Someone Else's Conflict by Alison Layland

now?’
    He nodded. There was an uneasy silence.
    â€˜Listen, I ought to tell you. Before your grandfather gets back. He doesn’t like mention of the old country. He hardly refers to it at all. Living in the past is what caused it all, he says. Lost your father to us.’
    â€˜I know. My mother told me.’
    â€˜What did she tell you?’
    â€˜That…that my father went back to Croatia on his own.’ His eyes were on the ground; he couldn’t meet hers. ‘Because you and Grandfather wouldn’t take him.’ He looked up. ‘I’m sorry. She told me she’d written to you…must be the letter you got…she said you had a right to know. About me. About what happened to my father. She gave me your address, too.’ He was careful not to mention Novak. ‘The old one. The girl who lives there now gave me this one. She sends her greetings. I’m sorry, I can’t remember her name.’
    â€˜Young Nicky Radcliffe?’
    He nodded, uninterested. That episode was past. ‘Where is he now? Grandfather?’
    â€˜He’s gone to see a neighbour about something. He’s well-liked round here, you know.’
    She seemed eager to persuade Vinko of it, but he’d make his own mind up, like he’d always had to.
    â€˜I’ll go and put the kettle on,’ she said. ‘Make us a cup of tea. We usually have dinner around seven; I hope you’ll stay.’
    She bustled into the kitchen, leaving Vinko to look round the trinkets and photos on the sideboard. He couldn’t help weighing up the value of the smaller ornaments, or noticing two ten-pound notes beneath a glass paperweight. But he held back. Glancing around, he opened the top drawer a crack. Nothing but an assortment of mats and cloths. He quickly tried the rest of the drawers. No bank papers. He had never expected it to be that easy, and it was more of a relief than a disappointment; he still wasn’t sure that was the reason he had come. He studied the photographs instead – a black and white wedding photo, presumably of Anja and Boris. A couple of portraits of a woman he thought must be the ‘sourface’ Nicola Radcliffe had mentioned – his aunt, Novak’s ex-wife, smiling now for the camera. A boy and a girl at various ages, he guessed his cousins, the most recent a similar age to himself. None of them included Novak, which was not surprising. Vinko was saddened, however, to see no sign of his father, not even as a boy. He sat back down, wondering whether he should have come. Presently he heard the back door open.
    â€˜Boris, we’ve got a visitor. Wait, let me tell you…’
    Footsteps sounded and the connecting door was pulled closed. He heard muffled voices, hers hushed, his deeper and louder. Vinko considered trying to listen through the closed door or slipping away out the front. He decided the first would be too risky and the second pointless. Inertia won and he sat looking across at the pictures that didn’t include his father. The voices in the kitchen got more insistent, more heated, and he heard movement, braced himself for the door to burst open. Instead he heard the back door slam and heavy footsteps down the side of the house and out along the drive. He looked through the window and saw a stocky, balding figure in a blue anorak striding down the road.
    Anja stood by the kitchen door looking apologetic.
    â€˜He had to go out again; he’ll be back to meet you later,’ she said as she put a tray with tea and cakes on the table. ‘A friend of his—’
    â€˜I know. He doesn’t want me here. It’s all right, I’ll go before he gets back.’
    â€˜You won’t!’ she said. ‘Only if you want to,’ she added more gently. ‘This is my house too. I’ll not have him turn you away so soon after I’ve met you.’
    Her tears were welling up again and he felt embarrassed. He looked