I say, straightening.
In that instant a blow lands on the back of my skull in an explosion of white-hot pain and searing light. I fall forwards and my legs are lifted off the ground. Tape screeches from a spool and is wrapped around my ankles and my arms. Blindly, I manage to grab at skin, scratching with my fingernails.
I hear a curse and feel a second blow. Metal on bone. More pain. Darkness.
