Salisbury Square

By Geoff Le Pard

Salisbury Square

Jerzy Komaza is adept at turning a blind eye. He has allowed his father’s beatings of his sister, Maria, to continue for years. Yet one hot summer day he finally snaps, and it is Maria who sends him away from their home in Białystok in rural Poland, fearing the consequences if he stays. Desperate and unsure, Jerzy heads for London where his old friend Jan has promised him work.
At first he is completely disorientated. Worse, there’s no sign of Jan. Feeling lost and adrift in the strange city, Jerzy overhears a young woman’s cries. Memories of his sister stir him into action and he intervenes.
The woman is Suzie Thomas, a drug addict dependent on local thug Paul Rogers for her supplies and for whom she turns tricks. Rogers also runs gangs of workmen around the city, and Jan works for him. Gradually Jerzy is dragged into Suzie’s world, a violent dog-eat-dog existence of the underclass living next to but separate from London’s affluent citizens.
Jan has his own problems with Rogers, and when his cousin Ola Nowak is slashed with a knife while trying to sort out Jan’s debt, he is bent on revenge. Jerzy is torn between stopping his friend and, because of his own growing hatred of Rogers’ casual violence towards Suzie, helping him.
Suzie’s family are hunting for her. Her grandparents hear she has moved to London and seek her out. In doing so they too find themselves pulled into Rogers’ orbit. As the heat builds and the rain pours down, various forces begin to drag these desperate individuals together into a violent confrontation. And into this mix comes Lech Komoza, Jerzy’s half-brother intent on his own violent retribution.
This story contains elements of revenge, love, the clash of classes and cultures, the isolation of large cities and the single-minded determination to survive. Set against a backdrop of one of the most affluent cities in the Western world, it is a modern parable about the lure of redemption and how hope can be corrupted by despair.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Geoff Le Pard
• Release date: Jul 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311985774

Geoff Le Pard

I have been writing creatively since 2006 when at a summer school with my family I wrote a short radio play. That led to a novel, some more courses, more novels, each better than the last until I took an MA, realised you needed to edit, edit and then edit some more; the result is my first published book in 2014. I now have 4 books and 2 anthologies of short fiction. I once was a lawyer; I am now a writer. When I'm not writing and thinking about writing, I'm blogging (which is a sort of writing); I cook, I walk, I read (but not enough) and I walk some more. The dog approves of my career choices. More novels are in the pipeline so watch out.

Book preview

About the author

Geoff Le Pard is a former lawyer, a novelist, an enthusiastic blogger (at www.geofflepard.com), someone who enjoys walking and talking at length and a lover of London. He walks miles with his dog while they both seek their own inspiration. He published his first book, Dead Flies and Sherry Trifle, in late 2014 (you can find it here) and his second My Father and Other Liars in August 2015 (you can find it herehere). His latest venture is an anthology he wrote as a challenge: 30 stories in 30 days. Life, in a Grain of Sand is now available here. His next undertaking is Buster and Moo, to be published in autumn 2016.

Acknowledgements

One hot evening as I left my office in Fleet Street, Central London, I headed for the station at Blackfriars. I was in a world of my own when a woman stumbled out from behind some sheeting that covered scaffolding. It was gloomy, we were in a narrow passage and I was startled. She was in a bad way and equally surprised. Both of us, I believe, were as suspicious of the other. She picked up her meagre belongings and hurried away, preferring, it seemed, to remain oblivious to one such as me. Two inhabitants of this city, but miles apart in our lives. What if our lives intersected? I wondered as I carried on my way home. Who would cope better? From that chance meeting this novel arose. Too many people fall through the cracks in our cities, not all ending up in such violence as I have imagined here. The proceeds of this book will go to helping them.

Several people have been involved in reaching this point and to each of you I owe a debt of gratitude: Ben Way, my faultless editor and guide (benjaminway.co.uk); Graeme Cumming, Jan Twissel and, especially, Urszula Humienik-Dworakowska, whose insights into the Polish language as well as the Polish settings and characters were invaluable; once again my long-term readers and supporters, Jan Blackwell and Anna Cotton, for their tolerance of my wordy prose at our regular review meetings; and my multi-talented cover designer, George Grey at royalstondesign.com who was ably assisted by Sam Le Pard and Charlie Armstrong. No acknowledgement would be complete without saying thank you to my wife, Linda, and my children Jenni and Sam, whose constant support and encouragement give me the confidence and space to continue writing.

