Standing in the Shadows

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Jurgen slammed the heavy door shut and flicked a switch on the wall. Five seconds later a single light bulb – suspended on a long cable from the high, stained ceiling – came on and glowed pale brown against the blackness inside his flat. Even the speed of light appeared to have accommodated itself to Soviet bloc efficiency norms.

Glancing round in the penumbra I began to wish that Jurgen hadn’t bothered with the illumination. Calling the place dilapidated and poorly furnished was an understatement akin to saying JFK had a slight headache in Dealey Plaza. It looked like a gang had broken in and, torn between looting the place or trashing it, had decided to do both.

The couple of sticks of furniture in evidence had obviously been rejected by the town dump. The floor was missing several boards, but these could have been the planks nailed haphazardly over two of the windows. It had obviously been quite a grand apartment at some point, but that era was not in living memory.

Jurgen picked up a bottle from a collection huddled around the big, empty fireplace and poured a couple of shots into glasses that turned out to be old pickle jars. Handing me one he raised his own in a time-honoured salute and knocked it back in one. I noticed he was still wearing his gloves.

Reciprocating the gesture, I toasted him silently and took a swig. The acidic burning sensation made me splutter.

“Jesus Christ, Jurgen. What is that? Petrol?” Jurgen had already topped up his own jar and motioned to replenish me as well. I moved my jar out of reach of the proffered bottle.

“It’s home-made. Potato skins and boot polish. Shake well before opening.”

He grinned and, even in the dim light I could see that the last couple of years had not been kind to him. The skin across his face was drawn and his features seemed more pinched. He looked ten years older.

“Yeah and not to be taken internally.” I reached up and felt gingerly where Jurgen’s blade had pressed against my throat.

“Nice way to greet an old friend.” . n