The man in the Mac
crosses the road in the rain. he stumbles as he reaches the far kerb.
Snatches hold of an elderly woman weighed down with shopping bags to
steady himself. Apologizes as he extricates his foot from the tramlines.
Tomo Savic watches
from the parked Audi, grins at the antics of the comical little figure.
He is hopping from one foot to the other, arms waving as he attempts to
placate the irate woman.
The Audi's engine
is idling, the heater blasting warm air at the windscreen. Savic tweaks
it down a notch.
The pair on the
pavement have separated, the man raising his felt hat in a final
exaggerated gesture of cynical defiance. Savic chuckles aloud. He has
never seen 'screw you' addressed more eloquently. The man turns, jams
the hat back on his head, face like thunder.
It is at the moment
fractionally before the Homburg descends that Savic jerks upright in his
seat, as if a sudden surge of electricity has passed through his body.
Sweet Jesus! He is gripping the steering wheel like it is his only grasp
on sanity.
Slowly, the view
through the rain-slicked windscreen dissolves and he is back where the
nightmares often take him.
The sun is burning
on the nape of his neck and he is conscious of a sharp pain in his left
kneecap. Next to him, his friend Vlado is whimpering with fear. Along
with twenty other men and teenage boys from the village they are
kneeling, heads bowed, on the far side of the rough patch of ground that
serves as a makeshift football pitch. Savic is at the end of the line.
A strutting little
figure appears among the ragged group of armed militia. he is Dragan
Buckovic, leader of the local Serbs. The nearest man to Savic stiffens,
drops the butt of his cigarette, grinds it into the dirt. Savic's senses
are on high alert. he keeps his head down. This is not a good time to
attract attention.
Buckovic swaggers
along the line. He says something Savic does not hear properly -
something about Croats and donkeys. The militia solders cackle their
approval. A pair of gleaming riding boots halt in front of Savic. Such
small feet. He draws in his breath, waits stoically for what he knows
must come. He has heard the rumours from the other villages. The boots
disappear, around and behind him. He can hear the soles slapping on the
baked earth, heading back up the line.
There is a
momentary silence. The calm before the storm.
Then the first
shat. A whipcrack that echoes through the trees skirting the killing
ground. Savic is overtaken by the urge to run, to make for the treeline,
but it is futile. The AK47s of the militia would cut him to pieces.
Besides, his entire body is paralysed, disconnected from his brain.
The shots draw
closer. Sounds merge in Savic's head, a surreal tape recording,
meaningless without the vivid images that flood his mind's eye. Branko,
the fat youth from the big house, wails for his mother, the high-pitched
cry mercifully terminated by the booming Makarov in Buckovic's hand.
Not long now. Savic
steels himself, feel his heart rate soar. Blood and brain spatter his
cheek as Vlado's head disintegrates. His turn. The scent of pine trees
mingles with the stench of cordite and death. Go bravely, Tomo, he tells
himself. He raises his head for one last glimpse of the sun. Senses
rather than feels the hot metal of the automatic against the back of his
neck.
Then the world
turns upside down.
He hears the dull
click, the muttered curse, the slick metallic sound as Buckovic
feverishly works the action, the ejected round pinging off a stone.
Through the fog
comes a moment of intense clarity. Savic realises that the gun has
jammed. Quite suddenly, he identifies the source of the pain in his left
knee. He has been kneeling on a sharp-edged flint. he can actually
picture its shape. And something else. Instinctively, he knows fro
certain that he is going to survive.
Click. Click. More
dud rounds ejected. A roar from Buckovic. The gun slamming into the
ground. A blinding flash of light as Buckovic's boot connects savagely
with the back of his head. A bolt of pain, then darkness.
Savic's head is
slumped on his chest. he drags it upright. Sweat is leaking out of his
forehead and he notices a damp patch on his shirtfront. The rain is
still lashing the windscreen and he automatically flicks on the wipers.
The street slides back into focus.
And there, right in
front of him, stands Buckovic. He is checking the traffic, about to
cross over, a bunch of carnations in his clenched fist.
Stills of a distant
football field interchange with the now, blinking strobe images before
his eyes. His fingers grip the handbrake, foot jammed hard on the
accelerator. So easy.
Buckovic steps off
the pavement. The audi lurches forward. Sensing the danger, Buckovic
pauses in mid-stride, momentarily transfixed. Then he is moving, fast.
The Audi flashes past. Savic hits the brakes. Through the door mirror,
he glimpses Buckovic half turn. He is still in the middle of the street,
face contorted, arms flapping furiously.
Then Savic realises,
Buckovic is caught fast, his foot trapped in the tramlines. people are
gesticulating, yelling at the man in the street.
Savic spots the
tram bearing down, twists in his sweat in time to watch it plough into
the flailing figure. Speadeagled across its front, like a man crucified,
Buckovic's body is carried several metres before it slips beneath the
wheels.
The tram clanks to
a halt. People converge, gathering in a concerned huddle around the
first carriage.
As he eases the
Audi away from the kerb, Savic feels nothing. He has become impervious
to death. It no longer has the power to evoke feeling. All he will carry
with him is the stark image of a small childlike shoe and a few
scattered flowers, debris strewn across the damp cobblestones of a
Vienna street.
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