Copyright, etc.

Salisbury Square

Copyright © 2016: Geoffrey Le Pard

Author/Publisher: Tangental Publishing

The right of Geoffrey Le Pard to be identified as author of this Work has been

asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs

and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author. You must not circulate this book in any format.

While the settings in this book are reasonable representations of real places in and around London, the characters and situations described are the product of the author’s imagination and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, and situations past present or future is entirely coincidental.

For more information about the author and upcoming books, please visit www.geofflepard.com

Chapter One

Near Białystok, Poland

Monday morning

Lech Komoza hated the farm. After the buzz of the city it seemed dead. He stepped from his car, grimacing at the mud, and began to pick his way towards the group of policemen and technicians standing by the barn. They were having some earnest debate and failed to notice him.

Cześć. Lech smiled as the group turned. I’m Lech Komoza. The victim’s son. I spoke to Grabowski.

A short man with greying hair and a pitted face stepped forward, while the other men moved away. Yes. That was me. I’m sorry to drag you here. How is your father? And your sister?

Half-sister. Lech watched as two white-suited technicians emerged from the gloom of the barn carrying a crate. Is that where he did it?

The officer shook out a cigarette and offered one to Lech. That’s where the attacks took place, yes.

What are you doing to find him? Lech pushed a hand through his black hair to stop it flopping in his eyes. He wanted to scream. Where was the urgency?

The officer pursed his lips. I assume you mean Jerzy Komoza? Another glance at the notepad. Your brother?

"Half-brother."

Half-brother.

Lech jumped; a metal gate clanked as the wind picked up. A storm was brewing somewhere to the west. It’s been two days. Why haven’t you got the murdering bastard?

Murdering?

As good as. That’s what he wanted. Everyone knows it. You ask anyone. Both of them wanted my father dead. They wanted this place for themselves, for their sick little schemes.

We are keeping an open mind, Mr Komoza. Your sister hasn’t been able to shed much light on what happened. At this point we cannot discount the possibility of a burglary gone wrong. An isolated farm is often an easy target—

They always wanted him dead.

The officer made a pacifying gesture. Please. If you know of specific plans, threats against your father, then of course we will investigate. Perhaps we can pick up the details later? Right now we would like to try and see if anything was taken and complete the forensics.

Rather than waste time asking me pointless questions why aren’t you after him? He could be out of the country by now.

We are seeing if we can find out where Mr Komoza is. We don’t know if he was here at the time.

Lech rubbed his face, trying to remove some of the tiredness that felt like it was about to overwhelm him. It’s been two whole days—

If you have any idea where Mr Komoza might have gone, that would assist, of course. Friends? Other family? He didn’t take the truck.

Another technician emerged from the barn. He paused to say they were finished.

Officer Grabowski pointed at the house. Maybe we could step inside, out of this wind. And if you have time to look around, tell us if anything is missing, that would be very helpful. Then we can take a statement.

I have no idea, do I? It’s not like they’ve ever made me welcome. I hate this place. Lech shuddered, trying to imagine his father on hands and knees as he was kicked and punched. That bastard half-brother always made it clear I should stay away. He never left here, for so much as half a day. He glared at the policeman. He’d only leave if he was as guilty as sin.

The police officer nodded. I’m sure we will find him soon enough.

Lech met the officer’s gaze. He said, You’d better. Because if I find him first, he’d better look out.

Chapter Two

Salisbury Square, Central London

Wednesday, late afternoon

Jerzy Komoza chewed the nails of his left hand before spitting in the gutter. Even after all this time he could still taste the blood. He knew it was pointless, this chewing, but he couldn’t stop; he had to be sure every drop, every molecule of his father was removed.

He took a deep breath and looked around. Salisbury Square. Each feature – the names of the streets feeding into the Square, the mishmash of buildings that formed the four sides, the stone obelisk and seating in the centre – all accorded with Jan’s little hand-drawn map.

