Homeland (47 page)

T
HE BICYCLE
chain had developed a habit of slipping on the uphill stretches and there was a strong headwind on the ridge, but by pedalling hard and
taking the downhill section of the ridge road at breakneck speed Wladyslaw managed to reach Middlezoy in under fifteen minutes. Skirting the village, he did not take his usual turn to Camp B but
stayed on the top road and sped into Camp C through the main gate. Keeping off the main paths, he wove through the accumulation of chocked-up cars, cannibalised vans, and makeshift sheds that had
grown up around the squatters’ huts, and emerged into the Polish sector near the bottom of the camp. It was a long time since he’d visited the godmothers and reaching the third avenue
he slowed down until he recognised a familiar bunch of dried flowers through the misty bottle-glass of a front window. Dropping the bicycle on the grass, he rapped briefly on the door before going
in. The communal area was empty, the hut silent. He paused uncertainly. It was the time on a Sunday afternoon when there were no organised activities in the camp, and people might be anywhere,
playing cards or visiting friends or out for a walk. Or – as he turned to leave he caught a muffled snore from the passageway – taking a doze. He called Alina’s name softly, then
Danuta’s, before remembering he had no time for politeness. Calling again in a peremptory tone, he heard the creaking of a bed and a woman’s voice grunting a drowsy hello.

He said, ‘It’s me, Wladyslaw.’

Eventually a door opened and Danuta put her head out. ‘Well, well, what a surprise,’ she sang in slow rapture.

‘Danuta, I’m looking for Jozef. Have you seen him anywhere?’

Something in his tone made her pause and peer at him sharply. ‘One minute.’ She went back into her cubicle and shuffled about before emerging with her blouse half buttoned and wisps
of hair sticking out at odd angles. ‘Jozef? No, Wladyslaw, I haven’t seen him for – oh, it must be two weeks now. Why do you ask?’

‘I hoped he might have come here, that’s all.’

‘Not a sign. And, apart from going to Mass first thing, I’ve been here all day.’ Danuta swept some loose hair back from her face and fumbled with an unfastened button.
‘Why, is there something wrong?’

‘I’m afraid so, yes.’

She tutted anxiously. ‘He hasn’t been drinking too much again, has he? Making himself ill?’

‘It’s not that.’

‘What, then? A squabble?’

‘Worse. He quarrelled with this man, and now the man’s dead.’

Danuta abandoned her buttons and searched his face. ‘Dead? I don’t understand. Are you saying Jozef was responsible?’

‘No, not at all. It’s what other people might say that worries me. And what Jozef believes they will say.’

‘He thinks he’ll be blamed?’

Wladyslaw gave a heavy sigh. ‘There was a bit of a skirmish last night. Jozef was rather the worse for drink and got over-excited. Before I could pull him away, the stupid idiot swung a
wild punch at this fellow. The blow wasn’t hard, more of a tap really, but it drew some blood. And it was seen. That’s the point – it was witnessed. And now I must find Jozef
before he does anything foolish.’

He moved towards the door, but Danuta flung out a hand to restrain him.

‘But who was this man? What was the quarrel about?’

‘It was the fellow who got him the job in London, the one he fell out with over—’

‘You mean the
Lyndon
man?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, my Lord!’ She clapped a hand to her breast and exhaled in a long, slow shudder of dismay. ‘He’s dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did he die?’

‘His body was pulled out of the river, that’s all I know.’

Danuta uttered a succession of sighs on varying notes of anxiety and disbelief before muttering distractedly, ‘I always said he was trouble, that fellow. Right from the beginning when
Jozef had that collapse and he brought him to our door. Oh, he showed great solicitude and concern. Yes, one couldn’t fault him on that score. Coming to see if Jozef was all right.
Encouraging him to think he had a friend. But all the time filling his head with ideas about London. Taking no account of Josef’s ability to cope. Ignoring his precarious state. No, he was a
bad influence, that man. I always said so. And in death too, it seems. But, Wladyslaw, what are you telling me? That Jozef has run away?’

‘He disappeared soon after we heard the news. Whether he’s actually gone . . .’ Wladyslaw gave a rapid shrug. ‘But you know how he is – quick to believe the
worst.’

‘Running away won’t look good.’

