Deep Black

92

The van bounced to a halt. The long-haired one jumped out and slid open the side door. Light flickered on the other side of the archway and a small man in a long black coat, fur hat and sheepskin boots appeared, an oil lamp clutched in his hand. It was Nuhanovic. Although his face was mostly obscured by his collar and hat, I could see he’d binned the beard. It didn’t seem to make much difference: he still came across like somebody’s favourite uncle.

‘Please come in.’

His eyes were bright and piercingly intelligent. The corners of his mouth were lifted in a half-smile, but I wasn’t sure whether it was aimed at me and Jerry or his long-haired mate, who shepherded us in, then turned the VW back down towards the checkpoint.

We followed Nuhanovic through into a cobbled courtyard. He only came up to my chin, but there was no doubt who was in charge here.

‘I have dry clothes for you, and hot water. Once you are comfortable, we will eat and talk.’ He spoke slowly, in heavily accented but perfect English, and chose each word with a lot of care.

Directly in front of us was a long, one-storey building with a veranda that ran its whole length. The place was in darkness.

He led us to the left, along the line of the wall, to where another, taller building joined it, forming an enclosed courtyard. We followed him and his oil lamp up a very old and creaky external wooden staircase on to the first-floor veranda. Warm light glowed behind the blue-glass panels in a door to our left.

He opened it and ushered us through. We hesitated, starting to take off our boots before crossing the threshold.

‘Please, no need, just enter.’ Nuhanovic took a closer look at Jerry’s face. ‘That wound needs to be cleaned.’

The room, maybe four metres by five, was heated by a blazing fire. Logs were stacked against the wall, and the air was heavy with perfume and woodsmoke.

Our shadows flickered on the walls. An oil lamp in the corner provided the only other light, and lavender oil simmered in a little brass tray above the flame. The happiest sight was the steaming brews that stood on two brass trays by the grate. I headed straight for them.

Jerry joined me, trying to kickstart his circulation in front of the fire. Above it, hot water bubbled in a clay tank decorated with inlaid pieces of coloured glass.

Nuhanovic stayed by the door. ‘The water should be hot enough for you to shower. Please, change, be comfortable and then we can talk.’ He turned to leave.

‘I’m Nick.’ I motioned with my hand. ‘This is Jerry.’

That half-smile returned. ‘And I am Hasan.’

He closed the door behind him.

Jerry didn’t need any second invitation. He turned the small brass tap at the bottom of the tank and hot water streamed into a large clay jug beneath it. I poured out the brews. I was pleased to see it was tea rather than that Arabic coffee shite, although I would have gone for anything even half-way warm. I threw in a handful of lumps of crystallized brown sugar. The glass burned my fingers and lips as I started sipping.

Jerry filled the jug, and started to get undressed in front of the fire. I kicked off my boots, refilled my glass and took a look around. Two sides of the room were dominated by long seating areas littered with cushions. Some basic clothing had been laid out for us. There was no decoration on the dirty white plastered walls.

A slatted wooden door opposite the fire led to a toilet, a simple box with a hole in, with a washing bowl and hand towel alongside. There were no electric sockets or fittings that I could see. It was as if we’d been transported back two hundred years.

Jerry had ripped all his kit off and was busy drawing cold water from a barrel into a second jug. He obviously knew his way around nineteenth-century plumbing. He unhooked the chain that held the ornate brass bucket above the stone shower tray to the left of the fire. Letting it run through his hands until the bucket hit the shower tray, he poured in water from each jug until he was satisfied with the temperature.

I eased open the blue-glass door to check outside. The terracotta rooftops were covered with frost. Above them, a million stars glistened in a pitch-black sky.

The other side of the compound was in total darkness. The guys on stag must have been freezing. I could make out the shape of another building beyond the one-storey one, which was where the family would have lived. It was the usual Muslim set-up. Visitors would be kept this side. If they were here for business, they’d be confined to the ground floor. The first floor would be reserved for family guests, as they would be able to see into the private courtyard that separated the two areas. Weren’t we the lucky ones?

These places were completely surrounded by thick walls, and were a nightmare to get into or out of. They’d even made sure the treeline was a fair distance from the walls to prevent any climbers.