Jerzy’s gaze was drawn to the largest building – a modern glass and stone block of about six stories – and the smart well-dressed people coming and going. Did Jan really come here to find work? The next building along seemed a more likely candidate – a four-storied block of dirt-stained concrete that straddled a gloomy passage – but even so this was hardly what Jerzy had expected.

He headed for one of the seats around the obelisk. He reread the print of the email he’d taken before he left, possibly for the 50th time since he’d left the farm. Come Jerzy. There’s work, money to be made. Come to the Square. We meet first thing. There’s always work. You can make some real money. Come here and be free at last.

Be free. He knew what Jan meant. But he didn’t want that sort of freedom. He wanted to be back home, with Maria. Was that really too much to ask? He smiled, without humour. Jan hadn’t expected him to take up the offer. He would be shocked when he saw Jerzy.

Your English is good enough to get by. You want Paul Rogers. He brings a van, first thing. He’ll get you work. You can stay with me. It’ll be like old times.

Jerzy wiped the sweat from his forehead onto his sleeve and peered left and right. Old times? How was being in this place like old times? London was so utterly confusing. And he already knew his English wasn’t up to it. It was one thing to listen and workout the gist of what someone was saying, quite another to ask people for the help he needed. The kindly man who’d showed him the way here barely understood a word he’d said. But for Jan’s map he would still be at the bus station.

He looked at the sign to re-check the street name: it still said Salisbury Square, EC4. Same as in the letter. Why would people meet here for the sort of work Jan meant, he wondered? Surely this was where office workers came, not jobbing builders and labourers? He shrugged. What did he know about London and jobbing builders? He lived on a farm with two people. Everything was outside his experience.

He checked his watch. Jan said the pickup was first thing in the morning, so he’d have to stay somewhere for the night. He couldn’t risk a hostel or hotel, even if he had the money, so this bench would have to do. Just one night. He could manage that.

He pressed his hands down on the wooden slats. Not as hard as some of the places he’d slept around the farm, after all. The summer sun had gone behind the concrete building but it was still very warm; if he could keep dry he would survive.

Despite the heat he turned up the collar of his jacket and stared around the benches. To his left a man in a light grey suit ate what looked like a cake, while to his right an older man and a younger woman were on their phones. The woman, a redhead, looked worried as she listened. From their clothes, he guessed none of them were jobbing workmen.

Jerzy looked up and spotted a camera on the building. He shivered; it was the only thing that seemed to have noticed his presence. He swung round and counted another four cameras. He caught the gaze of the redhead as she stood. She smiled and walked away. Once again, as he had on many occasions since he had left the farm, he felt completely alone.

***

Jerzy must have dozed off for a while because when he jerked awake everyone had gone. The sky had filled in; it was as if night had fallen already. Rain was coming very soon. He took a moment to regain his bearings and barely had a chance to remember he was in London when he heard a scream from somewhere nearby. He twisted around, but saw nothing.

The scream was a woman’s, sharp and pained. Such a familiar sound. Jerzy’s stomach contracted. It was like an echo following him from the farm. Maybe it was a test from God, reminding him of what he had run away from. He visualised his sister, Maria, holding her side after another attack. He knew he should investigate in the same way that he knew he should have done more to protect Maria. Years of doing nothing every time Maria screamed, every time she was beaten.

Was that what this was about? One of those tests the priest was always going on about? Come to London and do here what he had avoided doing for so long at home. He stared at the obelisk, seeking in its rough surfaces some sign telling him what to do, what God wanted from him.

Jerzy folded his arms and buried his chin into his chest. He hated himself. The bright lights that shone out of the huge glass entrance opposite mocked him with their warm glow. One, then a dozen heavy drops of rain hit his head and hands. The storm had broken.

He looked around for some shelter. Behind him some steps led up to the gloomy passage he’d seen earlier. On one side of the passage a builder’s hoardings had been erected protecting some works; on the other there was a set of iron railings around what looked like an open basement. Grabbing his bag, he headed for the steps.

The hoardings made the already gloomy passage dark and uninviting but the rain was pouring down and he was grateful to be under cover. As he shook his coat, a movement towards the back next to the hoardings caught his attention.

