54.

2 July, 8:45 AM

“Sorry about your head,” said the woman.

She was tall, slim – like most of the women around here. Never mind the French; what were they eating around here? – probably in mid-thirties, with short, shoulder length blonde hair and bright blue eyes, almost too big, baby-like. Jake considered for a moment if his body was up to the task of jumping over the bed and rushing the door past the woman. Would he be able to ram through and sweep her off her feet, literally, or would she try some martial arts moves on him, like in action movies? Or maybe even simply pull a gun at him?

He’s had enough of guns for one day. With the image of what one of them had wrought flashing through his mind yet again, he decided not to make any sudden movements for the time being.

“Who are you people?” he said. Never mind my head, but thanks for asking.

“We’re friends,” she said.

“Friends don’t whack friends on the back of the head and abduct them,” Jake stepped away from the window.

“Friends don’t let get friends get killed,” she said. “Friends remove friends from danger – or potential danger – as the first priority.”

She took a step inside the room, but her left hand remained on the door frame. She was wearing a navy-blue tracksuit, as is she just came back from the gym, except she didn’t appear flustered.

“You could have asked,” Jake said, fully realising at the time the words left his mouth just how stupid he sounded.

“There was no time,” she shrugged. “A quick decision was made. Sorry. But we couldn’t afford to argue, or waste time to explain the situation, while not knowing at the same time if there were more of them wanting to kill you...”

Jake sighed loudly and sat on the edge of the bed.

“So... friends,” he said. “Why?”

“Which is another way of asking ‘who are you people?’, eh?” she smiled with a glimmer in her eyes. “Let us say that someone asked someone else to look after you, just in case some people out there would want to harm you... again.”

“And do I know that someone, or that someone else?”

“Don’t think so,” she said, “but does it matter?”

“It does to me,” Jake said. “Ever since I got here a few days ago I don’t know what’s happening to me. Someone wants to kill me, and I don’t know who that is and why. Now someone wants to save me, and I don’t know who that is and why. That is,” he raised his head and looked into those blue eyes, “assuming that I do actually trust you’re telling the truth.”

The woman let go of the door, took a few steps and sat at the foot of the bed, perched on the edge.

“Do you think that if we wanted to harm you, you would be still alive?” she asked.

“Maybe you just wanted to kidnap me,” Jake said, “and you did.”

“And what about the guy with the gun?”

“Maybe you people killed the cop who was guarding me and then knocked down another cop. The one with the gun.”

“The one that you didn’t even know about?” she asked again, a tinge of mild mockery in her voice, or was he being overly sensitive? He could be excused. “Know many cops who use silencers with their guns? I think your story is getting a bit too complicated.”

Jake leaned back and rested on the pillow. He winced when his head touched the wall. Almost managed to forget about that, he thought.

“So I guess you, my new friends, whoever you are, are not with the Ruthenian and Galician police force?”

“No.”

“But you won’t tell me who you are?”

“It’s not really up to me,” she shrugged. “I – and my friends – are just here to make sure you’re fine and safe and comfortable. Those higher up can tell you, if they choose to.”

“The someone and the someone else?”

“Yes,” she nodded.

“So what now?” Jake asked. “I’m bored.”

“More like in shock,” she said.

“I was joking.”

The light in her eyes dulled. “We want to ensure that you can safely fulfill your mission. With your grandfather’s ashes.”

So they knew about that, Jake thought. And why would that surprise you?

“I need to pick up the ashes,” he said.

“That could be complicated... In light of what happened yesterday afternoon,” she added. “We wouldn’t advise that you turn up at the Police Station Number 5 and ask for the urn. Seeing that as far as they’re concerned, you have disappeared and they have one dead policeman on their hands and one hired hitman, now conscious, charged with murder.”

“None of which is my fault,” Jake protested.

“Not directly,” she said. “But I don’t have to tell you that as far as the police are concerned you’re becoming more trouble by the minute. I’m not sure they will be quite so happy to assist you.”

Jake laughed. “I’m the one who almost got killed. Twice. In case people are forgetting.”

“True, but they might start to seriously consider the possibility that you know a lot more about what’s going on than your ‘innocents abroad’ act would suggest.”

“It’s not an act,” Jake interrupted.

“We know that,” she said. “The police can’t be so sure at the moment. You do have to admit that for an ordinary American tourist you seem to attract hell of a lot of trouble. Trust me, the police are in a position to make your life difficult. More difficult that it is. For example hold you in custody as a suspect, or at least a material – and uncooperative – witness.”

“This is really getting better and better,” Jake ground his teeth. “What do you suggest?”

“I suggest that we can see if we can take advantage of the bureaucratic confusion at the police station,” she said, “and find out if your female friend can pick up the ashes on your behalf from one section of the station before your Inspector finds out.”

“Sounds like a long shot.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

Jake didn’t.

“I need to make a phone call,” he said.

“Sure,” she reached into her tracksuit pants’ pocket and pulled out a black phone of an undetermined brand. They both leaned forward across the bed to complete the transaction.

Jake hesitated before punching in Marina’s number, but his guardian – or guard – merely returned to her position at the foot of the bed. No private phone calls then. What were they thinking, that he will try to organise a daring escape from a location he did not know, involving a half-Gypsy tour guide with an extra, and maybe her manic brother providing a getaway car?

She picked up on the fourth ring.

“Hello,” her voice was neutral. Of course she would not have recognised the number he was calling from.

“Hey, it’s me,” he said.

“Jake,” she instantly brightened up. “I’ve been trying to call you a few times but couldn’t get through. How are you?”

“Well,” Jake said, “about that...” and as concisely and dispassionately as he could manage, he brought her up to date with the events since yesterday afternoon, interrupted by frequent ‘Oh my God’ and ‘Oh no’ and ‘Are you sure you’re alright?’ punctuations from Marina.

“Can you talk?” she asked in the end.

“Not really,” he said.

“They... they’re listening in, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

She sighed.

Jake then explained the plan. If it could be called a plan.

“Of course I’ll try,” she said. “Oh my God,” she added, an afterthought. “I can’t believe it. Well, I can, unfortunately. I just...”

“I know,” he said.

“You poor thing.”

“Can you try... the ashes... now,” he said.

“Of course,” she snapped out of it.

“I’ll call you in a few hours time.”

“Can I call you?”

“Well, it’s not my phone, so…” he said.

“Of course,” she said. “Well, I better be off... on a mission. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” he said. “And thank you. I mean it.”

Photo by Anna Pritchard on Unsplash