Girl at Midnight

by Katarzyna Bonda

Genres: Mystery; Suspense

Synopsis

For seven years, Sasza Zulaska has lived with her little girl in the north of England. Far from her previous job as an undercover cop, far from her dependence on alcohol and the traumatic case that made her flee from the police, her family and her native Poland.

But now she is coming back.

This time, Sasza is looking for a quieter life. She has studied to become a psychological profiler and she soon picks up a freelance job to check out some threats made against the owner of a nightclub.

But no sooner has Sasza visited the club than a man is murdered there and Sasza finds herself drawn back towards the world she left behind.

The dead man is a musician — famous for one song in particular: Girl at Midnight. Both the song and the crime seem to be connected to a double tragedy of years before, when a brother and sister both died on the same day.

Now Sasza Zulaska must follow a crooked, complex trail from a violent past to a more sophisticated criminal present, in which the gangsters have corrupted every level of society.

Girl at Midnight has old over a million copies in Poland and Katarzyna Bonda has become her country's undisputed Queen of Crime.

Release date: July 11, 2019

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 608

Sample

Prologue

Winter, 2013, Huddersfield

‘Sasza?’ A man’s voice. Imperious, rough. The woman searched her thoughts for faces that would correspond to it She could think of nothing. The intruder decided to give her a hand by asking another question. ‘Sasza Załuska? Came up with it yourself?’

A sequence of events in which the officer had taken part flew before her eyes.

‘It’s actually my own.’

She heard him taking a drag on his cigarette.

‘I don’t work any more,’ she said flatly, ‘for you or for anyone.’

‘But you’re eyeing up a cosy position at a Polish bank.’ He snickered. ‘You’re coming back in the spring. I know all about it.’

‘Sure. Only you don’t know everything.’

She should have hung up but he had provoked her. She picked up the gauntlet, as she always did. They both knew it.

‘You got anything against it?’ She capitulated first. ‘I earn my money fair and square. What’s it to you?’

‘Ooh! Feisty! You’re trying to tell me your wages will pay for that flat next to the Grand? The rent there’s got to be at least two thousand. How are you going to get that kind of money?’

‘That’s none of your business.’ She felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. He knew about her plans, though she hadn’t told anyone aside from her family. They had to be spying on her computer. ‘In any case, don’t waste my time. If you’re calling this number, you know where I live and where I’ll live next. Say what you like, my answer is “no”.’

‘What about providing for your little girl?’ Apparently he was in a mood to tease her. ‘Nice trick. Our Thumbelina becoming a mother. Who would have thought? Who’s the daddy? The professor? Oh, and when it comes to the bank, I’m not sure they’ll take you on. Depends on whether you cooperate.’

Sasza controlled herself, but only barely. She didn’t want to swear.

‘What do you want?’

‘We have an opening.’

‘I told you already. I’m out.’

‘We’re developing. The wages are better. The work’s clean and not in customer service . . .’ Suddenly he became serious. ‘A colleague of mine asked me to recommend someone experienced and with knowledge of English. I thought you’d qualify.’

‘A colleague?’ She breathed in. Mentally counted to ten. She really needed a drink. Vodka. She chased away the temptation. ‘Our colleague or yours?’

‘You’re not going to regret this.’

Sasza put the phone on the table, walked to the half-open door of her daughter’s room. Karolina lay in bed, the quilt covering her up to her chin. Her hands were spread in a peculiar way. She was breathing deeply through slightly parted lips. In this state even loud music couldn’t have woken her. Sasza closed the door, picked up a packet of cigarettes and opened the window. She smoked and carefully surveyed the empty neighbourhood. The only moving thing was the neighbours’ cat, which slipped through a half-open gate and into the garden. She lowered the roller blind, returned to the phone and blew the rest of the smoke at the receiver. The man at the other end remained quiet but she was sure he was smiling with satisfaction.

‘You’ll get protection. Not like last time,’ he assured her. He sounded sincere.

It was quiet for a while. When Sasza responded, her voice was hard, without any trace of doubt.

‘Tell your colleague that I’m grateful for the honour but I’m not interested.’

‘You sure?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘You know what this means?’

She remained silent for a while longer. At last she said with conviction:

‘Don’t call me again.’

She was just about to hang up when the man said in a gentler tone:

‘You know, I’m in criminal investigations now. Who would have thought . . .’

‘I guess you didn’t volunteer. So, what, they transferred you?’ She wasn’t able to hide her satisfaction. ‘Where to?’