‘No,’ he agreed as he opened the door. ‘But it’s not the accusations that worry me, Danuta, it’s what he might do if – when – they try to catch him.
It’s his mental state that concerns me.’

‘Yes – you’re right! Yes! He’ll take it badly. Oh dear, oh dear! What can we do, Wladyslaw?’

But he couldn’t answer that and, when he waved from the bottom of the steps, he saw that Danuta was weeping softly.

He cycled across the fields to Camp B and went to the administration block. On Sundays there were few staff on duty and he half expected to find it closed, but the door was unlocked and a clerk
was sitting at the reception desk, pretending to look busy.

‘Major Rafalski’s unavailable,’ he said.

‘But he’s here?’

‘He’s occupied.’

‘Could you tell him it’s urgent?’

‘When he’s next available, I could mention it, yes. If you’d like to wait.’

Wladyslaw turned away as if to take a chair but walked on and entered Rafalski’s office with the briefest of knocks.

There were three of them, all standing. Rafalski was behind his desk, arms crossed, a knuckle resting pensively against his mouth, the British liaison officer was opposite, his hands on the back
of a chair, and a junior Polish officer was by the side of the desk, virtually at attention. Whoever had been talking stopped instantly, their heads turned and they stared at him. The silence that
followed was oddly charged. Rafalski slowly dropped his hand from his mouth, the liaison officer lifted his eyebrows in mute comment, and the junior officer looked from one to the other while he
tried to work out what was going on.

‘Ah,’ Rafalski murmured at last. ‘Come in, won’t you, Malinowski?’

At the mention of Wladyslaw’s name the junior officer glared at him askance and Wladyslaw had confirmation, if confirmation were needed, of what had been under discussion when he entered
the room.

Rafalski said to the young officer, ‘Please convey my thanks to Captain Robertson and ask him if he would be kind enough to excuse us.’

When the junior officer had translated this into English, Robertson gave a nod and with a last glance at Wladyslaw left the room. Rafalski ordered the young officer to follow, then, gesturing
Wladyslaw to a chair, sat at his desk and regarded him solemnly over steepled hands.

‘The British police were here,’ he said. ‘They want to question you and Jozef Walczak about the death of a local man.’

‘Yes, I was rather afraid they might.’

‘Well? What do you have to say?’

‘Neither of us had anything to do with it. You have my word.’

Rafalski nodded, unsurprised. ‘What reason might they have for thinking that you did?’

‘Oh, Jozef had argued with the fellow, and took a swing at him. That was all there was to it, I assure you. One weak punch.’

‘And you?’

‘Me?’

‘You had no argument with this man?’

‘No.’ Even as Wladyslaw said this, it occurred to him that losing out in love might be seen as more than enough reason for hostility.

‘So it was just Walczak?’

‘Yes.’

‘What was the argument about?’

‘Oh, the two of them had been friends at one point but had fallen out, and Jozef still felt angry about it. He can get rather hotheaded on these occasions, especially when he’s got a
few drinks inside him.’

‘Hotheaded?’ Rafalski gave a small frown. ‘I would avoid that word when talking to the British police, if I were you, Malinowski. It’s not likely to help his
case.’

‘Excitable, then.’

Rafalski’s frown deepened. ‘From what I have observed, the British distrust excitability almost as much as they distrust emotion, which is saying something. No, I’d keep it to
an excess of drink, if I were you. That’s something the British understand well enough. Where’s Walczak now?’

‘I don’t know. I came here to look for him.’

‘Do you think he’s gone on the run?’

‘It’s possible.’

Rafalski gave a weary sigh and rested his fingertips lightly against his temples. ‘What on earth would possess him to do that? How could he imagine it would help?’ He lifted his head
and fixed Wladyslaw with a narrow gaze. ‘Or was he already in trouble? Was that why you failed to tell me he was working with you at the farm?’

‘I didn’t want to put you in a difficult position.’

‘You didn’t believe I would exercise my judgement?’ Rafalski asked in the tone of a disappointed parent, only to dismiss the question with a twist of one hand. ‘What was
he in trouble for?’

‘He was blamed for some petty theft at his workplace in London.’

Rafalski gave a bitter sigh. ‘This is how it ends for us. We drift away like a rabble army, reduced to begging for the lowest jobs and distrusted for our trouble. We are treated like
thieves and vagabonds, like the vanquished instead of the victors. But don’t get me started on that subject!’ He straightened his back and pushed his hands flat on the desk top.
‘So . . . will you give yourself up, Malinowski? Or will you wait for them to find you?’

