Alexander (10)

10

‘I was searching for somewhere to sleep. Sometimes I like to find a quiet place by myself. I have been in this town for many months. There are good places to sleep that only I know. But you must be careful. Maybe you sleep in these places one night every so often. For a night. Not again and again, night after night, you understand ? One place I know is close to the centre of town. It is not true that you always must go further out to find somewhere safe. I know of  garages – a row of old garages. The garages are next to the municipal building...opposite the car park. One garage has loose doors. It’s easy to open the doors with a table knife – it's true. The doors are old; I can insert the knife and pull them apart. The latch springs out of the lock. It is easy. Very easy. So, earlier, I decide to sleep in my garage. It is best to arrive when it is dark of course. That way you are out of sight. I arrived at nearly 9pm. I know this because I can see the clock on the municipal building. I prised open the doors and I go in. And I close the garage doors behind me. The garage is safe and it is comfortable. Inside are bundles of newspapers. There are perhaps seventy bundles – maybe a hundred - all of equal height, all tied together with string. I think they have been stored in there for a long time and the people who stored them have forgotten about them, or moved away, which is good for me. I go into the garage and I spread out my blanket and sleep on top of the bundles of newspapers. It makes for a very comfortable bed.’

Marek took another long draught of cider and wiped his mouth with the filthy cuff of his coat. ‘I fell into a pleasant sleep on top of the newspapers. Some of them are loose – the string has been gnawed by mice - so I tear some of them into strips and stuff them in a plastic bag. It makes a good pillow, yes ? - softer than the feathers from any duck or goose. So, I begin to sleep like a baby, warm in my blanket on top of the newspapers, until suddenly I'm woken by the sound of a helicopter. The helicopter is near - so near I think it's about to land on top of my garage. Naturally, I am scared. I roll off the newspaper bundles and onto the floor. I stay like this for a while, crouched down behind the bundles of newspapers, until the helicopter climbs higher and higher and moves to another area close by. I can hear cars and men. The sounds are coming from the car park. I crawl on my knees to the garage door. I peer through the opening. I can see lights – brilliant lights - shining towards the figure of a man. The man too is crouched – crouched behind a big car. He is holding a girl - I cannot see her face - but she is young, twelve years perhaps, maybe less. The man is holding her close to him. And the people who are shining the lights start calling his name. They call for him to let the girl go. And I can hear the name, the name of the man they are calling. They shout it through a loudspeaker. The name they shout is Luther.’

Marek began to falter. Tears filled his eyes. He threw down the bottle of cider, making it hiss and fizz from its cap.

‘Slowly, my friend’ said Tomas. ‘Slowly – be patient and tell your story as clearly as you can.’

Marek recovered himself. ‘Now I hear other sounds - men running close by. I hear someone on top of the garages and the helicopter buzzing overhead. Who is climbing onto the garages, I wonder ?  I cannot see them, but I can hear the familiar sound of guns being loaded, familiar from the films I have seen. I realize they are police - special police with guns. They are going to shoot the man Luther if he does not let go of the girl. It goes on and on, this very bad situation - a stand-off, they call it. Now the people on top of the garages are still, very still - biding their time, waiting for their moment. “Luther” they shout. “Let the girl go.” And then, after a long, long, time he lets her go. The girl runs into the brilliant light leaving Luther alone, crouched behind the big car. He doesn't have a gun, this Luther - a knife perhaps, I cannot see. He reaches into the car and the big car rolls forward. He has let go the hand brake I think. The big car is protecting him from the guns. It rolls along the road, but he cannot control it and it crashes into the garages. The man Luther jumps over the bonnet and runs along the street. He is a big man, this Luther, and is wearing a long coat. I see him jump over the bonnet and run towards the trees. Then I cannot see him anymore. I hear shouts – many shouts from the police – and the sound of guns - clack, clack, clack. This Luther, he did not do what they ordered. So, they shoot him. He did not stop running, so they killed him. And I hear the special police jump down off the roof and I see many dark figures run towards the big car and to the trees where Luther was running, their weapons high, ready to shoot again.’

Alexander stared into the flickering flames of the fire and shook his head. ‘That's not possible’ he said. ‘Maybe you dreamt it or something. Everyone would be talking about such an incident.’

‘I heard it on the radio’ said Tomas ‘about a police operation in our town. It was a very short report, of course. Information was still coming in. It said the police helicopter was used and that a man was taken into custody and he died.’

‘It's impossible’ Alexander repeated. ‘People would have heard the shots. People would have looked out of their windows – they would have seen it.’

Marek took up his bottle of cider and said: ‘Somebody did see it, my friend. I saw it! I saw Luther run along the street. And I saw them put his body into a police van. I swear on my life! And yet who will believe me ? Me - a nobody. A homeless bum.’

He took another generous drink before staggering towards the opposite side of the fire where he sat alone with his cider, staring into the flames.

Tomas shouted: ‘I believe you, my friend.’ Then, to Alexander: ‘In our country, the state once acted with impunity. We thought it was different here. But we were wrong.’

Alexander walked through the town to the road next to the municipal offices that ran parallel to the car park. He turned the corner, stood on the spot where Marek had said Luther was gunned down. He went over to the garages and prised each of the wooden doors until he found one in which a gap presented itself and he was able to peer inside. Just as Marek had told him, the garage was filled with bundles and bundles of newspapers.

Lying in the living room of the empty house Alexander wrote down everything he knew about Luther. He wrote down their experiences at the manor house and made a log of each photograph. He wrote about the Brook family and about the figure in the white mask he'd seen looking out from the window. Finally, he wrote down Marek's story and the secret history of Luther's murder.