sThe Quiet Wart (12 page)

‘Hmm. Be careful and don't take any unnecessary risks,' Liz said. ‘And call me often, so that I know you're okay.'

‘I will. How's Praew?'

‘She's great. Loving school,' Liz replied.

‘Anything from the Home Office?'

‘No, but I'm sure they'll be snooping around some time.'

Liz hated lying to Sean. She felt her throat tense as she told the lie, but she knew that he had enough to deal with already and committed to telling him the truth when he got home… if she could find the truth that was.

When she had collected Praew from school before, she'd waited at the gate for her to come out. Each day previously she'd emerged from the same door, beaming with pride at her achievements… but not today. Today, she'd emerged through a different door and scurried quickly across the playground, avoiding the other children.

‘What's wrong?' Liz asked her.

‘Nothing,' she said, taking Liz's hand.

‘Why did you come out of a different door?' Liz questioned.

‘No reason,' she said smiling.

At home, Praew had been more withdrawn than usual. She didn't want to discuss her day at school and curled up on the couch next to Liz, watching TV.

‘Did something happen to you at school today?' Liz asked.

Eventually, after persistent questioning, Praew looked up. ‘Okay,' she said, folding her arms. ‘It's nothing, but some boys called me names and sang a silly song to me. It really doesn't matter; it's just names,' Praew said, tears forming in her eyes.

A sudden rush of anger came over Liz. ‘What were the names?' she asked.

‘Nothing really, it's silly,' Praew said.

‘It's not silly if it upsets you, Praew. What did they say?'

‘I feel stupid getting so upset by it. They called me “slant eyes” and they changed the words to a Coldplay song, singing that I was
“All
Yellow”.
'

Liz felt her heart beating against her chest. They'd purposely enrolled Praew in the school because it claimed to have a lot of international students and they thought that she wouldn't experience any racism, the way Liz had in her school when her parents had moved to the UK. ‘Who were they?' she asked, stroking Praew's hair.

‘Some older boys,' Praew said.

‘How old?'

‘Fifteen.'

‘English?'

‘No, Russian,' Praew said.

‘Is that all they said?' Liz asked, straining to hide the rising anger she was feeling and keeping her voice mellow, so as not to startle Praew.

When Praew didn't speak, but bowed her head noticeably, it indicated to Liz that there was more. ‘Praew, darling, it's not your fault. They're horrible people. What else did they say?'

‘They called me Thai whore and asked me to suck their dicks for £10,' she said, wiping the tears away.

After all Praew had been through with the Russians that had people-trafficked her to the UK, then forced her to have sex with violent old men, while she was near-starved to death and kept locked in a grubby room, naked and cold; to think that she was now being abused at a school, which sold itself as not tolerating racism, incensed Liz to her core! She knew that Praew was tough, she'd needed to be to survive, but she could see that this had really hurt her, maybe even more than the treatment at the brothel. She'd been so happy in the school, made new friends and had really settled in. Liz thought that she was finally starting to believe that life could be better; that she wouldn't always be surrounded by people that wanted to hurt her. Then this. This was ruining it for her, killing her first chance of a good life; a life without fear.

‘What about your friends? Did they see it? Did they try to help you?' Liz asked.

Praew screwed up her face. ‘No, they were scared. It's not their fault.'

‘I know, darling.'

‘One boy tried to stop them. William. I sit with him in geography.'

‘Oh, that's nice. What happened to him?'

‘They punched him,' Praew said. ‘He's only small and not a good fighter, but he's very kind and clever too,' she added.

‘Did any of them touch you?' Liz asked, suddenly dreading the answer.

‘One boy grabbed my bum, but that's all. It didn't hurt and I kicked him on the leg.'

‘Good! I hope it really hurt him.'

‘It didn't. He just laughed,' Praew said, attempting a weak smile.

‘Did you tell a teacher about it?' Liz asked, still controlling the rage that was bursting inside her.

‘No, it'd just make it worse. They're not scared of the teachers. Their families are very rich and they do what they want.'

‘What are their names? I'm going to talk to the head teacher,' Liz said.

