“She’ll feed you to the crows, my friend”
Black market arms dealer, Karel Ludek offers a friendly warning over tea and biscuits
SOME say Karel Ludek is her agent, others a father figure, but whatever his relationship may be with the self-styled Goth femme fatale, Mercy de la Morte, the pairing seems unlikely, to say the least.
The supposedly reformed arms dealer isn’t easy to pin down. Understandable, sure. Mercy, on the other hand, is the singing sensation known locally as the Bone Diva; rumoured to be a ‘gunslinging’ assassin on the side. Little wonder, then, the man is cagey about their dealings – business or otherwise.
Whatever, he’s clearly protective. Pretty much the first words Ludek – ‘Ludi’ as he is more commonly known – utters are a thinly veiled warning.
In the cafe’s hubbub, murmured as he lowers himself into a chair, back to a wall, they are almost too easy to miss. Senses tend to be hyper-sensitive when dealing with a man of his background, however, so the words arrive crystal clear in the brain.
“You take care what you write about Ange [Mercy], okay?”
Ludi lets his eyes scan the cafe’s patrons, prolonging the moment. A casual gesture, that’s all – more for effect, I suspect – but he’s absorbing the situation, alert to any nuance of potential threat.
Our fellow customers are a mixed bunch, mostly locals at a guess; a fair reflection of the city’s ethnic diversity. Among them, a mix of aid workers relaxing. At a table by the entrance, an off-duty trio of Welsh ‘blueberries’ (UN/EU peacekeeping troops) laugh and joke at their ease.
When Ludi finally makes eye contact, it’s a jolt; difficult to hold his gaze. Grey as ice and just as cold, set in a clean-shaven hatchet face, those eyes offer a reminder that behind the facade is a former mercenary with a nasty reputation.
“Just saying,” he adds, “friendly advice – you know? I’m an old soldier, so don’t you worry about me, but Ange – she’ll feed you to the crows.”
Ludi takes a sip of his tea, staring over the rim of the cup; one sip, a second gulp, only then does he break eye contact, point made. It’s a reminder to breathe.
The background buzz returns, though it never really faded; normal life, you might almost think. Appearances can be deceptive, of course; much like they are for my guest.
“She’s not one for the shadows; unless it’s to pose. She likes the limelight too much, that girl. I fear it’s going to get her killed one of these days.”
Karel Ludek
To any casual observer, Ludi no doubt retains the appearance of an elderly man; easily taken as harmless. Don’t be fooled. He is only 61, it’s just that from a distance he conveys to look older.
In that trilby hat of his, worn tilted down close to his brow, my guest evokes a certain reminiscence of Arthur Daley (if you know your vintage British television drama); albeit a version that is tough enough not to need any minder.
It’s a curious observation, I know, not least given the East European flavour of Ludi’s accent; you have to encounter the man in the flesh to feel the Arfur vibe. I guess that’s a digression, one born of nerves (mine).
We’re meeting in a pleasant enough cafe situated in the North Quarter of downtown Bradford. The streets in the immediate vicinity are relatively unscathed. You’d be forgiven for thinking England’s civil conflict passed the city by.
Take a five-minute stroll further into the centre, however, and that illusion ends in bullet-pocked stonework, bomb-blasted buildings, and piles of rubble; testament to the city’s three-month struggle to repel the offensive mounted by junta-aligned forces.
Ludi, it is said, was an integral part of the city’s defence; a shadowy player in the background, certainly, but critical in arming the volunteer brigades who fought to keep Bradford’s multicultural flame burning.
The man simply shrugs. “You know, there’s a saying in this part of the country: ‘where there’s muck, there’s brass’. Well, my friend, war is a pretty mucky business.”
He pauses, glances round, then glares my way.
“All right, I helped. A little, that’s all. I’m in procurement and logistics, so I was in a position to divert a little merchandise. Besides, I have friends in this town; what, I should have left them to be trampled by Carmichael’s bandyta allies?”
He says no more, but it’s curious that Ludi is so coy about his trade. The authorities know him for what he is – he insists was – a black market arms dealer.
During England’s dark times, the man was hardly alone in seeking to profit from the civil conflict, but he forged a niche as an important conduit for Noreco (Northern Regions Coalition); almost certainly, he retains friends in high places, not just locally in the West Riding, but across Northern England and beyond.
Memories are long in the North. It seems a safe bet that his ‘friendly assistance’ bought a lot of goodwill with the municipal authorities that came together to form Noreco; not to mention the commanders of those bygone paramilitaries that formed under its loose banner. Grease for Ludi’s business activities, we can be sure; down payment for a relatively secure base of operations.
“That’s a cynical view, my friend,” Ludi says, shaking his head. For a moment, the hatchet face turns hangdog, then he takes another sip of tea.
One wonders if any of our fellow patrons are aware of his connection to its civil war fortunes. The manager, almost certainly; though it might simply be that Ludi is a regular customer.
Earlier, I’d noted the middle-aged woman’s hijab; the colours of the West Riding Civil Defence Volunteers. On the lapel of her blazer jacket she wore two enamel badges: one the white rose of Yorkshire; the other a boar’s head missing its tongue (part of the city’s old civic heraldry). Both were symbols of the local brigades.
A scar across the right side of her face, worn with casual indifference, completes the backstory of a veteran who’d fought in Bradford’s defence. If that offers up a forbidding image, Seema – as I learned from her name tag – offers me a warm welcome and a pleasant, if practised smile.
Cash is still the preferred method of payment in England, a hangover from the disruptions of the war. Sterling is tolerated as a necessary but otherwise junk currency. Paying in Euros, however, earns me another smile; less practised, this one reaches her eyes.
My guest arrives as Seema is placing my cappuccino on the counter. Nobody pays Ludi much attention when he enters, but the manager nods his way and turns to begin making him that cup of tea.
The gesture alerts me to his presence: there he is, lurking by the door and looking around. It’s striking how much he blends in; he really could be some slightly confused senior citizen unsure of his bearings in these post-war days. Yet, that aura of presence marks him out against the crowd.
Catching his eye, as he slouches towards the counter, I gesture towards an empty table at the back of the establishment, close to the emergency exit.
For a moment, I see little recognition in Ludi’s face, despite the many voice and video calls made to win him over to this meeting. Suddenly, I’m not so sure this man matches my memory of the features I’d seen on my phone’s screen.
My cheeks warm with a flush of embarrassment, but then Ludi offers a tiny nod of acknowledgement. A palpable sense of relief: I go to secure our spot – earning myself another of Seema’s smiles when I pay for his tea. It isn’t long before he joins me, muttering something in what I presume is Polish, his native tongue.
The place is bustling, good cover for our ‘conspiratorial assignation’, but it clearly makes Ludi – not nervous, that’s the wrong description, but – wary.
Ludi checks the entrance again, glaring over my shoulder, gulps down more tea, then glances at his watch. It’s kind of quaint, that he keeps time on his wrist, but it also serves to emphasise he’d rather be somewhere else.
“So, my friend, did you just want to stare lovingly into my eyes, or are we going to talk?”
No, the man definitely doesn’t want to be here; a chill bloom in the gut reveals the feeling is mutual, but both of us share a sense of necessity. In our separate ways, both of us want to ensure justice is done in telling the ballad of Mercy de la Morte.
We begin. The crows are surely listening…
MC
Copyright © February 2023. All Rights Reserved.
This first appeared on the author’s ‘official’ website, Mark Cantrell, Author, February 2023.