Blind Eye

46

The taxi pulled a juddering U-turn on the wide, tree-lined street and roared away in a cloud of oily smoke, leaving Logan and Jaroszewicz standing outside a block of flats. Five storeys of grimy grey, with white-painted window frames. The word 'HUTNIK' was daubed in red paint next to an archway that led all the way through the building and into some sort of square on the other side.

'This it?'

Jaroszewicz checked the bit of paper he'd given her, then walked through the archway. On the other side it opened up into a little park of paving slabs and trees, a rickety children's play area that looked about ready to collapse in the corner. The green space was surrounded on all sides by walls of identically bland apartments.

One half of the square looked much cleaner than the other and when Logan asked why, Jaroszewicz just shrugged, mumbled something about it depending on which way the wind from the Steelworks was blowing, then marched across to a plain blue door.

She glanced over her shoulder at the empty windows surrounding them. 'Stalin built it like this so people would spy on their neighbours. Every house overlooks at least a dozen more.' She dug into her handbag, brought out something wrapped in a paisley-pattern handkerchief, and handed it over. 'Here.'

Heavy. And worryingly familiar.

Logan peeled back one edge of the cloth and slapped it back again.

'Why do I need a gun?'

'Just keep it…' She pointed at his pocket. 'In case.'

'What's going on, Jaroszewicz?'

'Please, call me Wiktorja.'

'Either you tell me what's going on, or I'm turning round and walking out of here.'

She pulled another bundle from her bag, slipping it into her coat pocket. 'This man, Gorzkiewicz, he is dangerous.'

'He's blind.'

'He knows dangerous people. And dangerous people are looking for him.' She blushed. 'I… ahem… I do not want you to get hurt.'

She scanned the list of names on the intercom, running her finger lightly across the handwritten labels. 'He is not here: no Gorzkiewicz.'

'Well, if dangerous people are looking for him, he's not going to put his real name on the buzzer, is he?'

Her finger froze over one. 'Zegarmistrz… Ah.' And then she pressed the button.

Silence. Then a crackle. Then silence again.

Logan put a hand on the door and pushed. It swung open.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark. There was a short corridor with a block of letter boxes on one pistachio-green wall, three doors leading off to separate apartments, and a set of concrete stairs with wrought iron balustrades and a scarred wooden handrail.

Jaroszewicz — Wiktorja — pointed up, then started to climb.

Each landing had a small square window set into the thick wall at knee height, but they didn't do much more than emphasize how gloomy it was in here. The apartment doors were all different, some elaborately so, trying to impose a little individuality on this communist workers' paradise of grey bland buildings.

At least the stairwell didn't stink of piss.

Logan froze. 'Wait a minute, how do you know dangerous people are after him?'

She kept on going. 'It was in the file.'

'Then why didn't you say anything about it?'

'I did not think it mattered — we thought he was too long ago, remember? We were concentrating on Lowenthal. Now come on…'

They stopped again on the fifth floor, outside the only door that didn't want to be different. It was a plain, bland slab, painted black. 'This is it.'

Wiktorja reached into her pocket, the one with the gun. Then she knocked.

A voice muffled out from the inside. 'Otwarte.'

She tried the door handle and it creaked, then the door swung open, groaning like a sound effect from a horror movie.

The corridor on the other side was dark and cluttered — piles of old newspapers, a broken sewing machine, shoe boxes, bricks, an ancient radio with the valves poking out. The walls were covered in 70s-style red velveteen wallpaper, the swirly pattern disappearing into the darkness, and the only illumination came from a twisting ribbon of little white fairy lights.

The same voice as before came from a room further down the hall, saying something about pierogi?

Wiktorja placed a finger on her lips and crept into the gloom, picking her way around the obstacles. Swearing quietly, Logan followed her, closing the front door behind them — shutting out what little natural daylight had oozed in from the stairwell. And now there was nothing but the fairy lights.

It was impossible to walk in a straight line, the piles of junk made the confined space into a twisting maze. Claustrophobic.

Wiktorja held up a hand and stopped, peering through an open door into the room beyond. She stepped inside, motioning for Logan to follow her.

It was the living room that time forgot, and just as dark as the hallway. More piles of junk, more Christmas lights. And as Logan's eyes slowly grew accustomed to the gloom he could see the stripy wallpaper, the swirly-patterned rug, the fake-teak sideboard, the old Bakelite phone, the framed pictures of Jesus, Pope John Paul II, and the Virgin Mary. The boarded-up windows. A broken alarm-clock-radio sitting on top of a stack of boxes. The man sitting in the armchair pointing a gun at them.

He had grey hair, liver spots, dark glasses, big rounded shoulders and hands like dinner plates. A bear in a cardigan. A three-quarters empty bottle of vodka sat on the table by his side. He was right in the middle of his maze of junk. A minotaur with a semi-automatic pistol.

He waggled the gun at them. 'Co zrobiliscie Zytka?'

Wiktorja answered him in English, 'We have not done anything to Zytka.' She eased her hand slowly out of her pocket — bringing her own gun with it. 'We are not-'

'Stop right there.' His accent was a strange mix of Polish and American. As if he'd learned to speak the language from watching Hollywood movies. 'You stop, or I will shoot you.'

She froze. 'I'm not doing anything.'

He raised his arm and aimed straight for her chest. 'Put it on the floor.'

She looked back at Logan, then did as she was told, laying the gun down with a clunk on the threadbare carpet.

'Good, now you sit. Over there, in the seat.' The gun waggled again, this time in the direction of a rickety dining-room chair, hard up against the wall. He kept the gun on her until she was sitting, ignoring Logan. 'You tell that cholernik Ehrlichmann I am not an idiot. He touches one hair on Zytka's head and I'll blow him and his whole pierdolony family back to the Stone Age. Do you understand?'

'I… I don't know who Ehrlichmann is.'

Logan stepped into the room. 'She's telling the truth.' And the gun snapped round. Oh God… He was looking right down the barrel. He put his hands up. 'We're not here to hurt anyone.'

'Where is Zytka?'

Logan glanced at Wiktorja, and edged a little closer. 'We don't know. We've not seen anyone since we got here.'

The man grunted. 'Then what do you want?'

Wiktorja: 'We're police officers.'

He swung the gun round again. 'Pierdolona suka!'

Logan lunged.