Blood Whispers Read online

  The force of the blow knocked him sideways on to the floor. The end of the bed broke his fall as he glanced off it, screaming, ‘Fucking whore.’

  He was writhing around, his ankles still tethered to the chair, desperately trying to free his hands from behind his back.

  ‘Keep it down, you noisy son-of-a-bitch,’ said Kaltrina, raising the bottle high in the air and slamming it down on the back of his head again, ‘Next time you see Abazi,’ and again, ‘tell him I quit,’ and again. Each sickening thud punctuated by a loud agonized grunt until eventually Fat Guy stopped moving and the room fell silent again.

  He was lying face down on the floor with blood seeping from a mess of hair and gore on the back of his skull.

  Kaltrina was breathing heavily and her hands were shaking.

  Fat Guy’s trousers were gathered in a twisted bundle round his ankles. Kaltrina picked her way through the folds and pulled his wallet from one of the pockets. His credit cards were of no use to her. Moving quickly, she removed all the cash – almost two hundred pounds – then tossed the wallet across the room.

  She grabbed his coat from the wardrobe and pulled it over her shoulders, then, stepping gingerly over his body, she headed over to the telephone sitting on the bedside table.

  It took a few moments for someone to pick up. She didn’t want the guy to die.

  Fat Guy started to groan.

  Finally, a voice at the other end said, ‘Reception.’

  ‘Please can you send someone. My husband he is taking very ill. Please, you send someone straight away.’

  Kaltrina replaced the receiver and made her way back over to the door.

  ‘Hey Fat Guy,’ she said over her shoulder as she left the room, ‘you really fucked now.’

  Three

  Valbona Dervishi grabbed the overhead handle to steady herself as the Durrës bound bus pitched her forward and juddered to a halt on the outskirts of Dushk. The automatic doors hissed open and Valbona turned and nodded her appreciation to the driver before stepping off.

  She had a part-time job as a cleaner at the Bar Piazza in the centre of Fier, a small town thirty-five kilometres south of Dushk in western Albania. She made the same round trip every day of the week except Sunday. It took her almost as long to travel to and from Fier as it did to do the work itself, but it was regular money at a time when there were few jobs around. The first scheduled bus was at six in the morning and she was usually on her way back by about ten. Today, however, was market day, so Valbona had spent a few hours browsing the colourful but sparse stalls, and caught a later bus: returning home with the week’s ration of fresh fruit and vegetables, which she carried in two bulging carrier bags looped awkwardly over her left arm.

  The sun was high in the warm cloudless sky and insects buzzed in haphazard flight patterns around the scattering of wild flowers growing along the dusty track that led away from the main road, up towards her cottage.

  The small plot of land surrounding the cottage sat two kilometres or so into the foothills that encircled the village.

  An impoverished life had left its mark on Valbona’s once handsome features; she looked much older than her fifty-five years. A dark nest of unkempt hair fell around her shoulders in a dry lifeless weave: her weather-beaten skin, which was creased in deep lines along her forehead and around her eyes, had baked into a permanent frown. The light blue flower-print dress she wore was faded and frayed and hung loosely from her bony shoulders. Her eyes, which appeared closed, were set against the harsh rays bouncing up from the bleached, arid landscape of her surroundings.

  The wide path was edged by a chest-height, drystone wall to her left that stretched in a long arc for its entire length and climbed gently into the craggy hillside. After just a few hundred metres Valbona started to notice something different in the way the loose stones lay on the ground – at first almost imperceptible, but as she walked on further she could quite clearly make out a set of tyre tracks impressed into the thin layer of dust covering the surface of the heavily compacted soil. She stopped for a second and followed the line of the tracks with her gaze until they disappeared from view round the gradual curve in the road. It struck her in that moment that in all the years she had lived there she had never once seen a car, nor any other vehicle for that matter, on this stretch of road. There were three other small cottages similar to hers dotted along the hillside, with Valbona’s being the furthest away, but none of her neighbours owned a car. As she made her way past each of their houses in turn it became obvious to her that whoever had driven along this way had most likely come to visit her. Moreover, as there was clearly only one set of tracks, and the road was a dead end, the probability was that they were still there.