I saw movement in the guest courtyard. A couple of bodies were standing under the veranda. Fair one; I’d have had eyes on us two full-time as well. They’d probably been there when we came in.

We needed to get ourselves sorted out if we were going to be running around in the forest once we’d dropped Nuhanovic. We needed to get warm, dry and fed.

Jerry gasped. I couldn’t tell whether that meant the water was too hot, too cold, or he just didn’t like it hitting the bits I’d split open. I closed the door, went over to the shower and stood right next to him. Some of his hot water splashed over my face and soaked into my clothes. It felt great.

I murmured into his ear. ‘Even if there’s no electricity, the room could still be bugged, OK?’

He nodded.

I moved away to the fire as he cut the water before soaping himself down. I finished mixing my own as the water splashed in the shower once more with Jerry on rinse cycle, and got my kit off.

Less than twenty minutes later we were both dressed in baggy cotton trousers, white T-shirts, thin padded jackets and Turkish slippers. We finished off the brews as our kit steamed gently in front of the fire.

The smell now reminded me of the drying rooms in training camp. You’d come off exercise after days in the wet, and nine times out of ten the heaters didn’t work and you’d have to wear the same wet gear until it dried out on you. When they did, we’d all be like pigs in shit, but no amount of lavender oil could have shifted the stench our kit left behind.

As I sat there in front of the flames, the stubble on my cheek rasping against my hand, my eyes started to droop. The drying rooms made me think of the Regiment, then Danny Connor, and Rob. I jerked them open and checked Baby-G. It was just after ten. Baby-G made me think about Kelly, which also made me think about Zina.

I tried watching Jerry patting his scabby nose with a towel, but my eyelids had a will of their own. Maybe I dozed.

There was a knock on the door, I didn’t know how much later. Jerry jumped up and opened it. Nuhanovic remained outside this time, his lamp throwing shadows across the landing. Maybe he didn’t like the smell. ‘You will require your coats.’

I started to put on my kit, now just damp rather than completely soaking, over the clothes we’d been given. I’d decided to take everything except the sacks and my PVC special. Who knew how this eat-and-talk fest would end?

Nuhanovic said nothing as Jerry followed my example, just watched in mild amusement. We finished with our parkas, zipped up as tight as they would go. As we followed him back down the stairs, he explained the layout of the place as if we’d just arrived for a dinner party. ‘It was built by a very wealthy Turkish trader in your sixteenth century. It hasn’t changed that much.’

I couldn’t see anyone under the veranda as we headed across the visitors’ courtyard to a doorway where the two buildings met, but I knew they were out there somewhere in the darkness.

Inside, his oil lamp bathed the wide stone passageway with light, and his voice echoed as he carried on his pre-dinner-party waffle. ‘The story is that the trader’s wife was so beautiful he didn’t want anyone to see her, so he built this house in the middle of nowhere. He was a jealous man, you see. But it still wasn’t enough, so he also planted the forest to prevent even the house being seen.’

‘That why you live here?’

He looked at me with that strange half-smile. ‘I live for my work, Nick. I am not blessed with a beautiful wife . . .’

The door at the end of the passageway opened on to the family courtyard. The building facing us was flanked left and right by the exterior walls. Set in the centre of the one to the right were the coach doors. We followed him over the cobblestones, past another set of heavy doors. Ahead of us, a light glowed behind a window.

‘But I am a nomad, Nick. I do not live anywhere. I move from place to place. Concealment is my greatest weapon, just as it is for the aggressors who avoid justice for their war crimes. It seems I have something in common with my old enemy, no?’

My eyes were fixed on the glow from the window. We stepped up on to the wooden veranda and he opened the door; this time he motioned for us to leave our boots outside. The threshold was two feet high. ‘Mind your toes.’ He lowered the lamp a little. ‘These are designed to keep little children in the rooms, but they claim a lot of flesh from adult feet.’

We were in a large square room. Fragrant perfume wafted from a pair of oil lamps in each of the far corners. Here, too, low seating ran the entire length of two walls. A fire raged in the centre of the third.

Waiting for us in the centre of the rug-covered floor were three large cushions set round a big brass tray, on which were a coffee pot, glasses, and a medium-sized brown-paper bag.