‘Some place or other,’ he replied, evasively, ‘but it’s only two years till I step down.’

‘I’ve heard that one before. I don’t remember when, but I have.’

‘You’re right as usual, Milena.’

‘Milena never existed.’

‘Thumbelina may have married the mole, but I’m still happy that you’re coming back. Some of us have missed you. Even I shed a tear or two. And I won the wager.’

‘How much did you bet? A bottle of whisky?’ She swallowed. She ought to eat something, and quick. Hunger, anger, too much stress. All the things she should avoid.

‘I bet a whole case. Pure vodka,’ he emphasised.

‘You never appreciated women at the firm,’ she said, though he flattered her. ‘I’m going to sleep now. This phone won’t work any more.’

‘The motherland grieves, o Empress.’

‘Well, tough luck, ’cause I don’t.’

Winter 1993

The rising steam gradually revealed the thighs and buttocks of the gymnasts, but if you came too late, the haze of water condensing on the window pane obscured the view.

Sometimes you could also glimpse budding breasts. But if you came too late, the haze of condensed water obscured the view. Anyway, you couldn’t stand on the ledge for long at a time. Your legs would go numb after a while and there was nothing to grab for support. That’s why the two of them always went together.

This day, an exception, they took a third. Needles was not allowed to watch. He was supposed to stand guard but he was happy enough that they let him follow them around. He was a year younger than the other two.

They especially savoured the moments of what they called ‘sniping’ – matching the faces of the girls when they were leaving the gym after training with the bodies they had glimpsed during the showers. The lads drew straws and the winner would be the sniper first. They each selected one girl and then spent half the night pretending to think about other things. Marcin usually took his guitar. He wasn’t any good with it but he knew a few songs: ‘Rape Me’, ‘In Bloom’ or ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ by Nirvana or one of the ballads by My Dying Bride. He played for a while and then hummed something he had composed himself – neither a poem nor entirely a song. He boosted his creativity with a bit of weed or strips of acid with pictures of Asterix on them.

Today they had arrived just in time. They heard laughter before the gymnasts even arrived at the door. Marcin’s throat went dry. He felt excitement but also a tinge of fear that one of the girls would catch sight of his face in the window, which was covered only by a hole-ridden mesh. He and Przemek had broken the pane a month earlier. Somehow nobody had noticed it yet. Even the caretaker who beat them painfully with a broom and chased them out of the school playground for smoking cigarettes. It was a miracle that they managed to jump over the fence. It could have ended badly – at the office of the principal of Conradinum, which they both attended, or at the local police station. They proudly flaunted the tears in their jackets made by the spikes of the gate – like battle wounds.

The girls marched in, immersed in conversation, and filled the room with chatter, like a frolicsome flock of birds. Glowing, their brows glistening with sweat after an exhausting workout. They laughed, outshouted each other, still worked up about their stunts. Most of them began undressing as soon as they came through the door. Their tight-fitting leotards landed on benches or the wet tiles of the shower cubicles. They idly loosened their hair, two or three to a cubicle, and lathered each other. Showed off their budding breasts or grabbed each others’ buttocks for a laugh.

Only one of them, not much older than a child, stood at the door with her clothes still on. She wore the longest leggings. She hugged herself, crossing her arms over her stomach, timid and looking ready to run at any moment. Her hair was tied back. Only a few locks slipped out of the band and stuck to her cheek. Marcin couldn’t recall seeing her here before.

Each of the boys had their favourites. Marcin liked the underdeveloped ones and Przemek often mocked him for it. He preferred full-bodied blondes, even the chubby ones, as long as they were curvy enough to wear bras. Marcin didn’t like the big-arsed ones. He always looked for thin girls with a doe-eyed stare. The petite one was just like that. Huge eyes in a delicate face with high cheekbones and disproportionately full lips. She was his hit that day.

‘You coming down?’ Przemek smacked his friend on the leg hard enough to make him stagger on the ledge.

‘Idiot,’ mouthed Marcin.

‘What the hell, Staroń? It’s my turn now!’ Przemek let go of him. Marcin staggered once more, then reluctantly readied himself to jump off. He stole another glance at the petite brunette, greedily seizing mental snapshots of the girl. She showered with her eyes closed, clearly isolating herself from the others. She had taken off her leotard but was not naked, remaining in her white knickers, which were now soaking wet and stuck to her buttocks. She was perfectly thin and had a hollow tummy and clearly visible ribs. When she bent down to pick up the soap it looked as if she would snap in two. Her hips were wide, though. Her pelvic bones protruded over the knickers like a buffalo’s horns. Marcin really liked her. He couldn’t move, even though Przemek wasn’t holding him any more, instead tugging at his legs and trying to pull him down.