  A look of anxiety crossed her face and she set off again at a quicker pace; every instinct in her body screaming at her that this had something to do with her daughter Kaltrina.

  Fifty metres from her house she saw a white Mercedes parked outside the breach in the wall that marked the entrance to her small garden. A man was leaning casually against the driver’s door smoking a cigarette. From the short-sleeved black shirt and dark sunglasses he was wearing it was obvious to her that he was a member of the Clan. When he spotted her approaching he pushed himself off the vehicle and stood watching her dispassionately as he finished off his smoke.

  He waited until she was just a few metres away before he spoke.

  ‘You’re late.’

  Valbona didn’t respond.

  The small area of overgrown grass in front of the house was littered with the flaked and rusting skeletons of obsolete farm equipment. Aware that he was following just a few paces behind, Valbona continued on up to the front door, her heart pounding in her chest. The door opened directly into a small kitchen, with an opening on the left leading to a cramped living area and another door on the right that led to a narrow corridor with a bedroom on either side. An insufficient, wooden-shuttered window at the far end kept the corridor in almost total darkness.

  Her husband Edon was sitting at the kitchen table with another man directly opposite. Edon stared up at her with heavy, doleful eyes that struggled to focus. The top half of his cream shirt had deep, red stains spattered down the front and across the shoulders. There was significant swelling around the left-hand side of his face. A steady flow of blood glistened as it dribbled from the side of his mouth where his lip had split open.

  They all turned as if they had been waiting for her.

  Valbona placed her shopping bags on the worktop by the sink and started to unpack the fruit and vegetables.

  She didn’t know what else to do.

  ‘You want us to wait until you’ve finished putting everything away?’ said the man at the table. ‘Why don’t you leave that for a minute and come and sit down, Valbona? We’ve been here for two hours already.’

  Valbona glanced at Edon and saw the look of fear on her husband’s battered face. He gestured with a small nod of his head for her to come and sit beside him. As she drew in her chair she felt Edon take her hand under the table and squeeze. It was only then that she noticed a third person, sitting on the arm of their tattered sofa in the far corner of the room, their features partially obscured by shade. The figure was dressed differently from the others in a smart black tailored suit with black shirt and tie and fine-leather, dark brown brogues, hair neatly combed in a side parting, hollow eyes staring straight ahead as if entranced, seemingly unaware of the other people in the room.

  It was Engjell E Zeze: the Watcher.

  Valbona tried to swallow, but her mouth was suddenly dry.

  Engjell was a contract killer. With an uncanny ability to avoid capture, the Watcher was rumoured to inhabit the spirit world: a fallen angel whose only purpose on earth was to destroy life. The number of people murdered varied wildly from village to village, with some estimates running into the thousands, but whatever the number, the Watcher had become a very wealthy individual from the business of death.

  The man oppos
ite Valbona had his hands resting on the table, spinning a mobile phone on its diagonal with a nonchalant flick of his finger. ‘Where’s Kaltrina?’ he said without shifting his gaze from the phone.

  She looked at Edon and shrugged.

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘She has been gone over two years now,’ replied Valbona in a quiet, controlled voice. ‘We don’t hear from her . . .’

  ‘At all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When was the last time?’

  ‘A few years ago,’ replied Edon, cutting in. ‘I already told you.’

  The guy looked up at Edon like he was going to hit him again. ‘I wasn’t asking you, I was asking your wife, so shut up.’

  ‘She was in Scotland,’ said Valbona quickly. ‘Said she had a job in a café and was going to stay there for a while.’

  ‘Did she say where?’

  Valbona shook her head. ‘I don’t know! In Glasgow. Near a university, I think. With Kaltrina you take what you’re given. And she doesn’t give that much. That was all she said. She was just ringing to tell us she was okay.’