At first Jerzy struggled to make out exactly what he was seeing; but as his eyes became accustomed he saw a man with a ponytail, half hidden by the hoardings. Something about him made Jerzy hesitate. Then he heard a woman’s voice, the same voice, surely, he had heard scream moments before. The man moved and Jerzy saw a bare leg splayed on the flagstones.

Fucking bitch. The man had stood up and was holding a pink bag. The woman was pleading with him, not that Jerzy understood except by her tone. You do that again and I’ll fuck you up proper. As the woman grabbed at the man’s leg he lifted the bag above his head and tossed it over the iron railings before aiming a kick at the woman.

What the fuck are you looking at? The man had spotted Jerzy. Jerzy said nothing, but continued to stare at the man. After what seemed like an age to Jerzy the man shrugged and turned on his heels, walking away down the passage leaving the woman sprawled on the floor sobbing.

Once Jerzy was sure the man had gone he picked up his own bag and moved cautiously towards the woman. She was trying to crawl to the railings, clearly desperate to retrieve the bag.

As she moved out of the shadows, Jerzy saw her face. She was just a girl, he thought, although her face was blotched and scratched and her lips swollen with what looked like blood staining them. As she moved, she mumbled, My baby, my baby.

Jerzy’s English was poor but he recognised ‘baby’. Did she mean the bag held a child? Surely not? The horrific thought made him drop his own bag and lean over the railings. The pink bag sat on flagstones, perhaps ten feet below. To his left there were some steps.

Without thinking, he pushed himself up and over. In moments he had the bag and was back by the side of the girl, handing it to her. She dragged it from him and began fumbling with the zip.

Jerzy needed a cigarette. While he took out his pouch and rolled one the girl opened the bag. Immediately the head of a doll-sized dog peeked out. Its ears stuck up, bent like question marks. It looked at Jerzy. The girl rocked as she stroked the dog’s head. It didn’t seem to have suffered for its fall.

The girl was more concerned about her pet; a pool of rainwater had formed around her legs but she didn’t move. Once the dog was free of the bag, it squirmed from her grasp and trotted over to Jerzy. He rubbed its head with his free hand and glanced at the girl.

She stared at him, unblinking. He held up the cigarette, offering it and she nodded. While he rolled her one, she called the dog over and held it to her, talking to it softly, not that he understood a word.

Once the cigarette was lit he reached out to her. She flinched slightly before she took it. Jerzy noticed how her legs appeared to be covered in dark blotches, bruises probably. On her feet she wore scuffed red high-heeled sandals and stained white socks. Close up he smelt her rancid body odour, like some of the more hardened Warsaw beggars around Centralna station. Maybe he smelt too, he pondered. It had been a while since he’d had so much as a wash.

Once again the dog wriggled free and came to Jerzy. It sat with its paw out, begging. Jerzy bent and shook it.

The girl laughed, a short bark, no more. Fuck. He don’t do that to no one. You some fuckin’ Pied Piper?

Jerzy couldn’t make sense of what she was saying. He smiled and stood. She smiled back at him and waved the cigarette. Ta. Her right cheek glowed angrily in comparison to the rest of her face. Two missing teeth, exposed by her smile, created a dark cavern in her mouth, partly hidden by her swollen bottom lip. Her tongue flicked out and probed the bruise carefully. If you’re looking for a shag or a blow, I’m a bit fucked up just now, okay? She ran her tongue round her lips and touched the bottom one with her fingertips. Not tonight mate. That cunt’s put me right off, yeah? Just for a little dust, too. Man, he’s a fucking psycho.

Jerzy wished he understood her. The girl finished her cigarette and put the stub carefully in her bag. She made to stand but winced, pushing a hand against her ribs.

He said, You are okay, yes?

The girl slowly stood. Foreign fucker, yeah?

Jerzy thought about Maria; what would she do? Would she leave, as he wanted to, now the girl had got up? He knew she wouldn’t. She would find out if the girl was going to be okay. He realised he was holding his breath. It felt ridiculous, standing there, waiting on a sign. If God had sent him to help this girl, then He couldn’t have chosen anyone more different to Maria. Maria was always clean; even after milking she smelt fresh.

