The bone road, p.22
The Bone Road, page 22
‘I thought this was a peaceful protest?’
‘It is by us. Not necessarily by them,’ muttered Marina.
It was with some relief that Heather saw the stern-faced police in their blue uniforms and matching baseball caps. It was with less relief that she noticed they carried guns and riot shields. Heather found herself jostled and shoved in each direction. Marina slid her arm through hers, and Heather linked her other arm with Petra. She counted about fifty women and twenty-five men walking with the van; many of them held signs.
‘What do they say?’ she asked Petra.
‘No more mass graves. No more lies. Justice for Victims. Justice for Rape Victims.’ Petra hesitated, and pointed to a banner carried between two women. ‘Dragan Drakulić is a murderer and a rapist and deserves to burn in hell.’
‘I want to hold that banner.’
‘Okay,’ said Marina.
The three of them shouldered their way through the crowd over to the women and picked up the slack in the middle of the banner. The women looked surprised for a moment and then smiled, gratified that Heather and her friends wanted to join them. It was the first time Heather had ever joined a protest, or marched united behind a cause, and she felt gratitude and relief towards these women – they knew the horror that was Drakulić, the man who had tortured and murdered Ryan. Left her unborn child without a father. It was not a comfort exactly – she would have preferred that no one else had suffered – but for the first time she realised she was part of a sisterhood, whether she wished for it, or not.
Heather quickly regretted her impulse to pick up this specific banner. It was a target of particular outrage. Missiles and cries were hurled at them, and soon the banner itself was spattered with paint and, to Heather’s disgust, the dripping viscera from the rotting carcass of a chicken. The throng grew denser still, a steadily moving mass of people, a hum of anger just beneath the surface. They found themselves borne along towards Sokolović Bridge, where she could see the van parked, already swarmed by people. It was being rocked with such vigour it looked like it might tip over.
‘Are you all right?’ yelled Petra.
Heather opened her mouth to reply, and found it filled with rotting salad leaves, mouldy and revolting, hurled by another objector. She let go of Marina’s hand to smear the filth from her face. It left a trail of slime across her mouth and nose like snot, and she spat in disgust. A moment later, she felt the banner being torn from her hand, and shouts of fury from the other women as it was trampled underfoot. While cleaning her face, Heather had inadvertently fallen behind, and now, as she tried to catch up, she discovered that there was nothing she could do to reach them, such was the press of bodies. Marina yelled to her, but her shout was a call across the ocean, distant and useless. Heather let her go.
She could sense the suppressed violence prickling like electricity and wondered at the wisdom of coming here today. She wanted to meet Rubi Kurjak, ask her about Ryan, desperate for any more she could learn about the man she thought she knew. Instead she found herself surrounded by a hostile mob, many of whom still idolised Drakulić as a war hero and refused to accept his guilt. The thoughts of a few minutes ago – of sisterhood and mutual suffering – were lost in fear. She was carried along on the wave of the protesters, no longer an individual but absorbed into the marchers and swept up and onto the bridge. The police were trying to keep the protesters and counter-protestors apart, but it was impossible. She felt an arm sneak around hers and with relief saw that it was Petra, who had somehow manoeuvred back to her again. The Silent Women had mostly found their way to the balustrades on the south side of the bridge. She and Petra were shunted towards them and then, with a rush of terror, she felt someone trying to tie something around her mouth and throat. She struggled and then heard Petra hissing at her to calm down and saw that all the women were tying white bandages around their mouths as part of the protest. A young girl held out the bandage to Heather, mouthing an apology. Heather nodded and tied it loosely herself. She had to admit that as a symbol it was effective – chilling and striking.
All of the women stood along the same side of the bridge, mouths gagged in white gauze, clutching thousands and thousands of red lilies, one for each of the souls murdered in Višegrad. The roar of noise from the mob was a wall of sound coming at them, creating a competing mix of wrath and cheers of sisterhood, of grief and rage, admiration and hate. The police closed ranks, attempting to keep the two factions apart and also prevent anyone else coming onto the bridge.