  ‘You haven’t heard from her in the last few weeks?’

  ‘No,’ answered Valbona shaking her head. ‘Has something happened to her?’

  He ignored her question and from the breast pocket of his shirt pulled a small piece of folded notepaper. He tossed the scrap of paper across the table to her and said, ‘Read this out.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Again he ignored her.

  Then he lifted the phone and pointed at her, nodding for her to start.

  Valbona let go of Edon’s hand and lifted the piece of paper from the table. She could feel the man staring back at her impatiently, but took her time to unfold the note and scan what was written on it. The effect the words had on her was immediate. Her face flushed hot and her hand started to tremble as she struggled to hold back the tears that burned at the corners of her eyes, but she was determined not to give them the satisfaction of seeing any weakness.

  The man could see her hesitating and frowned. ‘Just say the words.’

  ‘Why . . .’ Valbona started to say, but he slammed his fist down hard on the table, making both her and Edon jump. ‘Because I’m fucking telling you to! Just read the note.’

  Valbona stared back at him defiantly and started to read; her voice dull and monosyllabic.

  ‘Stop çfarë jeni duke bërë, Kaltrina. Nëse ju nuk e bëni . . . ata do të vrasin babait tuaj. Pastaj – në qoftë se ju ende vazhdojnë të tregoni gënjeshtra – Ata do të më vrasë.’

  Valbona turned to Edon, but he refused to meet her gaze. Edon knew exactly what his wife was thinking, but didn’t dare acknowledge her in any way for fear the other men would read her mind. But she still added the words, ‘Ai është në rregull!’

  ‘Shut up, that bit’s done.’ The man flicked the phone on to pause and stood up. ‘Okay, that’s the “Before”, now we do the “After”.’ With that, he stepped away from the table.

  Engjell E Zeze suddenly emerged from the shadows with an arm outstretched pointing a gun towards Edon.

  ‘Wait, I got to press RECORD,’ said the man, holding up the phone.

  The next instant there was a loud crack and Edon’s head snapped back at the neck, the force of the bullet’s impact tipping both him and the chair back against the kitchen wall. Valbona touched her hand to her face and wiped spatters of her husband’s blood from her cheek, then stared up at the Watcher in disbelief. The gun was trained on her now.

  Valbona’s last thought was not of her daughter, Kaltrina, but for the child. She hoped that wherever Edon had hidden the boy he would be safe until the men had gone.

  The air exploded again and Valbona felt a sharp, scorching sensation tearing through her chest. There was another loud crack, which threw her off to the side, where she lay dying on her dead husband’s lap.

  The man stopped recording and held the phone up in front of Engjell.

  ‘You want to see?’

  *

  It was well after dark before the small hand appeared at the edge of the thin piece of cotton fabric hung across the front of the kitchen sink and pulled it to one side. It had taken the young boy over three hours to pluck up enough courage to crawl out from underneath. He would have stayed there longer, but his throat was dry and his stomach ached with hunger. The quiet drone of cicadas, carried by the warm evening air, drifted in through the door left open by the departing Clan members.

  As the boy stood in the middle of the room and stared with large brown eyes at the bodies of Valbona and Edon, he felt something cold creeping in and around the sides of his bare feet.

  Ermir looked down and wiggled his toes, watching intently as the dark red pool of liquid, covering most of the kitchen floor, slowly surrounded him.

  A sudden spasm from one of the bodies startled the five-year-old.

  With his heart pounding in his chest he whispered, ‘Wake up please, Grandma, I’m hungry!’

  Four

  Kaltrina used almost the last of her money to pay for coffee and a sandwich, then sat for a while scanning faces for any signs of Abazi’s men. When she’d eaten half the sandwich she folded the rest neatly into a napkin and placed it in her jacket pocket for later.

  Even at 5.30 a.m. Glasgow International airport was busy.