He was conscious the girl was eyeing him closely. It made him feel uncomfortable. She said, Fuck, you’re huge, ain’t yer? Six six or what? Look, give us a hand to that bench, yeah? My ribs is fucked. She moved towards him and took his arm. Suddenly she was in control and he was the nervous one, wondering what was going to happen next. She led him out into the Square and over to the benches.

The rain had eased to a light drizzle but the seats were soaked. The girl sat, ignoring the puddles. He stayed standing.

She looked up Any chance of another snout? He frowned and she mimed smoking. He rolled her another.

Ta. I’m Suzie. Suzie. You? She spoke so fast.

I not … understand.

SUZIE. She jabbed a finger into her chest, then pointed at him. WHO ARE YOU?

I Jerzy Komoza. Then he added. From Poland.

Another fucking Polack. Shit, you’re everywhere, ain’t you? She drew on her cigarette before saying slowly and loudly, WHY ARE YOU HERE?

He frowned again and then pulled out Jan’s letter. He ran his finger under the name: Paul Rogers.

Suzie leant back, eyes closed. Of course. Fucking great. She didn’t say any more until she had finished the cigarette. Behind her, the lights had come on in the squat red-brick building. As Jerzy watched, a smartly dressed woman entered a ground floor room and stared at a computer. From side on she looked so like his darling Maria. Was that his sign?

He turned away before she caught him looking. His eyes were drawn to the lights coming from another passage on the far side of the Square. It led to a church and looked so welcoming. Warm. Clean. Perhaps he could go and shelter there for the night. Maybe he could confess. Maria would be pleased if she knew he had done that. He hugged his coat close about him. What was the point in confessing now?

When he looked back, Suzie was watching him. You want Pauli?

He frowned, hoping she’d understand his lack of English.

She repeated, slowly, her voice barely audible. Pauli? Paul Rogers?

He nodded.

Yeah, you would, wouldn’t you? You missed the cunt, didn’t you? YOU MISSED HIM. Bastard tried to kill little Prezza, yeah? The dog? Well, you got a wait. He ain’t here again today, maybe not tomorrow neither. TOMORROW? UNDERSTAND? Or maybe the next day. How the fuck do I know? HE’S BUSY. He’s … She shuddered. He’s doing stuff, yeah? He’s got business. BUSINESS? She narrowed her eyes. You get that? He’s busy. NOT HERE TODAY. She eyed Jerzy, then shook her head. Bending down she rubbed the dog’s ears. I know where he’ll be, mind. I always knows where he is. I can smell his fucking droppings a mile away, can’t I? If you need him … IF YOU NEED HIM … urgent like?

Jerzy waited, but she said no more. What had she meant? He was distracted by two men in sharp suits as they hurried past, collars up to block out the last vestiges of the rain. A woman with a large bright red umbrella went the other way. This place was extraordinary. Now the rain had stopped people were beginning to leave their offices. Yet a few minutes before, just a few feet away, this girl was being beaten up – had no one noticed? Really? It was like they were invisible. Was that God’s Plan for him? To be His eyes?

He shook his head. He needed to stop thinking about God and look after himself. Just because he saw what was going on didn’t mean he had to get involved. And yet. He had done nothing; he had allowed the man with the ponytail to walk off. Here was another violent man, another vulnerable woman and, as always, Jerzy watched on and did nothing. It wasn’t right. He didn’t need God or Maria or anyone to tell him that. Just because this woman, this girl, was a stinking drug addict, a whore or whatever she was, this Suzie, it didn’t excuse him any more than it excused him from standing by and letting Maria be kicked and punched. He leant forward and rubbed his hands up and down his legs.

Fuck, I’m done in. Suzie shuddered. She picked at the small pink blister on her cheek and said, YOU WANT TO MEET PAUL ROGERS?

Jerzy relaxed. When she spoke slowly he understood. He nodded vigorously. Paul Rogers. He said, I meet Jan. Friend. I work. He waited for a reaction but she stared ahead. He repeated Jan’s name but still she didn’t answer. Had he done something wrong? Suddenly he felt drained. He sat down rather abruptly, startling the dog. Suzie didn’t react as it jumped down and trotted in a semi-circle, sniffing the base of the obelisk.