Wladyslaw was startled by his choice of words. ‘Good Lord, you make it sound as though they’re going to arrest me.’

‘I really couldn’t say what they intend.’ The major’s tone suggested that anything was possible with the British. ‘But they made it clear that they wanted to speak
to both of you as soon as possible. If you decided to go and see them now I could arrange for a liaison man to accompany you.’

‘Thank you, but no,’ said Wladyslaw, getting rapidly to his feet. ‘I must try to find Jozef first.’

‘As you wish. But, Malinowski? When you do get to see the police, I would advise having a liaison officer and interpreter present. To avoid misunderstandings.’

On the return journey the wind was strong on Wladyslaw’s back, pushing him like a giant hand. Yet he couldn’t go fast enough. He kept seeing Jozef’s expression when Stan had
told them the news of Lyndon Hanley’s death, how he had been very still at first, then as Stan recounted the sparse details – the body found in the River Tone, ‘bobbing
down’ with the tide – conflicting emotions had begun to chase over his face. Confusion and doubt, what might have been remorse, but most of all a bleak understanding: that he was fated
to attract suffering, that he always had done in the past and, now it seemed, always would, that a new country, peace, and relative freedom counted for nothing because the fault lay deep in himself
and could never be eradicated. Disaster oozed from him like a body smell; he felt himself hopelessly contaminated.

Reading this in his face, Wladyslaw said earnestly, ‘It was an accident, I’m sure. It was that motorbike.’ But Jozef was beyond such easy remedy: Wladyslaw could read that in
his face as well.

While Wladyslaw gave half an ear to Stan rambling on about bodies in the River Tone, he watched Jozef go to the door of the withy shed and pull out his cigarettes. When Wladyslaw glanced round a
moment later, he was still there, exhaling a stream of smoke. A minute or so after that and he had vanished. Suppressing instinctive alarm, Wladyslaw put his head into the apple store and the
house. He searched the outbuildings, the orchard, and the meadow. With increasing urgency, he scanned the wind-ruffled flood waters, the semi-submerged drove-roads and boggy footpaths along the
moorland edge. Returning to the apple store, he found everything in its usual chaotic state, Jozef’s oilskins strewn over the unmade bed, his gumboots across the floor, while at the foot of
the bed his open kitbag spilled spare clothing and old Polish-language newspapers. Wladyslaw attached little significance to the presence of the clothing – it would be typical of Jozef to
abandon it – but delving deeper into the bag he took heart from the discovery of Jozef’s most treasured possessions – the family photograph in its heavy frame, an antique locket,
and a small metal box containing postcards and letters and dog-eared snapshots. He told himself that Jozef would not leave these things behind, that he was bound to return for them sooner or later.
Unless he had taken fright in a very big way. Unless he had decided to run for ever. Unless— But some thoughts were too depressing to pursue, and when he remembered the godmothers he seized
avidly on the idea that Jozef would go there, that it was the obvious place for him to go. Even when he failed to overtake Jozef on the road to Middlezoy he persuaded himself that Jozef had managed
to hitch a lift.

Now, as Wladyslaw peddled back over Stanmoor Bridge, he considered taking the low road to Athelney Station to see if Jozef was waiting for a train there, only to rule it out almost straight
away. Jozef would be too impatient and too unorganised to settle for a train. If he had decided to get away, he would simply have started walking.

With a sense that he had wasted his last chance of finding Jozef, Wladyslaw started up the ridge road, then, for the sake of covering another route, cut down onto a footpath that meandered along
the pastures bordering the moor. It was hard going in places, the path sometimes muddy, sometimes laid with rough stones, and twice he had to lift the bicycle over gates. One pasture was divided by
the railway line, another was dotted with sheep, but there were no people, and no Jozef.

Approaching Crick Farm, the path rose diagonally across a broad pasture towards the farm’s upper boundary. The angular withy shed was visible from a long way off, as was the roof of the
house, but a slight undulation in the contours of the slope hid the body of the house and the two cars almost concealed behind the racks of hurdle wood until he was relatively close. Only a section
of one car’s bonnet was showing and even less of the other’s roof, but both were black, and both, he had little doubt, belonged to the police.