Heather was jostled against a stone balustrade so that it dug sharply into her hipbone and briefly she was looking down. The water tore beneath the bridge, green and wild. It was impossible not to think of the thousands who had been pushed off each dusk during the war, some shot first, some stabbed, others falling as they tried to clutch their children to them, the gunshots coming later as they drowned.
A handful of lilies was thrust into her hands and she stared at them for a moment, forgetting what she was supposed to do with them. Looking along the line, she saw more than a hundred other women casting them into the water below. She did the same, watching her blooms fall through the air before disappearing into the river. The waters of the Drina were awash with blood-red lilies for the dead. At once, a furious buzzing of outboard engines started up and the waters were churning with half a dozen speedboats. The boats hurtled amongst the flowers, propellers slicing them to pieces, crimson petals eviscerated so that it looked as if the water was once again full of blood. Men stood up in the boats, clapping and laughing in vicious delight that they had spoilt the protest. A violent wake rocked the boats, and one man swayed, tumbling overboard. His friends reached down, grabbing his shoulders to haul him back in. He sat down hard, bellowing with fierce laughter, spitting out water as he cracked open a beer. The boat thundered away, passengers clinging to the side.
A few seconds later, another sound cut through the bellowing of the crowd and the thunder of the engines – a static crackle of music over amplified speakers, thumping out a song Heather didn’t recognise. At once a furious cry of outrage went up amongst the Silent Women and their supporters, while rival hoots of delighted laughter rose from the others as they started to echo the song, in hollers and roars.
‘What are they singing?’ yelled Heather.
‘Drina, Bloody Drina,’ shouted back Petra. ‘Is Serbian Nationalist song. They don’t like it when we remember Bosniak dead.’ Even she looked pale and anxious.
Heather felt an elbow in her ribs and winced. She was pinned against the edge of Sokolović Bridge, unable to move, unsure if she was going to be pushed over the side or crushed. Frantic, she scanned the crowd and noticed Marina, her white gag removed, her mouth contorted wide open. It took her a second before Heather realised that she was screaming, her voice silenced by the baying of the crowd. It was hard to say for sure in the mêlée, but it appeared to Heather as if someone was holding her. For a moment, she wondered if Marina was hurt and the hands were carrying her to safety, but then the crowd thinned momentarily, and she glimpsed the other woman fighting and kicking out with everything she had. Marina had removed her gag, but now hands fastened it tightly around her mouth. Heather filled her lungs and yelled, trying to draw attention to Marina’s predicament, but no one could hear her thin voice over the frenzy of the crowd. It was out of control, shoving and pushing in every direction, anger reaching a crescendo with each verse of the Bloody Drina song. Heather looked round for Petra, but she too had gone, carried away by the surge. Marina was sobbing now, kicking as she was dragged off, but no one else seemed to notice. There were police everywhere – didn’t they see? She yelled in vain, and then she saw him.
Simo.
There he stood, alongside the line of police officers attempting to control the protesters. He couldn’t hear her, so she decided to go to him. But crushed against the bridge, Heather tried in vain to move through the press of bodies – it was like pushing against concrete. She waved her arms in an attempt to attract his attention. And then, unbelievably, he saw her. Recognition slid across his face and he dived into the crowd, shouldering his way through the hordes towards her. He was coming. But just as she allowed herself a moment of hope, he went down. One second he was there, the next he was gone, submerged beneath the mass of bodies. She felt arms grab her waist and lift her bodily. A man’s tattooed arms wrapped around her. She kicked and writhed, but his grip was like steel. He half-carried her off, forcing the crowd aside as he ploughed through them. So much noise. Everyone shouting. Blows rained down, fights and scuffles amongst the crowd. No one was interested in a woman yelling in a foreign language words they could hardly hear. She was angry. They were all angry. She screamed for Simo. She screamed and screamed, and then she felt a searing pain in the back of her head and then there was nothing but darkness.
