The Skinner's Revenge. Chris Karsten
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… ”
The patient pierced the skin, drawing a little blood. “Let’s walk to the garden at the back of the building. Perhaps we can sit and talk somewhere. And quietly, Doctor. You lead the way.”
As they walked, the patient managed to shrug on the doctor’s coat. He gave Lippens a shove in the back, steering him into the dark, park-like grounds, to a spot out of sight of the side entrance and parking area. In a pocket of the coat, next to a stethoscope, he found a pair of latex gloves, standard equipment for doctors and paramedics in a time when Aids was rife.
He saw wild asparagus shrubs and frangipani in the glow of a distant streetlight and, closer, more dense shrubbery. He sniffed and smelt rain in the dark overcast air.
“Right, we can talk here.”
Dr Lippens turned. The hilt of the Russell knife struck his temple with so much force that he stumbled, lost his balance, and pitched into the undergrowth.
The patient sat down on the surgeon’s stomach, pinning his back to the ground, and pulled on the gloves. His fingers locked around Lippens’s neck, strong thumbs on the arteries, all the strength and weight of his upper body and arms concentrated on his victim’s throat and neck.
“Thank you for the new face, Doctor. It’s not exactly what I wanted, but it’s unrecognisable, and that’s the main thing. I’m sorry I lied to you. Twice. I won’t return in a month’s time and my real name isn’t Lomas.”
He felt the pulse under his fingers falter, like the fluttering of a bird, then die. To make certain he took out the stethoscope and pressed it against the doctor’s chest. Nothing.
He got up, put the stethoscope back into the pocket, buttoned the coat and set to work with the Russell knife. The first incision was in the hairline on the doctor’s forehead, the exact location where a skilful cosmetic surgeon would insert his scalpel to execute a traditional facelift. Not the three fine incisions that allowed an endoscope entry to perform a “weekend” facelift.
6. 1991-1993: Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina
Vlatko Galić had been playing cards, drinking, and boasting about real and imaginary military and sexual exploits the whole afternoon, and it was long after dark when he got out of the elevator on the seventh floor. When he pushed open the door of the apartment, he was greeted by the smell of gunpowder and brandy. The door was never locked. No one ever ventured onto the seventh floor.
In the light of the bare globe on the ceiling he saw Zoran propped up at the table, his head resting on his arms. He was snoring restlessly, his breathing laborious and sporadic. In the dim light Vlatko made out the blurred shadows of the paraffin lantern on the table beside Zoran’s head, the empty Slivo bottle, the butt of the AK resting on the floor, the barrel still in the breach in the wall, empty cartridges on the floor.
A fuckin’ war zone, thought Vlatko. Then he remembered the librarian.
He shook Zoran’s shoulder, crossed to the window and peered out into the moonless night. In the dim glow of the last streetlights in Vrbanja Street, he could barely make out the bridge. He turned back to the table.
“Zoran!”
Zoran raised his head, rubbed his eyes and his unshaven cheek, and pushed his fingers through his greasy hair.
“The librarian. Did he arrive? Was he on the bridge?”
Zoran yawned, exposing brown teeth. His fingers felt around for his black cheroots. There was the scratching sound of a match, the sharp smell of sulphur and a flickering yellow light. He blew out a thin stream of smoke and looked up at Vlatko.
“I got him.”
“Got him?”
“I think I shot the librarian. And a child too. A boy.”
“You needed two magazines for a father and son?” asked Vlatko.
“Fuck you,” said Zoran. “Let’s go take a look on the bridge.”
Taking a strong flashlight, they headed for the elevator and walked the few blocks to the bridge.
“There they are.” Zoran motioned with the flashlight at two dark mounds on the bridge. They approached, stopped. Zoran prodded one of the mounds with the steel tip of his boot.
“Sandbags,” said Vlatko.
“There’s blood here.” Zoran shone his flashlight on a dark puddle.
Vlatko stooped, picked up the book. “You empty two magazines on a librarian and his son and all you have to show for it is a bloodstain and a book?”
Vlatko opened the volume of poems and the light shone on the receipt from the bicycle shop, made out to Tomislav Borić at an address in Strossmayer Street.
“Come!” said Zoran.
“Where to?” asked Vlatko.
“We’re going to look for them. We’ve got their address.”
They knew where Strossmayer was – everyone knew Strossmayer. It was not a neighbourhood where Serbian fighters or snipers from the Romanija corps felt safe. But Vlatko and Zoran were neither armed nor in uniform. All they had was a knife, a receipt and a volume of poems. And it was dark.
They found the building and knocked on a door on the second floor.
“Tomislav?” The face of the woman who opened the door was expectant.
“Is Tata back?” came the excited voice of a little girl.
The woman tried to slam the door, but before she could make a sound Vlatko’s hand closed over her mouth. “Shh … ” he said, his drunken breath on her neck.
At the same time Zoran’s hand closed around the little girl’s mouth.
Vlatko kicked the door shut from the inside, whispering to the woman in his arms: “Who else is here?”
She shook her head, her eyes wide.
“No one?”
She shook her head again.
“Tomislav Borić? Where is he?”
The woman mumbled something behind Vlatko’s hand. He eased his grip slightly, put his ear to her mouth, listened, felt her soft curves through the fabric of her dress. Thought about the whore who’d never arrived.
“He’s not here,” said Vlatko.
“Do you have a son?” asked Zoran.
She nodded.
“Is he with his father?”
She nodded again.
“And they’re not home yet?”
Nod.
Zoran took the knife from his pocket, flicked out the blade. He pressed it against the rosy cheek of the terrified child.
“I’m going to take my hand away from your mouth,” said Vlatko. “If you cry out or try anything funny, he’s going to cut your child’s face.”
When he took his hand away, the woman staggered back. He laughed, his eyes on her heaving bosom. He looked at Zoran, who was also grinning widely as he held the little blonde girl in his arms.
* * *
Milo stowed his water cart in the boiler room of the apartment building. He waited at the door for two men in worn leather jackets and dirty jeans who were on their way out. He