You by Zoran Drvenkar Page A

handle, it crouches beside the car, back to the driver’s door, head thrown back so the blood doesn’t drip from its nose. You know if the car alarm goes off the wood louse will have a heart attack and piss its jeans.
    It’s staying quiet.
    You breathe out and look at the other side of the street.
    It’s staying quiet.
    The derelict house makes you think of a rabid dog that’s just waiting for you to make a false move. Lurking and rigid. Five lamps from the building site are flashing orange lights and illuminating the façade with a flickering light. It’s one of those ruins that you loved as a child. Graffiti on the walls, not a soul to be seen and hidden treasures everywhere. You’re not a child anymore, you don’t find ruins exciting anymore. It’s eleven at night and the city is a greedy hand hovering over you, wanting to stuff you into the darkest hole of the building site.
    You rub the blood from your nose and wonder why no one’s followed you. Things don’t get sadder than this. No one’s interested in you. They wanted Darian. They’ve got Darian.
    Shit
.
    “What am I …”
    Your voice is a croak. You’re not great at talking to yourself. In horror movies the victims eventually start talking to themselves so that the viewer knows things are turning serious. Nothing serious is happening here, you’re miles away from serious.
    How could I have run away?
    Your tongue checks if you’ve got a loose tooth. You’re relieved, all your teeth are in place. And your nose isn’t even broken. You banged it when you crawled under that car. A wood louse through and through. You shake your head to get your brain back in gear. You have to do something, doesn’t matter what, you have to do something, otherwise you won’t be able to look at yourself in the mirror again for the rest of the year.
    Think.
    A few bicycles are parked beside the church, you start tugging away at one of them, kicking the pedals. The chain snaps with a crack, your hands are bruised but hey, you’ve got the fucking chain.
    “Okay, okay, okay …”
    You wrap one end firmly around your fist and let the chain dangle against your thigh, then you pull yourself together and cross the street.
    Whatever happens, one thing is certain, no one’s going to be expecting you.

    Darian sits in the ruins on an upside-down plastic barrel, staring into the distance. Elbows on his knees, hands slack. He reminds you a bit of a drawing in a book. Hercules sitting on a rock after a great battle, taking a break. Darian doesn’t look up when you approach, and for a moment you’re sure he’s crying.
    “Everything all right?”
    Darian raises his head. There’s a bloody scratch above his left eye, and his lower lip looks as if he’s had a collagen injection. There’s a second scratch on his upper arm, the muscles stand out angry, his T-shirt is a tight fit. It’s a mystery to you how anyone would dare to mess with Darian.
    “What’s with the bike chain?” he asks, and his words sound as if he’s got a pillow in his mouth.
    “Sorry,” you say and drop the chain.
    And then there you stand, and there lies the chain at your feet, and there sits Darian who looks at you and says, “You ran away, right?”
    You lower your head, you turn red.
    “These jerks,” says Darian, and lets you off the hook. “Look at my face, you see that?”
    You lean forward and look at his face. Yes, you see it.
    “I’m gonna kill them for that,” he says. “And now …”
    Darian holds his hand out to you. He doesn’t have to say anything, you open your belt and take off your jeans. It’s the least you can do for him. You’re lucky he doesn’t hit you. It would have been okay, he could even have whipped you with the bike chain, no problem, wood lice can cope with that kind of stuff.
    Your jeans are too short, they stick to Darian’s legs like a second skin, he can’t fasten the top button, abs of titanium, thighs of steel. Since he filled the basement with