At the north end of the bridge, Simo held his radio close to his lips and barked commands, ordering officers into new positions, moving them around strategically in an attempt to prevent any more people from joining the other protesters on the bridge. It was dangerously close to overcrowding. Sweat dripped behind his visor. Arriving at the chaotic scene, he had taken control from the junior officer in charge, who was clearly overwhelmed by the task. Simo had been reorganising the men when he spotted Heather gesturing to him from amongst the Silent Women protesters. What the hell was she doing here? She was supposed to be on a plane. She was gesturing across the bridge. He tracked the direction of her signal and saw two men holding a woman. For a moment he assumed it was a clash of protesters, but then he saw the woman. Even with the white gag covering her mouth he recognised Marina Tomić. The men were hauling her off and there was no doubt in Simo’s mind who they were acting for Drakulić. He tried to find Heather again in the seething crowd. With growing horror, he watched a man ploughing towards her, like a shark finning through the water. Heather hadn’t seen him. Calling to several officers to back him up, Simo plunged onto the bridge. The crowd was twenty deep in every direction and he was quickly separated from the other policemen. Music pulsed and fireworks hissed through the sky. The acrid tang of gunpowder mingled with the stink of diesel, and the air hummed with the sound of boat engines.
He watched them take her, impotent rage burning his chest. He waded on, so focused on Heather he couldn’t understand why his legs suddenly wouldn’t move. He sank to the ground, woozy with pain. Boots and shoes clattered past him, some stepped over him, others didn’t bother. Reaching around he felt a wetness in his lower back and knew in that moment he had been stabbed. The knife had missed his ribs, protected by his Kevlar vest, but there was an unprotected spot just above his kidneys where they’d known to aim. He needed to get up or be trampled to death. He needed to get back to the other officers, or he’d be in no position to help Heather. He stumbled to his feet, aware of sweat coating every inch of his skin and understood that his damaged body was going into shock. He heard a voice calmly issuing commands.
‘Officer down. Shut down the protest. Now. I’m authorising necessary force. Start making arrests. Over.’ There was a hiss of static.
‘Understood. Who’s been hurt, boss? Over.’
‘Me,’ answered Simo. He closed his eyes and fell.
When he came to, the streets were much emptier, occupied only by discarded beer cans and a few stragglers. Sirens wailed. It was horribly still. Panic engulfed him. How much time had passed? Heather. Puši kurac – the pain in his back. He was so cold. He started to shake. His mouth was dry and two cops were kneeling beside him, faces tight with anxiety. One of them had a nasty red scratch down his face. He started to reach up but it hurt too much to raise his arm. A medic was injecting something into his other arm while another applied pressure to the wound in his back. Simo tried to get up but they gently held him down.
‘Stay there, boss. You’re hurt. Do you know what day it is? Do you know where you are?’
Višegrad. If Simo wanted to help Heather and Marina, he needed to be careful. Not knowing who was loyal to Drakulić. He couldn’t trust his own department. He wanted to be sick. The paramedics began to lift him onto a gurney next to a waiting ambulance. That wasn’t going to work. As soon as they took him, he was out of action. He needed to regain some semblance of control. He shoved them away with surprising force.
‘Hey, hey. It’s okay. Can you tell me your name?’ said the younger paramedic, a pup of a boy with a downy moustache on his upper lip.
‘Inspektor Simo Subotić of the Višegrad police department. Today is April 9th. I feel like shit. Two thugs stabbed me between ribs eleven and twelve, but despite the blood loss I’m almost certain that they missed my kidney.’
He finally shook them off, giving the stretcher a filthy glare. ‘I’ll sit in the back of the ambulance while you stitch me up, but that’s it.’
The paramedics muttered, irritated, half under their breath.
‘Give me codeine. And I’ll take an IV to go. I’ve lost a lot of blood.’
The two cops sniggered. This was the Inspektor Simo Subotić that they were used to.
Simo was relieved to see them. They weren’t efficient or smart, but he was almost certain that they were honest, and that they were his men and no one else’s. If only he could be sure. It simply wasn’t worth the risk.
The older paramedic folded his arms, incensed. ‘We’ll take you to the hospital in Goražde. This is not a dispensary.’
‘Then not to worry,’ said Simo, lurching to his feet. ‘I’m sure I’ve some tape at home. I’ll stick it as best I can.’