Praew sat up immediately and looked into Liz's eyes. ‘Please don't. You'll make it worse. They'll pick on me all the time if you do.'

The fear Praew showed almost made Liz burst into tears, but she pulled Praew into her chest and held her tightly. ‘Okay, darling, I won't. But you have to let me know if it gets any worse, Okay?'

‘Okay,' Praew agreed, smiling properly for the first time since she'd got home.

After she'd put Praew to bed and spoken to Sean, Liz started work, but she wasn't researching elderly MEPs from Austria that might have Nazi ties. Her work was much closer to home: she was looking for Russians who sent their children to Praew's school.

A whole day had passed since the altercation with the youth gang and Sean's nerves were starting to recover, but not to the point where he felt safe wandering the streets alone. He, Clive and Terry had spent the day tracing the life of Glas: they'd visited the impressive wooden chalet on the edge of town that he called ‘home', and watched as his wife cleaned the steps, and welcomed what they assumed were her children and grandchildren. She just looked like an ordinary grandmother going about her daily chores.

Then they watched his constituency office in the centre of town: people came and went for the hour they stayed, but nothing stood out. In the evening, they dined in a small Italian restaurant on the German side of the river, hoping not to run into the skinhead gang from the previous night. It was a good decision and they managed to get a good night's sleep in preparation for the following day.

*

Today was the day Glas was due to arrive from Brussels. Clive's intelligence said that he usually left Brussels at midday and made the journey by train. If they were correct, Glas would arrive at 5:15 p.m.

As the red regional OBB train pulled into the platform at Braunau station, Sean scanned the doors, waiting for Glas to emerge. But only three people got off when the doors opened and none were over forty; none were Glas. When he stood to leave, a door opened at the far end of the train, first class, and an old man stepped carefully onto the platform. Sean instantly recognised the man who had dined with Blom in Place Jourdan, but if they were looking for the leader of a plot to take over Europe, he seemed an unlikely candidate.

Although spritely for his age, he was still an old man and didn't project the image of ambition that would be required for something so daring. He was dressed in a long traditional Austrian overcoat, thick rubber-soled shoes, and on top of his head he had a traditional trilby style green hat, with a feather coming out of the headband. Walking at a steady pace, he went into the train station and passed straight through, out onto the street, where his wife was waiting for him in a green Volkswagen Golf. Without greeting her, he placed his suitcase into the boot and climbed in.

Across the car park, Sean slipped into the rental car where Terry and Clive waited.

The short drive to Glas' house took less than five minutes on the quiet streets of Braunau. Once Glas was inside the house, Terry pulled the car to a point beyond the entrance and they waited for him to come out again.

At 7:30, Glas emerged from the side door of the chalet and went into his garage. Seconds later he pulled out in an old black Mercedes 600, causing Terry to laugh. ‘Well, if we're looking for a future dictator, he's already got the car,' he said.

Following the three-minute drive into the centre of town, Glas stopped right in the middle of the town square in a no-parking zone, then proceeded to clamber carefully out of the car. Without locking the door, he walked into the same beer cellar in which Sean, Clive and Terry had eaten dinner on the first night.

Continuing past the old vehicle, Terry pulled around the corner and parked in a parking space, away from the main square. When they rounded the corner into the square again on foot, Sean saw that some of the youths from the first night were hanging around the fountain again. Lifting the collar on his jacket, he tucked in behind Terry, as they went through the ornate carved door of the historic
Ratskeller.

The smell of beer, sausages and sauerkraut filled his nostrils as he went through the inner door and into the warmth of the hall. He immediately spotted Glas in a booth against the far wall. The elderly MEP was with three other men of roughly the same age. All four wore traditional Austrian dress, complete with lederhosen, and four large beers sat on the table in front of them. They were talking energetically, with Glas waving his arms in the air, between gulps of beer.

An hour or so later, the four old men then took up positions on the band podium and started to play their various traditional instruments, with Glas on the accordion. It was all Sean could do to stop himself from laughing.

Obviously not sharing the same reservations, Terry began chuckling at the sight and swinging his beer to the
umpah
music. He turned to Clive. ‘Are you sure? They don't exactly look like terrifying master criminals at the moment!'

