Chapter Four

  Tristan was eighteen years old when he finally fled from his father. It was the summer of 2001, and he had finished his A-Levels only a few weeks before- with admirable grades considering how much of his study time had been spent assisting his father. He had been accepted into his first choice University, Bath, to do a degree in journalism, but Jozef had become so angry when he had suggested moving away that Tristan had called up the admissions office and turned down the place, accepting instead his back-up offer from UCL.

  “Do you want to ruin me, boy?!” his father had shouted, spraying whiskey-spit across Tristan’s chin. “You are the foundation of my business! If you leave, the whole thing will collapse! Is this what you want for your family?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I would rather have you dead than abandoning the business. Everything we have worked for, Christ almighty…”

  Tristan knew that his father’s last statement was not to be taken in jest. Jozef would protect his family tooth and nail- just so long as they remained loyal to him. If they did not, he was not above treating them as he would anyone else who crossed him.

  However, unbeknownst to Tristan, he would be leaving London that summer after all. The threat of death was about to reveal itself from another angle. Over the last twelve years, rumours of Tristan Kulik’s remarkable linguistic capacity- and its uses- had begun to spread through the London underworld. Jozef, oblivious to the whispers being exchanged behind his back, continued to employ Tristan’s talent more and more often, ignorant to the fact that everyone was now on their guard. Many whom Jozef had wronged in the past heard talk of the astonishing key to his power, and one by one they vowed to sever his Achilles Heel.

  It was a Friday night in August, and Jozef was away visiting associates. For once Tristan was not required to be present, and so had been granted a rare night home alone. He decided not to invite any friends over, rather preferring to enjoy these scarce few hours of solitude. He cooked himself some pasta and ate it in front of the television, flicking through the TV channels and finding nothing that appealed. When he’d finished eating he switched the television off and took his plate into the kitchen. Not bothering to switch the light on, he washed up in the near-darkness, the sink illuminated by streetlamps outside the window. He stood there with his hands in the soapy water for some minutes, until it went cold and all the bubbles had dissipated. The only sounds in the kitchen were the fridge humming dully and the metronomic tick-tick-tick of the wall clock.

  Out of nowhere rage washed over him. It sent bile bubbling in his stomach, and he let out a guttural howl, somewhere between a scream and a yell. There was the smash of ceramic on tile, and Tristan stood sweating breathing heavily like a gored bull. He needed a cigarette.

  Fetching a pack of Marlboro Reds and a box of matches from his room, where they were stuffed at the back of a drawer, he walked back through the kitchen to the balcony. He’d deal with the mess later. Now he just needed to calm down.

  Closing the French doors carefully behind him and scanning the street below for loose-tongued neighbours, he placed a cigarette between his lips and lit it. He took great pleasure in lighting the match. The air was still and it caught first time, and Tristan took a moment to appreciate the scraping of the sandpaper and the flame’s first hiss, the quick wisp of wood smoke inhaled before he took the first long, indulgent pull. He placed the half-empty pack on a small cast-iron table which sat on one side of the balcony, leant against the railings and blew smoke out over the city. It was warm, even though the sky was black and cloudless, and Tristan allowed himself to get lost in the flickering mess of lights spread out before him. He felt almost back to normal.

  London is home, he reasoned. I love this city. He forced himself not to think about how long he’d have to stay there. He felt the word forever forming in his throat and strangled it with another hit of smoke.

  A glint of metal caught the corner of his eye on the street, but his conscious brain didn’t register it and he continued to smoke, ignorant of its significance. For the fact was, this glint of metal, coinciding as it did with Tristan’s thoughts at this very moment in time, could almost have been an avatar of fate. He was blissfully unaware that, a few seconds later, this glint of metal would lead to Tristan’s permanent departure from London, from Jozef, and from the “business”.

  The unseen marksman missed his target by a fraction of an inch. Tristan had leant over the balcony to flick his dog end onto the street, and at that very moment the first bullet had come whistling over his head, shattering the French door. Tristan swore loudly and fell to the floor, shielding himself against the rain of glass that was crashing down behind him. A second shot was fired. This time it hit the railing next to Tristan’s neck. Moving faster than he had ever done before in his life, he sprang to his feet and (automatically grabbing the Marlboro box on his way) darted inside and out of sight behind the kitchen walls. He dropped to his belly and crawled frantically out of the kitchen to his room. There he sat shaking for several minutes, trying to decide what to do.

  Someone had found out. They must have done. And if they had, this wouldn’t be the last attempt on his life. He could stay here and wait for Jozef of course, ask him for help. But what would he do? If he hid Tristan away, his greatest asset, he might as well have let him leave after all. No, Jozef would be too proud to offer sanctuary to any great extent. If anything, he’d punish his for indiscretion, and tell him it was all his own fault for not being more careful. He didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve to die for his father’s sins, didn’t deserve to be kept in a city where people were out for his blood. No, this wasn’t going to happen.

  He found an old holdall in the bottom of his wardrobe and stuffed in as many clothes and books as he could fit inside. He could buy any other essentials later. He removed his ID from his wallet and left it on his bed, along with his mobile phone. After one last scan for anything he may have missed, he left the apartment without looking back.

  Leaving by the front door was too risky. He slung the holdall over his shoulder and went out through the fire exit, descending the emergency stairs to the alleyway at the side of the building. Blood was pounding in his ears so hard he could barely hear himself think. He slipped out of the alley and kept moving, walking up the street parallel to his own until he found an opportunity to flag down a taxi. He climbed in and asked the driver to take him to Paddington Station, then collapsed on the back seat, his chest heaving.

  Once he had paid the taxi driver, the first thing he did was to visit a cash point. He had an awful lot of money saved up, a grotesque amount for an eighteen year old. Despite the morally unsound scruples of his father’s “business”, where the finances of his own ‘employees’ were concerned he was unusually fair, even generous, and so Tristan had been paid as much of a commission for his work as any of his father’s other workers. He was planning to take out all his cash then and there, but to his dismay the limit for withdrawal was far lower than he needed. If he wanted to make a clean break he’d need every penny he had. It was too late for any banks to be open. He had no choice but to stay in the city another night and hope for the best.

  He found the closest, most inconspicuous hotel he could and booked himself into their cheapest room. The sheets were yellowed and the walls nicotine stained, but that was of little consequence now. Just so long as he survived the night.

  Tristan had assumed that he wouldn’t be able to sleep for nerves, but the adrenalin coursing through his veins for the last couple of hours must have exhausted his body. He fell asleep in minutes and slept unbroken until seven the next morning.

  Still too early for the banks to be open, he decided to get breakfast before leaving. He took a seat in the greasy spoon adjacent to the hotel and ordered a fried egg sandwich, resting his elbows on the sticky tabletop. Watching the world go by through the dirty glass front of the café, it dawned on him that he didn’t know where he was going yet. He stuffed his hands in his pocket and discovered the box of Marlboro. He had forgotten it was there, and he smoked one while he waited for his food.

  “Fate,” he asked aloud, holding his arms out to the heavens and twisting his face into a parody of anguish, “give me a sign.”

  And so fate made its second appearance in as many days, in a humble form, carried along with his breakfast by a tired-looking waitress in a grease-splattered apron. For when he lifted his cutlery to delve into his meal, his attention was caught by two words imprinted on the blade of his knife, and once again, fate came from a flash of metal in the corner of his eye.

  The words read Sheffield Steel.