You

“Do the Slovenians get on with the Serbs?”

The boy’s eyes wander nervously around the room.

If he bursts into tears right now, you think, I will go crazy.

“I asked you a question.”

“I … I don’t know.”

“You’re Slovenian and you don’t know if the Slovenians get on with the Serbs?”

“I’m from Berlin.”

Two steps and you’re standing beside him, he’s a head shorter than you, your face looms above his. You smell fear and the chewing-gum he has in his mouth.

“Spit out the chewing-gum.”

He spits it on the floor, ducks down again; your voice is a hiss.

“Listen carefully, you little shit, I can rip your asshole open until your parents can’t tell whether you’re a human being or a sewer. I can rip open your parents’ assholes too, if you like. I need clear answers from you, that’s all I want to hear, you understand?”

He understands, you wait another few seconds, then you turn away. It is time for some calm words. You take one of the chairs and put it by the pool.

“Sit down.”

The boy hesitates, then he sits down and looks at the pool.

“Sad sight, right?”

The boy doesn’t know if he should answer. You stand behind him and put your hands on his shoulders. Like father, like son. You’re sorry your son isn’t there. He might learn something.

“What do you know about the girl?”

The boy flinches as if you’d stabbed him in the back of the neck. Your hands stay where they are. His collarbones feel as if they’re made of chicken bones.

“Tell me everything. What her name is, where I can find her. Everything.”

The boy’s body is rigid, you take your hands off his shoulders. One blow and his neck would be broken.

“You know what she’s done.”

The boy says he doesn’t know anything. He has to say it twice, his voice is so weak. Suddenly you sound friendly.

“My son told me lots about you. He says you’re good, you’ll go a long way some day. He also told me there’s more between you and the girl. He said you’re an item.”

Silence, his face turns red, he stares into the pool; that’s an answer too. He’s probably one of those late developers who jerk off six times a day and bore girls senseless with stupid pickup lines.

“Do you know Taja?”

The boy shakes his head.

“Do you know Taja’s father?”

He shakes his head again. You tell him that’s Taja’s father right there. He follows your outstretched arm, looks again at your dead brother and slowly grasps the connection. His eyes widen. It’s time for him to understand you completely.

“A daughter kills her father, a man loses his brother, five kilos of heroin disappear, and a boy sits on a chair and doesn’t reply. That’s how things are.”

You look at your watch.

“I’m going to leave the house in exactly half an hour. If I don’t get an answer from you by then, you’re staying here. Now look at me.”

The boy looks up, he has tears in his eyes. He stinks of hormones and sweat and a little bit of shit.

“What’s your name?”

“M-M-Mirko.”

“Hi, Mirko, you’ve got half an hour to save your life.”

MIRKO (#ulink_23077671-bc50-5c10-9f46-5d1963bebb99)

A wood louse hides under a stone. That’s exactly how it is. You’re the wood louse, the stone’s a car that you’ve squashed yourself under as if the sky was about to cave in on you. If someone tells you right now that Darian’s father will be standing beside you in three days’ time, giving you half an hour to save your life, you’d probably never come out from under that car. You’ve not met Ragnar Desche until then. He’s a legend, he’s a ghost and the father of your best friend. Nobody talks about Ragnar Desche. Never. Even thinking about him is taboo. Or as Darian once said: If my father wants, I’m dead within a second.

There’s a nasty taste in your mouth, sweet and metallic, as if you’d bitten off some chocolate without taking off the silver paper. You spit, see the red stain on the tarmac and swallow down your own blood.

You ran away. That’s it. The end.

I know.

How could you run away? Only an idiot would run away. You’re the idiot. And what are you going to do now? You can’t just stay under the car hiding. You just can’t do that. Somebody will find out. These things always come out.

The wood louse rolls aside and pulls itself up by the door handle, it crouches beside the car, back to the driver’s door, head thrown back so the blood doesn’t drip from its nose. You know if the car alarm goes off the wood louse will have a heart attack and piss its jeans.

It’s staying quiet.

You breathe out and look at the other side of the street.

It’s staying quiet.

The derelict house makes you think of a rabid dog that’s just waiting for you to make a false move. Lurking and rigid. Five lamps from the building site are flashing orange lights and illuminating the façade with a flickering light. It’s one of those ruins that you loved as a child. Graffiti on the walls, not a soul to be seen and hidden treasures everywhere. You’re not a child anymore, you don’t find ruins exciting anymore. It’s eleven at night and the city is a greedy hand hovering over you, wanting to stuff you into the darkest hole of the building site.

You rub the blood from your nose and wonder why no one’s followed you. Things don’t get sadder than this. No one’s interested in you. They wanted Darian. They’ve got Darian.

Shit.

“What am I …”

Your voice is a croak. You’re not great at talking to yourself. In horror movies the victims eventually start talking to themselves so that the viewer knows things are turning serious. Nothing serious is happening here, you’re miles away from serious.