It came as no surprise to Farnicki that Wojcik had sent him home early. He expected little else from a small-town inspector. The desk drawer had revealed a graveyard of unsolved cases — plenty of work if anyone cared to look — but Wojcik clearly didn't. Whatever the reason, Ivan told himself he shouldn't care so much. In the end, Resovia's police station meant nothing to him. Once his real purpose here was finished, he would leave the Sub-Sarmatians behind.
The unexpected free time proved useful. He had no intention of wasting it.
Before heading to the Old Town, he stopped at his flat to collect a raincoat. The downpour suited him perfectly: streets empty, visibility poor, the few pedestrians too preoccupied to notice the green scooter threading through the narrow lanes. He parked it several blocks from Liberation Street, wedged between two overflowing bins, and continued on foot.
One by one, lights appeared in the windows of Liberation Street. Only a few remained dark — including Agnes's. Farnicki assumed she had gone to bed early. It had been a wretched day for her.
Directly opposite the apartment block stood St Joseph's Church, a squat Romanesque structure of red brick, hemmed in by bushes and trees. Among them rose a massive oak, its canopy dominating the neighbourhood skyline and nearly matching the height of the five-storey building. Farnicki had climbed it before and discovered that, from a certain branch, he could see straight into her bedroom. He waited until full darkness settled, then ascended. Mercifully, no street lamp stood nearby; the tree's shadow kept him invisible to anyone looking out.
He had already watched her arrive home. As on the previous night, she was not alone. A tall man in blue tracksuit trousers walked beside her, one arm around her waist. She had lived in Resovia since April and already been seen with three different men. Ivan had followed her to the clubs she frequented — dingy, desperate places that sickened him. His respect for her had begun eroding back in Wroclaw; each new discovery accelerated the fall. Yet he couldn't stop watching, no matter how much it hurt.
Through the uncurtained window he saw her lead the stranger into the bedroom. They stumbled inside, collapsing onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and urgent kisses. She didn't bother closing the curtains. Clothes came off; hands roamed. Once, Farnicki had believed he was the only man who knew those caresses, those rhythms, those soft gasps. He could still feel the ghost of them on his own skin. Now they meant nothing. She had profaned every memory they once shared.
Pressure built behind his temples, as though his skull were being crushed inside an iron helmet. The longer he watched, the tighter it squeezed. Pain swelled until it became unbearable. He knew how to end it — but he couldn't simply walk away and leave them undisturbed. His hand found a small, heavy cube in the pocket of his raincoat. He couldn't recall what it was or how it had come into his possession, yet its weight had tugged at him all evening, a constant, subconscious presence. Now it felt like providence.
He drew back his arm and threw.
The cube struck the window with a sharp crack. Glass starred into a spiderweb pattern but held. The sudden noise jolted the lovers apart. Her startled scream cut through the rain.
Reality crashed in. Farnicki realised how reckless — how idiotic — he had been. He scrambled down the tree, branches whipping his face, heart hammering. From the open window above, curses rained down. The man bellowed threats to break his arms, his legs, whatever he could reach. Farnicki hit the ground running, vanishing into the wet streets before they could get a proper look.
They had no idea who he was. Even if they rang the police, they could describe only a shadowy figure in the rain. He retrieved the scooter and rode home through the downpour, a grim satisfaction settling in his chest.
At least, he thought, she will close the curtains from now on.