The Last Girl (17 page)

‘I won't, Sofia Petrova,' she said.

The teacher stroked her hair. Svetlana gazed down at the image in her hands. The colours were bright and new, the sky blue, Christ glistering gold. It was vivid, cheerful, despite the bloody crimson tears of the pierced Saviour.

‘Svetlana – your name means light,' Sofia Petrova told her.

Svetlana nodded.

‘You should try to be a light to others, to your mother in these difficult times.'

Svetlana frowned, but she nodded again, out of respect for her teacher. She slipped the image of Christ back into its paper wrapping and hid it in her school bag.

She concealed the glittering icon beneath the neatly folded pile of clothes in the drawer beside her bed. When she knelt beside her bed that night, to pray as her father had taught her, she took it out and placed it before her. Hearing her mother's footsteps, she tucked it quickly beneath her sheets, interrupting her prayer for her father.

Her mother stood in the doorway.

‘It won't be long,' she said. ‘They won't keep him for long. It will just be a for a few weeks, a month or two at the most.'

Her mother's voice was brittle with emotion. Svetlana leaned her forehead against the bed. She heard her mother approach behind her. A hand reached out to her nervously, the fingers trembled as they rested on her shoulder. They felt cold through her nightdress. Svetlana stood up quickly, moved away. She slipped in between the sheets, and turned her back on her mother. For some moments her mother lingered, silently, and then she went, turning off the light before she closed the door. By her feet Svetlana could feel the cold hard frame of the icon. She pulled it up and hugged it to her breast.

He did not return. Not after a few weeks, nor after a couple of months. In late October a letter arrived. He had died due to complications arising from undiagnosed ulceration of the stomach. This her mother explained to her, sat at the table in the kitchen where he had breakfasted each morning, and smoked his first cigarette of the day from behind
Izvestiya
.

She did not look at her mother. Nor did she say anything when her mother's words had dried up, finally, on her thin lips.

‘Svyeta,' her mother said. She extended her hand across the table. ‘Svyeta.'

‘It was you,' she said to her mother, as calmly as she could. ‘It was your fault.' She looked her mother in the eye. Took pleasure in the pain she saw registering in those little eyes.

Drew strength from the knowledge that she could hurt as well as be hurt.

‘You killed him,' she said. And turned and left the room. In the woods, the shabby copse of willow and birch and maple that shrank back from the apartment blocks, she wept. Her heart was torn with the pain of her loss and the pleasure of her assault on her mother. Her mother had told. Don't say a word, her father had told her, and she had not, it was their secret. But her mother had told, twisted with fear, blackmailed by the Party representative at the school, as Svetlana was later to learn.

Svetlana gathered the ring, the medal and the handkerchief together and dropped them back into the tin. She glanced inside the jug beneath the grubby Christ but there was no bottle there.

‘Nikolai,' she said. She rummaged about, grubbing together some small coins. ‘Go get me a bottle.'

He took the coins in his slim little hand and sloped off into the darkness.

The vodka saw her through the night. She was sleeping when Ivan returned. In the morning he was tense. He paced back and forth around the room, glancing at the clock. Svetlana watched him from the bed. Her head felt thick and her body ached.

‘Listen,' Ivan said finally. ‘Jonas was supposed to come. You tell him when he arrives to meet me tonight.'

She nodded. When he had gone she dragged herself up. A pile of washing was piled by the door and she knew it must be done, but could not bring herself to pull the large tin tub in from the courtyard. She boiled some water for tea, then found the unfinished bottle of vodka. She turned off the gas and fell back onto the bed.

They walked around each other, Svetlana and her mother. Wary. Distrustful. At first her mother had reached out a tentative hand, a thin, claw-like hand unused to caresses – to caressing. Svetlana shied away, her lip curling. She never attacked so openly again. But the hostility grew. Her mother, unable to continue her work as a teacher, despite the letter she had been forced to write to the local newspaper denouncing her husband, managed to gain work in a shop.

‘You don't know,' her mother sobbed, one evening, worn down by the brutal silence. ‘What do you know? What could you know? You are a child, what do you understand about these things?'

She stood in the centre of the kitchen, her red eyes puckered. Her face was worn, prematurely aged. Deep wrinkles cut away at her pale flesh. The tears distorted her face. Svetlana got up from the table and turned from her. She went out to the door and opened it. The cool breeze blew in her hair. Her mother moaned. A dog barked and she heard the wind surge through the tops of the trees, tossing them violently.