Suddenly the showering girl looked at him. Saw him. She reflexively covered herself with her arms and stepped back deeper into the shower cubicle. All to no effect. He could still see her and he was sure now that he would remember that sight for the rest of his life. The arch of her arm. The bony feet with improbably long toes. The slender calf with a dirty Band-Aid on her ankle. She looked at him with trepidation and suddenly moved forward in a dance-like motion. Her full lips parted, her eyes half closed. She gently traced the soapy sponge across her body.

Przemek didn’t let him watch any longer. He hit him behind the knees with such force that Marcin had difficulty landing on his feet. He fell straight into black slush, soiling his new Wranglers, which he had got from Uncle Czesiek from Hamburg. He wasn’t thinking about them, though; hiding his erection from his friend was more of a priority.

Przemek climbed onto the ledge, peeked inside and immediately jumped down again.

‘Leg it!’ he called out, and started running. After a while he turned his head and, seeing that Marcin hadn’t moved, hissed: ‘Move it, mate.’

‘What about Needles?’

‘He’s gonna have to manage by himself.’

Przemek ran with his head lowered. Only when they had passed the fence and sprinted to the end of Liczmańskiego Street, completely out of breath, did they reach safety. Marcin asked:

‘Is anything the matter?’

Przemek shook his head.

‘Did they see you?’

‘We won’t be coming back again.’ Przemek took out a crumpled packet of cigarettes with a shaking hand. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

Marcin covered his distress with a nervous titter.

‘Let’s go and jam a bit. I’ve got something good for today.’ He slapped his friend on the arm in a friendly manner. ‘You can do whatever you want, but I’m going back. I found my perfect hit. Tits like berries, dark hair. Just my type of girl. I think I might be in love.’

‘That’s my sister, you turd.’ Przemek grabbed Marcin and nearly picked him up. He was taller and stronger but it wasn’t him that the prettiest girls fell for. They all fancied Marcin Staroń – a blond with a faraway look, never parted from his guitar. He didn’t even have to play it.

‘She’s only sixteen. If I ever see you there again, smartarse, you’re dead. And don’t you even think about getting close to her, or I’ll . . .’ He didn’t finish.

Marcin pointed to the wall of the gym. On their ledge, their secret place, there was Needles, happily spying on the gymnasts as if nothing had happened.

‘What a knobhead,’ raged Przemek. ‘He was supposed to be on the lookout!’

They looked at each other, jumped the fence and ran straight to the caretaker’s office. The woman immediately grabbed her broom but they pointed at Needles, still clinging to the gym window, and she eagerly started in his direction. They lounged against some old boards and waited for the show. Needles didn’t manage to reach the fence before the caretaker caught him. She took him to the principal. They didn’t like to think just what they had got him into.

‘Well, that’s too bad.’ Marcin took out some Rizla papers and rolled a joint. He passed it to Przemek, but his friend refused. ‘Suit yourself.’ Marcin took a proper drag.

‘Not that we would’ve gone there again,’ said Przemek. He was carving a Walther handgun out of wood. Marcin thought the piece of timber had resembled a gun for some time, but Przemek was still doggedly adding details to it. It even had serial numbers and the model name carved into it.

‘What’s her name?’ Marcin took pains to feign indifference.

Przemek stopped working for a second. He seemed spaced out.

‘Who?’

‘Well, not your mother, that’s for sure.’

Przemek aimed his mock gun at him and squinted.

‘Keep away from my mum.’

Marcin put his arms up, conceding defeat. Then he slowly lowered one and pointed it at the toy.

‘My dad has all the paints you can imagine in his workshop. I’ll coat it with a car paint sprayer and you’ll be able to spook the pigs.’

Przemek took a while to think about it. Finally he got up and replied casually:

‘Her name’s Monika. I promised my father I’d keep an eye on her. Everyone has a crush on her.’

‘I’ll help you,’ Marcin promised. ‘We won’t let anything bad happen to that sweet angel.’

‘Oh, shut up, you tit.’ Przemek threw the wooden toy to Marcin, who deftly caught it in mid air.

‘Black or chrome?’

They set off to the beach in Brzeźno. The wind was blowing.

 

The first snow began to fall just before Marcin arrived home. He took one of his gloves off and reached out with his hand. Snowflakes melted on his palm as soon as they touched his warm skin. It was a few degrees above zero. Even if it snowed throughout the night there was no chance of a white Christmas.