  Today she was called Teresa McVeigh; at least that was the name on the passport she was using to try to leave the country. Her name had changed so often she wondered whether she would turn if someone used her real one. She mouthed the words in silence to remind herself of who she really was, and who she wanted to be again, ‘Kaltrina Dervishi’.

  Satisfied that no one was paying any attention to her, Kaltrina drained her coffee and headed through to departures.

  There were four ticket desks all showing the same destination.

  Having scanned the faces of the check-in staff and picked the friendliest looking, Kaltrina joined a long queue leading up to an Asian woman who sat, smiling and chatting distractedly as she checked passengers’ passports and tickets: a soft touch.

  Kaltrina tried not to look conspicuous as she glanced around the check-in area, but she was nervous. Armed police officers were patrolling the large cathedral-like hall, but didn’t appear to be looking for anything or anyone in particular: a reassuring presence for travellers rather than any threat to her. However, the machine guns and black military-style uniforms still left her feeling apprehensive.

  The ticket she was holding read Malaga, Spain. It had cost her virtually everything she had: the money she’d taken off the fat guy in the hotel plus the small amount she’d set aside from overcharging clients. She’d hidden this money from Abazi, but it was a dangerous game. None of the girls were allowed to keep any of their earnings. It was supposed to be a fifty–fifty split, their share to be set aside and given to them when they returned home or retired, but no one survived long enough to actually get their money.

  Abazi’s men would turn over their rooms every few weeks, searching for cash or drugs. All of them had their passports confiscated. The line was, ‘You can leave anytime you like: the grave’s already dug.’

  When they first started working all the new girls were shown photographs of a corpse covered in cuts and bruises and warned that if they tried to cheat Abazi or leave without permission, this is what would happen to them.

  Just a few weeks earlier his men had come in the middle of the night to do a random search. After they had ransacked Kaltrina’s room and discovered nothing they’d gone into her friend Tulla’s room across the hall and had found a small amount of money and heroin. Kaltrina had lain awake and listened as Tulla pleaded with the men. Her punishment had been savage and seemed to go on for hours until suddenly it all stopped and the house returned to silence.

  After a while, when she was sure the men had left, Kaltrina had sneaked out of her room and knocked on Tulla’s door. There was no answer. She’d tried the handle but the door was locked.


  Back in her bedroom, she’d sat on the end of her bed rocking backwards and forwards until the first light of dawn seeped through a crack in the curtains. Wondering how she would ever escape.

  Later in the morning, when she went to check on her friend again, she noticed the dark streaks of blood running the length of the hallway. In that moment she realized two things: she would never see Tulla again and it was time to get out.

  Abazi had his favourites: some, simply because they made more money than the others and some – like Kaltrina – who were beautiful as well as being good earners.

  Occasionally she would be taken out to dinner. If the client was involved in a business deal, she would be included as part of the bargain: the sweetener. She could eat whatever she wanted, but she wasn’t allowed to drink alcohol: Abazi didn’t like loose talk. If the guy was interested he would take her back to his hotel and screw her. Abazi’s men were always waiting outside the room or in the lobby of the hotel to take her back to the house. Sometimes they’d drive her over to Abazi’s place afterwards and he’d fuck her too. Either way, the evening would always end with Kaltrina crying herself to sleep.

  She always knew in advance when something was going to happen. A dress would arrive, with shoes and jewellery. She would be expected to look sexy: low tops and high heels. If it was a business dinner, she had some stock questions to ask to get the guy talking. She would flirt with him: do lots of bending forward to let him see her cleavage, then sit back and listen to the asshole bleating on in a language she barely understood, while stroking his balls under the table.

  Her father used to tell her it wasn’t how far a person had risen that made them great, but how far they had fallen. For over two years now her life had been skinning its knees along the bottom of existence. The time had come to stand up and fight her way back to the top. When she got to Spain she’d have no money and nowhere to live, but anything would be better than the life she was leaving behind. Hopefully – if things worked out – she’d send for her son: spend her days looking after him and loving him the way she’d always dreamed of.