When the vodka was finished she dozed. When she woke again her head thumped and her tongue was swollen and dry. She needed a drink. She eased herself from the bed. Her pockets were empty and when she checked beneath the cracked jug, where sometimes she hid cash, there was none.

The pain pulsed behind her eyes. Head in hands she tried to think. Cautiously, she got up and knelt by the pile of junk in the corner. She hesitated. She lifted the tangle of clothes, the broken toys and the split box, the brick. The envelope was there. Again she hesitated. Pressing her fingers onto her eyes she squeezed back the pain. Fumbling with the envelope, she opened it. She licked her lips, attempting to moisten them, and pulled out a ten-dollar note. She glanced around. Gloom was settling on the room. The corners were lost in shadow. Creasing the note into her hand, she replaced the envelope, pushed back the rubble. She slipped the note into her pocket.

She struggled into an old coat, stepped out into the court­ yard and pulled the door closed behind her. For a moment she lingered, back against the door, resting on it. In her pocket, she clasped the crisp note tight. She made her way down Stepono and crossed Pylimo into the centre of the Old Town.

The Three Friends was bustling with early evening trade. Svetlana noted the sidelong contemptuous glance of a waitress, as she squeezed in through the doors. The waitress, the same she had previously met in the toilets, elbowed a security guard and pointed her out. The guard nodded but did nothing. Svetlana found an unoccupied table in the corner.

She did not notice Jonas until he stood over her.

‘Svyeta!' he greeted her expansively. He was drunk. He rested his fingers on the edge of the table to steady himself.

Svetlana stiffened. Beneath the table her fists clenched tight, her nails biting into the palms of her hands.

‘What do you want, Jonas?'

‘Want? Nothing. I have a little bit of business.' He grinned a lop-sided, unpleasant grin and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Feeling lucky?' he chuckled, pushing her shoulder with his spatula fingers. He winked, throwing his whole face into a grimace. ‘Buy you a drink? Pay me later?'

Svetlana knocked his hand off her shoulder. She clenched her teeth, containing her growing fury.

‘Hey, Svyeta, don't be like that,' he said, not in the least deterred. He shifted the blue bag he had been holding from one hand to the other. Svetlana recognised it immediately.

‘You bastard,' she breathed. ‘You took it.'

He grinned.

‘I want it back, Jonas,' she said, her voice low, trembling with anger.

He shook his head.

‘You stole it.' Her voice rose. ‘Give it me.'

Jonas chuckled. He held the package behind his back. Svetlana rose to her feet. She stood at the same height as Jonas. Her face was flushed with anger.

‘It's mine, Jonas,' she shouted. ‘I want it.'

A hand grabbed her. She turned to the security guard. With a swift, smooth movement he propelled her towards the door, before she could say a word. At the door stood the waitress, face smeared with contempt.

Outside he let her go. Svetlana turned to kick him. Placing one of his large hands on her chest he held her off. Behind him she saw Jonas slope out of the bar, a twisted grin on his face. She pulled away from the guard and advanced on him. He hurried away across the grass.

‘Give it me, you bastard,' she shouted.

He waved it in the air. ‘What, this?' he mocked. ‘You want this?'

Breathless, she caught up with him. She reached forward to take the bag, but he hit her clumsily. He had been drinking and had not intended to hit her so hard. He was quite pleased to see her fall to her knees before him, gasping.

‘Tell you what,' he said, cheerfully, ‘I'll let you have it.' Svetlana looked up from her kneeling position.

‘For a price, a small price,' he said.

‘I haven't got any money,' she said. ‘And why should I pay for something you stole from me?'

‘I don't want money, Svyeta,' he said.

She observed the excitement in his eyes. The nervous rise and fall of his chest. She considered. For a few minutes' work she could have it back. With it she could go to Daumantas. And Daumantas… maybe, just maybe, could help.

Jonas stroked her cheek roughly. ‘You can have it, if you want it. Just pay me right.'

She nodded and dragged herself to her feet.

Jonas leaned heavily against her, causing her to stagger. Drink had slowed him. Keen to be rid of him, Svetlana looped her arm beneath his and half carried him through the dark streets. When he stumbled and fell in the courtyard, he dragged her down, scraping the skin from her knees. He kept the blue bag well away from her, atavistic greed checking his drunken carelessness.