Zbyszko z Bogdańca Street was asleep. Only a few solitary windows reflected the blue glow of television sets. The inhabitants of Wrzeszcz had already managed to adorn the majority of railings and gates with twinkly lights – the latest trend transplanted straight from the West. Some had also decorated trees in front of their houses. They had probably seen that on Dynasty. In spite of all this the atmosphere was far from festive. The cobbled street was covered with slippery winter slush, and during the day the bleak sky loomed over everybody’s heads like the wings of some enormous black bird. There was no point in stargazing. Besides, Marcin had seen plenty of those during the last few hours spent on the beach.

He went round the heap of coal which the neighbour had failed to shovel into the basement. As usual. He stopped in front of the entrance to number seventeen. It was the only house on Zbyszko z Bogdańca Street not shrouded by black smoke during the day. The neighbours still heated their flats with tiled stoves. The Starońs were among the first to buy their council house. They demolished the wooden shed and built a brick mansion with a veranda. The stoves in their house fulfilled a strictly decorative function. Marcin and his brother called them ‘strongboxes’. They used them as places in which they could hoard their various precious trinkets. Marcin’s father cobbled the courtyard with modern-looking paving blocks and coated the garage driveway with a layer of cement. Not wanting to parade his affluence before the neighbours, he imported a ready-made hedgerow courtesy of an uncle in Germany and planted it around the property.

Marcin parted the conifers and noticed that the light was still on in his father’s workshop. He tensed and sobered up momentarily. He brushed off his jacket and righted the guitar on his shoulder. The drugs were starting to wear off. Nobody would notice that he had done them in the first place. He was ravenous. He pressed the door handle as quietly as he could and tiptoed in, careful not to make any noise. He hoped his mother was asleep. She scared him the most. When he passed her by she always liked to examine his pupils. She knew but they never talked about it. He took off his puffa jacket so that it didn’t rustle when he passed his parents’ bedroom. He immediately felt the damp coolness of winter and with his heart in his mouth he set off towards the workshop, illuminated by a neon sign reading ‘Sławomir Staroń – car mechanic’.

‘Thirteen thousand four hundred bucks.’ He heard several men guffawing behind the door. ‘There’s more, you fuckwit. Around fourteen. Can’t you even count? Amber’s all fine and dandy but only if you pay up front. You may be a decent driver, Waldemar, but you’re no good with maths.’

Marcin heaved a sigh of relief. Father had guests. Maybe the owners of the Audi which had been standing over the pit for the better part of the week. Or the black BMW Series 6. That one gobbled fuel like crazy. Marcin had taken her for a ride one time. Two hundred and eighty-four horsepower, zero to a hundred kilometres per hour in less than seven seconds – absolutely epic. It wasn’t Father who imported those cars. They were brought by various people. Sometimes they rang the doorbell in the middle of the night. Those times Father used to work until sunrise, and when Marcin got up for breakfast the car was already gone. It didn’t matter who the latest guests were. They were not to be disturbed. He was safe.

He entered the hall, took off his shoes and started climbing the stairs to the attic where he and his brother had their room. The guitar slipped from his shoulder. He caught it at the last moment. Only a low thrum from the strings could be heard.

‘Marysia?’ A low, pleasant voice came from the kitchen, followed by the sound of refrigerator doors closing. ‘Those trotters are delicious. I just couldn’t help myself.’

The voice was getting closer. Marcin had almost reached the top of the spiral staircase, but wasn’t able to hide on the second floor. He let go of his jacket and looked down. A slight, balding man in wire glasses rolled into the corridor on a wheelchair.

‘Wojtek?’ The man brightened.

The lad yawned, put the guitar down and pretended that he was just about to descend the stairs to the kitchen.

‘Marcin, the other one. Good evening, Uncle,’ he greeted his relative politely. ‘I must have dozed off. I’m so hungry I could eat nails.’

‘Not much left, my boy. Your mother makes the best jellied trotters in the world.’

‘Is Mum asleep?’

The cripple shrugged.

‘Oh, come on, you’re old enough to stop calling me “uncle” now. Call me Jerzy. Or Jug-Ears.’ He offered his hand. Marcin had no choice. He had to approach the wheelchair. He felt his hand crushed in a vice-like grip. ‘Well, aren’t you built like a barn door. As if you weren’t a Staroń at all.’