The cops caught him before he fell. ‘What happened to your face?’ he asked the officer, wincing now he could see the wound close up.
‘Bramble,’ said the policeman.
‘Funny,’ said Simo. ‘It looks like someone scratched you. Didn’t arrest him?’
‘Can’t arrest a weed, sir.’
‘No,’ said Simo, eyeing him closely. He felt that he was being lied to but couldn’t understand why. He was instantly less certain that these were his men and not Josif’s. Now he thought about it, they were close by when he came to and close by when he went down. He hoped to hell that this wasn’t an inside job.
Between them, the paramedics shuffled Simo to the ambulance and removed his protective vest and the blood-soaked clothing covering his chest and back. The blood, which had started to congeal, began running again as they tugged the T-shirt free. The senior paramedic probed the edges of the wound with a gloved finger.
‘It looks clean enough, but you need to go to hospital. They’ll want to see how deep it is. There might be internal bleeding. I can’t be sure whether they nicked your kidney.’
‘Well, if you had to guess?’ asked Simo.
The paramedic shrugged. ‘I’m a medic, not a psychic. I can stitch it. But it’s a stupid idea. You’re at risk of infection.’
Simo suppressed another wave of dizziness. ‘I’m fine.’
The older paramedic threw up his arms, giving up in the face of Simo’s relentless objection. ‘If the bleeding starts again, you need to go immediately to hospital. And see your own doctor this afternoon. Tomorrow at the latest.’
‘Sure,’ lied Simo, reaching into his pocket for his phone. He dialled David, who to his relief picked up on the first ring.
‘Have you got my licence yet?’
Simo ignored the question, wincing as he switched the phone from one hand to the other. ‘I need you to make a house call.’
21
Heather woke to find herself in the back of a van, her hands cinched at the wrists with a plastic tie, legs bound together at the ankles. The windows in the back doors were covered with roughly cut cardboard squares taped to the frames, but judging from the motion of the van and the strained note of its engine they were speeding along a fast road, maybe a motorway. Marina lay motionless beside her. Her skin displayed a ghastly waxy pallor and she was bleeding from a snaking wound on her head. Heather studied her closely and, with relief, registered the slight rise and fall of her chest – she was alive. Heather’s leg throbbed with cramp, stiff from lying in the same position. She wiggled her toes and fingers to keep the blood moving. It was then she noticed her sleeve had been rolled up past her upper arm, revealing a pinprick of blood and a blossoming bruise. They had injected her with something. The notion of someone shooting her up with an unknown substance filled her with a cold rage. God knows how it might harm the baby. She took a deep breath. They mustn’t find out she was pregnant. She couldn’t protect it if she panicked. Her thoughts turned to escape.
She tried to feel if her phone was still in her coat pocket, but no, they’d taken it. The rear doors were chained shut and a solid metal partition divided the driver and passenger from the load-space in the rear. The partition vibrated to the pounding of loud music, presumably to cover any cries of help the two women might make. Heather wriggled herself upright. The situation could hardly be worse, but she experienced an odd sense of calm. This is what the other riders used to snipe about behind her back, that she was never rattled even under the most stressful circumstances. She willed herself to pretend that this was just another seasonal disaster: mislaid bikes before a key race, or when the driver got lost on the way to the start line in Switzerland and she’d had to navigate through the mountain roads in the Alps so that the entire team didn’t face disqualification. At the time, those things had seemed like life and death. Now, she needed to pretend that this wasn’t, to lower the stakes in her mind.
The vibration of the van had loosened a corner of the tape holding the cardboard screen over one of the rear windows. It flapped as the van hurtled along the road, letting in daylight, enough for her to see that it was now late afternoon. That meant they’d been on the road for at least three hours. With a sinking feeling, she realised that they could have travelled quite a way from Višegrad in that time.
They slowed right down and started to climb. They were heading into the hills. The van swerved around a bend and Heather was thrown against the side, her face smacking against hard metal, slicing her cheek open. She ignored the pain and nudged Marina with her foot, trying to wake her.