Inside the small room it was mournfully dark. The air was stale and cold. Svetlana did not switch on the light, preferring the darkness to its frail glow.

‘What about a drink?' Jonas grumbled, settling on the bed.

‘There isn't any.'

Svetlana went to him immediately, but Jonas pushed her away. ‘I want a drink,' he insisted. ‘My mouth feels like an ashtray.'

Svetlana dipped a chipped cup into the bucket of water and passed it to him. He grimaced in the darkness, tasting it.

‘Trying to poison me?'

Svetlana chuckled darkly. ‘If I had any poison, I would.' On her knees, by the bed, she leant forward, taking his zip.

He stopped her, shaking a thick finger at her. In the poor light she could not see his eyes.

‘What?' she said, impatiently.

‘Do you know how much I was going to sell this for?' he asked. Svetlana, in no mood for negotiation, did not answer.

‘One hundred dollars,' Jonas bragged. ‘Daumantas is desperate for it. He promised to pay me a hundred. For one hundred dollars I'm thinking I should be getting the full deal.'

Svetlana shook her head. ‘No way, Jonas,' she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. ‘No way.'

He stood up quickly, balancing himself with a hand on her head, the blue plastic bag tight beneath his arm, clasping it as he might a bottle of vodka. She grabbed hold of his jacket. He pushed her back and she stumbled and fell to the floor. In a moment he was on her, his weight pressing her against the leg of a chair.

‘Come on, Svyeta,' he said. ‘It's worth a bit of fun, don't you think?'

His clumsy hand ripped at her clothing, trying, only half successfully, to pull it away.

Svetlana groaned. His weight hurt her and the chair leg bit into her flesh. ‘Let me get up,' she said. ‘Get comfortable.'

He loosened his grip and she lifted herself from the floor. She rinsed her face in the cold water in the bucket. She controlled her breathing. The bed springs creaked as Jonas lowered himself onto it. She closed her eyes, pressed her forehead against the wall. She listened to the buzz of traffic on the main road. The faint sound of a muttered conversation, barely audible through the thick damp brickwork. Resigned, she turned to him on the bed.

It became clear within a few moments that he had drunk too much. Frustrated, he complained, but there was nothing she could do. Tired, she stood up, leaving him fiddling with himself. She lit a cigarette and peered out of the small dirty window into the street. Jonas struggled off the bed and pulled up his trousers.

‘Ugly bitch,' he muttered.

Svetlana turned and reached for the plastic bag on the end of the bed. Seeing her movement, Jonas grabbed it quickly.

‘Hey!' Svetlana protested.

‘What are you expecting?' Jonas shouted angrily.

‘Give me the bag.'

‘Fuck off.'

‘You said…'

‘I said you had to pay for it.'

‘It's not my fault you can't get it up.'

Angrily she grabbed Jonas' jacket, pulling him round. He struggled, swearing. A thin shaft of streetlight fell through the broken windowpanes onto his face. Her grasp tightened and the knuckles on her hand grew white. The muscle and bone stretched beneath her bruised skin, giving her hands the appearance of the claws of a wild bird. He pulled free, ripping the cloth of his jacket. She grabbed for him again, but he moved quickly across the room towards the door.

‘Did you think I was going to give it you anyway, you crazy bitch? Why would I give it to you? Do you think you're such a good lay? You were only good for one thing and now you're not even any good for that.'

She called after him, her voice carrying loudly in the darkness though she did not shout. She saw him dimly outlined in the doorway and heard the sound of his laughter. His feet scuffed on the cobbles in the dark courtyard.

By the sink lay a kitchen knife. Its blade glimmered in the dim light. She clutched it as she slipped out into the darkness behind him. For some moments she could not see him. He was close against the wall shrouded by the deep shadow. Pissing. She heard the heavy splash on the cobblestones. He started when he turned to find her behind him. Seeing the look on her face, the flicker of light as a streetlamp caught the long blade of the knife, the grin slipped from his face. Slowly she brought the tip of the blade up to his neck. Her hand trembled. She saw the fear flush his cheeks, fill his eyes. She pressed the point against his skin. Jonas stepped back, his foot splashing in the pool of urine.