‘Yeah . . .’ Marcin opened the fridge. After systematically extracting various containers and placing them on the tabletop he got down to eating. When he had satisfied his initial hunger he noticed that he had lost a button from his school uniform. It had had an anchor emblem on it. He cursed his ill-considered nocturnal trip to the beach. His mother would never forgive him. He’d have to swap jackets with his brother. He took it off along with his shirt and tie and straightened the clothes on his chair’s backrest. He remained in a T-shirt sporting the likeness of Kurt Cobain. He threw on a checked flannel shirt which hung from the chair. His medium-length, fine hair dropped to his face. Jug-Ears watched his nephew, beaming. Then he ordered the boy to give him another portion.

‘They seem to be underfeeding you here.’ He giggled, sticking out his tongue in an odd way. ‘But, as they say, good appetite is a sign of good health. I see you do quite like to enjoy yourself, my boy.’

They ate in silence. The kitchen was dimly lit. Only the small light on the ventilation hood over the cooker was on.

‘How do they tell you apart anyway?’ Marcin’s uncle studied him intently.

‘Oh, that’s not a problem.’ The lad shrugged and pointed to the jellied trotters. ‘Wojtek would never eat this. Meat disgusts him. Apart from that I’m the one who’s occasionally capable of speech. Makes things easier.’

‘You’re turning eighteen in three days. Which one of you is older?’ asked Jug-Ears.

Marcin pointed to himself.

‘A minute and a half. But we won’t have a party until after New Year. Mum wants to visit school first.’

‘You’re going to get a beating?’

Marcin turned his head in surprise. Nobody had ever hit him.

‘I might only fail chemistry. I’ve already dealt with maths. Wojtek took the exam for me. He does quadratic equations for fun, you know.’

Jug-Ears chuckled.

‘Uncle, you won’t tell Mum he helped me, will you?’ asked Marcin, suddenly worried.

‘Don’t sweat it!’ said Jug-Ears reassuringly, and then seemingly became lost in thought. ‘Chemistry is useful, though. Improve and I might employ you at the company. We’re opening a new production line. There’s a niche in the market.’

The boy nodded but only out of politeness. He had never considered chemistry essential.

‘You got a girl?’

Marcin felt himself blushing.

‘Sure you got a girl.’ Jug-Ears tilted his head. ‘I bet she’s pretty, eh?’

‘Very.’

‘Never let a girl order you around. She’ll respect you more.’

‘It’s not been an especially long relationship, you know.’ He hesitated. ‘In fact we’ve just met. I barely know her.’

‘You’ll never know a girl through and through. No sense in trying.’

‘Yes, Uncle. I mean, Jerzy.’

Jug-Ears grew sullen, dropping his eyes.

‘It’s good to finally meet you. Your mother is hiding you both from me. Come and visit me some day. Bring your brother. We’ll talk about the future. I don’t know how much time I have left. The quacks tell me I won’t live for much longer. Marysia and you are my only family. My other sisters have no children. It would be a shame to part this way. Who knows if the next time we see each other won’t be on the other side.’

Jug-Ears pushed a button on the armrest of his wheelchair. He rolled towards the fridge, pulled out a bottle of vinegar and took a whiff.

‘Don’t say that, Uncle,’ managed Marcin. This was awkward. He didn’t really know what to say.

Jug-Ears poured a generous splash of vinegar over the jelly. He ate, slicing great chunks of meat and stuffing them into his mouth.

‘You’ll understand when you’re my age. Time flies and everyone’s going to kick the bucket at one point or another.’ He chuckled. ‘So what say you? Will you come by?’

Marcin nodded without much conviction. They both knew how it was. Mother forbade the twins to contact their uncle. They wouldn’t be visiting him any time soon. Maybe some day. Who knew?

Jug-Ears put his utensils down.

‘Take me to the workshop, will you? Your old man hasn’t really thought about disabled access. It’s all stairs, doorsteps and narrow entranceways.’

‘What, now?’

Marcin jumped to his feet, ready to help. He had satisfied his hunger and was becoming drowsy now. He’d get his uncle to his father and go to sleep. He had to retake an exam on machines and electrical appliances in the morning. He hoped he could persuade his brother to swap places with him. Wojtek had passed it a week back with an A. As usual he knew everything by rote. He’d agree. For a price. He never did anything without payment. Brotherly love seemed to have strictly defined rates and all the cash wound up in a can hidden in a stove behind Wojtek’s bed. Unfortunately, since Marcin had ‘borrowed’ a few thousand in June, his brother had begun recording the banknotes’ serial numbers in his notebook. Wojtek recovered every last penny of the debt but he also charged usurious interest and announced that the rate would be even higher after New Year’s Eve.