‘Do you think that Blom might have given us a bum steer?' Sean laughed.

‘Don't get too cocky. He might be packing an Uzi in those leather pants,' Clive chuckled.

After playing three sets, and drinking three litres of beer, which Sean considered quite a lot for an eighty year old, Glas bade his musical friends farewell and walked unsteadily out of the bar. Once outside, he staggered across to his car and literally fell into the driver's seat.

‘For a politician, he doesn't seem to have much respect for the law,' Clive said.

As he drove away, Terry sprinted around the corner to get the car, but then, all of a sudden, Glas stopped, next to the large fountain that dominated the main square.

‘Shit, he's pissed and he's going to have a go at those thugs. We may need Terry,' Clive said.

About ten metres from the fountain, Glas wound the window down on his old Mercedes with his left hand and said something to the youths. But rather than rush forward aggressively, as Sean had expected, the leader of the youths walked to the car window, alone, and began a conversation with Glas. In the scenario — old man wearing funny pants meets skinhead gang leader — this wasn't how Sean had expected it to turn out.

The leader of the group appeared to be positively deferential towards Glas, nodding at the old man's comments, while seemingly being told off. Then Glas handed him a piece of paper, which the leader pocketed quickly and moved back from the car. Glas then closed his window and sped away, careering around the corner at the end of the long town square, swerving onto the wrong side of the road as he did.

‘Let Glas go. Let's follow the skinheads,' Clive said, watching the gang, as Terry pulled up to them.

They stayed in the car, watching the group of youths from a safe distance, while the leader gathered three other members of the gang and walked in the opposite direction from them, then turned off the square. Carefully trying not to be seen, Terry pulled forward to the corner, where they had a clear view down the street that the group had turned down. The four skinheads climbed into a beaten old pickup truck; all four of them squashed onto the single bench seat in the front.

When they pulled away, Terry followed from a distance, just keeping sight of the rear lights, but not close enough to be discovered. A few minutes later, they turned onto the main road that ran along the riverfront and drove north. The battered old pickup truck stayed on the same road for around ten minutes, before pulling off and stopping outside a small cottage, nestled in a hamlet of just a few houses.

Pulling in, Terry stopped the car and turned off the headlights.

In front of them, the four skinheads jumped out of the vehicle clumsily and walked to the rear, where they pulled various tools from the back: a pickaxe handle; a lump hammer; a saw chain; and a something that looked like a scythe.

‘Something nasty's going down,' Clive said.

As quietly as possible, they got out of the car and ran to the fence of the small cottage, using the high hedge as cover. A chill ran down Sean's spine when the leader of the group banged on the door using the pickaxe handle.

A few moments later, a small boy answered the door and then quickly tried to slam it again, but the leader put his foot into the open space, pushing the boy aside and entering the hallway, followed quickly by his three fellow gang members.

‘Shit!' Terry said, as he ran forward, towards the house.

Struggling to keep up, Sean and Clive followed and caught up with him at the front window of the house. Inside, a young couple in their thirties, stood in front of their two children, shielding them from the group of thugs. The leader was pointing the pickaxe handle at the father and shouting, but the father didn't respond. To his side, one of the other gang members was taunting his wife with the scythe, prodding at her breast and side with the sharp rusty point. The two children, who were both under ten, huddled together with tears streaming down their round cheeks.

Suddenly, the leader swung the pickaxe handle around and struck the father on the kneecap, producing a stomach-churning scream of pain, as he fell to the floor. Yelling at the leader, his wife immediately bent down to help, but as soon as she reached him, she was pulled back viciously by the hair and thrown to the floor.

‘Okay, that's enough,' Terry said, as he stood and knocked on the window.

Startled by the noise, the leader turned to face him, just as Sean and Clive also stood. A look of utter incredulity crossed the leader's face, as he registered the three unexpected visitors. After a few short words to the father, who was on the ground, clutching his knee, the leader moved into the hallway and then opened the front door.

