27 June, 3:00 PM, Czernograd, Hotel Casino
On the way back to the hotel from lunch Jake thought he was being followed. He could have sworn that young man in leather jacket and jeans who sat a few tables away from them drinking coffee and reading newspaper while they had their chicken breast sandwich and sushi was now walking about fifty metres behind him. Jake saw him when he stopped outside a window of a bookshop to admire the hardback stacks of Dan Brown’s latest in a local translation. He didn’t have any experience in being followed, not that he was aware of at least, only the very basic concept gleaned from movie thrillers, but couldn’t have sworn it was the same guy.
Then there was the man in the hotel lobby, an avid newspaper reader. This time Jake was sure that he was there yesterday, wearing different clothes, but still glancing at him briefly as Jake made his way from the entrance to the lifts.
Going up to the fifth floor Jake pondered whether to disturb Inspector Maciejewicz’s peace with the news – or rather a mere suspicion – that people were shadowing him. By the time he was standing outside his door, fumbling with the key, he decided not to. Partly because he would also feel obliged to tell the good Inspector that somebody has been in his room at least twice, and it probably wasn’t the hotel cleaners. It’s called a can of worms, Jakey boy. You just want to get your ashes back, do the right thing and get the hell out of here, without getting involved in a boy’s own adventure.
He tried watching the local TV, flicking between a nature documentary, a soccer match, a chat show that was all Ruthenian and Galician to him, and a dubbed version of “The Sopranos”. He switched it off and lay back on his bed, staring instead at the ceiling. Marina was right; getting out of here, even for a few hours of fresh country air, would make for a nice change.
Photo by Yanette Ivanova on Unsplash
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