‘Inflation,’ he muttered, his face, as ever, devoid of any emotion.

Marcin never knew what his brother needed the money for. It was difficult to get anything out of Wojtek. It was probably meant to pay for something constructive, though. Another watch for the collection or maybe a scooter. Wojtek didn’t drink or smoke but was infuriatingly systematic. Their parents and teachers always encouraged Marcin to see his brother as a role model. He might not have been likeable but he certainly was efficient. Marcin knew that the exam would be passed and that Wojtek wouldn’t ever spill the beans – even if he got caught red handed. Provided that Marcin had the means to pay for the silence, that is. The fact that they were family changed nothing. When it came to personality he was a carbon copy of their father. A reliable, precise, utter bore. Marcin was an unrepentant spendthrift but he knew how to acquire funds.

‘Smooth operator,’ his father often mocked, but he also added, not without some degree of satisfaction: ‘But there’s always some girl to get you out of trouble.’

‘Or get you into trouble in the first place,’ argued his mother.

She favoured Marcin but she always assured them that she loved both her sons equally. Sławomir Staroń was always curt in his interactions with the twins. He liked to keep them in line. However, it was Marcin whom he reproached on a more regular basis for being a mummy’s boy. The lad used to rebel against that, but in time he learned how to enjoy the benefits it granted. Even now – he was avoiding his dealer after buying dope on tick because the payment deadline had expired the week before. He knew his mother would give him some cash for private tuition the day after tomorrow. He hadn’t been seeing his tutor for the past six months. He invested the money in weed and pills. He never thought of himself as a junkie. He simply enjoyed being in an altered state of consciousness once in a while. It allowed him to whip up some pretty cool licks. Only he never felt like writing them down. It wouldn’t have been an issue if Waldemar hadn’t driven up to Conradinum some time earlier and mistaken Wojtek for Marcin. Although he eventually believed that there were two of them after seeing Wojtek’s school ID, he had still recovered his money. So now Marcin had to repay the debt to his brother as quickly as possible. The interest was mounting up every day. Wojtek managed to grill Waldemar for the exact amounts one could earn from dealing drugs as well as the people and places one had to know in order to become a dealer. He didn’t enlist as a dope peddler only because he was earning even more in the cheque-forging business.

‘The risk is higher and you have to work outdoors and actually talk to people,’ he explained to Marcin in his distinctive monotone while tinkering with police frequency monitoring on his CB radio. And immediately he lost interest in his brother, having happened on an argument between two officers. He meticulously recorded their nicknames in his notebook. There was no one in the world who better understood how much Wojtek would suffer if he had to work in customer service. Courtesy wasn’t one of his virtues. He didn’t know how to have conversations. At times he seemed hostile. He always marched to the beat of his own drum. He never needed friends, although he had his ‘retinue’. It was he who had introduced Marcin to Needles. Wojtek used the younger student of the marine vocational school as a messenger to transport cheques with forged signatures. He paid him with hard cash. He didn’t like to take risks. Marcin assumed Needles came from a poor family. He had seen him several times, wandering around the city. Sometimes he shared his dope with the younger lad. For the companionship. He knew that Needles worshipped him as his musical idol. In truth, he never really cared for Needles’ attention or Wojtek’s business. Of course, he envied his brother’s numerous talents and it made him sick that Father always said what a young entrepreneur Wojtek was becoming.

‘And you, you’ll end up in a homeless shelter.’ He pointed to Marcin. ‘Unless your brother takes pity and employs you.’

That’s why the twins would hardly ever be seen together. They were identical – like clones – and they were often mistaken for each other. They learned to utilise it. They worked together only in church. The charmer, Marcin, diverted everyone’s attention while Wojtek nicked cash from the collection basket with ease, unseen, as if he wore an invisibility cloak. They divided the spoils fairly, fifty-fifty, although Wojtek usually took everything, what with Marcin always owing him money.

 

Seeing his nephew’s compliance, Jug-Ears reclined in his wheelchair. The backrest creaked. He lifted one of his limp legs with his hands and placed it on the chair, lifeless, like a wooden block. It wasn’t so easy with the other one. Marcin had to help him.

‘Get me some more of that salad, will you?’ his uncle ordered. ‘Ah, the taste of my childhood.’

When Marcin reached for the fridge again the cripple pulled a leather pouch from his breast pocket. It was worn at the corners and had a broken zip. It was also stuffed with mon