As the door swung open, the leader thrust the pickaxe handle wildly forward making huge swathes in the air until he was in the garden. Laughing at the manoeuvre, Terry simply stood back and watched him, until his three companions joined him on the compact lawn. In his peripheral vision. Sean saw the father push his wife and children out through the back door and into the car, before he limped to the front door to see what was happening.

In the garden, the four skinheads were holding their weapons up at the ready, but keeping their distance from Terry, clearly wary of his confident posture.

‘What's wrong? Scared?' Terry taunted, with his hands on his hips.

Sean stepped forward to help, but was quickly pulled back by Clive. ‘If he needed help he'd ask. It's still not a fair fight yet. There'd have to be at least ten of them,' Clive smiled, as if enjoying the spectacle.

‘What are you doing here, Englishman? Go now and you can live. Stay and we'll have to kill you,' the leader said, brandishing his weapon again.

The display amused Terry and he laughed loudly again. ‘And how exactly do you think you're going to do that? All I can see is four idiotic creeps with farm tools that they don't know how to use,' he said.

Terry's confidence was clearly unnerving the leader's other gang members and they were backing away towards the gate slowly. When he noticed that he was being left alone, the leader also started to back away. Once he'd reversed through the gate, he stopped and made a pistol shape with his fingers, pointing it at Terry, before pretending to shoot him.

If it was meant to be a warning to Terry, it didn't work. He made a comical joke of being shot, before lurching forward towards the gate causing the skinheads to run away to their truck.

Once the thugs had gone, the father fell to the floor clutching his knee again. ‘Thank you,' he said in English.

‘What was that about?' Clive asked.

‘My son got into a fight at school with another boy: the grandson of a powerful man and he sent this gang to take revenge.'

‘Really? All this over a playground fight?' Clive asked.

‘This family are people who don't like to lose at anything, let alone a fight,' the father said.

‘Don't tell me: the Glas family,' Sean said.

The man's eyes closed momentarily. ‘Yes. You know them?'

‘Not really. What can you tell us about them?' Sean asked.

The father dropped his eyebrows suspiciously. ‘I'm sorry, who are you? Why did you come to my house?'

‘I don't blame you for being suspicious, but we're not here to harm you. I'm a journalist and I'm looking into Hans Glas' life,' Sean said, holding up the palms of his hands.

After surveying the three strangers on his lawn, the father nodded and was joined by his wife and children. ‘We only moved to Upper Austria six months ago from Klagenfurt, in the south, so we don't know much.'

‘We know that the Glas family act like they own Braunau,' his wife said. ‘The old man drives around in that stupid Mercedes, the type the African dictators drive, and just ignores all road signs and parks anywhere he likes, and the local police do nothing about it.'

The image of him parking in the main square and then staggering to his car drunk came to Sean's mind. ‘Why is that?' he asked.

‘Because he has powerful friends: the
Bürgermeister
— sorry, mayor — is his close friend. They play music together in the beer hall,' the wife added.

‘The only reason they let them play is because they dare not tell them they can't, and they really are all bad musicians,' the father said.

‘Why did your son get into a fight with the Glas boy?' Clive asked.

The father said a few words to his son in German and the son replied quickly. Then the father began to translate, but he didn't need to; they'd all understood the German. ‘Because he called him the son of a Jew pig and my wife a Jew whore.'

‘Are the family openly anti-Semitic?' Sean asked.

The father shook his head. ‘I'm not sure about the old man, the MEP. I think he tries to stay out of it because of his position, but his son, Joseph Glas, is nothing more than a street criminal. Also, we're not Jewish, but it's just what they call somebody when they want to start a fight.'

‘I think it would make sense if you went away for a while, in case those thugs come back,' Terry said.

‘We were already thinking of moving back to Klagenfurt. Braunau is a strange place,' the father said.

‘In what way?' Sean asked.

‘Because it's the birthplace of Adolf Hitler, it attracts some weird people. They come here to revere the memory of Hitler, not to condemn it,' the father said. ‘There are a lot of neo-Nazis in this area. Before we moved here, we thought that it was just nonsense; that people today didn't hold such extreme beliefs, but unfortunately it's true. Most of the visitors here are from the former Soviet-backed countries, and they openly show their Nazi loyalty.'