A black cab, its bright yellow ‘for hire’ lamp shining brightly, caught Jerzy’s attention. He studied the driver’s face through the rain-smeared windscreen; the distortion made it seem like he was grimacing. The tiredness made Jerzy feel empty. He needed something to eat. He had noticed shops on the main road selling food: pizza or burgers or fish and chips. He smiled to himself, remembering lessons at school about the English and their love of fish and chips. The teacher had scoffed at the fatty foods but right at that moment he would eat anything.

Suzie had turned slightly and pulled her knees to her chest, her hair hanging limply across her face. The dog lay on the ground, its head on its paws, eyes half closed.

I get food. He stood, expecting her to react but she didn’t move a muscle. After a few moments he headed for the shops, wondering if she would be gone when he returned.

Hey, Jerzy. I’ll help you.

He stopped and looked back.

I HELP YOU FIND ROGERS? YEAH?

He wondered if she meant it. He nodded. I get food.

She stared at him for a few moments and then bent to pick up the dog, snuggling into the fur on its neck. The rain began again, a fine drizzle that quickly soaked his face and hair. He hesitated and then turned away.

Chapter Three

Under Blackfriars Bridge, Central London

Wednesday night

The rain drove them away from the Square. They huddled under a building eating a pizza. He bought more tobacco and they smoked slowly. She seemed to be looking out for someone. Eventually she mimed money and kept saying, I need cash. He knew that was the moment he should have left and found somewhere to wait till morning, but she’d repeated, Pauli, yeah? We find Pauli? I need cash then we find Pauli. The standoff lasted maybe a few minutes before he gave in.

As soon as she held the note she took off towards the river, skirting some roadworks and dropping down to the towpath. His long stride let him keep up easily enough. For a brief moment he wondered if she was taking him to the mysterious Pauli. Maybe even to Jan, but before he had had the chance for this thought to gain any real traction they had stopped by what looked like a boarded-up gents’ toilet. Suzie hammered on the door and called out to someone. Eventually the door opened and she went inside while a thick-necked black man stood and faced Jerzy, never once taking his eyes off his face.

Jerzy knew she was buying drugs. He wasn’t so stupid even if he had no idea what drugs. It didn’t take long before Suzie emerged, followed by another woman with tattoos up her neck and covering her arms and using a metal stick to help her walk. C’mon Jerz, mate. This is Babs and we’re going to have us some fun.

They walked a hundred yards or so to what appeared to be a wire cage under the road that led up onto the bridge. A lorry rumbled above as Babs pulled open a gate and let them in, before shutting it behind them. At every turn Jerzy’s senses were assaulted by despair: the dark pathway, the constant traffic, the stench of damp and piss and decay. He wanted to leave but he feared he would get lost and wondered about her, when she was high. What might happen? Why should it matter?

The dog made up his mind. It came to him, sniffing him out. He found what appeared to be a dry spot and sat down, putting his wallet as far away from possible pickpockets and wedging his bag under his knees. The dog climbed on his lap and Jerzy closed his eyes, intending to have a short sleep until Suzie had finished. Just half an hour.

With his eyes closed his mind had free rein. He remembered the look Suzie had given him when she’d come out of the toilet. He thought she’d be defiant, as if she knew he was a fool, a soft touch; but that wasn’t what he saw. What he saw reminded him of a cow that senses it is on its way to the abattoir, the desperate realisation that there is no hope. It was just a moment before she laughed and pushed past him.

He looked across to Suzie and Babs. Another user, a man, had joined them. How had Jerzy not noticed? Suzie was sucking on a short pipe that, as he watched, she shared with the others. What were they smoking with such studied concentration? His mind flipped back ten years when he had been offered a joint. He didn’t like smoking back then and had turned it down. Later he had recounted what had happened to Maria, expecting praise for his self-control, but she had been scathing, berating him for the company he kept. He had felt guilty and angry at her failure to appreciate what he had done. He had said, ‘Jesus was tempted and resisted’. And for that she had slapped him.

Chapter Four

Under Blackfriars Bridge, Central London

Thursday, around dawn

Jerzy came to, aware that his